Ether Pulse

Elias

The fine rain had that persistent Seridian quality, not hard enough to clean the streets, but just enough to ensure the mud and soot stuck to your boots like a second skin.

I found myself in the labyrinth of the Forgotten Artisans' district, an enclave on the edges of the Sink where the noise of the large factories faded just enough to hear the fine hammering, the screech of a precision saw, or the controlled hiss of a small gas forge.

The call had come through the usual network: a cryptic message left with a tavern owner, informing me that Maese Borin "required a consultation." Borin, the old man was an institution down here, a watchmaker and toolmaker whose skill with fine metal was almost legendary, at least among those who appreciated such things. He was also stubborn as a mule and rarely asked for help. This had to be serious.

His workshop was wedged between a foul-smelling tannery and a scrap warehouse, the dark wooden door barely visible under layers of accumulated grime. A small, hand-engraved sign, "Borin - Precision and Repairs," hung crookedly.

I pushed the door open and entered a cluttered and surprisingly orderly space. It smelled of watchmaker's oil, clean metal, and the faint, almost imperceptible hum of ozone given off by the small etheric generator hanging from the ceiling, which powered an impressive articulated magnifying glass over the main workbench. Tiny gears, springs, and metal filaments lay in neatly labeled trays.

Maese Borin had his back to me, hunched over the bench, but he wasn't working. His shoulders, normally held straight with the artisan's concentration, were slumped. He turned slowly as he heard the door close.

He was a small man, with a worn leather apron covering his simple clothes, but his eyes, behind thin-rimmed glasses, burned with an impotent fury that contrasted with the visible tremor in his hands.

"Elias, lad. You got here fast," he said, his voice rough with contained emotion. "They came in last night. Forced the back lock like it was butter."

My gaze swept the workshop. Apart from the inherent mess of a workspace, there didn't seem to have been a struggle. "What did they take? The cash boxes look untouched."

"No, not the money! Worse!" He slammed a gnarled fist on the bench, making the delicate tools nearby vibrate. "My calipers! My personal set of micrometers! The ones I made myself, you understand? Those tools…" he swallowed, rage giving way to a palpable anguish, "…they're my hands, my eyes. They have engravings… fine adjustments that interact with the generator's field. Irreplaceable. Without them, I'm blind, finished. I can't take the precision jobs from Müller, or the work for House Vélain. Nothing!"

I understood. It wasn't just the intrinsic value of the tools, which would be considerable to someone who knew what they had. It was his livelihood, his identity. The void they left was deeper than a simple theft.

"Do you suspect anyone?" I asked, my tone practical, though a pang of sympathy (a weakness I tried to suppress) stirred for the old man.

"The brats. The ones who call themselves the 'Rusted Gears,'" Borin spat, the name full of contempt. "A bunch of street rats who think the world owes them something. I've seen them lurking, watching, coveting. They have no idea of the real value of what they took, they just see shiny metal to sell for four ether tokens."

I nodded slowly. A desperate youth gang. It made sense. They were stupid enough to steal something so specific, and ignorant enough not to know how to get rid of it discreetly. That could make my job easier, or complicate it, if they had already traded them for a dose of bad ether-gin or something worse.

"Alright, Borin, I'll get them back," I said, my usual mask of cynicism falling back into place. "Standard fee, half now. And no corporate guards poking their noses in, this stays between us."

The old man nodded fervently, pulling a small leather pouch from under the counter. He counted the tokens with still-trembling fingers. As he did, my gaze wandered around the workshop, lingering on the intricate mechanisms of a half-repaired wall clock, on the distorted reflection of my own face in a sheet of polished metal.

Another dirty job in a dirty city. I pocketed the tokens, felt the familiar weight in my pocket, and prepared to dive back into the alleys, following the trail of some rusted gears, and some tools that were much more than simple pieces of metal. The smell of oil and ozone from Borin's workshop was already fading, replaced by the familiar stench of the Sink that awaited me outside.

Back on the street, the drizzle had intensified slightly, turning the air into a gray, sticky curtain. The Sink swallows you whole if you don't know where to step, and even worse if you don't know where you're getting into. In searching for the calipers, I activated my own network, one that didn't run on Ether or wires, but on whispers, glances, and the silent language of debts and favors.

A couple of well-placed tokens were enough for One-Eyed Finn, who sold old newspapers and fresh rumors under a dripping awning, to confirm what Borin suspected. "Yeah, the Gears were more nervous than a cockroach at a noble's ball yesterday. They were looking for Zasko the Scrapper, trying to sell him something 'delicate,' they said. Zasko sent them packing, too specific, too much risk."

