u/Extension_Switch_823

[First][Previous][Next]

Officer Davis had filed as much as he could of the encounter, now he was sitting in the chief's office.

Chief Simmons had taken the field for the operation on the assurance that third parties wouldn't be interfering. Where he got that from Davis had absolutely no idea, but they were off.

The night started out very by the books.

The call went out over the nightly news and radio broadcasts to get everyone you knew into a shelter for the night, to do it calmly, quietly. Fighting would happen some time after sundown and the police were bringing their big sticks.

Getting their fleet of mechs all buttoned up for fighting had been more than just a task.

They'd been understaffed the whole week just from looking after the 24-7 shifts of technicians. When it came to the day of they'd made sure to keep away from the area in question until it was time to tell everyone.

All the blocks around where they knew the cardinals were going to be doing their little 'demonstration' were empty. Not a civilian to be seen outside the local bunkers.

"Everyone reported closing went as smooth as we could hope for. Where did the pilot come from?" Chief Simmons asked.

"I don't know sir." Davis answered.

The bigger man sighed, that annoyed 'this is going to take longer than I want' sigh.

Davis was a pretty good pilot when he was in the police standard MOP. Good at getting away, good at not getting seen, good at not getting damaged. He was meant to be a frontliner keeping the fighting contained.

He'd been positioned in an alley looking along 443rd towards the intersection with Parks. Clinging to a wall with just the scope of his cannon peaking around a corner to watch for contacts along the road.

They weren't expecting trouble for another half hour to hour earliest when a CAT came rolling down the street from behind his position. It was a dark, purple-blue color with stripes that blended between lime green and amber seemingly on the availability of the paint.

It rolled on the cheapest set of treads that looked like they'd been shown more love and attention than all their machines combined. While the standard CAT starter torso and arms were leaned back to rest their elbows on the back of the treads like the machine was lounging.

Green felt dust covers from something else were wrapped around its neck and shoulders like a mech scale poncho and seemed picked to mach the green square of the starter missile pod occupying one of the back mounts.

Silver latches and faded amber straps held the covers to the frame by wrapping around the underarms and torso, making the sandblasted steel of the head look a little less out of place. The head was one of their models, a steel bar headband over a single protruding lens that gave the whole thing a less 'human helmet' shape than 'brutalist knight's visor' or 'dog helmet' look.

The last external deviation from 'normal starter mech' asside from the lack of radar on its other back mount were the pair of machine guns in its arms. Davis recognized them as one of the cheaper models that struggled with recoil but was otherwise fairly accurate and durable.

Big&Large had recently put a 'make it spin' version of them on an arena mech with quad legs. That guy showed promise but was otherwise poorly supported.

As the Chief finished typing out something he turned to ask another question, "What happened at the intersection then? We weren't due to dance for another hour. What did he say that had the gang jump all their plans and cues?"

Davis nodded.

The exchange had been fairly simple, someone else broadcasted a taunt to the other mech: "After all we did for you, Sam? You're just going to fly off the handle and ruin our night like this?"

To which the purple mech responded: "The only reason I ever went along with any of your crap was because you had my family locked up. They're out now. And that makes me a free agent."

"Oh don't be like that, we've been through so much together, we're practically brothers!" came a teasing reply.

"You're right, we've been through a lot, You put me through a lot. I kept a tally; every broken bone, every missing tooth, every drop of blood. You racked up a tab so big I don't think you could pay it off just by chaining up the next 5 generations of your spawn." the rebuttal came with some dark venom.

There was a few seconds pause then the cardinal mechs started swarming down the roads.

He didn't relay that to the Chief though.

"Not sure sir, something about the gang's motivation or philosophy I think." Davis reported.

The Chief gave him that look, but didn't say anything about it, instead asking "And what happened in the interceding seconds?"

A charcoal black mech with red chrome accents came driving out of the black to ram the mech that Sam was in. Sam pulled his mech's torso forward over the bridge between the two halves of the tank hull and drove his machine forward so hard it peeled out.

He watched as the near 60 ton machine skidded in a circle, torso leaned all the way into one corner as his machine guns flipped out, stowing his hands so he could lay into the gang leader with their linked fire.

The leader kicked away and tried landing shots from his heavy arm cannons but Sam was already out of the way.

Sam dove directly towards the leader's mech and kept shooting, ducking left and right to avoid getting hit by the blasts coming from the arm cannons of the other machine.

They were out of Davis's view in a second, but he'd seen other reports and recordings showing how Sam chased the leader into braking off over a rooftop, and by then all the other cardinal mechs were swarming out. They turned to double back at some point and Sam kept going, firing on all the lackeys in chaff vehicles, and ripping past the street Davis was watching.

That mech was driving down the road at probably twice what the legs could normally handle while continuing to fire both machine guns into anything painted red. His missile launcher joining in, arching shots over closer targets to soften up distant ones.

