The morning after, I woke up feeling like my body had been crushed under a pile of rocks. My ribs and arms screamed with every tiny movement, and honestly, I couldn't blame them—I'd been beaten to a pulp the day before. I wasn't in any shape to lift a finger, let alone get through the day.
The guard from yesterday had probably gotten an earful from his supervisor for damaging a worker so badly that I might be useless for days. Still, I knew better than to think they cared about me. I wasn't about to sit around waiting for someone to tell me I could rest.
"Damnation," I muttered, forcing myself upright. Every inch of me protested, but I stumbled out of my cell and into the workstation. Sweat beaded on my forehead even though the cavern was cold, and every step felt like wading through sand.
As I entered the work area, I noticed the workers pause—just for a moment—to glance my way. Most of them quickly turned back to their tasks, but I could feel their stares, their judgment. They probably thought I was an idiot, maybe even worse than that. Taking someone else's punishment wasn't exactly common behavior down here.
The usual chaos was in full swing. Miners hauled their loads, tinkers scrambled to fix busted tools, and guards patrolled, barking orders at anyone who dared to slow down.
"Get back to work! We've got a full schedule today, so haul your asses!" one of the guards shouted.
He spotted me hobbling toward my workstation and made a beeline in my direction, a smug grin plastered across his face.
"Hey, tinkerer. What in damnation are you doing out of bed?" he sneered. There wasn't an ounce of concern in his voice—just mockery. His smirk made my fists clench, even though I knew swinging at him would only land me in more trouble. "Looking rough this morning. Didn't sleep well?"
I ignored him, trying to push past toward my workstation.
But the guard wasn't done. He stepped into my path, holding out an arm to block me.
"You're not gonna last the day like that," he taunted, leaning in close. "Might as well lie down now, save us the trouble of dragging you back to your room."
Room my ass, they were literal prison cells, no different than Stillwater's.
"I know somebody like you would do something like this, so I made arrangements. Your arms and body ain't working, and I know somebody who has working limbs. Meet your new coworker."
And then I saw her—the Brat from yesterday.
She was standing off to the side, clutching a tray of scrap metal like her life depended on it. Her eyes flicked between me and the guard, curious and cautious, like any orphan of the undercity.
And it clicked for me.
"Her, why?" I said, nodding toward her.
The guard raised an eyebrow. "Why? Because you tried to act like a hero and make a show of yourself the other day. Might have to deal with the cause that caused the effect."
"She's your arms. You tell her what to do. And if she messes up, then maybe you'll get her punishment in her place. So I don't want any delays today."
He waved her over, and she shuffled toward me, glancing up like she wasn't sure if the guard was serious.
"You heard me," the guard snapped. "Do what the tinkerer says."
Once he wandered off, I turned to her, keeping my voice low. "Okay, kid. This is gonna be weird, but I need you to trust me. Just follow my lead, and we'll be fine."
She gave a quick nod, gripping the tray tighter, her amber eyes full of quiet determination.
The first hour was rough.
She didn't know a thing about tools, and my patience wasn't exactly legendary. But the Brat caught on faster than I expected. I'd guide her hands, showing her how to align gears or tighten bolts, and she'd watch carefully, nodding along like she was filing every detail away.
"You're a natural," I said after a while.
She didn't reply. Just kept her head down, her hands moving endlessly.
The silence hit me with a wave of nostalgia. It reminded me of Scar. Back in my timeline, he wasn't much of a talker either. Scar would sit there, quiet but always listening, until he had something important to say. When I was younger, it drove me nuts, but eventually, I learned to work with it. You didn't push people like that. You gave them space, let them speak on their terms, or express their voice in a different way.
So I did the same with her. I didn't push. I let her work, speaking only when I needed to explain something.
And then, out of nowhere, she moved her hand.
She made these weird gestures.
After a wall of weird stares and trying to understand, I finally got the clue.
She was confused about why.
Why did I do what I did?
I glanced at her, pretending not to understand. "Do what?"
She squinted her eyes. She wasn't very patient, this girl.
Her gaze pinned me down. She was demanding an answer.
I sighed, setting the wrench down. "You're just a kid. They shouldn't have touched you. Fact of the matter is, you kids shouldn't even be down in these parts of the undercity."
She nodded a littl, not fully accepting my answer.
I paused, trying to find the right words. "You reminded me of someone," I said finally.
"Someone I couldn't save. When I saw you standing there… I couldn't… not do anything."
To be honest, the girl wasn't really similar to Powder in appearance. They looked nothing alike. But when I traveled through the Arcane, jumping to different timelines, I chose the most silent one because I was always fond of the quiet.
My home in my original timeline was a tree underground. It had a bustling crowd of kids and teenagers, yet it was peaceful and quiet. Maybe I was just trying to find something that reminded me of home.
Speaking of home, I knew Scar was still somewhere around the mines.
I focused back on the one-sided conversation.
She didn't respond or gesture anything. Just went back to work. But I noticed something—small but telling.
A gentle smirk, not of ridicule but happiness.
Like maybe, for the first time, she didn't feel so alone.
By the end of the day, we'd found our rhythm. She had no name, at least none that I knew of, but the Brat listened carefully, her small hands moving with surprising precision as she followed my instructions. She wasn't as quick as I'd have been, but she didn't need to be.
She had potential, and that was enough.
It was a miracle, really—that the people of the undercity had talents. But due to their upbringing, they could never bring their full potential out.
I always wanted to be an inventor, but instead, I had to wash blood off my hands instead of oil and grease. Being a fighter wasn't a want but a need—a response to what Zaun required.
When the guards finally called it for the day, I leaned back against the wall, letting out a sigh of relief.
"You did good today," I told her as we packed up.
She looked at me, her amber eyes studying my face like she was searching for something. And then, to my surprise, she smiled.
She waved—a small gesture, but one that I was happy to understand on the first attempt.
It was small—just an action—but it was a start.
That night, as I lay on my cot, every muscle aching, I found myself thinking about her. And about Scar.
One was a familiar face from a life that felt like a dream now. The other was a kid I barely knew, but she'd already proven she had more fight in her than most adults here.
I didn't know what was coming next. But I already had a plan brewing—a way out. An escape.
It had to start with Scar. He was the key to the success of this breakout.
I needed to get out of here—not just the mines, but this timeline.
This wasn't my home.
The Z-Driver I'd had at the start was gone, probably taken from me after the pit fight.
I needed it back.