Chapter 147 Pipa’s Broadcast

Pipa’s scream tore across floor twelve at dawn, knocking pastries off the table and Kevin Two off its stand. The Halloway clip passed nine million views overnight, the number on her slate still climbing like a rising tide.

Her slate shook above her head, "Chat, nine million views, nine million, I am about to be sick on the new carpet."

Zinnia read the comments over her shoulder, her lips moving faster with every single line she scrolled past. Bruno studied the screen with folded arms, his chest swelling as a hundred strangers praised his shoulder blades.

"Four hundred comments mention my shoulder, I counted twice, a Steelhorn frame is plainly a national treasure."

"Nine thousand mention his tears, Steelhorn, you are outnumbered by crying," she replied, not looking up.

Nilo pulled the cold cloth off his eyes, "Nine thousand of them, are we sure everyone is watching the right clip?"

Pipa tapped play before anyone could object, filling the whole wall screen with Halloway’s rain.

The clip opened on Halloway’s rain-soaked square, the camera pulled close enough that every drop looked like a coin. Nilo appeared as a hooded blur in silver-blue, a lantern staff glowing while tears streaked down his hidden cheeks.

"Cut to the end, I look like a damp curtain having a bad day," he muttered, sinking behind the bandolier.

"A damp curtain with my shoulder’s courage, I would watch it again," Bruno declared.

Every frame of him bent slightly out of focus, a smear no drone could sharpen however hard it tried. Viewers named him the Weeping Hunter, a hundred thousand drawings of rain and a lantern already filling the feed.

’A hundred thousand drawings and not one of them has my face. Honestly, the best review I have ever had.’

Ganzo dabbed one eye with a napkin the size of a flag, pretending a pastry crumb flew inside. Nobody called him out, since everyone else in the room was blinking at the very same stubborn dust.

"Nine million people watched a boy cry and not one of them watched me burn a cake, a true mercy," he rumbled.

Tilly’s call arrived while Ganzo read aloud the nicest comment, which named him the sturdiest uncle in the city. Her face filled the cracked phone screen, goggles pushed into her orange hair, a pencil tucked behind one ear.

"They are selling paper rain hoods in the Ring for forty marks each, I want a cut of your tears, I have the receipts."

"My tears are not for sale, Tilly," Nilo said, rubbing his temple.

"Everything is for sale, I own a notebook, it is practically a license."

"Also I built you something for the crying, come by the stall tomorrow and bring your wallet," she added, grinning.

Kids across the Lower Town were already painting cardboard rain hoods, selling them from crates for three marks each. Tilly turned her phone toward the window, showing a whole street of tiny hooded figures marching like little ducklings.

Dot waved a scribbled sign at the camera, "Weeping Hunter fan club, membership is three marks and one good cry."

"That is the third sign this hour with a price on it, I have never been prouder," Tilly sighed.

By noon the Market Ring bristled with paper rain hoods, bobbing above the stalls like a field of tents. Auntie slapped a bowl of noodles onto the counter without looking, her ladle already moving toward the next customer.

"Twelve marks, noodle boy, the girl with the notebook warned me you would try to pay in tears."

A street performer in a silver-blue shawl cried loudly beside the stall, wringing a wet cloth over a bucket. A small crowd clapped for every theatrical sob, tossing coins into the bucket while Nilo ate four steps away.

"Do I look like a man who cries over noodles?" he asked, lifting his chopsticks.

Auntie jabbed her ladle at the performer, "Honey, every man cries over noodles... that one over there is just better paid."

A small boy in a paper hood tugged his coat, "Mister, did you see the real Weeping Hunter, he is taller than you."

"Much taller," Nilo said gravely, "and he cries louder, I hear he practices."

The performer sidled over, wringing his cloth, "Pardon me, friend, you have such a sincere face, could you spare a tear for the bucket?"

"I would, but I rent mine by the fight, it is practically a subscription," he answered.

The boy nodded gravely, then marched off, leaving Nilo with his noodles and a strange ache behind his ribs.

