Zāl’s destination is the Place of Worship—a temple that sits comfortably underground in a quiet section of Melos, long since abandoned by the Metropolis and a bit a ways from Helba and Haseem’s. The roads there are cracked and concaved, and with no proper vehicle, an impossible task to travel to. Thankfully, Zāl knows other means for the journey. Crosstone is rather unique, originally built for transportation between factories. Forgotten tunnels run through the entirety of the city. It’s only a simple matter of knowing the way in and knowing the way out.

Zāl walks a few more blocks south, turning into an alley and past the boutiques that litter Helba with a quaint atmosphere. He moves deeper and deeper into the alleyways, eventually hiding away from the commotion of the district. Liam is quietly waiting at the corner of another turn, idly folding newspapers.

“You’re late,” Liam says, hardly looking up from his work. He’s managed to fold the edges around a photograph for a clean rip around Jessica Lively—a famous opera singer whose discovered affair consumes the press.

“Happens to the best of us,” Zāl humors, bending low and procuring out a small plastic red card from his pocket. Liam wordlessly lifts up a small portable device towards it, waits for two verifying beeps and hides it back under his coat. “Is the path clear?”

“Melos is. There’s been activity heading towards Lokra.”

Zāl raises an eyebrow. “Anythin’ special?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

“Splendid,” Zāl grins, hoisting himself back up and pocketing the card with a lazy groan. “I’m off!”

Liam finishes his mission with Lively’s photograph before nodding Zāl a goodbye.

The tunnels are the industrial husk of the past, barely a reminder of what Crosstone was before becoming the cultural hub of the North. They seem to stretch on forever, hollow enough to carry a tune longer than anyone could travel. It’s maze-like, criss crossing paths like veins with no warnings. Zāl had gotten lost in them before, trapped beneath the surface for three days before finally crawling out in Helba, outside Haseem’s.

That was nearly five years ago. Things are different now.

Zāl follows winding tunnels with practiced ease, reaching the particular twist that exits into the main sewer system of Melos. When he turns the large metal wheel of the door and pushes it open, he’s greeted with the familiar smell of diesel. Like hot oil spilling into still water, fuel that just sits there and stews.

“Afternoon, Zāl! Awkward seeing you here this time of day!” Aliha calls, standing up from an old lawn chair she undoubtedly brought with her. There’s a wooden sign resting against it, GUIDE THROUGH THE TUNNELS—100 CREDITS in the same block letters that paint the entryway of the Place of Worship.

“It’s only a couple hours. Why is everyone raggin’ on me?”

Aliha grins. “I don’t mean it. It’s just odd. Wanna tour?”

Zāl frowns. “I showed you how these tunnels work, though?”

“And,” she sings, “I’m putting that newfound knowledge to good use. Aren’t you proud?”

“Yeah, great job. So, what’s my cut?”

The humor leaves Aliha’s face, her brown hair fluttering as she frantically shakes her head. “A cut?! That’s not fair, Zāl!”

“I’m kidding,” Zāl teases, hopping off the ledge and beelining for the ladder next to her. He doesn’t bother closing the metal door behind him. “But a dessert might be nice, I reckon. Heard your brother finally opened up that cake shop—”

“It’s an ice cream parlor, actually,” Aliha corrects, running up to catch up with him. “And I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you. He’s really popular now—the lines are extra long.”

“How long we talkin’?” Zāl asks, reaching up to pull the railing of the ladder down and propping himself up on the first step.

“All the way to Lokra,” she replies. She sounds proud.

“Damn, that’s long alright.” Zāl hauls himself up further.

“Fuck yeah it is!” Aliha calls. “See you later, Zāl!”

Zāl, upon reaching the top, pushes the lid off the sewer entrance and propels himself upward to crawl out. He shoots her a goodbye wave before covering the pothole once more, casting her into darkness.

Melos’ quiet streets greet him—the only sound coming from the birds that circle the junkyard not too far from where Zāl’s emerged, waiting for something dead to be thrown away.

Zāl walks a few blocks north, enjoying the silence, before reaching building 74, boarded up from a fire Zāl wasn’t around to witness. He passes by the unkept garden and swings into a sharp right to stand before the Place of Worship. The PRAYER WILL GUIDE YOU sign rests lifelessly above the door.

“I need to get you fixed,” Zāl mumbles—the sign and the radio downstairs. He’s already made the call to a repair shop; sure, it wouldn’t be that much extra to have whoever stops by examine the sign too. Two birds, one stone—money talks or whatever.

Zāl pulls the cellar door, sliding down the entrance with practiced ease and landing with a soft thud. A concrete stage awaits and Zāl hops onto it with one long stretch of his legs. He shuffles about until he finds a spot directly under the sunlight that seeps through the many large cracks in the concrete walls. When he does, Zāl scooches the radio closer to him and fiddles with the dials until he manages to find a station with the soft vocals of Lively. In honor or in mourning of her recent scandal with the doorman of her summer condo. Zāl doesn’t particularly care for her voice and the radio dial for volume control is broken, but the gentle whisper of singing fits the spring afternoon mood. Perfect to guide him to sleep.

Zāl gets comfortable—lets his shades fall up the bridge of his nose and cover his eyes. It’s now, in this afternoon, that Zāl can chase the dreams that elude him in the nights. The ones that manage to just be out of reach, down one of the endless tunnels of Crosstone. It’s dark, too dark for him to see and Zāl hasn’t learned to appreciate vast emptiness just yet. There’s a figure there, standing above him. It’s saying something to him but Zāl can’t understand it with the ringing in his ears. The small pool of water below him ripples and a pale hand reaches out—

​There’s shuffling outside. Zāl’s mind wrenches itself away from the darkness, from the damp winding tunnels and back into his body, lazing on the concrete stage. He glances down at the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist, as if it were a watch, and wonders who would visit this place. The radio crackles beside him.

