[pistolgrip]

It was a straight march to the truck they’d salvaged from underneath the building back in Rasht. Achilles grabbed some hardware and reached out to the buyer he’d found earlier, but he didn’t get an answer. It made sense–it was the middle of the night, and freezing to boot. He stood around and cursed for a few minutes, then decided to take it with him and go consult with the American. “Cowboy Ублюдок will probably think it’s hilarious.” He grumbled to himself, nearly out loud. He was in a mood to pick a fight with anyone, even his new comrade, if only to let off some steam. Sure, he was beat to hell and missing an arm, but he had some blood back inside of him, his wounds were bandaged, and it felt like he might have some stimulant in his veins. And, perhaps because he was Russian, the cold always made him want to fight anyway.

He eventually found his way to the tent where they’d arranged for accommodations, only to find out that it was being “relocated” and had already been mostly taken down. A number of former occupants were out milling around, some huddled under blankets around fires or heater units, others on calls or screens trying to make other arrangements, and some apparently out scavenging in the chaos. A few mild scuffles seemed to have broken out, but it was dark and cold and very late, and it hung like a soggy blanket over the whole area, draining the passions from everyone around. Achilles searched for nearly an hour, but couldn’t find the American anywhere. So he started in on one of the things he hated the most in life–asking around.

[pistolgrip]

Achilles faded in and out of consciousness as he was swept away. There was quite a bit of noise, some grunting, and sharp pain as he landed on a hard surface at a bad angle. But when you have a knife hole in your chest, there’s really not a good angle. Still, there obviously was not overly much concern for his comfort in play at this time. A few people seemed busy around him, but talking was at a minimum and mostly came through as soft murmurs. Eventually something like burning honey was coursing through his veins and into his brain, and suddenly his eyes fully opened and the room came into focus.

It was a small metal room, like something that used to be half of a shipping container a few thousand nuyen ago. Now it was an ER with plasteel armor plates on the walls and a number of lower-end yet functional medical systems. A man in dirty white cotton with a tac vest and a Browning on his hip lounged idly near the door, the smoke from his cigarette wafting upward into a low-powered ventilation fan. Looking over, Achilles saw a woman in a white lab coat working on a tablet and a system next to her. He tried to reach over and feel his stab wound, but suddenly found that he was bound quite tightly. Glancing down at himself, he noticed that they’d done a fine job of patching him up, but alarmingly he was missing his cyberarm. “что за черт?”

“Where is my arm?!” He asked, as close to infuriated as he could be for a man in his condition. The woman turned with a cold expression on her face. She evaluated Achilles with a clinical gaze and a strong hint of boredom. After a moment, she tapped her tablet twice and walked away without a word. Achilles just sighed.

After a few minutes, a pudgy man in a brown button-up shirt and stiff work pants entered to give an emotionless explanation. For a clinic, it was the most lifeless place Achilles had been in the entire country-state. “Welcome to ‘The Caravan’ security and medical services. The services are free, but checkout for a fee.” He didn’t even look up from his commlink while he said it. “Will you or a family member be paying by matrix or would you prefer to pay by credstick today?” The clerk’s monotone was more painful than the knife wound.

“Where’s my arm?” Achilles demanded again.
“Your primary cybernetic augmentation has been confiscated as collateral until payment can be collected. We contract with qualified service technicians that are capable of reinstalling and repairing the hardware for an additional fee.”
“You’re going to charge me to get my arm back, and to put it back on??” Achilles was incredulous.
“If you’re unsatisfied with the quality of your care, we can return you to your pre-service state.” The clerk said passively. The guard by the door stood up straight and snuffed out his cigarette.
Achilles thrashed against the restraints ineffectually. “It is not augmentation, you Идиота кусок, it’s my arm!” When the man seemed completely unsympathetic, bordering on unresponsive, Achilles gave up and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Keep the arm and I will go get payment.”

Meanwhile, in a dark tent somewhere on the outskirts of Caravan, a black boot kicked Al awake. A lighter flicked open, and was raised up to illuminate the hateful eyes of HedAyat staring down.

[pistolgrip]

Achilles grabbed the man’s wrist to keep him from working the knife further and doing more damage, but he fought back with both hands struggling with the knife. Yet while he was focused on his blade, he missed a crashing blow from a cyberhand that left him struggling for air beneath a broken rib cage. Achilles knew better than to pull the knife out, but he wasn’t sure what to do at that point. He looked up in time to see two men trading fire with Al at unsettlingly close range. He moved to attack but found his injuries catching up to him, and all he managed was to stumble forward onto his face. Suddenly Al went down; not from gunfire, but from a man leaping from the tent behind him and grabbing on, restraining his arms. The carbine hit the ground.

The rifle landed only a meter from Achilles, but it felt like a mile in his current condition. He struggled forward but fell on his side, blood pouring from his knife wound. The two gunners kept their guns trained on the wrestling match, but Al had been taken by surprise and it wasn’t looking good. Then one of the men noticed Achilles and took a half-step in his direction, coming in to finish the job. Achilles made a mental note to carry more guns in the future.

Suddenly the roar of gasoline motorcycles ripped through the air as two armored men drove into the scene, raining shots into the fray. The two gunners turned to face them but were quickly taken down in convulsions as the shock rounds struck home. The motorcycles came to sliding stops around Achilles and kicked up enough dust that he lost sight of Al. Achilles took a moment to be thankful for his internal air that saved him from what surely would have been a very painful coughing fit as the dust settled around him. One man jumped off his bike and knelt over Achilles, pulling the knife out unceremoniously and pushing a slap patch over the hole before too much blood leaked out. The other waved his gun around and started stalking the area, apparently looking for additional threats. The first loaded Achilles onto the back of his motorcycle and barked, “Caravan post-paid security. I’m taking you to a safe location.” before roaring off.

