Lokra’s crowded evening streets interrupt their journey, and the police punctuate their screeching halt.

The cruiser is hovering behind them, stopping them in their tracks and dragging Zāl away from the beautiful daydream of dinner possibilities.

“This blows,” he mutters. “We weren’t even speedin’.” Zāl leans back to get a look at Yeung through the sideview mirrors of the bike. “You don’t look surprised.”

Yeung shrugs. “This happens an embarrassing amount.”

“I’m sensin’ a story.”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

“Kwong,” a man calls, stepping out of the police vehicle via small protruding steps. Zāl watches him closely, fascinated with how the cruiser recalls the stairs the moment the officer’s feet touch the ground. Though, the stranger doesn’t look like any police officer that Zāl has run into. He’s dressed in clean slacks and a beige coat that hung to their knees. No tie, just more beige under it.

“Kwong?” Zāl whispers, unable to stop the small smirk blooming. “Is that your name? Did you tell me your last name before?”

“I don’t even know your name at all,” Kwong harshly whispers back, turning their attention to the approaching officer. There’s another sense of familiarity in the air now, this time one that doesn’t include Zāl.

“Johan,” Yeung calls.

“Oh,” Zāl says. “Dramatic."

Johan gleams right past him, eyes drawn squarely to Yeung and only them. He looks tired, shoulders hunched forward and hair in mild disarray.

“Kwong. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“You know where I live,” Yeung replies, leaning back and falling into the radio and Zāl a bit, clearly having forgotten he was there. They quickly fix their posture.

“You’re never there. And you haven’t come in to pay any of the tickets.”

“I have plenty of time.”

“We need to talk.”

“We have nothing to say to each other.”

Johan looks uncertain, shifting their gaze questionably towards Zāl before continuing.

“What happened with Quinton—I know there’s something you’re not telling me. You need to come in—”

“Enough,” Yeung grunts, a harsh sound that even startles Zāl. They’re frustrated, their neck is red with anger.

“Kwong—” Johan starts.

“Is this a legal stop or somethin’? We’re workin’ here, dude,'' Zāl interrupts.

Johan startles, wide eyes turning to Yeung to respond rather than acknowledge the backseat driver.

After a moment, Yeung speaks. “He’s right. I’m on the clock. You’re holding me up.”

The officer’s expression falls before he takes a step back, seemingly accepting this is a lost cause.

“You have to come in eventually, Kwong.”

“Get a court order.”

“Ciao!” Zāl shouts and that signals Yeung to rev the engine once more, jolting them back above ground, hot air brushing against Zāl’s ankles. “Pleasure chattin’ with ya, copper!”

Yeung takes off, leaving Johan and his cruiser on the busy intersection of Lokra. Through the side view mirror, Zāl notices Yeung’s smiling.

They arrive at Mike’s Repairs just as someone’s closing up the warehouse. An older gentleman, dressed in a similar jumpsuit to Yeung, glances up from their place by the metal fence. Zāl notices the cigarette butts that litter the ground and the one hanging precariously from the man’s lips, nearly to the filter.

​“There you fucking are,” he says to them as the bike touches the ground. “I was hoping you’d get back before we closed. I got shit to do too, you know.”

“Sorry, Mike,” Yeung says. “I was held up.”

Mike, as in Mike from Mike’s Repairs, shoots Zāl an unimpressed look as he slides off the bike behind Yeung. “We’re not hiring strays, Kwong.”

“He’s not here for a job. He’s here for his radio.”

Zāl lifts up the machine above his head sheepishly, giving Mike a dashing smile. Or he hopes it’s dashing. Mike spits the end of his smoke to the ground and stomps it out.

“Don’t care. Lock up when you’re done.”

“Thanks,” Yeung says, following Zāl off the bike, sliding smoothly to the ground. Yeung heads towards the side entrance of the warehouse, leaving a sliver of the door open for Zāl to slither through.

The Repair’s warehouse is huge. Having once been home to massive boats, now it’s littered with machinery and other modes of transportation. There’re large cruisers, parts to airships, a handful of motorcycles, all at a glance. It’s overwhelming and also incredibly boring, as Zāl has never developed an appreciation for the ever-advancing technology of Crosstone.

“How do you find anything in here?” Zāl asks after Yeung, following them deep within, until they reach a small wooden workbench.

“Everything is in its place. There’s a system,” Yeung provides. They gesture to put the radio down on the table beside them. Zāl does, careful not to throw any of the tools out of place that hang against the wall.

When he finishes, he looks to find that Yeung has already vanished into the clutter, leaving him stranded. “How do you know if anything’s missin’?” Zāl calls out, closing his eyes and listening. He takes a step forward, and then another, before turning left at the wingless aircraft.

“Mike will know,” Yeung replies, voice echoing. Zāl takes another left. “He has a knack for these things.”

“And you don’t?”

“I do too. It’s why I work here. Though, now I am starting to think he might have sold the radio.”

Zāl turns right, and then right again at the blue cruiser, its sunroof missing. “I’m sure you’ve got talent.”

“I wouldn’t jump that far.”

Right. Left. Straight ahead.

“A sense for things around you?”

“What are you implying?”

Zāl stops and waits. Yeung turns a corner and nearly runs into him, stumbling back and blinking owlishly. It’s obvious, he thinks. Yeung’s expression is clear, shocked that Zāl has managed to find them in this elaborate maze of a warehouse.

Zāl grins, baring his teeth.

“How long was its knife?”

Yeung takes a step back. “What?”

“The spirit huntin’ you,” Zāl says, like it makes perfect sense. Surprise turns into fear as Yeung begins to recognize what Zāl is alluding to. “How long was the knife?”

“How do you know that?”

Zāl rubs the beads wrapped around his wrist. He bends his head low so his shades slide down the bridge of his nose. Pale blue eyes meet Yeung’s brown ones and Zāl’s grin increases tenfold.

“Have you ever tried shawarma?"

Haseem, the husband of Zāl’s landlord, is unhappy to see him.

The restaurant is emptying out for the night, the moon hanging high in the starless sky. The crowd has moved from the diners and coffeehouses of Helba to the bars and nightlife of Melos. The majority of the staff have gone home for the evening. Zāl is sure his landlord is tucked into bed.

Haseem, on the other hand, despite his disgruntled mood, insists on feeding him and his guest.

“So,” Yeung says after a while, the food rapidly cooling in front of them. All the lights have been switched off except for the neon menus that litter their windows and the streetlights bleeding in. It provides enough for them to see one another in their booth and Zāl finds the darkness to be in his element. “Shawarma is just a thin piece of meat? It looks like ribbons.”

“You usually eat it in a sandwich but Haseem’s outta bread.”

“It’s not bad.”

“I’m glad. If you didn’t like it, it woulda made workin’ together real awkward around lunch time.”

Yeung pauses, mid-bite, and stares at Zāl, slowly placing their chopstick down against their plate.

"What?"

THE MECHANIC, Pt. 3