Good, at least the tools hadn't been melted down yet. Another contact, a quiet girl named Wren who moved across rooftops like a shadow, pointed me in the general direction of where the Gears usually hid: the old abandoned textile factory near the Plague Canal. A place big enough and dilapidated enough to get lost in, or to be lost in.

I entered a labyrinth of even narrower passages, back alleys that rarely saw sunlight, where the air smelled of mold, stale urine, and the fermented desperation of generations. The damp brick walls loomed over me, dripping a blackish, oily liquid.

At one point, the path was almost completely blocked: a partially collapsed wall leaned precariously against a huge rusted water tank, leaving only a dark, narrow gap. I would have to squeeze through sideways.

As I slipped into the cold, oppressive darkness, the scrape of rough stone against my overcoat, the feeling of the space closing in around me… something clicked in my memory. An icy echo of the past.

The darkness was absolute, thick as velvet, and it tasted of dust and fear. I could feel the walls of the ventilation shaft pressing against my shoulders, my back.

The metallic sound of the debris blocking the exit ahead was a constant reminder of my trap. And behind me, getting closer, the dull thud of boots, the muffled murmur of voices that promised nothing good. Panic. Pure and cold, it threatened to drown me.

There was no way to move the debris. No brute force would get me out of there. My hands trembled, fumbling in the darkness. I remembered. Days before, while exploring, I had left something on the other side, in the next section of the shaft. A small braid made from a few of my own hairs, tied to a metal protrusion. A mark. A foolish thing, a childish game of leaving trails. But now…

I closed my eyes, ignoring the hammering in my chest, the metallic taste of fear in my mouth. I pictured the little braid, the rough feel of the metal it was tied to. I couldn't see it, I couldn't, but I knew it was there. A point. An anchor. I clung to that mental image with an intensity that blocked out everything else—the sound of the boots, the darkness, the panic. Just the point. To be there. Not here. There.

I emerged from the narrow gap on the other side, taking a deep breath of the relatively less foul air of the open alley. I shook my head, a grimace twisting my lips. Memories. Always lurking in the shadows, like rats waiting to bite. The ghostly sensation of that confinement took a moment to dissipate, leaving a bitter aftertaste of dust and despair.

I adjusted the collar of my overcoat and moved on. The old textile factory rose at the end of the alley, its broken windows like empty sockets in a brick skull. The silence around it was unnatural, expectant. The Rusted Gears were inside.

The entrance to the textile factory was a toothless mouth in the brick facade, the heavy metal door torn from its hinges years ago. The air inside was cold, stagnant, and smelled of rust, rotten oil, and the ghosts of a thousand forgotten workdays.

Enormous silent looms lined up like the skeletons of prehistoric beasts in the gloom, covered in dust and cobwebs. The only light came from holes in the ceiling and the broken windows through which the grayish light from outside filtered in.

I heard it before I saw it, a low crackle, the muffled murmur of young voices trying to sound tough. They were coming from a deeper section of the main hall, where some smaller machines formed a protective semicircle. I moved without a sound, my boots finding silent footing on the floor covered with rubble and industrial detritus.

Before revealing myself, I stopped behind a corroded iron column and discreetly pulled out my old, dented brass cigarette case. It didn't contain cheap tobacco, but a mixture of nail clippings, small hair trimmings, and some other… personal samples, all compacted together.

With a quick and almost imperceptible movement, I sprinkled a pinch of this personal "confetti" in several strategic spots in the room, near possible escape routes or points of cover: next to a pile of fallen spools, near a rusty service ladder, behind a stack of rotten cloth sacks. Anchors. Just in case. Always just in case, a deeply ingrained habit.

Then, I advanced toward the flickering light of their fire. There were six of them, just as Finn had said. Teenagers, most of them barely out of childhood, dressed in patched, oversized clothes. They were huddled around a fire made in a rusty metal drum, burning pieces of wood from broken crates. The acrid smoke filled the stale air.

In the center of the group, sitting on an overturned toolbox, was Pip. Skinny, with messy hair and a worn leather jacket that probably belonged to someone bigger. His eyes, however, had a defiant spark that didn't match his lanky frame. He held Maese Borin's toolbox on his knees, almost like a shield.

My arrival wasn't a total surprise. They had probably heard me approaching, or maybe they just felt the change in the air, the intrusion of someone who didn't belong to their small world of shared desperation. They tensed, their hands instinctively reaching for improvised weapons: metal pipes, sharpened pieces of wood.

