The race organizer's office was a glass-and-wood-paneled box suspended above the track, air-conditioned to a sterile chill that made the sweat on Rowan's neck turn to ice. It smelled strongly of stale cigar smoke, old ink, and exploitation.
Mr. Finch, a low-level accountant for the IronCore Syndicate, sat behind a desk of polished mahogany. He didn't look up at the battered racer limping in front of him. He was too busy polishing his gold-rimmed monocle with a silk handkerchief.
"Denied," Finch said, his voice flat and nasal.
"Excuse me?" Asher stepped forward. She looked incredibly small next to the hulking forms of Luca and Luna, but her voice carried the sharp edge of a switchblade. She slammed a rolled parchment contract onto the desk. "Read the ink, Finch. Clause 7, Section A: 'The Syndicate agrees to compensate the rider for any catastrophic vehicle damage sustained during the course of the event.'"
She pointed a finger toward the soot-stained window, gesturing to the smoking wreck of the cycle being towed away by draft horses.
"That," Asher hissed, "looks catastrophic to me."
Finch sighed, finally sliding the monocle onto his eye. He tapped a complex brass chronometer sitting on his desk.
"Observe," Finch said, sounding impossibly bored. "The race officially concluded the exact moment Mr. Ro crossed the line. The crash occurred precisely three seconds after the event concluded. Therefore, the damage was sustained outside the 'course of the event.' IronCore is not liable for post-race incompetence."
Silence filled the room. It was the tense, heavy silence of a fuse burning down to the powder.
"Incompetence?" Luna stepped forward. Her heavy leather boots cracked the pristine wooden floorboards. A low, mechanical whine started to emanate from beneath the sleeves of her heavy coat. The fabric rippled as the hidden pneumatic pistons of her brass gauntlets engaged, building pressure.
"Luna, don't," Luca warned, putting a heavy hand on his sister's shoulder.
"He's cheating us," Luna growled, her eyes burning with fury. "We need that money for the orphanage."
She didn't hold back. She slammed her brass-plated fist directly onto the mahogany desk. It wasn't a normal slam. The thick wood splintered instantly, and the desk collapsed in the middle with a deafening CRACK.
Finch yelped, scrambling backward in his plush leather chair until he hit the wall. He stared at Luna's arm. The sleeve had torn, revealing the faint, pulsing blue glow of aether-lines running under her skin—illegal, unregistered mechanics.
He looked at Rowan, who was leaning against the wall with cold eyes. He looked at Asher, whose hand had drifted beneath her cloak to the heavy flintlock pistol she carried.
Finch's eyes went wide as saucers.
"Unregistered modifications," Finch whispered, his face draining of all color. "No guild papers. High-level combat engineering."
He pointed a shaking, ink-stained finger at them.
"You're not just street rats. You're... you're them. The Rebels."
In a heartbeat, the atmosphere in the room shifted from an argument to an execution.
Luna raised her pneumatic gauntlet, steam venting from the valves, ready to strike. Asher drew her flintlock, cocking the heavy hammer back and leveling the barrel right between Finch's eyes. Luca pulled a massive iron spanner from his belt that looked heavy enough to crush a skull.
"Quiet," Asher commanded, her voice deadly calm. "One word to the constables, and you won't need a monocle because you won't have a head."
Finch trembled, pressing his back flat against the glass wall. He looked at the gun barrel. Then he looked at the door.
Then, slowly, he did something entirely unexpected.
He exhaled. And he smiled.
"Thank the stars," Finch breathed, slowly lowering his hands.
The Giants exchanged confused glances. Asher didn't lower the gun. "What?"
"I hate them," Finch whispered vehemently, looking with pure disgust at the IronCore logo painted on the wall. "They cut my wages last month. They make me charge the starving spectators for clean water. I hate the Syndicate."
He looked at Asher with a sudden, desperate intensity.
"You're the ones who hit the aether-transport in the factory district last week, aren't you? The ones fighting for the Unregistered?"
"Maybe," Rowan spoke up, limping closer to the ruined desk. "Why do you care?"
"Because I want to help," Finch said quickly, adjusting his waistcoat. "Look, even if I wanted to pay you the winnings... I can't."
"Why not?" Luna demanded, venting steam from her knuckles.
"Because you are Unregistered!" Finch gestured to his ledger. "The prize is in official Guild Notes. To transfer it, I need to stamp your papers with a valid citizen's seal. If I stamp you... the analytical engines will flag you as Null. The notes will be voided, and an Enforcer kill-squad will be here in two minutes."
Asher lowered her gun slightly. He was right. That was the inescapable trap of the Syndicate system—you couldn't win if you weren't legally allowed to play.
"So, we get nothing," Rowan said bitterly. "I risked my neck for nothing."
"Not nothing," Finch stood up, glancing nervously at the frosted glass door to ensure no one was listening. He reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, intricately carved brass skeleton key. He slid it across the splintered desk.
"Guild Notes leave a paper trail," Finch whispered. "But the Syndicate... they still need physical, untraceable currency for their black-market bribes in the slums. Solid gold sovereigns."
He pulled a rolled map from a drawer, spreading it out.
"This is a Syndicate counting-house in Sector 4," Finch pointed to a red ink mark. "It's a drop point. The 'Cash Drawer' for the Foundry District bribes. They keep the physical gold there before moving it up to the Gilded Tier."
He looked at Rowan.
"I can't give you the prize money. But I can give you the key to the vault. There's enough gold in there to feed your orphanage for a year. Consider it... a donation to the cause."
The room fell silent, save for the ticking of Finch's chronometer.
"Why?" Asher asked, deeply suspicious. "Why risk the noose for us?"
"Because," Finch adjusted his tie, trying to look dignified despite the sheen of fear-sweat on his brow. "Someone has to stick it to the barons. And I'm too much of a coward to do it myself."
Rowan looked at the map. He looked at his friends. They were completely broke, the kids were hungry, and their best vehicle was a pile of smoking scrap. Physical gold was the only thing they could actually use in the Dregs.
"We take it," Rowan decided.
Asher hesitated, then reached out and snatched the heavy brass key. "If this is a trap, Finch... we come back for you."
"It's not a trap!" Finch promised, holding his hands up in surrender. "Go! Before the guard shift changes!"
The Giants turned and hurried out of the office, their desperation entirely blinding them to the faint, predatory glint in the accountant's eye.
As the door clicked shut, Finch slumped into his chair. He waited exactly ten seconds.
Then, he picked up the brass speaking-tube connected directly to the Constabulary.
"Syndicate Dispatch," Finch said, his voice void of any fear, completely steady. "This is Finch. I have a Code 99 in progress. I've successfully routed the Rebel targets to the containment vault at Sector 4."
He paused, listening to the hissing voice on the other end.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
Finch looked down at his broken mahogany desk. He smiled. The bounty for turning in The Giants would buy him a new desk. And perhaps a house in the upper tiers.