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Forty-eight incredible hours since I stumbled upon a goldmine while looking like a beggar in silence. I leaned back in my worn-out workshop chair, pretending to adjust the frequency on a scavenged long-range communication device, but in reality, I was focused on him. The ghost kid. My little lottery win.
He was perfectly still on a crate in the corner, just as I instructed him.
"Rule one: Stay still unless the ceiling collapses. Rule two: If the ceiling collapses, try not to land on anything valuable. Got it? Good."
He wasn't fidgeting or whining, just observing me with those unsettling black eyes. Like a security camera.
I still couldn't wrap my head around my luck! Forget about the Series 7 capacitor that I risked everything for (though I did manage to grab it during the... chaos).
That thing might bring in a few hundred credits but this kid... he's the real deal! Immune to Grade-3 neurotoxin fumes? Check. Strong enough to smash through flesh and bone like a tofu. Check. Moves like a goddamn ninja and apparently doesn't need to speak? Triple check!
(Drevin grins to himself, practically rubbing his hands together.)
Oh, boyy! Imagine all those profits! Just think about it, Hales! No longer scraping by on small salvage jobs or dodgy repairs for Ungrateful dogs down in Sector Gamma.
This kid is a key! A master key for my treasure! Infiltrations into toxic spill zones that would dissolve anyone else, and retrievals from old chemical labs with automated poison gas defenses. Maybe even high-risk courier jobs once he learns the routes. The fees alone... Cha-ching!
"Alright, ghost kid," I said, making sure my tone was upbeat and welcoming. Can't let the asset feel unappreciated, right? Gotta establish that... uh... 'working relationship'.
"Lesson one in your thrilling new career under the esteemed Drevin Hales Salvage and Profits - pay attention."
I held up the comm unit I was tinkering with.
"See this? Pre-Collapse tech self-repairing nano-circuitry... beautiful stuff. Worth about a thousand credits if I can get it running properly."
I pointed to a specific component.
"That's the primary signal amplifier a delicate work. One wrong move with the sonic welder, and poof," I made a small explosive gesture with my free hand, "just another scrap metal worth less than your rags."
He just blinked. Didn't even tilt his head this time.
"Fascinating" I thought sarcastically, but the excitement rising in my chest quickly drowned out my frustration.
"Who needs conversation, less backtalk this way. Probably cheaper on rations too; this kid doesn't seem like he complains about the taste of nutrient paste that are damn awful. See? Already profitable!"
"The point is," I continued, speaking more to myself and my future profit than to him, "Technology is a goddamn treasure trove, we fix and sell it, and kinda tweak something here and there for much more horsey power! That's where the real worth is. And you, my little silent partner, you've got potential and talent all over you I will teach you this hot stuff. ."
I grinned, already mentally going through my list of contacts. Sparksy owed me a favor; maybe he still had those black-market combat training simulations.
Grime-Finger down in the lower market knew everyone – he could find tutors for stealth, maybe even someone who understood old-world lock systems.
It won't be easy for sure. Training, feeding, equipping this kid wouldn't be cheap I know. But it's an investment. You've got to spend credits to make credits! And return the investment! Oh boy, it's going to be massive!
"Yeah," I murmured, setting the comm unit aside and picking up a complex-looking datapad interface I needed to crack. "This is going to work. You and me, kid. We're going places. Mostly dangerous, probably lethal places, but hey, they pay well!"
I glanced at him again. He was still watching, his expression the same. But I could almost feel the vibe, the faint spark of greed probably radiating off me. Learn quickly, kid. Daddy Drevin has big plans for you, and a whole lot of future profits riding on that silent little head.
Sitting here admiring my future cash cow – I mean, asset – isn't going to put food on the table. Or even the synth-whiskey I really need after the last few days. It's time to venture into the vibrant marketplace of 'The Sump'. I need to grab some power converters, and see if Grokko has any non-radioactive Rat-on-a-Stick today.
"Alright, ghost kid," I said, getting up and grabbing my gear bag. The kid immediately uncrossed from his corner on the crate, as silent as ever, his gaze fixed on me. Creepy, I'll give him that.
