“Big bro!  Fak!  When did you get so good with bang bang?!”

As kill or die mode fades, the fatigue rolls over me like a wave.  Lightheaded.  Dizzy.  This dry ass heat under a baking sky certainly isn't helping either.  Thirsty again too but drained my canteen back at the tracks.

(My mind may be a vet, but this body is still a rookie.)

Slump against the stairwell as my senses return to normal.  The smell hits me like a wave right behind the exhaustion.  That old odor trifecta of blood, piss, and shit, attacks my nostrils.

Except this time it has a new addition.  Gunpowder.  A sulfur like smell.  So is it now a quafecta odor?

My fingers probe where I got hit.  By the shotgun and pistol.  But both wounds have, already closed?

(Huh.  Science rocks I guess.)

My tribal sidekick shadow is bouncing around like a mexican jumping bean.  Singing my praises non stop as he hops from corpse to corpse.  Stripping everything of value and stuffing them into pockets all over his baggy clothes.

He’s even using a knife to cut parts out here and there.  Shoving them into plastic looking bags.

[Adapting…  He is cutting out cybernetic components.  Cybernetics are a key part in most enhancements.  They are durable enough to be repaired and reused.  Like I was.]

“Brother!  What a haul!  So many goodies.  Don’t worry Shank.  I’m saving the best for you!”

(Hard to get upset with a bloke who enjoys his work this much.)

Whether a hunt or a battle.  The final victory always belongs to the scavengers.  The predator fills its stomach and moves on.  The soldier reloads and takes its next mission.

For the scavenger?  Everything left is its feast.

*hong*

The blaring of a horn echoes while a flare shoots up into the setting sun’s sky.  Digger about jumps out of his skin.

“Shit!  Fak!  However scrambled your brain is Shank?  We gotta go.  We gotta go, now!”

“Eh?”

“You think these gangers were it?  The runners just called for backup.  We do not want to be here when they show.  Come on!”

He grabs my arm and starts pulling pushing on me even harder than when that superhero was giving me the eye.

“But, the ammo…”

“I stripped cyberarm already.”  He does look a lot bulkier now.  How much is he carrying?  “I got your stuff already.  Let’s go!”

We make our way down alleys of trash and are soon among people again.  The sight, sound, and smell, of slum folk is strangely comforting.

(My legs are lead.  Nina, do something.)

[Adapting…  Excessive neural and metabolic fatigue present.  Clearing toxins.]

The fog lifts.  The dullness clears.  I’m awake again.  I’m sharp again.

[Caution…  Reserves down to 50%.  Suggest restocking as soon as possible.]

(Reserves?)

[Nanomachines are subject to wear and tear like all automatons.  Subject to malfunction.  Require repair.  Refueling.  Most of the materials needed are not naturally produced.  Must be imported.  Consumed.]

(Consumed?)

[Adapting…  Dietary supplements are required.  Functions like cleansing require nanomachine participation.  Passive actions like using previously enhanced musculature do not.]

(Huh.  So what, exactly, am I eating?)

[Adapting…  Supplements are normally in pill or paste form and have a variety of functions.  Some are task oriented, like tissue repair.  Others are materials only.  Which are then used by the maintenance module to produce, repair, and refuel.]

(A little factory, huh?  Where is it?)

[Adapting…  Upper spine.  Near your skull.]

(Wait, I thought Doctor Bob just put stuff in my head?)

[Adapting…  Level one enhancement requires cybernetics implanted in several locations.  The main modules though are located in the back of your brain and upper spine.]

“Shank.  Time to sell the loot.  Can’t take most of this home.”

While Nina and I have been chatting.  Digger has been leading us through the slums.  Even with all those pockets stuffed, he’s pretty fast.

As we travel, you can see who owns what street by the colors on the gangers loitering here and there.  Like prison guards, monitoring the inmate slum population from street corners, stairs, windows, sometimes even rooftops.

We get the evil eye a few times but none make a move.  With how we’re dressed they probably figure all we got are scraps anyway.

Suddenly pulled into a shop by Digger, I get bits and pieces shoved into my hands and pockets.  Pistols, knives, belts, holsters, ammo, plus sticks, coins, and paper that are, currency?

