In the uneasy peace following the Retributive War, a number of city-states sprung up, each with their own distinct cultures and ideologies. Of these states, I am of the opinion that none has a stranger or more enduring story than Inapithe.

– May Hawkins, Inapithe: A City Between Ages

Gear I-22 is misaligned.

It's the first thing Astrid notices when she unscrews the paneling of the engine that sits above her head. The gear in question is slightly out of its well; its long teeth only barely interlocking with its neighbors.

Astrid's goal is to take apart the engine and figure out how it works, so she knows that it would be pointless to waste time on something so trivial. She already lost over an hour disassembling and reassembling the conversion matrix in an effort to improve it, and even more time counting and replacing all the stripped screws.

Astrid bites her lip, and sweat drips from the small of her back onto the floor. She can do this. All she has to do is move on to the next piece of the engine.

She manages for five seconds before diving in with both hands and nudging the offensive gear back into place. She exhales in relief, and the dull surfaces grow foggy with her breath. Several strands of long, blonde hair caught in the gears above wave back and forth, and with a contented sigh she slips her spidery fingers into the gears' teeth and begins cleaning them, running her fingertips across the smooth metal.

A discordant voice issues from her tablet computer, and the screen floods the corner of her vision with light. “Good morning. At the sound of the tone, it will be 5:00 AM.” The voice is quickly followed by a pure note like that from a tuning fork, which hangs in the air for a half dozen seconds before fading away.

Astrid groans and throws her arms over her face. This is the second time this week. It wasn't like she intended to stay up the whole night, time had just gotten away from her. When she is working, both the hours and her need for sleep disappear into the background. It's only now that her focus is broken that she begins to feel the prickles of exhaustion in her neck and temples.

It occurs to her that she could just spend the day sleeping here. It's not as if there is anyone to tell her not to. The engine above her blurs as she lets her eyes drift closed.

Her tablet flickers to life again. “You have seventy one unread notifications, and four missed reminders. The most recent reminder is two days old.” The alarm sounds again, this time growing steadily louder instead of fading. Astrid groans again and reluctantly rolls out from under the engine. When she stands up, her vision blurs, and her stomach gives a sickening jump. She leans on the engine for support, picks up her tablet. It's the newest model, although she has taken it apart and put it back together so many times that it is almost impossible to tell. She silences the alarm with a few deft flicks of her fingers.

It is impossible for Astrid to tell whether her alarm is corrects imply by looking around her room. The concrete walls are entirely devoid of windows, as well as decorations or blemishes of any sort. The floor too is bare, aside from the engine sitting in the center of the room and the large collection of tools scattered around it. The only other things of note in the room are a carefully organized workbench, a bed, and a metal door, set into the wall. It could be noon, and she would have no idea.

She picks up her tablet again. “What's my newest missed reminder?”

“Your oldest missed reminder is as follows: Dear future self, remember to buy food. Semicolon, closed parentheses. This reminder is three days overdue.”

As if in response, her stomach growls. Astrid groans again, and spends several minutes stumbling around the room and rubbing the tiredness from her eyes. She grabs the cleanest shirt she can find, digs her messenger bag out from under her bedcovers, and makes a concerted effort at combing her hair, but gives up when the comb nearly snaps in half. She puts her hand on the metal door leading outside, then stops.

Her heart pounds against her ribs, and she swallows. She doesn't really need to go outside, does she? It's only been a few days since she last ate, and she would lose valuable minutes that she could be spending repairing the engine, or sorting through spare parts. No, it would simply be pragmatic to stay in her apartment, not weak, or cowardly. Just a valuable use of her time.

Her stomach rumbles again.

She lifts her tablet in front of her face and turns the camera on, purposely tilts it upward so it does not show her grease-stained overalls and bony arms, and all she has to contend with is her owlish face and frizzy mane of blonde hair. “Hi, my name is Astrid,” she whispers to the camera. “I'd like to buy some bread.” She puts on her brightest smile, and watches it reflected in the tablet's camera. Again and again she repeats the phrase, sounding a little more confident each time.

