The workbench shuddered with a loud thud. Raikaru's hands stopped. The landlord Balden had kicked his way in. A massive man in his fifties, both tall and wide. The buttons on his oil-stained shirt looked ready to pop off at any moment. "[angry]You've got until next week, Raikaru! Thirty-five Crowns—every last one of them!" The roar filled the cramped workshop like a wave. Screw Pit—that was Raikaru's repair shop and home all in one. The sign was hand-painted and half-peeled off. The shelves were crammed with tools and parts in complete disarray. The space was maybe twenty-five square meters? Actually, Raikaru had never bothered to measure it. Never felt like it. "[serious]Understood." That was all he said before turning back to focus on the pump repair. Balden glared at him for two or three seconds, then stomped out. The door slammed roughly behind him. When the sound faded, silence returned. Only the rain remained. Chemical rain today. The sound of it hitting the metal street was a bit sharper than usual. Raikaru exhaled. On the workbench lay a Chemtech water pump, disassembled and laid out in pieces. Shene had brought it in earlier—a middle-aged woman from the neighborhood. She'd insisted on getting it fixed today, but the repair fee was only eight Crowns. The pump itself was easy to fix. Clear the blockage, adjust the valve, done. Took less than fifteen minutes. Eight Crowns. Rent was thirty-five Crowns. Raikaru stopped doing the math. No point thinking about it. His eyes drifted to a notice pinned on the workshop wall. A memo from the parts wholesaler "Clatter & Clang." "We do not sell parts to anyone outside the Bridgeport War Industrial Workshop Alliance." The Zaun industry was basically run by that alliance. Twelve influential workshop owners had formed it, and they controlled sixty percent of the city's economy. All the big jobs went to them. Independent repair workers like Raikaru got only the scraps. Complain about the alliance, and they'd cut you off entirely. Raikaru had no intention of joining. Wasn't sure they'd even let him. *(Well, something'll work out.)* He knew full well there was no basis for that thought. But right now, all that mattered was finishing this pump. That was enough. War, romance, Zaun politics—none of it concerned him. Fix broken machines. That was his job. * The repair work reached a stopping point in the evening. Raikaru pulled off his leather gloves and opened the door to the neighboring bar, "The Rusty Tap." It was the same as always. Soot-covered lighting, the smell of cheap liquor, worn-out stools. The owner, Guen, was polishing a glass behind the counter. A woman in her fifties, she'd worked in a factory once. The scar from a factory accident marked her left ring finger. "[gentle]Welcome back, Raikaru. The usual?" "[serious]Just the bean stew." "[sarcastic]A budget customer as always." Guen chuckled and set a pot on the fire. The bean stew was two Crowns. The bar's specialty. Slow-cooked in a pressure cooker, it had a warmth that seemed out of place in this gray, smog-covered city. Raikaru sat on a stool and rested his elbows on the counter. Outside the window, chemical rain hammered the alley. "[gentle]Say, do you remember Porldo?" Raikaru's hands stilled slightly. "[serious]...Master Porldo." "[sad]He died in the Bridgeport War, what, six years ago now? He's the one who taught you repair work. Maybe he's watching over you from somewhere." "[cold]That's ancient history." He answered curtly and turned his gaze to the window. Master Porldo. The old man who'd drilled tool technique into Raikaru. Before the Bridgeport War started, he'd shown up at the repair shop almost every week. His catchphrase was "Machines don't lie." The Bridgeport War had happened six years ago. A fourteen-month armed conflict between Piltover and Zaun. The direct cause was said to be a dispute over the distribution of Hex-stone—the magical crystal that Piltover monopolized—but it went back much further. Years of economic disparity had finally made the city's people snap. That was all. An estimated eight thousand people died. Master Porldo. His friend Kylar. The old neighbor who'd given him tools. All gone. Raikaru had been thirteen at the time. He couldn't do anything. *(I did nothing. Couldn't do anything. So now—)* So now he didn't get deeply involved. He fixed broken things. That was enough. He was done with being relied on, losing people, and drowning in helplessness again. "[gentle]You're still alone, aren't you." Guen's voice was gentle. Raikaru didn't answer. After a while, a bowl of stew was placed in front of him. Steam rose from it, carrying the smell of beans. When he stepped outside, an old man was lying at the edge of the alley. Coughing—*cough, cough*. A respiratory disease caused by the gray haze—the chemical smog that constantly covered Zaun. Not uncommon in this city. The average life expectancy was fifty-two years. Up in Piltover, it was sixty-seven. Raikaru pulled a Crown from his pocket and left it near the old man. There was nothing else he could do. *(This is fine. This is enough.)* He told himself that as he headed back to the workshop. * Night fell. Raikaru took a lamp and began walking northeast from Drain Street. His destination was "Old Forge"—a building that had once been a mid-sized steam engine manufacturing plant before the Bridgeport War. It had been shelled during the conflict and abandoned ever since. Now only scrap hunters came near it. Almost no one went into the basement. The reason was simple: risk of collapse. But this month's earnings were terrible. He had to find some parts he could sell to pay Balden next week. Raikaru descended the basement stairs. The footing was treacherous. Water was seeping in. The first basement level was flooded; to reach the second level, he'd have to climb over rubble. The lamp's light cut through the narrow passage. The smell of mold. The stench of rusted metal. Water dripping somewhere. He climbed over one piece of rubble, then another. His leather gloves protected his hands, but mud clung to his slacks at the knees. *(Hope there's something useful here.)