Unknown
He kept walking. The light kept the fog at bay.
Each step was heavy again. Too much blood.
He was running out of arms. He had to find a bench.
He paused. All ways had fog.
He picked one at random and kept walking. He ignored the needles.
He had to keep moving. No one else was here.
There was a thing behind him. He knew that one.
It just kept watching him. He wanted to get away from it.
His legs were slowing him down. He needed to cut them off.
—
David Martinez
He kept his arms crossed as his mother looked over the biomonitor readout that was currently connected to one of Smasher's interface cables, a frown on his face. To his side, Lucy was staring at the scene with her head leaning against his arm. To his other side, Rebecca spun around in a swivel chair as she waited for the diagnosis. Right next to his mom, Spares was staring at the monitor readout, not willing to get farther than arm's reach away from her dad but still trying to parse the info on the screen.
Tanaka was back at Arasaka, apparently working out the transfer on his end to this technical new corporation. He had left a while ago, and none of them felt like bothering him with this. That, and he was technically not an ally anymore, which made interactions with him potentially sticky. Something all parties had realized and tried their best to ignore for the most part.
About fifteen minutes ago, Spares had sent them a message while running back as fast as she could to the ship, Smasher's frame over her shoulder and a look of blind panic and distress on her normally expressionless face. She had all but demanded that mom check for what was wrong, and that the rest of them be present to defend her dad. It would be really endearing to see her so concerned if he wasn't pretty worried himself.
She wasn't quite as fast as she used to be, what with all the 'Saka tech possible being taken off her and replaced with the spares (heh) intended for Smasher's alpha frame, but it was pretty dang quick all things considered. Of course, they already got her a sandy yesterday. One of those Militech Falcons, pricey but definitely worth it. Apparently she and Smasher had just been at a meeting to get a new frame ordered, and he had collapsed suddenly on the way back.
Normally, he'd say that anything that could take out Smasher like that could take out the rest of them in an instant, but Smasher was in an alpha frame right now. He didn't actually know how that stacked up, hence the concern. He nudged Lucy and asked. "Anything near the ship?"
She shook her head and blinked her glowing eyes. "Hobo in an alley two blocks down. He's the closest and he doesn't have a Net-connection."
He hummed in consideration and turned back to his mom. She was looking baffled at the screen at this point, before pulling back from it and sighing.
"Well… according to his biomonitor, he's just… tired." She stated, sounding slightly defeated.
Becca stopped spinning in response. "Tired? And he decided to take a nap in the middle of the street?"
"Alley." Spares quickly corrected.
"Alley." Becca corrected herself with a roll of her eyes.
Mom nodded her head back and forth. "Well, tired is a bit of an understatement. More accurate to say… severe exhaustion…" She trailed off slightly, looking down at the monitor. He looked to the side himself, feeling too awkward to say anything. "It's like he hasn't gotten any actual sleep in days, and hasn't gotten a full night's rest in years. Which can't be right, because he was sleeping on his bench just a few hours ago."
He coughed at that, bringing attention to himself. "Pretty sure Smasher told us he doesn't actually sleep."
His mother stared at him for a moment, before her brows furrowed slightly. "...what?"
He winced, recognizing the hints in that tone. Lucy continued where he left off with a nod. "He told us that he doesn't sleep. He just sits down when he doesn't need to do anything and reviews old memories."
Mom stared blankly, before turning to the currently unconscious man, and back to the biomonitor. "Do you know how he doesn't sleep..?"
Spares answered at this. "Adam Smasher's previous frames included integrated Circadian Half-Cyclers of various makes and models, and before that a Zetatech mk27 Sleep Inducer."
"They let him-!" Mom began to get up and shout, before visibly calming herself and sitting back down. Her attention turned to the unconscious Smasher, who she stared at for a long moment before sighing and shaking her head. "Of course they did."
It was a long moment before anyone said anything. Becca pursued her lips before asking the first question. "So… deets on those things?"
Mom gave a massive sigh, before explaining. "A Sleep Inducer is oldtech. It puts you into deep-stage sleep immediately, letting you get by with less sleep than normally required… I used to have one, not sure where it went. A good model lets you get by on two or three hours a night if you really need it."
Becca gave an impressed whistle at that. "Sounds nova, what's the downside?"
"Toxin buildup." Gloria responded blandly. He flinched at that, feeling quite sorry for himself in that moment. "Your brain doesn't have enough time compared to normal to flush out the toxin buildup. Use it too often and you'll start getting brain damage from the accumulation."
