I woke with a jolt, to that half-light of bare corridors and greenish haze, as though surfacing from a long-forgotten dream. The stale air of my cramped room tasted faintly metallic in my mouth. For a moment, I felt suspended between two existences—the life I remembered, with the hum of modern Earth’s conveniences, and this verisimilitude of hissing pipes and reeking smog. Then my side gave a dull throb, and reality settled back in. Two weeks of these mornings, yet the city remained as alien to me as the day I stumbled bleeding into Singed’s workshop.

  On the chipped nightstand beside my cot lay the usual reminders of my new life: a ragged spool of thread (mending tears in my clothes had become near-daily work), a small tin cup, and my battered phone—still useless, as it had been since my first hour here, hence switched off. The room my benefactor had spared me was little more than four walls, a stiff cot, a single splintered chair, and a desk too small for real work. Each plank in the floor had its own squeak; the rafters overhead moaned whenever someone in the alley outside stomped on a loose grate. Even so, it was an improvement over the metal gurney upon which I first regained consciousness.

  Small mercies, I suppose.

  Sighing, I peeled off the thin blanket and sat up, pressing a careful hand to my side. Beneath the rough bandage, the stab wound throbbed. The pain was no longer debilitating—mostly a dull ache, like a bruise refused the chance to fade.

  I forced myself to stand and fetched a half-threadbare towel from a makeshift hook by the door. The cramped little bathroom adjoining my room was a precarious venture: overhead pipes wept condensation, and the faucet spat water in fits. This morning, at least, the trickle ran faint but steady—enough for a proper shower if I conserved the meager heat. Despite the acrid mineral smell, I welcomed the warmth. When soap touched my stab wound, I stiffened, biting back a curse. The pang flared, then subsided. I had come to prize these small morning rituals: they anchored me in a place that otherwise felt unreal. Even when brushing my teeth was an exercise in caution—bristles so stiff they seemed apt to rip my gums—I cherished them all the same.

  At last, I toweled off and tugged on the clothes Singed had supplied: a threadbare undershirt and heavy trousers of an unfamiliar cut—high-waisted, secured by thick suspenders. Over that went a coarse jacket dyed in dull earth-tones. I caught sight of myself in the smudged mirror perched on a corner shelf—eyes ringed with fatigue, hair messy from restless sleep. I parted it with my fingers, trying not to dwell on the ways I already looked changed, as though the Undercity was leaving its fingerprint on me.

  I took a moment to breathe, letting the stale air fill my lungs, then stepped into the hallway. The building was quieter than usual. Soot-stained windows admitted only faint scraps of light, tinted a sickly hue by the haze outside. I didn’t hear any of Singed’s machines running yet—perhaps he was taking the morning slowly. Then I smelled it: a queer aroma wafting from the kitchen that could only mean one thing—breakfast.

  Sure enough, I found him in the cramped kitchen nook, stirring a pot of brackish porridge over a small gas burner. His posture was typically rigid, as though he were a sculpture that happened to move. I offered a short nod by way of greeting. Singed barely acknowledged me, sparing only a glance. Two wooden bowls sat on the chipped countertop. He filled one and handed it to me.

  We filled the room in sparse quiet. The first few days, I’d tried to spark conversation, but the man would either ignore me or give abrupt, clinical answers, and so I learned silence. These days, I have grown to appreciate it. The silence gave me space to think. I needed to think.

  At length, after emptying the last of the pot into his own bowl, Singed spoke: “And the centrifuge?” he asked.

  I set my spoon down, swallowing the sticky mouthful. “Bearings are shot,” I said. “Cheap iron. Also, the steam lines were clogged with mineral deposits—the fluctuating pressure sped up the wear. I’ve cleaned out the lines, but the bearings need replacing entirely. And some shock mounts. That’ll help keep it stable.”

  He gave the barest inclination of his head, set down his spoon, and fished a pouch of coins from inside his coat. “Get what you need at Wort’s shop,” he said, sliding them across the table. “On your way back, pick up some groceries. The usual. I trust you know where to go by now.”

  I bowed my head in assent. He and I had memorized each other’s patterns: he asked, I complied. There was an efficiency to it that I found equal parts comforting and dehumanizing. Still, it beats the alternative. I tucked the coin pouch into my pocket, returning to the porridge. As usual, his attention drifted away the moment he delegated a task, his thoughts immediately consumed. He left the stove without ceremony, carrying his breakfast into the workshop beyond. The door’s old hinges grated like bones.

  Left alone, I soon sipped the last spoonful of porridge; it clung to my mouth, leaving a gritty aftertaste. Rising from my seat, I deposited the used utensils in the sink. A battered apron hung from a nail in the wall; I tied it around my waist and began cleaning the kitchen, gathering the bits of raw scraps and wilted leaves that Singed had scattered about in his impromptu cooking. He seemed brilliant, from what I could tell, but the man had all the culinary finesse of a crow picking at carrion. At least the dried bloodstain on the counter from last week’s attempt at preparing seafood was mostly scrubbed away now.

  The rest of the house followed. I swept floors, dusted sills, and wiped doorknobs. Several times I passed the two doors Singed kept locked. One was presumably his bedroom; the other, some kind of adjoining workspace or laboratory extension—there had been strange noises from behind it sometimes, heavy machinery perhaps? Regardless, I stayed well away. Singed had made it clear those places required no “help.”

