“Open up! Tres-Vela Syndicate! Someone just blacked out three blocks! We want our blood-money for the grid, and we want it *now*!”
The roar vibrated through the iron floorboards. Ximara smoothed a nonexistent crease on her beaded cocktail dress, an intentional foil to the greasy machinery around her. “Oh dear,” she cooed, pitching her tone to crisp socialite helplessness. “Such rough manners. Ciprian, please stand back. These men lack decorum.”
Ciprian, still unsteady from the discharge, gripped the iron workbench for balance, a pale blue tint pulsing under his collar. “Ximara, be careful. These aren’t common thieves. The cartel collects flesh when debts run dry.”
Pintxo, sated on the raw radiance, wrapped around Ximara’s ankle, its glass scales catching the dim bulb. Its triangular snout pointed toward the door with an oily hiss.
“Nonsense. Every hound has its price.” Ximara walked to the bay door, deliberately calm. “A brief negotiation will suffice.” She threw back the iron latch, easing the door open just wide enough to present an image of bored pedigree against soot.
Three hulking figures stood outside, their faces obscured by the shadows of their reinforced helmets. The one in the center, a brute with a scarred neck visible above his plated collar, held a shock-baton that crackled faintly. “Well, well, what have we here? A little society swan playing in the gutters?” His voice was a rasp, thick with menace.
“Oh, you’ve caught me!” Ximara pouted, batting her eyelashes. “I’m afraid my aether-carriage had a *terrible* sputter, and then the lights just… popped! So dramatic! I’m Ximara Del-Coron, of the Del-Coron Theaters, you know. I’m quite sure my family can compensate you for the inconvenience, whatever it is.” She produced a slim card case, extracting a solid sliver of frosted crystal. “Perhaps you could simply present this to my majordomo?”
“Del-Coron, eh?” The heavy snorted, peering past her silk shoulder to the brass panel where Ciprian leaned. He squinted. “Carriages don't pull enough wattage to snuff a substation. That’s a bootleg tap, and it killed three substations. You’re running contraband hardware.”
Before Ximara could reply, the thug caught the flare beneath Ciprian’s ribs. A greedy grin split his lip. “And an unregistered living reactor. Syndicate code is explicit: bootleg wattage belongs to the boss. Strip him down.”
He shoved past her, baton spitting sparks. His two heavies followed, iron-toed boots stomping the floor. Ximara’s smirk vanished into razor lines. “Pintxo, feed!”
The mongoose sprang from her ankle in an arc of diamond facets. Its jaws unhinged, spewing a concentrated jet of white photic slag straight into the intruder’s visor. The beam burned with dense heat, pitting the glass. The man shrieked, staggering backward as scorched fumes billowed from his collar.
The remaining pair froze, thrown by the sudden violence. “Ciprian!” Ximara barked. “Clear the room!”
Ciprian forced his palms outward with a choked breath. Violet luminescence tore through his shirt, spidering outward in jagged lines. The projection didn’t blur; it knit together into razor-edged hard-light phantoms. A coiled serpent formed first, its jaws dripping sharp sparks, followed by two segmented crawlers that snapped forward.
The constructs snapped their jaws in unison, flickering with unstable amperage. The scorched thug collided with his men as the viper surged forward. The multi-legged crawlers darted across the floor, their needle legs gouging incandescent furrows into the pavement.
“What brand of hex—” The thug dropped his baton. He and his crew turned and bolted through the threshold, colliding against the doorframe before sprinting down the cobblestones, the illusory horrors snapping at their heels.
Ximara pulled the bay door half-shut, a dry smirk surfacing. “Adequate,” she said. “Though unsubtle for a bench test.”
Before Ciprian could answer, a low turbine hum drifted from the curb, drowning out the running men. A lacquered black town-car settled on its cushions outside, lilac illumination washing across the damp pavement. A gull-wing door rose, framing Vittra Del-Coron draped in midnight velvet.
“Ximara!” Vittra called, syrup coating her mockery. “Still playing mechanic in the slums? There was a rather crude circuit flare. Did your borrowed kettle explode?” She stepped down, but her smirk froze as her eyes caught the dying tail of the light serpent dissolving against the curb.
Vittra halted, her painted expression tightening. Her pupils shrank as the last motes burned away into the dark. “What was that projection?” she demanded, her delivery turning thin.
Ximara tilted her chin, assuming an airy laugh. “A toy projector, cousin. You know how these mechanics amuse themselves to deter vandals. Ciprian is attempting an illuminated billboard for avenue kiosks. Purely decorative. It obviously misfired. Blew out the circuit breakers on a mock snake, didn’t we, scholar?” She gave Ciprian a meaningful glance, though he remained silent.
Vittra’s stare lingered on the scorched stone outside, her brow knitting. “An advertisement?” she countered, skeptical. “That had hard physical mass. Far beyond his failed university papers.” She cast a contemptuous sneer at Ciprian, then smoothed her expression. “No matter. I came on family business.”
She drew an embossed envelope dusted in crushed diamond flakes from her purse. “Our gala invitation. Navarro and I are hosting the premiere tier at the Grand Republic Spire. Eight days hence. Do try to appear presentable, Ximara. You could use an education in high society.” She shoved the card against Ximara’s ribs with deliberate force.
“Charming,” Ximara said, pocketing the card without a glance. “Give Navarro my best. I’m certain your tastes are keeping him thoroughly occupied.”
Vittra’s jaw tightened, color creeping along her throat. “He is devoted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I manage real production schedules, unlike vagrants playing with scrap.” With a sweep of her hem, she reentered the vehicle, and its repulsors carried it smoothly away.
Ximara watched the tail lamps round the brick warehouse before dropping the pleasant veneer entirely. She turned inside. Beneath Ciprian's thin tunic, the node was fracturing; fine lines like shattered safety glass cut across the center of his chest, venting sharp blue heat.
“Ciprian?” she asked, a rare hint of concern in her voice. “Your core… it’s worse.”
He slumped against the frame, knuckles white over his ribs. “The discharge… it relieved the build-up briefly, but unshielded projection fractured the containment rings. The decay rate doubled. I need a Lumen-Coil—an pre-war intake manifold meant for high-density cores. Without it, another test will combust my ribcage. And the sole specimen in the capital is mounted as a centerpiece.” He raised his head, fever-bright and hollow. “At Vittra’s gala.”