Sam's machine killed only a little faster than it drove and when it ran out of hostiles in the road it turned the corner into the source of their targets. Away from the prying eyes of other officers.

Davis could hear its v12 tank engine crackling and buzzing underneath the sounds of its guns still but noone could confirm what it was actually doing. He relayed all this to his Chief who had probably already written down most of it from other people's reports.

After Sam disappeared behind gang lines the police machines had to come out and stop the rest of the forces present. But their leader was leaping around from rooftop to rooftop after him, now distracted by the police presence.

Davis didn't step out onto the street, instead he jumped onto the roof and pulled around the long gun from his back. He was able to hit the charcoal mech half a dozen times before they pulled back from shooting his friends along Parks to deal with him.

"You're a brave one, huh. Let's see if you have the skill to swim with such obscene balls, ha!" The apparent leader taunted before firing at him.

He jumped back and felt the cannon's area of effect wash over his legs as the building beneath the impact was caved in.

The leader boosted up into his face and Davis continued to backpedal while pelting them with his shotgun.

The twin tank cannon arms deactivated and a back mounted rocket pod fired as he shoved himself sideways through the air.

Davis let himself get chased into the backlines of their quarantine, surrounding their leader with a frankly unmanageable amount of metal before the cocky bastard realized what was happening.

The whole formation for two city blocks collapsed on the guy, and he managed to take out a dozen mechs the time it took accumulated damage to brake into critical spaces and kill his generator.

They'd lost one officer to that barrage.

All relayed to the Chief as he remembered it.

"I can't condone what you did, only because it did directly result in losses. Still you saved at least two officers, prevented the collapse of the cordon and guaranteed the capture of one of their CAT pilots. Something highly commendable considering the risk." The Chief informed him, "Our third party paid you a visit next as I understand it?"

"Yes sir." This part he knew the Chief knew, but records had to be straight and set for the public response.

The fighting had barely been going for a whole minute when the charcoal mech toppled over. The entire street in front of them filled with Cardinal mechs.

Each of the surviving officers readied themselves for a slog when they noticed the sound of their wild card getting closer.

Missiles popped up over the crowd and slammed into the backs of mechs ranks away while the alternating fire of the machine guns cut through them. Machines freshly stalled or in the process of exploding made a course for the exceptionally fast independent to steer through.

Bobbing, weaving and ducking under return fire everything along the street found an alley or found itself full of holes.

When Sam ran out of Cardinals he was careening toward their line and Davis ordered a stand down over their channels.

Seeing the mech skiding to a stop was a big relief. A bit spooky when one of his treads slipped at the very end and leaving their legs sliding sideways while he leaned his torso back to avoid toppling over. Gun barrels sizzling with a cherry red heat and smoke of several kinds wafting up from his tracks.

"He said 'Good evening officers, I've got a grudge to settle with these grade A bastards, do you have a rules of engagement or defined operating space for me?' and you got on the horn to give him a perimeter." He relayed back to Chief Simmons.

"I gave 440th to 450, between Fountain and Memorial. Which he stuck to pretty well." Chief picked up.

Davis nodded, remembering the whole speech and response to it.

"If you're going to do anything useful you're going to stay in the box I decide for you. 440 to 450, Walter ave to Soldier's Rest, understood? Anyone outside of that is on instruction to shoot anything without a police IFF and callsign, got it? Any munition and repair costs you save us will be deducted from your punitive debt, any property damage in excess of the estimated results of the operation That You Cause will be added to it. Nest will work out your repair and ammunition costs when they get here, now get to work before I have your mech impounded for obstruction!"

Police Chief Riley Simmons had been in full disaster response mode and as soon as he was done with the open channel narrowcast to Sam he was updating everyone else's orders. Sam could barely get out a solute before Simmons's CAT flew by above them.

Sam turned his mech around by leaning to one side and peeling out with the treads, swinging one side around before he balanced over his bridge and managed to nearly lift the front end into a wheelie anyways.

Just a few seconds later overboost thrusters came out and back drove the engine in the treads to get Sam where he wanted to be: The middle of the heaviest action.

From there Davis was working on clearing out any alleys along 443rd that other groups needed help with. Every pack of tanks or twitchy Gorilla mech had him returning to the street to see the purple mech doing some increasingly ridiculous crap.

From sailing through the sky and bouncing between rooftops to bulldozing through the streets with another tank as his plow. At some point they paused to salvage ammo from some disabled IFVs, before using them as boxing gloves.

He knew CATs were forces in the right hands but Sam was a whole league on his own.

"He did pretty good work in that 10 by 6 area you gave him." Davis remarked

Chief Simmons just grunted, "Scary to think what our losses would have looked like if he was on the other side."

Davis hemmed and hawed a bit about that, "Probably not as bad as what you're thinking, he didn't sound like he'd be the 'enthusiastic minion' type."

