A perpetual twilight, courtesy of thick, industrial smog. The sky is a bruised purple. We are twenty stories up, clinging to the iron skeleton of a colossal clock tower.
Below, the city of NEW BRIAR sprawls—a chaotic quilt of slate roofs, belching chimneys, and the skeletal frames of half-finished automatons. Bloated dirigibles drift through the upper currents.
ELIJAH (17), scrappy and grease-stained, strains against a massive steam valve, a beast of pitted iron and bronze.
His wrench SLIPS with a metallic SHRIEK. His knuckles scrape hard against a hot pressure valve. A thin ribbon of skin peels back.
He jerks his hand back, cradling it. He glares at the immovable valve. The cold autumn air seeps through his worn leather gloves. His breath plumes white.
A voice cuts through the city's drone.
Elijah flinches, startled, nearly losing his footing on the narrow catwalk. He grabs a cold iron railing to steady himself.
He whips around.
LIRA (17) stands there, her face smeared with soot. A tool belt is slung low on her hips. Her tarnished-brass hair is pulled back in a tight braid. She holds a gleaming, intricate pressure gauge. Her eyes are sharp, assessing.
She steps onto the catwalk without invitation, her boots thudding softly on the metal. She moves with a confident ease. She holds a specific type of solenoid key—an expensive, high-tech tool.
The words sound hollow even to him.
Lira ignores him, kneeling beside the valve. Her nimble fingers dance over the cold metal, tapping, listening. She sees the faint scarring on her own hands, a mirror of his.
Elijah doesn’t answer. He just tightens his grip on his wrench, his knuckles aching.
A faint, unbidden smile touches Elijah’s lips. He quickly suppresses it.
She pulls a small, complex multi-tool from her belt. Miniature gears WHIR as she extends a fine-tipped probe.
She slides the probe into a tiny crevice on the valve, one Elijah hadn't even noticed. He watches, his resentment battling a grudging fascination.
The barb stings. Before Elijah can retort, a fine spray of steam HISSES from a newly opened vent. A small release.
Elijah nods, surprised by his own compliance. He reaches into his kit and pulls out a canister of specialized solvent.
Lira’s eyes widen slightly.
He trails off. She doesn't press. She picks up a smaller, more delicate wrench.
Her eyes meet his. A challenge. An unspoken trust.
For the next fifteen minutes, they work in a strained, synchronized dance. Elijah applies the solvent, a thin stream that CRACKLES against the rust. Lira makes tiny, precise adjustments with her wrench, her brow furrowed in concentration.
A soft CLICK echoes from within the valve. Resonant.
They both freeze.
A plume of THICKER, DARKER STEAM erupts from the vent. It carries a metallic, ACRID smell that burns the nose.
The valve begins to VIBRATE. A low, ominous GROWL builds from deep within the tower's guts. The entire catwalk THRUMS beneath their feet.
The sound becomes a DEAFENING HOWL of tormented metal. The entire clock tower SWAYS with a sickening lurch.
Elijah grabs Lira's arm, pulling her back from the valve. They scramble for the edge of the platform as loose bolts skitter across the metal.
Just as they reach the edge—
BOOM!
A deep, powerful explosion rocks the city from a distant sector. It's not their tower. The sound rattles their teeth.
A brilliant, SICKLY GREEN flash blooms in the distance, momentarily cutting through the gloom, illuminating the entire industrial skyline.
The shockwave hits them, a physical blow that nearly throws them from the catwalk. Elijah tightens his grip on Lira's arm, holding them both steady.
The green light fades, leaving them in a deeper darkness. The thrumming of their tower subsides to a frantic, dying heartbeat.
They stare at the column of dark smoke rising in the distance. This wasn't an accident. This is something else. Something bigger.
Elijah’s grip on her arm is iron. Their rivalry, their valve, all of it suddenly feels very, very small.
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