[pistolgrip]

Achilles rolled to the floor as the man under him apparently gained his footing. “Shee-it, that you Ivan?” He heard the American ask. Apparently that was who he’d tripped over. But he’d just given away his location and likely didn’t know what was coming.

Achilles pushed back against the ground and swung his leg up towards where the attacker ought to vaguely be. He made contact before he expected to and lost a lot of momentum. The man seemed to stumble away, but it wasn’t a hit that would keep him busy for long. Achilles made it to his feet, but he didn’t know where anyone–or anything–was; he scoured his mind for options, plans of attack, weapons he had hidden, but came up with nothing. “Shit.” He rushed right for where he’d heard them enter, aiming to clear the tent and escape. But the man he’d punched before had somehow gotten in between him and the exit, and they both went rolling out into the dust outside. And somewhere in the tumble, Achilles took a knife under the ribs.

[pistolgrip]

One annoying thing about cyberware was that it heated up and cooled down quickly when exposed to desert days and nights. It made the junctions uncomfortable, although they did have a bit of internal climate control to help. But in this instance, it made the fingers holding the large bolt of fabric more difficult to see. Achilles ran forward, holding up the torn tent flap in front of him and waiting to run into the lead man and snare him. Unfortunately the lead man was on the floor by the time he got there, and he tripped over the struggle and went careening into a fallen wardrobe. The furniture gave way under his weight, and by the sound of it, so did a man underneath it.

The gas didn’t bother his lungs as he’d already started using the internal air supply linked to them through his cybered shoulder. But it sure shot visibility all to hell. His cybereyes didn’t have the right upgrades for the job, so for a moment he found himself wishing for his old AR monocle. But he spared only a fraction of a second for the thought as he caught the flash of a knife coming down at him. “Don’t want to shoot your comrade?” He thought with a slight smile as he blocked the knife with his cyberarm. Unfortunately much of the armor had been melted, so the blade caught purchase in some hydraulics and his hand locked up. The fluids spit back at the man as he wrenched the weapon, so he didn’t see Achilles’ other hand swing wildly towards his sternum. Achilles felt the give of soft tissue as the man went stumbling back with a small groan. “No body armor.” He noted as he tried to haul himself out of the ruined wardrobe. But he was thrown off as the man under him tried to stand.

[pistolgrip]

Al was on the ground before the last bullet tore through the canvas. Achilles had as much discarded the man as thrown him. Unfortunately he moved himself a bit slower and had only just begun to turn when two rounds struck him in the back. He landed on his side and his back arched as his nerves shot white lightning to his brain and he grasped behind him in the air vainly, still temporarily in shock. Had it been a moment later, with his armored vest off, he might’ve had a severed spine and punctured lung. As it was, he was momentarily confused. The sounds of panic welling up from further inside the tent did little to bring the situation into focus. But adrenaline was already flowing and the world was already starting to make sense again: “Humanis bastards!”

Achilles rolled onto his stomach and pushed both hands on the ground hard. He planted his foot under him as the other one pushed off and suddenly he was tumbling through the cloth door as it gave way with a loud rip. He tugged and ripped it from his body and looked over to see Al already standing, starting to take action. He wasn’t too sure what the American was preparing to do, seeing as he was almost naked and apparently unarmed, but his focus was quickly redirected to the small metal canister that ripped through the outer wall and bounced around a bit before erupting in a dark purple cloud of noxious gas.

[pistolgrip]

Achilles was glad to see the satlink station–just a truck with a dish in the back and a stall to the side–was still open for business. A few other customers stood around with hardlines to their devices, talking with friends or associates, browsing or downloading things from the matrix at large, and so on. He handed off an unsecured credstick he’d found on one of the dead mercs and a few moments later his ‘link was online. He bundled the data and sent it with a simple note: “Found on abandoned system. Analyze and reply with further direction.”

After the transfer was successful, Achilles noted the location Al had pinged him and began his trek. Naturally it was on the opposite end of the conglomerate city, but with some good food and vodka in his stomach he was up for the walk. A number of people were still active and engines rumbled through the night, burning fossil fuels for energy like it was the turn of the century. Some people were loud and raucous, presumably drunk, while others spoke in hushed tones, conducting whatever manner of business they didn’t care to make public. It reminded him a bit of the markets that cropped up in bombed-out cities during the Euro Wars. In a way, that made it feel almost like home. Then something else made it feel a little more like home.

“Hey, Trog!” A man with a bottle of liquid courage in his hand called out, his friends looking on approvingly. “Shouldn’t you be cleaning a gutter somewhere?” He yelled with a twisted smirk. The man and his friends all appeared to be western European and wore expressions ranging from amusement to disgust. One spat on the ground. Achilles walked past the group without turning his head. His jaw tightened but he didn’t break his stride. “You are very far from home, gentlemen. These grounds are dangerous.” It wasn’t quite the threat he’d hoped to communicate, but his English wasn’t perfect. All the same, he patted a synthleather bag on his leg to insinuate a weapon and let that carry the message for him. He could hear a hushed debate erupt among the European men, but it carried on long enough for him to get clear. “Go to hell, meta!” was the last he heard before he lost the men behind some trailers.

Achilles entered the House of Favors and checked in at the front, shaking his head. “Humanis.” he thought, rolling the word around inside his head. Suddenly he snapped back to reality as he found he was being offered some companionship-for-hire. The juxtaposition of the two thoughts left him in a bit of shock for a moment, but finally he waved away the offer. “No, no, that is not–“ He stammered, “Perhaps another time.” He looked tired, flustered, charred, and partially melted. His shirt was in shreds and his chrome was looking jagged. He was all too eager to get some rest and see a doctor and a cyber-mechanic in the morning.