“Yeah…” Calloused palms pressed down on cracked laminate, a hiss leaving him as he took stock. “Not good at all.”
There was only so much to do sometimes.Especially when you didn’t have a lot to do it with.Ken could make do, though. Usually. He’d spent his whole life doing exactly that and doing a pretty damn good job of it. Gram had taught him all about substitutions, especially when it came to cooking.
Even with subpar ingredients, he could — and did — make a solid meal for the crew any and every day of the week. And three of them on Sundays, mostly because the pink queen demanded that much.
However, there were some times you had to accept simple facts. You can’t substitute everything.
Ken stood at his makeshift alchemy station — the three-foot stretch of counter in the kitchen he called his own — his inventory staring back at him as he stared down at it.
It being the sad little piles of salvaged herbs. You really can’t.
But that was the thing.
Just because you can’t, it didn’t really stop him from wanting to. The only problem was that alchemy wasn’t like cooking. You couldn’t really substitute qi-treated herbs with a different type of rice or another type of meat and expect anything to happen but a mild case of poisoning.
Speaking of poison…
Almost out of all the good stuff. Bloodmoss was down to some rust-colored powder dusting the bottom of a glass jar, Silkcaps nearly as empty. Ghost tops were almost run down to nothing as well, meaning the last three batches of the nightly tonic hadn’t had the proper catalyst to bond the Ironvine.
And the Iron-vine root on top of that…
A twisted, dried strand was held high, up to the light. The slightest bit of pressure snapped it between his thumb and forefinger, the thing turning to dust with a soft crack.
Ooookay… He wiped the dust off his hands with a sigh. It’s dead. Like old batteries.
He’d known this was coming for a while now, considering the tonic was getting weaker and weaker every night. The taste of it was enough to put that much together, even when he stretched the ingredients out as much as he could. The dull, burning ache in his muscles was taking longer to fade after their supply runs. If the foundation cracked, the whole house came down.
Wei had drilled that into his head before he even let his apprentice touch a pestle.
Ken turned on his heel, a sigh flying free as he took in the other people he shared a living space with.
Zee sat at the table, the boss of their little crew carefully polishing a set of new knives. She’d bought them with her take of their last payout and, judging from the barely-hidden smile on her face, he could tell she couldn’t wait to abuse them. Don was sprawled on the floor not too far from the rotting couch, face illuminated by the blue-white glare of a data-slate. A vid played in front of him as he took apart the junk-gun Zee had given him about ten days back. The snick-clack of metal parts being re-organized echoed out in the small room.
"We have a problem.”
"Yeah, bro-bro, we in the Sump.” Don didn't even look up from the firing pin he was scrubbing clean. “Everybody got like twenty of ‘em all the time."
Zee grunted, a noise that could have been agreement or irritation at hearing Don’s voice. It was hard to tell with her sometimes.
"No," Ken dragged the word out, a single syllable getting more life than it needed as he breathed out with it. "A supply problem. The good medicine is running out. I need fresh ingredients."
Zee blinked, stilling for a moment, but Don was the one that actually looked up from the slate. “Uh-oh.” The blue light cast deep shadows under his eyes, usually slippery grin fading just a bit as he sat up. "Sspooky juice is low? Man, I was just getting used to not feeling like my arms are gonna fall off after a supply run. Don't tell me we gotta go back to raw-dogging the fatigue."
"Mama Dama doesn’t have what I need," Ken crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter, as he thought back to his conversation with the old drug-pusher with the creepy smile and half-dazed walls of muscle always with her. "I checked with her three days ago. She’s got the cheap binders, and enough of the basics I can manage with but she’s completely dry on the good stuff.”
“Stuff like what?”
This girl… Ken glanced over at Zee, the question almost forcing a sigh out of him. “You ask like you’re going to know or like you even care. Like, always.”
Amber eyes narrowed his way. “I can’t ask questions now, kitchen-boy?”
“Course you can, boss-lady. I just don’t see the point when you don’t even know what I use.”
“Try me.”
“Alright.” Ken raised an eyebrow. “Ever heard of Gallowwort?”
“…” The silence was almost sweet, Zee’s face a little red before she went back to cleaning her knives again. “No, not really.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Mostly because I made that up. Not that Zee needed to know that. “But a big thing we’re running low on is Ironvine, and that’s real important.” Ken looked between the two of them. "Mama Dana said my best bet is a place on the edge of Forty-Five."
Don’s face lost whatever color it had, almost a sickly gray where Zee was still red, as he let his slate fall. “You wanna hit the Mush Market?”
Ken’s brow furrowed. "The what?"