"We're heading out. Rule one: Stay close, really close. This isn't the relatively deserted dump where we met; this place is crowded, full of pickpockets, and has things that might eat you just for fun. Rule two: Don't touch anything shiny unless I specifically say it won't explode, or require your soul as payment. Rule three: Don't talk to…" I paused. Right. "…well, that part's easy for you, isn't it? Let's go."
Stepping out of my workshop – a repurposed, surprisingly sturdy control room from a pumping station – into the main street of The Sump was always an overwhelming experience.
Dim, flickering chem-lights cast long, dancing shadows. The air was thick with the scent of recycled water, unidentifiable fried food, toxic ozone stalls made of scrap metal and synth-wood lined the uneven tunnel walls, selling everything from scavenged tech of god knows if it even works, to dubious food and even sketchy 'medical' services. People lurked in the doorways, Just another typical Tuesday.
The kid walked alongside me quietly, his head constantly moving, curious to his new environment, the people of underscape.
We passed a shadowy alcove where some gang members were roughing up a scrawny Nullborn. Just the usual – the way one thug slammed the poor guy against the wall – sent a jolt through me.
(Flashback flashes: Wiry Guy hitting the ground, the kid's small hand buried in his gut, the crunch of bone as Rebar Guy fell, those completely blank, empty eyes…)
Gods. I shook my head, trying to shake off the image. It still creeps me out. How does a six-year-old do that and without a second thought? this kid's a walking weapon. I need to remember that. I have to handle him with extreme care… and figure out how to direct him toward profitable opportunities.
"Oi! Hales!" A grating voice interrupted my thoughts. Grokko, the Rat-on-a-Stick vendor, waved a greasy hand from behind his stall, which had several suspiciously plump rodents roasting over a flickering chem-flame. "Didn't expect to see you slumming it today! And what's with the kid?" He squinted at the kid standing silently by my leg. "New runner? Looks a bit small for the tunnels. You'll lose him fast."
"Nah, Grokko," I replied, leaning casually against his stall, keeping an eye on the kid who was now intensely examining the roasting mechanism. "He's… my apprentice" (If you only know what this kid hands can do...) "Got anything actually edible today, or is it mystery meat surprise again?"
While I haggled with Grokko over something that could loosely be called 'food', I noticed 'Whisper' Mel hanging around a steam vent further down. Perfect timing; I needed to ask him about offloading that Series 7 capacitor anyway. I paid Grokko (probably too much), tossed a slightly charred stick of 'meat' to the kid (who caught it without a word and started eating methodically), and made my way over.
Mel was skeletal, wrapped in rags, his eyes darting nervously. A low-level info broker who survived by knowing things and selling them cheap before they got him killed. "Drevin," he hissed, smoke curling from the cheap stim-stick clenched between his teeth. He glanced past me at the kid. "Who's kid? Didn't know you were in the babysitting business now. Times that tough?"
"Just picked up some potentially useful… salvage," I said smoothly, keeping my voice low. "Im planning of taking him as apprentice, he doesn't talk much."
"Speaking of salvage, Mel, I've got a Series 7 core, good condition. Know anyone looking for high-end Pre-Collapse components right now?"
We discussed business for a few minutes, Mel giving me a couple of leads but really nothing useful info, what Mel's connection give me a value for this capacitor 50% less than Scar-lip-jin offered. Anyways, the kid just stood there, listening obediently and scanning Mel up and down.
"Alright, Mel. I think I'll just gonna go sell this to Jin," I wrapped up, already planning my next move. "Let's go, kid."
He move and step behind me right away.
So, after exchanging pleasantries with the local informants and picking up some questionable snacks, it was time for the real deal: delivering that coveted Series 7 capacitor core to the ever-appealing Scar-Lip Jin and snagging my hard-earned credits before he decides this week's trend is something else entirely.
