Nine years later

Nio Barn wasn't the type to believe rumours.

Deep in the back alleys of Oa City, whispers travelled faster than cars; too fast. From one person to the next, details were lost and added until nothing but a grain of the truth was left. And two, silencing a dissonant voice was common practice among the clans. Whether through a single conversation, the pointed end of a knife, or a well-aimed bullet, ring leaders found their ways to scare unfortunate souls back into their lair of submission.

Though, there was one whisper that had intrigued Nio for as long as he could remember, for it was said more out of concern than as a threat. Beware that den of disillusions—The House of Hope is neither a house nor a place to find hope.

Many a time, Nio had dawdled around this infamous, dilapidated building, with its crumbling flatstone walls and water-damaged, partially caved-in pointed roof covered in fungus and other patches of decay. Finally, he had a reason other than sheer curiosity to slide past the dark ragged sheet they used for a door and find out why only the desperate visited The House of Hope.

Not that Nio considered himself desperate.

The bag slumped over his shoulder squirmed and squealed, as if in disagreement. Nio tightened his grip, which didn't help but was all he could do. There was no turning back now. With confident strides—the pace of someone with nothing left to lose and everything to gain—he descended into the darkness of this underground establishment.

Decades of mud and other filth crusted the stairs. With each sticky step, the sickly sweet scent of dreampowder grew sharper. 

Nio held his breath as he stepped into the hazy fog and found a cave adorned with rusted gears and broken clockwork. 

Although gaslight had become a commodity in most parts of the peninsula, the invention hadn't yet reached this place. Potted candles illuminated the low tables and cast flickering shadows on the clients, all of which were lying on blood-stained pillows, long-tubed pipes in their mouths, their eyes set on nowhere and everywhere at once. Steam rose from their copper mugs, mostly untouched.

Not a single person blinked nor moved a muscle as he stomped past, making his way to the dusty but ornate cedarwood bar with intricate, swirly engravings and corroded brass fixtures. 

The bartender, an older woman with wrinkles as deep as the valleys of Vale, was twirling a miniature screwdriver in her hands. She spared him no glance. Even as he leaned over, she continued to pay more attention to the half-assembled metal fly on the counter than to him.

"I have an appointment with the Scaletail," Nio said. His voice was barely audible over the bubbling of the pipes and the thrashing of the creature in the bag.

She knocked the back of the screwdriver against the mishmash of wires and bolts, then lifted its right wing. "The Scaletail's a myth."

Nio huffed. Not this game again. Nine years of clan life, and he was done proving his worth to thick-headed minions before he could speak to someone higher up the chain of command. The letter promising riches had been sent to him, so here he was. Not as a guest but as a business partner.

"Look, you can pretend all you want. We can waste the rest of the evening talking about hoppers, slobbermouths, and your favourite show on the voicebox. But you clearly have better things to do, and I'm here to discuss a potential partnership. Tell your boss I've arrived with a gift." He slung the squeaking, wriggling bag from his shoulder and threw it onto the counter. "A little something from the Yurei Cave—if that doesn't convince him, I might as well leave."

She arched her left brow, revealing a sharp scar. "Who told you the Scaletail's a man?"

A sly grin crept across Nio's face. "So you admit knowing him... her... them." He shrugged.

"Never assume, young Kotayi."

"Nor should you," Nio said calmly. "I may look the part, but I've never set foot outside the peninsula." He paused, reminiscing about a long-forgotten adventure involving a box of sweets, two women, and a lot of blood. "Except for that one night in Kvyiana, but that's a long story and still doesn't count. I can't be Kotayi—I've never been to Kotai, and I don't know a single person who has."

The woman's mouth opened but she didn't say anything. She squinted, scrutinizing both him and the bag.

Nio followed her every movement. Had he said too much? Did she not trust him?

After a few uncomfortable moments during which anything was possible, including a fight, she slid the screwdriver behind her ear, then reached for a copper goblet and two bottles from the back bar. The two folkdrinks, one yellow in colour and the other blue, turned smoky green as she poured them out. Behind her, gears started whirring and croaking, not breathing but groaning life into the big brass clock overseeing the bar. 

As the handles struck midnight, the metal fly took flight.

"Wait here," she said as she shoved the drink towards him. Before Nio could respond that he had no money to pay, she added, "It's on the house. My boss welcomes you."

The woman crossed her arms. One sniff was all it took for Nio to decide not to touch the smoking concoction. Too spicy, too pungent; the smell of clouded minds and eternal regrets. He had made that mistake once, years ago, as a new cub in the Clan of the Sugarpaw, and still bore the occasionally itchy scars on his back as a reminder.

"Maybe la—"

A high-pitched screech interrupted him. 