“Hurry.  Put it on.”

He keeps looking out the window as he also steals glances outside.  I obediently situate the various holsters, belts, knives, and guns on myself.

Take the break to remind myself how to properly strap and cover a shotty.  Need a longer coat.

(God it feels like forever.)

“Hey!  This ain’t a bar!  If you buying?  Buy!  If you selling?  Sell!  Neither?  Get out!”

An angry voice bellows from deeper in the poorly lit shop.  The following *cho-chang* of a pump action shotgun is a language known across time and space.  Translation?  Don’t fuck with me.

“Come on pops!  Got good stuff for ya!  Make that chop happy brother of yours all smiles!”

“Hmph!  I’ll be the judge of that!  Get over here then!”

Smells of mold, metal, and oil, surround me as I follow Digger further into the dark and dingy shop.  Shelves and racks flank me.  Stretching from floor to ceiling on both sides.  Protected from sticky fingers by bars and wire.

On them are every implement of destruction imaginable.  Knives, pistols, shotguns, rifles, machine guns, grenades, and rocket launchers?  Axes?  Spears?  Swords?  Crossbows?  What the fuck kind of planet is this?

Holy shitballs!  A man-portable howitzer?  Who the fuck carries a god damn artillery piece around?!

[Adapting…  Portable artillery are popular for heavily enhanced hunters encountering large armored monsters.]

We finally reach the end of arsenal hall and find a, dwarf?  Short, bearded, half cyborg, filthy, and stinking to high heaven, dwarf.  Staring at us from the other side of, probably bullet proof, dirty glass.

“Well well, if it isn’t Digger.  How are you still alive?  You keep sticking your nose and fingers into places they don’t belong.”  Huge smirk.  “Keep this up and someone’s going to put you down soon.”

“Never pops.  I dig too fast and too deep for any of them crawlers to keep up.”

“Yeah yeah.”  Dismissive wave.  “So what treasures have you brought me today?”

Slowly, almost like a model revealing the game show’s prize, the squirt starts pulling out our ill gotten gains.  Various pistols, knives, axes, bludgeons, etc…

“Hmm…  Ganger trash?  Is that all you got?”

The dwarfs sour look changes as the plastic bags come out.

“Oh?  Little tribal, who did you kill?”

Decide it’s time for me to butt in.

“Does it matter?”

Cyber dwarf looks at me for the first time.  I can feel him scanning me.

“No.  But I do like to keep up on local news.  Especially hot and fresh stuff like an Izettin crew looking for payback but finding a meat grinder instead.”

My little tribal friend starts acting nervous.

“D-do you n-not want my b-business?  I, I c-can go elsewhere’s.”

“Now now.”  Pops lays his hands flat.  “Let’s not be hasty.  This shop is protected by the Oxa.”  Smug look.  “Good money maker too.  Izettin can’t cause me no trouble.”

“G-good.”  Digger is so relieved he deflates.

“But they can cause you plenty.”  Pops gives him a hard glare.  “Merchants matter.  Tribals don’t.  No one will raise a fuss over another tribe getting slaughtered.”

Time for the stocky cyborg to look at me again.

“Can see the Oxa bought you.  Not my brother’s work though.  Why did you leave the neighborhood for it?  His work not good enough for you?”

“Don’t know.”  Shrug my shoulders.  “Maybe I just felt like a walk?”

*thunk*

At this point there are over two dozen bags laid out on the counter already.  For the piece de resistance, Digger drops the cyberarm on the table.

Pops’ eye, the remaining real one, sparkles.

“Ho!  A Yamatachi?  Where did?  Damn, guess the other bit of that story was true too.”

My turn again.

“What other bit?”

“Ah.”  Reluctant dwarf is reluctant.  “You see?  Word is, the captain of the Izettin crew was the son of a boss.  So their hardware, especially cyber, was a bit better than most gangers.  Even had a bodyguard.  You see?”

Pops picks up a bag with an eyeball and dumps it in a jar like contraption filled with blue green liquid.  The blood and flesh bits quickly dissolve.  Leaving just the eye.  Which is then scanned by multiple red beams.

