The moment we emerged from the drainage channel, the scent piercing my nostrils shifted abruptly.
Iron, mold, and oil—mingled with the cloyingly sweet haze of cheap booze and synthetic drugs.
Clusters of shanties, looking as though they’d been forcibly grafted onto the concrete walls, huddled together under the low ceiling of the Lower District. Looking up, I could see the underside of the Subplate stretching out far overhead.
The Lower District fanned out in a massive ring along the base of the city's gargantuan support pillars. My workshop was located on the far side; it had been a long time since I’d set foot in this particular sector.
"...Phew. Finally out of that stench."
Beside me, Kaya pulled her hood down low and stretched, looking relieved to be clear of the tunnels. I adjusted the weight of the woman slumped over my shoulder and scanned our surroundings.
All along the narrow alleys, groups of thugs loitered, their bodies modified with second-rate tech. I saw cheap optical sensors glowing in sockets and prosthetic hands that looked suspiciously new compared to the rest of their frames. Out here, there were no obvious deterrents and even fewer restraints.
<Easy pickings.> <The kid would fetch a good price if we strip her.> <A woman.>
Nasty speech bubbles drifted up from the shadows of the street. I could feel dozens of eyes tracking our movement.
"...We’re being watched," Kaya noted.
I responded with a silent shrug. Two people in hooded robes—one of them carrying a body—was more than enough to mark us as prey in a place like this.
Sure enough, three men slithered out from an alleyway to block our path. The leader carried a length of rusted pipe on his shoulder like a baseball bat, his teeth stained a fluorescent glow from some local stimulant.
"Yo, traveler. That’s a heavy load you’ve got there. Why don’t we lighten it for you?"
<No prosthetics, but the organs should sell.> <The frame alone is worth credits.>
The men let out a chorus of idiotic laughter. The moment one of them reached out toward the woman on my shoulder, Kaya stepped forward.
"I’m sorry, but I’m really not in the mood today."
If you only heard her voice, she sounded like a playful boy on a street corner.
In the next instant, her knee snapped up without a sound, driving directly into the first man’s groin. A dull, sickening crack echoed through the alley. Before he could even collapse, Kaya’s toe swept upward, catching him under the jaw and sending a spray of teeth into the air.
"You bitch—!"
The second man swung his pipe downward. Kaya slipped half a step back, sliding into his guard. She grabbed his collar and slammed him into the wall with enough force to spiderweb the concrete. As his head bounced off the stone, she jammed her elbow into his carotid artery. The man’s legs gave a final, pathetic twitch.
The third man’s spirit broke before he could even process what had happened, but Kaya wasn't finished. She caught the arm he tried to shield his face with and snapped it backward at the shoulder.
A raw, wet pop filled the air.
"GAAAAAAH!"
His scream tore into the Lower District sky. Kaya let go without so much as a blink. The man fell to his knees, clutching his mangled limb and writhing in the dirt.
"...In a bad mood?" I asked.
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. It wasn't that I felt any pity for the thugs, but Kaya seemed uncharacteristically irritated.
"Does it look that way? I let them off easy, so I think I’m being pretty kind."
She turned back to me with her usual smile, but for a split second, I felt like she was looking past me—at someone who wasn't there.
<Must break it.> <That is...> <—But no.>
Her speech bubbles wavered for a moment before silently vanishing.
"I see."
I’d have to keep an eye on her. This was becoming a headache.
＊ ＊ ＊
The communication signals in the Lower District were slightly better than those in the Subplate. Once we were a safe distance from the drainage facility, my terminal's signal bars finally returned to normal.
I was debating whether to call the Doctor for a pickup or contact Roselia when the device vibrated in my pocket. It was Roselia. Good timing.
"What’s the plan?" Kaya asked.
"I’m not talking here. Wait a second."
I put the call on hold and looked around. At the corner of the alley, I spotted a bar sign with flickering, half-dead neon. The word "BAR" looked as if the ultraviolet lights had scorched it into the metal. The scent of synthetic drugs and cheap liquor leaked through the cracks in the door.
Aware that we were still being watched by the local dregs, I pushed my way inside.
"Do you have connections here?" Kaya asked. She sounded less worried and more like she was just making small talk to cover her previous irritation.
"In places like this, everyone speaks the same language," I replied flatly.
Inside the dim bar, a holographic dancer flickered rhythmically, her image half-transparent due to some internal error. Behind the counter, a bartender with an ancient optical sensor in his left socket was polishing a glass. The patrons were sparse, and the air was thick with a white haze of overlapping drug scents.
