Summer — 2189

  Hammison’s market was a patchwork of old-world wreckage and post-collapse grit. Stalls built from sheet metal and rusted car frames lined the streets, their wares balanced on tables cobbled from scorched dashboards and broken server banks. The air smelled like grease, sweat, and faint ozone from a nearby generator coil trying too hard to stay alive.

  Peri Blackwood — well, not today — adjusted her cap, the brim low over icy blue eyes as she scanned the morning bustle. Her braid, copper and stubborn, was already coming undone — like it knew she looked better untamed.

  “Polished dirt’s still dirt,” she mused. “And I’m the shine they’ll miss when it’s gone.”

  She decided she would go by the name Alyssa Carrick today — noble enough to draw the right kind of attention, forgettable enough to vanish when needed. Voice light, accent feathered with northern polish, she drifted up to a vendor’s stall stacked with salvaged tech, leaned against a rusted support beam like she owned it.

  The man behind the table — a thick-set bruiser with a welding mask perched on his bald head — glanced at her like she was about to lower his margins.

  Peri smiled. Too wide. Just enough.

  “Now,” Peri said, her voice casual and dripping with honeyed charm, “if I take that rack of fuel cells off your hands, you’ll toss in the spare connectors, won’t you? Surely a lady doesn’t need to haggle in such a reputable market.”

  He squinted skeptically. “Lady? This ain’t the Citadel. Those cells are two crowns and a chit. Connectors cost extra. You want charity, find a husband. Otherwise, you’re a bit out of luck.”

  Peri’s smile only widened, disarmingly sweet. “Oh, I prefer to make my own luck, darling,” she said, her fingers deftly palming a toolkit from the counter as her gaze remained locked with his. “Especially with charming vendors like yourself.”

  His lip twitched, a reluctant smirk forming. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Half a chit for the connectors. Don’t say Hammison’s not hospitable.”

  She nearly had him.

  His gaze followed her hand moving towards her coin pouch, slow and graceful, completely unaware of the other ghosting the toolkit into her sleeve.

  “Bless you,” she cooed, her voice thick with feigned gratitude. “A gentleman among scoundrels.”

  She flicked a fake chit — tin, not steel — onto the table, letting it spin. “Half now, half when I test ’em — fair?”

  His mood shifted as he eyed the spinning chit, suspicion creeping in. “Test ‘em? These ain’t toys — “

  Suddenly, a raspy, furious voice cut through the market noise.

  “You sold me rotted grain last week — called it spirit barley! Names Mara Torrack, weren’t it?”

  Peri’s grin faltered. The toolkit shifted precariously.

  She turned — slow, mock-aghast — to a bandana-clad woman, wiry, red-faced, finger jabbing like a hot poker.

  With a flamboyant flourish, Peri slipped into a southern drawl.

  “Oh my. Still upset about that? I remember you now! You were all smiles when I said it had ‘fiery notes.’ Practically a delicacy down south — ask anyone with a refined palate.”

  “Fiery?” the woman barked. “Blasted my still to slag, you little — “

  She jabbed Peri with a stubby, wrinkled finger — then paused. Her brow furrowed.

  “Wait a minute… where are you from?”

  Her eyes narrowed. Suspicion snapped into clarity.

  “That’s not the voice you used last week.”

  Peri faltered. Just a beat. The toolkit suddenly heavier in her sleeve.

  Then brightly, flipping the mask back on: “Well, I have been traveling…”

  The vendor frowned. “Wait… what is going on here?”

  “Spirit grain’s a delicacy,” Peri insisted smoothly. “It’s not my fault if your equipment’s a bit… fragile.”

  “Fragile?!”

  Two bruisers — big, scarred, and familiar — turned from a nearby engine stall, rolling up sleeves.

  Peri eyed them slowly approaching and held up her hands. “Okay, okay — deep breaths, everyone. Let’s not get dramatic.”

  The vendor saw something barely sticking out of her sleave and lunged. “That’s my toolkit!”

  She spun fast — too fast — and heard the unmistakable riiip as her sleeve tore wide open, the old seam giving out completely. The stolen toolkit tumbled from the fold, tools clattering across the pavement in a sharp, traitorous scatter.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Peri muttered, more offended by the jacket than the mess. “Damn thing’s got one job.”

