Scrapyard Double-Cross
The moment we stepped inside, I shot daggers at the bastard who flopped onto the sofa without offering me a chair or even a seat. Naturally, this social cripple of a lowlife didn't pick up on my glare. No point standing around waiting for an invite that wasn't coming, so I dropped onto the sofa across from him. I threw myself down with a thud, and dust billowed up in a cloud. Clean the damn place if you're gonna live here, I thought.
I waved my hand to clear the thick haze, and there he was, staring at me blankly from across the way. Instead of staring, how about offering a cup of tea? These guys had the worst hospitality imaginable. Not that I'd trust coffee or water from this dump anyway—probably taste like sand or oil.
"So, you're here for the goods?"
"Yeah."
"Cyberdeck, right?"
"That's right?"
"……."
He kept asking questions like that, so I mirrored him with my own. He fixed me with a hard stare. That scarred, hairy mug of his wasn't much to look at, so I averted my eyes and scanned the room. Like that gunk caked on his fist—was it blood or oil? The table between us had splatter marks too, so it looked like he'd had some trouble before I showed up. The faint killing intent from his goons outside backed that up.
And that meant things could get messy with me too. What a simple job, my ass. It was tangled from the start. Probably because that old geezer kept stressing how easy it would be. First no way, now simple. Human words are a scary thing.
"Mercs usually don't run solo."
The guy eyeing me up finally started talking business, like he'd sized me up. His gaze lingered on my left arm and right leg with obvious contempt. Yeah, yeah, I'm sick of that look too.
"Why roll deep for an errand? We're not kids."
"You're a funny one."
Whatever cracked him up twisted his face into a grin. Like crumpling paper, the scars followed the muscles in a grotesque crumple. He'd clearly taken some hits before.
"Here, the goods."
What the hell? Had I judged him too quick by his looks? Against my suspicions that he'd nitpick to kill the deal, he casually showed me the item.
Chiiiik. He unlocked the case, revealing a red rectangular device. Matched the briefing from the old man exactly. At least on the surface. I didn't know cyberware from shit, but I leaned in to inspect it anyway.
Thud. As I got close, he snapped the case shut and smirked, hand planted on it.
"…Heard the creds are already paid. You hand over the goods, I take 'em. Done deal, right?"
Even as I said it, I knew it wouldn't go smooth. If the world worked that easy, why would problems exist? These clowns wouldn't be scamming folks in this backwater, peddling stolen shit.
Key points: remote location, and these guys were scammers. No way this was legit from jump. Especially since some idiot paid upfront.
"Sure, that'd be normal."
See? Already backpedaling.
"But situations change, yeah? And so does the price."
I didn't bother replying. No point wasting breath on someone unreasonable.
"We took a big hit recently, so the value's gone up. Just now."
"Should've come earlier then?"
"…Haha, funny guy. Real funny."
"So, how much extra? Gotta know to proceed."
"Ten thousand creds."
I didn't know the original price, but that was a rip-off. His smirking face matched the black market hagglers perfectly.
"Aw, I'm broke right now. Gimme the goods, I'll bring the rest later. Deal?"
"Hahaha."
"Hahaha."
He laughed dryly at my words, so I laughed back. Joy shared is joy doubled, but I wasn't joyful. Neither was he, apparently—his fist came flying at me.
Sorry, old man. Swore I wouldn't this time…!
Shing! Still seated, I whipped out the dagger from my waist and slashed at his fist. Internal energy sharpened the blade, and boom! I smashed through the thin plywood wall and bounced back.
Crash! One flip, two. I fired tension at the floor to steady myself, somersaulted, and landed dead center in the repair shop. Perfect ten-out-of-ten.
But instead of applause, click-click! A forest of gun barrels greeted me.
"…What the hell's your fist made of?"
I thought I'd slashed it, but no scratches. Well, maybe a nick, but not as planned. Even reinforced with internal energy, my body's shaky foundation fucked it up. Dodged with the flat of the blade just in time—any slower, and my wrist would've snapped.
