# Chapter 83: The Scavenger's Price
The city's underbelly was a labyrinth of decay and desperation, a stark contrast to the gilded spires of the Concord's seat of power. Soren and Nyra moved through it like phantoms, their stolen environmental suits—bulky and ill-fitting—making them conspicuous despite their efforts to remain unseen. The air grew thick with the smell of ozone, rust, and unwashed bodies. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every distant clang of metal a potential alarm. The Inquisitors' presence was a cold weight on Soren's shoulders, a hunter's gaze he could feel but not see. They had escaped the immediate net, but the city was no longer a sanctuary; it was a cage, and the walls were closing in.
Nyra led, her steps sure despite the treacherous terrain. She navigated the maze of corroded walkways and sagging tenements with an unnerving confidence. "Kestrel Vane operates on the fringe," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the drip of chemical-laden water from a leaking pipe above. "He's not loyal to the Synod, the Crown, or the League. He's loyal to profit. It makes him reliable, in a way. As long as the price is right."
Soren grunted, his hand resting near the hilt of his blade. "And if the price is wrong?"
"Then we're no worse off than we are now," she replied, a grim practicality in her tone. "Lost, with nowhere else to turn."
They descended a final, rickety staircase into a wide, open cavern that had been carved out beneath the city's foundations. This was the Scrapyard, a sprawling junkyard of forgotten technology and broken dreams. Mountains of twisted metal rose like ancient, skeletal hills. The air was filled with a symphony of discordant sounds: the hiss of leaking pressure valves, the scuttling of rust-rats, the distant, rhythmic clang of a hammer on an anvil. It was a monument to the world before the Bloom, a graveyard of progress.
Nyra pointed toward a structure built into the far wall, a chaotic amalgamation of shipping containers and scrap metal plates. A single, flickering neon sign buzzed erratically, its light casting a sickly green glow on the words "Vane's Finds & Fixes." The sign sputtered and died, plunging the entrance into shadow, only to flare back to life a moment later.
"That's it," she said.
As they approached, the workshop door swung open with a groan of protesting hinges. A figure emerged, silhouetted against the dim light from within. He was wiry and short, moving with a nervous, bird-like energy. He wore a pair of magnifying goggles pushed up on his forehead, and his clothes were a patchwork of stained leather and canvas, pockets bulging with an assortment of tools and unidentifiable objects. This was Kestrel Vane.
He looked them up and down, his eyes sharp and calculating, missing nothing. "Well, well," he said, his voice a rapid, high-pitched chatter. "Look what the tide washed in. Two high-and-mighties playing dress-up in the muck. Those suits are a bit conspicuous, don't you think? Like wearing a crown to a gutting. What do you want?"
"We need a guide," Soren said, stepping forward. His voice was a low rumble, a stark contrast to Kestrel's frantic energy. "Into the Bloom-Wastes."
Kestrel let out a short, barking laugh. "The wastes? You're joking. Nobody *wants* to go into the wastes. People pay me to find things *lost* in the wastes. They don't pay me to take them on a sightseeing tour. The air is poison, the ground is hungry, and the echoes… the echoes will drive you mad before the magic even gets a chance to rot your bones." He took a step back, his hands held up as if to ward them off. "No deal. Find another sucker."
"We can pay," Nyra said smoothly, ignoring his dismissal. She reached into a pouch, but Kestrel held up a hand.
"Don't bother flashing your coin," he snapped. "I've got more money than I can spend. What am I going to buy down here, a better view of the rust? I deal in things of value. Rare things. Things you can't get in the pristine towers of the Concord." He gestured vaguely at the heaps of junk around them. "This is the world's attic, and I'm the only one who knows where the treasures are buried."
Soren's patience was wearing thin. The constant pressure, the looming threat of the Inquisitors, the throbbing in his arm—it all coalesced into a hot, tight knot in his gut. "We don't have time for games. Name your price."
Kestrel's eyes narrowed. He studied Soren's face, then the faint, dark lines of the Cinder-Tattoos peeking from the collar of his suit. A flicker of something—recognition, maybe even a sliver of fear—crossed his features before being masked by his usual avarice. "You're one of the Ladder rats. A Gifted. You're all the same. You think your power makes you special. Out there," he said, jabbing a thumb toward the dark, unseen world beyond the city walls, "your power is just another kind of food. It'll eat you just the same."
He turned and walked back into his workshop, leaving the door open. It was an invitation, or a challenge. Soren and Nyra exchanged a look and followed.
The inside of the workshop was a sensory assault. The air was thick with the smell of solder, hot metal, and acrid chemicals. Shelves overflowed with scavenged artifacts: cracked data-slates, strange crystalline structures that pulsed with a faint inner light, bundles of insulated wire, and jars filled with unidentifiable organic matter. A half-disassembled automaton stood in one corner, its optical sensors glowing a dim red. In the center of the room, a workbench was littered with tools, schematics, and half-finished projects. It was chaos, but it was a highly organized chaos, the lair of a mind that saw patterns in the refuse of the world.
Kestrel hopped onto a stool, his legs dangling. "Alright, Ladder-rat. You want a guide. You want me to risk my neck, my gear, and my sanity to take you into the most cursed place on this dying earth. The price isn't money." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The price is a Mark IV Fusion Cell. Intact. Fully charged."
Nyra's composure finally cracked. "A Fusion Cell? Those haven't been produced since before the Bloom. They're relics. The Synod has them all locked away."
"Exactly," Kestrel said, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "They're the only power source capable of running a long-range atmospheric purifier indefinitely. With one, I could build a rig that could stay out in the deep wastes for weeks. Months. I could find things no one has seen since the world turned to ash. That's my price. Non-negotiable." He shrugged. "So, unless you happen to have a priceless pre-Bloom artifact in your pocket, I suggest you get out of my workshop. I have work to do."
