For a week, Carrick had kept a close eye on the door of his shop, but the young boy he had been anticipating had not arrived. A shame. The boy was an exceptional scavenger, the best in Carrick's service.

But in the end, what did it matter. His kind was a dime a dozen in New Belzan. There were hundreds of others just like him ready to supply Carrick with cheap salvage. Carrick sighed, the least he could do was break the news to the boy's sister after closing shop.

Carrick poured himself a cup of his signature coffee. It wasn't genuine coffee, of course, genuine coffee was a commodity, meant only on special occasions and birthdays, but the home-brew still packed a kick despite being concocted from foraged nuts.

Sipping his coffee, he busted out his old record player. It was a pre-schism relic, an artifact from his early days. Despite its age, the record player still worked which was a testament to its fine craftsmanship.

Carrick put down his mug and grabbed a broom from his closet. After giving his floors a good dusting he put his record player to work. He chose to go classical this particular day, Scheherazade Movement Number Four, a calming piece written by some Slav far before Carrick's time.

With his floors clean and music playing the background, he was now ready for business. Few kept such neat shops like Carrick, why bother keeping orderly when the end of the world was upon them. But it was the little things in life that Carrick found most pleasing.

Sure, the world around him was dying, but why be hung over about it? No matter how much he moaned and cried, it wouldn't slow Earth's decay. So instead he would continue to sip his coffee and listen to his records, all while waiting for the world to end.

A loud thud from the entrance hall interrupted his train of thoughts. It was likely an overzealous customer, but one could never be too careful in New Belzan. Carrick reached for his pistol strapped underneath his desk.

Carrick slowly walked to the entrance hall, his pistol hidden underneath his baggy sleeves.

"Is someone there?" Carrick asked, peeking out into the hall.

The shop-keep let loose a sigh of relief, it was a familiar figure by the door. It was the lost boy, and he couldn't be looking any more worse for wear. His long, dark hair was coated in ice and his jacket was in tatters. The boy stumbled inside the hall, a sack slung over his shoulders.

"Cyne! My boy! It's so good to see you alive and healthy! Are you okay?" Carrick asked, rushing to help the boy.

Cyne threw down his sack. "Sum this up, I want my pay," he said, walking past Carrick, he made his way to the shop's fireplace.

"Your sister came here a few days ago, she was worried about you," Carrick said, hauling the sack to the counter.

The boy did not respond.

"You were gone for a week, it's only natural she would worry for her older brother," Carrick continued, now emptying the contents of the sack onto the counter.

"I'm not her brother," Cyne muttered, his gaze still stuck to the fire.

Carrick sighed, it wasn't like him to meddle in other people's personal affairs. He finished calculating what he owed the boy and threw in something a little extra. Now and then it didn't hurt to act a little charitable.

Cyne stood up and using both hands he wiped the ice off his hair. A life of hardship had taken its toll on the boy. The boy had a pretty face, but his thin, angular features and the dark circles under his eyes made him look more phantom than human. His pale skin was riddled with thin, veiny scars that crisscrossed almost like a finely woven web.

Moving quickly, Cyne made his way from the fireplace to the counter.

"Charge needs to be refilled and take a look at the volt amplifier, I think it's fried or something," Cyne said, placing a pistol on the counter.

Cyne's pistol was an imitation of a Kura Tech volt pistol, not nearly as strong as the genuine article but it suited the young scavenger just fine. Volt pistols made for a cheaper, more nonlethal weapon compared to the plasma arms the off-worlders brought.

Carrick fiddled with the pistol in awkward silence, Cyne wasn't much one for conversation. After half an hour or so of awkward silence, he handed the pistol back. It was beyond Carrick how such a young boy could be so antisocial but it wasn't his place to judge. The current times dictated life was harsh to everyone, even more so to the young orphaned boy in front of him.

Counting out all the chips he owed the boy with one hand, Carrick slid the gun across the counter to the boy with the other.

"Here, fifty chips, and I made some improvements to your little sidearm. It can deal out two times the charge without overheating, pretty neat isn't it?" Carrick said, sliding a roll of chips across the counter.

"How much do I owe you?" Cyne asked, his expression pained at the thought of paying for the unwanted upgrades.

"Calm down, ya little cheapskate. It's on the house, think of it as a gift," Carrick said. "Oh, and tell your sister to drop by once in a while, she brightens this old shop up."

"Thanks, I'll bring in more next time," Cyne said, turning away from the counter.

"And Cyne! Tell me if you ever need help with something. Everyone needs a little help sometimes."

Cyne stopped at the door. "No. Not me. I don't need anyone looking out for me, I can take care of myself," he muttered, before leaving the room.