The antique watch, heavy and cool on Banyu’s wrist, glinted under the single, low-watt bulb of his new apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was dry. No more the metallic tang of standing water, no more the omnipresent hum of decaying infrastructure, no more the mildewed air that had choked his every breath in the Sub-Floods. The walls were scarred, the single window opaque with grime, but it was dry. Proof of the Engine's staggering scope, carving a route toward an impossible goal. He ran a hand over the polished metal of the watch, the intricate gears hidden beneath its crystal face. It wasn’t just a timepiece; it was a fragment of a better past, now undeniably his present. The thought of his sister, Anya, flickered in his mind, a sharp, bitter pain that drove him forward. To reach the archives holding the truth of the District 7 catastrophe, to locate the exact anchor that could save her, he needed more than a dry room and an antique watch. He needed clearance. Tower entry. His optic interface flickered, green telemetry cutting across the dark room. [Primary Objective: Acquire high-level archival access codes regarding Sector 7 collapse. Prerequisite: Temporal authority insufficient. Upgrade required.] [Secondary Directive Available: Divert primary thermal exhaust, Sector 4 Neon Bazaar. Estimated difficulty: Moderate. Reward: Revision—Your Level 3 Urban Planning credentials were never revoked. Immediate Effect: Clearance to Spire mid-levels secured.] Sector 4. The Neon Bazaar. Hendra Pakpahan’s turf. Calculations piled in Banyu's head, risk variables compounding until his fingers locked against his thighs. But the outcome—reinstated credentials. Anya's name cut through the hesitation. “Accept,” Banyu whispered. [Directive Logged. Temporal Friction at 1.8%. Proceed with caution.] He shed the clean clothes and stepped into his patched neoprene rig, the seams reinforced from the prior revision. The chill of the Sub-Floods still seeped into the city's lower levels, even if his immediate surroundings were now dry. The descent to the Bazaar cut through flooded conduit tunnels and rusted catwalks, brine mixing with rancid palm oil. The Bazaar rattled with sub-woofer hum and pressurized steam. Garish, flickering signs cast kaleidoscopic reflections across the perpetually wet, slick ground. Butcher stalls, overflowing with exotic, unidentifiable meats, lined the main thoroughfares. Vendors hawked everything from bio-engineered spices to illicit data-chips. The air thrummed with the cacophony of a hundred conversations, the sizzle of fryers, and the rhythmic thud of cleavers. Hendra’s guards, marked by crimson armbands and heavy-bore stun carbines, paced the catwalks, searching for pickpockets and tax-dodgers. Banyu slipped through the throng, his movements fluid and practiced. His objective was a maintenance shaft beneath a particularly raucous gambling den, rumored to be one of Hendra’s illicit money laundering fronts. The exhaust flues for the zone, a grid of cast-iron ducts, met beneath the foundation. He navigated a labyrinth of submerged data-cables and rusting pipes, the water waist-deep in places, the glow of his headlamp cutting through the murk. The scent of ozone and something akin to burnt plastic filled his nostrils – the market’s archaic power grid straining under the load. He knew these grids. His draft training took over, tracing hydrostatic pressures and load limits across the rusted junction. He reached the primary junction valve, its panel sealed behind an aftermarket thumb-scanner. Hendra’s sentries kept their turf bolted tight. Banyu booted his wrist splice. The salvaged logic probe tapped the terminal bus, forcing a handshake. Just as a progress bar crept across his screen, a shadow fell over him. A patrolman in a crimson armband stepped into the shaft, thumbing the toggle on his shock rifle. “Step back from that terminal,” the guard said, lifting the barrel. Banyu didn’t hesitate. He slammed his elbow into a loose conduit, sending a shower of sparks and a sharp electrical crackle through the tunnel. The enforcer flinched, momentarily blinded. Banyu used the distraction, his fingers flying across the console, overriding the biometric lock, his planner instincts kicking in with an almost forgotten speed. He bypassed the flow cycles, triggering an emergency valve purge and betting the Engine would reconcile the surge. [Exhaust Divert Initiated. Grid Overload Detected. Rerouting Historical Fluxes.] [Temporal Anomaly detected. Significant localized causality shift. Adjusting for optimal stabilization.] [Analysis: Reroute of Vent Network 4-Alpha has indirectly prevented the 'Rivet Gang War' of 2382. This conflict was instrumental in Hendra Pakpahan acquiring the 'Blackwater Channel' smuggling route. Corrective action: Hendra Pakpahan's primary smuggling route through Blackwater Channel is retroactively dissolved.] A pulse of vertigo hit him behind the eyes. It was less violent than before, more like a gentle adjustment, a ripple through the fabric of reality. He braced himself, expecting the usual disorientation. When it passed, the air in the tunnel felt… cleaner. The acrid tang of burnt plastic was gone, replaced by the faint, coppery scent of the Sub-Floods. [Directive Complete. Reward: Revision—Your Level 3 Urban Planning credentials were never revoked.] The frayed neoprene hardened and smoothed, reshaped into basalt-gray twill. A stylus and slate rested in his grip, bearing the seal of the Municipal Works Bureau. At his lapel, an acrylic badge reflected the dim yellow lamp: *Banyu Darma. Bureau Staff. Grade 3. Clearance: MID-TIER.* The verification diode blinked emerald. The guard lowered his weapon, squinting through the residual smoke. “Didn't hear the inspection buzzer, Inspector,” the man muttered, stepping back. “Thought someone had breached the waterline.” He gave a clumsy nod and retreated down the catwalk. Banyu tracked the guard's silhouette, then inspected the crisp cuffs at his wrists. A sliver of his stolen career, returned whole. Miles above, inside an Aerospire penthouse, Hendra Pakpahan paced his vaulted munitions bay. It was a vast chamber, lined with racks of plasma-rifles, cases of high-explosive charges, and illicit neuro-toxin canisters. This was his true strength, his leverage against the corporate overlords and rival gangs alike. He ran a gloved hand over the cool metal of a newly acquired railgun, a predatory smile on his lips. He was about to close a deal for a new shipment of 'Spectre' stealth drones, solidifying his control over the Blackwater Channel. His comm-link buzzed. “Boss! We got a problem!” a panicked voice crackled through. “The shipment from the Rivet Gang—it’s gone! The whole cargo, vanished! And the Blackwater Channel access codes… they’re just gone from the network! It’s like they were never there!” Hendra stopped cold. He spun toward the weapon berths lining the north bulkhead. Across the reinforced steel racks, six custom combat rigs wavered like oil on glass, then vanished without a sound, leaving empty mounting brackets. Ozone prickled his skin. Hendra slammed his fist into the console, cracking the glass. “Who pulled the plug on the channel? Trace the network hub! Every diver, every pipe rat in Sector 4—find whoever touched my lines and bring me their hands!”

The Neon Wet Market