“‘If Yisharra falls for the acid trick, it’s time to steal the High Syndic’s Gravity Pearl.’” Zibya’s grin stretched wider, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Ah, past Zibya, you brilliant, paranoid lunatic. You never disappoint.” She snapped the diary shut, tucking it back into her pocket, and gestured towards the Grand Shipyards’ chaotic silhouette against the bruised, oil-stained sky. “Come on, Bodasht. Time to consult the real blueprints, the ones not designed for an acid bath.” They navigated the labyrinthine alleys, the air thick with the acrid scent of ozone and burning coal, until they reached their foundry, a teetering stack of rusted sheet metal and salvaged timber nestled precariously between a clanking steam-driven crane and a gargantuan, dismembered clockwork kraken. Inside, the usual pandemonium reigned. Gears of every size littered the floor, half-finished contraptions sagged from overhead beams, and a perpetually humming arc-welder cast erratic shadows. Tzik-Tzik, Zibya’s six-legged brass iguana, was doing his part, skittering across a workbench, methodically nudging a pile of loose brass filings with his snout before slurping them down with a contented metallic *clink*. He paused, head cocked, as Zibya and Bodasht entered, then let out a low, pleased hiss, his segmented tail thumping against a stack of copper piping. “Good boy, Tzik-Tzik,” Zibya murmured, tossing him a handful of stray rivets. The iguana snapped them up with practiced ease, his brass scales glinting in the dim light. Bodasht, meanwhile, had already cleared a small space on a drafting table, carefully unrolling a parchment scroll that, unlike the acid-scorched bait, bore the intricate, delicate lines of a truly complex design. This was not merely for a swift Regatta vessel; this was something far grander. This was the nascent skeleton of a *flying* galleon. Zibya leaned over Bodasht’s shoulder, her brow furrowed in concentration. “So, the ‘Sky-Drifter’ engine,” she mused, tracing a finger along a series of pressure conduits. “Past-me designed this to use… anti-weight buoyancy?” Bodasht adjusted his spectacles, his expression as flat and unreadable as ever. “Precisely. The schematics indicate a unique application of a ‘Kinetic Repulsion Matrix,’ requiring a stable, high-density energy source to initiate and maintain lift. The diagram here, on page seven, details the primary power conduit, labeled ‘Levitation Pearl Linkage.’ Without that prize, this entire design is, mathematically speaking, theoretical at best. In practice, it’s a very expensive, very heavy, very grounded ship.” “That Pearl,” Zibya repeated, a slow, dawning comprehension spreading across her face. “The High Syndic’s prize possession. The one he keeps locked away in his gala vault, supposedly impenetrable.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “So, the Regatta is merely a distraction, then. A way to get us into the upper echelons, close enough to the pearl itself.” Before Bodasht could respond, a sudden, jarring *CRASH* echoed from the entrance. The flimsy main door, usually held shut by a single, overworked latch, splintered inward, ripped from its hinges. Three hulking figures, clad in the drab, functional uniforms of Lord Hadraba’s personal security detail, stomped into the room, their heavy boots clanking on the metal floor. They were wide, brutish men, all muscle and scowls. “Bodasht of House Ruvana!” the largest one, a man with a scarred jaw and a dented brass helmet, boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Lord Hadraba requires your… unique talents. You are to come with us. Immediately.” Bodasht looked up from the blueprints, his face devoid of emotion. “My current calculations indicate that my talents are presently occupied with the development of the Sky-Drifter engine. Furthermore, my contract with House Magan explicitly states my employment terms. Your presence here constitutes an unauthorized breach of private property and an attempted coercion of labor. This is inefficient.” The scarred thug snorted, unimpressed. “Lord Hadraba isn’t asking. He’s *telling*. You’ll be designing new propulsion systems for his fleet, effective immediately. And he’s less concerned with your ‘inefficiency’ and more with your… cooperation.” He gestured to his two companions, who began to fan out, clearly intending to