Shady Deals and Chrome Dreams

The alley reeked of something vaguely metallic and disturbingly organic, a scent Will was rapidly becoming accustomed to. He clutched the worn satchel tighter, the weight of its contents a comforting, if slightly alarming, reassurance. Inside, nestled amongst hastily procured packing foam, hummed the ‘Crimson Sting,’ his first official sale. It wasn’t a Vanguard, not by a long shot – just a nimble, mid-tier scout mech with a surprisingly potent plasma stingers, a little something he’d whipped up from some lesser blueprints he’d ‘acquired’ from the dungeon’s less fortunate inhabitants. Still, it was *his*, and it was about to make him a decent chunk of change.

His contact, a jittery individual named Flicker who operated out of a repurposed ventilation shaft, had agreed to meet him here. Flicker’s reputation preceded him: discreet, efficient, and utterly without moral compass. Perfect. Will, still nursing the phantom ache of nearly being pulverized by a sentient data stream, was rapidly shedding his squeamishness. Survival, and more importantly, profit, demanded it.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom. Flicker was a wiry man, his face a roadmap of nervous tics and a perpetually startled expression. He wore a battered cap pulled low, obscuring eyes that darted everywhere at once. “You got it?” he rasped, his voice like gravel being poured down a drainpipe.