  Still grinning.

  “Thief!”

  Still in control.

  “Get her!”

  Mostly. Her hand reached into her jacket, grabbing the stopwatch she knew was there. Her thumb quickly found the ridged button on top, resting on it, the feel of it familiar and strangely relaxing.

  “Okay,” she thought, backing into the crowd, “not my best”. Her mind raced on possible actions as her eyes scanned for options. Two seconds. That’s all she needed. Eyes narrowed, she blew the copper curl from her face and pressed the button on the timepiece.

  She ran.

  Peri sprinted through the narrow alley, the sound of pursuit echoing off corrugated siding and crumbling stone. She vaulted a tipped cart, sent lemons scattering underfoot, and burst out onto the gleaming path of the Upper Markets.

  The shift was immediate.

  The filth and fumes of the lower stalls vanished behind her. Up here, everything gleamed — too clean to trust. Booths were framed in repurposed glass and stabilized alloy, their counters pulsing faintly with embedded tech. Neon banners scrolled ads in a steady loop: GENUINE SHARD BATTERIES, CIT-CORE COMPONENTS, FINE THREADS — CITERA-WEAVE GUARANTEED.

  It was all shine and polish — secondhand luxury dressed up like first-rate treasure.

  Peri slowed just enough to adjust her cap, straighten her jacket, and walk like she belonged here.

  Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Confidence did most of the stealing.

  She weaved through the market flow, blending in and letting the noise of the chase behind her ripple outward like a sonic boom. Murmurs rose as traders craned their necks toward the shouting, and two patrolmen near the checkpoint turned, distracted by the ruckus in the lower tier.

  That was when something caught her eye.

  A small case. Gloss-black. Resting behind a velvet-lined counter beneath a canopy marked JERALD’S CURIOVAULT. Not flashy. Not labeled. But the kind of casing you didn’t use for scrap. The kind of case that said… something of value is in here.

  The merchant was busy arguing with a buyer — arms flailing, trying to explain why his lead acid batteries were “genuine Citadel surplus” and not “cheap-replicated crap.” The guards weren’t looking. The crowd buzzed with curiosity, eyes trained downhill.

  Peri moved.

  She pivoted naturally with the tide of onlookers, let her body drift closer to the display like she was being nudged by the crowd. Her hand dipped under her jacket. The other brushed the edge of the case.

  A subtle tug.

  Slick motion.

  The case slid behind her jacket’s flap, vanishing into the lining as easily as breath. No pause. No guilt. She pivoted again, her hand now casually lifting a pair of tinted goggles from a nearby rack, inspecting them as if she’d been there the whole time.

  A loud CRASH echoed from below — probably one of the guards tripping over a fruit crate. The buzz spiked. A whistle blew. Perfect.

  Peri yawned and sauntered off.

  “Polished dirt,” she thought again, smirking, “and I still shine brighter.”

  “Hey! You there — freeze!”

  The voice came sharp and clipped, a Union accent thick with authority. Peri’s smirk vanished.

  She bolted.

  Boots struck polished metal flooring with a sharp clang as the closest guards yelled and gave chase. Others — ones she hadn’t even clocked — turned mid-sentence or abandoned their posts entirely. Twice as many now. Some of them had guns. Or stunners. She didn’t wait to find out which.

  She leapt over a crate marked “fragile,” hit the other side with a grunt, and slid beneath a hanging tarp flap. More patrols. More whistles. More fun.

  The Upper Market wasn’t just polished — it was stacked. Elevated walkways stitched overhead, makeshift ramps of welded scaffolding and rusted girders creating a patchwork maze of levels. And Peri knew them all.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She launched up a delivery chute, shoes scraping steel, fingers gripping a cable line as she vaulted to a thin catwalk. Her body moved on instinct — legs swinging up and over, elbows bending into tight pivots. An old-world pipe ran like a spine along the market’s back, and she ran it like a beam, arms out for balance, coat flapping like a banner behind her.

  Shouts echoed from below.

  “Cut her off at West Grid!”

  “She’s on the high rail!”