"The Mush Market," Don repeated with a loud groan, rubbing his face with both hands. "Edge of Four-Five. Place is like a massive hole in the ground full of shakers."
Ken opened his mouth, one question already forming on his tongue. He didn’t even get the chance to ask as Don groaned again, louder this time, pure exasperation condensed into a single stretched-out sound. “Drug addicts, Ken-bro. Shakers. Junkies.” Oh.
Don waved a hand in the air, movement frantic. "It’s where they go because that’s where all the bad scrap comes from. Place is full up with the good shrooms, toxic sump-herbs and sewer-weeds — all pulled right out of the maintenance tunnels. The air in there send you high enough to let you see through time."
The bigger boy stopped waving to lean forward, hands falling to rest on his knees. “But nah, for reals, it’s even worse, Kenny-bro.”
Ken blinked back. “What’s worse?”
"It’s all heavy with the Hounds, bro. The real Chrome Hounds too, not the wannabes you sent running.” Don shook his head. “It’s what they do down there, run big drugs for most of the high Forties. Top that, they shake down anyone they feel like, especially new faces."
"Fine." Zee cut in with a grunt as she jumped to her feet, the word a bright sharp stab of command. "Get your boots on, turtle. We go in heavy, we move fast."
"No."
Zee stopped, her golden eyes narrowing dangerously at the solid wall of just a single word that left Ken’s lips. "Excuse me?"
"Zee, c’mon.” Ken hissed out a sigh. “I don’t know that place but I know you. Hell, you know you.”“And…” Her eyes went all the way to slits. “What’s that supposed to mean?”“I mean, you go in there, you're a walking target," Ken gestured vaguely at all of her. "That jacket. The hair. The attitude. You’re human neon, Zee. They'll see you from a block away, and they’ll swarm."
"I can handle a few rusted-out junkies," Zee crossed her arms with a scoff, jaw set into a stubborn line.
"It won't be a few," Ken lowered his voice as he countered that too. "And Don can’t come either."
"Why not?” Don’s hands went up in the air, their techie wearing a look of offense that was surprisingly sincere. “I mean, no offense, I absolutely, positively do not want to go within a mile of that place…”There we go. Ken rolled his eyes. “But why not?"
"Cause you’re not a fighter.” The fact was simple and Ken doubted he needed to say it. “You’re just… not.” Still, he said it anyway.
"I got a shooter," Don protested, digging into his jacket pocket and holding up the ugly, snub-nosed scrap-shooter Zee had given him. He tried to look menacing holding it, and failed spectacularly.
Ken looked at the gun. He looked at Don.
"First of all, that thing’s loud," Ken dissected the logic, answers as obvious as they could be. "If you fire that in a confined space full of paranoid addicts and gang members, you start a riot. Second, how many shots do you actually have left?"
Don’s hesitation was obvious, his eyes flicking down to the gun before they slowly trailed back over to Zee. "Six…?" The offer drifted up into a question. "Unless boss-lady wants to generously donate to the Donny Survival Fund."
Zee rolled her eyes so hard Ken was surprised she didn't fall over. "Do you have the money for them? Heavy grain ain't cheap, monkey."
Don looked back at Ken, more defeated than ever. "I have six shots."
"Yeah, I figured," Ken’s sigh wasn’t loud but it was loud enough as he turned back to his sad piles of herbs. "Besides, I need to go alone. Too many bodies means too many questions. I’ve only been running with you guys for a little but I’ve picked up a bit. One skinny kid in a ratty cloak is just a desperate scavver looking for a fix, right? Three gets eyes on us."
His own purple eyes landed on Zee. “You get eyes on us.”
He could see from the way Zee’s jaw worked that she hated everything he had to say, molars grinding against the truth of it. She wanted to fight. She wanted to assert dominance over the environment.
But Zee wasn't stupid.
"Fine.” She uncrossed her arms, a perfectly manicured pink-painted finger pointed right at his face. "You’re gonna need to take a ground-rail, though. Too far, any other way. We’ll go with you as far as the stop.”“Bu-”“But nothing, turtle.” Her snap came like a pop of bubble-gum, eyes narrowed in a way that screamed no questions. “You take the comms bead. You keep the channel open. You miss exactly one check-in, I’m fully assuming you’re cycler-meat, and I’m setting the whole market on fire just on principle."
She held her hand out, the black staticky bead appearing from nowhere.
Ken blinked back up at her. “...you’re the boss, Lady Zee.”The disgust on her face was worth it. “Ick. You sound like the monkey.”“...what’s wrong with sounding like me?!”