The sound of boots striking against the irregular stones echoed with contained fury through the alleys of the Lower City. Each of Tom's steps was a small explosion of frustration, a silent declaration of war against the lazy figure who had sent her into the heart of Chisanatora's rot.
"That… That lazy oaf!" she grumbled to herself, her voice a low, irritated hiss. "How dare he?! Sending me to these filthy ducts while that bastard goes for a stroll in the City Top?! Traitor!"
The people around, accustomed to misery and danger, recoiled instinctively from the little tempest of scarlet hair that passed by. Their gazes, normally vacant or wary, filled with a cautious fear as they saw the scowl on the girl's face.
She didn't look like a target, but rather a problem waiting to happen. They sidestepped, glanced away, and kept their distance, preferring the company of the drunks passed out on benches and the beggars huddled in corners. In the background, the sound of a horribly out-of-tune song and coarse laughter spilled from the ever-ajar door of the tavern, a constant soundtrack to the place's decay.
Tom entered a particularly damp alley, a narrow cut between buildings of black metal whose surfaces wept rust. Exposed pipes overhead dripped an oily and dubiously colored liquid, forming iridescent puddles on the dirty stone floor. Every attempt to approach someone for information was met with the same result. Her clothes, though simple, were clean and well-cut, denouncing her as an outsider. This, combined with her stern expression, was enough for the naturally suspicious inhabitants to avoid her like the plague.
Frustrated and hopeless, she leaned against the cold iron railing of a wider passage that opened over the colossal fissure that split the city. At her feet, the Lower City stretched down into the abyss, a chaotic web of metal and wood still touched by the weak rays of the morning sun.
But her gaze was pulled downward, into the depths where the light could not reach. There, a sickly, greenish glow pulsed, outlining the silhouettes of even older structures. The city continued, layer upon layer of forgottenness, until everything became absolute blackness. At the bottom of that pit of darkness, only a few minuscule lights dared to shine, like lost stars in a subterranean sky. Chisanatora wasn't just built on a desert; it was balanced over an abyss that would swallow the world if given the chance.
That's when she saw them. The ducts. Gigantic arteries of corroded metal ran along the wall of the fissure, vomiting cascades of a colorful, polluted liquid into the void. The foul stream fell, disappearing into the darkness. Where does it all go? she wondered. Does the floor of the abyss just absorb it? I don't remember seeing any runoff outside the mountains surrounding the city…
The frustration returned with full force. She could see her objective but had no idea how to reach it. Worse, in their haste and the tension at the headquarters, they had forgotten to ask Captain Briggs what the purpose of these ducts even was.
She pushed herself away from the railing, diving back into the narrow streets. The realization finally hit her: maybe her scowling face was the problem. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself.
"Alright… A smile on my face… Remember your etiquette lessons…" she murmured, her voice soft.
Assuming an elegant posture, she slowly raised her right hand, the gesture light and smooth, palm facing down. She curved her body slightly forward, "placing" her hand upon an invisible one, as if accepting an invitation to a waltz in an opulent ballroom.
Her eyes blinked in confusion. Wait… that's not right… This is for… She brought a hand to her chin, an expression of forced concentration on her face, like a chess master calculating their next move.
"How did the boys do it again…?" she whispered. "Ah! Right!"
Her body bowed forward again, but this time the gesture was different. The left arm behind her back, the right crossing her chest diagonally in a formal, polished bow. A practiced and courteous smile appeared on her lips. "I believe this is more appropriate…"
She straightened up, looking at the palm of her own hand, memorizing the expression, the mannerisms. "Right!" she proclaimed with newfound confidence, ready to try again.
The moment she turned, however, her eyes widened. The air caught in her throat, escaping in small whimpers of pure mortification. Her face burned, painting itself a red more intense than her hair.
Standing there, just a few feet away, was a tall man with long, black hair tied in a messy bun. His red eyes were as wide as hers, his jaw practically on the floor, his expression frozen in a mixture of absolute shock and disbelief.
It was Vernh. The drunk from the tavern.
"T-t-t-t-this isn't what it looks like!" Tom stammered, her voice squeaking.
"That's…" Vernh began, but the words died. The memory of the previous night struck him like a bolt of lightning: the girl falling to her knees, the desperate crying, the bizarre transformation as her hair grew and her silhouette gained feminine curves.
Rationality, or what was left of it, screamed in his mind. That strange man. This girl disguised as a boy… This is exactly the kind of trouble you run from.
Without another word, Vernh turned on his heel and started to walk away, each step an attempt to erase the scene from his memory.
"Hey! Wait!" Tom shouted, running to clear up the misunderstanding.
"I saw nothing. I don't know you. Goodbye," he replied over his shoulder, quickening his pace.
In a blur of motion, she appeared in front of him, blocking his path with her arms outstretched. Vernh shot her a look of pure annoyance. What a persistent brat!
"I'm telling the truth! Don't get the wrong idea!" she insisted.
"I already said I didn't see anything…" he muttered, looking away. But in a slip, his eyes fell upon her face, and something made him pause. He truly looked at her for a moment.
"You… look different…" he said, his voice surprisingly serious. What he saw was, in fact, a slender boy. Despite the delicate face, the posture, the determination in her eyes… the farce was more solid. "If I didn't know the truth, I'd actually believe you were a guy."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Tom retorted with disdain.
Vernh sidestepped her, finally getting past. "Take it however you want. I'm not the one who has to disguise myself as the opposite sex."
"Wait!" her voice stopped him again.
Vernh clenched his teeth, his face a mask of silent prayer to the heavens. "What do you want?"
"I need to know how to get to the ducts," she said, the seriousness in her voice replacing the shame. The mission was more important.
"Depends. There are several."
"The ones that were attacked."
Her gaze locked with his. Vernh's red eyes narrowed, the disdain returning. "I already told you, I don't get involved with the Sentinels. See ya."
"I just need the information! You don't have to get involved with anything!"
Vernh sighed, a long, tired sound from someone who had lost a battle against the inevitable. He turned to the side and held out his open hand to her. Tom blinked, confused.
"Information has a price, brat."
"Oh…" With a sigh of defeat, Tom stuck a hand in her pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. With an almost painful delicacy, she undid the knot in the drawstring. Holding the pouch with her left hand, she used her right thumb and index finger to pinch a single bronze coin, placing it in Vernh's grimy palm as if it were a rare jewel.
"Hmph. Hmmph," he mumbled, bobbing his hand up and down to indicate it wasn't enough.
Tom shot him a sullen glare. With the same torturous delicacy, she added a second coin. "Hrmmmph…"
With tears of frustration welling up in the corners of her eyes, she added a third.
"Alright." Vernh closed his hand, looking a bit more cheerful. Cheap beer was now guaranteed. While Tom put away the now-lighter pouch, her face a portrait of defeat, the drunk brought the coins to his mouth, biting each one.
"Why would they be fake?!" she protested.
"You never know. Can't trust anyone these days… Right, see ya." The man turned his back and, with a satisfied grin, started to walk away.
But he didn't get far.
A violent impact struck him in the back, driving the air from his lungs. The two-legged flying kick sent him sprawling forward.
"WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING, YOU OLD DRUNKARD!?"
Mid-fall, Vernh's cry of panic echoed through the alley: "WAIT, I WAS JOKING!"