Something caught his eye–a piece of silver jewellery around the man's wrist. Andy wasn't great with faces–he might not have recognised the thieves in Lackey's bar if one hadn't been wearing his sister's stolen watch. The ticker was frozen–the watch hadn't worked for years–but every now and then, he caught Clara glancing at it. Why she kept the broken watch wasn't important… Andy had difficulty understanding most of Clara's actions. But it mattered to her, so it mattered to him. Andy knelt and carefully undid the metal latch, pulling it over the dead man's thumb.
Attention. The AI's voice pierced his silence, squeezing through the gaps in his ever-widening sobriety. DNA corruption levels at 17%. Visit an Augmentation Master Console to prevent further DNA mutation, and recalibrate new abilities.
"Yeah-yeah," Andy said, fingering his ear trying to dig the buzzing out of his head.
Alterations to your DNA are unstable until calibration at an Augmentation Master Console.
"Alright, I get it. I was trying to have a moment, and you've ruined it." Pocketing the watch, Andy strolled back through the warehouse to where he'd dropped his hip flask earlier. The kid was dead. At least he'd died drunk. What more could you ask for?
Alert: Prevent further-
"I got you the first time," Andy said. "Shut up." Washing the lip of the flask in the leaky spout, Andy took another swig. It still tasted funny, a little acrid, a little bloody, but Andy could look past that.
Heading towards the warehouse's main exit, Andy peered out through a gap in the doors. Outside, there were figures crouched behind wagons and cars parked around the perimeter of the loading bay and more looming in the shadows of nearby huts. They were training primitive weapons on his position, bows and spears and slings. There'd likely be more with shields and clubs.
Andy waved a hand outside, then poked his head around the corner. "Heya chaps. Just me, don't shoot."
"Get out and lie down," one of the spearmen yelled. He was draped in the hide of some beast, the crocodile-like maw of which hung over his head as a hood. The other militiamen were each wearing similar animal skin armour and dark face paint. Andy recognised them as the flamboyant tribal gang who co-ran the town with a few others. What were their names again? Gristle-something? Their members could handle their drink, that's all Andy knew.
"You have broken the peace," Crocodile-man announced. "Exit the warehouse or suffer a swift punishment."
For a second, Andy imagined what non-compliance would look like… Which were his primary targets? Where could he take cover? How many could he kill before being shot and stabbed to death? Andy smiled, he actually liked his odds.
Alert, his AI chimed. Hold fire advised. Probability of success: implausible.
"Maybe with that attitude." Andy sighed and resigned himself. Rival
Rival mercenaries were one thing, but killing the town's official militia would piss Clara off to no end. Just as soon as he'd gotten comfortable lying on the ground, Andy was hauled to his feet. Two of the brutes grabbed his arms while another patted him down, confiscating his combat knife and Julie. Andy remained calm as the militiaman tucked Julie into his belt, remembering his Augmentation's new ability, recently initialised: Deadly Attraction. He could summon Julie to him as though magnetised. Although, thinking about it, he'd only done it once and not practised it since, nor had he recalibrated at an AMC. Was there a chance it wouldn't work? Andy flexed his fingers, trying to sense the connection between him and his revolver. There was a slight tug, a longing in his palm, yearning to be filled.
The beefy militiaman accosted Andy, removing his hip flask, pausing to consider its destructive potential.
"You gonna come between a man and his drink?" Andy said, feeling Julie's presence ever stronger, ready to summon her at a moment's notice. "Don't be stupid."
After a pause, the militiaman slipped Andy's flask back into his breast pocket. Andy relaxed. Surrounded as he was, even with his magical abilities, Andy no longer fancied his odds, but there were some things worth standing up for, no matter the odds. As he was dragged away, Andy recognised Clara's voice from the perimeter where a crowd of onlookers had gathered, and tried to wave, but the militiamen grabbed his hands and bound them in ropes. Still, they took him close enough to overhear his sister's conversation.
"We are employees of Blue Eyes," she said. "It's disgusting that my companion was attacked while in your hospitality. He shouldn't be in cuffs, he should be with a doctor receiving treatment for his wounds."
Even though he wasn't wounded, the prospect of free painkillers piqued Andy's appetite. "Yeah, what an outrage."
Clara bustled up to him, presenting her wrist terminal to the guards. "Recognize this signature? Mind explaining to Blue Eyes why you're assailing one of his employees?"
"Trust the old man to hire a rabid'un," one guard said, prodding Andy in the ribs with the head of his axe.
"He started a shootout on our turf," another militiaman said. "So he'll be coming with us now."
Clara complained vigorously, arguing with logic, making threats. It was all white noise to Andy. Whatever the consequences, he'd face them. It didn't matter much. He had no regrets.
Someone else entered the fray wearing a top-hat and a smart suit. Accompanying the newcomer were three other militiamen dressed in similar smart outfits. That was another gang, wasn't it? The sing-alongs, or something? There was a heated dick-measuring contest between the leaders of each team, during which Clara took sides with the top-hat fellow.
One of the tribal guys squeezed Andy's bicep painfully and looked him in the eye, trying to goad him into reacting. Andy remained glazed over—he didn't mess around, he didn't like to scrap. He didn't see the point of intimidation or bravado, like so many other men indulged. What was the point in being pretend-aggressive? Andy was either killing everyone around him or ignoring their presence. It was exhausting trying to exist in the space between.