There was a pause, before Lucy responded. "...And the half-cycler?"
"An 'improvement' on the sleep inducer. It flushes the toxins out manually with nanomachines, and selectively puts parts of the brain to sleep. This renders them less functional than normal on a set schedule, but lets you theoretically never have to sleep again." She sounded quite bitter at the idea.
"So wait." He started speaking. "All this time, Smasher's been working with like… random parts of his brain turned off at any given time?"
"Asleep, not off. Six parts of the brain, two lobes, that's twelve total sections. Twenty four hours in a day. That's two full rotations of one-hour periods of rest a day." Mom answered with a frustrated glare at the unconscious borg, before setting the tablet aside and walking out of the room with a "I'll be back in a moment."
There was quiet in the room for a bit while she was away. None of them were quite sure what to say. David wasn't sure what the big deal was, personally. Not having to sleep would give like… 8 more hours to do stuff, and having only one-twelfth of your brain asleep at a time… that didn't sound too bad? You surely didn't need all of your brain all at once.
"...what the fuck Big Guy?" Becca spoke bluntly, frowning at Smasher. Her brows were furrowed, and Spares hasn't stopped staring at him since mom left. He glanced over to the right, seeing that Lucy was currently staring at him with a look of blank suspicion on her face.
He quickly looked away, and tried his best to seem inconspicuous. It seems his opinion was pretty unpopular, best keep it to himself.
Judging from the brief scoff from his input, he wasn't being very convincing.
Mom walked back into the room, a bottle of medicine or something in her hand. Walking over to the bench Smasher was currently on, she raised the bottle up and made sure everyone saw it.
"This is a stimulant. If injected into his biopod, it'll wake him up in a few minutes without harm." She then turned to Spares particularly. "But because Adam is a pinche bobonk who doesn't let himself sleep, we're not going to do that yet. We're going to let him sleep until he wakes up on his own, medtech's orders."
She turned a baleful stare to all of them in order. "If he doesn't wake up in a week, we'll give him this then. Okay?" Despite its wording, the last statement was not a question. They all nodded, and mom set the bottle down next to the bench, again making sure that all of them saw where it was.
David spoke up at this, "Alright, new gig chooms. We're going to make sure no one tries to flatline Smasher while he's asleep. Not sure who we can actually ask for help here, so we'll keep this all hush-hush. Becca, Spares, and I'll take shifts in guarding him physically. Lucy, keep watch of the local net. Mom, make sure to keep checking up on him."
"What do we tell people who try to talk to him?" Becca asked, chewing on the collar of her very loose shirt.
He raised a finger and gave a small grin. "He's out of town on business. We don't know what kind, he didn't tell us."
A hand went up.
"What's up Spares?"
"I want a double shift."
—
6th Street
In the badlands to the west of Night City, a man sat in front of an open fire. The man wore steel-toed boots, navy blue jeans, a belt with a thick buckle, a button-up white shirt and vest, a synthleather duster, and a stetson hat to his side. On his iron belt buckle was the picture of a 20th century tractor and the words "The American Farmer Feeds the World." An heirloom.
The man was middle-aged, with distinct lines on his face as evidence. His head was balding, but not quite fully bald, with a thick mustache over his lip and stubble across the rest of his jaw. His eyes were closed as he sat, waiting for something with tension in his features.
Around him, various men milled about. Most of them were keeping watch, some of them were playing cards, a few others were eating various MREs and similar types of nourishment, and a couple were listening to radios. Each and every one of them had various bits and baubles of patriotic paraphernalia. Old USA flag bandanas and armbands, eagle-head tattoos and pins, bundles of sticks, things of that nature.
After a while, one man approached the man by the fire. A younger looking man, with old combat fatigues and a shotgun on his back. "Morton, there's a semi coming up. Radio confirms it's the corprat."
The man by the fire nodded and stood up, grabbing his stetson and placing it on his head before replying. "Alrighty. Let's go see what they want this time."
"Nothing good, as always." The younger man spat out, to the visible agreement of several men around them. The older man raised a patient hand at that.
"None of that now, Will. We need to at least hear them out first before sending them on their way. It's how we keep those types off our backs." There was grumbling, but reluctant acceptance at the answer given. The men appeased slightly, Morton began to walk out to the perimeter of the temporary camp, pausing once he reached the outer defensive line and waiting.
On the horizon, the headlights of a Semi truck were approaching.
Will unholstered his gun, keeping it pointed down and his finger off the tigger. A discipline that was mandatory among them. The rest of the men did similar, one could never be too careful around these types, and guns were always a good way of keeping everyone polite.