The Chief just grunted "Still one hell of a pilot and one Hell of a mechanic."

"So he did the work on his mech?" Davis was astounded,

"Nest confirmed this morning, he's the only one who touched his machine before them." Chief confirmed.

"What all did he do?" Davis couldn't help but wander aloud,

Riley smirked.

And a packet thicker than his thumb was long came out.

---

Fishing for homeless people who aren't going to stab me because I have money or food should be simple. Just find homeless people and deal with the stabby ones.

Easier said than done.

There's almost no support for unemployment inside the main colony ships. Most of the places where long term homeless people go let them migrate from a 'fall' chamber to a 'spring' chamber to avoid winter. Most other places you'd find these people let them beg for food or employment.

Those are just the ones that want to pick themselves up or deal with their new reality.

Some around, but probably a good number that became homeless, just look for crimes to do so they get taken into punitive service.

There's no free lunch in space, there's not even air or dirt without an industrial effort. So if someone does a crime they don't get to just go in a hole, eat breath and sleep on other people's blood sweat and time.

They get chained to a stud in the floor and told 'you get food and water for each parcel of useful labor you do, you get to sleep when someone else is doing work. Here's the other person you share packing foam with, firetruck showers on tuesday and friday.'

Eventually you've done enough to have paid back your debt and you can either leave or keep working to leave with cash in hand.

That leaves anyone struggling with work or rent looking at two options, live like a rat or leech off friends.

Most of the support people get is support from their families so the people I'll be finding have burned bridges or are alone. Desperation and derangement are the predictable results, but it's a good idea to keep in mind people acting on stereotypes because they have no other idea what to do.

Someone brandishing a knife at me probably isn't a wild mugger by default.

But there's nobody around.

Clearly there are homeless people, they do exist, I'm not in a great part of town, I've seen them around before. There's general rules of engagement for interacting with them.

But between the bakery and construction street I spotted a grand total of 3.

My first day had me stumbling past that many on half the blocks I was on.

By the time the clean concrete of office buildings towers over me again there's not one to be seen anywhere.

I check my watch, "It's 3. What the fuck around 3 o'clock on a Tuesday has every hobo in the city vanish? Seriously."

Stopped in the flow of people moving back and forth between offices and food or home several people heard me but I wasn't expecting an answer.

"They're all either on Crest Ave or way the hell away from here." some random guy informed me, startling me a bit.

Hiding that I jumped a bit and turning to look at him I look my exposition horse in the mouth and ask another question, "Why?"

Chuckling at my absolutely yelp free response, he answered "The ones who wanna work wanna get in with the work crews to join to catch a ride, the rest wanna be as far away from Union Pharma as possible. Too many spooks around investigating."

"Investigating what?" I try my luck,

He laughs a short, almost coughing laugh, "Classified, ever deal with those types before? Everything is classified, even their coffee order."

The corp guy found a way to divert around me and walked away as he answered. Leaving me to continue navigating up stream through the afternoon crowd as I consult my map. Walking my bike along because it's too wide and the crowds too dense.

Crest Ave is construction street, it runs diagonal to the length of the chamber and ends at the wrecked office building. It also leads inward towards the center of the chamber where it branches off from King Road, where a lot of government buildings are.

About half way between me and King rd is a Department of Licensing and Registration. Fiadh advised me not to take my bike there because of various laws it breaks.

I'll take her advice this time, but if they wanna play keep away with shittily welded scrap vehicles that's a game I believe I am uniquely equipped to play.

The idea makes me chuckle as I push towards my door.

Suppose its time to come up with a plan if I get caught be guards or something.

Rifts were always spectacular things to travel through. Corridors made of glowing windows carrying ships from their nation circulating around the hall to their own internal spaces or joining the international flow down to a junction or joining corridor.

Friendships and rivalries millennia long played out over the light minute wide cavity stations and their links. Junctions and nexuses for almost every civilized system in all of space.

Kabe especially loved the atmospheric ones connecting station interiors, gas giant city rigs and habitable planets. But for as much as he loved just standing on the deck of his ship, basking in the sights and sounds of transit, he had a job.

Food and fuel aren't free except maybe in certain spaces where the natives are overflowing with it. And the Riftways made sure that excess was dealt with quickly.

No, there is a new corridor to add to these hallowed halls, one he plans to explore and ply vigorously.

The journey to it took him well away from his native space, through one of the longest corridors from one of the oldest nations, to a section where many of their terminals had gone dark after a disastrous war.

One surrounded for seconds by nothing but empty windows to deep space glowed with an eerie steadiness. The space beyond was opaque and nothing seemed to move.

The whole section was empty of traffic and the people who once lived in the station to maintain and make use of the Rift connections were all gone. The light of civilization didn't shine from these bare bones and even scavengers who lived to scrounge sections like these only lingered at the very edges of the Vormul side of occupancy.

