Madmcgee

  Rebecca.

  Stomping about his recently 'revised' shop, a very familial old man, perhaps one that was, if not a father then at least a kind of well-meaning uncle in her eye, appeared to be close to going nuclear.

  “No, no, no… No. No? N-no… No!”

  Beckie sat on a nearby bench, huffing on her burner and sucking back her fifth coffee of the morning, a little stale at this point if she said so herself, her eyes as red from ck of sleep as they were amused by Gunther’s antics.

  The old man was busily huffing around his garage, his posture, expression, and blood pressure all constantly fighting a retively even battle of ‘tug of war’ for prevalence on his face, all the while trampling through the shop, blood vessels ready to burst.

  Behind him? Well... god, what did she even call it?

  A nightmare made reality?

  A horror show of mechanical distress that might haunt her dreams for decades to come?

  An abomination against nature? Sure! Why not…

  Anywho, the abomination (bot) scuttled along on four legs as it followed after the stampeding strip of aged leather and anger, its body a rather unsettling combination of spider, person, and naked robotics. It had no head and no bulbous abdomen, thank the lord, but the way it skittered… oof, no thank you…

  In addition to its strange legs and upright posture, the ‘thing’ had six multifaceted and unsettlingly bendy arms, almost like geometrically disturbing squid tentacles, all of which, much like its torso and lower extremities, could be rotated in any direction it saw fit. Each ‘grasper’ that it possessed was capable of employing an utterly meaningless (to her) slew of ‘tools’ that, quite frankly, Becky couldn't make sense of.

  Equal parts junk, equal parts alien magic. One hundred percent above the mental health of her poor and pounding head...

  The worst part? The glowing and ominously multi-lensed red eyes… Of which, there was a solid ring around its upper form that constantly shifted and adjusted its various selves to the tune of a most unappreciable degree of noise.

  The damned things were, unsettlingly, constantly shuttering and whipping about with eerie jerks as the machine took in its surroundings with near-omnipresent interest, the staccato and rapid 'clicks' and 'ccks' of its movements sending genuine shivers down Beckie's spine, to go right along with the excess pounding behind her eyes.

  As things stood, Gunther was actually a lot less upset about the fact that there were nearly two dozen creepy little spider bots all zing about as much as he was mad at what they’d evidently done the prior evening.

  While Cire had ranted (at length) as to the untenable atrocities that the garage was committing against the name of proper organization and mechanical brilliance, all while sounding like an obsessive-compulsive robot from a movie who’d gotten herself into a pack of virtual stimunts, Beckie, despite giving up and simply agreeing with her, by contrast, now had the dubious privilege of being subjected to the other side of the argument.

  “It’s not about the question of whether it's better or worse!” Gunther snarled, waving about a rge spanner that came within inches of smacking the terrifying hacker's new ‘toy.’

  “Of course, it’s about it being better!”

  “It’s not!”

  “You’re just angry I fixed it all in a literal night! How many weeks was this pce looking like a ndfill? Oh, sorry, it was probably years, wasn't it?”

  “Everything had its proper pce!”

  “And now everything has a better one!”

  “And who do you think owns this fucking shop? Who the fuck are you to say my way of doing things is worse than whatever—whatever—”

  “Miracle lies before you?” The robot offered, its tone sickly sweet and entirely reminiscent of the ‘real’ android that was currently doing god’s only knew what to her apartment.

  While Beckie had stated she didn't want any of the unpleasant little crawling machines anywhere near her room, Cire had simply brought them along against her wishes while saying that she refused to stay in a space that was filled with such a diverse biome of life.

  She’d been pretty sure that was the other girl’s nice way of saying that her home was a heap of garbage. A statement that Beckie, mhm, well, that she genuinely couldn't refute, even if it did sting a little…

  Rebecca had known she wasn't living in any kind of ivory tower, but Pt’s Ville couldn't be that much better, could it?

  After all, her apartment had a bed, didn't it? It had a shower and a closet and a kitchen, and a vending machine, so—realistically, what else could really be tossed in there?

  “No, you know what? I want you out!” Gunther suddenly snapped, Beckie, coming back to herself, and taking another sip of coffee while watching the show.

  “Fine! I’ll go to your competitor and offer him the same deal!”

  “Aye, the fuck you will! I’d sooner contact the Peacekeepers!”

