I waited to the sound of the workshop's door to settle down as I closed it with my shoulders.
It always took a moment as the hinges were pretty old, I'd salvaged them from a scrapyard on one of my trips to other towns.
A groan from them accompanied by the hollow knock as the wooden door met the frame, then the metallic tick from the internal latch engaging.
I stood there for a moment, with the key in my hand, and took a quick glance at the place before leaving.
The workshop was narrow and deep. I'd carved it out of what had once been a storage annex for a merchan house that no longer existed. Its walls thick and uneven. Shelves lined on either side, bowed under the weight of parts.
Nothing was labeled, I just let my brain navigate the chaos freely.
My workbench sat at the center. The surface was a mosaic of cuts and burns. A vise hung off the side, its teeth polished smooth from use. Above it, suspended from a crooked beam, was the lamp.
It had two moves, warm light for when I was alone, and regular light for when customers arrived. As a certified reptile, warm light brings me a sort of fuzzy comfort I can't explain, especially during those cold winters. I'll refuse to go anywhere without my warm light.
I moved through the room slowly, checking if I hadn't forgotten anything, like my house keys or a tool from my basement's workshop.
Tools were back in their places. A rag over the vice. The revolver for tomorrow's pickup was wrapped and ready.
At the far end of the workshop, near the back wall, sat the security system.
A brass housing no larger than a loaf of bread was bolted into the stone, its surface etched with tiny serial markings from the several manufacturers.
Copper tubing ran from it, disappearing into the walls and floor.
This system had been a gift from one of my clients, an engineer, one of the rare ones that actually rewarded my efforts appropiately.
Its way of working was simple.
If someone forced the door or broke a window after it was armed, the toxic fumes being channeled with the copper tubing would fill the room.
The man didn't tell me how toxic the fumes were, but he did mention I should play around with this thing at all, so its better to not find out.
I crossed back to the door and slid a heavy iron bolt into place. The external lock came next. I turned the key twice, listening for the soft internal click that told me the tumblers had aligned properly.
There were three narrow slits along the street-facing wall, mostly for light than anything, helps out with the energy costs.
I pulled down the internal shutters one by one, thick plates of treated wood reinforced with steel.
Each one locked into the stone with a satisfying thunk.
Over those went the cloth coverings. They were dark fabric to diffuse light and distorted shadows.
From outside it would look empty.
When everything was sealed, I reached into my coat and pulled out my clock.
It was a little heavy and round. Its casing a dull bronze polished smooth by use. The hinge creaked softly as I flipped it open. A thin holographic plane popped up above its face, pale blue light.
The display adjusted automatically, icons shifting into place as it synced with the local network.
I glanced up, praying the network satellites were close enough to give me a fast enough connection.
The clock chimed as a message notification came.
It expanded, showing a message from my mother.
[ Mom <3 : Farsi, your brothers are still at school, and I need to cook dinner. Please stop by the market on your way back. I'll be needing a cabbage head and two or three tomatoes. You should have enough Skirlias for it on you, if not I can send you some. ]
After reading the mssage I checked my coat's pockets.
A cabbage head tends to be about two Skirlias or less if they're on season, I couldn't quite remember when that season was, but I'm sure it had been some time ago, three tomatoes would only run about a single Skirlia.
So the costs came down to around 3 Skirlias.
After thoroughly checking my pockets, I indeed was carrying around the necessary Skirlias, in fact, I was carrying 4, so I could afford not looking for the best merchants.
[ You: Sure. I'll be on the way. ]
I snapped the clock shut and slid it back into my coat.
The street outside was surrounded by stone buildings that leaned over the road, their upper floors nearly touching, wooden beams jutting out at obtuse angles that defied any logics or physics.
My boots scraped at the uneven cobblestone under my feet.
Between the stone, thin metal rails had been bolted in place to guide delivery carts powered by steam pistons.
Wires ran everywhere.
They crawled along walls, wrapped around support columns, vanished into cracked masonry. Some were new. Other were ancient, with patches as insulation or some wiring just straight up exposed.
Steam pipes shared space with data lines, both stitched into architecture.
People flowed around me like river currents.
A goat with one mechanical leg leaned against a wall, scrolling through a floating feed projected from a ring on his finger.
That appeared to be one of the 'undercover rich guys' as I called them. I've seen them around town, they're always using clean clothes and technology so small you could swallow it if not careful. Yet they lived among us, the peasants like they were part of us.
A pair of calico children ran part, one of them laughing as a cheap hologram bird flapped above their wrist.
Beside me, a wolf woman argued with a shopkeeper, her voice echoing as her forearm COMP display flashed red, the telltale sign of insufficient funds.
Every couple meters, a pair of wards stood still at both sides of the street.
They were impossible to miss. Tall, rigid figured in dull composite armor, faces hidden behind smooth masks that reflected back at the street.
Seeing them move without reason rare. Even that would be an understatement. I'd seen more comets in my lifetime than times I've seen these wards move a single muscle.
I passed three before the market came into view.
The market square was older than most tech stuff bolted onto it.
Stone stalls arranged in a rough circle, their canopies patched with cloth, leather and tarp.
Above it all hung a lattice of cables holding public displays.
Prices, ration updates straight from the imperial capital, notices scrolling past.
