CHAPTER 10
The Weight Between Steps
“Strength is easier to feel than to understand.”
Strawbrawler stared at the large blue cheesecake across from him.
“I don’t know yet.”
That was the answer.
That was apparently all of it.
Strawbrawler waited.
Blue Bulk waited too.
People moved around them.
A delivery wagon rolled past.
Someone shouted from a fruit stall.
A bell rang farther down the street.
The city continued as though a very large monk had not just admitted to following a complete stranger for reasons he could not explain.
Strawbrawler folded his arms.
“That’s not a very good reason.”
“No.”
“You agree?”
“Yes.”
Strawbrawler frowned.
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Blue Bulk considered.
“I can leave.”
Strawbrawler had not expected that either.
He looked at the blue cheesecake more carefully.
Nothing about him seemed threatening.
That did not mean much.
Slice had not looked especially dangerous the first time either.
But this stranger was doing something Slice had never done.
He was giving Strawbrawler room.
No step forward.
No attempt to intimidate him.
No demand.
Just waiting.
Strawbrawler glanced down the street.
Then back.
“You said you were following me.”
“Yes.”
“Because you felt something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Blue Bulk looked toward the paving stones.
“Pressure.”
Strawbrawler’s stomach tightened.
“What kind?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I can’t.”
Blue Bulk nodded.
That was apparently acceptable.
Strawbrawler became irritated.
“You don’t seem very bothered by not knowing things.”
“I am bothered.”
“You don’t look bothered.”
“I rarely do.”
That answer was so matter-of-fact that Strawbrawler almost laughed.
He did not.
Not quite.
Blue Bulk turned slightly.
“There is somewhere quieter?”
Strawbrawler looked around.
The street was crowded.
Several people had already noticed them.
That was another thing he was learning about having a name.
Strangers watching him felt different now.
“Yeah.”
He hesitated.
Then pointed.
“There’s an old fountain courtyard two streets over.”
Blue Bulk nodded.
Strawbrawler immediately wondered why he had just agreed to go somewhere quiet with a stranger who had been following him.
He started walking anyway.
Blue Bulk followed.
At Cheesecake Emergency Services, three instruments disagreed.
Whip Siren disliked disagreement.
Machines were permitted to be wrong.
They were not permitted to be wrong differently.
She stood between two monitoring stations, comparing their needles.
The first indicated a mild pressure increase beneath Lower Pastrypolis.
The second showed no change.
The third had climbed, dropped to zero, then climbed again without passing through any values in between.
Whip stared at it.
“That is impossible.”
Glazey Dave looked up from the floor.
“Encouraging.”
“No.”
“Interesting?”
“No.”
He thought.
“Rude?”
“Yes.”
Captain Crumble entered carrying two incident folders.
“What?”
Whip pointed.
“Three arrays. Same network.”
Crumble set the folders down.
“Readings?”
Whip tapped each instrument.
“Pressure.”
“Nothing.”
“Whatever that is.”
Dave leaned closer to the third dial.
“It skipped.”
“Needles do not skip,” Whip said.
“That one did.”
“Then it is malfunctioning.”
Dave opened the access panel.
“Maybe.”
Crumble looked at the wall clock.
“How long?”
“Forty-three seconds.”
“Repeat?”
Whip shook her head.
“No.”
Crumble examined the chart feed.
The line from the first instrument was smooth.
The second nearly flat.
The third was broken into disconnected marks.
Not noise.
Not exactly.
Gaps.
“Any public incidents?”
“None matching.”
“Utility work?”
“Nothing logged.”
“Seismic?”
“No.”
Dave tapped the side of the panel.
Whip slapped his hand away.
“Do not.”
“I was listening.”
“With your fingers?”
“Sometimes they hear better.”
Crumble ignored them.
“Independent power?”
Whip nodded.
“Independent housings too.”
“Then one fault should not affect all three.”
“That was my thought.”
Dave looked inside the panel.
“Unless the fault isn’t in the instruments.”
Crumble looked at him.
Dave realized he had become useful and straightened slightly.
“The array assumes pressure moves through the crust in predictable ways.”
Whip nodded.
“It does.”
Dave pointed toward the chart.
“What if whatever this is doesn’t?”
Silence.
Crumble looked again.
“Log everything.”
Whip had already begun.
“Dave.”
“Yes?”
“Do not dismantle anything yet.”
His shoulders dropped.
“You anticipated me.”
“I know you.”
“That is becoming operationally inconvenient.”
Crumble gathered the charts.
“This is no longer passive monitoring.”