Soren's fists clenched. It was an impossible demand. A dead end. He could feel the despair creeping in, cold and familiar. They had come so far, only to be stopped by a scavenger's impossible whim. He turned to Nyra, ready to concede defeat, but he stopped. Her expression was not one of defeat. It was one of intense, calculating thought. Her eyes were distant, her mind clearly working through a problem he couldn't see.
She met his gaze and gave a minute, almost imperceptible shake of her head. A signal. *Wait*.
"An interesting proposition," Nyra said, her voice regaining its smooth, diplomatic cadence. "A Fusion Cell. Of course. We will need some time to… acquire such an item. They are not easy to come by."
Kestrel snorted. "You don't have time, and you don't have the connections. I'm the best you'll find, and I'm the only one who's asking for something you can't possibly get. It's been a pleasure doing no business with you." He made a shooing gesture.
"We'll be back," Nyra said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She turned and walked out, Soren following reluctantly. The heavy door swung shut behind them, plunging them back into the dim, buzzing twilight of the Scrapyard.
"What was that?" Soren demanded the moment they were out of earshot. "He made an impossible demand. We're done."
"Not yet," Nyra said, her eyes scanning the shadows. "We need to get off the streets. Now." She led him to a concealed alcove behind a stack of massive, rusted pipes, the air inside stale and heavy. "Kestrel is a scavenger, but he's also an information broker. He has contacts, people who bring him finds from the wastes. He's not expecting us to produce a Fusion Cell. He's expecting us to fail, so he can go back to his work feeling superior."
"So it was a waste of time," Soren said, the frustration boiling in his veins.
"No," Nyra insisted, her voice firm. "It was a test. And now I know how to pass it." She pulled a small, compact device from a hidden pocket in her suit. It was a Sable League secure communicator, disguised as a simple data-slate. Her fingers flew across the surface, tapping out a coded message. "Kestrel wants a relic? Fine. The League has a vault full of them. It's a matter of finding the right one and making sure it gets into the right hands."
Soren watched, a new understanding dawning. "You're going to have one of your people 'find' it."
"Precisely," she said, not looking up from her task. "One of Talia's agents operates a salvage crew on the eastern perimeter. They 'discover' things all the time. A Fusion Cell will be a remarkable find, but not impossible to believe. They'll bring it to a broker Kestrel is known to use. The price will be high, but the League will cover it. Kestrel gets his prize, we get our guide, and he never knows it was us." She finished her message and sent it with a final, decisive tap. "He'll think it's fate. That the world finally smiled on him. It makes him more pliable. More loyal to the deal, rather than to us."
Soren leaned back against the cold metal of the pipes, the sheer, cold efficiency of her plan both impressive and unsettling. This was the Sable League he'd heard stories about. They didn't just play the game; they rigged it from the shadows. "And what does the League get out of this?"
"They get a team heading into the heart of the Bloom-Wastes, a place the Synod can't easily monitor," she said, her voice low. "They get intelligence. And they get you, a wild card that might just disrupt the Synod's plans. It's a low-risk, high-reward investment for them." She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable in the gloom. "And for us, it's the only way forward."
They waited in the oppressive silence of the Scrapyard. Time stretched, each minute feeling like an hour. Soren could feel the phantom itch of the Inquisitors' gaze, the constant, nagging fear that at any moment, they would be discovered. He focused on his breathing, on the steady thrum of his own heart, forcing the panic down. He had to trust her. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he had no other choice.
Nearly an hour later, Nyra's communicator hummed softly. A single line of text appeared on the screen: *Package delivered. Bird in the nest.*
Nyra allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "Let's go."
They walked back to Kestrel's workshop, the journey feeling different this time. There was a purpose to their steps, a confidence that hadn't been there before. The flickering sign still buzzed, casting its sickly green light. The door was closed.
Soren knocked.
A moment later, it swung open. Kestrel stood there, looking annoyed. "I told you, I'm not interested. Unless you're here to sell me that suit for scrap, get lo—"
He stopped. His eyes widened. Over his shoulder, sitting on his workbench, was a sleek, metallic cylinder, about the size of a man's forearm. It was covered in pre-Bloom script, and a soft, blue light pulsed from a crystal indicator at its base. A Mark IV Fusion Cell.
Kestrel stared, his mouth agape. He took a hesitant step into his workshop, then another, as if approaching a sleeping predator. He circled the workbench, his eyes wide with disbelief and avarice. He reached out a trembling hand, hesitating, then gently touched the cell's casing. It was real.
"How…?" he breathed, looking from the cell to Soren and Nyra, his mind struggling to connect the impossible dots.
"A contact owed us a favor," Nyra said, her voice casual. "He heard one was on the market. We acquired it. We understand it's the price for a guide."
Kestrel ran a hand through his greasy hair, a manic energy replacing his shock. He laughed, a high, unhinged sound. "A favor? A contact? You don't stumble upon a relic like this! This is… this is destiny!" He picked up the Fusion Cell, cradling it like a holy relic. The blue light reflected in his wide, ecstatic eyes. He looked at them, a new respect, and a new suspicion, dawning in his gaze. He knew this was too good to be true, but the prize was too great to question.
He placed the cell carefully back on the bench. "Alright," he said, his voice suddenly all business. "You've got a deal. A guide into the wastes. When do we leave?"
"As soon as possible," Soren said.
Kestrel grinned, a wide, predatory smile. He picked up the Fusion Cell again, hefting it in one hand. "Well, look what the ash blew in," he said, his voice filled with a renewed, dangerous vigor. "Guess we're going for a walk in the park. Prepare to be disappointed."