The merchant’s grin stretched, a glint of gold flashing in his teeth. “A demonstration, you say? Excellent. I appreciate a cautious buyer.” He gestured to a worn, oil-stained mat. “Step right up, veteran. Show us how that Thrium-Core joint articulates.”
Bahram didn't hesitate. His gaze was fixed on the ignition coil, a polished silver cylinder glowing faintly in the stall's dim light. He reached down with his remaining hand, a practiced movement, and unlatched the heavy clasps securing the prosthetic to his thigh. The metallic whirring intensified, then ceased as the leg detached with a pneumatic sigh. Bahram balanced precariously on his one biological leg and the stump of the other, a tremor running through his frame. His face remained impassive, though a cord strained along his neck.
“Satisfied?” Zarrin’s voice was a low growl, her fists tightening at her sides. The dealer snatched the leg, weighing it in his hands as if it were a bag of coin. He ignored her, his eyes scanning the intricate wiring and reinforced durasteel of the limb. “Prime condition,” he hummed, a greedy note in his voice. “A shame to see it go to waste on a cripple, but a good investment for me.” He tossed the ignition coil to Zarrin. It was heavier than it looked, humming with latent energy. Zarrin caught it with one hand, her fingers closing around its cool surface.
“Now get out,” the merchant barked, already turning to secure his new prize. “And don’t try to limp your way back here for a refund.”
Bahram swayed, losing his balance, and Zarrin instinctively stepped forward, catching his arm. He was surprisingly light, or perhaps she was just stronger than she gave herself credit for. The scent of stale oil and dried sweat clung to him. He looked at her, his eyes unreadable.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. “I’m not carrying you all the way back just for your pity party.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, wife,” Bahram replied, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. “Just trying to determine if you’re a better pack mule than Jiveh.”
Jiveh, who had been sniffing a pile of discarded generator parts, let out a low, offended whine. Zarrin gritted her teeth. “Fine. But you owe me. Big time.”
She hooked his good arm over her shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath his worn jacket. Bahram hopped once, twice, before she took the bulk of his weight, effectively half-carrying, half-dragging him out of the stall. The Grand Bazaar, usually a cacophony of shouts and haggling, seemed to part for them. Merchants stared, their eyes lingering on Bahram’s missing limb and Zarrin’s strained efforts. The humiliation burned, but she pushed it down, focusing on the rhythmic thump of Bahram’s foot and the metallic scrape of his prosthetic stump against the gritty ground.
The walk back to Sector Four was a brutal trek under the twin suns. Her neck muscles burned, sand bit into her lungs, and her temper frayed with every staggered step. Bahram, despite his predicament, offered no complaints, only terse directions and an occasional, dry comment that grated on her nerves. When they finally reached the Grease-Pit workshop, the sun dipping below the horizon in a blaze of orange and purple, Zarrin practically collapsed, letting Bahram slide down the reinforced doorframe.
“Don’t you dare try to offer me a back rub,” she panted, wiping sweat from her brow. “I’ll break your other arm.”
Bahram merely grunted, already eyeing the coil in her hand. “Set it on the bench. We need to integrate the housing before the core degrades.”
Zarrin glowered but obeyed, placing the precious component carefully. She watched as he struggled to pull himself up onto his workbench, using the hanging chains and supports she’d assumed were merely for lifting heavy engines. He used his one hand to secure a complex harness of leather straps and scavenged cables around his torso, hooking it to a series of pulleys that lifted him just above the bench. He hovered there, his legs dangling uselessly, his eyes already fixed on the coil, a different kind of fire in their depths.
“You built this… contraption?” she asked, marveling at the ingenuity. It looked like something out of a deranged spider’s web, yet it held him steady.
“Necessity is the mother of all scrap-heap inventions,” he muttered, reaching for a set of precision tools. “Now, hand me the micro-flux welder. The one with the green handle.”
For the next several hours, Zarrin became his hands. He dictated, his voice a low rumble, and she fetched, adjusted, and held. Her initial irritation slowly gave way to a grudging admiration. He didn’t just know how to fix things; he understood them, could see the invisible flow of energy, the minute stresses in the metal. He guided her with a patience she hadn't known he possessed, turning her clumsy movements into precise actions. The coil, once just a component, began to transform under his direction, humming with controlled power.
“The sub-harmonic frequency needs to be tuned within a 0.003-kiloHertz margin,” Bahram instructed, his voice taut. “Careful with that adjustment screw.”
