“I said, I have places to be!” called Kaelis.

  Sheah glanced out the starboard-side door to see Kaelis standing on the platform, tapping her foot against the concrete. “Yes, yes, I am coming,” she replied as she bounced down the docking plank towards her companion. “Thank you for your patience. Here is your pay for the month.” Sheah pulled out three thin envelopes from her coat pocket and presented the thinnest to Kaelis. “Take a few days, have a night on the town. You have earned it!”

  “Will do!” Kaelis plucked the envelope from Sheah’s hand and briskly thumbed through its contents, languidly twirling in her stylish red dress as she did.

  Sheah was constantly surprised at Kaelis’s astute sense of fashion, and how well she cleaned up. When not in her more practical adventuring gear, she seemed to possess a dress for every occasion. Tonight she wore a simple yet elegant gown, shapely and tastefully frilled, with glossy fabrics of bright crimson and white—perfect for a night on the town or some other such extravagance. The most distinctive aspect of Kaelis’s voguishness, however, was her resounding consistency. In the few months she had known her, Sheah had never seen Kaelis without a splash of red somewhere in her ensemble. When asked about it, Kaelis readily admitted that she believed it brought out a certain radiance in the greens of her eyes, a notion which Sheah couldn’t necessarily disagree with.

  Satisfied with her count, Kaelis thrust the envelope into her handbag and rushed down the platform. “Thanks, Boss. See ya later!” she shouted before vanishing into the crowd, off to bask in the heyday of her twenties. Sheah watched her as she went, a twinge of envy in her heart.

  Moments later, Dez and Jira appeared in the doorway behind Sheah and made their way off the ship, both dressed in their city clothes. Dez, in particular, had a certain showman’s luster to him, wearing a crisp buttoned shirt which did a remarkable job masking his somewhat doughy paunch. Hanging loosely in his hand was his instrument case, which, combined with the outfit, could only mean one thing: he was going on stage that night.

  “Do you have the spare key?” asked Jira as she turned to lock the door behind her.

  Sheah affirmatively patted her coat pocket. “Yes, Captain, not to worry.” The question was merely a formality, as she was well known to carry the keys to every door on the ship on her person at all times.

  With the Redland Runner sealed up tight, Dez and Jira made their way towards their employer, who proceeded to hand them each an envelope. They both in turn gave an expression of thanks before pocketing their pay.

  “…Been a while since our last big job,” said Jira, a hint of concern in her voice. “We doing alright?”

  Sheah’s heart skipped a beat. Did they suspect something? Regardless, she put on an overzealous smile and waved her hand around dismissively. “Oh yes, we are doing absolutely fine,” she proclaimed. “Nothing to worry about at all.” Quickly changing the subject, she pointed to the saxophone case hanging in Dez’s hand. “So, do you have a show tonight?”

  Dez pleasantly smiled. “Yeah. Some of my war buddies are playin’ at the Hop Spot later. I’m hopin’ we might get a chance to jam.”

  “Well that just leaves you and me, Captain,” Sheah announced. “Care to join me on a rousing trip to the broker? It should be quite a time!”

  Jira glanced away. “I’m goi—”

  “Angels above!” stammered a voice from the base of the port. “It—it can’t be!”

  Sheah peered past her teammates’s shoulders, curious to find the source of the sudden interruption. There, firmly planted at the fringes of the passing crowd, was a sweaty, middle-aged man struggling with a flurry of baggage, staring straight at them. Sheah’s crewmates followed her gaze, spinning around as well. Upon catching a clear view of Jira’s face, the man let out a squeak—his jaw fell open and his brow somehow began to amass even more sweat. He swiftly waddled up to the Captain, brimming with childlike excitement.

  “Are you—are you Jira the Knife?!” the man giddily asked.

  Dez glanced at Sheah. She nodded in return—she knew the drill. They both took a step back in unison, merging into the background and leaving Jira to face the man alone.

  Jira clenched her eyes and grimaced. “…Yes.”

  The man leapt, his bags spilling out of his hands. “I knew I recognized that headband! Wow, I can’t believe it. I—I thought you were dead!”

  Jira winced. “Nope.”

  “Please,” said the man, fumbling a small book out of his pocket. “Could I get an autograph?”

  “I’d really rather n—”

  “Oh, please!” the man begged. “You were always my wife’s favorite member of the Rezna team. It would mean so much to her.”

  Jira exhaled deeply. “…Fine,” she said, offering out her palm.

  The sweaty man lit up. Placing a pen in Jira’s hand, he opened his book to a blank page. Jira haphazardly scribbled her name across the paper and stuffed the pen into the crease.