  “And tell them what?” The bot ughed, her musical voice as condescending as it was amused, “I’m not even here. I’ve already made myself a ghost! Thanks for all the parts, by the way. No, all the ‘white-caps’ will find, after you so brilliantly invite them in, is a shop filled with questionably legal machines, and a sputtering old loon with his metaphorical dick in his hand.”

  “I’ll just get rid of them then!”

  “And I will anonymously send the veritable gigabytes of video I have of all the zany shit they were building here st night! They’ll treat you like a terrorist, you know. What's the punishment for automating work designated for humans? Not capital, st time I checked, but still, dropping the soap would probably seem like a paradise compared to a dark sector penile colony.

  The robot chittered, clearly pleased with herself as Gunther stood there, the veins on his neck bulging as the smuggest voice Beckie had ever heard, continued, hammering her point home with a saccharin sweet tone, "I hear humans go quite mad when the nearest star in sight is a sixty-year round trip in a cryo casket.

  “You—I’m… Fuck it!”

  “Where are you going? We’re not done!”

  “Piss off, girly; I need a coffee and shot besides. You and me, though? We’re gonna pick right fucking back up where we left off soon as I get some caffeine in me!”

  There was a little huff of annoyance from the creepy robot as it walked up to Beckie’s side, the machine’s many eyes flipping in her direction as the woman on the other side clearly regarded her.

  “Don't take it personally…” Rebecca grunted, letting out a rge and long yawn a moment ter. “Mmmmhhhhhmmph… he’s just being pissy… The st time one of his crews tried to reorganize things, the ‘old man’ wouldn't talk to anyone for an entire week! A-at least, not unless he was yelling at them…”

  “An amazing sense for business…”

  “Eh, he does alright. Sorry, we can't all be super geniuses who turn scrap into high-grade cybernetics overnight…”

  “There’s nothing ‘high-grade’ about any of it.” The machine compined, not exactly pnting her hands on her hips, at least not physically, but at this point, Rebbecca could practically imagine the tiny bundle of synthetic terror as she puffed out her chest, clearly annoyed, yet also weirdly eager to jump right back into the mud...

  After a moment, Beckie just shook her head, “Could have fooled me...” she half muttered, half chuckled, eyeing the row of—if not 'shiny' new augments, then undoubtedly well-made and impressively capable cybernetics, all id out on a nearby bench.

  Granted, they sort of had an unfttering and 'junky' look to them all, but that was only because none of them had any synth skin or paint to hide the somewhat raw mechanical innerworkings like most non-designer brands tended to adhere to when selling their shit to the greater masses.

  They were, admittedly, entirely ridiculous and very much looked like the hodgepodge collection of their individual parts, scrapes, chips, and fking paint, all included free of charge. At least she'd ground off or repced any parts with actual rust, but ugh, well, it still wasn't a pretty sight...

  Sadly for herself, the bench wasn't the only pce the new augments occupied.

  Beckie gnced down, eyeing one of the so-called 'junky repcements' she had let the woman swap her right arm with. It wasn't at all impressive, at least, not when compared to the oversized 'goril' models she'd been so proud of. And, it had taken genuine threats to get Beckie to agree to the insane woman's demands...

  Yet, even she had to admit that though the thing was ugly as sin, the damn arm felt practically natural!

  Y-yes, Cire had said that she’d overhauled the arm's firmware so it had better compatibility and something she called the body, impnt, motor function architecture, or BIMA, a supposed proprietary program way above her own pay grade that was supposed to help her natural body and impnts communicate better for superior motion.

  In all honesty, it sounded made up... however, a short trip online had admittedly hinted that the woman knew what she was talking about. In fact, while she wanted to hate the arm for no greater reason than stubborn loyalty to her own hardware, she really couldn't.

  No, honestly, Beckie had to admit the thing was pretty amazing...

  While certainly not as bulky as the one sitting on the workbench, currently getting the supposed ‘upgrade’ of its life, this arm felt just as strong as her other one, and there wasn't nearly as much sluggishness and that ever-present annoying straining that she usually had to deal with, as though the mechanical joints were constantly fighting her.

  And, if the android was to be believed, the smaller arm would even outperform the damned brutes she was still paying off by a five percent rating when it came to raw physical output, sixty percent when speaking of its nuanced tactile dexterity, and as if it wasn't all just one big boot to her gut, given what she'd paid, the damned scrap-heap arm had been installed with onboard bded weapons.

