《Arcane Disorder》


 PROLOGUE

    I came to myself by degrees, first assailed by a foul admixture of odours¡ªburnt oil, putrefying flesh, and some tang of metal that defied ready definition. Even as I gagged, I felt coarse refuse crinkle beneath me, and the deep pounding in my skull seemed to echo throughout my limbs. I blinked in the dim half-light falling through a grate above, wrestling with the question of where I might be.


    All around me lay an alley that felt more fever dream than reality: a crooked warren of pipes, bent conduits and grasping metal limbs that might have been the fingers of a starveling giant. Their shadows sprawled along walls slick with an indescribable film. Gnarled piles of detritus rose at odd angles, the city¡¯s refuse heaped like offerings to some hidden, unspeakable god.


    I forced down my panic. Think. Observe. Assess. The air caught in my throat, tasting of decay and industry. With caution, I eased myself to a seated position and took inventory: My garments¡ªsimple jeans, a sweatshirt, battered sneakers¡ªwere none the worse for wear. Nearby, I spied my canvas backpack leaning against a rust-streaked mass of broken metal. Inside it, upon inspection, lay my laptop, textbooks of no great interest to thieves, plus pens, pencils, and a tattered notebook. My wallet and phone remained safely in my pockets.


    No signs of a mugging, then. But that only gave rise to fresh questions. My phone¡ªa new model, purchased scarcely a month before¡ªrefused all attempts to capture a signal, as though no cell towers existed for miles. It displayed only a mockery of reception, an empty bar mocking me with each swiped command.


    A creeping disquiet seized me as I clambered to my feet; my muscles cried out in protest at the effort. Two corridors presented themselves, each as inviting as an ossuary. The walls, half stone and half corroded iron, were festooned with pipes that exhaled intermittent clouds of vapor, as though the city itself breathed. Far overhead, the outlines of more scaffolding and wires made any glimpse of open sky an impossibility. Occasionally, a neon sign buzzed in the gloom, lighting my path with a sickly radiance.


    I brushed a hand through my hair, shuddering at the grime that clung to my fingers. ¡°Where is this place?¡± I murmured. No memory rose to the surface¡ªno stray recollection of wandering here, nor of any trivial misstep that might explain my presence. I shook off my unease and started down one alley, each step slow and deliberate. Broken glass gleamed underfoot like stunted stars, and I had to brace myself against a wall weeping foul moisture.


    Soon I emerged onto a street that felt alive in the worst possible sense: a living organism limping toward collapse. Masked figures trudged through the narrow lane, their shoulders drawn up and guarded. Buildings of stone and metal leaned upon each other for support, as though they might tumble at the faintest breath of wind. Overhead, sagging cables spat sparks, while a faint hum set my very bones vibrating.


    This could not be Seoul, nor any other city I knew. Nonetheless, I thought perhaps I might find a clue among the city¡¯s denizens. Approaching a gaunt man beside a cart of scrap, I asked my location. The man glanced up, his eyes narrowing, then he muttered something in a low voice¡ªEnglish, but distorted by a rough accent. I caught the words ¡°Zaun¡± and ¡°move along¡± before he turned his back on me entirely.


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    Zaun. The name meant nothing to me. I tried again with a woman peddling greasy skewers under a feeble lamp. Her withering stare was answer enough. By the third such dismissal, I abandoned the effort. My phone, too, remained obstinately silent: no signal, no hope, no explanation.


    There was a voice in me¡ªone that had guided me through many a difficult study session¡ªinsisting on order, logic, and reason. Yet this place seemed crafted to confound logic, and I found my confidence eroding. Still, I pressed on, each step quicker than the last, as if I might outpace the dread that gathered around me.


    With the press of the crowd receding, the noises of this subterranean realm dimmed to a lonely hiss of steam and the clang of some distant mechanism. Those few souls I passed hunched their shoulders, unwilling to meet my gaze. I sensed in them a studied indifference, borne of hard living. Overhead, the pipes exhaled their vapours, as though sighing at my plight.


    At length, I turned down an alley, narrower than the others, the walls closing in on either side. A dead end, strewn with trash. I sighed and turned to retrace my steps when a voice stopped me.


    ¡°Hey, kid.¡±


    I spun to face a hooded fellow who lounged against the wall as if he owned it. His grin revealed teeth yellow with neglect and sharpened by ill-fortune. ¡°Lost?¡± he asked, with a sympathy that was anything but.