  “Wow… Thank you so much!” the man hollered, inspecting the inscription with glee. “I can’t believe it’s really you. Wow.” Pocketing the book, he clumsily collected his mass of baggage. “Safe travels to you. Uh, to all of you!” the man cheerfully wished, only just noticing Sheah and Dez standing off to the side. With that, he hurried off, racing down the platform just as fast as he appeared.

  Jira stood there, brow furrowed, mortified. Silently, Dez patted her on the back.

  “Now, what was I saying?” Sheah blurted out, hoping to clear the air. “Ah, yes—the broker. So what do you say, Captain?”

  Jira looked away, frowning. “I’m going to Dez’s show,” she answered.

  “Oh, I see. Okay.” Masking her disappointment, Sheah stood straight and put on her most enthusiastic face. “Well, I hope both of you have a wonderful evening. Best of luck on your show!”

  “Thanks, Ms. Ziedler. You have yerself a good one.” Dez gave her a little bow, and together he and Jira departed.

  Sheah waved the pair farewell, a forced smile plastered over her lips. As they faded into the distance, so too did her expression. Once again, she was left all alone. Perhaps one day she would finally be used to it. Hissing out a soft sigh, she fondly patted the bow of her stalwart ship before slinking off into the metropolis as well.

  The Bruckhaven trolley screeched along the underside of the bridge superstructure, the car hanging from its track high above the canyon floor. Kaelis stood in the corner of the tram, smooshed against the windows by the horde of commuters. Unbothered by the crowd, she peered through the glass, counting the stops until her destination.

  Absorbed in the golden light of the evening, Kaelis gazed out at the sunkissed river which roared through the ravine nearly a mile below her feet. It was always a sight to behold. But to the people around her, dressed in the evening best and eagerly awaiting the next stop, it was just another sunset. Bruckhaven, in its current form, had existed for over half a century—by now, the structure was a mundanity for most of its denizens. But for Kaelis, having grown up in the remote, placid hillsides at the western tip of the Andren Empire, the grandeur of Bruckhaven was something she could never get used to, even after all these years.

  The brakes of the trolley shrieked as it pulled into its wrought iron station. They’d arrived at the Miracle Mile—the southeastern edge of the loop. A wave of excitement passed through the car. The instant the doors opened, the crowd flooded onto the platform, scattering to the winds. Kaelis squeezed her way past the rush of incoming commuters, planting her feet onto the walkway just before the trolley sealed its doors and took off down the track once more.

  The station was abuzz with activity. The vendors were out in force that evening, their wares in full display, spread out along their various tables and blankets. Tourists and curious bystanders swarmed the stands, perusing the selection of exotic keepsakes and knick-knacks—from jewelry made from old bullet casings, to authentic Dierrosi woodblock prints. Kaelis passed the line of peddlers with delight, marveling at the constant variety of different peoples and cultures that made their way up to the northern border.

  At the end of the row, close to the exit stairway, was a makeshift stand that Kaelis had never seen before. Resting on its table was a splay of blown-glass trinkets. Below them, written in exaggerated, flowering lettering, was a sign that read ‘Treasures of the Far South’. The proprietor of the stall was a young man garnished in loose robes, with orange eyes, pink features, and hair of pale yellow. He spoke with great charisma, charming a pair of curious noblemen adorned in embroidered three-piece suits.

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  Kaelis lit up curiously. To see someone from the Unincorporated South was always a rare sight, especially this far north. The pale-faced travelers of the lower Southlands were easy to spot, especially compared to the dark-haired, brown-skinned peoples of the Empire and Dierros. On a normal day, Kaelis would have stopped and traded words with the traveler, asked him his story, and probably even purchased his wares. But that evening there was no time for that—the stores were almost closed.

  The neon lights of the Miracle Mile flickered on as Kaelis emerged from the trolley station onto the streets above. She smiled exuberantly, feeling the energy in the air as the town and its inhabitants prepared themselves for the nightly soiree. Crowds of well-dressed people excitedly rushed to and fro, casually dodging the small landships that haltingly trawled toward the suburbs of the southern shelf. Like most cities within the Empire, the streets of Bruckhaven were far too narrow for any except the most compact of landships to navigate. Only the Imperial Highway, which flowed straight through the center of the bridge, was equipped to accommodate normal traffic, making the rest of the city quite simple to navigate on foot.

