Chapter Text
The smog of the Undercity is exceptionally thick today. You wonder if the ventilation system sinewing through Zaun is damaged. It's like an artery was blown out, its pollutants left to settle like sediment down to the deepest trenches. You wonder, even, if it’s punishment from Topside for all the chaos that’s unfurled lately. It’s been over a year of warring between factions following Vander’s death. The uptick in violence has resulted in Topside pressing their boots down harder onto your necks. Economically. Culturally. Physically. Judicially. And of course, environmentally. You silently say thanks for your mask, and for the purification pumps contained in your mech suit.
There are many things about the suit to be thankful for. Its armor. Its protection. Its ability to hide your gender. The voice modulator was expensive, but it was worth every coin. The whole of the Undercity believes you to be a male. You wonder sometimes if you would get half as much work if people knew you were a woman. You wouldn’t be taken seriously by most, you don’t think.
Perhaps it wouldn’t make a difference to the Eye of Zaun, given that his right-hand man is a woman.
And that bitch is running late.
Unusual for her. Sure, Sevika has a nonchalant attitude, but underneath that seeming indifference is grim gravitas. You start to get the feeling that more than just the air quality is off today.
You look around, leaning against weathered brick in the alleyway. The normal rendezvous point. Trenchers pass you by, carting water, textiles, tools. Some cough, noting the worsening smog. Rags bundle up around noses and mouths, meager attempts to combat the toxicity. The more disheveled amongst them poorly conceal the violet glow of Shimmer in their pockets, furtively looking around for a safe place to get their fill. Everyone is buzzing with the same paranoia, on alert for bigger fish looking to pilfer from them.
“Engineer.”
You spin around as smoothly as the suit will allow, the metal components clinking against each other.
Sevika stands before you, and she’s not alone this time. Two of Silco’s larger goons accompany her. “You’re coming with us. It’s a different kind of job this time,” she says smoothly.
A beat of silence goes by. You scan her face, trying to read it. Trying to understand what’s spawned this switch up. But Sevika is infuriatingly unreadable.
You nod, walking with them a block over to where a car is waiting. They parked it a distance away intentionally, you realize. They snuck up on you. This is very, very off.
You get in, sandwiched between the two goons as Sevika takes the front. The hair on the back of your neck is prickling. This doesn’t feel like work. This feels like suspicion.
A million thoughts race through your mind. The last few jobs contracted out to you went smoothly. You delivered the desired results, took your payment, and left. Not an iota more of complexity or difficulty. You’ve done nothing wrong. And yet, you’re clearly in trouble. Silco must suspect some sort of disloyalty. Will he interrogate you or go straight to having you cut up into pieces? Does that even make any sense? You’re just a mercenary, not a bonafide member of his crew. You suppose technicalities like that aren’t much of a concern to Silco.
You spend the entire ride to The Last Drop collecting your nerves. You’ll see what the fuck this is about. And then you’ll leave or die trying. You’d like to see what they think they can do to this suit.
You try to level your breathing, worrying that the increasing pace of the oxygen pumps on the suit will give you away. The adrenaline makes it hard to slow them down. At least the fear that must be written on your face is shielded from their prying eyes. You won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you terrified.
They lead you inside the bar upon arrival. As you trudge up the stairs, the fear starts to expire and is replaced by an odd, placid calm. I always knew this kind of work could end up like this. I always knew this could happen. No surprises.
A slow acceptance of your fate. You’re about to go missing. Never to be seen again. And bitterly, no family or friends exist to even notice you’re gone. A blip. An error. A soul that left no imprints and simply glitched out of the realm. It’s been a short, miserable existence.
Consumed by your thoughts, one of the goons nudges you ahead. And at last, at the end of the hall, that must be his office. Even the mahogany door is imposing.
Sevika and the two malefactors lead you inside, direct you to sit in a laughably small wooden chair (obviously intended to ramp up the humiliation factor), and then promptly leave you. Alone.
With Silco.
His back is turned to you. A ring of smoke snakes its way up towards the ceiling. He stands in front of a neon Eye of Zaun sign, eclipsing it. The room is bathed in a loud lime-colored glow. He’s shrouded by a sickly, flickering green aura. If you weren’t so scared, you would laugh at how much effort he puts into playing a villain. The cigar, his facing away from you, his letting you sit in uncomfortable, drawn-out silence. Silco is definitely a patron of the arts – deeply into theatrics.
Somehow, you muse, his slender figure is more intimidating than those of the gargantuan henchmen he employs. He’s spider-like. Venomous, and at the same time poised and graceful. Horrifying in a meticulous, stoic, almost beautiful manner. He reminds you of ivy, snaking its way up to the light with arduous determination. An unwelcome weed with inhuman persistence. He spreads his tendrils out and he claims.
He finally turns around, eyeing you. You feel naked, like he can look straight through all the gear and mechanics of the suit, past your mask, right into your consciousness. The Eye of Zaun. There’s nowhere to hide, not even in your mind. He sees it all.
Another puff of the cigar. “I understand up to this point you’ve been on the transportation side of things,” he says. “You help with my deliveries.”
Such a euphemistic way of putting things. You help him cripple an entire population with drugs – smuggling it into places and killing anyone that gets in the way. You help him beat the Undercity into purple submission. You’re a hired gun. The violence that steps in where words fail.
“Sevika says you’re good at it,” he continues.
You nod. You are good at killing.
He steps forward. “I’ve got something new for you. A baroness that’s attempting to hijack my business with her own iteration of Shimmer.” The tone of his voice tilts downward mockingly, like he finds this transgression amusing. “I’ve heard it’s quite good; enough to draw away customers. I want her brought here. I’m eager for her to share her recipe.”
The knot that had been tying itself in your stomach subsides for just a moment, realizing you will get to leave this office in one piece.
“Sevika will be heading this covert operation. For an assistant, she suggested you.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They remain as menacing as ever. “The Engineer.”
You maintain your silence, sitting as motionless as humanly possible. You overcome your residual fear and begin to dissociate into the familiar robotic professional you know yourself to be. You don’t think about your own mortality. You think about getting jobs done. There’s no room in this line of work for fear. You’ll chastise yourself for getting so yellow later. These gangsters, him most of all, can smell fear. Surely, he sensed it from you. There’s laughter in his eyes.
“Funny no one knows anything about you,” he tilts his head. “Not even your name. You appear out of nowhere. You don’t discriminate, filling orders for anyone that pays.”
He pauses. “But there’s a saying,” Silco takes yet another step closer, beginning to tower over you in your seat. “A friend to everyone is really a friend to no one.”
He bends down, face inches from yours. You stare back at him from the safety of your mask.
“A piece of advice, Engineer.” His voice is unfathomably icy and even, “It’s safest out there if you’re loyal to only one party. Mine.”
The message is clear. If you become an asset to anyone else, you’re dead.
Rather than feeling threatened, your ego is stroked. He considers you important enough to snag. You’ve built up quite the reputation. And to think you once considered the whore houses for work, to scrape by and eat.
“So be it,” you respond, the voice modulator vocalizing a robotic lower register. Your reply sounds as monotonous and breezy as you had hoped.
Silco steps back, turning around again to face the neon sign. It’s like the stage has been reset for another performance, one you almost wish you could stick around for. But the tension radiating from him melts into something almost resembling boredom.
“Leave, then,” Silco sighs. “Sevika will brief you.”