    My body tensed. One must be careful with assumptions¡ªparticularly the darkest ones¡ªbut I knew what he was. ¡°¡­Yes,¡± I managed. ¡°I need directions, perhaps the authorities¡ª¡±


    He laughed, a hollow sound in the gloom. ¡°No authorities down here, boy,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯re on your own.¡± Then, without ceremony: ¡°Hand over the bag, and maybe I won¡¯t gut you.¡±


    I tried reason: ¡°Trust me, it¡¯s just textbooks and notes. You¡¯ll find nothing of value.¡±


    ¡°Let me worry about that,¡± he growled, knife gleaming in the half-light. ¡°Bag. Now.¡±


    I weighed my options. Fighting was no talent of mine. I was trained in it, like all Korean males my age were, but seriously doubted my chances when a single false move could be fatal. Yet giving him the bag was unthinkable¡ªmy only link to who I was and what might remain for me in this city. Steeling myself, I swung the pack upward, catching him off-guard beneath the chin. He staggered, cursing.


    For an instant, I thought I might escape unscathed. Then, like a good fool, I slipped on the detritus and slowed just long enough for the man to find his bearings. A lance of agony ripped through my side as his blade found flesh. I reeled, hand pressed to the wound. With desperate anger, I swung again, this time striking the man¡¯s temple. He stumbled and spat more curses, but I did not linger to hear them.


    I ran. The alleys of this sun-forsaken place became my labyrinth: every twisting corridor seemed to lead further away from any hope of succour. My side burned, each heartbeat flooding me with fresh pain. At last, I saw an open doorway limned by pale light. I plunged inside, colliding with a workbench. Tools clattered like startled insects.


    The chamber, a workshop by the stench of chemicals and stale oil, appeared empty. I slid behind a stack of crates, breath ragged, pressing trembling fingers to my side. Blood slicked my palm. My vision wavered, shrinking until only a small circle of light remained. The world around me receded into darkness as the pain blotted out thought.


    Somewhere beyond my fading consciousness, I fancied I heard footsteps¡ªa harbinger of either rescue or doom. But the darkness claimed me before I could discover which.

 Chapter One

    Pain hauled me back to consciousness as though by a corroded hook through my flesh. The first true impression was the cold¡ªclinical, uncaring, the sort that creeps into one¡¯s bones. My eyes fluttered open, yet the world remained blurred in that diseased glow of greens and yellows. The walls around me curved in disquieting ways, half-organic and limned by flickering shadows. An acrid tang polluted the air, reminiscent of chemicals left to rot in glass crucibles.


    I felt as if someone had stuffed my head with wool. Any effort to sit up rewarded me with a spike of agony that tore a hiss from my throat. My hand found coarse bandages wrapped tightly about my ribs, and memory returned in fitful shards: the thug, the knife, the blood. The finer details dissolved into haze.


    I lay upon a metal slab as chill as the rest of this place, its surface smooth beneath my back. Overhead, a tangled nest of pipes fed into flickering panels and devices that spat steam in uneven intervals. Several glass tubes, brimming with a sinister green fluid, cast their phosphorescence upon the walls. Stranger still were the misbegotten machines¡ªhalf steel and half quivering flesh in jars that pulsed like living hearts.


    Gritting my teeth, I swung my legs over the edge, stifling a groan as my wound tugged at me. The floor sent a jolt of icy numbness into my bare feet. I noticed a drip affixed to my arm, the metal stand rattling each time I moved. Each small tug of that needle felt like a reproach.


    A wave of panic cut through my confusion. My bag¡ªmy things! I forced myself upright, ignoring the dizziness that set the room swaying. Shelves cramped with mysterious vials, meticulously sorted tools, and precariously stacked books spread out before me. On a battered desk, half-zipped and spilling its contents, lay my backpack. Relief warred with suspicion. I lurched toward it, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me.


    Slumping into the rickety chair by the desk, I pawed through the bag: laptop and phone (useless though it was), pens and a crumpled notebook¡ªbut not everything. The textbooks¡ªthree in total¡ªwere missing. My grip tightened on the canvas. Someone had rummaged in my possessions.


    ¡°Is it these you seek?¡±


    A voice, low and edged like a scalpel. Its suddenness frozen me. I turned too quickly, dizziness nearly toppling me. In the gloom by a cluttered shelf stood a tall, gaunt figure in a tattered, ash-streaked lab coat, its stains speaking of old failures. His eyes glowed softly with reflected green, half hidden by scars that warped his face from jaw to temple. He held one of my missing books open, its pages illuminated by the sickly luminescence of some apparatus nearby.


