Shattered Ladder 1-31 (Patreon)

It’s been…

A hum slid free, Ken bobbing his head as he cooked breakfast for his crew.

Grease popped and sizzled off the metal pan, stinging his forearm with a tiny kiss of hot oil. Ken didn’t flinch, the heat nothing compared to years of burnt fingertips learning from Wei. Hmm-hm, never touched a frying pan… Edges of the street-meat curled and browned in his frying pan as he shook the handle, hiss of the fat cutting through the silence of the fortified apartment.

The full and proper lyrics of that song might have escaped him but he did know that it had been almost a month already. Three weeks.

Twenty-one days since the fire ate the shop and his grandfather both. 

Twenty-one days since the alley. 

Since the three of them — a fake alchemist, a loudmouth tech-monkey, and a pink-jacketed psycho — smashed together into something that wasn't quite a crew and wasn't quite a suicide pact, but sat somewhere ugly in the middle.

Ken pushed the no-longer gray meat around with a half-bent spoon, bare feet silent on the cold plastic floor. He leaned over, Ken reaching into the chipped bowl on the counter as one hand cracked three eggs open into the pan. Real eggs. 

Actual eggs, as crazy as that was.

They weren’t anything like the ones he’d seen Wei use, the shells brittle and the yolks a disturbingly vivid orange but they were still real eggs. He had no idea if Don was telling the truth about how and where he got the luxury items, something he haggled out of some black-market grocer two sectors over, but he wasn’t trying to argue or look into it all that hard. 

Because again… real eggs, bro.

The smell of actual protein sizzling in the pan was enough to put a smile on his face, one realer than the eggs, as it spread all throughout the apartment and made the morning feel so much more alive. 

Still humming a song he didn’t really know, Ken scraped the food onto three mismatched plates to his left on the counter, just to turn right around to the back burner.

A small dented iron pot sat there behind the frying pan, dark green sludge still roiling in a low boil. It had taken him eight days of reading and research after the original attempt to get the process down. Four days, a ton of work, and a lot of wasted, expensive roots; all to figure out how to synthesize the thick extraction without the glass-assisted precision from Wei’s specialized alembics. 

Either way, the smell — bitter earth, wet copper, and something else that burned at the back of the sinuses — was finally right. Shēn Gēn Jì. 

Or as Old Wei called the stuff, "Bitter Foundation Draught in the lower tongues."

Ken wrapped a rag around the hot handle and poured the thick liquid into three half-clear plastic cups, heavy steam coiling up from each one.

“I’m hungry, kitchen-boy!” The door to the main bedroom rattled open as Zee kicked it, the crew leader materializing from her section of the apartment, wearing little more than a white shirt and pink shorts with a drawstring. 

A chair came free as she hooked a toe around one leg and pulled it out. A second later, she dropped her butt into it, amber eyes sharp and without a hint of sleep in them. “Feed me!”

“...you know I’m not your servant, right?”Amber eyes stared back, unflinching as Zee folded her arms. “I know I didn’t ask.”

Ken opened his mouth but the words went nowhere as Don basically vibrated into the kitchen, all wide shoulders and restless hands as the redhead eyed the plates of eggs. “Good morning, Zee-Lady!” A wide, greedy grin on his face, he only spared a moment to bow at their boss before looking back over at the still-hot breakfast awaiting them. “You too, Ken-bro!”

“Hey, Dee.” Cups in both hands, Ken turned around and brought them over to the table.

The smile on Don’s face vanished to nothing as Ken set the steaming cups of green down at the table, pastic clinking against the surface. By the time Ken looked up again, Don had managed to hide his grimace; suspiciously-real smile back in place.

Grimace or not, Ken only had one word for the both of them. “Drink.”

Don snatched his cup up, scammer’s smile fighting a losing battle against the urge to gag at the smell of bitter earth and blood. "Another cup of the good stuff! Bottoms up to gettin' buff!"

