In District 19 of Blackstone City's Lower District, a "carriage" rolled to a slow halt at a street corner.
Calling it a carriage was generous; in reality, it was a commuter vehicle cobbled together from scrap parts and salvaged machinery. In the Lower District, unless people relied on their own two feet, they chose these jury-rigged "carriages" for longer treks.
The one Byrne rode in was covered in weld marks and weeping rust. The passenger-side windshield was missing, replaced by a sheet of yellowed plastic that flapped feebly in the wind, and the wheels were mismatched tires stripped from derelict trucks.
The driver was an old man missing half an ear. He spat out a puff of smoke from a hand-rolled cigarette and barked, "We're here, guest. 260,000 Credits. No credit, cash only."
Byrne paid and stepped out, taking a deep breath of the stale air.
He was back. He had actually made it back alive.
He had originally thought the qualification exam would take half a day; instead, it had consumed twelve. The desert gales, the lethal ambushes, the eerie furnace, and the constant gambling with his life—every moment was seared into his brain like a brand. Looking back, the last two weeks felt like a waking nightmare.
District 19 remained exactly as he remembered it. The narrow street was squeezed to less than two meters wide by the haphazard shacks leaning against each other on both sides. A group of shirtless children played around a pile of discarded parts, their skin grimy but their laughter genuine, as if the world's suffering hadn't touched them yet.
Nearby, a few adults in rags huddle against a wall to catch the sun, chatting idly about which machine shop was hiring day laborers or which block had recently been "visited" by the Imperial Guard press-gangs. The air was thick with the Lower District's signature scent: a pungent cocktail of engine oil, oxidized iron, and low-grade fuel.
Usually, the smell made Byrne nauseous. But after twelve days of facing death, he found a strange, inexplicable comfort in it.
"Oi, Byrne! You're still kicking? How'd the Guard miss you?"
A raspy voice drifted from a nearby shack. Byrne stopped and turned to see his neighbor, an old welder named Gray, poking his head out while clutching a blowtorch. Gray's face was crisscrossed with jagged scars—souvenirs from a mishap in his youth.
Byrne scratched his head and gave a modest smile. "Just lucky, I guess. The Guard didn't think much of me."
He couldn't exactly explain to Gray that he'd been away for a Tax Collector exam, let alone describe the gauntlet he'd run in the wasteland.
Gray stepped out of his shack and spat on the ground, his expression souring. "My new apprentice wasn't so lucky. Those bastards from the recruitment squad dragged the lad away a week ago. Not a word since."
Byrne's heart sank. He knew the boy—a sharp kid who was the sole provider for a paralyzed mother. Comparing himself to the apprentice, Byrne felt a renewed surge of relief that he'd passed Marcus's test. Without that Tax Collector post, he'd be in the exact same position.
Gray patted his shoulder. "Good to have you back. Get home and check your shop; the door hinges got gnawed on by rats a few days ago. I saw it and reinforced them for you."
"Thanks, Uncle Gray. I'll bring you a pack of smokes later."
Byrne turned toward his home, but Gray called out again after only a few steps.
"Byrne, almost forgot. While I was fixing your door, a well-dressed fellow came looking for you."
Well-dressed?
Byrne paused, a flicker of doubt crossing his mind. In the Lower District, the only people who looked "decent" were visiting Imperial officials or high-ranking gang enforcers collecting protection money. And for them to show up specifically during the twelve days he was gone... who could it be?
He ran through the possibilities.
Keith? No, Keith had been too badly wounded after the assassination attempt on the Governor to recover this quickly.
One of Marcus's men? Unlikely. If Marcus wanted something, he would have said it in the tent. Besides, Marcus knew exactly where Byrne was; he wouldn't waste time sending someone to a slum shack.
Someone from Selena's family? That seemed the least likely of all.
With the obvious choices eliminated, Byrne grew more concerned. "Uncle Gray, what did he look like? What was he wearing? Did he say what he wanted?"
Gray puffed on his cigarette, squinting as he recalled. "Wore a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face. Tall fellow. He had a dark grey coat made of fabric that looked expensive—definitely not something anyone around here could afford. I asked his business, and he just said to tell you to meet him at the Ironbone Cafe in the Upper District once you returned. Said he had something to give back to you."
The Ironbone Cafe?
Byrne frowned. To him, the Upper District was a foreign land of opulence and a dangerous "no-go" zone. There were cafes in the Lower District, of course, but they were tiny stalls selling synthetic swill that tasted worse than dishwater. They couldn't compare to the high-end establishments of the spire.
Besides, "Ironbone Cafe" sounded far too sophisticated for a random slum-dweller to be invited to. He wondered if Gray's old ears had betrayed him. "Uncle Gray, are you sure he said the one in the Upper District?"
Gray exhaled a plume of smoke. "No mistake. He made a point of it. Said it was near the Central Avenue. I may be old, but I still know the difference between up-spire and down-slum."
Gray flicked his ash, his tone turning cautious. "Byrne, watch yourself. That man looked like trouble. If you don't feel right about it, don't go. People like us are better off keeping our heads down."
"I hear you, Uncle Gray. I'll be careful," Byrne nodded.
Despite his words, his mind was made up. Waiting for trouble to find him was a losing game. He knew that avoidance didn't solve problems; it just let them fester like a shadow in the Warp until they swallowed you whole.
He wouldn't go home yet. He'd head straight for the Ironbone Cafe to see exactly who this mysterious guest was.