Season 1 chapter 8
The Boss Talk (Part 1 - The Docks & The Debt)
The courtyard was buzzing with the usual high-society gossip, but Kniya and Malesh were in a world of their own. Kniya leaned back against the stone pillar, crossing his arms with a skeptical smirk.
"So," Kniya started, his voice dripping with that royal sarcasm. "Last time we talked, I told you that you wouldn't get a job. I told you that you were a 'brat' and that no one in the real world would hire an eleven-year-old with a silk tie. So, how's the forest floor? Enjoying the moss, or did you finally realize I was right?"
Malesh didn't get angry. He didn't even blink. He just reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope, flicking it against his palm with a satisfying thwack.
"You're full of shit, Kniya," Malesh said, a cold, triumphant grin spreading across his face. "I spent four hours in that hellhole of a district yesterday. I got rejected by every two-bit shop owner from the Heights to the canals. They rejected me because of my height, they rejected me because I'm a 'minor,' and they rejected me because these clothes cost more than their entire shops. They saw a lawsuit or a police raid every time I opened my mouth."
Malesh leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a sharp whisper. "But I didn't quit. I hit the docks. Durkan's Logistics. I walked in there, ignored the insults about my age, and I fixed their entire loading flow in sixty minutes. I built a mechanical system out of their own scrap. The foreman—a guy who looks like he eats iron for breakfast—didn't just hire me. He promoted me to Head of the Labor Sector on day one."
Kniya's smirk finally faltered. "Head of Labor? At our age?"
"I'm a professional, bro. I'm pulling 90,000 DI'an credits a month starting next week," Malesh bragged, the humor returning to his eyes. "Plus my 80k stipend? That's 170,000 credits. I've already rented a room in a tenement building. No more moss, no more mosquitoes, and no more 'Bulwadi Protocol.' I'm earning my own way while you're still waiting for your butler to bring you tea."
Kniya let out a sharp, genuine laugh, shaking his head. "170k... You're actually insane. You're out-earning the guys who arrested us."
"I'm out-earning everyone in this school," Malesh said, his face hardening as he looked toward the upperclassman wing. "And that money is going to fund the one thing we've been waiting for since we were bleeding in that police car."
The Tactical Shift (Part 2 - The R37 and the "12th" Graders)
Kniya's gaze shifted toward the far end of the courtyard. "Look at those fucking 12th graders," Kniya spat, his eyes locking onto Rhuluf and his gang. "Those are the same guys who beat the shit out of us until we were coughing blood. I can still feel my ribs screaming every time they laugh."
Malesh watched them with a clinical, predatory focus. "Yeah, I know. But I've been thinking about something, Kniya. A question that's been eating at me since I got the job."
"What?"
"Are you even sure those fuckers are actually in 12th grade?" Malesh asked.
Kniya looked at him like he was crazy. "What the fuck? Look at them. They're huge.".
"I am looking," Malesh countered. "I assumed they were 12th graders because of their height and those patchy, disgusting beards on their faces. But look at how they act. They might just be in 11th grade—probably failed two or three times and just grew tall while repeating the same shit. They don't have the brains for 12th grade."
Kniya barked out a laugh. "What the fuck? If they're just 11th grade repeats, that makes the fact that they jumped us even more pathetic."
"It doesn't matter," Malesh said, his voice dropping an octave. "We have the funds now. My salary and our stipends are going into production. I've been studying the three bolt-action rifles we took from the crash. I searched the books—they're R37 Brockforce models. High-pressure, steam-assisted bolt-action. They're military-grade."
Kniya's grin turned dangerous. "So we use the R37s on Rhuluf?"
"No," Malesh said firmly. "We aren't shooting real lead at students. We got saved by blackmail this time, but shooting a kid with an R37 Brockforce will put us in a hole we can't dig out of. We need the Stone Gun project."
He pulled out a technical sketch of a cylindrical device. "I'm manufacturing these in my room tonight. They're cylindrical in shape and use the same high-tension spring mechanics as the R37 bolt-action, but they fire polished, cylindrical stones. At the right angle, it'll do serious damage, shatter a kneecap or break a jaw, but it won't kill them. It's the perfect revenge tool."
Kniya ran a finger over the blueprint. "The Stone Gun for the '12th graders,' and the R37 Brockforce for the real threats."
"Exactly," Malesh hissed. "I have a 7-hour shift at the warehouse to finish—since I'm the one actually earning the fucking money, but meet me in the forest at 1:00 AM. We test the prototypes. We're going to show those bastards what power actually feels like."