The redhead threw it back like it was sugar-water and Ken knew what was coming next, no matter how hard Don tried to fight it every day. “Nggghh…” The bigger boy’s face squeezed tight, eyes watering and mouth twisting into a tight knot of regret for a split second before that monkey-wide grin snapped violently back into place. 

“G-good stuff, bro!” He slammed the cup down, still grinning through the urge to cough up a lung.  

Zee didn’t touch hers.

At least, not with her tongue.

One hand picked up the cup as she did the same ritual she’d done for the last two weeks now, swirling the viscous liquid in front of her as her nose wrinkled. This time, she decided to voice what was clearly on her mind. "You still ain’t told us what’s in this scrap, cook-boy.”Ken didn’t even bother rolling his eyes at the new title, but he did meet her gaze at the non-question. His own cup rose to his lips as he took a slow measured sip. Bitterness coated his tongue, sliding down his throat with the taste of long-dried blood and safety. “You wouldn’t understand anyway, unless you’ve been studying my books.”“I can’t read old-side script.” Zee clicked her tongue. “No one even speaks that mess, you weirdo.”

"I told you, you wouldn’t understand. Just know the stuff makes you strong." Ken leaned back against the counter, swallowing down another sip. ""I used to be… real real weak."

He didn't elaborate. The shakes, the bad breathing, the feeling of his own meat failing him in the Waste Valley outside the Tower; none of that needed to be brought up right now.

Zee stared back at him, the girl sucking her teeth the longer she looked. He knew she hated not knowing, but Ken also knew she hated weakness a lot more.

The cup tipped all the way back and two quick swallows later, she slammed her cup down next to Don’s. “Food. Now.”

Ken grinned.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Weeks of actually living in District 44 had done a lot in getting him used to the scale and hustle of the outside world, that much was true.

It still didn’t change the fact that every single time he stepped out into the markets, his nostrils burned like it was the very first. Even now, a good hour into their mission of the day, he was fighting the urge to cover his nose with his robes. It would be one thing if it just smelled, but no, it couldn’t stop there. 

The place was just like the people that lived in it, rude enough to shove its stench down your throat and demand rent.

Whether it was the deep exhaust of the scrap-forges venting over from Sector Four-Three, or the sour-sweat of uncounted bodies pressed desperately into the narrow-laned plaza, it was all a weight on his senses.

Nose, ears, and eyes; no matter which one, they always took their time to get used to it. 

Kzzzt.

Speaking of noise… 

"Stay sharp!" 

A hiss of static drilled deep into Ken’s head, forcing a wince out of him as Don's voice crackled out of the cheap earpiece. It was necessary, Ken knew that, annoying as it was. With all the bodies pressed so tight, it would be impossible to hear each other at a distance, especially over the echoing roar of grinding gears, haggling and the shouting vendor voices bouncing off rusted walls.

"Clunk-Cats run this section of Four-Four!” Even still, Ken had to flinch every time the whine stung his ears. “They see a crew movin' product, they get twitchy."

desperate bodies pressed into the narrow, corrugated metal canyon. 

Ken pulled a face, lips pulling back from his teeth. Clunk-Cats. His eyes trailed over the back of a scrap-scav missing half an arm, the man holding a bag full of stripped wires. Who even came up with that, even?

Dumb names aside, Ken simply raised his head to look through the crowd.Two dozen paces ahead, Don was a ghost even with his bright red hair. He weaved through the crush of bodies, almost disappearing every other step. That red head was on a constant swivel for trouble, eyes tracking for anything to report back. 

Today, he was the Map.

Ken and Zee, on the other hand, were the Mules.

They carried a crate between them, a heavy, reinforced metal box that buzzed constantly like it wanted to tear itself apart from the inside. Whatever it was, the guy who gave them the job didn’t make any effort to say, Zee didn’t make any effort to ask, and Ken didn’t know enough to care. 

No, all he cared about was the fact that his fingers were clamped around the thick iron handle on his side, forearms burning a good forty-five minutes into their job.

It was a good burn; nothing that made him feel like he couldn’t manage it, of course.

Still burns, though. His green tunic clung to his back, heavy with sweat from both the heat and the humidity of so many other bodies tight and close. Kzzzt.