    I fought every instinct to bolt, forcing myself instead to remain still. My voice emerged hoarse and uncertain. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    He turned another page as if I were an afterthought. ¡°I might ask you the same. I found you collapsed in my workshop, draining your blood onto my floor. Rarely do I get such inconsiderate guests.¡±


    My gaze flicked to the table where I¡¯d awakened, now stained with dried gore. I swallowed hard. ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t mean to intrude¡ª¡±


    ¡°But here you are,¡± he said coolly. I tried to tamp down the trembling in my limbs, reminding myself that he had not yet moved to harm me. Still, the way he studied me¡ªlike a bug pinned to a board¡ªkept my pulse hammering in my ears.


    I cleared my throat. ¡°My name is Jaeyun¡ªJaeyun Han.¡± The apology that followed felt hollow on my tongue.


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    He shut the book with a sound like a door slamming. ¡°Jaeyun Han,¡± he repeated, tasting each syllable. ¡°An Ionian name, by the shape of it. The Wuju, the monasteries¡ªyes, Ionia. You are far from home indeed.¡±


    I blinked, uncertain. Ionia? The word lay dormant in my mind, conjuring no certain image. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t quite understand,¡± I managed.


    One scarred brow arched at my words. ¡°Interesting. And so are your belongings.¡± He indicated the half-empty pack, and his voice took on a slight note of curiosity. ¡°Strange books, unfamiliar writings¡­¡±


    A pit formed in my stomach but I ignored it. ¡°Maybe that¡¯s because I¡¯m not from here,¡± I said curtly, a tad annoyed by the stated obvious. A moment later however, a sigh escaped me. ¡°Still, thank you,¡± I said. ¡®Without your aid, I would probably be dead by now.¡±


    The strange fellow dismissed that with a slight motion of his hand. ¡°I do not act from kindness,¡± he said. ¡°Only curiosity.¡±


    I leaned back slightly, keeping my grip on the bag. The man¡ªif indeed he still counted as such¡ªmoved closer, the hissing devices bathing his ruined features in an eerie glow.


    ¡°So,¡± he continued softly, ¡°tell me. What are you? A common tinkerer? A scholar? An inventor?¡± His glance fell upon the diagrams peeking from my notebook. ¡°These are not the scribblings of a layman.¡±


    I hesitated. The truth felt dangerous here¡ªtoo much information could easily be twisted, used against me. I opted for a half-truth instead, testing the waters. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ an engineer. The books are my study materials.¡±


    He studied me, much like one would examine a specimen under a microscope. ¡°Engineer,¡± he repeated, savoring the term. ¡°A builder. A maker. Some of these texts appear beyond basic crafts¡ªyou must be more than that to carry such advanced knowledge about causally in a rucksack.¡±


    I let the half-truth hang. ¡°And you? Who are you?¡±


    He regarded me for several breaths. Then, without flourish, he answered, ¡°You may call me Singed.¡±


    The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it, it settled over me like an ill omen. His stance shifted, and the overhead piping gave a plaintive hiss.


    ¡°Jaeyun Han,¡± he said again, drawing out my name like he was testing its weight. ¡°You¡¯ve stumbled into a city that devours the weak. Yet here you were, bleeding out on my table, with alien books and a mind that intrigues me. So, tell me¡­¡± His gaze narrowed. ¡°What do you intend to do now?¡±


    I met his gaze and frowned. ¡°I¡¯m not sure yet,¡± I admitted. ¡°But I know I need to find a way home. From what I¡¯ve seen, this place isn¡¯t exactly the safest in the world.¡±


    Singed¡¯s mouth twisted, though I could not say whether it was in humor or disdain. ¡°Indeed. Zaun is cruelty personified. So let us be frank. You may leave my workshop now, half-healed and unsteady, and we shall watch how long you last. That might be somewhat amusing to observe¡­ Or you may remain under my roof¡ªconditional upon your usefulness.¡± His scars pulled taut, and he paused for emphasis. ¡°I have many endeavors in progress. A capable pair of hands would not go amiss. If you prove able, you may stay until you are fit to venture forth. Our arrangement will persist so long as it benefits us both.¡±


    ¡°...What kind of work?¡± I asked after a moment, keeping my voice level.


    Singed gestured toward one of the machines, its gears turning sluggishly as a faint hiss of steam escaped a nearby pipe. ¡°Repairs, calibrations, maintenance¡­ errands,¡± he said. ¡°Whatever I require. You seem capable enough.¡± He paused, tilting his head slightly. ¡°Of course, I will assess your usefulness as we go. If you fail to prove yourself¡ªwell, we need not discuss that eventuality.¡±


    The unspoken threat roiled my stomach, yet refusal seemed suicidal. Still, for a moment, I weighed my options carefully. ¡°All right,¡± I said in the end, not having much of a choice.