Whip looked over.
“Investigation?”
“Yes.”
Dave brightened.
“Can I dismantle something as part of an investigation?”
“No.”
The brightness faded.
“For now.”
It returned slightly.
The fountain courtyard was empty except for two pigeons and a broken bench.
Strawbrawler sat on the fountain wall.
Blue Bulk remained standing.
“You can sit.”
“I know.”
“That was a suggestion.”
Blue Bulk sat.
The stone made a very small sound beneath his weight.
Strawbrawler noticed.
Of course he did.
“So.”
Blue Bulk waited.
Strawbrawler sighed.
“You’re not going to start?”
“You have more questions.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
Strawbrawler rubbed his forehead.
“You do this on purpose.”
“Sometimes.”
That surprised a laugh out of him.
Small.
Gone quickly.
But enough.
Strawbrawler leaned forward.
“Fine. What did you feel?”
Blue Bulk looked toward the ground.
“Several disturbances.”
“In the city?”
“Before the city.”
Strawbrawler frowned.
“Where?”
“The mountains.”
That got his attention.
“You felt something here from the mountains?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Blue Bulk considered.
“I listen.”
“With what?”
“Everything.”
Strawbrawler waited.
Blue Bulk seemed satisfied with that.
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains the important part.”
“No, it really doesn’t.”
Blue Bulk looked at him.
“When you stand on a bridge, do you feel it move?”
“If it moves enough.”
“I feel it sooner.”
“Because you’re heavier?”
“Partly.”
Strawbrawler looked him over.
“That was not an insult.”
“I know.”
Blue Bulk placed one hand on the fountain rim.
“Stone carries force. Roads carry weight. Walls carry strain. Most things tell you what is happening before they fail.”
Strawbrawler remembered the warm crack beneath the wagon.
“The ground talks to you?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“It would be easier if it did.”
Strawbrawler smiled despite himself.
Blue Bulk continued.
“I feel changes.”
“Like what happened with the wagon.”
“Yes.”
“And the fight.”
“Yes.”
Strawbrawler’s smile disappeared.
“You felt that too?”
“From farther away.”
“How far?”
Blue Bulk told him.
Strawbrawler stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“Possibly.”
“You keep saying things like that.”
“I am trying not to claim more than I know.”
That sounded annoyingly reasonable.
Strawbrawler looked at his hands.
“I don’t know what happens.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I get warm.”
“Where?”
“Inside.”
“All of you?”
“I think.”
Blue Bulk nodded.
“Then pressure.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Try badly.”
Strawbrawler looked up.
“Try badly?”
“Yes.”
“That is your advice?”
“It is better than not trying.”
Strawbrawler thought.
“It feels like…”
He struggled.
“Like something is pushing from inside my crust.”
Blue Bulk listened.
“But also down.”
“Down?”
“Into my legs. Sometimes the ground.”
“Sometimes?”
“When I’m standing right.”
Blue Bulk’s eyes sharpened slightly.
“Who taught you to stand?”
“Éclair.”
“Your trainer.”
“My mentor.”
He said it more easily this time.
Blue Bulk nodded.
“What did Éclair teach you?”
“Balance. Stance. Not chasing a strike. How to stop falling over.”
“Useful.”
“He’d be thrilled by the wording.”
“I am not criticizing him.”
“I know.”
Blue Bulk looked at Strawbrawler’s feet.
“You already have a foundation.”
“That sounds like praise.”
“It is.”
Strawbrawler sat a little straighter.
Then Blue Bulk added:
“You are also leaking force into the street.”
Strawbrawler deflated.
“There it is.”
Blue Bulk’s mouth shifted slightly.
“You cracked paving.”
“I know.”
“You heated stone.”
“I know.”
“You released pressure during a fight without knowing where it would go.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Strawbrawler looked offended.
“Good?”
“You know.”
“Oh.”
Blue Bulk stood.
“Come here.”
Strawbrawler looked around.
“Why?”
“I want you to stand.”
“I know how to stand.”
Blue Bulk waited.
Strawbrawler sighed.
“Fine.”
He stood.
Blue Bulk pointed at the paving.
“Feet.”
Strawbrawler planted them.
Blue Bulk looked down.
“Better than I expected.”
“Thank you.”
“Too wide.”
Strawbrawler frowned.
“Éclair says—”
“Éclair taught you to fight.”
“He taught me balance.”
“Yes.”
“Then why is it wrong?”
“It is not wrong.”
Strawbrawler’s frustration rose.
“Then why did you say—”
“For this.”