Zarrin, her fingers stained with grease and her mind racing to keep up, made the delicate turn. The coil’s hum deepened, a satisfying, resonant thrum. “Done.”
Bahram leaned back in his harness, a rare sigh escaping him. “Good. That’s the most sensitive part. Now, fetch the solvent and a rag. I need to clean this grease before it corrodes my remaining epidermis.”
Zarrin eyed the thick grime coating his back, a mix of oil, dust, and dried sweat. “You want me to… scrub you?”
“Unless you’d prefer Jiveh’s tongue,” he replied dryly, gesturing to the hound, who wagged its tail hopefully. “Consider it part of your spousal duties.”
Gritting her teeth, Zarrin found a bucket of solvent and a coarse rag. She dipped the cloth, the pungent fumes stinging her nose, and approached him. He was still suspended in the harness, his back to her. She scrubbed, initially with a brusque efficiency, but as the grime lifted, the landscape of his back was revealed. Scars, thick and ropy, crisscrossed his skin, some fresh, others faded. One particularly brutal network of keloids marred his left shoulder blade, radiating outwards like a starburst.
Her movements softened. “What happened here?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly quiet.
Bahram tensed, the sinew knotting under her touch. “Remnants of the Last Skirmish at the Crimson Pass. A few years back.” He paused, then his voice dropped, a raw edge to it she hadn't heard before. “Kaveh was pinned under a collapsed transport. His squad ran. He was screaming, begging.”
Zarrin froze, the rag still on his back. “Kaveh?”
“He was always good at screaming,” Bahram said, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I went in. Pulled him out. That was the price.” He gestured vaguely to where his limbs had been. “He got a medal. I got a discharge and a half-life.”
Fury, cold and sharp, lanced through Zarrin. Kaveh, the sanctimonious coward, had let this man sacrifice everything for him, then paraded around as a hero. And Parisa had stolen *that* man from her? The irony was so bitter it almost made her choke. She continued to clean, her touch now gentle, almost reverent, tracing the contours of his ruined body. She had always prided herself on being self-sufficient, on needing no one. Yet, here she was, her hands on this broken, brilliant man, feeling a pull she couldn’t name.
Over the next few days, their routine solidified. Zarrin became his shadow, his assistant, his reluctant confidante. She watched him work, saw the sparks fly as he meticulously reshaped metal, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the quiet triumph in his eyes when a complex circuit finally hummed to life. His sarcastic quips were still there, but now they felt less like barbs and more like a shared language. She found herself laughing, genuinely, at his dry wit, and she sometimes caught him watching her, a flicker of something in his gaze that mirrored the unfamiliar warmth blossoming in her own chest. He was building their escape, but he was also, piece by painstaking piece, building something in her.
Bahram, meanwhile, was not idle. While working on the aero-skiff’s primary engine systems with Zarrin, he secretly began to forge. Deep within the workshop’s hidden crucible, where the heat was most intense, he fed chunks of raw aether-steel, salvaged from a fallen sky-leviathan, into the glowing furnace. He shaped it with a mechanical hammer, each precise blow ringing through the metal, folding and refining it. He had a new arm in mind. One that wouldn’t be taken, one that would be more than just a replacement. It would be a weapon, forged for her, proof of a hard resolve to show he was worth more than a cripple’s pity.
Zarrin, her hands calloused but nimble, passed Bahram a precision laser cutter. He took it, his one hand steady, and adjusted the beam to a hair's breadth. The skiff was taking shape, a skeletal frame of reinforced alloys, already hinting at the sleek, hard-won freedom it promised. She looked at Bahram, his profile illuminated by the blue-white glow of the cutter, and a sudden, undeniable surge of attraction hit her. It wasn’t a gentle warmth; it hit hot and potent. This broken, brilliant, infuriating man was something else entirely. She wanted to lean in, to feel the heat radiating from him, to taste the oil and grit on his skin. The thought was so unexpected, so powerful, it stole her breath.
A frantic pounding echoed on the workshop door, jarring them both from their focus. *Bang! Bang! Bang!* The sound was wild, like a trapped predator clawing at iron bars. Zarrin exchanged a glance with Bahram, who had already reached for a heavy wrench. She moved to the door, her hand hovering over the locking mechanism. “Who is it?” she called out, her voice tight.
“Zarrin! Please, Zarrin, open up!” The voice was hoarse, choked with desperation, and horribly familiar. “It’s Kaveh! Parisa… she spent everything. The dreadnought tickets were fake.”