    Singed¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. ¡°Good. I suspect you¡¯ll find the arrangement¡­ mutually beneficial. For however long it lasts.¡±


    With that, he turned and departed, the thrum of devices swallowing the echoes of his uneven footsteps. I listened to the hiss and churn of the vile green concoctions, letting the numbness of pain and exhaustion wash over me. As I did this, one thought managed to persist, circling my mind like a vulture: Where the actual fuck am I?

 Chapter Two

    I woke with a jolt, to that half-light of bare corridors and greenish haze, as though surfacing from a long-forgotten dream. The stale air of my cramped room tasted faintly metallic in my mouth. For a moment, I felt suspended between two existences¡ªthe life I remembered, with the hum of modern Earth¡¯s conveniences, and this verisimilitude of hissing pipes and reeking smog. Then my side gave a dull throb, and reality settled back in. Two weeks of these mornings, yet the city remained as alien to me as the day I stumbled bleeding into Singed¡¯s workshop.


    On the chipped nightstand beside my cot lay the usual reminders of my new life: a ragged spool of thread (mending tears in my clothes had become near-daily work), a small tin cup, and my battered phone¡ªstill useless, as it had been since my first hour here, hence switched off. The room my benefactor had spared me was little more than four walls, a stiff cot, a single splintered chair, and a desk too small for real work. Each plank in the floor had its own squeak; the rafters overhead moaned whenever someone in the alley outside stomped on a loose grate. Even so, it was an improvement over the metal gurney upon which I first regained consciousness.


    Small mercies, I suppose.


    Sighing, I peeled off the thin blanket and sat up, pressing a careful hand to my side. Beneath the rough bandage, the stab wound throbbed. The pain was no longer debilitating¡ªmostly a dull ache, like a bruise refused the chance to fade.


    I forced myself to stand and fetched a half-threadbare towel from a makeshift hook by the door. The cramped little bathroom adjoining my room was a precarious venture: overhead pipes wept condensation, and the faucet spat water in fits. This morning, at least, the trickle ran faint but steady¡ªenough for a proper shower if I conserved the meager heat. Despite the acrid mineral smell, I welcomed the warmth. When soap touched my stab wound, I stiffened, biting back a curse. The pang flared, then subsided. I had come to prize these small morning rituals: they anchored me in a place that otherwise felt unreal. Even when brushing my teeth was an exercise in caution¡ªbristles so stiff they seemed apt to rip my gums¡ªI cherished them all the same.


    At last, I toweled off and tugged on the clothes Singed had supplied: a threadbare undershirt and heavy trousers of an unfamiliar cut¡ªhigh-waisted, secured by thick suspenders. Over that went a coarse jacket dyed in dull earth-tones. I caught sight of myself in the smudged mirror perched on a corner shelf¡ªeyes ringed with fatigue, hair messy from restless sleep. I parted it with my fingers, trying not to dwell on the ways I already looked changed, as though the Undercity was leaving its fingerprint on me.


    I took a moment to breathe, letting the stale air fill my lungs, then stepped into the hallway. The building was quieter than usual. Soot-stained windows admitted only faint scraps of light, tinted a sickly hue by the haze outside. I didn¡¯t hear any of Singed¡¯s machines running yet¡ªperhaps he was taking the morning slowly. Then I smelled it: a queer aroma wafting from the kitchen that could only mean one thing¡ªbreakfast.


    Sure enough, I found him in the cramped kitchen nook, stirring a pot of brackish porridge over a small gas burner. His posture was typically rigid, as though he were a sculpture that happened to move. I offered a short nod by way of greeting. Singed barely acknowledged me, sparing only a glance. Two wooden bowls sat on the chipped countertop. He filled one and handed it to me.


    We filled the room in sparse quiet. The first few days, I¡¯d tried to spark conversation, but the man would either ignore me or give abrupt, clinical answers, and so I learned silence. These days, I have grown to appreciate it. The silence gave me space to think. I needed to think.


    At length, after emptying the last of the pot into his own bowl, Singed spoke: ¡°And the centrifuge?¡± he asked.