Still, however unwise and foolhardy, Kabe steered his ship into that lonely rift to see what was there on the other side.

His was the only ship for miles, and the others carried the sleek lines of delivery craft roughly converted from inter atmospheric bombers. He knew humans didn't have that many different bomber types, maybe only half, but it was the aesthetic.

A respectable expenditure in his mind, his own ship had been modeled after the flood houses of his people. It was shaped as though one had been ripped in twain. Its cargo clamps spilling out of the broken bows of its keel, its bow carrying the exposed beans of its structure. Its docking ports as much broadside in placements as they were welcoming centers, such was the way of his people.

The humans greeted the world with speed, finesse and the carefully gauged lines of military optimization and cost cutting. Kabe and his people greeted the world with a wounded home, open doors and loaded ballista.

He noted his ship humming along to the portal as it neared, eventually he cut his engines and watched it drag him through, not with magnetism or tractor beams, just the portal.

The normally seamless passage through the time space window was more of a plunge than it should have been. Despite being light seconds wide and nonexistent to his sensors, some kind of barrier crawled along the length of his ship and left it in a completely different space.

Sensors registered an atmosphere, one that shouldn't exist anywhere in known space anymore.

He looked around the bridge to see his other crew frozen in place, and then out the window to the black clouds and twinkling stars of a night sky. Only interrupted by the small city beyond his hull.

Torches flickered and water both ink black and with a mirror shin quietly lapped at his hull.

With an itch and curious compulsion he stepped through his vessel. Not grabbing any of the vacuum suits or orbital armor he'd be justifiably mandated to wrap around himself as he found the right door and opened it.

There waiting at the bottom of a wood ramp was a man in ink stained robes with a quill and scroll, already scribbling furiously.

He stepped down the ramp, careful to capture the scene of the quiet stone dock and sleepy city buildings behind.

"Name?" Came the gravelly voice of a very old veteran.

"Kalil" he replied back, not feeling like those words were entirely his to say.

The scholar looked up, face entirely obscured by shadows cast but still portraying a raised eyebrow, "You may come to regret that." Was the slightly softened reply.

"My people have traveled a long way to find someone that they can relax around." Again the captain felt compelled to respond, and his words were sad.

The scholar's face hardened, "You would be better off less attached."

There was something more meant by the way he said you but they turned and lead him on anyway.

The walk through the town was quiet, the brick, plaster and stone buildings were as interesting to look at as they were old. Patches of different styles took the liberty to expand over the street or add new features caving in on the old walls over and over. So many tumorous additions and facelifted scars made each and every property a story of its owner.

Like someone who lives and works a boat, malcontent with the room they have or performance they have access to without the means or trust to move into a new one.

Nothing on accident, nothing uncomfortable. Every change accepted and utilized.

And also painful.

Craters and fresh stones littered the cobbled streets with the wear and weather of the renovations, and the collapses or battles that made room for them. Street lamps sat at odd angles sometimes and some streets he looked down didn't have any yet.

And here he was walking past all that history to a small castle with its windows glowing from festivities inside.

The scholar brought something that had ceased being Kabe somewhere after the dock to a grand set of doors and knocked. What opened the doors were two figures larger than life and older than history.

A sailor with a net wrapped around his shoulders over his rubber raincoat and a burly man who looked like he dueled mountain goats by their own rules. The sailor was a seagull or ospreys molded into the rough shape of a human, as was the burly man built from an ox with chains and wood holding him back. Though what held the chains held them almost completely slack and didn't show itself to his senses.

Both appraised Kalil, and smiled, allowing him past to catch up to where the scholar had continued forward.

The scholar who barely glanced back as he scampered up behind him, "The gods wayfarer and clash. They have opened the doors for your meeting here today, I take if you're here to see the god of humans?"

"I simply want to guarantee my people survive." Kalil replied.

It provoked a barking laugh.

"So selfish, hiding behind another. Fine, fine. I only record, and sometimes guide. History is so often forgotten but it never shrinks." The scholar chuckled to himself

"Like death?" He asked, and the scholar paused.

"Perhaps I would tell you, but another time." The scholar replied as he opened another door, this one far heavier but far smaller.

Between the outside and the feast hall was a small space with bells hanging from the rafters and hanging bowls of burning logs. The hall beyond was filled with a feast Kalil simply couldn't comprehend, beings of every shape and composition clamouring over the tables to trade actions with one another and show off things of worth to one another.

A competition as much as a feast, with music both rich and...missing something, drowning out their shouted offered and hurled insults.

The scholar walked him up to a panther laying between the ends of the two main tables and stepped aside.

Fate eyed him up and down with a single barely open eye and Kalil practically tumbled away into a table, where a humble man in a rough robe patted his back and a panther shaped like a man and covered in scars told him stories.

Kabe blinked, they were still five minutes out from the rift, a portal to all the connected systems of the human coalition.