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  With the house now acceptably tidy, I shrugged off the apron and made for the exit. As I stepped out, the city itself seemed to greet me: an assault on the senses—clanging metal, buzzing neon signs, half-shouted arguments from neighbors. The city's miasma greeted me with its sour breath, its gloom so constant that I had learned to measure time by the shift in hue from sulfuric green to a bluish tinge near midday.

  I kept my head down and began to walk.

  It took me less than ten minutes to reach Wort’s machinist shop, nestled in a crooked side street. Its door was marked only by a tarnished cog nailed to the frame. Within, shelves overflowed with gears, rods, mechanical arms, and precarious piles of cast-off iron. Wort himself was perched behind the counter, sorting trinkets by shape and size. He looked up and gave a friendly grunt—which, for the Undercity, was akin to a warm welcome.

  “Morning,” he said. His apron was nearly as soiled as the rest of the place, but he wore it with pride.

  I placed the damaged bearings on the counter. “Good morning. I need a replacement set—similar size. And shock mounts, if you have them.”

  Wort scratched his stubble as he picked up and eyed one of the damaged bearings. “I ought to have the right size. Give me a moment.” He rummaged through bins on a back shelf, returning with a selection that at least looked sturdier than what Singed had used before.

  We compared them to the damaged ones, ensuring the diameter matched. A minute later, he laid out a set of worn leather pads and a row of wooden discs, each with small holes for bolts—shock mounts. I eyed them until I found one I was certain was the correct size. Then, Wort tallied up the price, gave me a slight discount for returning business, and carefully packed everything into a canvas bag. Coins exchanged hands. He offered a parting shrug and a grunt that served as a farewell. I thanked him, stepping back into the swirl of passersby outside.

  The market for groceries was a bit farther on, where open stalls lined a broken thoroughfare lit by sporadic overhead lamps. Vendors hawked produce stunted by lack of real sunlight: colorless vegetables, coarse bread, pungent cheese wrapped in greasy parchment.

  I gathered the usual: some root vegetables that might last a few days, cured meat that smelled questionably fresh, a small jar of pickled something-or-other that Singed often used in his cooking. I took what I believed fit the budget and carefully clutched the change in my palm. The city’s bustle swallowed all sense of time. Only the deepening hue of the overhead gloom hinted that midday was coming.

  By the time I returned to Singed’s place, my arms ached from carrying supplies. I found the workshop as I’d left it the night before: half-lit, cluttered with glass flasks of simmering solutions that tinted the walls green. There was no sign of the man himself; more than likely, he had retreated to his private sanctum or gone out for one of his errands.

  In the kitchen, I stowed the groceries. A single plate lay on the counter—a sandwich of meager bread stuffed with thin slices of some salted meat, presumably for me. Besides it was another mess—vegetable scraps, a knife caked in something gelatinous, a used pot. With a sigh, I tidied up once more.

  Finally free of my domestic duties, I carried my bag of parts to the workshop and laid out its contents on the bench supporting the damaged centrifuge, which stood disassembled in a dim corner. The device’s metal plating bore the scars of repeated attempts at repair—dents hammered flat, rivets replaced with mismatched bolts. Bit by bit, I replaced the old bearings with the new, pausing frequently to wipe away and reapply lubrication. I installed the shock mounts, reconnected the steam pipes, and double-checked the lines for any leftover residue.

  The hours slipped by quietly as I worked. I turned on the old generator—which rattled to life—and tested the repaired centrifuge with a cautious flush of steam pressure from a boiler. This time, no rattling roar, no frantic squeal. The machine spun with a healthy hum.

  That’ll do, I thought, smiling to myself.

  My side ached again, urging me to rest. I noticed the overhead lights were dimmer, sliding slowly into the deep-green twilight that served as “evening” in the Undercity. Setting aside my wrench, I straightened up. The workshop was still empty—Singed wasn’t back yet.

  Shrugging, I headed to the kitchen to wash up and retrieve my sandwich before going upstairs. My room, though modest, felt almost inviting in retrospect. Funny how this city makes you appreciate the little things. I sank onto the creaking chair and placed the sandwich aside. Lifting my laptop from the drawer, I powered it on. Battery: a scant twenty-two percent. The fan whirred softly as it booted.

  Navigating one of the hundreds of my downloaded ebooks, I scrolled until I found the entry on rectifiers I’d discovered the night prior. I scanned the text, then copied some notes and diagrams into my battered composition notebook. Each passing minute was precious. If the battery died, so would my chances of keeping any electronics powered later—I had to figure out a way to recharge them before that.

  A puzzle had taken shape in my mind—a blueprint for a crude linear power regulator and dynamo that could be mated with a steam generator like the ones abundant in Singed’s workshop. Copper wire for resistors, a magnet assembly, some capacitors, and maybe a rectifier. In a city thick with salvaged parts, it felt feasible.

  My side twitched. I turned off my laptop to conserve what little power remained, then turned my attention to the cobbled device on my desk: an aluminum casing, a cluster of wires, crude capacitors, and a homemade diode. The dynamo was downstairs in the workshop, complete and functional. That part was easy enough. The question now was how to get the regulator to stop blowing up—and then how to produce a stable direct current.

  I took a deep breath, letting the tension ebb. The day had been long and somewhat monotonous, but in Zaun, such monotony was a gift—no knives in my gut, no catastrophic lab failures to mop up. Taking a bite of my now very stale lunch, I dove back into my work, rummaging through the cluttered drawer for a copper spool I’d seen earlier.

  Somehow, I had to make this work.