AD: Chapter Six

Chapter Six

I lingered a short while at Wort’s workshop, well after the clockwork alarm had rasped its sour warning to go home. The clients had already left, a hush settling among the dormant tools and half-finished contraptions. I stood beside the battered bench I’d called my own these past few weeks, steeling myself before speaking.

“I’ve something I want to show you,” I said, retrieving a fold of rolled parchment from my satchel.

Wort lifted his gaze from a heap of metal bits he was sorting. “What?” he asked, wiping grease from his callused hands.

“I have been working on something,” I replied. “A design. An arm, specifically—an improved prosthetic for the men in the Bracken mines.”

At the mention of the Bracken mines, Wort’s brow furrowed. He set the rag aside. He hummed curiously as he came to stand beside me.

I unrolled the parchment. Across its surface sprawled my sketches: angled lines and carefully penned notation that I had hammered out in stolen hours after the day’s chores. “See this?” I pointed to a cross-section of the forearm. “I stripped out the previous hydraulics and actuators, replacing them with a less complex design. I also reconfigured the protective casing with less gaps in between the seams and joints. It’s not as agile, so fine motor skills suffer. But it seals up better. Less dirt or debris infiltration—and what little enters it should be able to handle better than the standard designs on markets.”

Wort’s gaze tracked each contour of the blueprint. He hummed again. “You’re trading dexterity for torque and longevity.” He traced a gloved finger over one of my smaller diagrams, which depicted the new internal gear assembly. “These cogs are bigger than usual,” he said, staring at the image for a while. “I see… Spacing’s wide to keep the grit from grinding them down. Smart. How’s the articulation?”

“Reduced,” I admitted. “But the cost is worth it, for miners at least. I doubt they need that much finesse, from what I have heard. Reducing constant breakdowns seems like a more worthwhile advantage considering the trade-offs.”

Wort scratched the stubble at his chin. “You might be on to something,” he said, voice low. “But manufacturing something like this is not trivial. I’ll need time to figure out the forging—some parts might have to come from Piltover. Doing that will be—” He paused, shaking his head. “Let’s just say ‘hefty.’” he paused for a moment in thought. “We could find alternatives. Might take me a few days, though. Or a week.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I said, exhaling in relief. “I know you’re busy, but there’s no one else in Zaun I’d trust more for an honest opinion.”

“Flattery,” he snorted, though his stern expression softened.

I took my pencil and added a few clarifications in the margins as I spoke. Then, before I could second-guess myself, I rolled up the blueprint and handed it to him.

“You’re leaving it with me?” he asked, eyeing the parchment. “That’s valuable. Someone could pinch the design and pass it off as their own.”

I shrugged. “I’m not worried. You’re a good man.”

His eyebrows rose a fraction. “You’re either very naive or very stupid,” he said with a short laugh as he shook his head. “All right, I’ll keep it under lock and key. Now go on—don’t you have somewhere to be already?”

A tired smile curved my lips. “Sure. Thanks, Wort.”

He only nodded, and I turned to pack my things.

Stepping outside, I found it was already evening. Exhaling, I began the same routine as every evening: a stop at the market for meager groceries, then up the winding alleys to Singed’s. A familiar route, by now. I clutched my satchel close and walked on, the overhead cables sputtering pale sparks as I passed.

I’d gone only a few blocks when I glimpsed a familiar figure, half-concealed behind a corroded lamppost. My little pick-pocket-cum-stalker. I smiled and waved at him as I always do, and to my surprise, he darted forward, flailing his arms, as if trying to flag me down.

I looked around, confused. Was something the matter? But he merely stood there, beckoning me closer. When I approached, he glanced up at me with anxious eyes.

“What’s up, kid?” I asked, kneeling to meet his gaze. “Are you hurt?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Instead, his lips parted in silent frustration. I waited, expecting some stammer or whisper. Nothing. A wave of realization passed over me, and I felt a pang of guilt for every time I’d assumed he could speak but refused. “You—can’t talk, can you?” I asked gently.

He ducked his head in apparent embarrassment, hands twisting at the ragged hem of his shirt.

I exhaled slowly, ruffling his head as I rose to my feet. “It’s all right. Let’s go get something to eat.”

...

Jericho greeted us at his stall with that same broad, toothy grin, the sort that always appeared strangely kind despite the sharpness of it. His single good eye flicked from me to the boy and back again, as though waiting for an explanation. I only shook my head and fished out a few battered coins.

The stall’s grill sizzled, sending up a fragrant cloud that masked the usual stench of the Undercity. Jericho assembled two plates of grilled octopus and sticky vegetables before passing them over. The boy stared at his portion for a moment as though hesitant, then tore into the meal before I could urge him on.

I took careful bites, watching him in my periphery. Between mouthfuls, the boy tried to communicate again. He made odd, urgent gestures with his hands as if telling me something. I struggled to interpret them. Even Jericho seemed confused. He pressed his palms together, then with his fingers mimed a figure walking away before gesturing a rough “X” and pointing in the direction of my usual route. What?

“Are you telling me not to go that way?” I asked, confused.

He nodded so vigorously it seemed his neck might snap.

A frown settled on my features. “Is there trouble there?” I pressed, though I knew he couldn’t answer in words.

Again, an emphatic nod. He seized my sleeve in a silent plea.