I stopped a few meters from their makeshift circle, hands visible, posture relaxed, though every muscle was alert. I let the silence stretch, letting my presence fill the space.

"Nice collection of irons," I said finally, my voice echoing slightly in the vast room. "Though I doubt you know how to use half of what's in that box."

Pip straightened up, trying to look taller than he was. "Who are you? Get lost, old man. This is none of your business."

"I'm afraid it is, boy. Master Borin misses them—well, his tools, more specifically. He wants them back home. Intact, if possible."

"We need them!" Pip's voice cracked slightly, betraying his fear. "We need the components to get out of this hole, to go to... somewhere else."

"Get out." The word resonated, and for a moment, the dusty factory dissolved.

Torrential rain. Alleys like rivers of mud. The sound of boots splashing behind me, getting closer. My heart hammering against my ribs. Then, the wall. A dead end, cold, dark, definitive. I turned, cornered. I pulled out the cheap knife I always carried, not a weapon of attack, but the desperate man's last defense. I saw them emerge from the rain, two burly figures, cruel smiles on their faces. They knew they had me. But I knew something they didn't. As I backed towards the slick wall, my heel deliberately brushed a small mark I'd made earlier, a barely visible symbol etched into the brick with the tip of my knife, mixed with my own blood from an earlier cut. An anchor. My only hope wasn't to fight, it was to disappear.

I blinked, returning to the present. The smell of smoke from the barrel stung my nose. I looked at Pip, at his trembling defiance, at his desperate need to "get out." I saw a scared kid playing tough, trapped in a different, but equally real, dead end.

"I understand the need to get out, boy," I said, my voice softer now, but still firm. "But stealing from an old craftsman who barely scrapes by isn't the way. It'll only bring you more trouble. And believe me, trouble has a way of finding you down here. Especially if I have to find you first, hand them over."

My offer hung in the stale factory air, between the acrid smoke and the expectant silence of dead machinery. The gang members exchanged nervous glances, their initial bravado evaporating under my calm but relentless scrutiny.

I could feel their indecision like an undercurrent—the fear of reprisal from Borin (or me), warring with the desperate need that had driven them to this.

"And what do you offer us, old man?" Pip asked, trying to regain some control, though his voice lacked conviction. "Pretty words? They don't fill stomachs."

"I offer to make this end here and now, with no further complications," I retorted, my tone hardening slightly. "You return the tools, I'll make sure Borin forgets your faces. It's a better deal than you'll find if you try to sell those parts to someone who knows their worth, or worse, if the Guard finds you."

Pip hesitated, biting his lower lip. I could see the struggle in his eyes, but one of the others, a taller boy with a fresh scar above his brow, lost his patience.

"To hell with this!" he shouted, grabbing the toolbox from Pip's knees. "I'm outta here!"

And he bolted, not towards the main entrance where I stood, but deeper into the factory, towards a labyrinth of rusted machinery and shadows where he likely thought he could lose me. An impulsive, stupid move.

I sighed. There was always one.

The boy ran clumsily, tripping over debris. My eyes tracked his path, calculating his most probable route towards a rear exit I knew. As I did, my right hand, as if by chance, dropped a small metal washer I kept in my pocket.

With a slight effort of concentration—a familiar tingle behind my eyes—I guided the small metal object. The washer struck a loose metal beam high above the fleeing boy's head, producing a loud, sudden metallic clang in the factory's silence.

The beam fell just ahead of the boy, and the unexpected sound made him falter, instinctively looking up for a split second to see what had happened. It was all I needed.

I didn't chase him. It would be pointless in this maze. Instead, I slipped behind a massive, rusted steam boiler that blocked the direct line of sight. For an instant, the world seemed to stretch and contract around me. The sensation was fleeting, a sharp tug, like a blink that was too fast, accompanied by a momentary chill that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature.

And then, I was on the other side of the room, beside the rear loading door that the boy was trying to escape through, half-demolished. The small "confetti" mark I'd left nearby earlier vibrated faintly in my perception before dissipating.

The boy came running, panting, and stopped dead upon seeing me there, blocking his path, appearing out of nowhere. His eyes widened, disbelief and fear replacing his earlier determination.

Before he could process what had happened, I lunged, not violently, but with a speed and precision that unbalanced him. I pinned his wrists and retrieved the toolbox with a fluid motion.

I turned to Pip and the others, who had frozen, watching the scene with their mouths agape. I held the box aloft. My breathing was a little faster than usual, and I felt a faint throb behind my temples, the usual small toll. I disguised both.