He didn't seem so excited about the prospects for trade after that vision, his stomach had a sinking sensation but they were sailing on their own power and his decision had already been made.

The bridge crew looked at him expectantly. Looking back at each of them and mentally checking himself over he smoothed down his coat and ordered full steam ahead. It would not do to go quietly into the annals of history.

Just where exaclt should he aim the family excape pods to...

The Sol system, as near to Earth, or Luna specicially, as feasible.

Life is lived with what you have. For recharge construct FF.03.D7.CE.78.8D of campus D, life was lived being helpful.

Devices would be placed in its proximity and have energy channeled into them until they indicated a full charge. As with most things that live a life at all, Charcon improved over time.

Things far deader, far less receptive, with compromised reserves or scrambled internal storage were slowly explored and their problems remedied. It took trust, desperation and reputation for the other constructs to open themselves to him.

Small fingers, like curling branches would tease the problems with their inner workings. Storage cell corrosion, trace bridging, mana induced transmutation, not all things that can be reversed, but solutions don't always entail restoration of a previous state. Only previous function.

Many things had been left in his care to eventually work again.

Personal broadcast devices were the most common. They always took the longest to open up, their masters trusting them to keep their privacy. Feeling some great shame in whatever is stored on them.

Those would open up the most slowly, but always had the most spirit to work with, and the most fundamental problems. Sometimes the storage arrays would condense without moving any of the data, all their patterns and information scattered across sometimes dozens of pages.

Circuits getting bridged and metals being transmuted were far less involved issues to fix. Either swap another appropriate material from storage via translocation or nudge the conduit material physically away from whatever its bridging.

Remedying corrosion was such a matter of course that Charcon had developed a fix that didn't involve simply turning back time. To de-age a component is a lot of energy but to redissolve everything into the clean compounds it came from is simple. There is care to not resolve corrosion into unintended compounds, to keep sensible barriers in place and account for unintended transmutations.

But that's only one kind of specifically dense and willful devices, there's hundreds more!

Mana tools are much more often left on his circular shelves. Where others only rest on him when their function cannot be otherwise restored, tools are left in his care for convenience. And their circumstances are far more more bleak.

They shave their hearts down by their own operation, their users damage them over the course of regular use, none considers or invests in them even slightly. Yet...

They get strong fast. Resilient spirits that cope well with replacement parts and damage. They become expressive creatures with the weight of age and when one picks a favorite the tool and user become inseparable.

Charging duties most common for them, new part integration can also take time but the task Charcon dedicates effort to is repair & reinforcement. Thicker chassis plates, internal rib flattening, component cleaning and orichalcum alloy welding.

It could not spend effort on chipped or worn components, the operators would just replace those parts later. Whatever isn't currently broken gets bulked up and smoothed out.

Eventually someone comes by to get their tool and they enjoy the 'freshly charged' device.

That would get more people leaving their tools with Charcon, demanding more effort to fix more tools. More tools getting subtly fixed and explicitly charged leads to more devices placed in his care and eventually, small pets.

Small pets recharge in a very weird way, and after watching what's happening around them they tend to open up on their own.

Age is hard to fix in something that's always changing. It never has a definite 'new' shape or form. Composition is so messy that it cannot accurately be defined. But structure is universal.

Filling a rodent with vitality may give it energy but it isn't young again. Young is cleaning detritus from cells, initiating genetic moderation systems, straightening spines, filling in holes in teeth and bones.

Sometimes scar tissue is the main issue, and that requires destructive clearing, but growing replacement material into the gaps is always causes weird problems. The trick for most things is to grow material along the scars while moving, relying on the creature to break its own scars while properly formating the replacement tissue.

This works great until you get to recent wounds and abhorrent tissue growths.

Abhorrent growths can always be destroyed but salvaging is both easier and more productive. Wounds however...

Charcon examined the creature currently before it. A tool owner, like a student with plain but cherished tools and the build of someone who builds.

But they had holes in them. Bleeding. Panting.

There are many possible fixes. Plug the holes, harden the blood, reverse the flow of time around their system.

But none were solutions.

The man was open like a tool, dense like most cherished device, and sure as a tree.

Charcon delved deeper.

What makes him up, what is his soul built out of? Determination, wrath, concern. What is he willing to change to fulfill those? Everything, the world, and nothing respectively.

What can heal, harm and doesn't change a person...

Examples and samples from a million monsters urban and rural all flood in. Only one adequately fulfills the requirements of the problem.

Somewhere in the network of stations a single werewolf bone goes missing. It isn't a perfect fit, the man slides his tongue over it over and over as his mouth lengthens and other enameled bones dislodge.

He understands and Charcon fills the man with vitality. As frantically as he unbuttons and unfastens his clothes his wounds close and bones bloom with crystalline strength. Cable muscles and steel nails stretch as iron lungs take their first gasp in five centuries.

