AD: Chapter Five

Chapter Five

I was still tightening the final bolt on an old and battered prosthetic leg when the clockwork alarm wheezed out its mechanical chime: a rasping series of clicks that ended in a shrill ding. The resulting groan from the line of men behind me was audible enough to elicit a wince from me. Their faces were grimy from hours at work and in the mines, and their expressions soured further at the sound. For my part, I felt a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” I said, setting aside my wrench. “I can’t take any more orders today. I really do apologize.”

The workers’ collective disappointment threatened to coalesce into a small storm of muttered pleas and complaints, but I could only bow my head in mild contrition. Word had spread fast these past two weeks: ever since I repaired Lorn’s arm at cost, his colleagues came streaming in for patch-ups, upgrades, or even tune-ups to the battered chem-limbs that kept them functional in their respective fields. Now, the press of the crowd all but filled Wort’s workshop, men standing in line and jostling for space among half-finished contraptions and precarious stacks of scrap metal.

“Next time, get here early,” Wort barked from somewhere behind the counter, eyeing the queue with thinly veiled annoyance. “He’s still one man, be considerate.”  

With care, I tested the last joint on the newly repaired limb. No fluid seeped out this time; no steam hissed from the valve coupling. Satisfied, I handed it back to its owner. He tested his weight on it, took a few careful steps, then gave me an appreciative nod.

He pressed a handful of cogs into my palm. I thanked him quietly, conscious of the fact that others had begun filing out, resigned to wait another day. I let out a breath as the last man left, the door jangling shut behind him. Wort came around the corner, wiping oil-stained hands on a rag. His gaze traveled from the now-deserted queue to the coin in my hand.

“Are you leaving now?” he asked, folding his arms across his hefty torso.

“Of course.” I counted out the fee we’d agreed upon. He didn’t recount them in front of me; rarely did these days. I suppose we’d grown comfortable enough for him to trust my numbers.

He grunted as he pocketed the coins. “Don’t forget to tidy up,” he said, glancing at the scattered benches. 

I smirked. “Expecting someone?” I teased.

He shook his head, turning away to rummage through a box of mismatched fasteners. “Don’t be stupid.”

I packed my kit back into my backpack, re-coiling wires and checking that none of the tools Singed lent me were left behind. Slinging my satchel over one shoulder, I nodded at Wort, who was eyeing one particular old fastener before tossing it back into the box. “See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here,” he grunted. 

Stepping out into the open air (if it could be called that), I noticed the boy immediately—the one who once tried to pick my pockets. He stood by the sagging lamppost across the street, shoulders hunched, eyes half-hidden under unwashed hair. For all the times he followed me, we had scarcely exchanged a handful of words—if that. I raised a hand slightly, but he pressed himself backward into the shadow. I pretended not to see him after that; in truth, I’d learned he only grew skittish if I acknowledged him directly.

Letting him be, I headed toward the market to pick up the usual groceries for Singed: a bag of half-wilted greens, some root vegetables, coarse bread, and a little packet of cheap fish scraps that reeked of brine. The cost was low enough to leave me with a few battered cogs in my pocket. From there, I wove through the crowd until I reached Jericho’s stall, marked by its makeshift wooden awning. 

Jericho’s lone eye lit up when he saw me, the other hidden behind an eyepatch. He greeted me as always with a bob of his head, gestures taking the place of speech. I handed him the usual fare and pointed to the fish he had on a grill of glowing coals. He slid a skewer into a leaf wrapper, along with a side of pickled seaweed, before passing it to me. 

I lingered over my lunch, letting the tang of brine and spice sharpen my senses. Then, with a glance toward the edge of the stall, I ordered an extra portion and set it down on the table. My stalker lingered at the periphery of the crowd, arms drawn tight to his sides. Following my gaze, Jericho smiled and gave me a knowing nod but said nothing. “Thanks,” I muttered quietly, handing him a few more cogs for the second plate. He responded with a wave, or perhaps something closer to a salute. I left him behind, forging through the haze once more.

A short while later, I reached Singed’s cramped abode. As expected, he was hunched over a half-dismantled contraption in his workshop, the only signs of life the measured rasp of his breath and the faint tap of metal on metal. I announced my return with a subdued greeting, to which he barely inclined his head.

In the kitchen, I unpacked the groceries. The gloom outside had deepened to a burnt ochre, the Undercity’s “evening.” I prepared our meal for the night—another improvised stew with watery grains. By the time it simmered, I was resigned to the usual routine: setting aside a portion for Singed that would likely go untouched until well after it turned cold.

But this time was different. The floor creaked, and there he was, unhurriedly stepping out of the shadows of the workshop. I nearly dropped my ladle in surprise.

“You’re early,” I said, carefully recovering my composure.

He didn’t reply—merely accepted the bowl I offered and settled into the kitchen’s lone chair. I ladled out my own portion, and we ate in silence punctuated by the occasional clink of spoons against porcelain. His appetite for small talk hadn’t, but I found myself used to the hush by now, using the quiet to mull over the day’s events.

When the meal was almost finished, I placed my spoon down and fished out the cogs from my pocket. “Here,” I said, sliding them across. “That’s the last of what I owed you.”

He accepted them without ceremony. Metal clinked softly against his palm. A single nod was all the acknowledgement I received.

With that business concluded, I stood and made for the stairs, the day’s labor weighing on my back and eyes. Singed’s voice halted me at the base of the steps.

“There is an issue with the main generator,” he said quietly. “Please check it before you retire. I will need it in the morning.”

I was tired—achingly so—but I inclined my head all the same. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll see to it right away.”

Leaving the empty bowls behind, I headed toward the alchemic musk of the workshop once more. Inside, I flicked on an overhead lamp, rummaged in the tool chest for my spanner, and pried open the generator casing to begin the slow, necessary ritual of repairs. Somewhere behind me, I heard the quiet, methodical footsteps of Singed returning to his bedroom to retire for the night.