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.