Elias
Seridia had a particular way of suffocating you, even when you were just breathing. Tonight, it did so with a thick, damp fog, creeping up from the Lethe River and mixing with the greasy coal smoke and the stench of industrial ether. A fine rain, almost a liquid dust, covered everything in a sickly sheen under the flickering light of the ether-gas lamps. Each hiss and pop of the igniters was an irregular heartbeat in the darkness, casting dancing shadows that turned familiar alleys into unknown throats.
I was leaning against the cold, damp stone of a buttress under the Rusted Merchant's Bridge, a dead spot between the superficial bustle of the Central Wharf and the forgotten bowels of the Sink. My territory. Or at least one of the places where people knew they could find me, if need pressed them hard enough to venture into this gloom filled with filth and bad vibes. The collar of my worn-out overcoat was turned up, a useless defense against the damp chill that seeped into the bones, a cold I felt more deeply these days. A fine tremor threatened to run through my gloved fingers; I controlled it with sheer will, clenching my fist inside my pocket. Another reminder. There were always reminders.
The sound of hurried, hesitant footsteps broke the monotony of the dripping and the distant throb of industrial machinery. A man emerged from the fog, a dark, nervous figure who nearly collided with a pile of rusted junk before he saw me. He stopped abruptly, his ragged breath forming small white clouds in the dense air. His suit, though of a better cut than most down here, was soaked and stained with soot at the cuffs. He wrung a bowler hat between his kidskin-gloved hands, now darkened by the moisture.
"Mister Elias?" His voice was a taut thread, barely audible over the ambient noise. "I was told… I was told that you… help. With problems."
I raised my head slowly, letting my eyes adjust to his figure silhouetted against the diffuse glow of a nearby lamppost. His face was pale, his eyes dilated with fear or desperation, perhaps both. He smelled of mothballs and stale fear. A small merchant, probably from one of the Wharf's secondary streets, out of his element and terrified by it.
I didn't respond verbally. A slight nod was enough. In my line of work, words were unnecessary until money, or the story, was on the invisible table between us.
The man swallowed, the sound raspy in the relative silence. "I've been robbed. Last night. Something… something important. Not for its value, not really, but… it was my father's. A pocket watch. Silver, yes, but old. It's not worth much to anyone else."
Of course it wasn't. The things people asked me to recover rarely had universal value. They were fragments of past lives, sentimental anchors in a world that insisted on dragging them through the mud. Or secrets that could cost a life if they came to the wrong light.
"And why come looking for me?" My voice sounded harsher than I intended, a side effect of the dampness and the foul air. "The Corporate Guard has offices. Or Blackthorn's agents, if you prefer their particular brand of uniformed indifference."
He flinched visibly at the mention, and I just smiled faintly. "No, no… they wouldn't understand. Besides, I suspect who it was. A kid from the Sink. Young, fast. I saw him lurking about. If I go to the Guard, they'll cause trouble, search everything, scare my customers… And they won't get the watch back. I just want the watch back. Discreetly. I was told that you are… discreet. And effective."
Effective. A kind word to describe someone who sifted through other people's garbage. Discreet. Another way of saying I operated in the shadows they preferred to ignore. I nodded again, this time more slowly, calculating. A petty theft. A probably desperate thief. Low apparent risk, though in Seridia you never knew what vermin might be hiding under a small stone.
I held out a gloved hand. "My usual fee, sir. Half now."
The merchant didn't hesitate. He pulled out a crumpled wad of corporate Ether tokens—opaque discs engraved with the grim face of some long-dead director—and counted the agreed-upon amount into my palm. The contact was brief, but long enough for me to feel a surge of anxiety, a sharp echo of loss and fear that vibrated under my skin. I pushed the feeling away as quickly as it came. A trick learned the hard way.
I tucked the tokens into an inner pocket. "I need a description of the boy. Where you saw him. Where you live, any detail you can give me will be useful, my friend."
