The last time he'd been in Corvalis, Nack the Weasel had been running for his life. Now, he was stretched back on a bench with his hands behind his head, stargazing. It was neat to enjoy the streets of a big city without panicking that some cop or do-gooder might recognize him. In fact, it felt weird, and couldn't help but twitch his snout to the side every time footsteps passed.
A handful of change clinked at his side. "Get a job," the disgusted commuter sneered. Nack snarled, but rolled to his feet and picked up the coins anyhow. He wasn't stupid – take everythin' ya can!
Once more he lolled his head back and contemplated the stars. Concrete stars for a concrete jungle, he mused. The moving, blinking scatterplot of celestial lights were Hoverpods.
That faint puttering noise in his ear, like a tiny helicopter in the distance? – That was the entire horde of flying beetles, beating their fan engines in a collective hum. Ever since "The ARK Incident", the military's drones had been scattered over the skies of every major city, supposedly protecting the folks below from the next inevitable attack.
Nack remembered just how many there had first been, darkening the skies like a swarm of locusts. News reports even pointed out squads of GUN-Hawks – bigger, more heavily armed brothers to the miniscule floating eyeballs. Much as he disliked the armed forces, the country needed those gear-heads up there to pump up morale and to keep everyone from going crazy. Because after Sonic the Hedgehog went psycho and stole that chaos emerald from the bank, the word 'Impossible' needed new definition.
Islands blowing up, fighter planes bombing bridges and entire city blocks, the Doc using his big bug-zapper on the Moon. People got scared. As in, mass-anarchy, rioting-in-the-streets scared!
If The Great Chaos wasn't enough to get a military reaction, then that space-laser and the insanity it sparked had finally woken up someone at G.U.N. Now the country was on high alert with those Hover-heads, and there wasn't one newspaper that didn't talk about approaching war. Something big would come; it was only a matter of time.
Red certainly must have been a smart lady to hide out for an entire month in this whole new world – even with armies of drones searching and five million on her head, hunters like Drake or Sharps couldn't track down the powder-keg.
And then one day Bat-legs – in her finest disguise – clacked her heels down the street of a small town and stepped on the tail of one already thoroughly pissed-off weasel. Nack had only one word for it: Comeuppance! "Bout time ay gat a break!"
A din of noise rose from the subway station, and bodies soon followed from the underground. Nack got to his feet, grabbed his bag and started looking for his contact. He had a fresh life to start on G.U.N.'s good side, but first, he had one last job to finish.
The weasel spotted the fatso – how could you miss those hanging jowls? – He was nervous, nothing new there. Nack decided to have some fun. He would walk right up through the crowd, poke his tail in blubber-boy's belly and hiss something creepy – maybe "You're late. I don't like that".
But, as per all his plans, the universe always decided to add some small, miniscule scribble into the calculations – an intervention that consistently lead the equation to self-destruct.
A man yapping into a cell-phone spared the weasel a few words. "Out of my way!" He shoved Nack from his path, which knocked him into a heavy lady.
"Hey, quit hoggin' the road, rat-face!" She slammed her palm on his shoulder and sent him staggering backwards – a move he was able to stop only by catching his hand on the chest of a fine young lady.
"You pervert!" She threw his hand away and beat him back with her purse. Nack yipped and blocked his face and stumbled over his tail, falling on his back.
And of course, the universe decided that no one should notice another bump in the sidewalk – not even a furry, squishy one that squeaked when you pressed it.
"OH GEEZ! AAH! OWW! AHH! OOH! GAA!"
He hated, he hated, he HATED stilettos!
A new voice pushed its way through the crowd. "WHOA! What are you people doing! Out of the way – HEY, back off!" The treading over his spine dissipated. Large hands picked the weasel back onto his feet.
"Oh man, are you okay?" the voice asked. "Geez, what a world," the man lamented. "With all the attacks going on, you'd think people could learn to look out for each other. What a …" the chubby man stopped. "Oh gosh, it's you."
Nack cringed – this was not making him look good. The weasel pulled out of the fat hands and drew to his full height, wanting badly to maintain a dark presence. He tipped his hat and let his trenchcoat sweep wide. The stout fellow gulped. "Fang the Sniper."