  One of them tried to follow — slipped on a warped panel, arms pinwheeling — and crashed hard into a crate of cracked insulation plates, the kind salvagers hoarded for repairs they never finished. Peri cackled mid-stride. “You boys really ought to stretch more!”

  She flipped over a low-hanging duct, slid down a sagging stretch of thermoplastic tarp — and the torn sleeve caught again, yanking her sideways.

  Riiip.

  “Oh come on,” she hissed, wrenching it free. “This jacket is practically begging for retirement.”

  Kataero’s gonna kill me…

  No time to mourn it.

  She bounced from a rail into a second-level access ladder. Nimble as a gymnast, trained as a thief — Kataero’s drills might’ve been brutal, but they paid off. She swung around a girder like it was a vault bar and dropped feet-first into a narrow corridor below — crates stacked on one side, access vent on the other. The air down here was tight, full of diesel fumes and electrical burnoff. Perfect cover.

  Her landing was soft. Her breath was sharp. Her smile came back.

  She took a breath — one heartbeat of triumph. Then —

  A hand caught her wrist. Firm. Unyielding.

  “Well now,” a familiar voice said behind her. “Tired of running?”

  Peri whipped around, ready to twist out — but it wasn’t a guard.

  It was the gas smelling vendor, welding mask still on his head. Red-faced. Wheezing from the chase. And not alone.

  Two others flanked him — off-duty enforcers maybe. Big. Wide-shouldered. Unamused.

  Peri exhaled, her chest rising and falling fast. No crowd here. No crates to hide behind. Cornered. Her free hand grabbed the stopwatch, clicking the button and marking her time while allowing a slightly disappointed wince.

  Her eyes flicked left. Right. Maybe if I duck —

  The vendor grunted, bending suddenly in half.

  Then he hit the ground with a solid thud, arms splayed, breath knocked clean from his lungs.

  A tall mountain of a man stood behind him, unmoved, as if he’d been there the whole time.

  The two flanking men froze, blinking. Mountain man didn’t say a word — he just stepped forward. Not threatening. Just… inevitable.

  One of the guards took a step back. The other did too.

  “Go,” he said. Just one word, low and calm. They obeyed.

  Peri blinked, still catching her breath, half-bent as she looked up at the man who always showed up at the right time. Her blue eyes met his gray — familiar, steady, trusted.

  “Connor… I had that,” she muttered. Sharp. Unconvincing. Mostly aimed at herself.

  Connor cocked his head slightly. “Mhm.”

  Her eyes dropped, just for a moment. The adrenaline buzz starting to flick and fade, her shoulders dipped a fraction.

  “I mean — I had most of that,” she added, quieter. “If they hadn’t cheated and, you know, been faster than they looked…”

  Connor said nothing, arms crossed.

  “I was in control,” she said again, her tone tilting toward a whine now, weakly defiant.

  “I see that,” he said, dry as dust.

  She looked at him. Really looked — those calm gray eyes, that loose but immovable stance. His short, peppered hair and worn beard framed a face that always seemed to be tracking danger before it arrived.

  And for just a second — just one breath — Peri’s mask slipped. Relief flickered through her expression. Her chest lifted, then dropped with the smallest, tired laugh. “Thanks,” she said, genuine this time — a real smile flickering just beneath the surface.

  And then the curl fell back over her eye, the smirk returned, and the moment was gone.

  “Still,” she added, brushing dust off her jacket like it was guilt, “I did better than last time.”

  Connor didn’t blink. “Which was when you got stuck in a trash chute and had to bribe some kid to help pull you free?”

  “That was strategic negotiation,” Peri shot back, grinning. “And I’m pretty sure he liked me. Besides, how was I supposed to know the chute shrank since last time?”

  “I think you mean your ass got bigger”

  “Rude! How dare you insinuate that my backside — ” she stopped, listening. Voices were getting closer. Peri resigned with a sigh and said, “We should probably go.”

  By the time the next whistle blew, they were already gone.

  The flatbed wagon rattled along the cracked old service road, tires bouncing over weather-worn concrete as the skyline of Kiron Hills Locks loomed ahead — steel, smoke, and low-humming generators lighting up the dusk. Peri lounged on the back, her legs swinging lazily over the edge, cap tugged low, braid trailing over one shoulder. The wind tousled a curl into her mouth. She spat it out with a muttered curse.