    I set my spoon down, swallowing the sticky mouthful. ¡°Bearings are shot,¡± I said. ¡°Cheap iron. Also, the steam lines were clogged with mineral deposits¡ªthe fluctuating pressure sped up the wear. I¡¯ve cleaned out the lines, but the bearings need replacing entirely. And some shock mounts. That¡¯ll help keep it stable.¡±


    He gave the barest inclination of his head, set down his spoon, and fished a pouch of coins from inside his coat. ¡°Get what you need at Wort¡¯s shop,¡± he said, sliding them across the table. ¡°On your way back, pick up some groceries. The usual. I trust you know where to go by now.¡±


    I bowed my head in assent. He and I had memorized each other¡¯s patterns: he asked, I complied. There was an efficiency to it that I found equal parts comforting and dehumanizing. Still, it beats the alternative. I tucked the coin pouch into my pocket, returning to the porridge. As usual, his attention drifted away the moment he delegated a task, his thoughts immediately consumed. He left the stove without ceremony, carrying his breakfast into the workshop beyond. The door¡¯s old hinges grated like bones.


    Left alone, I soon sipped the last spoonful of porridge; it clung to my mouth, leaving a gritty aftertaste. Rising from my seat, I deposited the used utensils in the sink. A battered apron hung from a nail in the wall; I tied it around my waist and began cleaning the kitchen, gathering the bits of raw scraps and wilted leaves that Singed had scattered about in his impromptu cooking. He seemed brilliant, from what I could tell, but the man had all the culinary finesse of a crow picking at carrion. At least the dried bloodstain on the counter from last week¡¯s attempt at preparing seafood was mostly scrubbed away now.


    The rest of the house followed. I swept floors, dusted sills, and wiped doorknobs. Several times I passed the two doors Singed kept locked. One was presumably his bedroom; the other, some kind of adjoining workspace or laboratory extension¡ªthere had been strange noises from behind it sometimes, heavy machinery perhaps? Regardless, I stayed well away. Singed had made it clear those places required no ¡°help.¡±


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    With the house now acceptably tidy, I shrugged off the apron and made for the exit. As I stepped out, the city itself seemed to greet me: an assault on the senses¡ªclanging metal, buzzing neon signs, half-shouted arguments from neighbors. The city''s miasma greeted me with its sour breath, its gloom so constant that I had learned to measure time by the shift in hue from sulfuric green to a bluish tinge near midday.


    I kept my head down and began to walk.


    It took me less than ten minutes to reach Wort¡¯s machinist shop, nestled in a crooked side street. Its door was marked only by a tarnished cog nailed to the frame. Within, shelves overflowed with gears, rods, mechanical arms, and precarious piles of cast-off iron. Wort himself was perched behind the counter, sorting trinkets by shape and size. He looked up and gave a friendly grunt¡ªwhich, for the Undercity, was akin to a warm welcome.


    ¡°Morning,¡± he said. His apron was nearly as soiled as the rest of the place, but he wore it with pride.


    I placed the damaged bearings on the counter. ¡°Good morning. I need a replacement set¡ªsimilar size. And shock mounts, if you have them.¡±


    Wort scratched his stubble as he picked up and eyed one of the damaged bearings. ¡°I ought to have the right size. Give me a moment.¡± He rummaged through bins on a back shelf, returning with a selection that at least looked sturdier than what Singed had used before.


    We compared them to the damaged ones, ensuring the diameter matched. A minute later, he laid out a set of worn leather pads and a row of wooden discs, each with small holes for bolts¡ªshock mounts. I eyed them until I found one I was certain was the correct size. Then, Wort tallied up the price, gave me a slight discount for returning business, and carefully packed everything into a canvas bag. Coins exchanged hands. He offered a parting shrug and a grunt that served as a farewell. I thanked him, stepping back into the swirl of passersby outside.


    The market for groceries was a bit farther on, where open stalls lined a broken thoroughfare lit by sporadic overhead lamps. Vendors hawked produce stunted by lack of real sunlight: colorless vegetables, coarse bread, pungent cheese wrapped in greasy parchment.


    I gathered the usual: some root vegetables that might last a few days, cured meat that smelled questionably fresh, a small jar of pickled something-or-other that Singed often used in his cooking. I took what I believed fit the budget and carefully clutched the change in my palm. The city¡¯s bustle swallowed all sense of time. Only the deepening hue of the overhead gloom hinted that midday was coming.


    By the time I returned to Singed¡¯s place, my arms ached from carrying supplies. I found the workshop as I¡¯d left it the night before: half-lit, cluttered with glass flasks of simmering solutions that tinted the walls green. There was no sign of the man himself; more than likely, he had retreated to his private sanctum or gone out for one of his errands.