Blue Bulk put one hand lightly against Strawbrawler’s shoulder.
“Do not move.”
Then pushed.
Strawbrawler resisted automatically.
His feet locked.
His body tightened.
Nothing happened.
Blue Bulk stopped.
“Again.”
He pushed harder.
Strawbrawler braced.
Still nothing.
“Again.”
“This is training?”
“Yes.”
“You’re pushing me.”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“For now.”
Strawbrawler muttered something.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“I said Éclair has more interesting methods.”
Blue Bulk nodded.
“Probably.”
He pushed again.
Strawbrawler caught himself.
Blue Bulk stopped.
“What did you feel?”
“You pushing me.”
“Before that.”
“Nothing.”
“Again.”
Push.
Brace.
Stop.
“What did you feel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Again.”
“Blue Bulk.”
“Again.”
Strawbrawler reset.
Push.
This time he noticed something.
Not heat.
Weight.
The instant Blue Bulk’s hand met him, Strawbrawler’s body decided where to send the force.
Back.
Down.
Into his heels.
“Wait.”
Blue Bulk stopped.
Strawbrawler looked at the ground.
“I felt that.”
“What?”
“The push.”
“I would hope so.”
“No.”
Strawbrawler pointed at his legs.
“Where it went.”
Blue Bulk nodded once.
“Good.”
Strawbrawler looked suspicious.
“That was the point?”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
“You would have looked for it.”
“I am looking for it.”
“Now.”
Strawbrawler thought about that.
He hated that it made sense.
Blue Bulk repositioned him slightly.
“Narrower.”
Strawbrawler moved one foot.
“Again.”
Blue Bulk pushed.
Strawbrawler felt it.
Shoulder.
Body.
Legs.
Street.
Not power.
Just force.
Again.
A little cleaner.
Again.
Then something warmed.
Strawbrawler inhaled.
“There.”
Blue Bulk stopped immediately.
“What?”
“The heat.”
“Do not use it.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“That is why.”
Strawbrawler’s eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
“You are noticing it before it acts.”
The warmth remained.
Faint.
Blue Bulk stepped back.
“Hold your stance.”
Strawbrawler did.
“Do nothing.”
“That seems to be a theme with you.”
“Do nothing.”
Strawbrawler waited.
The heat grew slightly.
He became nervous.
“I don’t like this.”
“Why?”
“Because last time it got stronger.”
“Then let it get stronger.”
“What?”
“Do not release it.”
“That sounds unsafe.”
“Yes.”
Strawbrawler looked at him.
Blue Bulk’s expression had not changed.
“Reassuring.”
“If it becomes unsafe, I will stop you.”
“How?”
Blue Bulk looked at him.
Strawbrawler remembered the size of him.
“Right.”
He breathed.
The heat built.
Pressure followed.
Faint.
Then more.
Strawbrawler’s instinct was to push.
Punch.
Move.
Something.
Blue Bulk saw the tension.
“Do not chase it.”
That sounded familiar.
Éclair.
Strawbrawler relaxed his shoulders.
The pressure shifted.
Down.
His boots warmed.
The paving stone beneath him gave a tiny click.
Strawbrawler panicked.
The pressure jumped.
Blue Bulk’s hand settled firmly on his shoulder.
“Stay.”
“I’m cracking it.”
“Stay.”
“I should stop.”
“You are trying to stop by forcing it away.”
“Yes!”
“That is not stopping.”
Strawbrawler clenched his jaw.
“What do I do?”
“Feel where it is going.”
“Down.”
“Where down?”
“My feet.”
“Both?”
Strawbrawler concentrated.
No.
“Left.”
“Move it?”
“How?”
“Do not move it.”
Strawbrawler nearly shouted.
“You are terrible at instructions.”
Blue Bulk remained calm.
“Notice the other foot.”
Strawbrawler did.
The right foot felt almost empty.
He shifted his weight.
Not much.
The pressure spread.
The warmth evened.
The tiny crack beneath him did not grow.
Then, slowly, the sensation faded.
Strawbrawler exhaled.
His knees nearly gave.
Blue Bulk caught his arm.
Strawbrawler jerked instinctively.
Blue Bulk released him immediately.
“Sorry.”
Strawbrawler steadied himself.
That mattered.
He looked down.
One tiny mark in the stone.
Nothing more.
“I did that.”
“Yes.”
“I stopped it.”
“Partly.”
Strawbrawler frowned.
“You could just say yes.”
“You partly stopped it.”
“That is much less satisfying.”