Eventually, the semi pulled to a stop within easy sight of the men, but far enough away to be respectful. The back of the semi opened up, letting a figure step through before the corporate guards on the other side pulled them closed again.
The figure that started to approach them was massive. Perhaps seven feet tall and four feet wide at the shoulder. An utterly unrealistic amount of bulk, but not unrealistically proportioned. The torso was essentially a solid rectangle of mass in overall shape, with a relatively small looking head resting on top.
The figure was dressed in a comical amount of extravagance. A three-piece suit in bright gold, green, and white which contrasted the figure's own very dark skin. Pure white synthhair was slicked back on a handsome face, and optics hidden behind aviator tinted glasses. One hand was a cybernetic, armored in golden plating and with an oversized hand. The other hand held a fine cane made of some kind of metal, probably steel, capped with a massive synth-diamond.
And on the enormous man's left breast, the logo of a bright yellow M.
The massive man swaggered up to the men with guns with a wide, friendly grin on his face. "Well Howdy-day, am I glad to see Mr. Morton still rumblin' around these parts. When the higher-ups told me to facilitate a little job 'round here, didn't know it was gonna be with you again. How've you been, old cat?"
"Percy." Morton acknowledged. "What do they want and what are they offering this time?" He wasn't in any mood for many niceties.
Something that 'Percy' ignored, instead raising his golden hand briefly. He then placed his heavy cane under his armpit, and slowly, deliberately, reached into his jacket pocket. The gathered men tensed and waited.
Percy then slowly pulled out a package, which he turned around to show with a smile on his face. "Cigars, chooms. Genuine Cuban imports. Every good meeting needs a good smoke, you feel me?" Ripping the plastic packaging off the case and sticking the trash into his jacket pocket, he opened the case in full view to pull out a cigar, hold it in his lips, and raise his golden arm. His thumb flipped down, and a small flame emerged to light the relatively tiny cigar currently secured in his lips.
Raising his head back up from his thumb, he extended the pack of newly opened Cubans to Morton with a grin. Morton frowned, but nodded his head. Percy slowly swaggered forwards, and handed the pack at a comfortable distance. Morton grabbed the pack, took a cigar from it, before securing the lid once more and handing it off to Will.
Percy offered his still burning thumb with a smile behind his own cigar, and Morton accepted the offer, lighting his own smoke on the flame before bringing it to his lips and taking a long drag of his own.
Peace offering accepted, Percy took a deliberate step back and nodded. "Now the higher ups want to offer you gentlemen a whole lotta heavy metal in exchange for a job see. That and a few tens of thousands of shiny new government bills."
Morton raised a hand, and finished his current drag. "Before you try blinding me with the shinies, tell me what the job is, and maybe we'll think about getting it done."
Percy nodded all polite-like, and responded. "Now it's gonna sound worse than it is." He warned.
Morton glared. Percy continued. "It's to flatline Ol' Mr. Adam Smasher."
Silence for a long moment, some of his less disciplined boys started chuckling or muttering at that. Morton just kept his glare centered right on the corporate fixer.
Percy continued. "Now normally that'd be a suicide mission, they know. But news on the grapevine? Mr. Smasher ain't currently working for 'Saka right now. His contract is still kaput. He ain't gonna have no support from them for a while, but that's not gonna last forever."
"That's the least dangerous thing about the Butcher." Morton drawled, taking another drag.
Percy grinned again. "Right, but you see, normally he'd crush you all flat in an instant. But there's where another detail comes to mind." Percy leaned forwards, conspiratorially. "Mr. Smasher is currently stuck in a stock alpha. According to some little birdies, he done broke all those fancy frames of his in some big damn scraps recently. He's in just about the weakest frame you can get as a borg right now. Again, who knows how long that'll last."
Morton narrowed his eyes, raising his hand up to rub against his chin and brows furrowed. Will kept silent, glaring at the corporate fixer. The rest of the men kept quiet as best they could.
Finally, Morton responded. "What are they offering for it?"
Percy grinned, and waved his cane. Behind him, the semi-trailer doors opened up completely, fully revealing what was inside.
Twelve Militech 'Wolfhound' Light ACPA and their full stock armament. Some of the less disciplined men gave deep inhales at the sight of them.
Morton took a drag, before responding calmly. "Twelve ACPA ain't enough for something like this." Will nodded viciously at that answer.
Percy grinned. "Oh? I'm sorry to accidentally mislead you like that old cat."
He turned back around and pointed his cane over his shoulder.
"This is just the first truck."