The creature was pushing against the canvas with all its might, and in an attempt to plunge down from the counter and escape, one of its tentacles slipped out and banged against Nio's drink. A crackling white spark burst into a million pieces as flesh met copper.

With one hand, Nio scooped up the falling goblet, liquid splashing over his fingers and leather wristband. With the other, he reached for the gun tucked into his belt and flicked it onto the bag.

The bag was still squeaking and writhing, the fabric stretched out, but with the weight of the gun pressing it down, the creature was unable to break free.

The tentacle squirmed back inside.

Nio couldn't remember the last time he had used his gun. The old weapon was uncalibrated and tarnished from the many years it had been handed down from one clan cub to the other, the once-detailed carving of a sugarpaw's sharp tooth faded. Tonight it was saving his most valuable asset.

"Impressive. Few can out-manoeuvre a hobbler," the bartender said, her lips pursed. "You're quick."

Placing the goblet back on the counter, Nio hummed. He wasn't quick; others were simply too slow. He wiped his wet hand on his dirt-brown pants.

Anyone in his shoes would have at least tried the same; he was one of the rare people who could actually pull it off. That made the spark hobbler his business card to the Viper, a ticket out of the Clan and the start of something new. No more sharing his rewards with lesser thieves and smugglers. Finally, back on the track he had set out for himself all these years ago when he had left Laddy Paddy, Lassy Maeve, and his house brothers to plough with the rains of Vale at their mercy.

He may not be a Speed Sprint racer like Luis Serrano, but he could practically smell the wealth and success.

That or the dreampowder fumes were toying with his mind. He didn't want to stay here a moment longer than he had to; this place was truly a cave for the desperate.

"When will your boss come?" Nio asked. His gaze flicked to the stairs, momentarily distracted by shouting coming from outside.

"Patience's bitter plant, but its fruits are sweet," she said.

"Not a fan of sweet."

She grabbed a piece of paper from the counter and shoved it towards him. "Here, Quick Tick, something to keep you occupied while you wait."

Nio raised an eyebrow as she slid the pamphlet in his direction. Unlike most advertisements in Oa City, the pictures were not hand-drawn but printed with the finest inks and in full colour.

'The battle for eternal glory continues,' it read in bold, black letters.

The sleek scarlet red pod flashed the metal rim of its rubber tyres as it rotated into a corner, leaving a cloud of detailed dust and debris in its wake. The pod was flanked by two racers holding a staring competition, goggles perched on their foreheads. 

Speed Sprint racers!

The man on the right, with a chiselled jawline, sharp cheekbones, and warm brown eyes could only be Ruben Vincuña. His dark hair was styled in a messy yet charming fashion. Everything about him screamed that he was ready to take on the woman on the left, Seraphina Bani. She had a striking face, venomous eyes, and a high forehead that accentuated the long, curly hair that fell down her shoulders, wild and untamed. A mischievous grin curved her lips. She, too, looked fantastically lethal, but it was he who seemed too handsome for his own good.

Nio had no idea how long he had been ogling the pamphlet when the woman let out a low chuckle. 

She was fidgeting with her screwdriver again. "Completely besotted, aren't you?"

"I'm not that big of a fan. I listen to the races when I can." Nio cleared his throat. He didn't want to say much more—he hadn't come here for idle chit-chat with an elderly barmaid intending to embarrass him for liking someone based on a picture.

"My bet is that we'll have a Speed Queen this year. I can't wait to see our Bani wiping the floor with that smug-faced Vincuña."

"See?" Nio asked in surprise.

"Yeah, see." She glanced at the bag idly poking against the gun, then back at him. "The first race of the season is right here, just outside the city. Ten days from now—but who's counting—I got tickets for the stands right at the long straight. They say the new machines will reach the top speed of eight hurricanes. That's twice as fast as the fastest airship—can you imagine?"

A strange sensation bubbled up in Nio's stomach, from where it quickly spread to his chest. Tickets to the Speed Sprints were only for the wealthy; they cost a hand, a leg, and either a kidney or the soul of your firstborn. Though he had no doubt that keeping the dreampowder addicts hooked on their favourite drug was a lucrative enterprise, no person in downtown Oa City made enough dons to be able to afford a ticket.

"Is that how well the Scaletail pays their staff?" Nio asked. He edged away from her, his gun still within reach.

"The Scaletail might not," the woman said with a neutral expression. The screwdriver began to click and turn. With a loud mechanical whir, the tool transformed. A miniature barrel gleamed in the dim light. "But my employer surely does."

Nio's breath hitched as footsteps came thundering down. A squad of white-masked coppers in long black coats flooded into the bar, their long-barrel pistols locked and loaded.

A female voice bellowed, "Nio Barn, by the power of the state of Oa, you're under arrest. On the charges of theft, illegal trade, battery, and assault. You have no rights but the right to remain silent."

Balls of a slobbermouth—he had been set up!