* He held the lamp forward and looked around. That's when he saw it. Something was glowing. In the darkest corner of the rubble, a pale blue light. Weak, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat. Raikaru moved closer. A small machine part, small enough to fit in his palm. Rusted, dented, its shape unclear. But it was definitely vibrating faintly and glowing. *(What is this?)* He picked it up. Lighter than expected. Running his finger across the surface, he could tell its structure was completely different from Chemtech. Chemtech ran on steam pressure from chemical vapor—the standard technology used in Zaun. But this was different. He couldn't tell where the power source was. Couldn't figure out where the energy came from. Yet it was working. Something in him as a repair worker reacted sharply. "[whispers]...It's like it's asking for help." He knew it was strange to say. Machines didn't ask for help. But that's what he felt. He knew it was dangerous. Taking home a machine of unknown origin wasn't smart. But he couldn't bring himself to leave it. Raikaru slipped the machine part into his pocket. * Back at the workshop, he placed the machine part on the workbench. He pulled out a magnifying glass. Observing it carefully from different angles. The joint structure was strange. Metal mixed with some other material. But he couldn't identify what that "other material" was. As a repair worker, Raikaru had seen almost every Chemtech-related part. But this was a first. The pale blue light continued pulsing. As he observed, Raikaru suddenly realized something. The light's pattern was changing. It looked irregular, but there was a definite rhythm. Like breathing. "[surprised]...No way." The words escaped him. Chemtech's steam pressure theory couldn't explain this. So was it something close to Hextech—the magical crystal technology that Piltover monopolized? But if it were Hextech, it shouldn't exist in Zaun. Getting it through legitimate channels was nearly impossible, and even on the black market, a single piece cost over eight hundred Crowns. So what was it? Raikaru sat at the desk, unable to move. The kind of focus that came when examining machines—that sensation of the mind going quiet and clear. He felt it now, unmistakably. Outside the window, the chemical rain had stopped. The alley was silent. Then. *Tap.* Something hit the window glass. Raikaru looked up. He peered outside. The alley was dark. Chemical lamps glowed faintly in the distance. *(Probably nothing.)* He was about to pick up the magnifying glass again when the sound came once more. Slightly louder this time. Raikaru stood and approached the window. In the darkness of the alley, something small was floating. A drone. Palm-sized, assembled from scrap materials like some kind of small flying machine. Two blue-white lights like eyes were pointed at him—no, "pointed at" was the wrong phrase. A machine couldn't look. But the drone was definitely facing Raikaru's direction. Two, three seconds. Then it vanished into the darkness of the alley. Raikaru stared out the window for a while. A strange feeling lingered in his chest. Not quite anxiety—more like curiosity. *(What was that?)* No answer came. He returned to the lamplight. The machine part continued its steady pulse. * The next morning. When Raikaru opened the workshop, a customer came right away. An elderly woman from the neighborhood with a broken cooking device. It was simple to fix. The heat-transfer plate had just shifted; pushing it back into place did the trick. Took less than five minutes. "Thank you, Raikaru dear. Um, about the repair fee—" The old woman looked into her wallet and fell silent. Raikaru said nothing. "[sad]...I'm sorry. Could I pay you next week?" "[gentle]That's fine." Even as he said it, he thought about what those words meant. Next week, Balden's payment was due. Thirty-five Crowns in rent. This month's repair earnings were still only around twenty Crowns. But well, it was fine. The old woman bowed repeatedly as she left. Watching her small back disappear, Raikaru turned back to the workbench. The machine part on the desk glowed quietly this morning too. *(Might as well investigate it more today.)* He was reaching for the magnifying glass when— *CRASH.* A tremendous sound. The door exploded inward. The hinges screamed as it slammed against the wall. Raikaru jumped to his feet. A figure stood in the doorway. A small girl. Maybe a hundred fifty centimeters tall. Wearing a tattered coat, purple short-bob hair visible through the hood's gap, with silver streaks woven through it. When she pulled back the hood, her eyes appeared—right eye gold, left eye silver. Heterochromia. Both eyes stared straight at Raikaru, or rather, at the machine part on the desk. A drone perched on her shoulder. Similar to the one from last night—a flying machine assembled from scrap materials, yet with oddly perfect balance. The girl walked straight into the workshop. "[angry]That part's mine. Hand it over." Raikaru was momentarily speechless. The girl came right up to the desk and pointed at the machine part. Her face was angry. Her mouth was set in a tight line, her eyebrows raised. But—something. Deep in those eyes, there was something else. Relief, maybe. *Finally found it.* "[surprised]...It's yours?" "[angry]That's what I'm saying. Were you listening?" Raikaru looked at the machine part on the desk. Then at the girl. "[serious]Found it in the basement of the old factory. Picked it up." "[angry]Which is why it's MINE!" The girl—Echo, apparently, though he hadn't even asked her name yet—pointed sharply at Raikaru. The drone floated up and hovered in front of his face. It made a soft *brrr* sound, staring at him