I had spent the better part of the past two weeks simply going through the motions, and now, as I stood in Wort’s shop once more, I found myself drumming my fingers on his cluttered counter, waiting for him to finish welding. The clang of hammer on metal echoed through the cramped space, accompanied by faint puffs of acrid smoke whenever his torch met the plating. I breathed in, half in exasperation and half in fascination. Recently, no matter how often I visited, I was always treated to something new.

  He glanced up at me through tinted goggles, which made his eyes look insectile and distant. “Almost done here,” he called, voice muffled. Then, he turned back to guide the torch along a seam in the thin metal plates.

  I had to admire the man’s technique. Each bead of welded metal was neat, though not fine enough to resemble any true precision work. Still, for the Undercity, it was commendable. The plates he’d been working on were to become heat sinks—heavy, layered sheets hammered flat and, with any luck, capable of dissipating enough energy quickly enough to keep my contraption from going up in smoke again.

  A few more deft passes, and Wort turned off the flame. He lifted his goggles, revealing sweat-beaded skin and tired but alert eyes. “You mentioned shock mounts, a belt drive, and these plate sets, yeah?” he asked, wiping his forehead on a smudged rag. “I think that’s the last of it.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, mustering a smile. “I appreciate you rushing the job.”

  He fiddled with the latch on his welder and shrugged. “Ain’t free, you know. Only a fool turns down good money.”

  A dryness touched my throat at that, remembering how my coin pouch had grown alarmingly light these past few days. I nodded, resting my hand on the battered counter. “Actually, I was wondering about your process for custom commissions—longer projects, more intricate parts. Would that be something you can handle?”

  Wort took a moment to set the plates aside, then turned his focus on me. “More intricate how?” he asked, leaning on the counter.

  “Oh, things like multiple identical finely machined gears, maybe threading for much smaller bolts than the type you currently sell. Possibly specialized castings,” I said. “I might need them down the line. Simple question of cost and feasibility.”

  His brows knit together. “For that sort of complexity, we usually send an order up to Piltover or trade with locksmiths and jewelry makers—folks who can handle the finer details. I can do basic shaping, sure. But I don’t have, let’s say, the sort of lathes you might see top-side.” He made a small, dismissive gesture. “I can get your tolerances close, though. Maybe a fraction of a mill off if I really take my time. But that costs extra. Materials, too—good steel is scarce here. We make do with what scraps slip through the cracks.”

  I pretended to consider, tapping a finger on the worn countertop. “So if I needed a gear with, say, extremely tight spacing?”

  He chuckled—more of a huff, really. “You’ll be paying good coin. Or find some arrangement with a workshop that’s half in Piltover territory. You’d best have the coin to pay for customs duty, or you’ll have the Enforcers up in your business. My advice? Stay with practical tolerances. Don’t aim for anything too fancy, not if you’re living in these Lanes.”

  I offered a polite smile, stifling a sigh of relief. At least now I had a sense of my boundaries. “Understood,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Thanks for the information.”

  “No problem,” he replied, then began gathering the parts in a rough crate lined with old cloth.“All right,” he said. “Comes to a hundred and seventy cogs even.”

  My stomach gave a small clench, but I nodded. “Got it.” I fished out the coin purse from my jacket, counting the battered metal discs. I’d had to borrow from Singed again—though I told myself I’d pay it back once I found a steadier income. With a forced nonchalance, I placed them on the counter. Wort didn’t bother to re-count; he trusted me enough by now, apparently.

  He slid the coins into his own pouch. “Pleasure doing business.”

  “Same,” I managed. Tipping my head in farewell, I ducked out of the shop and back into the Undercity’s winding arteries.

  I might have hurried straight home—my arms felt the weight of the crate almost immediately—but a half-aimless boredom urged me onward. I decided on a short detour closer to the sun. It was cleaner here, unsurprisingly, hence, pleasant. As I strolled, the roads widened slightly, and the air smelled only faintly of soot rather than the pungent tang that clung to the streets below. Overhead, the ceiling seemed to lift; we were closer to the surface, after all, though still far below Piltover’s distant golden spires. A few passersby even nodded in greeting, which caught me off guard the first time I was here. Back then, I found myself nodding back, unsure if it was genuine civility or simple caution. Funny what the Undercity could do to one’s perception of the world.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Eventually, my circuit led me back toward the familiar chaos of the marketplace below. I paused at a stall selling cheap produce but saw nothing that didn’t look half withered, so I moved on until I caught a whiff of brine and spiced marinade. There, near a stand of flickering lamps, squatted a small sushi stall—a low-slung kiosk of wooden planks topped by a fabric awning.

  Jericho—the non-human, humanoid stall’s owner—had never spoken a word to me; merely bobbed his head, gestured and made remarkably expressive faces. How anyone knew his name was a mystery to me, but he answered whenever another regular came by, I reasoned that must be his name—somehow communicated despite his seeming inability to speak.