’Nine million people love a hooded blur. Not one of them will remember the boy underneath.’

The hire order from Crown still hung on the whiteboard, its final clause circled twice in red marker. Streams, clips and drones stayed a street clear of the Collector, the rule Pipa repeated like a prayer.

"Crown’s order stands, no stream near the Collector, that includes your new fans," Zinnia said, tapping the whiteboard with her pen.

"I posted the clip after the street was empty, I swear on my lens, I did everything by the rules."

"The Collector watches hooks, kid, and nine million people just showed him a boy who cries," Ganzo said.

Pipa’s voice shrank to almost nothing, "He... he can see the rack through the smear?"

"He sees what the city shows him, nothing more," he answered, softer than anyone expected.

"Then we stand in front of the boy, Captain, a Steelhorn makes an excellent curtain."

"Rotating watch starts tonight, two of us at the Lower Town door and one on the roof, nobody sleeps alone," Zinnia said, writing it on the board.

Ganzo grinned, "Quartermaster, that is the first schedule I have ever approved on sight."

Slate under her arm, Pipa climbed to the roof where Nilo sat dangling his feet over the tower’s edge. The city spread below them like a spilled toolbox, thousands of windows glowing with clips that hid his face.

"Thanks for coming up, I rehearsed this speech in the elevator and it already fell apart on the stairs," she said.

She sat down slowly beside him, tucking her knees under her chin, her round glasses reflecting the whole sunset. He kept staring at the horizon instead of her, the way he always did when someone said something true.

"Before the chat tells you themselves, I wanted to say I never show your face, not even a quarter profile—"

"I know, there is always a smear where I should be, you have never once cheated."

She laughed a small laugh, "The smear is my best editing tool, Nilo, it has never needed a filter."

The sun sank behind the Scar, painting the rooftops copper while a hundred thousand strangers cried along below. She handed him the slate without a word, her lens turned away, while he scrolled through countless tributes.

A stranger wrote that their mother cried too, a boy told his father something true, a girl thanked the rain.

"I started streaming since the Hunters on television all looked untouchable, like they never got tired," she said.

"My whole street watched them on one cracked television every night, hoping one of them would look back at us."

"And now a few million strangers get to look back at one of us," he said quietly.

"Chat is my squad when I am off a roof, I want the city to see us as people who get tired."

"You cut a clip of a boy crying in the rain, Pipa... and nine million strangers felt less alone, that is not nothing."

’She turned my worst habit into a gift. She would hate being told so out loud.’

"If it ever feels wrong, say the word, I will delete the whole thing," she added.

"Leave it up, the rain belongs to everybody anyway," he answered.

Her slate chimed in his hand, a single new comment sliding to the very top of the endless feed. The avatar was a pale circle ringed in gold, the name beneath it blank, the message three lines long.

[ PRIVATE PIN ]

[Thank you for the tears.]

[They tasted lovely.]

[Come and see the rest.]

Nilo read the message twice, feeling the words settle in his stomach like cold coins.

Every mask on his rack went still, Jingles mid-whimper, as if someone slammed a book shut. Nilo set the slate on the ledge, his voice dropping until it was level and low.

"Pipa, how many of your viewers can see that pin right now?"

"Only me, the sender wrote it as a private pin, Nilo... I did not even know that was possible."

Nilo gathered the slate, pressing it back into her hands, "Delete nothing, answer nothing, carry this pin to Crown before sunrise."

"Someone is watching," Zilch said.

Jingles squeaked from the rack, "I would like it noted that I am extremely against being watched by anything that tastes tears."

"Darling, an admirer who sends private notes is either a poet or a predator... tonight I suspect both," Cadenza sighed.

’He said tasted. Nobody tastes tears through a screen.’

Zinnia’s voice floated up the stairwell, "Dinner is cold, both of you, the Captain ate the pastry that was yours."

Ganzo’s voice boomed behind her, "I regret nothing, that pastry was an entirely flaky witness and I calmly removed it from evidence."