The rain tasted like static. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though nobody knew if he *was* an old man anymore, or just a construct wearing the skin of one. His shop, a cubbyhole wedged between a noodle stall and a data-scrap yard, pulsed with a sickly violet light. Inside, fragmented feelings bloomed on cracked screens – joy, regret, a phantom limb of longing. Cheap.
“Need a lift?” Tiber’s voice rasped, gravel grinding on metal. He didn’t look up from the console, fingers dancing across keys. “Something to chase the gray?”
A woman, chrome tracing the line of her jaw, leaned against the counter. Her eyes, mismatched shades of blue and green, scanned the flickering displays.
“Got anything…authentic?”
Tiber scoffed. “Authentic? Honey, we’re swimming in salvaged ghosts. Everything’s a remix now.” He tapped a sequence, and a cascade of emerald light flooded one screen. “This one’s ‘First Snow.’ Guaranteed to conjure a childhood you never had.”
“And the price?”
“Three credits. A song and a stolen moment.”
She hesitated, then tossed a handful of chipped tokens onto the counter. “Let’s see if it works.”
The woman jacked into the console, a thin cable snaking into the port at her temple. Her expression shifted, a flicker of something almost…peaceful. But it didn’t last. A shudder ran through her, and her eyes snapped open.
“That’s…synthetic,” she said, voice flat. “Feels like someone *tried* to remember a feeling, instead of actually having one.”
Tiber shrugged. “What did you expect? A genuine tear in the fabric of reality? That stuff costs a fortune.”
A figure detached itself from the shadows at the back of the shop. Tall, lean, cloaked in black tech-fabric. Kai. A data broker, known for finding things better left lost.
“Looking for something specific, Kai?” Tiber asked, without turning around.
“Information,” Kai said, voice a low hum. “About the source of these…emotions. I’m tracking a pattern. A surge in salvaged feelings, all pointing back to Sector Seven.”
“Sector Seven?” Tiber snorted. “The Dead Zones? That’s where they dumped the Old Net. Nothing but ghosts and rust out there.”
“Ghosts with memories, Tiber. And someone’s been digging them up.” Kai’s hand tightened on the grip of a weapon concealed beneath his cloak. “I need to know who, and what they’re planning.”
The woman at the counter coughed, then spoke without looking at either of them.
“I heard a whisper. A name. ‘Anya.’ They say she’s building something in the ruins. A sanctuary for lost feelings.”
Kai’s eyes narrowed. “Anya…The Weaver. An urban legend.”
“Legends have roots, broker.” Tiber tapped the console. “Maybe this one is blooming.”
Kai turned to leave.
“One more thing,” he said. “If you find her, tell Anya I’m coming. Tell her I want to know what she’s weaving…and why.”
The rain outside fell harder, washing over the rusted metal and shattered glass of the lower districts. The violet light from Tiber’s shop pulsed, a fragile bloom of synthetic hope in a city drowning in its own digital sorrow.
