"Why would the old geezer send us to recover it, and the scientists too, if it wasn't valuable?" The younger man dangled his legs out of his hammock. He took a sip and scrunched his face up at the acrid strength.
"We'll know soon enough," Buzzcut said. "Maybe this is God's plan after all."
"Then what?"
"Then what what? Speak properly, Curly."
"Then what do we do?" the other said, meeker this time.
"Take it, of course."
The old serving woman returned with more drink, stored inside a large crab-like spiral shell, which she skillfully poured into her patron's coconut bottles, only spilling a little bit over their hands. Exotic. Lighting a wad of incense and a bunch of candles, she held out her hands until enough engraved bolts were placed in them, then left. Gradually, the air became drier, and Andy's mind hazier as the smoke filled his nostrils and untangled his brain.
As the candlelight brightened the alcove, Buzzcut spotted Andy and stared. "We're not alone."
"Don't mind me," Andy said. "Just another denizen of this fine establishment."
"Oh yeah. What's your name?"
"Dimitri," Andy said. "Dimitri Wellington Boots. I own this section of the Underbelly. That old woman is my lover and my wife."
They both stared at him for a moment, then went back to their drinks. Andy couldn't believe that had worked.
"And the others?" the young man continued. "Kill them once the job's done?"
"Curly," the other growled. "We're not alone."
"Oh, that pisshead? He hasn't got a clue."
Buzzcut smacked his companion across the head. "You don't have a clue." They both left Andy alone after that. Waves of delicious numbness washed over him. The smoke and booze mingled and fizzed in his veins like a laboratory experiment. He saw bright lights and heard gunshots. He gazed down the iron sights of Julie at the demon who had taken everything from him, but watched it from a dispassionate distance. This is who he was now. Completely uncaring. He would surrender to the demon, but not before killing it. It was wearing the skin of a man, dressed in a large winter coat, lying on the concrete ground pretending to beg for its life. Andy pulled the trigger, but nothing came out. He checked the cylinder—Julie was full. He fired again, but nothing. Not even a comical cap-gun bang. The demon laughed at him. Andy lunged for it.
He hit the ground and bolted awake, holding his arms up to protect his head. Andy drew Julie and searched for targets. The chamber was dark and empty but for a candle which flickered in a puddle of wax in the middle of the floor. Andy wheezed a sigh of relief, then doubled over in a coughing fit. He checked his gear—it was all there. He hadn't been robbed. Sitting upright on the sodden wooden floor, Andy waited for his heart to slow down.
Exiting the chamber, Andy stumbled down narrow stone corridors toward the main tunnel. To his left, the Underbelly ended with a pile of rubble where it had collapsed many years ago. To his right shone a blip of grey light as the overcast morning sky seeped through the tunnel's mouth. Pulling his leather jacket tightly around himself, Andy found a dustbin fire to warm his bones. Beside it, an old man dressed in rags curled up with a mangy dog on a bed of sodden cardboard. Andy tore off a dry corner of cardboard to help get the fire going again and checked his pockets for a watch. Did he still own one? If Andy knew the Underbelly, things got quiet at around the 5 a.m. mark, when the drinking and whoring finally got boring.
It was probably a good job he'd gone out drinking; it was better to leave the diplomacy to Clara. He'd make up for it on the road when it came time to kill something big.
Julie hummed in her holster at the thought. "That's right." Andy patted his revolver, warming himself in the orange glow of waking flames. "Soon, my sweet. Soon."
...
Clara didn't have much time, but with Andy gone, she could organise their gear without any distractions. She dismantled and cleaned their weapons, sorted their ammunition and restocked their essentials. Once complete, Clara lay on her bed flicking through her wrist terminal. It was Bulwark Project tech–same as the AMC itself–and displayed a report of Andy's recent recalibration. The process had been rough on him, with Andy clenching his fists, squirming and gurning his jaw for over an hour. But whatever pain it caused him was a necessary evil if Andy was to become stronger and avoid an untimely death from DNA corruption.
A new entry caught her eye. Delineation: Affinity. As Clara read the description, a smile crossed her lips. It was the first significant development in years. Clara read the entry over and over again, imagining what sort of powers Andy might develop, assuming she could continue to land them bigger, better, more dangerous missions. The delineation seemed to be linked with his revolver, but was distinct from his usual Enhanced Precision abilities. Something more unique, perhaps something more powerful?
Clara sighed wistfully and rolled out of bed. She cleaned her outfit with a rag, laying each piece on the bed, inspecting them for tears. Her black leather army boots were sturdy, with one-inch platforms and recently replenished laces. Her white vest was woven with micro-alloy fibre, which was supposed to provide extra protection, but Clara had been stabbed and punched while wearing it, and had yet to notice any difference. Honestly, she liked the silvery sheen the alloy gave the white fabric, and had three more vests like it stored in the trunk. Her camouflage trousers had been a size too large for her when she'd gotten them, but she'd grown into them in recent months. Their pockets were deep, the material nice and breathable, but the seams were starting to tear. Sewing them, she made a mental note to look for a new pair on the road.
Her black brimmed military cap had been with her the longest. She had found it as a kid, but it still fit her head on the tightest setting. The cap had been with her all over the world, keeping her hair in check and the sun out of her eyes. Checking herself in a mirror, Clara brushed her hair, intending for it to be a quick five-minute job, but what proceeded was an hour-long struggle with lugs and knots. By the end of her battle, the hairbrush looked like it had come off the back of a blonde sheep. It was a marvel she had any hair left on her head.