“I need me a Tin, Ken-bro.” Don’s voice came through again, another hiss of electronics loud enough to make Ken’s eye twitch. “You mind talking to Zee-lady about letting me get one?”“Not on your life.” Zee’s hiss came in stereo, natural and clear from the other end of the box as well as another sharp buzz in his ear.

“Yeah, Zee-lady.” It was a half-laugh in Ken’s ear next. “Literally, my life might need it.”

“Tin?” Ken blinked, adjusting his grip on the vibrating crate “That another type of money? Like Gray?”

“Wha—?” Don’s voice hitched, stumbling on its own rhythm “No. No, Ken-bro, I mean, Tin. Like, a Tin, y’know? Like a cheap scrap-shoot?”

“I…” Ken frowned, looking across the crate at Zee. “You lost me.”

Zee sighed loud, rolling her eyes so hard Ken was surprised she didn't strain a muscle. “He means a clunk-piece. A…what’s the word?” She clicked her tongue. “A firearm, turtle.”

“Yeah,” Don chirped over the comms. “A fire-arm.”

“Ohhh.” Ken blinked again, processing it. Why not just say gun? Instead of asking that, his practical brain latched onto the other burning question. “Why not just get one, then?”

A short bark of a laugh almost rattled the comm in Ken’s ear. 

“Less I make it myself, ammo’s a crazy price to pay without a sponsor.” Don’s words came out half mashed together, cheap earpiece not helping with the audio quality. “Good day work get you a shot, yeah? Pull the trigger one time, you're firing breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

“...damn.” Ken grunted as he hoirsted his side of the crate an inch higher. Either guns were wildly expensive, or Don was way broker than he thought. Probably both.

"Both you idiots shut up," Zee’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and annoyed. "Ghost, look hungry."

“Yeah,” Don chirped up. “Real hungry-hungry. You got three, lookni’ like four, comin' up on you in a bit.”

Ken didn't turn his head or break stride, knuckles tensing around the dark metal as the cold feeling of violence began to slide into his veins. He adjusted his grip on the handle one more time as he let out a low breath, tension bleeding into his muscles and strength filling him up. 

The ambush was as ragged as it was desperate, four of them like Don said.

Three men and one woman — faces hollow and clothes grease-stained rags barely held together — erupted from a tight gap between two burning trash barrels. 

A scarecrow of a scav rushed in fast, a jagged piece of rusted rebar raised high and ready.

"Drop it, su-!"

Zee didn't let him finish the sentence before she followed his command, already rushing forward to meet him.

All the weight of the crate slammed down entirely onto Ken’s right arm, his shoulder taking it the hardest as every muscle in it screamed as he grunted hard and gave it his all to hold on tight to their paycheck for the day.

The blur of neon pink and blonde hair didn’t stop or threaten, already inside the arc of the rebar and directly into the lankhead’s space. Her hips twisted, a pair of short-shorts granting her all the range of motion in the world. 

Good for her and bad for anyone else in her way, it was a brutal whip of kinetic force that traveled through her leg and out through her pink-soled shoe. The heel of her foot struck the man’s wrist, his weapon flying free into the crowd.

Before the man could even register the disarm, Zee spun on the ball of her other foot, one hand lashing out in a clawing rake. Ken winced as flesh gave way immediately. 

The guy didn't even have the breath to scream as his leader’s pink-painted nails dug under his jawline, tearing through the soft tissue of his neck. Blood sprayed, a hot, bright mist in the gray market air, and the man crumpled with an open throat.

The woman attacker didn’t even see the blood, eyes only on the crate and the person holding onto it, hands hooked like talongs as she threw herself right at him.

The world was clear, static in his ear and the roar around him fading to almost nothing as his heart beat slow. Perfectly clear, he saw it.

Her path.

He couldn’t help but see it; the over-commitment in her lunge, center of gravity entirely pitched forward, as she expected him to drop the heavy metal box to meet her attack.

She was right on that much.

Ken let go of the crate.