  As she frolicked down the road towards her destination, Kaelis turned up her head and basked in the multicolored glow of the buildings. Upscale stores and smokey clubs lined the avenue—classy joints with the finest wares this side of the Imperial capital, havens for the rich and famous to burn away the night. Plastered across the sides of the buildings were rows upon rows of billboards, expressively painted with advertisements selling the latest and greatest innovations in engineering, homegoods, and fashion. One company dominated the landscape, their billboards colored in trademark viridian and emblazoned with a distinct, commanding logo: Verloren Industries. Kaelis always dared to imagine that one day, when she’d finally made it big, she too might afford a Verloren ship and engage in a lifestyle of constant extravagance between her world-changing adventures. One day, she too could be like the heroes she had read so much about in her youth. One day.

  Time was growing short. Some of the smaller, less crowded shops were already beginning to shutter their doors. Kaelis picked up her pace. She rushed by the row of bars and dance halls, outpouring with raucous cheers and swinging jazz. As she passed, she quickly considered which of the many clubs she would grace with her presence later that evening. Ultimately, she decided there was no reason not to go for all of them—once she was done with her task, of course.

  Turning the corner, Kaelis finally arrived at her destination: an opulent department store encrusted with marble made to emulate the design sensibilities of the ancient world. Smeared across the massive display window was an army of mannequins, each dressed in outfits of increasing elegance. At the end of the line was Kaelis’s target. She pressed her face against the glass, enamored, transfixed. Sitting atop a model was a wide brimmed ruby hat with a silk rose bloomed at one side. It was an exquisite piece of high fashion, and a perfect compliment to her current ensemble. And best of all, it was marked off as part of the annual spring sale, which, according to the clock hanging over the store’s entryway, ended in less than ten minutes.

  Kaelis pulled out her envelope of bills and dashed over to the shop entrance. She’d made it just in time. As she bounced inside, brimming with excitement, she thought ahead to her new accessory and all of the sights and joys she would soon experience. She felt a world of possibilities at her fingertips. It was going to be a spree to remember, for the night was young and so was she.

  Jira kept her head down as she followed Dez through the commotion of the Theater District, or the ‘Bar Line’, as the musicians liked to cheekily call it. The entire area was a gauntlet of glowing bulbs and attention-grabbing marquees, each more aggressive and garish than the last. At times, it felt like she couldn’t take two steps without someone blowing a trombone in her ear. The crowds, the lights, the noise—all they did was make her tired. But she was willing to put up with it, especially if it meant getting to see Dez play.

  Worming their way through the ward’s bustling main street, the pair at last arrived at a thickset brick building with the name ‘The Hop Spot’ splashed over it in exaggerated neon lettering. An excited crowd queued beneath the sign’s hot-pink glow, waiting avidly for the doors to open. Mingling in the adjacent alleyway was a trio of graying musicians. They cheerily chatted with one another, shrouded behind a haze of cigarette smoke. Jira braced herself as she and Dez approached them.

  The drummer of the group, a short, broad man with an obvious combover, glanced down the road as he twiddled his sticks in his fingers. Spotting Dez and Jira, he shot up straight and nudged his bandmates’ arms. The two other musicians spun around and enthusiastically cheered at Dez’s arrival. Jira slowed her gait, letting her partner hurry off to embrace the group with friendly hugs.

  Standing off to the side, she watched as the quartet threw back pleasantries and exchanged pithy tales of their months apart, large smiles stretched across their faces. Dez listened intently to their tidings and followed up with eager questions regarding even the most mundane details of their lives, absorbing every answer like it was the most important news in the world.

  As the group joked around and laughed, a silver-haired man passing by the alleyway came to a sudden stop. He turned to face Dez, a wide grin growing between his thick sideburns. Jira quickly recognized the man: Eriff Ostenhoffer, captain of the Indigo Fever and fellow member of the Expeditioners Union. Waltzing over, Eriff gave Dez an enthusiastic greeting. Dez instantly lit up at the surprise. Without hesitation, he brought his colleague into the fold, introducing him to his fellow musicians. Together they all got to gabbing, delighting in each other’s company. Jira watched and listened, quietly removed from the group.

  It wasn’t long before the trio of musicians waved to Jira, calling her over to join in on the revelry. She meekly nodded and politely waved back, taking a single, sheepish step closer. Despite having known them for some time, all Jira could ever see were the dog tags they proudly wore around their necks, and the scars they still bore across their arms and faces. These people were Imperial soldiers, veterans of the Sky War… enemies once. She knew that was all well in the past, that they harbored no ill will towards her personally, and yet… she found it more comfortable to keep her distance. Dez nodded at her with an accepting smile—he understood her better than anyone.

