The Floating Markets weren't a place one simply went to; they were a place one endured. As Anya and Lena descended into the old dock district, the air grew heavy with the stench of salt, industrial waste, and something else – a nameless desperation that clung to the ramshackle barges and repurposed containers like moss. This was Grimstone's true unregulated underbelly, where official law ceased to exist and a brutal, self-enforced code dictated every transaction.
"Stay close," Lena murmured, pulling her hood lower. Even without her CID affiliation, her presence here was a risk. Too many faces knew her from past raids, too many scores remained unsettled. "And don't look anyone in the eye for too long. It's an invitation to trouble."
The market was a chaotic labyrinth of narrow gangplanks connecting precariously stacked barges. Makeshift stalls, illuminated by flickering battery lamps, hawked everything from illicit tech to bio-engineered sustenance. The constant creak of stressed wood, the splash of polluted water, and the low murmur of haggling voices created a disorienting symphony.
They found The Weaver's stall in a particularly dark and isolated corner, tucked beneath the rusted hulk of a capsized freighter. It wasn't a stall, really, but a heavily fortified metal container, its single, glowing aperture guarded by a hulking figure with shoulders like concrete slabs. The air around it hummed with the faint, almost imperceptible thrum of advanced, illicit tech.
"Looking for the Weaver?" the guard grunted, his voice like gravel.
"We have a mutual acquaintance," Lena stated, her voice calm and even. "A CID contact. Old files."
The guard's eyes, small and cold, flickered. He nodded slowly, then slid aside a heavy metal door, revealing a dimly lit interior. The air inside was surprisingly sterile, almost antiseptic, a stark contrast to the filth outside. Shelves lined with strange, glowing components and humming devices stretched into the gloom.
Behind a counter cluttered with intricate tools sat a man who barely registered as human. He was ancient, his skin like parchment stretched taut over brittle bones, his eyes magnified behind thick, custom-fitted optical implants that whirred faintly as he moved. His fingers, long and skeletal, danced over a glowing control panel. This was The Weaver.
"Visitors," The Weaver's voice was a dry, reedy whisper that nonetheless carried an unsettling authority. He didn't look up from his work. "And unwelcome ones, by the scent of the city's hounds on your trail." He finally lifted his head, his magnified eyes fixing on Anya, then Lena. "Ex-CID, and a Guard with too much conscience. A rare combination in these parts."
"We need chameleon cloth," Anya stated, cutting to the chase. "For a high-profile ingress. Tonight."
The Weaver's lips, cracked and thin, spread into something that might have been a smile. "Ah, the Founders' Ball. Such a predictable target for those with... aspirations." He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "Chameleon cloth of the quality you require? That is a rare commodity. A piece of true ghost-ware. And it comes with a price."
"Name it," Anya said, bracing herself.
The Weaver finally looked directly at Lena. "Your CID connections, Lena. The ones that kept you ahead of the curve, the ones that earned you the envy of your peers. I want access to your encrypted archives. Your 'cold' files. The ones you kept after your... departure. The true list of the CID's dirty operations, the black ops they buried. The real rot."
Lena's face remained impassive, but Anya felt a ripple of tension pass through her. These were Lena's insurance policies, her leverage, her only true protection in Grimstone's cutthroat underworld. Giving them up was akin to stripping herself bare.
"That's my life, Weaver," Lena said, her voice barely a whisper.
"And it is the price for yours, if you wish to walk among the untouchables," The Weaver countered, his magnified eyes glinting. "Think of it as an investment. Information for information. Power for power. You want to expose the system; I merely wish to... understand it better. And perhaps profit from its inevitable collapse."
Anya watched Lena, a silent battle raging in the ex-CID agent's eyes. It was a brutal choice: compromise her own meticulously guarded secrets, or risk their entire mission and The Scribe's fate. The silence in the container stretched, punctuated only by the soft hum of The Weaver's machinery.
"You have a deal," Lena finally said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "But if those files fall into the wrong hands... I come for you."
The Weaver simply smiled, a chilling, ancient expression. "A fair bargain. Such is the way of Grimstone, my dear. Give a little, take a lot." He reached beneath his counter, retrieving a small, tightly wrapped package of what looked like shimmering, impossibly thin fabric. "Now, for your Founders' Ball. Try not to get caught, ex-CID. It would be such a waste of good information."
The team now has the chameleon cloth, but at a significant cost to Lena.