Clunk.
The elevator doors slid open with a dull, echoing metallic thud.
Instead of cold air, a thick, brownish haze drifted inside. I instinctively held my breath. Or rather, I felt like I had to.
The stagnant odor of acid, rancid oil, scorched metal dust, and… the rank smell of humanity. All of it swirled together into a cocktail of irritation that felt like it was burning my nostrils.
Breathing this air for the first time in a while reminded me that this place still smelled like "somewhere people weren't meant to live."
The very bottom of the Subplate.
Further in lay the so-called "Junk Market"—the place where the clones of Cecily that Junkhead had shown me were reportedly sold.
The moment I stepped forward, my boot made a wet, squelching sound. Something viscous clung to the sole. On the damp iron floor, oil and sludge had solidified into thick, grimy layers.
"…Well, I’m definitely going for the deep-scrub sanitization after this," I muttered, wrinkling my nose.
The corridor walls were rusted through in places, leaking a dark liquid that bubbled and smoked whenever it hit the ground.
The caretaker standing by the door—likely an Eradicata operative—turned toward me. I could hear his rhythmic breathing and the hum of his filters through his gas mask, sounding uncomfortably vivid in the silence.
"…I’ve been briefed. I know it’s not my place, but—watch yourself out there."
His voice was low and gravelly. I couldn’t see his face behind the mask, but I caught a tremor of fear in his tone. It was the voice of a man who had stayed in this place for far too long.
I gave a short wave of my hand in response and stepped out into the sea of foul odors.
A few shadows drifted through the corridor. Clad in tattered rags, they moved as if crawling along the ground, their heads perpetually bowed. Their footsteps were heavy and wet, their breathing shallow. As I passed, they glanced up for a fraction of a second before looking away.
There was no light left in their eyes.
The people out here were the ones who still had a shred of their "reason" left. If I went deeper, it would get much worse. Junkies broken by drugs, those whose nervous systems were fried by botched prosthetic surgeries, and criminals who had crossed the wrong person "up top" and fled down here to hide. This level was the final drain for the city's dregs.
Exposed pipes ran along the ceiling like a tangled web. Between them, ancient spray nozzles spat out a fine, shimmering dust.
Air-purifying nanomachines. A low-budget, hand-me-down version from the Upper District.
Thanks to them, the area around the Junk Market was apparently "passable." Even so, normal breathing would eventually scorch your lungs. A Natural would likely be on the floor in a coughing fit within minutes.
The sound of my own breath echoed faintly. In the gray mist, the distant creak of elevator cables groaned.
It felt like I’d returned to hell after a long vacation.
I had one objective: Junkhead’s request—the negotiation with Rainburg.
However, even if I tried to contact the Upper District right now, I wouldn't just be let through. I’d already put in for an appointment and was waiting for a reply. The person I’d contacted was Sebastian, the old butler who had helped me out before. He held a significant position within the Rainburg family. Given our history, I expected him to move quickly.
To kill time until then, I decided to scope out the Junk Market—the rotten bazaar where those Cecily clones had been trafficked. If I was going to be bored, I might as well put some boots on the ground and see what I could find.
Amidst the swirling steam and stench, I walked deeper into the gloom, the rhythmic thud of my boots marking the way. At the end of the corridor, light bled through the gaps in the steel frames in a dull, sickly blur.
Beyond that lay the Junk Market.
With every step down the narrow stairs, the air grew heavier. The scent of ozone and oil mingled with the smell of scorched silicon, making my chest ache. Eventually, a low, chaotic roar hit my ears.
The buzz of the crowd.
The sound of metal striking metal, the creak of prosthetic joints, the clatter of rolling bottles. Every sound was composed of grinding machinery and the ragged breath of broken humans.
The market appeared to be a massive waste disposal dome that had been forcibly converted into a commercial district. Countless wires and fluorescent tubes dangled from the ceiling, sparking and shorting out at random. The floor was slick with oil, and the stalls were packed together in a dense, steel-framed maze.
"I'll give you two batteries for it!" "You kidding me? Does this piece of junk even work?"
Shouts and haggling filled the air. People with unnaturally glowing irises stood nose-to-nose, shouting and spitting as they negotiated. Their voices were almost universally hoarse and scorched, likely from the air quality. It was impossible to tell men from women or adults from children.
The goods on display were either discarded or stolen—or taken from a warm corpse. The lingering scent of blood on some items was proof enough of that.
One of the stallholders caught sight of me and flashed a gap-toothed grin. "Heh, that’s rare. Someone from 'up there' coming all the way down here?"
"Just sightseeing," I replied, offering a casual smile as I moved past.
The merchant stared at me, blinking in confusion for a moment before his shoulders began to shake.
"Sight-sightseeing! Hah! Now there’s a bold gentleman!"
He descended into a fit of wet, gurgling laughter before his eyes suddenly lost focus. His body began to tremble violently. He reached a shaking hand toward a shelf, grabbed a syringe, and jammed it into his arm.
With a hiss, he depressed the plunger. Gradually, the tremors subsided and his eyes focused again. A typical addict; if he didn't get a fix every few hours, he'd likely go on a rampage. What a mess.
I looked away from the panting merchant. At the stall over his shoulder, an android the size of a child lay on a table. Its abdomen was splayed open, revealing a nest of tangled cables where internal organs should have been. A pair of grease-stained hands carelessly yanked a bundle of wires out with a wet, grisly sound.
No one else even blinked. This was the "common sense" of this place.
When something broke, it became material. It didn't matter if it was human or machine. Even the merchant in front of me would likely be stripped for parts the moment he died.
I felt eyes on my back as I walked. Someone carrying the "air of the Upper District" stood out like a sore thumb here. However, the looks I received weren't necessarily hostile; they were gazes of curiosity and appraisal.
The further in I went, the more the inventory changed. The miscellaneous parts gave way to human components and "medicine." I saw skin grafts sealed in resin and trays filled with rows of artificial eyes. Between the stalls, merchants in black robes conducted silent, grim transactions.
The scrubbing nanos were present here too, but they were too few to make a difference against the thick soot and smoke.
As I pushed through the haze, I reached what looked like a central plaza. The ceiling was open here, forming a hollow vertical shaft. In the center, a holographic advertisement suspended in a metal frame flickered like a twisted carnival attraction.
COMPLETE RESTORATION. ORIGINAL DNA GUARANTEED. LEGITIMATE CLONE.
The slogans were as shady as they come.
And yet, my feet stopped of their own accord.
Beneath the advertisement sat a simple stage. Several "humans" were being made to stand there. Their skin was as smooth as white porcelain, their hair shimmering silver, and their eyes reflecting nothing but the void.
For a heartbeat, the image of Cecily flashed through my mind. But it wasn't her. Looking closer, their features didn't actually resemble hers at all.
Whether they were kidnapped, sold, or manufactured, I didn't know. But they certainly weren't legitimate.
I moved quietly, blending into the crowd. I needed to find the people who had been "selling" these specific models. The direct street dealers had already been picked up by Eradicata, but if there was a data log or a paper trail left behind, I might be able to find out who brought them into the market.
I steadied my breathing in the putrid air. The smell of iron and the sickly-sweet scent of blood. To buy "information" in a place like this, you first had to be willing to inhale the poison.