"……."
My wrist throbbed; wanted to rub it, but left hand's a claw. Rotated it instead, waiting out the pain. Then the door swung open—he stepped out. Could've used the wall he broke, but polite in weird ways.
"Wolf Tech power arm. Your outdated junk can't scratch it."
"…Fuck that cyberware worship. Look close—there's a mark."
Grousing, I eyed his proudly extended right arm. Mechanical design with exposed metal parts. Impact felt like punching through a qi-wrapped fist. No wonder the gunk; smashing folks with that'd cake it up.
"Nitpicking a done deal."
"Blame the missionaries. Their fault we're hurting."
Missionaries again. Hit 'em hard or not at all. Half-ass it, and they get pissy. Never met these cult freaks, but damn the hassle.
"Hey, you."
I circulated energy to numb the wrist tingle and called out to one aiming a gun.
"Too much hassle—call in the guy outside."
"…This psycho—what?"
He scowled, ugly face getting uglier.
"Ugh, so damn ugly."
Slipped out. His face crumpled more.
"Hah! All talk. Dagger? That pistol on your hip decoration?"
"Shoot it with that arm. Use your brain, gorilla boy."
"…Bastard."
Hated "gorilla," apparently. Scowling, he lumbered over.
"What, one-on-one?"
Six inside, five with pistols trained. Mock the gorilla to avoid a bullet hail.
"Those cocky mercs earlier? Brains pulped by this."
He menaced with his fist, growling. Snorting like a real ape.
"One ambushed, and you brag like it was fair."
No finger-wagging at ambushes. But claiming two when it was one sneak and one fight? Shameless.
"All talk. Block this then—flank!"
Shout and swing. Fist aimed at my head, not side. Psychological feint—respect, but too basic.
Didn't even shift; just tilted my head to dodge. Real combat experience—he twisted, uppercut with left.
Slash!
"Oops."
Sliced instinctively. Felt like it hit cyberware.
"Gahhh!"
Instead of clutching his wrist, he lunged with a haymaker. Powerful, but with my energy flowing? Slow as a yawn—even exaggerating.
Side-stepped half-pace, deflected the fist, slipped inside, and slashed upward. …Burrowing into a furry dude's embrace felt off, but the blade nailed the cyberware joint.
"……!!"
Unlike the wrist, resistance on the blade—severed arm flew up. Before goons reacted, I kicked the falling power arm. Perfect angle—smash! into a goon's jaw mid-draw.
A man's dream: rocket punch.
Crack! Bullet fired skyward—my cue. Charged the nearest thug, slashed his pistol slide-first, choked him, and used him as a shield in the line of fire.
Bulletproof vest, so he won't die. …Right? His body answered: vibrations, then a bellow. Screaming meant vest worked. Out from shock or choke, I hurled him at the next target and shadowed him.
Burst out with Step Thunder Flash, dodging aimed pistols.
Thwack! Thwack! One, two. Dagger hilt to the skull, down.
Old man said quiet—killing 'em all quieter?
Bang! Clang!
"Whoa… shit! Surprise!"
Pondering "quiet" nearly got me shot. Yelled, twisted, slashed—sparks flew, metal screamed.
"…What?"
"Yo, did I just slice a bullet?"
Shooter and target both stunned, eyes wide. I recovered first—closed in, slashed cyberware to scrap. Cheap chrome post-gorilla; no qi needed, hacked off easy. Flat of blade to skull, out.
Finally, outside guy burst through the door.
Bang! Distance too far for dagger; drew pistol from holster, plugged him. No cover—backlit by late sun, entered and exited via bullet.
"Getting used to this shit."
Eyed the smoking pistol, holstered it. Bent for the rolling dagger, approached the last brass-haired thug.
"Alive?"
"…Urgh…."
Not instant death as aimed; groaning, clutching shoulder.
Thud! Out cold hurts less—mercy knock.
At last, peace settled over the remote scrap repair shop. This job's a win. The sole standing soul inside, I savored the quiet satisfaction.