The black market in Undergleam didn't wait for understanding. It swallowed you whole, then spat out twitching pieces to remind you who was in charge. The place wheezed like a rusted engine running on duct tape and last gasps of desperation. Everything smelled wrong—oil slicks burned copper in the back of your throat, sweat baked into cracked stone, and fried circuitry drifted like lost smoke through the thick, stagnant air. Lucien had tasted that rust more times than he cared to count.
The stalls hunched over like broken ribs, tarps sagging like tired lungs, neon flickering sickly greens and reds that barely touched the shadows clawing at the edges. Half the vendors looked like they hadn't slept since the last eclipse, the rest probably hadn't slept at all. They moved like debts owed had bodies waiting to be collected.
Lucien Blackmoore moved through it like a man born into the mire but clean enough to unsettle anyone local. His coat clung damp and heavy with wet air and something burnt and chemical beneath the surface. Beneath it, the Ledger throbbed steady, a slow pulse riding against his ribs, humming with contracts whispered, sealed, and those still waiting for a voice. The weight was familiar, the pressure relentless.
Status: Current Target - Cassian's Proxy. Activity Level - High. Task - Monitor movement and intercept any unauthorized transactions. Informant reports due: 3. Pending Collections: 2.
The Ledger whispered low, a voice only he could hear in the thrum beneath his skin.
A hard shove bumped his shoulder. Lucien didn't flinch. Undergleam didn't apologize.
Nearby, a vendor flashed gold foil under tired eyes, slamming cracked aug-gear onto a grimy table. "Pre-war, cleaned and cursed! Swear on my mother's last tooth!" His voice cut through the smog like a rusted sawblade. Lucien gave him half a glance and moved on. Even curses deserved better salesmen.
A shout cracked somewhere left — maybe a fistfight, maybe a botched snatch. Violence here was just background noise, the city's low drone like buzzing wires or dying neon.
But something snagged Lucien's attention — a ripple in the crowd, purposeful beneath the chaos. And there she was.
Lena.
She moved with a quiet kind of permission, like the market parted willingly for her. Tall and sharp-lined, her coat hacked to the knee, stuffed with tricks meant to retire border wardens. Her smile showed just enough teeth to warn.
Lucien slid up beside her with his usual lazy slouch, voice rough and dry like dust stirred in a forgotten room. "Lena," he said, voice a soft scrape, "this market's a brawl, but I'm still the champ. Slip me that intel and I owe you a drink."
She didn't slow, just shot him a sideways glance sharp enough to cut steel. Arms crossed tight. "You're a lot of things, Blackmoore, but champ? Don't sell jokes without a license. What's in it for me?"
Lucien grinned — half apology, half promise — like he already knew it was going to be a dangerous good time. "Besides the honor of my company? I'll make sure no Iron Crow slabnecks sniff around your stock."
Her eyes flicked to the edge of the crowd. Two Crows leaned against a data tent, all brawn and boredom. Bored mercs were the deadliest. One chewed on a stimstick like it owed him blood money.
She didn't blink. "One of their drops went sideways," she said low. "Caught a peek at the aftermath. Cipher burned into the mill wall, deep side. Sloppy. Someone trying too hard to look like they belonged."
Lucien's mouth twisted between smirk and wince. "Another cipher? That kid's got no sense of style."
Before he could say more, one Iron Crow peeled off and blocked their path. The guy looked like he wore his bad attitude as heavy as his bruised knuckles. Boots thudded like a warning.
Lucien didn't even blink. He shifted a half step and slid past like slick oil under pressure. "Keep your hands to yourself, friend," he said smooth and easy, already tracing pressure points and escape routes.
The Crow grunted, readjusted, and backed off. Lena just watched, unimpressed.
Lucien didn't slow. His eyes flicked over stalls, reading secrets etched in grime and broken promises.
Lena slipped a chip into his palm. Fingers brushed — long enough to leave a heat that lingered. "Be careful with it," she muttered.
Lucien tucked it into his coat with a flourish almost theatrical. "Careful's my favorite kind of foreplay. Let's see what disaster's coming."
He veered toward the market's edge, ducking under a half-lit sign buzzing like it wanted to confess something but kept choking.
He pulled the holo-pad and slid in the chip. Static screamed for a heartbeat, then the feed snapped into dim, jerky life. Narrow alley, angles sharp and panic high. Sweat shone on skin, fingers twitched just before the flash — the pop of gunfire, messy and close — and then silence.
The wall behind it bore the rest of the tale. Cipher, scorched lines bleeding ugly and uneven like someone crying and casting a spell at once.
Lucien frowned, thumb dragging the holo-pad's edge. "Sloppy," he muttered. "Cassian's mess crawls closer."
Collection Due: Cipher analysis from South Tier feed. Pending.
He popped a brass watch from his coat, dropped it on the stone. The clink rang louder than it should, a countdown losing grip.
"No style. No subtlety. Just a scream thrown into the dark hoping someone listens."
He stared at the cipher longer than needed, letting it creep in. Lena's breath still hung between them — the scent of scorched dust and fresh blood threading the air. Cassian wasn't knocking anymore. He was tearing the hinges off the door.
The Ledger pulsed a warning. Priority: High. Target's influence increasing. Expect interference.
Lucien shut the pad, sliding it away. A slow, mean smile crept across his face, full of promise and danger.
"The brawl's just warming up," he said mostly to himself. "The crown's still mine."
He melted back into the market's pulse, filthy heartbeat thumping in sync. Lies whispered like prayers, curses stuck like mold.
A woman hawking soul-bound bullets caught his eye. He nodded and kept walking. He didn't need bullets to track guilt — he was guilt's middleman.
The market closed around him like a living thing, breathing its rot. Lucien walked with it — not above, not beside, but deep inside.
Informant Report: New chatter from east wing. Possible proxy movement detected. Task update: Intercept and confirm.
Cassian's cipher might bleed poison through these walls, but Lucien was threading the antidote into the city's veins.
One crooked flame at a time.