  Connor sat at the front, silent, steady, his silhouette squared against the dying light. The steering wheel barely twitched in his hands, but the truck obeyed like it knew better.

  They rode like that for a while. The kind of quiet that only came when two people had already said enough in glances and bruises.

  Peri broke it first.

  “So,” she said, trying casual, “how much of this are you going to tell him?”

  Connor didn’t turn. “Tell who?”

  She leaned forward, propped her chin on her palm. “Don’t do that. Kataero. You’re his eyes, aren’t you? His not-so-silent shadow.”

  Connor’s shoulders shifted — just barely. “I’m not his spy.”

  Peri snorted. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re always just there. Watching. Waiting to tell him every time I get into a ‘situation.’ Admit it — you’ve got a little notebook somewhere.”

  Connor exhaled, slow and steady. “If I were reporting, you’d know.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “Because he’d be here. Dragging you back by your ear.”

  Peri grinned. “He wouldn’t dare. I’m too charming.”

  A beat.

  Connor added, “I’m loyal to Kataero. But you…”

  He paused, not for emphasis — just choosing the truth that didn’t need dressing.

  “…you’re my priority.”

  Peri blinked.

  Just for a second, her face stilled — no quip, no grin. Just that flicker of surprise, like the world had tilted an inch sideways.

  She looked at him. Really looked. But he’d already turned back to the road.

  Her mind caught up, spinning again. The curl slipped into her face. She flicked it away, cheeks warming slightly.

  “Ugh,” she muttered. “Now you’ve gone all noble on me. I preferred it when you were grumpy and mysterious.”

  “Still grumpy,” Connor said, without looking.

  “Good. Wouldn’t want you getting soft on me.”

  But her smile lingered longer than usual.

  She leaned back again, stretching. “Besides, if he knew half the things I’ve pulled off, he’d probably be proud.”

  “Or furious,” Connor said, tone dry.

  Peri tilted her head, squinting at him. “Am I sensing jealousy, old man?”

  Connor finally looked at her — just a glance over the shoulder, that flat, assessing gaze that missed nothing. “You’re getting sloppy.”

  Peri gasped, dramatic, hand to heart. “How dare you. I was brilliant today. Eight full minutes before I was even snagged.” She held up the stopwatch. “That’s a personal record.”

  “You led the entire Upper Market on a chase,” he replied.

  “Minor detail, darling,” she said, flicking her wrist. “Anyway, Kitt would’ve loved it.”

  “Kitt would’ve gotten arrested.”

  “Not with my guidance.” Peri grinned. “I’m a very effective mentor.”

  “You certainly don’t lack in confidence.”

  Peri smirked. “That’s your fault, Connor dear. I learned that from you.”

  A slight grimace braced his face, nothing more.

  She leaned her head back, watching clouds scrape the last rays of orange off the sky. “Maybe I am getting sloppy,” she admitted, the grin softening. “But until it catches up to me…”

  She trailed off.

  “…I’m still winning.”

  Connor didn’t respond. But he didn’t deny it either.

  That was good enough.

  A stretch of quiet followed — the kind that settled in when the worst of the adrenaline was gone and the weight crept in behind it.

  Then Peri spoke again, voice softer this time.

  “You know…” she said, fingers absentmindedly picking at each other, “I think I’m done with the aliases.”

  Connor arched an eyebrow. Nothing more.

  “Mara. Alyssa.” She ticked them off one by one. “Useful masks. But I’m tired of hiding behind scraps. Like I’ve been borrowing lives that never fit.”

  Still nothing. Just the road ahead. The steady rhythm of the wheels. The hum of the flatbed.

  Peri glanced sideways. “Masks have their uses,” she said, mimicking his graveled voice with a crooked smirk.

  Connor’s gaze flicked toward her. Barely.

  She smiled faintly. “But they don’t make you invisible. They just make it easier to lie. To. Your. Self.”

  Her fingers walked up his arm, playful and deliberate, tapping with each word — To. Your. Self. — until the last one landed lightly on the tip of his nose.

  Connor blinked. Once. Slowly.

  “Charming,” he muttered. But he didn’t move away.