  Fucking genuine arm bdes…

  Given how prone they were to breaking, chipping, dulling, and the maintenance involved simply to get the gimmicky systems to reliably work, such augments were typically expensive unless one wanted to risk their life on gear that may or may not actually work, or buy something that was often a ‘one-use product.’

  Sure, she knew tons of people who had them; they were all the rage. After all, how metal was it to have swords that burst from your arms?

  B-but that didn't necessarily mean they ever 'used them' or weren't drowning in debt because they'd gotten a reliable model with practical applications.

  “And Beck!” Gunther shouted from his front office, his voice so loud that it likely rose above the constant sm of distant skunkworks and snapped her from her thoughts. “You’re fucking paying for whatever tech your robot dy is filling that arm of yours with! No free parts!”

  For her part, Rebecca just smirked, swallowing from the steaming foam cup before stretching out her neck and gncing at Cire's eldritch robot.

  “That means he’s gonna take the deal.” Beckie whispered, leaning close to the machine standing at her side that had, in a very ‘human’ manner, crossed its many arms with evident annoyance. And, as if on cue and pnned by the gods themselves, Gunther appeared back at the door while wearing a massive scowl.

  “Alright! I’ve thought about it.” The old man growled, stomping back out with his booze-reeking coffee as he stuck a thick, calloused finger right into the robot’s chest. “Sixty-forty.”

  “You’re willing to accept forty?” Cire asked with unmistakable, and more importantly, dripping sarcasm.

  “Oh, you can fuck right off with the 'cheek,' ss; you’ll be getting forty and be fucking thankful for the opportunity! You’re in my garage with my tools using my fucking parts, and I’m gonna be the sorry bastard trying to hawk these ugly abominations! You’re lucky I’ve a bleeding heart!”

  “I’ll do fifty-fifty,” the machine countered, “And only because you’re helping to get me off of this horrible moon. Plus, I’m working whenever the fuck I feel like it.”

  “Like hell you are, I’m not risking—”

  “What? People seeing drones take things apart?”

  “Robots scraping parts ain't legal!”

  “Drones!”

  “There’s no functional fucking difference!” Gunther shouted, though, from the way he was getting so animated, Beckie wasn't sure if he was having the time of his life or was genuinely upset…

  The thing was, the few times she’d seen the old fart truly pissed off, he'd been yelling, it was true, but he was also a lot more broody and thunderous. Right now, it was more like he, exasperated as he appeared, was, oddly enough, excited.

  Eh, it wasn't always an easy read with the cheap goat, but in all honesty, Rebecca could tell he was at least partially happy, even when he was shouting up a storm…

  For a time, neither of the two spoke to one another.

  Gunther simply took a long sip from coffee that would probably have scalded a normal person’s tongue, while Cire just gred at the man, six of her unblinking eyes fixated on him with evident annoyance.

  “Republic w states—”

  “That an operator must be visible and present, yes, thank you for stating the obvious! Now, how are you gonna expin a single operator working with two dozen simultaneous drones? Plus, at the rate you work at, what the fuck am I supposed to do with all my staff? I'll be out of work for them within a week!"

  “More like another day... And who cares? Just fire them.” The android replied, her tone blunt and ruthless. “They’ll just cost us money at this point.”

  "And that's why there are ws about robots taking jobs." Beckie helpfully commented, though neither Cire nor Gunther even looked at her as her voice was lost to the winds...

  “But that’s not the whole point of the shop!" Gunther ground out, looking almost sickened as he spoke, "Fucking—corporate brainwashed… Suppose it’s no surprise that credits are the only thing you value, is it?”

  “Actually, I value my life quite highly as well, which is why I want to maximize our profits here! Then, I can be away and out of your hair before you even realize it.”

  “Ha! Ain't no way you’re bringing in that kind of money selling to the customers that come around here…”

  “What?”

  “What? You think people in Port Pride are made of cred, do ya?”

  “N-no, the other part, you said it like you know how much it’s gonna cost...”

  Gunther grimaced, taking a deep breath through his teeth before letting out a small grunt. “Well… I did get a sort of initial quote…”

  “And?”

  “Ah… welp," he began, scratching somewhat sheepishly at his cheek, "it’s not pretty if that’s what you were hoping for…”

  “For god’s sake…”

  “Fine? You want the bad news without any lube? Then you’re looking at eighty thousand, the lowest estimate I could get. Mind you, that’s without knowing what port you’re after, without waiting for the perfect ship and captain, and without setting up a meeting to decide if my contact is even interested in helping. As it stands, it's all theoretical, fucking virtual dust in the virtual fucking breeze!”