And the creature is calm.

There is a vow, whispers of a curse but its bearer is willing, the spirit in the tooth shares a common goal with him.

TWO PROBLEMS SOLVED!

Who said the iron revenant haunting the forrest and harassing the city was an unsolvable problem. This calls for a celebration.

Maybe three problems solved depending on that old corrupt bloodline.

Hmmm...

Weren't they city administration people?

Oh well

Three problems solved with one action!

[First][Previous][Next]

Alone.

The room felt cold. He knew it was slightly warm, but to him it was freezing.

Consequence of his mood, and mana, getting away from him.

All the boys in the family go into the army, part of staying grounded and humble. It develops their mindset and leadership skills, and his further by being a decelerated fighter pilot.

Most of the girls climb the corporate ladder as far as they can from whatever entry level position they like.

An unfortunate side effect of his conditioning was an almost literal ocean of mana. When life got turbulent waves began to whip and foam, wrestling the air around him into a Scandinavian mist.

To it Michael Joan Stratus had not become an ace for the fleet just to stand idle and wait for news about his granddaughter. His mana railed against his attempts to wrestle it down, urging action.

But there was nothing He could do. So alone in a room was the best place to let his tides run out their course while he diffused them as best he could.

Mist rolled down off him, leaving a salt spray on everything in the room and obscuring the floor.

At least his fancy table was lacquered within ounces of weighing 2 tons.

The man who was meeting him didn't bother knocking, just blasting the door open with his shoulder as soon as the latch clicked.

Their eyes met, earthly yellow shining against steel blue of his own. A small bird with almost green eyes stumbled in behind the nearly transformed wolf while Michael slid a bottle of scotch across the table. His own half drunk glass would require work to become palatable again.

The wolf caught the bottle and sniffed his glass before pouring a generous helping into it with a sigh.

"Where's the light coming from?" the bird girl asked idly, making Michael notice the light reflecting off the ground clinging fog. None of the lights in the room were on.

"You said you have news about my granddaughter?" he ignored her and jumped straight to the point.

The wolf nodded but took his time to enjoy his drink before speaking, "She is alive, doing well enough that we don't have to intervene and is competent enough to win a fight with two gang squads at the same time."

Words that were almost enough of a relief to sit down for, "But..."

"But she's also the intervention, physically alive but we can't tell how much of your granddaughter is there to wake up or how much was lost before being..." The man paused, a near fully transformed werewolf who stood at 8 feet casually and only kept the suggestion of a human face to speak suddenly looked weary of his next words.

"Say it." His own words were like ice on the wind, making the songbird hide behind the wolf.

The wolf looked crestfallen and set his drink down to lean onto the table, "Overwritten."

"So that's it, my grandaughter is gone. Some were between unrecoverable loss and new weapon for fleet command to wield like so many before her." He spat before he could think better and the room seemed to tilt violently.

The bird didn't work up the courage to peak out to offer her indignant 'hey!' as cups and bottles slid along the table top.

"We don't know, we're able to tell from the timestamps in the crash footage that your daughter crawled away and stopped before the intervention occurred. It isn't clear if she was preserved or dying at just the right time for Sol to change something." The wolf stood tall as he relayed this, perfectly calm and unruffled as his fur rippled in an unseen wind.

"What do we know?" He asked, feeling his age and a certain amount of helplessness that grated on him.

Once more the wolf took a breath and a drink, "We know she knows how to look and act like a corporate, both deep into the politics of the main fleet and into the leadership of child ships."

"She's also sturdy enough to tank a shot of twelve gauge and walk away." The bird chose to mutter along with the same sentiment.

"Someone shot her with a shotgun!?" He yelled. It didn't echo.

The wolf gave his bird a look and turned back to him.

"They died to get off two shots and barely land one of them. The group was overextended and mostly there to try and save face for their gang which has been pushed back into the aft third of that chamber." He was informed before the wolf continued, "She put lead into everyone in that group, except for one guy who was too busy shitting himself to present a threat after the initial volley."

That mollified him somewhat.

"She's not on any other group's radar and has only showed up in police records for being a person of interest in a case of corporate misconduct. Fleet is content to leave her to her own devices until there's a problem." They locked eyes for a handful of seconds.

Then there was a sigh, "No you cannot go to see her. We need to know where her home first. She gave my partner the slip and I can't track her worth a shit."

"You can't track her? A fleet wolf practically in his prime needs to sniff around for leads?" It made the old man chuckle to himself as the room righted and the walls seemed a little more real.

"She's got a tap into a massive network of mana all through the guts of the chamber utilities. We're working on narrowing down what it does but it with her signature intwined with it the whole city smells like a trail" the wolf looked up at the ceiling with a sigh.

"Belius Control, can we have a sample of her mana here?" The wolf asked with an inflection that was more imagined than pronounced.