Mike.​

The repair shop Haseem had on his bulletin board, the number he had called yesterday.  Zāl doesn’t bother to move from his comfortable position, assuming that whoever just arrived will eventually navigate their way down here. Instead, he turns his body to chase the last beams of light before the evening’s darkness. And just as he closes his eyes once more, a sharp chill runs along his spine, snapping him forward.

Curiously, Zāl glances towards the doorway of the basement temple. It’s unlatched and there’s an echo of someone making their way down the shabby ladder before they’re interrupted by a gasp. Soon, much to Zāl’s surprise, his guest comes tumbling down, falling inelegantly to the ground and exhaling a wheeze. The drop was only a couple of feet—not enough for serious concern—but something seizes Zāl with familiarity.

He calms himself.

“That was a helluva fall,” Zāl calls out, watching the dust settle.

The stranger eventually gets their bearings, composing themselves after a deep shuddering breath. When they glance up, Zāl is caught off guard by their appearance—hair in disarray and eyes intensely focused. They narrow in on Zāl as the only other person in the room.

A cut near their left eye, too perfect to have been from the fall. Light blood pools along their cheekbone, but the stranger, for a moment as enthralled with Zāl as he is with them, makes no move to wipe it away.

It takes a lot for Zāl to will himself once more to the present, peeling his eyes away and pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose. He rights himself, facing the fallen stranger and smiles.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The other frowns and says nothing in return, instead choosing to turn their attention back to the open doors above them, where the grey sky blocks the last remaining splinters of sun.

Zāl follows their gaze. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“Nothing,” the stranger replies after a minute of silence, shrugging off the dust around them as they stand up. They bring their arms up, working hard to hide a tremble, as they pull their goggles off and place it behind them in their pack. Only after do they turn their attention back to Zāl, who smiles in return immediately. “You ordered a repair ticket for a radio?”

“I did! Are ya the infamous Mike?”

​“Yeung.”

“I see,” Zāl hums, watching Yeung make their way towards him and the stage. Probably a last name. “You seem a helluva lot younger than the voice on the phone.”

Yeung pays him no further mind and leans down to examine the soft singing hardware beside him.

“What’s wrong with it?” Yeung asks.

“Volume doesn’t work.”

Yeung’s frown deepens, clearly annoyed with the situation. They turn the radio around, making quick work of opening the back paneling. Despite its simple outward appearance, the machine is a complication of wires and circuits on the inside. Perhaps, Zāl jokingly thinks, a metaphor for the greater part of humanity. Yeung raises an eyebrow.

“You have more than a volume issue. The system appears to be fried. How old is this thing?”

Zāl shrugs. “Was here before I started. Can you fix it?”

“I’ll have to replace the whole system. We might have an old one at the warehouse. I’ll have to come back—”

“No need,” Zāl declares, pushing himself forward and using his momentum to stand up. He reaches past Yeung, the other immediately stepping away, and hoists the radio into his arms. The movement rides up his sleeves and Zāl catches the look Yeung casts at the exposed skin there. At the dark swirling ink. It is neither disgust nor approval—rather their expression sits firmly in the place of confused recognition.

“Like somethin’ you see?” Zāl teases, leaning forward slightly

Yeung straightens, and much to their credit, remains professional. “What’re you doing?”

“Takin’ the radio.”

“To where?”

“With us?’

“Us?”

“To your warehouse,” Zāl says, feeling playful. Yeung is not amused.

“No—”

“Why make two trips? It’s already gettin’ late. Lemme make your life easier. An apology for makin’ you come all this way.”

“It’s my job.”

“And I have no job, so we’ve got the time. Let’s go!”

Yeung looks unconvinced but Zāl is already at the ladder, fixing it somewhat and tucking the machine under one arm. He pulls himself up easily and turns around to see Yeung waiting below.

“It’s easier to pull you up than using the ladder, considering—well, we both know how that went for ya,” Zāl says, reaching a hand out. Yeung reaches back reflexively before stopping just shy of their fingers brushing. Instead, they shake their head and climb up on their own, brushing past Zāl when they reach the top. They don’t hesitate, pushing forward and making their way towards the road.

Zāl hurriedly picks up the radio and follows them along the beaten path, passing the boarded windows of 74 and towards what Zāl assumes is their bike. It’s red, faded in a way that feels loved, and hovering in place. Hot air releases from under it, causing the rubble under it to skip away.

“There’s not enough room,” Yeung says once they get close enough.

“Sure there is,” Zāl croons. “C’mon, don’t be shy.”

Yeung rubs their temple, brushing past the cut on their cheek for the first time. It seems to startle them, their fingers tracing it briefly and wincing.

“It’s been rather chilly lately, huh?” Zāl asks. A test.

Yeung doesn’t reply, settling themselves onto the red vehicle. They gesture for Zāl to follow them.

Zāl wastes no time, scrambling onto what’s left of the seat behind Yeung and tucking the radio between his chest and their back. Yeung rolls their shoulders—Zāl marks it as a nervous habit.

“Alright. Take us away, cap’n.”

“Your enthusiasm is draining. Settle down.”

“They speak!”

“Shut up,” Yeung says, dropping any pretense of professionalism and revving the engine. It takes a few clicks to get the motors to hum but eventually they’re zipping down the streets of Melos. The fishing district of Arklo waits.

THE MECHANIC, Pt. 2