  Just then, the bassist perked up. Checking her pocket watch, she signaled to the others—the show was about to begin. Eriff promptly said his farewells, throwing Jira a friendly gesture before carrying on down the road. As the musicians shuffled into the club’s side entrance, Dez gave Jira a small salute before filing in behind them. She wished him luck as he disappeared from sight.

  Jira moved over to the entrance, lining up behind the other patrons. She hunched her shoulders and angled herself towards the wall, doing her best to ignore the scattered looks of recognition from the crowd. A few moments later the doors opened, and the line of people shuffled into the dimly lit club. Entering inside, Jira breathed out her tension, thankful to finally be in the dark.

  The Industrial Zone was a ward on the decline. What was once the beating heart of landship innovation for the whole of the Empire had become but a shadow of its former self. Construction cranes loomed over the blocks like vultures, picking at the bones of once-great factories, methodically clearing the way for whatever the future might bring. As Sheah ambled down the quiet roads, she reflected on the rapid change, noticing that yet another of her favorite landmarks had been leveled, reduced to nothing more than a hazy memory. It was still hard for her to believe that she had grown up with the ward at its prime. She had thought it would forever be a builder’s paradise, too young and naive to notice the shifting of the winds.

  The sun fell low, sinking behind half-empty warehouses. Weary workers began to trickle onto the roads, heading home after another day’s shift. While most of the major corporations had pulled out of the ward in the preceding years, opting to establish cutting-edge plants on the canyon’s burgeoning southern rim, a few functioning factories yet remained, clinging on for as long as they could. Those still standing had all been converted from their original purpose, however, gutted into assembly lines for such household goods as pots and pans and pencils—a far cry from the glamor of landship production.

  As Sheah passed by the crowd, she greeted them with a nod of her head and an affable smile, just to show that she, as her father before her, was a consummate ally of the working class. As expected, the workers returned only hardened looks, with the occasional flashes of puzzlement at the presence of an aristocrat wandering the ward alone. But Sheah wasn’t bothered—by that point she was used to the stares.

  Turning the corner, Sheah spied her destination in the distance. At once, a rush of eager energy quickened her pace. She made her way over to a dark brick building nestled into the corner of the next block, its welcoming storefront gently stained with the dirt of better years. Stretched across its wide display window was the name of the shop, painted in chipped, gray lettering laid out in a gentle arch. It plainly read: ‘Mueler’s Brokerage’, and beneath it: ‘Karsten Mueler, IHS’.

  Sheah grinned brightly as she bound the last few paces, giddy with girlish anticipation at the thought of seeing her beloved Uncle Karsten again. Keen to view the contents of his latest elaborate display, she peered through the shop’s window. But as the setting sun splashed across the glass, all she could see was the reflection of her own violet eyes, and that of the mammoth factory looming large across the road behind her.

  Reeling, Sheah clamped her eyelids shut. She had promised herself when she arrived in the ward that she would not look this time, that she would leave the past behind her. And yet, now that she had caught a glimpse, she could no longer resist it. She had to look, she had to make sure. Turning around, Sheah fixed her gaze on the building.

  There it was—the old factory, still abandoned, but still standing. A hulking slab of weathered granite blocks and iron chimneys, it commanded the block, dwarfing all other buildings in the area. Embossed across the gate, held half-closed by a slackened chain, was a faded title forged of brass: ‘Ziedler Motors’.

  After staring for a long moment, Sheah managed a wistful smile. The building yet endured: untouched, unclaimed. Her family name still stood proudly upon the gates—a monument to their feats, even if only for a short while longer. Once it was gone, she would do her best to carry on their legacy.

  Just then, Sheah heard the trill of the door swinging open, stirring her from her daze. She glanced over to find two men exiting the brokerage, crates of adventuring supplies clutched in their arms. They passed her by as though she weren’t even there, their attention instead glued to one another while they exchanged avid proclamations regarding the inevitable success of their next adventure. Sheah studied the two men as they strode away, eying their gleaming, gilded armor layered beneath equally flashy leathers. It appeared as though she wasn’t the only aristocrat in the ward that evening. She had never seen the two men before, neither at any Expeditioner function nor about the docks, meaning they must have been newly arrived from the capital.

  Most curious.

  As the two men strolled off, Sheah turned back towards the brokerage, refocusing on the task at hand. Thinking to the ancient mask tucked neatly in her bag, she felt a warm wave of optimism pass over her, gifting her with the first assured feelings she had known in many months. Things were finally about to turn around, she could feel it in her bones. With so fine a find as this, she could buy some much needed recognition, and her expeditionary company would at long last be set upon the road to success.

  Everything was going to be okay.