“You two are a pair of slaggin’ copperheads!” screamed Lafe Lygon, the leader of Castor Karstock’s delve team. Lafe was a Paraburnese man with a light olive complexion that highlighted his long, blonde locks which were tied in a ponytail. His lighter skin made him stand out compared to the much more common dark brown skin of other Paraburnese. He stood shirtless save for a leather vest that showed off two out of his three Gears.
Lafe’s entire chest was plated steel with thicker beams of metal that jutted out where his collarbones and ribs used to be. That Gear gave him improved stamina by enhancing his heart and lungs. Castor had seen the Gearace outrun a speeding train before.
His other Gear was his left arm, which had been completely replaced by lanky metal pistons with multidirectional hinges at the shoulder and elbow, giving him full range of motion in all planes of movement. Lafe could easily grab enemies from behind him and throw them across the room. His last Gear, which replaced his left leg, was mostly hidden by his leather trousers. His right pant leg tucked into a boot that ended at mid-shin, while his left pant leg was left open to show off his prosthetic leg.
With three assimilated Gears, Lafe was Classified as a Gearace, one rank higher than Castor or Newt, who were both Gearwhizzes. The three of them together formed a delve team and they’d been headhunted by Clem Kingford, sole plutocrat of the Crumbles.
“If you had killed that fraggin’ grease monkey, Kingford would have had all of our sorry hides strung up in his basement! He doesn’t care about us, he only cares about his Coalition Coins! And that steamjug is his newest source of ‘em!” Lafe backhanded Castor with his right hand, the one made of flesh and bone. It stung, but it didn’t break any bones.
Castor snarled as his lip split open, “I was trying to get rid of the competition! We don’t need some upstart to take our CCs that Kingford is gonna pay us! The grease monkey needed to know his place!”
Lafe made to slap him again and Castor immediately shied away. “Tche, you don’t fraggin’ get to think, Castor-ol-boy. That’s my job. Now, you!” he turned his attention to Newt, “I know you ain’t got all your cogs in that thick skull of yours, but you’re not supposed to be takin’ orders from this copperhead.” Lafe jabbed a finger at Castor.
Newt lowered his great big eyes, staring straight down at the dirty wooden floor of their shared apartment on the fourth floor of a stacked building located in the easteren district of the Crumbles.
“Ah, c’mon lad,” Lafe reached up to cup Newt’s chin in his metallic left hand, lifting his teammate’s face up to meet his eyes, “I know, Castor’s got some big ideas, but you have to remember…” Lafe slugged Newt in the gut with his right arm, doubling him over, “…the two of you take my orders!”
Then, quick as a cat, he backhanded Castor again, this time with his left hand and with enough force to throw Castor onto the floor.
Lafe knelt down beside his fallen lackeys. Castor immediately scooted away from him, nursing a rapidly swelling cheek and puffing up eye, while Newt was on all fours gasping, trying to take a deep breath.
“Now, I’m gonna tell the both of you copperheads how to take care of our competition the right way…”
----------------------------------------
“Castor Karstock and Newt Cuttlecook…” Thode mumbled to himself as he left Smitty’s bar. That’s all the barman had for him, but that was enough of a lead. If he wanted more information, he’d have to make his way down to the Pitch Den Market at the center of the Crumbles. He could get anything there for the right price. Even information.
He was back in his fitted, leather bomber jacket, ringmail shirt and trousers tucked into the knees of his Coreforged Walkers. Thankfully, Zeb had used one of the Gadgets in the bunker to repair and clean his clothes. It was how he’d been able to keep his dad’s jacket so pristine all these years.
Meanwhile, his gyroscopic companion was safely stowed away in his jacket pocket. In broad daylight and out in public, he couldn’t have Zeb floating around. It drew far too many wandering eyes.
His prosthetic, brassteel feet clinked down rickety steps, automatically steering him towards Pitch Den before he’d even consciously made up his mind. Thode didn’t fight it though, he needed to pick up spare parts anyway.
He made sure to leave most of his offensive Gadgets down in the bunker. Walking around the Crumbles fully armed was just painting a big ol’ target on his back. If anyone caught him out here with so much stuff, the vultures and urchins would gang up on him and pick him cleaner than a dog chewing on a bone. So all he had on him were the weapons he kept hidden in the sleeves and pockets of his bomber jacket along with his Gear legs.
While his feet carried him towards Pitch Den, his mind was somewhere else. He didn’t need to think about what twists or turns he had to take to get to the Market since he’d lived in the Crumbles his entire life. It was muscle memory at this point. Instead, his focus was on trying to recall more details of the night he was beaten nearly to death.