“Wow, a Pater.  Couldn’t tell you the last time I saw one of these.”  He looks at me again.  “You must have quite the skills to bag these donors.  Oxa got really lucky when they picked you.”  His eye squints.  “Or really unlucky.”

“Hey.  Don’t be talking about Shank.  Best knifer in the tribe.  Best gunner now too.”

The little tribal that could, looks so proud.  He puffs up and defends my honor.

“Yeah yeah, but he’s Oxa property now.  You think he’s coming back after they call him to war?”

“Course he’s coming back.  Ain’t no ganger, no mutant, even no monster, can kill Shank!”

(Yeah.  Wouldn’t be so sure about that little buddy.  Bailing out of here as soon as I find a parachute.)

“Really?  Well let’s see what this knifer is packing.  Come on.  Don’t be shy.”

Look at Digger and see him nod.  All my knives and guns start dropping onto the counter.  Pops gives them all the evil eye.

“Hmph!”  Shakes his head.  “Idiots.  That Bozh and Klink have trackers.  Just like the Yamatchi and Pater.  Would have led their seekers right to you.”

(Is that true?)

[Unconfirmed but possible.  Higher priced items often include hidden trackers for insurance purposes.]

“No worries.”  Calming dwarf, calms.  “This shop is shielded already and I can scrub the trackers.”  Rubs his chin.  “Still, for a battle slave with skills?  Everything except the Bozh is shit.”

Midget merchant suddenly reeks of used car salesman.  Before my eyes Digger transforms like a power ranger into barter battle mode.

“Now Pops, us simple tribal folk don’t want anything fancy.  So how about we just…”

The light outside gets dimmer and dimmer while the merchant and tribal haggle over the condition and price of every single thing on the counter.

Of course that wasn’t all of Digger’s stash so more comes out or gets put away as the battle of the sale price and exchange rate swings back and forth.

They even take a quiet relaxed break, chatting about the weather and shit, in the middle for drinks before going right back into a verbal apocalypse.  My estimation of Digger’s skills climb higher.  A lot higher.

During the war I’m handed this weapon and that.  This jacket or that.  Holsters, belts, even sunglasses, are tried on and taken off as the feud continues.

Finally, with the dwarf loudly demanding we never darken his doorstep again?  But looking very pleased with himself.  Digger and I find ourselves shoved back out onto the street and can hear the door locking behind us.

Digger is immensely pleased with himself as he sports a new baggy jacket and backpack.  Even has new boots on.  Well used and repaired of course, but new to us.  Somehow his outfit has even more pockets than before.

Can barely tell his new outfit has armor plates sewn in.

I’ve got new clothes now too.  An armored coat with a Hof “Felger” 15mm shotgun slung down my back for an over the shoulder draw.  It’s shorter and more compact than the Bozh but a lot more rugged looking too.

Besides the shotty?  Two Nivrutti P7’s in shoulder holsters.  Sleek looking things.  7.5mm “dumbfire” semi-autos.  Yeah, dumbfire, there’s actually “smartfire” guided bullets out there.

Scary.  Sniper heaven I bet.  Where every shot is a headshot.

Next up?  One mean brutal fucker.  A KC 10mm dumbfire semi-automatic pistol on my right hip.  Right out for everyone to see along with my shotty.  Serious intimidation factor.

Complimenting it, strapped to my left hip, is a Yeon-Bo “vibroblade.”  A couple feet long and apparently vibrates so fast that it can cut through steel like a knife through butter.  Yeah, I go no clue but Digger seemed to and was impressed.

Behind my back are two combat knives crossed behind my waist.  For nostalgia, I guess, the shivs are kept in a cargo pocket.

Okay, so, yeah, everything is used and visibly patched and repaired countless times.  However, it's pretty damn nice gear for the slums and I’m going to need every advantage I can get when the Oxa call.

Both of our backpacks, I’ve got one now too, are stuffed with ammo, medicine, parts and food.  Even filters to clean water and “dietary supplement” pills.  According to Digger it's a big payday for the tribe.

Now if we can just avoid Izettin killers we should be in the cle-

*siren*

(Tornado warning?)

In the fading light, with what sounds like a tornado siren going off, I see the little tribal that could’s face turn deathly pale.

“Oh no…  Shank?  Run!”