For a moment, I recalled what had happened the night I awoke in the Undercity—the mugger and his knife in my side. I almost wanted to discount the possibility that someone might be targeting me again as I doubt I had offended anyone these past weeks to warrant such a reaction. Yet something about the boy’s urgency cut through my hesitance. I gave Jericho a questioning look, but the big fellow only shrugged and gestured, presumably offering to come along. However, I shook my head. “You don’t close shop for another few hours,” I told him. “I can't make you do that. We’ll be alright.”

He crooked his brow, looking unconvinced.

“It would be fine,” I promised.

In the end, I let the boy tug me away from the stall, guiding me down a roundabout route from my usual way home. The deeper we went, the more I felt a tingling sense of disquiet. Who could be targeting me? I asked myself. Why? Pipes overhead coughed out stray bursts of steam, and each hiss only made my frown deeper.

Then, without warning, two men armed with wrenches emerged from a corner, blocking the way ahead. A third emerged behind us like a noose drawing tight. One of them—broad-shouldered, pockmarked skin under a battered cap—stepped into a stray shaft of flickering neon. I recognized him at once.

“...Sykes?” I half-asked, confused.

He sneered back at me, nose still tinged red from the cold or perhaps from irritation. “Thought you could get away, huh? Fucker.” He spat the last word like venom.

For a moment, I was confused. Then, like a thunderbolt, realisation set in. My pulse thudded in my ears. This was the Undercity, not Seoul. Of course, he’d be upset about my cut-rate jobs siphoning customers away from him. But was this all really necessary? They hadn’t even bothered to reach out for dialogue beforehand. Wasn't that the first thing to do?

Behind me, the boy let out a small, breathy grunt of alarm—no voice, but the terror was plain on his face. Sykes and his men spotted him. One of them pointed a wrench in the child’s direction, lips curling in an ugly scowl. “Stupid brat,” he said. “You were the one that warned him, huh? We’ll deal with you after we finish with your friend.”

…What?

Unbidden, I felt my features settle into anger. They wanted to hurt a kid? Just because I did repairs for working men at a cheaper rate than they did? Slowly, I set my satchel aside and nudged the boy behind me. “Run,” I told him in a whisper, as I turned slightly to my right.

He stayed rooted, apparently hesitant to leave.

“Go!” I barked, hurling myself forward with a shoulder check aimed squarely at the man closing in from behind. Pain flared sharp across my back and side as his wrench glanced off me—he struck, but not before staggering from the force of our collision. He tumbled sideways with a startled yelp, his weapon clattering against the concrete.

The boy darted past us but hesitated, casting a glance over his shoulder.

“Go!” I snapped again, sharper this time. A beat later, I heard his light footsteps fading into the dark.

That fleeting relief cost me a moment of attention. The man I’d tackled stumbled as he tried to get back to his feet, cursing. Sykes and the other henchman rushed towards me as I scrambled for the wrench which the fellow had dropped. 

Now, brandishing a wrench of my own, I backed deeper into the alley to the left, eyes darting between them. “You don’t want to do this,” I rasped, though I knew words were wasted breath. They had murder in their expressions, or something close enough.

All at once, they rushed me. I swung wildly, the dull ring of metal on bone echoing in the cramped passage. One man dropped hard, eyes rolling back. My hope flared—only for a jolt of agony to seize my face as a fist collided with it. The wrench I held tumbled from my grasp as I staggered backwards.

Sykes lunged, raising his own improvised cudgel. I ducked left, not quite swiftly enough; steel slammed into my shoulder. I stifled a scream, pivoting to slam a desperate punch into his face. Cartilage cracked beneath my knuckles—his nose, maybe—and he stumbled, sputtering curses as blood streamed across his upper lip.

Before I could press the advantage, the third man—a wiry wraith of muscle—tackled me around the waist, driving me to the ground. My skull bounced on the filthy cobblestones, black spots dancing in my vision. I felt fists raining down on me—wild, punishing blows that left me gasping. Desperate, I reached a trembling hand into the muck, scooped up a fistful of foul mud, and flung it at his face.

He howled, reeling away, spitting and gagging. The moment he eased up, I drove my knee into his ribs and shoved him aside, scrabbling to get upright. I managed only a half-crouch before Sykes returned, blood still pouring from his broken nose. Rage twisted his face. He brandished the wrench as though it were an executioner’s blade.

“This,” he snarled, voice thick, “is what you get for fucking with us, you worthless—”

His words drowned beneath the first blow. Pain roared in my ribs, and again as the wrench pummeled me, driving me to curl up, arms over my head. Spots of white and red burst behind my eyes, each new impact a spark of raw torment. I couldn’t even cry out; my lungs refused to work, hammered into submission.

Behind the haze of my battered thoughts, I felt the presence of the third man returning, his footsteps dragging through the slime. They’d both join in, kicking and hammering. I braced against the agony, when a noise—footsteps, approaching fast—interrupted.

One of them froze at the sound, then the other. Moment’s later, I heard the scramble of boots on pavement as they retreated amidst a swirl of panicked curses. They fled, I realised, leaving behind the man I’d knocked out cold with the wrench.

I coughed, struggling to breathe. The shapes around me spun in confusion, but I caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette—Jericho, cleaver in hand, and that mute boy clinging to his side. Both figures hurried toward me, their expressions a mixture of dread and concern. I tried to form words—something like thank you, I’m fine, or help me, please—but they dissolved on my lips as the blackness surged.

My last awareness was the boy’s small hand, trembling against my battered cheek, and Jericho lifting me to his shoulders as darkness finally swallowed me whole.