“You can do this,” she whispers, and the image of her on the tablet mimics her movements. “You're strong. You can do this.” She wrenches open the door, and a lazy wave of cool air rolls over her. She is met not by a blaze of sunlight, but instead by the semidarkness of the world just before dawn. Unwilling to give herself time of second thoughts, she shuts the door behind her and puts her hands on the metal rungs bolted into the wall.

Climbing the ladder is one of the only parts of leaving her apartment that Astrid enjoys. Logically, she knows that she should just take one of the ramps, but this way is so much more interesting. Climbing down is like being a tiny island in a storm-tossed sea. All she has to do is look down, she can see the city of Inapithe, the crooked streets spread out below her in all of their unkempt glory, and the colorful, steep roofs glittering like so many pebbles in a river. Steeples and balconies jut from many of the buildings, turning the already chaotic landscape into something nigh-incomprehensible; a melting pot of aggressive architecture without any sense of cohesion.

When Astrid finally gets to the bottom of the ladder, her arms are aching, but she feels a little better. The streets are all but deserted; only the most industrious of residents have begun their morning routines. Shouldering her bag, she sets out, taking the same route she always does. She steals silently through alley after alley, keeping her steps as light as possible on the uneven pavement. Once, she thinks she sees someone rounding a corner, and she immediately ducks into a doorway, waiting until she is absolutely sure they are gone. After five minutes of jogging, she arrives at her destination. She slows to a walk, then stops just around the corner so she can peek around it.

Even at this hour, the neighborhood market is busy. Men and women mill about and wait in lines at tiny stalls, marked by a variety of banners in flags, squashed between buildings and set up against one another, all selling different sorts of handcrafted oddities. Astrid spies who she is looking for almost immediately. A tall man with braided hair and a bright yellow shirt, sitting at his stall and looking decidedly bored. “Rock Bread: For when the Going gets Tough,” his sign dully proclaims. Out of all the stalls, his is perhaps the only one with no line.

“Hi,” she murmurs under her breath, digging her fingers into the corner of the building. “My name is Astrid. I'd like to buy some bread.” It sounds a lot less confident out here than it does alone, in her room. There are too many variables to consider. What if the vendor is out bread? What if he refuses to sell to her? Should she specify the number of loaves, or wait until he asks her? It dawns on her that despite the number of times she has observed him, she does not know his name. Should she ask? Are customers supposed to ask things like that? Would it be weird to ask him that?

The urge to go back home settles in Astrid's stomach, and as the only thing currently occupying her stomach, it settles hard. She is sure that she can survive without food for another day, or failing that, scrounge some sort of snack from whatever is in her house currently. The market will be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. No need for rush.

She turns to head back to her apartment, then pauses, the urge to go home joined, as always, by guilt. “I should be better than this,” she mutters to herself. Quietly, she wills herself to pick her foot up, spin on her heel, and march straight into the market. Doing that, however, would mean people looking at her, and having to talk to people, and having to pretend that she isn't completely terrified. The thought turns her stomach, but then again, so does the thought of admitting defeat and returning to her apartment. She teeters back and forth at the edge of the alley, unsure of what to do.

Something brushes her elbow, and Astrid's entire body seizes. Breathless, she watches a woman hurry past her into the market without so much as a backward glance. Her heart thuds against her ribs with such a tenor and ferocity that it feels as if her entire body is thrumming. Wordlessly, she turns ad runs back toward her apartment. She knew from the moment she left that this was a terrible idea. Better to stay at home today, and make the trip tomorrow, when she has had more time to prepare.

Astrid's apartment is within sight when she is halted in her flight by a firm hand on her shoulder, and a gravelly exclamation of, “Hold it right there!”

[Chapter split into multiple parts due to the character limit of Tapas. Chapter One continues in the next episode.]