“It is more accurate.”
Strawbrawler sat down hard on the fountain edge.
Blue Bulk sat beside him.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Strawbrawler said:
“Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Better?”
“Yes.”
Strawbrawler looked over.
“A lot better?”
“Yes.”
He sighed.
“Good.”
Blue Bulk waited.
“That was sarcasm.”
“I know.”
Another silence.
Strawbrawler rubbed his palms together.
“How long did it take you?”
“To understand my own strength?”
“Yeah.”
“Years.”
Strawbrawler stared.
“Years?”
“Yes.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It was useful.”
“I was hoping for days.”
Blue Bulk looked at him.
“That would be convenient.”
Strawbrawler groaned.
Then something occurred to him.
“Can Éclair teach this?”
Blue Bulk shook his head.
“Probably not.”
Strawbrawler stiffened slightly.
Blue Bulk noticed.
“That is not criticism.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep expecting it.”
Strawbrawler looked away.
Blue Bulk continued.
“Éclair taught you something important.”
“What?”
“To give your body somewhere to stand.”
Strawbrawler looked back.
“I can teach you to notice what happens after that.”
The distinction settled into place.
Not replacement.
Not a better mentor.
A different one.
Strawbrawler looked at the tiny crack beneath his feet.
“So what is this?”
Blue Bulk took longer to answer.
“I do not know.”
Strawbrawler laughed once.
“Of course.”
“I know pieces.”
“Such as?”
“It responds to pressure.”
“Obviously.”
“To emotion.”
Strawbrawler stopped.
Blue Bulk continued.
“To intention, perhaps.”
“What does that mean?”
“At the wagon, you were building toward release.”
Strawbrawler remembered.
“That part felt like the fight.”
“Yes.”
“Then I decided not to.”
“And the pressure changed.”
Strawbrawler stared at him.
“You felt that.”
“Yes.”
“So it listens to me?”
Blue Bulk shook his head.
“Do not give it a mind.”
“Then what?”
“You change.”
Blue Bulk tapped the paving stone lightly.
“The force changes with you.”
Strawbrawler did not like how much that made sense.
“That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“Because if I get angry—”
“It may matter.”
“Scared?”
“It may matter.”
“Hurt?”
“It may matter.”
Strawbrawler looked toward the street.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Yes.”
At least Blue Bulk did not lie.
Strawbrawler sat quietly.
Then:
“You still don’t know why you followed me.”
“No.”
“Do you know now?”
Blue Bulk looked at him.
“A little more.”
Strawbrawler waited.
Blue Bulk did not elaborate.
Strawbrawler rolled his eyes.
“I walked into that one.”
“Yes.”
At CES, the fourth instrument failed.
Not broke.
Failed.
There was a difference.
Whip Siren watched its needle drop to zero.
Then another followed.
Then a third.
“Crumble.”
Captain Crumble was already moving.
Dave emerged from beneath a floor panel.
“What happened?”
“North and lower arrays are dark.”
“Power?”
“Live.”
“Signal line?”
“Live.”
“Then—”
The south array jumped.
Hard.
The needle struck the end of its scale.
Whip stepped back.
Dave stopped.
Captain Crumble looked toward the city map.
“Location?”
Whip checked.
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“Everywhere.”
Crumble stared.
The south array trembled at maximum.
The other three remained dead.
Then all four instruments returned at once.
The needles settled to normal.
No alarm.
No smoke.
No structural reports.
Nothing.
Dave looked around.
“That was not a malfunction.”
Whip checked each housing.
“No.”
Crumble’s expression hardened.
“Confirm externally.”
Whip moved to the communication board.
“Calling municipal crust monitors.”
Dave checked another line.
“Riverworks.”
A dispatcher raised a hand.
“Transit engineering.”
Another voice came back.
“Cathedral district foundation office.”
Reports arrived.
Not identical.
But similar.
Brief signal loss.
Pressure anomalies.
One unexplained heat reading.
One maintenance station reported a gauge turning backward.
Dave looked at Crumble.
“That feels significant.”
“Yes.”
“Can I say alarming?”
“Not yet.”
“What level is before alarming?”
“Investigating.”
Dave nodded.
“I don’t like investigating.”
“You usually love investigating.”
“I like investigating things that behave.”
Whip returned.
“Multiple independent systems.”
Crumble looked at her.
“So not CES equipment.”
“No.”
“Not one district.”
“No.”
“Not one utility network.”
“No.”
Crumble stared at the map.
The city had just produced an event across systems that did not share hardware.
That changed the problem.
