A cacophony of voices.
An irritating din echoed from deep within the pipes.
The muggy air brushed against my skin, thick with the stench of living things mixed with the chemical bite of iron and ozone. The two scents mingled, creating an odor so sharp it felt like it might trigger a chemical reaction in the back of my throat.
This was the Subplate.
The air, the order—everything here was warped. In a word, it was a lawless wasteland.
Pipes and ducts snaked along the ceiling. In the gaps between them, people had welded iron plates wherever they pleased, carving out cramped territories where they lived packed together like vermin. As I walked down the passage, snores and curses bled through the thin walls, blending into a single, discordant noise.
Those who took root here were either filthy old men, kids with unnaturally large eyes, or "people wearing decent clothes"—the kind of people you were better off avoiding entirely.
Creak. Creak.
Exposed elevators rattled up and down above my head. They shrieked against rusted rails, looking like a high-stakes tightrope walk where the passengers bet their lives on every trip. I had no intention of riding one; they weren't exactly official routes. If you wanted to use a legitimate elevator, you had to pay a "toll" to the mafia that managed them.
Just then, a young man tried to leap onto a moving car and missed. With a sound like a scream of scraping metal, his figure vanished into the abyss below. The echoes of his fall tumbled down through the layers. I gave a quick glance to see if he’d snagged on anything, but once it was clear he was going all the way to the bottom, I lost interest.
In this neighborhood, that wasn't even a rare occurrence.
"...Business as usual today," I muttered to myself.
I didn't know what the very bottom of the city looked like. I’d heard enough tall tales to last a lifetime—stories about experimental grounds or sealed-away monsters. Occasionally, some eccentric would go on an expedition down there, but apparently, no one ever came back.
I was walking on a level even deeper than the one where my safe house was located. It was the most vibrant tier of the district—commonly known as the Rebuild Bazaar.
Everything was a "product" here, from junk and illegal drugs to prosthetic parts. If it was found, stolen, or manufactured, it was for sale. While money still worked, bartering was the primary way of life. If you were hungry, you traded for food; if you were broken, you traded for a prosthetic limb. In a world where survival was the only goal, neither credit nor order held any weight.
Nearby, a shopkeeper with a patchwork prosthetic body and a freakishly tall, spindly man were currently exchanging sensor eyes for synthetic food. The tall man, wearing a smirk that suggested he was high on something, walked away from the shop with a satisfied look once the deal was done. He didn't notice the group of children tailing him.
A scream echoed from around the corner. The lethargic crowd nearby swarmed toward the sound like flies to a wound.
As I navigated the iron-plated walkways, the scenery remained much the same. Glowing signs, suspicious pharmacies, prosthetic stalls, and the occasional brawl. It wasn't quite as gloomy as the lower levels, yet nowhere near as clean as the Upper District. Mediocre greed and poverty rotted here in a perfect, stable balance.
"...Eradicata, huh," I said, pulling a candy from my pocket and tearing the wrapper.
As the artificial sweetness spread across my tongue, I thought about the group overseeing this level. Eradicata was a massive organization, connected to Cordeaux’s people and the Greed Claw from the lower levels. They had looked after me back when I worked the Subplate. Since I’d moved to the "surface," I hadn't been in touch, but I’d recently received a request out of the blue. So, here I was, diving back into the depths.
Still, it hadn't changed a bit.
The smell of sweat, iron, and blood was baked into the walls. Whether it was the Upper District or the Lower District, this city was ultimately just a collection of "broken parts." I wondered if the whole thing would eventually just fall apart from the inside out.
I kept walking, entertaining those fruitless thoughts until the "Iron Castle" appeared in the distance.
Calling it a castle was generous; it was more like a patchwork monstrosity. Walls, passages, and residential units had been forcibly lashed together with steel frames, crudely fashioned into a single massive structure. From the levels below, it probably looked like a floating fortress.
This was one of Eradicata’s primary bases. It was also their marketplace. Weapons, tech, drugs, and humans—it was an anything-goes department store. It reeked of illegality, but by local standards, it was practically a clean operation.
Several burly men stood before the entrance. They wore matching suits, the energy rifles slung over their arms glinting in the dim light. Given the way their prosthetic joints glowed, they were all heavily augmented. Their arm muscles were unnaturally bloated—likely Brand Prosthetics. They were custom-made pieces favored by Subplate residents, belonging to neither the upper nor lower world. Many of them were tuned to such peaky settings that they occasionally went into thermal runaway and self-destructed. That was just the way things worked here.
At the entrance, human value was measured by appearance. The well-dressed were let through in silence, while the poor in rags were tossed out without a second thought. The particularly troublesome ones simply had their heads go pop right then and there.
Both the gunshots and the screams were quickly swallowed by the ambient noise of the crowd. I walked with enough distance to avoid stepping in the fresh red stains on the floor. Even though it would be cleaned soon, the metallic tang soaked into the iron floorboards could never be truly erased.
The bodies of the dead were dismantled and recycled. Whether you ended up on the "bio-parts" shelf or the "mechanical parts" shelf was entirely down to luck.
...Some things never change.
Smirking at the stinging scent of blood and oil, I headed for the entrance. One of the guards tracked me with his eyes but didn't say a word as I passed.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The stench of iron and oil was masked by the cloying, sweet scent of artificial fragrances.
I stood in a massive vaulted lobby. Neon signs hung in layers overhead, while illegal stalls and cyborg prostitutes competed for customers on the floor below. It was a department store, all right—just one that had gone completely insane. Light blurred through the haze, smoke drifted through the air, and the roar of the crowd stabbed at my eardrums.
This was the "normalcy" of the city, condensed into a single space. As long as you paid the protection fee, you could do business under the mafia’s wing. Each booth in the lobby seemed to be run by an outside vendor. The clientele was just as varied: hitmen, corporate suits, gangers, and refugees. Everyone here was both a seller and a buyer.
The higher you climbed, the more the value of the merchandise increased. Near the very top was the "Golden Miniature Garden," a place reserved for the elite. You needed a special pass just to get close to it.
I pushed through the heat and neon toward the back of the lobby. Two guards stood before the main elevator at the far end. Their gear was significantly better than the men outside. Their arms were Blade-transformation Types, specialized for close-quarters combat. They had expensive taste.
As I approached, the tone of the chatter around me changed. Appraising gazes pierced my back, and mixed in with the scrutiny was a faint hint of awe.
One of the guards stepped forward and gave a low bow.
"...It has been a long time. For safety's sake, may I see your ID?"
Without a word, I reached into my coat and pulled out a golden coin. The skull relief on the front glowed dully as it caught the light. On the back was the number "9."
It was an Eradicata Internal Authentication Token.
The guard’s prosthetic eye gave a soft whir as the internal sensor scanned it. After a few seconds of silence, the man nodded.
"...Confirmed. Please, go right in."
I tucked the coin back into my pocket and stepped into the elevator. The rugged metal doors slid shut with a quiet thud. The device activated automatically, beginning its ascent without me needing to touch a single button.
The iron plate beneath my feet vibrated slightly as the heavy gears began to churn with rhythmic precision. It felt like I was climbing through a void. The display lamp on the ceiling slowly ticked through the numbers.
Finally, the elevator reached the top. The doors opened silently.
A momentary draft of cold air rushed in. Beyond the doors lay an orderly hallway of inorganic white, illuminated by artificial light.
This was the Eradicata Executive Floor—one of the few "peaks" of the Subplate.