Stream rose from grates in the ground, fogging the lower half of the square and making everyone's legs practically disappear.
When I was a child I loved coming to the market square for this.
Admittedly, if you've never seen something like that before, its impressive.
But as you grow up, you just get used to it.
I was halfway across when a scream cut through the noise.
"H-HEY!!!"
A female rabbit stood frozen behind a produce stall, her long ears pinned back as a crate of vegetables vanished from her counter.
The burglar, a fox, lean and fast was already on the run, produce tucked under one arm, his tail streaming behind.
He didn't make it five steps.
Two wards simply stepped forward and slammed into him.
The fox hit the stone hard, had I been closer, I'd have heard the sound of his bones cracking.
One ward pinned him down while the other secured his arms with restraints that snapped into place.
These ones are an interesting case. They use static to make it impossible for the restrained subject to break free, I'd only heard of these, never seen them in action, an amazing engineering feat if I say so myself.
The crate spilled open.
I could notice a cabbage and a tomato spreading across the stone along with several other vegetables.
Holding myself back from just picking those up from the floor for myself, I continued walking.
The rabbit was screaming in shock.
A few people slowed. Muttering cluttered the space around. A man bent down and quietly bent down and quietly picked up the cabbage before anyone noticed.
Tchk. That should've been me.
The wards dragged the fox away.
Hunger made people creative. When your rations aren't properly managed as they should be, this is what happens.
No one is born a robber, or born unprincipled.
The world makes them as such.
In a cruel world, in this country under the control of people who've never had an ounce of concern for us.
It was natural for several people to turn to thievery, simply to continue living for another day.
The produce stall I was looking for sat near the eastern edge of the square, tucked under an old stone arch that arch that had once been decorative.
Its attendant stood behind the counter, his hands resting lightly as he rearranged tomatoes.
He was a black cat.
Sleek, even by feline standards.
His short fur caught the light just enough to make out every individual strand of fur, his ears were sharp and perked up, accompanied by the lazy flicks of his tail behind him.
Warm eyes, the color of a deep amber looked up and noticed me.
His smile curved into a gentle smile.
"Evening," he said.
His voice was smooth and low, flowing through the air gracefully.
"Evening," I replied, leaning one elbow against the stall. "You still selling vegetables, or has the robber a couple meters away scared you off?"
He huffed softly. "We get thievery cases every other day, I'm used to it."
"Shame, witnessing it so much must have removed all the entertainment."
His eyes flicked briefly to my wrists, then back to my face. "What'll it be?"
"A cabbage head, and three tomatoes. Make it two if you're not feeling that charitable."
He picked up the cabbage, weighed it in his hands, then set it aside. "I'm feeling generous today."
"Risky. People might start expecting it if you keep it up."
"Only from me, and only if they're polite." he replied, selecting tomatoes.
I smiled. "I can manage polite."
He slid the produce across the counter, fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second.
"That'll be three Skirlias."
I placed each down one by one. "You always work here around these hours?"
"Yes. We have three shifts. Morning, afternoon and night. I work afternoon."
He picked up the cash, I could notice his long tail swaying behind him.
"And are you always this generous?"
"Only to customers I like."
I gathered the produce into my bag. "Then I'll take my chance."
He smiled as he looked up from his cash and at my face.
"So, assuming I start coming here frequently... Could I perhaps catch your name?" I unconsciously winked at him as I leaned on my elbow that was pressed onto the counter.
"Onyet," he muttered, his bright blue eyes looking up at me.
"Onyet? I just happen to know the meaning of it, do you know it?"
"No, not really, never gave it a thought."
I grinned, my Geortza had finally been useful. "Onyet can be separated to On and Nyet. Nyet means heart, while On is simply the possesive marker. So your name means 'Belonging Heart'."
He widened his eyes in amusement, ears twitching forward.
"Belonging heart," he repeated. "I'd have never expected that meaning from a name such as mine."
"Most people don't. People forget they originally mean things."
"So what does your name mean?"
"Ah, my name's meaning is simply 'sun'. Farsi is the nominative case for Fars- an ancient word for 'sun'."
He reached for a cloth and wiped his hands, his eyes never quite leaving my face. "You always analyze strangers this much?"
"Only the ones who catch my attention," I said without hesitating.
"Well, given the circumstances. It might be useful to know how to reach me."
"Funny. I was just thinking the same."
He hesitated for a moment then reached under the counter and pulled out his own clock. Sleeker than mine, in a white casing. When he flicked it open, a blue holograms bloomed between us.
"Its against my working policy to do this, so don't go around telling people cause I could lose my job."
I grunted as a soft of laugh. "Don't worry. This stays between us."
He angled it so I coulds see the contact glyph.
Each contact glyph was made out of 16 unique radicals, specifically designed to always look aesthetically pleasing.
Given the 50 existing radicals.
That's about ten quintillion possible glyphs.
Our clocks chimed in unison as the connection finalized.
Onyet glanced down at the confirmation then back up at me. "You can reach me whenever you want now. Well, as long as I'm not working or if its really early or really late."
I smiled, as I closed my clock. "Careful, people might start getting the wrong idea."
His ears flicked back in mock offense. "From you?"
"Especially from me."
I stepped away from the stall, bag settled against my hip.
Another success.