It slammed into the pock-marked road with a clang loud enough to draw attention, dark pavement crumbling just a little bit beneath where it landed.

The woman grabbed at empty air, momentum carrying her face-first toward the metal box. Ken spun, body coiling and unwinding in a single motion he couldn’t bother to name and didn’t see the need to.

One hand clamped down on the meat of her shoulder as she stumbled past him, the back of his ponytail slapping her face.

Fingers dug deep into the deltoid, past the shoulder, as it found the exact gap where one bone sat in the shallow cup of the shoulder socket. It came like breathing, instinct and knowledge guiding him as he pulled down and out with a sharp yank.

It was a wet sound, like pulling a boot out of thick mud, as the joint gave, ligaments tore, and the ball ripped free of everything holding it in place.

The scream was delayed — by a second — a thin, high, breathless shriek that tore through all other noise and brought Ken back to the real world. With a hard breath, he let go of the starving thief and she collapsed onto the deck, body thrashing in the filth as her arm hung loose at a grotesque angle.

The other two attackers froze and looked at Ken and Zee, neither of them with a sweat to show from the quick takedowns. Two sets of eyes — eager amber and flat violet — stared back at them waiting for another move. 

The hunger vanished from their faces, replaced by survival-borne fear as they turned and scrambled back into the chaotic crush of the market crowd, the opposite direction of the tight alley they came from.Kzzzttt. “All good?”

“All good.” Ken exhaled a low stlow breath as he answered Don’s quick question. The sound of screams didn’t exactly match the answer, but that wasn’t something Ken could fix.

Shaking his head, the apprentice in green reached down, fingers already wrapping around the cold iron handle of the crate. He looked across the box at Zee, the girl just wiping blood off her fingers and onto her shorts with her face as bored as he’d ever seen it.

"Sloppy work, turtle.” She grabbed her handle and he took his side as they hoisted the humming metal box back up in unison. As they started moving again, Zee jerked her chin down toward the screaming woman on the floor. "Should've broke the neck. She's just gonna make noise now."

"Less effort my way." Ken closed his eyes, doing his best to pretend like he couldn’t hear the screams even as the crowd swallowed them up. Yeah… like I wanted to do that.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The loading bay was sealed off from the main road by a heavy blast door, the air inside smelling of ozone and absolutely nothing else. The merchant they delivered the box to was a twitchy, sweating man with eye-implants that kept whirring and refocusing every time Ken moved a muscle.

He didn't speak as he unlocked the crate, eyes darting over the humming core inside, and tossed a grease-stained canvas pouch across the metal table.

Ken caught the clinking bag with a quick hand.

The weight of it in his palm was substantial, but that didn’t stop him from tossing it over to an expectant Zee, the girl shoving it deep into the pocket of her jacket.

The walk back was quieter than Ken was comfortable with as they barely talked;  icy cold bleeding out of Ken’s system, leaving behind just adrenaline and an emptiness in his gut. I could go for one of those rat-sticks.

They passed by a row of stalls built into the hollowed-out chassis of a transport hauler so rusted out you could literally pick scrap metal off it like a tree. Stacks of recycled data slates and cracked monitors were stuck to its wall, flickering with vid-feeds. The stall owner, a massive man with a cybernetic jaw, leaned over his counter, voice a low growl as he chatted to a customer in a heavy coat.

"...Junkerz and Scraps are at it again.” Ken’s ears pricked up, brain snagging at the merchant’s grumbles even as his metal jaw clicked with every syllable. "Real bad this time. Heard a crew iced out one of Grendel’s ground-runners almost a round back. Whole squad, too. Heard some of the Scrapz pulled it."

That… Ken stopped, bare foot hovering over the pavement before he forced it down. That doesn’t sound good.

Zee didn't even break her stride, giving Ken a Zee-patented elbow to the ribs as she walked right past him. "Sump-noise.” 

Her voice was low, barely carrying over the noise of the street as her amber eyes stayed fixed dead ahead. "Gangs fight. It's what they do. Keep walking, turtle."