The Reluctant Artificer

Chapter 3: Unwanted Attention

The rain in Sector 4 had transitioned from a downpour to a miserable, suffocating mist that clung to everything like a wet shroud. Dimas stood at his workshop door, fumbling with a recalcitrant lock that had jammed for the third time that week. His hands were still trembling, not from the cold, but from the phantom ache that pulsed in his veins every time he caught sight of the lead-lined box tucked beneath his workbench.

"Stupid, rusted piece of trash," he muttered, kicking the doorframe. "Just turn, would you?"

"You know, you’re never going to get that mechanism to align if you keep forcing the tumbler with a flat-head."

The voice was cool, precise, and entirely out of place in the derelict alleyway. Dimas spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. Standing a few paces away was a woman draped in a high-collared, charcoal-grey trench coat. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, sleek bun, and her silver-grey eyes didn't just look at him—they dissected him.

Dimas wiped his greasy hands on his trousers, stepping instinctively between the woman and the shop interior. "Who are you? We’re closed. And I don’t take commissions from people who don’t look like they’ve ever stepped foot in the mud."

The woman took a step forward. She didn't flinch at the grime or the stench of ozone. "Irina. And I don't care much for the mud, Dimas. I care about results."

Dimas felt his throat go dry. "How do you know my name?"

"You have a sign over the door," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the rusted scrap of metal hanging by a single chain. Her gaze flicked to his hands. "You’re leaking hydraulic fluid from your sleeve. Either you’ve been doing some heavy lifting, or you’re working on something that isn't supposed to be running."

Dimas forced a short, jagged laugh, leaning his shoulder against the door. "I’m a scavenger, lady. I work on everything. If it breaks, I fix it. If it’s trash, I haul it. Now, if you aren't here to buy scrap, you’re wasting my time."

Irina didn't move. She stepped closer, her heels clicking rhythmically on the slick metal floor of the alley. "I saw a carriage leave here ten minutes ago. A heap of junk, judging by the chassis. Yet, it left with the hum of a prototype turbine. That, I found… fascinating."

Dimas felt a cold spike of dread in his stomach. He shook his head, keeping his face blank. "That old thing? Kaelen’s been messing with the intake for weeks. Maybe he finally stopped being an idiot and tightened a belt. Why do you care about a delivery carriage?"

"I care about efficiency," Irina replied, her eyes narrowing. "That carriage didn't sound like a 'tightened belt.' It sounded like a breakthrough. I’ve been tracking energy signatures in this sector for days, looking for someone with the aptitude to… let’s say, 'overclock' ancient hardware."

"You’re talking nonsense," Dimas said, his voice rising a fraction too high. "It was a fluke. A lucky strike. You want me to fix something? Bring me a broken toaster. Otherwise, keep walking."

Irina let out a soft, shark-like smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You’re very defensive, Dimas. Is there something in that workshop you’re afraid I’ll see?"

"I’m protective of my privacy," he shot back, his jaw tightening. "This is a slum, not an office. People walk into my shop, they get robbed or worse. I’m just being careful."

"I’m not looking to rob you," she said, her tone smooth, almost hypnotic. "I’m looking to recruit. There are forces in this city that would pay a premium to understand how a boy in Sector 4 manages to pull impossible power out of rusted scrap."

"I’m not a boy, and I’m not interested in your recruiters," Dimas snapped, his hands curling into fists. "I don't know what you think you saw, but you’re hallucinating. Go bother the syndicate boys if you want trouble."

"The syndicate boys are blunt instruments," Irina murmured, taking another step into his personal space. She smelled of something sterile, like laboratory-grade ethanol. "They don't understand the nuance of the craft. But you? You have a gift. You touched something, didn't you? Something that made the world tilt."

Dimas felt his heart stop. A sudden, sharp vibration burned against his hip—the core, tucked away in the shadows of his workshop, was reacting to her presence. The air between them grew heavy, charged with that same violet static he’d felt earlier.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dimas whispered, though his eyes betrayed him. His nervous twitch, a small, rhythmic tapping of his index finger against his thigh, flickered erratically.

Irina watched the movement with clinical satisfaction. "Your hands are shaking, Dimas. That’s not just caffeine or stress. That’s resonance. You’re holding onto something that isn't yours."

"I told you to get lost," Dimas said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble. He didn't know where the confidence came from, but he stood his ground. "I don't have anything. If you don't leave, I’m calling the Wardens."

Irina let out a short, hollow laugh. "The Wardens? They work for the same people I represent. You have no one to call."

She reached into her coat pocket, her movements fluid and slow. Dimas tensed, ready to bolt or fight, but she merely pulled out a sleek, obsidian-black business card. She held it out between two gloved fingers.

"Keep it," she said, her gaze lingering on his face. "When you realize you’re in over your head—and you will, very soon—you’ll want to reach out. Don't wait until the Enforcers find you. They aren't as polite as I am."

"I’m not taking your card," Dimas said, backing away toward his door.

"It’s not a request, Dimas."

She reached out and pressed the card into his palm. Her skin felt unnaturally cold, like dead ice. Dimas recoiled, his hand stinging as if he’d touched a live wire. He tried to drop the card, but it stuck to his skin for a heartbeat before falling to the wet, muddy ground of the alley.

"I don't need your help," he hissed, glaring at her.

Irina turned to leave, her coat swishing behind her in the heavy mist. "We’ll see. The light you found doesn't just sit still, little spark. It consumes whatever it touches."

Dimas didn't answer. He watched her disappear into the swirling grey fog, his breath hitching in his chest. As soon as she was out of sight, he looked down at the business card lying in the muck.

It wasn't paper. It was made of some shifting, iridescent material that caught the dim light of the overhead neon signs. As he watched, the surface of the card began to ripple. The edges elongated, curving into a serpentine shape.

"What the..."

Before he could pull his hand back, the object hissed. With a motion too fast for the human eye to track, the card transformed into a dark, metallic snake, its eyes glowing with a faint, violet hue. It lunged, its fangs sinking into the wooden frame of his workbench just inches from his hand.

Dimas scrambled back, tripping over his own boots and falling hard into the slush. The snake coiled itself around the wood, its body vibrating with the same low-frequency hum as the core. The wood of his workbench began to smoke, the grain turning pitch black where the creature touched it.

"Not again," he gasped, scrambling to his feet and slamming his shop door shut. He threw the heavy iron bolt home and backed away, his chest heaving.

The room was dark, save for the pulsating violet light emanating from the lead-lined box in the corner, which now seemed to be in perfect harmony with the snake-thing biting his desk.

"You're not choosing me," Dimas whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at the shadows, feeling as if the entire city of Sector 4 was closing in on him. "I'm going to get rid of all of you."

But as he stared at the writhing, glowing mess in his shop, he knew the truth. He wasn't the master of these things. He was merely the conduit. And the work, as the voice had warned, had only just begun.