    In the kitchen, I stowed the groceries. A single plate lay on the counter¡ªa sandwich of meager bread stuffed with thin slices of some salted meat, presumably for me. Besides it was another mess¡ªvegetable scraps, a knife caked in something gelatinous, a used pot. With a sigh, I tidied up once more.


    Finally free of my domestic duties, I carried my bag of parts to the workshop and laid out its contents on the bench supporting the damaged centrifuge, which stood disassembled in a dim corner. The device¡¯s metal plating bore the scars of repeated attempts at repair¡ªdents hammered flat, rivets replaced with mismatched bolts. Bit by bit, I replaced the old bearings with the new, pausing frequently to wipe away and reapply lubrication. I installed the shock mounts, reconnected the steam pipes, and double-checked the lines for any leftover residue.


    The hours slipped by quietly as I worked. I turned on the old generator¡ªwhich rattled to life¡ªand tested the repaired centrifuge with a cautious flush of steam pressure from a boiler. This time, no rattling roar, no frantic squeal. The machine spun with a healthy hum.


    That¡¯ll do, I thought, smiling to myself.


    My side ached again, urging me to rest. I noticed the overhead lights were dimmer, sliding slowly into the deep-green twilight that served as ¡°evening¡± in the Undercity. Setting aside my wrench, I straightened up. The workshop was still empty¡ªSinged wasn¡¯t back yet.


    Shrugging, I headed to the kitchen to wash up and retrieve my sandwich before going upstairs. My room, though modest, felt almost inviting in retrospect. Funny how this city makes you appreciate the little things. I sank onto the creaking chair and placed the sandwich aside. Lifting my laptop from the drawer, I powered it on. Battery: a scant twenty-two percent. The fan whirred softly as it booted.


    Navigating one of the hundreds of my downloaded ebooks, I scrolled until I found the entry on rectifiers I¡¯d discovered the night prior. I scanned the text, then copied some notes and diagrams into my battered composition notebook. Each passing minute was precious. If the battery died, so would my chances of keeping any electronics powered later¡ªI had to figure out a way to recharge them before that.


    A puzzle had taken shape in my mind¡ªa blueprint for a crude linear power regulator and dynamo that could be mated with a steam generator like the ones abundant in Singed¡¯s workshop. Copper wire for resistors, a magnet assembly, some capacitors, and maybe a rectifier. In a city thick with salvaged parts, it felt feasible.


    My side twitched. I turned off my laptop to conserve what little power remained, then turned my attention to the cobbled device on my desk: an aluminum casing, a cluster of wires, crude capacitors, and a homemade diode. The dynamo was downstairs in the workshop, complete and functional. That part was easy enough. The question now was how to get the regulator to stop blowing up¡ªand then how to produce a stable direct current.


    I took a deep breath, letting the tension ebb. The day had been long and somewhat monotonous, but in Zaun, such monotony was a gift¡ªno knives in my gut, no catastrophic lab failures to mop up. Taking a bite of my now very stale lunch, I dove back into my work, rummaging through the cluttered drawer for a copper spool I¡¯d seen earlier.


    Somehow, I had to make this work.

 Chapter Three

    I had spent the better part of the past two weeks simply going through the motions, and now, as I stood in Wort¡¯s shop once more, I found myself drumming my fingers on his cluttered counter, waiting for him to finish welding. The clang of hammer on metal echoed through the cramped space, accompanied by faint puffs of acrid smoke whenever his torch met the plating. I breathed in, half in exasperation and half in fascination. Recently, no matter how often I visited, I was always treated to something new.


    He glanced up at me through tinted goggles, which made his eyes look insectile and distant. ¡°Almost done here,¡± he called, voice muffled. Then, he turned back to guide the torch along a seam in the thin metal plates.


    I had to admire the man¡¯s technique. Each bead of welded metal was neat, though not fine enough to resemble any true precision work. Still, for the Undercity, it was commendable. The plates he¡¯d been working on were to become heat sinks¡ªheavy, layered sheets hammered flat and, with any luck, capable of dissipating enough energy quickly enough to keep my contraption from going up in smoke again.


    A few more deft passes, and Wort turned off the flame. He lifted his goggles, revealing sweat-beaded skin and tired but alert eyes. ¡°You mentioned shock mounts, a belt drive, and these plate sets, yeah?¡± he asked, wiping his forehead on a smudged rag. ¡°I think that¡¯s the last of it.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I replied, mustering a smile. ¡°I appreciate you rushing the job.¡±


    He fiddled with the latch on his welder and shrugged. ¡°Ain¡¯t free, you know. Only a fool turns down good money.¡±


    A dryness touched my throat at that, remembering how my coin pouch had grown alarmingly light these past few days. I nodded, resting my hand on the battered counter. ¡°Actually, I was wondering about your process for custom commissions¡ªlonger projects, more intricate parts. Would that be something you can handle?¡±


    Wort took a moment to set the plates aside, then turned his focus on me. ¡°More intricate how?¡± he asked, leaning on the counter.