“Get Applied Research.”
Whip paused.
“Mara?”
“Yes.”
Dave looked pleased.
“Mara loves impossible things.”
“No,” Whip said. “She loves proving they are not impossible.”
“Same hobby.”
Crumble gathered the traces.
“And pull historical maintenance records.”
“How far?”
“All available.”
Dave whistled.
“That could be decades.”
“Then start with unusual heat, pressure, and unexplained instrument failure.”
Whip nodded.
“And if we find nothing?”
Crumble looked at the dead-still needles.
“Then we widen the search.”
Strawbrawler and Blue Bulk left the courtyard near sunset.
They had not trained again.
Strawbrawler’s legs still felt strange.
Not tired exactly.
Aware.
Every step seemed to have more information in it than before.
He hated that.
He also liked it.
Which was worse.
Blue Bulk walked beside him.
“So what now?”
“You rest.”
Strawbrawler groaned.
“That is not training.”
“Yes.”
“Éclair says that too.”
“He is wise.”
“Do not encourage him.”
Blue Bulk’s mouth moved slightly.
Strawbrawler noticed.
“Was that a smile?”
“No.”
“It was.”
“No.”
“You’re bad at lying.”
“I am not lying.”
“That makes it worse.”
They walked another block.
Strawbrawler looked over.
“Are you staying in Pastrypolis?”
“For now.”
“Where?”
“I have not decided.”
“You came down from the mountains without somewhere to stay?”
“Yes.”
Strawbrawler stared.
Blue Bulk looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
A few months ago, Strawbrawler thought.
No.
A few days ago.
That had been him.
No place.
No plan.
No idea what came next.
The difference was that Blue Bulk did not seem frightened by it.
Strawbrawler wondered what that felt like.
“Éclair has space.”
Blue Bulk looked at him.
“Underground.”
“That does not sound like space.”
“There’s a room.”
“Does Éclair know he has space?”
“No.”
Blue Bulk nodded.
“Then he does not.”
Strawbrawler laughed.
“Probably fair.”
They reached the street where their paths would separate.
Strawbrawler shifted his bag.
“When do we do this again?”
Blue Bulk looked at him.
“You want to?”
Strawbrawler hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow.”
“That soon?”
“You asked.”
“I know.”
Blue Bulk turned to leave.
Strawbrawler called after him.
“Blue Bulk.”
He stopped.
“You said it took years.”
“Yes.”
Strawbrawler looked at the paving beneath his feet.
“What if I’m bad at it?”
Blue Bulk answered without hesitation.
“You are.”
Strawbrawler stared.
Blue Bulk continued.
“That is why you practice.”
Strawbrawler laughed despite himself.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
Blue Bulk walked away.
Strawbrawler watched him disappear into the evening crowd.
Then he looked down at his hands.
Warmth.
Pressure.
Choice.
He understood almost none of it.
But for the first time, he knew someone who understood more.
That was enough.
For tonight.
Deep inside the former Pie Works, Dr. Mara Toffel pushed her goggles higher onto her head.
They were already there.
Captain Crumble placed four instrument charts on the laboratory bench.
Mara studied the first.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Her expression changed at the fourth.
Dave watched from beside the door.
“What?”
Mara did not answer.
Whip folded her arms.
“Mara.”
“I heard you.”
She aligned the charts.
Checked the timestamps.
Then checked them again.
Captain Crumble waited.
Mara took a pencil from her coat.
Then another.
She circled three points.
“This equipment is independent?”
“Yes.”
“Separate power?”
“Yes.”
“Separate calibration?”
“Yes.”
“Separate locations?”
“Yes.”
Mara grew very still.
Dave leaned forward.
“Interesting?”
Mara looked at him.
“Yes.”
Dave smiled.
Whip did not.
Mara looked back at the charts.
“Interesting is not the same thing as safe.”
Captain Crumble rested both hands on the workbench.
“What do you need?”
Mara looked at the records.
“An hour.”
She hesitated.
“Two if you want me to be confident.”
Crumble nodded.
“Take two.”
“And every previous anomalous reading.”
“You’ll have them.”
Mara pushed the charts together.
“Good.”
Dave started toward the bench.
Mara pointed without looking.
“No.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You were about to.”
Dave stepped back.
Mara picked up the first chart.
For the first time that day, Captain Crumble allowed herself to ask the question none of them had wanted to ask aloud.
“What are we looking at?”
Mara studied the impossible lines.
“I don’t know yet.”
Then she looked up.
“That is not the same thing as not knowing.”