<A new face.> <Trouble?>
The thoughts drifted above the bartender's head. I approached the counter while still hauling the woman and flicked a small credit chip onto the wood.
The bartender’s one good eye narrowed. "...I take it that’s a downing payment?"
"You've got a signal-shielded room in the back, don't you?"
I spoke with the confidence of someone who knew the layout. These types of dives almost always kept a private room for information brokers. The bartender appraised me for a few beats, then shrugged.
"You’ve got a sharp eye, friend. This way."
He reached for a door at the end of the counter and swiped his thumb over a fingerprint scanner. The low hum of an air conditioner and the steady thrum of machinery drifted out from within.
"Monitoring and wiretapping are off. But if you break anything, I’m charging you double."
"It’s not the kind of conversation worth breaking things over," I replied, walking past him.
The private room was standard. Two small sofas, a low table, sound-absorbing foam on the walls, and old ballistic panels. A white noise generator on the ceiling cast a soft, rhythmic light.
I laid the woman down on one of the sofas. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Her heart rate was a chaotic mess of toxins and sedatives, but she didn't look like she was going to drop dead immediately.
"What are you drinking?" the bartender asked.
"Water. No ice."
He nodded and closed the door. Once the sound of the white noise filled the room, I finally took the call off hold.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
"Don't worry about it. I assumed you were in the middle of some mess anyway," Roselia’s voice crackled through. I could hear the hum of multiple terminals in the background; she was likely at her office in the police organization. "So, why the private line?"
"I'm listening."
"Right. You remember Olaf’s body? The one we took in the other day?"
"Hard to forget."
The "gift" left behind from the last incident. Olaf Karvel’s brain had been snatched, leaving only a shell for Roselia and the police to investigate.
"I cross-referenced some data that just landed on my desk, and the results were... interesting," Roselia said.
A chill of premonition settled in my gut.
"Olaf’s genetic pattern came back with a match. It’s an approximate hit—on you. It’s not clean enough to call you father and son, but it’s at a level that’s impossible for two unrelated strangers."
"...What?"
My mind went blank. I mentally scrolled through every scrap of memory I possessed, but nothing connected.
"Where did you get my genetic pattern?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
I heard Roselia let out a faint sigh. "It wasn't me. It was provided by The Ninth. I haven't been able to figure out where they sourced it from. Though, I'm sure the route was anything but legal."
"...The Ninth again."
The dark underbelly of the police organization. Even if they had a sample of my DNA, it shouldn't have surprised me. It didn't make it any less nauseating.
"You don't have any... gaps in your memory, do you?" Roselia asked, her voice softening.
"None," I said firmly.
But even as I spoke, a single image flickered in my mind: the cold, sterile interior of a cold sleep capsule. My memories from before Junkhead found me were nothing but a blur.
Whatever happened leading up to my stasis... I didn't fully understand it myself.
"Well, I won't pry into a repairman's secrets," Roselia continued. "That's all the info I can give you for now. If you want to dig deeper, that's on you."
"Thanks. I owe you."
"Hmph. We’re even. I’ve got enough of my own problems over here. I'll be in touch."
Just before she hung up, I heard the sound of someone dropping a new file on her desk. The line went dead, leaving the room remarkably silent.
"Genetics, huh..."
I muttered the words to myself, swirling the glass of lukewarm water the bartender had left.
I looked up to find Kaya watching me from the opposite sofa. She had a strange, unreadable expression on her face.
"What is it?" I asked.
Kaya’s gaze wandered for a moment before she forced a smile. "Nothing. I just realized... you had a whole life I didn't know about, Rei."
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"...Nothing."
She laughed it off, but I felt like I could hear something creaking deep within her eyes. It was a look of profound conflict, as if she were trapped between two impossible choices.
Before I could press her, my terminal vibrated again. This time, it was the Doctor.
"Another one," I sighed.
I picked up, and his oily voice immediately filled the room. "Hee-llo? You alive? I’ve been trying to ping your line for an hour, but everything past the Subplate was a dead zone."
"My bad. I was busy poking around The Order's nest."
"Good grief. Your sense of 'sightseeing' is as reckless as ever, repairman. So, did you find anything worth the trouble?"
"Yeah—"
I turned my eyes toward the woman sleeping on the sofa. Her breathing was thin but rhythmic. I aimed the terminal's camera toward her.
"I want to run a full diagnostic on this one."