    ¡°Oh, things like multiple identical finely machined gears, maybe threading for much smaller bolts than the type you currently sell. Possibly specialized castings,¡± I said. ¡°I might need them down the line. Simple question of cost and feasibility.¡±


    His brows knit together. ¡°For that sort of complexity, we usually send an order up to Piltover or trade with locksmiths and jewelry makers¡ªfolks who can handle the finer details. I can do basic shaping, sure. But I don¡¯t have, let¡¯s say, the sort of lathes you might see top-side.¡± He made a small, dismissive gesture. ¡°I can get your tolerances close, though. Maybe a fraction of a mill off if I really take my time. But that costs extra. Materials, too¡ªgood steel is scarce here. We make do with what scraps slip through the cracks.¡±


    I pretended to consider, tapping a finger on the worn countertop. ¡°So if I needed a gear with, say, extremely tight spacing?¡±


    He chuckled¡ªmore of a huff, really. ¡°You¡¯ll be paying good coin. Or find some arrangement with a workshop that¡¯s half in Piltover territory. You¡¯d best have the coin to pay for customs duty, or you¡¯ll have the Enforcers up in your business. My advice? Stay with practical tolerances. Don¡¯t aim for anything too fancy, not if you¡¯re living in these Lanes.¡±


    I offered a polite smile, stifling a sigh of relief. At least now I had a sense of my boundaries. ¡°Understood,¡± I said, trying not to sound too eager. ¡°Thanks for the information.¡±


    ¡°No problem,¡± he replied, then began gathering the parts in a rough crate lined with old cloth.¡°All right,¡± he said. ¡°Comes to a hundred and seventy cogs even.¡±


    My stomach gave a small clench, but I nodded. ¡°Got it.¡± I fished out the coin purse from my jacket, counting the battered metal discs. I¡¯d had to borrow from Singed again¡ªthough I told myself I¡¯d pay it back once I found a steadier income. With a forced nonchalance, I placed them on the counter. Wort didn¡¯t bother to re-count; he trusted me enough by now, apparently.


    He slid the coins into his own pouch. ¡°Pleasure doing business.¡±


    ¡°Same,¡± I managed. Tipping my head in farewell, I ducked out of the shop and back into the Undercity¡¯s winding arteries.


    <hr>


    I might have hurried straight home¡ªmy arms felt the weight of the crate almost immediately¡ªbut a half-aimless boredom urged me onward. I decided on a short detour closer to the sun. It was cleaner here, unsurprisingly, hence, pleasant. As I strolled, the roads widened slightly, and the air smelled only faintly of soot rather than the pungent tang that clung to the streets below. Overhead, the ceiling seemed to lift; we were closer to the surface, after all, though still far below Piltover¡¯s distant golden spires. A few passersby even nodded in greeting, which caught me off guard the first time I was here. Back then, I found myself nodding back, unsure if it was genuine civility or simple caution. Funny what the Undercity could do to one¡¯s perception of the world.


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    Eventually, my circuit led me back toward the familiar chaos of the marketplace below. I paused at a stall selling cheap produce but saw nothing that didn¡¯t look half withered, so I moved on until I caught a whiff of brine and spiced marinade. There, near a stand of flickering lamps, squatted a small sushi stall¡ªa low-slung kiosk of wooden planks topped by a fabric awning.


    Jericho¡ªthe non-human, humanoid stall¡¯s owner¡ªhad never spoken a word to me; merely bobbed his head, gestured and made remarkably expressive faces. How anyone knew his name was a mystery to me, but he answered whenever another regular came by, I reasoned that must be his name¡ªsomehow communicated despite his seeming inability to speak.


    Today, I handed Jericho two cogs and mimed the shape of skewers, which earned me a cheerful, toothy shark grin. He set about grilling strips of squid, rolling them in a sticky glaze. A minute later, the skewers were wrapped in a strange leaf and passed over. I gave him an appreciative nod, stepping aside to enjoy the food. The flavor was every bit as good as I remembered from yesterday, a sweet-and-salty indulgence that banished my fatigue. It was almost enough to banish that pang of guilt I felt for spending Singed¡¯s money on personal cravings.


