In the end, Pike managed to barter half his coins away for a skewer of dripping, juicy roast meat that he could be reasonably sure didn’t come from a bug. It was hot and succulent, practically melting in his mouth. The sauce was something tangy like a spicy mustard.

With a stick-based foodstuff in hand, Pike felt less like an outsider and more like a tourist. Sure, it was a strange, alien world, but people still had the same stuff ticking away inside their skulls. Wherever a tourist went, he was home if someone was willing to sell him overpriced street food.

He was minding his own business, going with the crowd, when a stray step broke him free from their ranks. He had stepped out of the herd, into a cleared space.

Surrounded by onlookers holding a respectful distance, a man in hooded white robes was fixing an engine. It was a large, circular pylon, trailing bare wires up into shadow of the titan above. The layout was totally unfamiliar to Pike; the machinery was separated into semi-circular bubbles coming out of the main pillar. The man was sweaty and bald-headed, with tattoos on his shining scalp.

As Pike watched, the man’s liver-spotted hand groped across the dirt, reaching for a metal stylus left lying on the ground. Kneeling down, he picked up the tool and handed it across.

The man pulled back from his work, giving Pike a squinty stare, and then, licking his lips, shrugged and took the stylus. Pike leaned in to watch as the man worked. Inside the pylon was something like a circuitboard, but instead of the typical bifurcating lines, the golden conduits formed a complex runic symbol.

The man dipped the stylus into a square stone container, drawing it back with a glimmer of molten gold on the nib. Leaning in, he carefully altered the rune, fixing broken connections and redrawing faded lines. The machine gave a shudder, and from deep within there was a fast, rhythmic chugging, the sound of a motor kicking into gear.

Lights came on across the market, flickered, and went out again. The machine ground to a halt.

The old man cussed. Pike didn’t know what it meant, but he knew a swear when he heard one.

“Hmm.” Laying his hand on the side of the pillar, Pike tried connecting with Mana Charge.

That was a big mistake.

This time, it wasn’t just a flickering moment of pain. It was a sustained, drawn-out shock, tightening his muscles to straining agony. He groaned through gritted teeth and sank to his knees, but his palm remained stuck to the engine’s side, fingers trembling as tiny threads of electricity coursed over them.

It wasn’t until he had nothing left to give, no Cosm left in his system, that the contact suddenly broke and his hand dropped away. For that long, excruciating moment, every light in the market shone brightly.

And then they shattered, and he dropped.

The space between his eyes ached like a drill had just gone through his skull. Like the drill was still there, still going, grinding away, overwriting his throats with its whining roar.

Pike gasped, trying to hold himself up. A cold sweat beaded on his skin. Cold sweat outside, absolute emptiness within, a scooped-out feeling that left him oddly light, like a stray wind could blow him over. The old man was staring, his mouth slack with shock. The crowd had retreated.

He could hear - as his hearing returned over the rush of blood behind his ears - whispering. Awed, low gossip, spreading what had happened from the ones at the front to those too far back to see.

Someone pushed forward and touched his head, before being pulled back by the crowd. The old man dropped to all fours and bowed.

This was not going right-

Through the pain, through the nausesa, Pike felt like laughing. Oh god. This was so far from right-

They were bowing to him, and now the old man clambered up, sweeping the dirt of the knees of his robe and offering a hand down. Pike could barely grab hold, and allow himself to be lifted up.

Guards were pressing through the crowd, coming for him-

They pushed the crowd out of the way, leaving space for the old man to half-carry him through, lifting Pike’s arm across his skinny shoulders-

The weight of hundreds of eyes pressed down on him as they walked. Him, the outsider, in his shiny black socket-suit, with his strange features. Sunkissed skin, blue eyes. Pike said, “Hi, I don’t speak the language.” The old man just laughed.

Was what he did really that special? They were treating him like a saint.

But, maybe, it did make sense. This whole town was built on ancient tech, literally on the back of an ancient, rusted-out titan. This market was full of relics from a bygone age. The junk-seller’s response suddenly made sense to Pike. Anyone who could bring it back to life held the keys to the whole world.

The old man holding him up wasn’t just a mechanic. He was a priest too.

Glancing around, Pike spotted Kadra in the crowd, a look of complete disbelief on her tiny green face. He pointed to her and gestured for her to come forward, and the guards let her through, the goblin joining his side. She glared up and him and swirled a finger next to her skull, the apparently-universal symbol for being batshit crazy.

They were headed for the elevators, headed up.

Towards whoever ran this town.