  “Eighty thousand…” Cire muttered, letting out a small huff at the frankly absurd number.

  That was, for most, nearly three damned years' worth of untouched wages before rent and food and taxes sucked the very life out of one's personal savings with ruthless efficiency...

  And that was supposed to be the minimum?

  Ha!

  Beckie couldn't hope to save up that much if her life actually depended on it…

  “Aye, not a very attractive figure for a 'closet bunk,' is it?” Gunther chuckled after the room had gone abruptly silent, though there was little mirth in it. “I told ya your ‘estimate’ was a little light, ss. And don't go bming me for the number, because I’ve got it on decent authority my man isn't fucking about. If he says that’s the price, that’s what you can expect people to ask.”

  “Jesus… okay…" Cire grumbled, all the fire of passion she’d previously dispyed suddenly fading from sight, "So what's the price point for selling the hardware again?”

  “Ehh… Two—maybe three?”

  “Thousand?”

  “Hundred.”

  “Oh, you can fuck right off!” the robot exploded, the energy in the room returning right back to its peak.

  “They look like scrap!”

  “They’re better than the damned ‘ware’ Beckie got herself indentured for.”

  Beckie made to protest, mainly because the other girl had just made it sound like she was an idiot—but she never got the chance, Gunther simply rolling right over the brief moment she had to defend her—admittedly poor financial decisions.

  “Beck’s cyber at least looks like a professional product! You ever tried coaxing premium prices out of idiots who buy shite augments just because they got a fshy commercial and good marketing? If the answer is no, then piss off until you have! Besides,” he added a moment ter, “as I said, my clients ain't got that sort of credit just jingling around in their pockets. Just where do you think you are?”

  Cire was silent for a time, not saying a word and in fact, not moving either. Honestly, it was a bit of an eerie sight to see her just outright stop yelling and grow deathly quiet.

  Thankfully for Beckie's nerves, she spoke again after the tension had thinned to a knife edge, though when she did so, her voice was more despondent than anything else, the defeat in her voice practically palpable. “I can't believe I’m saying this, but we literally would have gotten more money just leaving everything as is, blood and all…”

  The compint was valid, especially since Beckie would have absolutely ughed at anyone trying to pawn the crappy-looking augments off for anything more than the low triple digits. They really were ugly as sin.

  However, regardless of their visual attractiveness or their abilities, it was the girl's comment itself that garnered Gunther's immediate scrutiny.

  “What does she mean, ‘blood and all?” Gunther asked, turning to Rebecca, who wanted nothing to do with that particur conversation. “Oh, don't fucking tell me… Did you two go out ‘reaping’ st night?”

  “It wasn't so bad as you think, Gunny; we just got into a small scrap, is all—”

  “Pfft… and that’s how it starts, Beck! Just a small fight here, you kill, you reap, and you reap, and you do it over and over until you piss off the wrong people, and they send real hitters after you. What do you think happens then?”

  “They die.” The android stated, her voice arriving with a chilling absence of morality.

  “I don't need some Pts Ville psychopath filling a decent ss’s head with her own fucking psychosis! And Beck, I swear to god, if I hear about you going back out to—”

  “I won't! At least not on syndicate turf…”

  “You did it in Pete’s own fucking backyard?”

  “And we’re gonna have to keep doing it if I’m ever gonna make what I need…” Cire commented, causing the man to glower at her.

  “Oh no! You leave Beck out of this!”

  “I can't! She’s my Igor! I need a wingman with some serious brawn.”

  “She even paying you?” Gunther demanded, turning to Rebecca, who made to answer in the negative, yet the distressing and singurly uniform cck of several eyes that were now pinning her with a red gre had her reconsidering the somewhat flippant remark she wanted to make.

  “I’m not—technically working for her…” Beckie slowly replied, unsure which side of the fence she really wanted to be on here.

  On the one hand, whatever the hell the crazy bitch was doing to her arm was bound to be fucking awesome!

  On the other—well, yeah, she’d definitely made Beckie complicit in several grade-three murders! M-more murders of a morally bleak variety, that, were she honest, she'd been a part of in the st ten years of her life…

  Sadly for Rebecca, she really wasn't good at making decisions that typically led to her avoiding trouble...