    At last, the skewers were bare, and my wallet was lighter still¡ªjust four cogs left. Sighing contentedly, I slipped my now dangerously thin purse into my waist and made my way through the jostling crowd, crate balanced on my hip. Then, out of nowhere, I felt a tug at my belt.


    Instinct kicked in. My hand shot out, snagging a boy by the collar. He couldn¡¯t have been older than ten¡ªfilthy hair, cheeks smudged with grime. Clutched in his small fist was my coin pouch. Our eyes locked.


    ¡°Oh, no you don¡¯t,¡± I said softly, prying the purse loose. A flicker of defiance shone in the boy¡¯s expression, but it quickly died, replaced by something that felt older than his years¡ªfear mixed with weary acceptance. His clothes were rags, torn at the knees, the soles of his shoes half-eaten by the streets.


    I stood there for a moment, simply staring at him. My grip loosened, and I realized I had him in a half-chokehold. Slowly, I let him go, but kept my foot angled so he couldn¡¯t dart away again. Staring at him a moment longer, a tired sigh escaped me.


    Four cogs¡ªbarely enough for a meal. I sighed again, hating the city anew. Wordlessly, I took the coins out and pressed them into his palm. His eyes flew wide, confusion and suspicion tangling on his dirt-streaked face. For a second, he just stared, as though waiting for the punchline.


    My mood soured at that realization, and I hoisted the crate again. Slipping through the throng, I slowly wound my way back to Singed¡¯s tall, ramshackle house of steel walkways and rattling pipes.


    Fuck this city, I scowled as I fetched my keys from inside my jacket


    <hr>


    The workshop reeked of chemicals, as always, but it felt oddly comforting. My cordoned-off corner¡ªjust a battered desk and an open space in which I¡¯d been tinkering¡ªbeckoned. I set the crate down and carefully laid out the new parts I had purchased. The house was silent, more than was normal. Singed was away again, off on his errands perhaps.


    I put the thought out of mind and turned my attention to the task at hand. On my desk sat the initial assembly: a cobbled together mess of wires, crude capacitors, and misshapen diodes housed in a rough aluminum shell¡ªthe linear power regulator. Next to it stood Singed¡¯s smallest steam turbine, with a simple dynamo half-coupled to it via an older belt that had snapped two days ago.


    Rolling up my sleeves, I screwed on the new shock absorbers beneath the dynamo to dampen the vibration that came from using imprecise and unbalanced parts. That done, I fixed the new belt in place, threading it carefully around the turbine¡¯s spinning axle. With a grunt, I bolted each assembly onto a wooden base, layering them so the contraption wouldn¡¯t rattle itself apart again like it did the first time. Finally, I retrieved a jar of improvised thermal paste¡ªaxle grease mixed with iron filings, graphite, and wax. Carefully, I slathered it onto the underside of one heat sink, then pressed the sink against the dynamo¡¯s metal housing before screwing it down. The second sink, with a liberal dollop of the paste, went against the regulator¡¯s back plate. Messy, possibly conductive, and guaranteed to degrade eventually¡ªbut for now, it would pull enough heat away to keep the whole thing from burning up.


    I double-checked every connection, wiping sweat from my brow. Then I yanked the generator¡¯s pull cord. A rattling cough, then the turbine whirled to life, spinning the dynamo¡¯s solid metal flywheel. After a tense moment, I threw another switch, routing current to the regulator. No sparks, no acrid smoke. I let out a slow breath, crossing my fingers.


    A few moments later, I confirmed it was stable. Then waited a few moments more to be sure the system wasn¡¯t about to quit on me again. With narrowed eyes, I retrieved my phone charger and plugged it in¡ªno phone attached yet. The light stayed on. Nothing exploded or shorted. Encouraged, I hurried upstairs and grabbed my actual phone. I half-expected everything to die the moment I plugged it in, but when I connected the cable, the phone¡¯s screen lit up with a charging symbol three seconds later.


    I stared, heart pounding, as though I¡¯d just witnessed magic. It was charging¡ªslowly, yes, but undeniably charging. I just needed to marginally increase the output. A grin spread across my face, almost childlike. It worked.


    It fucking worked!


    Reverently, I set the phone aside, letting it draw power from the machine. I felt my cheeks grow sore from smiling. For once, all the frustrations¡ªthe endless chores, the subpar food, the grime¡ªseemed momentarily worth it. And in the quiet hush of the workshop, drowned in the steady hum of the turbine, I allowed myself a small measure of hope.