The 1:00 AM Problem & The Charity Cover
Kniya leaned closer to Malesh, his voice a harsh, frustrated whisper. "Are you fucking mad, or what? 1:00 AM? Bro, it's literally not possible. I am locked in that house like a prisoner in a gilded cage. My old man has security on every floor since the 'incident.' I can't just walk out to play with stone guns in the forest at midnight."
Malesh wiped a smudge of grease from his sleeve, looking unfazed. "Then play the game, Kniya. You're an Anderson. Tell your parents you've found a new 'moral calling.' Tell them you're going to do charity work—tutoring poor, struggling students in the Lower District to improve the family's image."
Kniya stared at him, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Tutoring? Me? Tutoring some poor asshole students?"
"Exactly," Malesh said, leaning back. "It's the perfect cover. They'll be so proud of their 'reformed' son that they'll give you a carriage and a pass. Just don't use the cuss words when you're pitching it to them if you don't want to get locked in the basement again."
"Fine," Kniya muttered. "I'll play the saint. But what about your schedule?"
"I have a seven-hour shift to deal with," Malesh explained, his mind already on the warehouse. "School ends at 1:00 PM. From 2:00 PM to 9:00 PM, I'm at the docks running the labor sector. After that, I'm back at my apartment working on the gun prototypes."
Malesh looked at Kniya with a rare look of exhaustion. "You can come to my place after 9:00 PM—around 10:00 PM should be safe. But bro, do me a favor. Bring some actual food. After a seven-hour shift and manufacturing weapons, I'm not going to be able to cook for myself. I don't even know how to use that portable stove yet."
"Consider it done," Kniya said. "I'll raid the manor's kitchen. You'll be the best-fed 'laborer' in the Republic."
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The Days of Grit and Gears
Over the next several days, their lives became a blurred loop of high-stakes deception and mechanical engineering.
7:00 AM – 1:00 PM: They sat through lectures as "ghosts," the teachers too intimidated to even call their names while Malesh secretly sketched spring-tension release valves in his notebook.
2:00 PM – 9:00 PM: Malesh was the king of the docks, earning his 90,000 DI'an credits by optimizing steam-lifts and managing men twice his height.
10:00 PM – 2:00 AM: Kniya would slip out under the guise of "charity work," arriving at Malesh's 5B tenement room with bags of high-end manor food.
In that small room, lit by a single flickering bulb and the sound of a ticking mechanical clock, the Stone Gun took shape. They used the mechanics of the R37 Brockforce as a guide, stripping down the high-tension springs to create a silent, bolt-action launcher for the polished cylindrical stones.
The Spoiled Logic & The KIA Bet
Kniya sat on the edge of the kitchenette counter, tossing a heavy bag of credits in the air while Malesh tightened the final tension screw on the Stone Gun.
"You know, Malesh," Kniya said, popping a piece of expensive dried fruit into his mouth. "I was looking at my stipend passbook today. 80,000 credits. I'm thinking... instead of sinking my half into this metal pipe, I should've just put it all on the underground steam-engine races. I could've tripled it by now."
Malesh didn't look up from the bolt-action assembly. "And if you lost? You'd be back to begging your old man for an allowance."
"Better than being 'KIA,' bro," Kniya laughed, though his voice had a jagged edge to it. "Killed In Action. It sounds like a badass title for a war hero, but let's be real, it sounds fucking scary too. If this gun doesn't work and Rhuluf gets his hands on us again, 'KIA' isn't going to be a cool acronym. It's going to be our obituary."
Malesh finally set the tool down. The weapon was cylindrical, matte black, and felt impossibly heavy. "It'll work. Logic doesn't fail. People do.
The Invitation to Chaos
"Alright, Engineer. The gun is 'done,'" Kniya said, hopping off the counter and poking the barrel. "How the fuck are we even going to use it? You think Rhuluf and his goons are just going to stand there and let us take target practice?"
Malesh stood up, stretching his back which was stiff from his seven-hour shift at the docks. "We do the logical thing. We invite them. A direct fight. No back-alleys, no sneaking. We tell them to meet us in the forest clearing after school."
Kniya stared at him. "Are you fucking high? You think they'll just accept an invitation to a fight from two kids they already beat into the dirt?"
"They're 12th graders—or 11th grade repeats," Malesh corrected with a smirk. "They have more ego than brains. We tell them we have 'something they dropped' at the crash site. Their pride won't let them say no. They'll come thinking they're going to move our asses out of this region for good. They think they're the kings of Seistain."
"And we're the DI'ans," Kniya added, his eyes turning cold. "Let's see how their 'king' status holds up against a cylindrical stone to the teeth."