As I spoke, mentally noting the details with the precision that kept me alive (and relatively unharmed), the distant rumble of a heavy ether-train echoed in the distance, making the cobblestones under my feet vibrate slightly. A nearby lamppost flickered violently, threatening to go out before regaining its sickly glow. The city's irregular pulse continued, indifferent to the small drama that had just unfolded under a forgotten bridge. Another job, I sighed. Another foray into the filth. I accepted with the resignation of one who knows the current always pulls you down, but with a faint smile from knowing I was still surviving.
I left the relative openness of the bridge's arch behind and delved into the capillary veins of Seridia, the streets narrowing and twisting like diseased intestines as they descended toward the industrial heart. The Sink. The name was well-earned. Here, the fog smelled less of the river and more of the caustic mix of chemical dyes, rancid oil, and the sweat of a thousand bodies working themselves to pieces. The soot wasn't a surface layer; it was the very skin of the cheap brick buildings, huddled together as if seeking a warmth that didn't exist. Tattered clothes hung between grimy windows, dripping a dirty rain onto my head.
Tracking a scared thief in this labyrinth was more instinct than science. A couple of tokens discreetly slipped into the calloused palm of a roasted chestnut vendor bought me a vague address: "Burnt Coil Alley, look for the new kid, Skinny." Another murmur exchanged with a shadow huddled in a doorway—one of my informal eyes and ears—confirmed that Skinny had been nervous, looking to get rid of something shiny.
Walking through the Sink was like wading through a river of raw emotions, and as I did so, I left certain marks of my own as I advanced, as a precaution. The dull exhaustion of the workers, the rancid greed of the petty dealers, the constant fear that clung to everything like soot. Normally I blocked it out, a useless white noise that only served to give me a headache. But today, I was looking for a discordant note. As I turned toward Burnt Coil, I felt it: a sharp pang of youthful panic, fresh and close, tinged with the bitter taste of a recent mistake and the pressing intent to 'sell fast, get out of here.' Someone was scared and trying to get rid of something right now. Bingo. Skinny.
I moved with the slow flow of workers changing shifts, a gray river of overalls stained with faded corporate colors—the greenish-blue of Silk & Steam, the dirty orange of Volkov—and boots with magnetic soles that resonated faintly on the metal plates embedded in the mud. I passed the open mouth of a workshop where an ether-powered steam hammer struck with an asthmatic cough, each impact weaker than the last, until it stopped with a metallic groan. The foreman swore, banging his fist on the pressure gauge, but the needle didn't move. No one seemed surprised. It was the norm.
Further on, a bare Ether bulb, probably a cheap Müller installation given its clinical, whitish light, flickered with an epileptic cadence, buzzing like a trapped insect. It intermittently illuminated a sentinel automaton posted in front of a nondescript warehouse. Basic model, probably Volkov for its rough construction and riveted armor. It was supposed to pivot its mechanical torso in a constant sweep, but its movements were erratic, spasmodic. It would stop, vibrate slightly with a high-pitched squeal that pierced the ambient noise, and then resume its patrol with a jolt. Cheap junk, I thought. Or maybe something more. I pushed the idea aside. Too many things were broken in the Sink to worry about every loose nut and bolt.
Burnt Coil Alley was little more than a crack between two warehouses that oozed dampness. At the far end, barely visible under an oil lamp that gave off more smoke than light, was the door to "Guaranteed Pawns," a promise as empty as its clients' pockets. The little bell above the door let out a tuneless jingle as I entered. The air was thick, smelling of dust, rusted metal, and the silent desperation of forgotten objects.
An older man, with small, shrewd eyes behind thick glasses, looked up from his ledger. He said nothing. His kind rarely did unless necessary. My gaze swept over the counter filled with assorted junk until it settled on the hunched figure on the other side. Young, yes. Skinny, without a doubt. Nerves on edge, his fingers fidgeting with something hidden in the pocket of his oversized jacket. He matched the merchant's description. He was trying to sell something to the old pawnbroker, his voice barely an anxious whisper. The aura of panic I had felt outside was almost suffocating in here.