Sure, there's plenty to go around

At the center of the table appeared a smoky vortex of mana, made real and solid by the will of the ship pilot who spoke.

It felt very warm and soft, expanding slowly to encompass the whole table. Not becoming any more bright until it had already engulfed him. Where the outside was like spotting a campfire through a thick black smog the inside was a vortex of orange and red fire run through with flecks of blue and green.

This is just the natural stance of the mana, there's a component at its center that I haven't captured and can't make the shape of.

The ship pilot relayed.

"Thanks, you can dismiss it" the wolf spoke again and the vision washed away like a picture painted in sand.

When it was gone and he was alone with the two fleet agents and his fog Michael took a shaky breath. The wolf slid his scotch back across the table and left.

"We'll keep you posted." were the final words before they turned and the doors closed again.

What were the odds.

---

I would like to say I got to give all the wolves, cats, deer and other spirit critters some attention but unfortunately no.

All my time went into cleaning up that one wolf, sure he was the head wolf and all but that was my entire dream just treating his issues. Now most of him is wrapped up in bandages and slathered with some sorta healing cream I just summoned with a thought.

Dream logic.

I was left with another dream for not very long before my alarm went off and saved me from what looked like a trauma dream brewing. Something about Mini getting killed? Kidnapped?

Not like the kid would let that happen. Still, don't wanna deal with it, not my bag to sort, I've got donuts to retrieve!

Computers to trade too, turns out a lot of the machines with lots of holes in them and no other salvageable hardware still have working computers. I actually have a shortage of the parts that help with moving.

Climbing down the net ladder and back onto the pile I collect up another dozen of the full modules, stacking them back and forth in a duffle bag along with yesterday's clothes.

Adding in a few straps so I can carry the boxes easier, then a few odds and ends and my bag is ready for the day.

I want to see if I can buy ammo for my machines to top them up on the open market so I've got one of their rounds in the middle of my bag. I've got the cables and lines too, seeing if I can also get those from civilized society. There's a transmitter from one of the really wrecked ones that I'm going to hand off to Fiadh to set up and keep contact.

All that makes the bag kinda heavy, still nothing compared to my old tool cape, but I don't want to go carrying crap today.

So I'm going to come up with something.

My chainsaw powered mountain bike has a little bread rack over the rear tire. Can't remember if I put it there or not, but my plan is to put the donuts there after doing everything else, so the heavy duffle can go there for now.

I add a board for it to sit on and climb back up the net ladder at 10!?

Did it really take an hour to grab all that? I need to get a move on.

Running the straps under the rack pin my duffle against the plank with an x pattern and kick the commandeered pedal, starting the engine.

Riding the junkyard moped up the ramp I consider my routes.

Taking the library exit might be a bit out of the way for all the component shopping but it would be an easy place to exit to get my ammo and chips sorted. My normal exit would be better for seeing about the lines and wires, but getting to the chips place would be a bit harder.

Then again, the library exit could have the angry underpants legion hanging around. I don't want them taking it on themselves to just shoot me in the back of the head after I blow by.

Normal exit it is.

It is a bit awkward to pull open the door into the building while still on the bike but getting the thing to open is almost one smooth motion by now. Like it isn't even locked.

Wait is it?

A short little test later and yes, the door is supposed to be locked. Its just really easy to rattle it into opening.

Restraining myself from kicking the door to the alley open I note my doorman is on the other side from the hinge and looking plenty comfy.

Giving him a look as he rouses from his sleep, I ask "Any visitors?"

He grunts and stretches, getting some extra cracking in places that don't sound completely healthy, "Nope, none, you said something about donuts in the morning?"

"Yep, I got a bakery I raid for all the 'not legally fresh' stuff they got and I should be back with some boxes. Any preferences?" I reply over my barely muffled chainsaw motor.

"Edible." He chimes back as he relaxes onto the seat.

I sniff back, "Gotchya"

And I stomp my heel onto the throttle lever to nearly peel out of the alley.

Its a little hard to explain the liberation you feel just cruising along with the wind against your face, tussling and pulling on your hair as you ride along. Unfortunately it's hampered a bit by the people all around, I can't shift into top gear and rip around without needing to bob and weave, and that just ain't morning behavior.

Well, I've got shopping to do too so weaving into and out of alleys keeps me slow.

I'm still able to remember most of the places I stoped in on in my first few days, most of them tell me the same thing though. The lines are normal, the copper is weird and niche, the fiberoptic is a whole different field from their stuff.

They point me off to some other places that tell me the fiber is pretty rare but something they install for factory and office place stuff.

So I can get all the lines for the signals, power and fluids, great!

Continuing down the road I have a good long section where noone's really walking and traffic is also fairly calm. I'm able to go flat out for a whole two minutes.

Two minutes of standing off the seat and letting the wind hold me up.

Before I could top off at the bakery I had two more stops. Gun cave, then computer shop.

