Etta Vale scheduled her bridge inspections like others scheduled baths: by preference and by stubbornness. The Market Span lay across Harborward like a spine of old timber and lacquered iron, lit by gutter lamps the color of bruised fruit. The game's day shimmered, a drizzle of neon users called synthetic mist, and when it fell vendors tightened their tarps and offered steaming skiver tarts—oily pastry dusted with spice—that smelled better rendered through a headset than in her stomach.
Her HUD blinked the moment she stepped onto the span: Span Integrity: 72% (Minor Deformations). Suggested Action: Local Patch. She ran gloved fingers along a rail; a bolt near her palm gave a soft, sarcastic squeak—one of the little engine quirks that had grown a personality. "You again," the bolt muttered. "At least wear a hat next time."
Etta rolled her eyes. Talking bolts were a kind of company: proof the engine had a sense of humor, or at least an attempt at one. She peeled back a plank and felt the give. Structural Intuition painted a faint overlay of stress lines in pale green. The options menu slid up: Inspect / Patch / Replace / Call Guild. She chose Patch.
A little cart clattered past, strewn with mismatched footwear. "Found another one!" Cass Farrow announced, bounding up so carelessly he sent stray lanterns into tiny pirouettes. Cass wore the world's oldest smile and a coat patched more times than a beginner spider. "You should see what people kick off at festivals. One boot, three hats, a sock that thinks it's a hat."
"Cass," Etta said without looking away from the plank she’d pried, "you are the city's premier footwear archaeologist."
"That's not a thing—yet," Cass grinned. From below the arch a voice rolled up like climate-controlled fog. Barnaby the Troll's head, moss-brushed, peeked at them, clutching a satchel of receipts. "Permit or poem for the crossing!" he boomed. "We accept either. Preferably both."