Unfortunately, everything was one long blur. He’d been too deep in the sauce and on the tobac to even remember his attackers’ faces. He’d wracked his brain a dozen times already only to come up with a whole lot of nothing.
He growled under his breath in frustration and Zeb picked up on it, commenting from inside his jacket, “I’ve told you before, lad, you gotta pick just one of those vices you love so much, not both. You either get sloshed or you get high, but not both at the same fraggin’ time. Least, not in public anyway. Otherwise, you get your spout roughed up like you did last week. If you had even a shred of brain leftover, you could’ve taken them lads for a ride or at least shifted yourself to safety. But, when you’re knee-deep in booze and tobac, your mind’s as fried as a burnt out circuit!”
Thode rolled his eyes and cuffed the scolding automaton through his jacket to shut it up. He’d heard that same lecture time and again. He didn’t need to hear it right now. Instead, he shifted the subject to the parts he was going to need.
“Tell me again what those old schematics called for,” he whispered under his breath.
Thankfully, Zeb understood to keep his voice down too, “I didn’t hear a ‘thank you for translating those ancient blueprints’ in there…but you know, I’m a magnanimous grandpa, so I won’t even bring it up. Anyway, you’re welcome.”
Thode’s eyelid twitched.
“Now, like I was telling you before, you’ve got the Hanged Gods’ own luck for finding plans like that. These Hoverhawks upgrades are gonna make you so good at running! Ha!”
Thode slapped his jacket pocket again. “Focus,” he hissed.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Alright, alright, don’t get your pipes in a bunch…Well, the first parts you’re gonna need are for a converter since the plans call for Air Flux and not Fire or Lightning. But, thanks to your grandpa, I already tweaked the schematics — you’re welcome. We also need some blades for the actual propellers and a couple of rotors to make them spin. We’ve got everything else back in the bunker.”
“What do we need for the triple barreled revolver?”
“That one’s easier. We only need a new grip, trigger, hammer and cylinder release. But that’s to fix up the one you kept. If you’re looking for a second one, then you’ll need way more materials than that.”
“No, I’ll stick with just the one for now. We need to stretch out those CCs for the next six months. I want to go on deeper delves to those ruins, so we need to load up on supplies more than anything else. I only plan on coming up to unload then go right back.”
“Well then, you better leg it, lad. Daylight’s wasting and you’re already a week behind.”
----------------------------------------
Rusted brass beams, chipped red paint and worn wood accents were the cornerstone of every trolley that ran throughout the Crumbles. Each one had two floors, a row of cut-out windows that ran along the top floor and rusted bars that covered those on the bottom. The trolleys were like rectangular boxes rumbling around on tank treads.
Dozens of them ran through the Crumbles, a remnant of a bygone time, long before Thode was even a glimmer in his father’s eyes. An enterprising Gearmeister or maybe it was a Gearlady — the records were spotty at best — had machined these automated transports in the hopes of raising the Crumbles up to a newer, ‘better’ tomorrow.
Well, Thode lived in that so-called ‘tomorrow’ and it was as drab and worn down as yesterday and the day before. At least that High Tinker left a legacy. Despite the trolleys’ derelict appearances, their inner workings still ran like clockwork. They maintained a reliable timetable that most everyone in outer Arcwatch knew about. If someone didn’t know, then there were always cheap hard drives that gave the trolley schedule.
Thode nimbly hopped off of trolley #18 that never quite stopped moving at the stop for Pitch Den Market. That was really the only downside about this archaic transportation system — they never actually stopped. If he wanted to catch a ride, he had to run to catch one of the bars on the first floor and haul himself up. And if he wanted to get off, well…let’s just say he got really good at tucking and rolling when he was younger.
Facing the western entrance of Pitch Den Market, it made him think of a jagged metal hole that led into a vast ramshackle cavern. The entire complex was covered by rusted scrap-metal sheets that were held up by countless metallic support beams made of every lesser alloy there was. Some were the dull gray of low iron. Others were the sterling silver of dark steel. Still others were the burnt black of dark iron or burnished gold of brassteel.
The vendors that hawked their wares at Pitch Den were as much of a motley assortment as the support beams. No two stands were alike, since most of the vendors had probably collected whatever pieces of scrap they could find from any number of the junkyards around the Crumbles. The same went for the customers.
Pitch Den never slept. There were just slow times and fast times. He could easily hear the general racket of haggling, sales pitches and arguments even out on the street.
Zeb suddenly chirped up from inside Thode’s bomber jacket, “Hanged Gods, you gotta love this place, right? Where else are we gonna find everything we need under one roof? I can practically smell the deals waiting for us, lad!”
“You don’t have a nose, old man. And you can’t even see anything. You know you can’t be floating around in public, especially in Pitch Den. This place has more rats and snakes than a slaggin’ garbage dump,” Thode commented as he spit to the side.
