Riven squinted through the gloom as she pocketed the last of her cred‑chips and slid the workshop's metal shutter halfway down. The single fluorescent tube overhead buzzed one last defiant squeal before dying, leaving her in half‑light. Perfect, she thought, tugging her hoodie's hood over her greasy black hair. Nothing like running on fumes and neon.
Outside, Lower Reach was a carnival of flickering holo‑ads and midnight traders. Every wall pulsed with competing commercials:
[Holo‑Billboard] "NeoGen Nutrient Paste: Three Spoonfuls to Power a Lifetime!"[Street Banner] "Apex Neural™ Implants: Upgrade Your Mind, Upgrade Your Life!"
Riven muttered under her breath. "If only one of those could reboot my bank account." She passed a trio of drunken joyriders weaving neon‑glow hovercycles through the narrow alley. One nearly clipped her shoulder, cackling, "You missed us, Riv! Come ride!" She waved him off with a sigh.No thanks... I'd rather ride out the power surge.
Toting her satchel of half‑bought capacitors, she headed for Old Man Chav's salvage stall two blocks north. The stall sat under a sagging tarp, a hodgepodge of scorched circuit boards and dented alloy panels piled hip‑high. Chav's one working holo‑eye glowed blood‑orange as he whittled at a fried datadrive.
"Late," he grunted without looking up. Sparks from his arc‑welder painted silver constellations on the tarp.
Riven offered a tight smile. "Blame the traffic. And the six‑hour queue at the public charging station." She dropped her cred‑chip on the plank‑wood counter.
Chav pushed the chip back at her. "Not enough."
She huffed. "I traded two high‑density servos and my left arm for these credits, and you think that's not enough?"
He finally glanced up, crooked grin flashing. "You'd bite my hand off if I offered more." He rifled under the tarp and slapped five shining pre‑Collapse capacitors into her palm. "Last batch."
Riven cradled them like fragile gems. "You're a lifesaver." She gave him a mock bow. "I promise not to fry them on the first try."
Chav snorted. "Not my problem if you do."
A distant boom trembled through the alley, another transformer bite the dust. Neon signs flickered; some went dark. A hush fell among the traders, broken by the hiss of emergency backup generators.
"Enjoy the blackout," Riven called over her shoulder, stuffing the capacitors in her satchel. She slapped the charging port on her wrist‑pad and tugged the hood up tighter. "Let's hope the grid holds just long enough."
The trek back was a gauntlet of half‑lit side streets and shuttered vendor carts. Music leaked from a nearby club, bass pounding so hard her teeth vibrated. She skidded around a corner where two cyborg tweakers argued over a smuggled drone.
"Gonna sell it or what?" one snarled, twisting a servo‑arm joint.
The other waved a glowing holo‑credit chip. "I will! Just need a sec to bypass the safety lock."
Riven ducked into a shadowy alcove, clutching her satchel. Not this time, thanks, she thought, pressing herself against the damp brick. An AV, a glided overhead, spotlight off in the darkness. She held her breath until its engines hummed away.
At last she arrived at her workshop's back door: a lumpy steel panel bolted over a busted entrance. She dropped the satchel and worked the latches with fingers slick from grease and adrenaline. The door grated open; she slipped inside and sealed it behind her.
Her workshop was a riot of clutter: tangled wiring, empty NeoGen jars, half‑drunk energy cans, and spare limbs from old bots. The holo‑screen above her bench blinked into life with a final ad:
[TV Ad] "SkyNet HomeGuard Drone—Your Eyes When You Can't Watch!"
She jabbed the mute pad. "As if I trust those flying snitches."
In the center of the bench lay Gizmo's chassis, his belly cavity yawning open like a mechanical skull. Riven tugged off her hood, brushing back a lock of greasy hair and wiping sweat from her brow. She eyed the fried capacitor socket, then the five pristine caps she'd just risked her neck scavenging.
"Alright, you rust‑bucket… let's get you nine lives, or at least nine minutes before your next meltdown."
She pulled on her welding visor, its green glow reflecting in the scattered metal bits. "No half‑measures," she muttered, plucking the first cap from her satchel. Her prosthetic hand clicked as it extended fine solder‑tacks. "This is where you live or die, buddy."
A soft whir from the corner caught her ear: Gizmo's diagnostic drone hovered, its lens flickering. Riven waved it away. "Not now, Phineas. I haven't had coffee yet."
Her fingers danced, threading leads, laying solder, fanning each joint until the new cap gleamed in its cradle. Blue petals of spark flew across the board; she sucked in a breath and tapped the visor's auto‑coolant.
"Hold tight… can't short us out again."
With a final twist, she locked the part in place and flicked the workshop's main breaker. The holo‑screen jumped to a static‑lined news flash:
[News Ticker] "Rolling blackouts continue; HiveTech patrols increase in Lower Reach."
She cursed and banged the side of her console. "Of course. Everything Hive touches turns to static."
In that charged silence, Riven let her shoulders slump. Why do I even bother? she wondered, staring at the blinking empty belly of Gizmo. You're just a bucket of wires. She reached into her pocket and found a tiny photograph, her smiling family, gone in the Collapse. She tucked it against the bench's edge, letting it remind her why she fought to bring metal pets to life.
A soft blue glow filled the bench as she reconnected Gizmo's power lead. The chassis quivered. Riven pressed her palm to the bench, eyes closed.
"Come on, Gizmo… let's hear that ugly purr."
With a hiss of relays, the LED "eyes" flared green. Motors hummed. Gizmo's tail uncoiled, and he shivered to life. Riven opened her eyes, disbelief and triumph colliding.
Gizmo's triumphant whir lasted barely a heartbeat before the green glow sputtered out. His chassis went limp again, LEDs dimming to black. Riven blinked, heart sinking.
"No, no… not now." She tapped his side panel, nothing. The faint hiss of relays had died back into silence.
She glanced up at the cracked wall clock: 2:37 AM. Four hours until dawn. Four hours to cobble together a working pet before the bazaar. And yet here she was, alone with a broken machine.
Riven rubbed her eyes and ran a hand through her greasy hair. "Funny how there aren't any real animals left in this city," she murmured. "Chem spills, genetic bans... decades ago, they tried to wipe out every living thing that wasn't factory‑approved."
The workshop's lone fluorescent tube flickered again, threatening to die. Riven straightened, jaw set. "Alright, you glorified toaster." She placed Gizmo on the bench and retrieved her satchel, determination blazing brighter than any LED.
Outside, the city rumbled on. Sirens, distant shouts, a motorbike's roar fading into the fog. Inside, Riven cracked her knuckles and got back to work. Because in Ironbound City, if you wanted something, you had to build it yourself and she was damn well not giving up on her furball.