I approached without hurry, my boots making a muffled sound on the worn wooden floor. I stopped beside him, tacitly blocking the only exit. The boy tensed, feeling my presence before he truly saw me. He turned his head, his eyes wide as they met mine. Fear hit him like a physical jolt, so potent I could almost taste it in the stale air—a frigid torrent of pure panic, the fleeting image of hunger gnawing at his insides, the bitter echo of remorse. I shook my head slightly, pushing away the unwanted intrusion, a familiar pang behind my temples.
"The watch," I said in a low voice, but the word cut through the dusty silence. It wasn't a question.
Flaco turned even paler, if that was possible. "I-I don't know what you're talking about." He attempted a bravado that died on his lips. His eyes desperately searched for a non-existent way out. The fear I'd felt before intensified, now mixed with a stubbornness born of pure desperation. 'I need the money. Just a little more. I have to get out of here.' The thoughts were fragmented, a silent scream in the back of my mind.
I leaned slightly toward him, my voice dropping to a whisper that only he and old Mordecai could hear. "Oh, you don't? Funny. Because I could swear I smell old silver and bad decisions. Flaco. Don't make this any harder than it has to be. I know you have it. I can feel it." I put a subtle emphasis on the last word, letting a hint of the calculating coldness I usually hid seep into my tone, an invisible pressure that seemed to make him shrink.
Old Mordecai cleared his throat. "Any problem, gentlemen? If there's no business, I have inventory to catalog. And rats to ignore."
I ignored the old man. Flaco made a stupid decision. Maybe he thought he could surprise me, or maybe the panic simply took over. With a choked cry, he tried to shove past me and run for the door. It was a clumsy, telegraphed move. Anticipating it—thanks to that wave of desperate intent I had perceived—I simply shifted my weight, stuck out a leg, and Flaco stumbled, falling to his knees on the dusty planks with a dull thud. Before he could react, my gloved hand was on his shoulder, not with brute force, but with a firm, inescapable pressure that pinned him.
"I'd recommend you reconsider your career options, kid," I said, my voice now devoid of any lightness. "Speed isn't everything if you announce yourself like a church bell. Last chance. The watch. Or your next conversation will be with people far less… understanding than me. And believe me, they get very creative when they're bored."
The threat hung in the thick air, heavier than the smell of dust. This time, his resistance shattered completely. I saw the fight leave his eyes, replaced by absolute defeat. With a choked sob, he pulled the silver watch from his pocket and dropped it on the floor beside him. I picked it up calmly. Its weight was insignificant, but the cold of the metal seemed to sink into my skin. I held his gaze for a moment longer, making sure he understood that the transaction was over. Then, I turned around, leaving the boy trembling by the counter and the old pawnbroker already returning to his numbers, the transaction forgotten before I had even crossed the threshold back into the fog and soot.
I tucked the silver watch into an inner pocket. It went better than expected, and even though I was heading back into the fog soup and the damp embrace of the alley, this had been a clean job, almost disappointing in its simplicity.
Almost.
I had barely taken ten steps toward the mouth of the alley when two burly figures emerged from the mist like bad omens in uniform. Volkov Inc. The dirty orange of their padded overcoats was unmistakable, as was the expression of boredom tinged with latent brutality on their broad faces. They carried heavy ether-truncheons hanging from their belts, buzzing softly like pissed-off insects. One of them raised a gloved hand, a lazy gesture that nonetheless demanded I stop.
"Hold it right there, friend. A nighttime stroll through the charming Sink, eh?" The speaker's voice was rough, like rolling gravel. "A bit late for shopping, don't you think?"