  The quiet that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Understanding. Unspoken approval.

  Peri blew a curl from her face and gave a one-shouldered shrug.

  “From now on,” she said, “it’s just Peri. Mistakes and all. So I better make fewer of ‘em.”

  She didn’t expect an answer.

  But Connor glanced at her. Just briefly.

  “You will,” he said.

  Simple. Quiet. Certain.

  Peri blinked, caught off guard. Her mouth even opened — like she might turn it into a joke — but nothing came out. Just the flicker. Something soft in her eyes.

  Then she nodded, more to herself than him, and looked ahead as the last sliver of sun dipped behind the skyline of Kiron Hills Locks.

  Peri hopped down as they rolled up to the side of a narrow backdoor — one with a broken security camera above it and a single flickering light. A squat, wiry man stood waiting in the shadows, arms crossed, one eye squinting harder than the other.

  “Blackwood,” the fence said. “Thought you were dead.”

  “Not yet,” she chirped, tossing the satchel onto the counter. “Got something for you. Should fetch a decent price.”

  He grunted and opened it. His brows lifted.

  “You’re overselling this,” he muttered, running a finger along the sealed zipper. “Manmade leather, plastic buckles… rusted snaps — where the hell did you — “

  Peri was already moving. She reached into her jacket — carefully, fingers slipping past the torn fabric — and pulled out something far more interesting than a satchel. With a soft thunk, she set it on the counter: a hard-shell black case, slim, pristine, unmistakably valuable. A faint Union tag flickered along the seam… then blinked out like it had never been there.

  The fence froze. The satchel forgotten.

  “That… that’s from Upper Grid,” he muttered, already reaching. “That’s locked vault inventory. That’s — ”

  “Yup,” Peri said, mostly focused on poking at the rip in her jacket with a frown. “Now imagine what was worth this.”

  He opened the case slowly, reverent as a priest before a relic. Inside — cushioned in reinforced foam — lay a single bar of polished steel. Sleek. Mirror-smooth. Chamfered corners. A deep Union stamp marked its surface: weight, origin code, serial number.

  “Three kilos,” the fence whispered. “Ro’Daerim steel. Untouched.”

  Peri leaned in, one brow arched. “Looks clean enough to eat off of. Um,… what is it — some kind of ceremonial paperweight?”

  He didn’t answer. He ran a thumb along the edge, brushing over a smaller, deeper engraving near the serial line. Almost missed it.

  OS-7 // Vault-9.

  His face paled slightly.

  “Ossuary,” he breathed. “This isn’t just rare — it’s… forgotten. This came from somewhere they don’t talk about. They buried that site. This isn’t supposed to exist.”

  Peri tilted her head. “So, what you’re saying is… I’m underselling.” Already half-bored, she started scanning the shelves behind him, only half-listening, blue eyes searching.

  He gave her a dry look, but there was respect behind it. “This could fund repairs for half the lower Locks. Maybe more, if I cut it right.”

  “See?” Peri beamed. “I’m a philanthropist now.” She found it — a stapler.

  He closed the case gently, locking it again with reverence. “Moving this’ll take care. Discreet buyers only. Quiet hands. People who know how to forget where they saw it.”

  “You’ve got all that,” she said, stapling the tear in her jacket without looking. “You always were a resourceful little rat.”

  The fence gave a short, crooked smile. “And you occasionally over-deliver, Blackwood.”

  Peri’s grin didn’t falter. “I do try, darling. Just wait ’til you see what I come back with next,” she said, flipping the stapler into the air and tossing it back to him.

  Then she hopped back onto the flatbed, leaving the fence staring down at a chunk of metal that could rewrite entire corners of the city — if the wrong hands ever figured out what it really was.

  “And don’t get greedy, Bren. I’ll find out if you do,” Peri called, not bothering to look back.

  “Handled?” Connor asked.

  “Handled,” she said, kicking her feet up on the dash and tugging the band from her braid. “And for once, no fire involved.”

  “Progress,” Connor said.

  Peri smirked, shaking her copper hair loose. “Next time, maybe a little fire.”

  “Seriously, darling. Just a small one, I promise.”

  And they rolled back into the dark.

  ~End~