  Today, I handed Jericho two cogs and mimed the shape of skewers, which earned me a cheerful, toothy shark grin. He set about grilling strips of squid, rolling them in a sticky glaze. A minute later, the skewers were wrapped in a strange leaf and passed over. I gave him an appreciative nod, stepping aside to enjoy the food. The flavor was every bit as good as I remembered from yesterday, a sweet-and-salty indulgence that banished my fatigue. It was almost enough to banish that pang of guilt I felt for spending Singed’s money on personal cravings.

  At last, the skewers were bare, and my wallet was lighter still—just four cogs left. Sighing contentedly, I slipped my now dangerously thin purse into my waist and made my way through the jostling crowd, crate balanced on my hip. Then, out of nowhere, I felt a tug at my belt.

  Instinct kicked in. My hand shot out, snagging a boy by the collar. He couldn’t have been older than ten—filthy hair, cheeks smudged with grime. Clutched in his small fist was my coin pouch. Our eyes locked.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” I said softly, prying the purse loose. A flicker of defiance shone in the boy’s expression, but it quickly died, replaced by something that felt older than his years—fear mixed with weary acceptance. His clothes were rags, torn at the knees, the soles of his shoes half-eaten by the streets.

  I stood there for a moment, simply staring at him. My grip loosened, and I realized I had him in a half-chokehold. Slowly, I let him go, but kept my foot angled so he couldn’t dart away again. Staring at him a moment longer, a tired sigh escaped me.

  Four cogs—barely enough for a meal. I sighed again, hating the city anew. Wordlessly, I took the coins out and pressed them into his palm. His eyes flew wide, confusion and suspicion tangling on his dirt-streaked face. For a second, he just stared, as though waiting for the punchline.

  My mood soured at that realization, and I hoisted the crate again. Slipping through the throng, I slowly wound my way back to Singed’s tall, ramshackle house of steel walkways and rattling pipes.

  Fuck this city, I scowled as I fetched my keys from inside my jacket

  The workshop reeked of chemicals, as always, but it felt oddly comforting. My cordoned-off corner—just a battered desk and an open space in which I’d been tinkering—beckoned. I set the crate down and carefully laid out the new parts I had purchased. The house was silent, more than was normal. Singed was away again, off on his errands perhaps.

  I put the thought out of mind and turned my attention to the task at hand. On my desk sat the initial assembly: a cobbled together mess of wires, crude capacitors, and misshapen diodes housed in a rough aluminum shell—the linear power regulator. Next to it stood Singed’s smallest steam turbine, with a simple dynamo half-coupled to it via an older belt that had snapped two days ago.

  Rolling up my sleeves, I screwed on the new shock absorbers beneath the dynamo to dampen the vibration that came from using imprecise and unbalanced parts. That done, I fixed the new belt in place, threading it carefully around the turbine’s spinning axle. With a grunt, I bolted each assembly onto a wooden base, layering them so the contraption wouldn’t rattle itself apart again like it did the first time. Finally, I retrieved a jar of improvised thermal paste—axle grease mixed with iron filings, graphite, and wax. Carefully, I slathered it onto the underside of one heat sink, then pressed the sink against the dynamo’s metal housing before screwing it down. The second sink, with a liberal dollop of the paste, went against the regulator’s back plate. Messy, possibly conductive, and guaranteed to degrade eventually—but for now, it would pull enough heat away to keep the whole thing from burning up.

  I double-checked every connection, wiping sweat from my brow. Then I yanked the generator’s pull cord. A rattling cough, then the turbine whirled to life, spinning the dynamo’s solid metal flywheel. After a tense moment, I threw another switch, routing current to the regulator. No sparks, no acrid smoke. I let out a slow breath, crossing my fingers.

  A few moments later, I confirmed it was stable. Then waited a few moments more to be sure the system wasn’t about to quit on me again. With narrowed eyes, I retrieved my phone charger and plugged it in—no phone attached yet. The light stayed on. Nothing exploded or shorted. Encouraged, I hurried upstairs and grabbed my actual phone. I half-expected everything to die the moment I plugged it in, but when I connected the cable, the phone’s screen lit up with a charging symbol three seconds later.

  I stared, heart pounding, as though I’d just witnessed magic. It was charging—slowly, yes, but undeniably charging. I just needed to marginally increase the output. A grin spread across my face, almost childlike. It worked.

  It fucking worked!

  Reverently, I set the phone aside, letting it draw power from the machine. I felt my cheeks grow sore from smiling. For once, all the frustrations—the endless chores, the subpar food, the grime—seemed momentarily worth it. And in the quiet hush of the workshop, drowned in the steady hum of the turbine, I allowed myself a small measure of hope.