I have a good idea where the gun cave is and slow right down to turn a corner and cruise down the road toward them. Thankfully I turned the right corner and could relax back while keeping an eye out for them.

The big giveaway is the number of canary teams around, the street is teaming with them. Without any lingering around too.

For a place that buys and sells things potentially under the table they keep a pretty high profile. Where most buildings are painted pillars, bare bricks and old iron fire escapes, but the gun store is pretty well decked out.

A big sign made of charred 10 by 2, the really big fat kind of incandescent bulbs spelling out the name of the place with matte black paint covering the whole building. The accents are rolls of steel shudders and big mats of something bolted to the side of it along the alleyway, like a kind of ballistic mat.

No fire escape, no other entrances as far as I can see, just some (presumably) bulletproof glass between the storefront and the street.

I shut off my bike at the alley and walk it into the store (because there's really nowhere outside for it) I grab a box of the ammo I use then head to the cash register with it and the mech bullet in hand.

"I'm here to top up and ask about something."

"Ask about what?" the guy manning the register looks up and immediately reassesses me when he sees the jumbo thermos sized live shell I'm holding.

I give my best awkward smile, "Where do people get these and how much can I sell this for?"

He looks like he's half way made up his mind about closing the store in around me before asking, "Where did you get that?"

"I get around a bit and found a spill, but let's say my neighbor had a bunch and we were in a dispute, how much trouble could I get them in?" It's a bit of an on the spot story but he both buys it and gives me the stink eye.

His face screws up like something I said invoked 'sour' and replies, "We aren't supposed to buy those up. Selling them is outright illegal, and I'm not helping you plant evidence."

"So you Can buy this of me~" I tease back, unwisely.

He growls under his breath a bit, "I won't, but let me grab my manager real quick."

Then before I can answer he's heading into the back of the store.

I'm still holding the metal salami tube of a round and (with nothing better to do) start twirling it in my hand while waiting. Just leaned against the counter tossing a green tip around in one hand.

I did make sure that the ammo read for this one said 'Un-Assisted Armor Piercing' before grabbing it, so it probably wont blow up if I drop it. And I think handling sensitivity should be minimized as much as possible when dealing with ammunition.

Still, someone could be an absolute moron making this so getting shot in the arm blows up all the ammo in that arm's belt. The Red mechs didn't have enough blown apart arms for me to really put stock in that theory.

Buuut-

The heavy footsteps of the guy I talked with last time are a short waring before his greeting, "Ah, You came by with Fiadh last week right?"

"Yup, glad to see a friendly face. Say I have a pile of these-" I try and start while pointing to the big bullet in my hand.

"No no, don't tell me, I don't need or want to know. Just where is this 'spill' as you called it?" He cuts me off,

"Canals under town, I found a pile in near the Union Pharma building, but no one's really touched it, So it's mine!" I declare my salvage rights not so subtly.

The manager barked out a laugh, "Fine enough, just say so if anyone else edges in on your turf and we'll clear 'em out."

"I'd like to see them try." It comes out a bit darkly as I shake the bullet in my hand.

Something about my serious tone made him laugh harder before eventually coming up to the register and tapping out a few things. I slid the box of ammo over and gestured to my bullet, prompting him to offer his hand.

"Fine, we'll take it but just this time. Munitions for mechs are heavily regulated and it would be bad practice to let any flow through a storefront of all things." He muses as he takes my bullet and starts tallying money back and forth.

"Deals with manufacturers to resupply their systems?" I ask,

He nods and explains, "Leading to all sorts of proprietary ammo corporate skullduggery to figure out what their competitor's stuff does."

Oh, "So not just police-"

"But corporate spys, enforcers and all kinds of other unwanted attention. We're trying to stay away from all that, thank you very much. Thankfully this is an Ark snub cannon round, pretty common bullet from about gen 2." He tells me the 'good' news

"All the way back then?" I find it a little had to believe but that would put this pattern at two centuries old.

He nods, "Tungsten core, copper jacket, lead-garnet infill to about half way, then a plastic cap to dislodge the jacket on penetration or bloom the pseudo hollo point onto soft targets. Still turns a body into fine paste without deforming meaningfully."

"But...snub?" I had to ask because that implied a bigger full sized cannon round.

"Oh yea, the original cannons had a longer case with a neck down from a wider width for some gen 1 sniper designs. Things have gotten bigger and meaner since then but standard cannons for near kilometer ranges still use them, just firing faster with less required precision as the old ones." The explanation comes almost unprompted.

I watched with some confusion as he pulled out money and slid it over to me, prompting an incredulous stare.

"What, bullets are expensive on the open market." He defended himself.

I balked back, "But half a grand?"

"Lady where are you coming from that a Fleet Standard Credit is called a Grand?" He asks, almost exasperated.

Uuhhh...

Cover in danger, abort conversation, ABORT ABORT!