"Bout time yeh gat 'ere," Nack snarled.
The fat man nodded with little eyes. "I think I got here just in time."
Nack sneered. "Oh Shaddup, ya Boy-Scout. Let's just get dis over wit so I don't hafta look at yer face anymoire. Yeh brought it?"
The janitor gave a nervous look at the crowded street. His pudgy hands tightened round the strap of his backpack. "Umm, maybe we should do this somewhere else…"
The weasel gnashed his teeth. "Well o' course we will! Geez, I ain't stoopid!"
"No, no. I mean… away from them." His finger pointed skyward. Nack grumbled: Yet another paranoid idiot!
"Whaddid Ay tell yah? Dem Hoverpods ain't watchin' us! Day can't even shoot us, fer Pete's sake – they're just floatin' up dere! Dey don't do anytin'!"
"All the same," he said, his confidence in the magical army intact, "I – I'd really prefer if we did this somewhere … quiet."
"All right, all right. C'mon."
The human gave a final, skyward look, opened up an umbrella, and followed the weasel.
Nack – Fang the Sniper by his business alias – led the chubby human to a park, and they continued their transaction under the cover of a large grove of oak tree.
"Fifty Thousand," the weasel confirmed, and opened his backpack for a peek at the cash. His contact was awed; Nack pulled it away. "If, yeh brought it here…"
The backpack almost flew off the poor janitor's shoulder. "It's here," he babbled. "Just like you said. I don't think anyone saw me; I told Mitch to take the night off, and I tried to be quiet and put everything back in place and…"
"And yew put teh fake one in da crate?"
He nodded vigorously. "I did everything you asked," he said with a tremble. "Please, just take it now. I don't want to get in trouble."
"Trouble?" Nack laughed. "Whaddid yew do ta get in trouble? Yeh just stole sometin' from a G.U.N. supply warehouse!"
The poor man looked ready to wet himself. "Please, my family needs the money – I'm a good person!"
"Yeah, yeah. All right, give it 'ere." The backpacks exchanged ownership. OOF! Nack could not hold the weight of the bag. It dropped and crushed his feet.
"Oh, umm… here let me help you." Mr. Nice-Guy came and helped the bounty hunter pull the sack onto his shoulders. Nack winced again – Why'dya hate me, world?
"Okay," the weasel confirmed. "If ay hear anytin' about this; if yew make one little peep, I'm gonna cut yer head off. Gat it?"
More obedient nodding. "I won't say a thing; I can't lose this job."
Before Nack let him leave, the weasel inspected his new toy for authenticity. He crouched over the backpack and peeked inside, confirmed the description: black dome, a white visor, and a single green eye. This was he.
The human shuddered. "It's for The Doctor, isn't it?" Nack looked at him quizzically. "You're working for Him, aren't you? He's your employer."
The weasel let his hanging overbite spread into a smile. "Boy, yer smarter than ya look. Let's just say, teh Doc ain't too happy about yer Bosses takin' apart 'is Egg Carrier." Nack patted the backpack. "Dere was a few toys he left onboard."
Sickness consumed the human. "Oh God… Oh God…"
Nack reached through his ripped trenchcoat pocket and dug for the gun holster on his belt. In a flash, his quick hands had a laser pistol pointed at fatty. "Dawn't yew get soft on me, fats!" he threatened. "If teh military is after me, yer gonna be in a lotta pain!" The energy meter on his gun read empty; he hoped the patsy couldn't tell.
"Yew gat yer money, go be happy! I've got a lotta good things goin' fer me now, an' I ain't gonna let yew ruin me! Gat it?" The sobbing little man nodded.
The weasel released his pawn. He ran away, clutching his backpack of cash. Nack would have run as well, but this clunker was heavy! He had to pull the sack across the ground!
Given his luck, Nack was never much of an optimist, but tonight, he reminded himself to be thankful: he was a free man; the Doc would pay handsomely for this old robot, and Bat-legs was in a whole lot more pain than he.