"I was saying," I resumed the conversation as if nothing had happened, my voice calm but with a steely edge, "that my offer still stands. The tools for Borin's silence. If you wish, we can explore alternatives, though I suspect you'll like them far less."

Pip swallowed, his eyes darting from me to the boy I'd just apprehended, and then to the box. The demonstration of impossible speed, the calm with which I'd neutralized the escape, was enough. What little resistance remained crumbled.

"Alright," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "Take them. Just leave us alone."

I nodded briefly. "Consider it done, and a free piece of advice: next time, steal something you can sell without attracting the attention of people like me. Better yet, find another way to 'get out.' This city chews up the careless."

Without waiting for a reply, I turned and headed for the main exit, Borin's toolbox in hand. The weight felt solid, real. A job almost finished.

Now all that remained was to return them to their owner and collect the other half. And perhaps find a quiet place to deal with the lingering echo of the cold and the slight headache that always followed those... shortcuts.

The walk back to Master Borin's workshop was less tense, although the persistent drizzle still tried to creep down the back of my coat. I pushed the door open and found the old craftsman exactly where I'd left him, but now his anxiety was a palpable vibration in the workshop's still air. His eyes locked onto the toolbox I carried.

I placed the box on the workbench with a solid thud. "Merchandise recovered. Intact, as far as I can see, your young admirers decided to accept a reasonable deal."

The relief that flooded Borin's face was almost painful to witness. He lunged for the box, opening it with trembling hands, checking every micrometer, every caliper, every small, strange tool that only he understood, his expert fingers caressing the cold metal as if greeting old friends. He murmured to himself, checking the fine engravings, ensuring nothing was missing or damaged.

"Incredible, they're all here. I can't believe it, boy." He looked up, his eyes shining with genuine gratitude. "I thought I'd lost them forever."

He straightened up and pulled out the small leather pouch again, counting out the second half of my payment with much more firmness than before. As he handed me the components, he added something else: a small, brass-rimmed watchmaker's lens, of exceptional quality.

"Here. A bonus, you've earned it." He insisted at my questioning look. "Few appreciate the value of craft these days, much less bother with an old man's tools. You did."

I hesitated for a moment. I didn't usually accept extras, it complicated things, but there was something in the old man's gaze, a need to express his gratitude that went beyond the payment. "The only craft I know is this, old man," I replied with a shrug, resuming my mask. "And it doesn't pay well enough to refuse a good lens. Thanks, Borin."

I carefully stowed the lens in an inner pocket. It was, in fact, an excellent piece. Perhaps useful.

"Take care, Elias," Borin said, already turning back to his tools, his world restored. "And try not to need my repair services for yourself."

A wry smile was my only response before I stepped back out into Seridia's gray dampness. Job done. Client satisfied. Time to disappear before someone decided to connect the dots between my appearance and the Rusted Gears' sudden cooperation.

As I walked aimlessly through the winding alleys, letting the city swallow me again, I felt the familiar hum beneath my skin, the residue of the effort.

The "shortcut" in the factory, though short, always took its toll. A mild headache pulsed behind my temples, and the night's chill seemed to penetrate a little deeper, seeking out the cracks in my resistance.

I instinctively stopped at a dark and particularly desolate corner, where a brick wall oozed greenish dampness. I checked my own hidden supplies, feeling the leather strap under my shirt that held a small metal cylinder – an improvised ethereal device Silas had built me, supposedly to "stabilize energy fluctuations," though I suspected it mainly served to monitor my... peculiarities.

I then noticed a small scratch on my left glove, probably from brushing against the rusted boiler or when grabbing the fleeing boy. I removed the glove. Beneath it, a thin red line marked my palm. Nothing serious, but visible. And then, the old tic. The ingrained habit that I couldn't fully explain or control.

Almost without thinking, I rubbed my injured palm against the rough, dirty surface of the brick wall. A quick, almost subconscious gesture, leaving a barely perceptible stain of blood and grime, an ephemeral mark that the next rain would wash away. Another insignificant anchor lost in the immensity of the city.

Why did I do it? Perhaps it was a survivor's habit, marking territory, leaving a trail in case I needed to backtrack or jump far. Perhaps it was just the way my blood reminded me of what I was, even when I tried to forget it.

I put the glove back on, hiding the mark on my skin. The headache persisted, a dull echo of the power used. I shook my head and kept walking, delving deeper into the all-encompassing fog, a solitary figure in a city full of ghosts and rusted gears. Another day won. At what cost, that remained to be seen.