“Pfft, the markets in central and middle Arcwatch have the same vermin, only they’re dressed better with nicer stuff, but they’d still fleece you in your sleep in a dark enough alley. Believe me, lad. At least Pitch Den is as honest as it looks.”
Before Thode could comment, a raindrop fell on his head and he promptly stepped towards the entrance. He barely made it inside before a torrential downpour let loose outside, sounding like heavy drumbeats against Pitch Den’s sheeted roof.
He let out a sigh of relief. Storms came hard and fast in Arcwatch. It was just…part of the charm.
Before he took a step into the Market proper, somebody came up from behind and bumped his shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. “Shift it, grease monkey, else I’ll toss you back out in that sodden mess. You’re in Reina’s way,” groused the largest, pointy-eared Cinderran Thode had ever seen.
The giant’s long, flowing tentacle-hair had obviously been replaced by a Gear piece. What should have been dusky-gray was now dark copper locks with incredibly fine hinges that made each metallic tentacle move naturally. It was one of those copper tendrils that further strong armed Thode back, away from the Market’s entrance.
“You slaggin’ piece of scrap, shift your own self,” Thode grumbled as he smoothed out his jacket.
Barely a second later, a handful of copper tentacles suddenly speared towards and wrapped up his upper body like constricting snakes. “What the frag did you just say?!” the hulking Cinderran roared.
Fortunately for Thode, he wasn’t glitched out of his mind right now. Growling in frustration, Lightning Flux immediately kindled in his right leg and in an instant, crackling electricity vented out of his heel. His brassteel knee whipped up, crashing through the Cinderran’s copper tentacles to break their hold on him.
He tucked into a backwards somersault with the momentum, twisting in midair as more metal tendrils lanced towards him. As soon as he landed, he flicked his arms to either side and a pair of sleeve-guns deftly slid into his hands — his Galeblast Hand Cannons.
Galeblast Hand Cannon (Standard-Grade Gadget)
Status: Operational
Charge: 100%
A simple bracer that can transform into a sleeve-gun with the flick of a wrist. Powered by Wind Flux, it can fire a concussive blast of concentrated air that has enough force to knock an assailant away. The discharge is not strong enough to be lethal, but it can break bones in the right hands. Reload rate: 3 seconds
In one smooth motion, he pointed his miniature guns at his attacker at the same time that a handful of tentacle tips were about to pierce him through. Before they could, Thode pulled the triggers and twin blasts of wind launched the thug back out of the Market and into the pouring rain. He was about to chase after the lumbering oaf, but the feel of cold steel pressing against his throat stopped him where he knelt.
“One more slaggin’ move, you piece of scrap, and I’ll slice you open from cheek to cheek,” hissed a distinctly feminine voice that sounded like she was speaking in an echo chamber. He instantly recognized that kind of voice…She was a mask, he was sure of it.
Dynamo, absolutely dynamo…a featherheaded Noxdennite…
“Oi! Dedrick! Get your fat spouthole over here and bring my umbrella! I’m not walking out there in the Hanged Gods forsaken rain!” the girl cried.
The hulking thug stomped back over and unceremoniously popped open a brass handled umbrella with a transparent canopy. Deliberately avoiding Thode’s eyes, the Cinderran held out the umbrella for the Noxdennite, while he continued to get soaked.
Her blade immediately left Thode’s throat and faster than he could register, she suddenly appeared standing underneath the umbrella and he finally got a good look at the sneaky featherhead. She was smaller than other Noxdennites, which meant her stainless steel beak-mask was about eye to eye with Thode’s chest. Though when compared with the giant Cinderran, the top of her hood barely reached her companion’s beltline.
With one last scathing look in Thode’s direction, the Noxdennite sniffed and turned around, quickly hurrying away through the dreary downpour as her towering chauffeur kept pace to keep her dry.
Thode hastily picked himself up and looked around the entrance of Pitch Den where the humdrum of the marketplace seemed forced as nosy onlookers inconspicuously avoided eye contact with him.
“What a pair of vexers, right Zeb? Who did they think they were?” he complained.
He pressed a pair of buttons on his sleeve-guns and they snapped back into place in his hidden forearm holsters.
“Alright rustbucket, that was enough excitement for the day. Let’s just get what we need and get the slag out of here...”
Thode instantly stopped.
Where were the smartass comments?
He immediately checked his jacket pocket. Empty. Thode frantically patted the rest of himself down and still…nothing
His eyes blazed with anger as he ground his teeth and whipped his head towards the scurrying pieces of scrap still a stone’s throw away.
“By the Hanged Gods…Zeb!”