I stopped, adopting a deliberately relaxed posture, my hands visible, out of my pockets. A crooked smile played on my face. "Shopping? At these prices, sir, one needs time to reflect. Besides, the fog gives business such an... intimate atmosphere. Don't you think?"
The second guard, burlier and with a jagged scar on his chin, snorted. "Cut the chatter. What were you doing in old Mordecai's shop?"
"Mordecai? Is that his name? Charming. I was admiring his exquisite collection of... well, whatever it is he accumulates. I was looking for a unique piece for my great-aunt. She has a peculiar taste for rust and desperation." I kept my tone light, almost conversational, while my eyes calculated the distances, the possible exits, the slick texture of the cobblestones under my feet. They were positioned to block me, but they left a narrow gap near a pile of corroded pipes stacked against the wall.
The first guard narrowed his eyes. "We've heard there's been trouble around here. Thefts. Suspicious folk. And you fit the description of 'suspicious.'"
"Me? I'm flattered. Usually, I'm categorized as 'quaint' or 'in need of a good bath.' 'Suspicious' sounds much more... intriguing. Documentation, perhaps?" I feigned searching my pockets. "I must have it here somewhere... along with my invitation to the Duke's ball and my secret recipe for rat stew."
The second guard's patience ran out. He took a step forward, his hand going for his truncheon. "Enough games. Empty your pockets. Now. Or we'll empty them for you."
"Always so direct at Volkov. I admire that efficiency." My smile didn't waver, but my muscles tensed. "But I'm afraid my great-aunt would be very upset if I'm late with her... well, with whatever I'm bringing her. So, if you'll excuse me."
The instant the burly guard lunged, the world seemed to give a small jolt. The oil lamp at the end of the alley flickered, casting a deep shadow right where the pipes were stacked. I saw the gap, barely the width of my shoulders. Impossible. And then, I was no longer in front of them. There was a strange sensation, like stumbling in mid-air, a momentary tug behind my eyes, and suddenly I was slipping through that impossible gap, the cold, rusted metal brushing against my overcoat. I heard the guard's cry of surprise and frustration as his hand grasped only damp air.
Damn, what reflexes, I thought, ignoring the slight disorientation. Or maybe being cautious paid off.
I didn't wait to see their reactions. I scrambled up the pile of pipes with desperate agility, landed on the low roof of an adjacent shed, and plunged into the darkness of another, even narrower alley, running crouched, using every shadow, every corner, until the sound of their heavy boots and curses was lost in the labyrinth of Seridia.
Half an hour later, after a calculated detour through passages not on any official map, I found the merchant waiting under the agreed-upon arcade, shivering more from nerves than from the cold. I handed him the watch without ceremony.
"Your family heirloom." I gave him a tired smile. "I hope your father appreciates the effort. It's hard to believe something so small could cause such a stir."
The man babbled an incoherent thank you, his eyes fixed on the watch as if it were a lost treasure. He handed me the rest of the tokens with trembling hands. I counted them quickly. Correct.
"A pleasure doing business," I muttered, though there had been no pleasure in it. I turned and disappeared back into the night, leaving the man clutching his small piece of the past.
Alone, back in the relative, anonymous safety of the streets I knew best, I allowed myself a moment. I leaned against a damp wall, closing my eyes briefly. The effort of the escape, or perhaps something more, had fanned the dull ache under my ribs. Discreetly, under the cover of my overcoat, I adjusted the tight bandage I wore there, a wound that never seemed to fully close. The tremor returned to my fingers, this time more insistent. I clenched it into a fist until it hurt, until it submitted.
I looked up at the invisible sky, hidden by the fog and smoke. Seridia. A city built on secrets and lies, fueled by an energy that sickened and consumed. And I, just another one of its bastard sons, dancing on the edge of the abyss, recovering broken watches while trying to keep my own pieces together. A bad joke, if you thought about it. And I was the only one who seemed to find it funny. Or perhaps, just the only one still breathing to tell the tale.