physically escort Bodasht out. Zibya’s lips thinned. Her internal temperature gauge, normally a steady simmer, began to boil. Kidnapping Bodasht? *Her* Bodasht? The best friend who patiently explained why her exploding teacups were not, in fact, an optimal morning beverage delivery system? The friend who just helped publicly shred Yisharra’s reputation? This was an inconvenience of the highest order, and it warranted a proportionate, highly destructive response. She reached into the utility pouch strapped to her thigh, her fingers closing around the cool, smooth casing of a Mk-IV Stunner, a low-yield explosive designed more for disorientation than demolition. It was small, no bigger than her fist, but potent. She plucked a heavy wrench from the workbench, its steel glinting, and with a practiced flick of her wrist, secured the canister to its handle with a quick-release magnet clamp. “Lord Hadraba can wait,” Zibya stated, her voice dangerously calm. “Bodasht is busy. And you three are… interrupting.” The thugs paused, looking at her as if she were a minor gnat. “Stay out of this, girl. Your temper is well-known, but we’re not here for you.” “Oh, I know you’re not,” Zibya purred, raising the rigged wrench high. “You’re here for an unscheduled, highly explosive departure.” She lobbed the heavy tool with surprising force, aiming for the center of the trio. It spun end over end, the canister blinking a single, ominous red light. “Grenade!” one of the thugs yelled, his bravado instantly evaporating. They scrambled, tripping over their own feet in their haste to get away from the sputtering device. *KRA-BOOM!* A blinding white flash erupted, followed by a concussive shock that rattled the very foundations of the shed. A deafening *HISSSSSSS* filled the air as Tzik-Tzik, startled but unharmed, scampered under a stack of scrap metal. The thugs, momentarily disoriented and blinded, stumbled backward, howling in pain and confusion. They clawed at their eyes, their boots scrabbling on the floor as they blindly tried to find the door. One of them, in his panicked retreat, tripped hard over a discarded automaton arm, sending a shower of loose screws and what looked like a small, intricate cog lit with inner phosphor skittering across the floor. He didn’t stop, though, clambering over his dazed comrades and blindly stumbling out through the ruined doorway, their cries of indignation fading into the distance. “Well,” Zibya said, dusting off her hands, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. “That was efficient. And rather satisfying.” She looked at Bodasht, who was already back to studying the blueprints. “Did they damage anything important?” Bodasht meticulously scanned the workshop with his gaze. “A minor structural integrity compromise to the main door frame, easily rectified. However, one of the retreating individuals appears to have dislodged a component during their egress.” He pointed to a spot near where the thug had fallen. “A rather unique luminous cog, by the look of it.” Zibya squinted. Indeed, lying amidst the scattered debris was a small, ornate gear, pulsing with a faint, internal luminescence. Before either of them could investigate, Tzik-Tzik, ever the scavenger, darted out from his hiding spot. With a lightning-fast snap of his brass jaws, he swallowed the cog whole, letting out a satisfied *clunk* as it went down. He then resumed his previous activity, nudging a stray bolt with his nose. Zibya exchanged a look with Bodasht. “Well, that’s… gone now.” Bodasht nodded. “Indeed. Highly inefficient, given its potential purpose. Let us return to the Syndic's Pearl. The schematics indicate its housing requires a specific frequency modulation to disengage the vault’s locking mechanism. A single, critical error in this modulation will trigger a localized electromagnetic pulse, rendering the pearl inert.” As Bodasht continued to explain the intricacies of the High Syndic’s vault, Tzik-Tzik, perched on a stack of disused piston heads, let out a small, metallic burp. A tiny, phosphorescent shard of the recently consumed cog tumbled from his mouth, landing with a soft *tink* on the cold metal floor. Zibya and Bodasht paused, their attention drawn by the light. The shard pulsed erratically, and as they watched, a series of etched numbers on its side flickered to life: “00:03.”

Tick, Tick, Burp