"Alright, ghost kid," I murmured, verifying the secure pouch containing the core. "New destination. Stay super close. We're heading into a zone where glaring could get you use into a toilet issues. And try not to look... like you're scheming to kill everyone in sight. Go for 'pathetically harmless'—much safer brand down here."
He just blinked at me. Yep, that was really helpful.
Jin's operation was situated in a reinforced part of what used to be a multi-level parking garage, now known as 'The Grinder'. A delightful place.
If by 'delightful' you mean perpetually covered in grime, smelling vaguely of burnt ozone, and patrolled by two massive goons with more cybernetic enhancements than common sense.
They glared at us as we approached, their optical sensors emitting a dull red glow. The kid, of course, just stared right back, standing completely still. He didn't even flinch when one of the guards slammed a colossal metal fist against the doorframe—probably just for some intimidating show. As my sweat pouring like a rain in the ground.
The guards let us through after I gave a curt nod. Inside. Phew. I sigh everytime I go here is quite exhausting.
Jin's 'office' was a chaotic jumble of salvaged tech, weapon parts, and empty stim packs, all under the watchful eye of the man himself. Scar-Lip Jin lived up to his name—a jagged, poorly healed scar sliced across his upper lip, giving him a constant sneer. He looked up from polishing a menacing energy blade, his cybernetic eye whirring as it focused on me, then flicked down to the kid.
"Hales," Jin grunted. His voice sounded like gravel rolling down a rusty pipe. "You took your sweet time. Got my core?"
"Wouldn't miss it for sure Jin," I replied, pulling the carefully wrapped capacitor from my bag and setting it on his workbench, far away from the energy blade. "Series 7, Pre-Collapse. Pristine condition, considering the detour through Grok's little tantrum back at the substation."
Jin picked it up, inspecting it with surprising finesse for someone whose other hand looked like it could crush a steel. His cyber-eye scanned it closely. "Blackline fringe salvage, huh?" He tapped the casing. "Probably drenched in hard rads. Fifty percent off for hazard pay."
I forced a chuckle. "Hazard pay? Jin, I practically wrestled a mutated tank single-handedly for this gem! While babysitting!" I gestured vaguely at the ghost kid, who was now silently checking out a disconnected robotic arm in the corner. "Full price. As agreed. Unless you want to negotiate with my... uh... associate's Pysch-Ops division?"
Jin's cyber-eye whirred again, focusing on the kid, who thankfully decided to look back with those blank, unsettling eyes. Jin's sneer deepened, perhaps with a hint of uncertainty this time? Hard to say. "Who's the runt?" he finally asked, nodding toward the kid. "New slave? He looks like he'd crumple if you raised your voice."
"Nah," I said, leaning casually against the workbench. "He... Follows me around, wards off the little pests." (Little pests like you, perhaps, if you keep lowballing me..) "Doesn't talk much, but he's surprisingly tough. Anyway, about those credits..."
We haggled for another five minutes, the typical Underscape style—Jin whining about market rates and risks, me singing the praises of the capacitor and vaguely hinting at other interested buyers (thanks for the tip, Mel). The kid stayed silent the whole time, occasionally shifting his gaze between me, Jin, and the energy blade.
Finally, Jin slammed the capacitor down. "Fine! Eighty percent. And only because I need it by next cycle. Transferring now." He fiddled with a console, and my wrist-comm chimed softly, confirming the untraceable credit transfer. Success! Enough to keep me stuck on my workshop or possibly even upgrade my scanner... and invest a little more in Project Ghost Kid.
"Great doing business, Jin," I said, already backing toward the door. "Try not to lose any more fingers with that blade."
His only response was a grunt as he returned to polishing. The guards let us exit without any trouble.
Back in the bustling main thoroughfare of The Sump, I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Dealing with Jin always made me feel like I needed a chemical shower afterward.
"See, kid?" I thought, glancing down at my silent shadow walking beside me. "That's how things operate down here. Risk, reward, and trying not to get stabbed by scarred psychopaths. You'll catch on quickly. Stick with me, and maybe you'll even live long enough to spend your share."
He merely looked up at me, blinked those black eyes, and continued walking. Right. Still going to require some work.