The Clockwork Spider pub lived up to its name. Nestled deep in the grime-caked lower level of the Mid-Spires market, its flickering neon sign cast a sickly green glow over the perpetually damp alley. Inside, the air was thick with synth-smoke, cheap amasec, and the low hum of hushed conversations. Gears and clockwork mechanisms, long since stopped, adorned every surface, collecting decades of grime. This was Jaxon's unofficial office, a place where information flowed as freely as the watered-down drinks.
Anya pushed through the heavy, scarred door, her senses immediately assaulted by the cacophony. She spotted Jaxon easily. He was hunched over a dented data-slate at a secluded booth in the back, his usually meticulous hair even more disheveled than she remembered. He still wore the threadbare remnants of his CID uniform jacket, its insignia long since ripped off, a permanent sneer etched on his face.
She slid into the booth opposite him, the worn upholstery groaning in protest. Jaxon looked up, his eyes, sharp and cynical even in the dim light, widened in surprise, then narrowed with a flicker of something unreadable.
"Anya," he grunted, his voice a low rasp, like grinding gears. "Long time no see. Last I heard, you were living off-grid, cultivating a deep and abiding hatred for all forms of authority."
"Some things never change, Jaxon," Anya replied, her gaze unwavering. "But I need your help. And Lena's."
At the mention of Lena, Jaxon's jaw tightened. "Lena's her own woman. And my help? You think Grimstone owes you anything after you walked away?"
"No," Anya countered, leaning forward. "But you do. Remember that raid on the gambling den, eight years ago? The one where a certain CID operative almost got himself gutted trying to save a kid who ended up owing him a lifetime of favors?"
Jaxon scoffed, but a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Blackmail, Anya? Classy."
"Desperate times, Jaxon," she said, cutting straight to the point. "Elara, the old clockmaker, was taken last night. CID Special Enforcement. They're not just sanitation sweeps; they're looking for something. Something about Grimstone's origins, a 'blueprint' from a forgotten architect. Caspian, the street artist, thinks an archivist known as The Scribe in the Upper Spires might know what it is and where it is."
Jaxon's cynical facade cracked slightly. Elara was a known, harmless fixture in the Lower Spires. The CID's interest in her, coupled with "The Scribe" and "blueprints," clearly unnerved him. "Upper Spires? Anya, that's not just a suicide run, that's a one-way trip to a black site."
Just then, a figure slid into the booth beside Jaxon, so quietly Anya hadn't even heard her approach. Lena. Her dark, intelligent eyes swept over Anya, assessing, calculating. Lena's expression was usually unreadable, a skill honed during her years extracting information from Grimstone's underbelly for the CID, and now, for herself. She wore practical, dark clothing, and a single, almost invisible comm-link nestled in her ear.
"The Scribe," Lena's voice was a soft, almost ethereal whisper, yet it cut through the pub's din. "That's a deep dive, Anya. Too deep for an ex-Guard and a street punk."
"A 'street punk' who's willing to risk everything to uncover the truth," Anya corrected, a hint of steel in her voice. "And a former Guard who isn't afraid to step back into the shadows she swore to leave. You two know the Upper Spires better than anyone not actively serving the system. You know the blind spots, the outdated protocols, the shifts in the security grid they don't even log in official records."
Lena exchanged a long, unblinking look with Jaxon. The silent communication between them was palpable, a testament to years of working side-by-side, navigating Grimstone's treacherous currents. The injustice of their own dismissal from the CID, the raw anger at the corruption they'd witnessed, was a bond stronger than any official loyalty.
"What's the payout?" Jaxon finally grumbled, though the question lacked its usual bite.
Anya met his gaze directly. "The payout is Grimstone. A chance to find out what's really happening, and maybe, just maybe, stop it before it consumes everything. Including us." She held his stare, letting the weight of their shared past and the bleak future settle between them. "And Elara. She deserves to be found."
Jaxon sighed, a defeated sound, running a hand through his already messy hair. Lena, however, leaned forward, her eyes bright with a cold, dangerous intelligence.
"The forgotten archives in the Upper Spires are a labyrinth," Lena stated, ignoring Jaxon's protests. "They don't just guard the data; they guard the very idea of it. It's a technological nightmare, full of relics they don't even use anymore, but are still live. And the biometric scans are a particular bitch." She looked at Anya. "But… there's a back door. An old ventilation shaft, supposedly sealed, that bypasses most of the upper-level security. It's a tight squeeze, and rumored to be unstable, but it might get us in."
Anya felt a surge of grim hope. A plan, however tenuous, was taking shape. "Good. Then tonight, we move."