NANITE

"They changed location, but I got a lead. It'll take two more days to get her." Ray sent the message through the interface of the dead hired gun. It should buy him enough time—just enough—to finish moving his family to the new apartment.

Andrew must be desperate, maybe because his credits are under corporate surveillance.

The guy Ray had consumed was cheap, even by corpo standards—no combat mods, just a mean streak and empty eyes. The kind of man who'd kill his own mother for a few hundred NEX. Ray wiped his hand on his coat, suddenly disgusted by the thought of sharing space with a mind like that, even for a moment.

He paced, mind spinning. Logically, he doubted Andrew could send another hitman—if he could, why risk a bottom-feeder like this one in the first place?

But logic and paranoia were never friends. The voice in his head snarled: Are you an idiot? How can you leave them alone? What if another killer is already watching them?

He pulled up Johnny's contact and made the call. Johnny picked up after half a ring.

"Ray." Johnny's voice was as steady as always.

"Hi, Johnny. I need help. I'll pay."

"No need for that," Johnny replied without hesitation. "With what?"

Ray drew a breath, steadying himself. If he couldn't be honest now, he never would be. "A guy came to my apartment—met him in the hallway. Tried to shoot me. He didn't get the chance, but... still. I'm worried for Alyna and Lina."

There was silence, just the faint static of the line. Ray could picture Johnny leaning back in his battered office chair, thinking. "Why not just move them? Motel, somewhere out of sight? It'd be easier than hiring protection."

Ray was ready for this. "I know it might sound stupid, but I don't want to scare them. I just got a new apartment lined up—tomorrow, they'll be out of danger. I just need cover for today."

On the other end, Johnny's mouth quirked in a half-smile Ray could almost see.

Son, just like your father, he thought. But all he said was, "Fine. I'll send someone reliable to keep watch. No one will get past them."

"Thanks, Johnny."

"Don't mention it. Keep your head on."

The line went dead, but the paranoid chorus in Ray's head refused to fade. Are you sure? What if Johnny misses something?

He shook his head, forcing the doubts back. If there was anyone left he could trust, it was Johnny. If Johnny said someone would be there, Ray believed him. Maybe Johnny himself would show up and sit outside the door all day. That thought brought a thin comfort—a reassurance of what it meant to have real backup.

Ray closed his eyes for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and turned toward the elevator, where Arty was already waiting, holding the door.

"You good?" Arty asked, searching his face.

Ray managed a tired smile. "Yeah. Let's go."

The doors slid shut.

After a short trip on the maglev train and a walk through streets humming with nervous energy, they arrived. Ray glanced ahead at the perimeter of the fairgrounds—a makeshift fortress built from massive, metallic shipping crates stacked like bricks, their sides covered in glowing, shifting graffiti and used as canvases for pirated video projections of dueling robots and sleek drones.

They walked through the main gate and stepped directly into a sensory explosion.

The Lower Bastion Tech Fair was a teeming, ever-shifting maze where the laws of physics and city ordinances alike had been gleefully ignored. Makeshift booths and hacked-together kiosks jostled for space beneath a forest of tangled neon banners and glitching holograms. Vendors bellowed in five languages, selling everything from neuro-linked AI pets to prototype military drones, black-market mods, and ominous-looking boxes labeled "FOR EXPERIMENTAL USE ONLY."

The air crackled with the sharp scent of ozone, hot solder, and frying synth-meat. Drone racers zipped through the chaotic airspace overhead, dipping low to scatter the crowd, their pilots howling with glee as bets flashed across digital wrist-screens. Music thumped from mismatched speakers, colliding in a wall of sound with the shouts of haggling buyers and the electric pops of sparking, overloaded equipment.

Vendors in LED masks hawked illegal software and cracked AI personalities. Feral, cat-sized bots skittered beneath the tables, scrounging for dropped data chips. In one corner, a trio of teens dueled with humming VR blades, flailing and laughing as a crowd jeered and placed bets.

Arty dove straight into the chaos, yelling greetings, high-fiving dealers, and vanishing for minutes at a time into clouds of steam and static. Ray stuck close, every sense on high alert, watching not just for pickpockets, but for tech that could prove useful.

"Arty?" Ray shouted over the clamor.

Arty looked up from a battered cleaning bot he'd been eyeing. "Yeah?"

Ray leaned in. "You know where I can find humanoid bots? Preferably cheap."

Arty grinned, clapping Ray on the shoulder. "Like master, like student." He clearly thought Ray just wanted a new project, never guessing what Ray truly had in mind for the machine.

They pushed through the sweltering, electric-smelling crowd. The heat pressed in, mixed with the stink of ozone, burnt plastic, and fried noodles from a nearby stall. The fair was alive with haggling voices, mechanical whines, and the static pop of faulty gear.

At a battered truck, its trailer splayed open to the chaos, a wild spread of robotic limbs and bodies, gleamed under the harsh light. Spider-bots. Snake drones. Avian sentries. And—hanging from magnetic claws—a humanoid bot that drew Ray's gaze like a spotlight.

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The robot was a ruin. Armor plates stripped, servos exposed and slick with oil, wiring burnt or fused. The corporate logo, probably, was just a scorched patch beneath layers of soot. One arm dangled loose, two fingers missing, the rest melted together. Each shudder sent sparks from its hip; actuators groaned with every shift. Its head hung at an awkward tilt, sensor lights mostly dead—just one red glow blinking feebly behind cracked glass. Even the skull insignia on its leg was just a faded ghost under grime.

There was something both sad and stubborn in the way the bot still hung there, battered but upright.

A man perched on a cracked plastic chair nearby, a fan blowing hot air at his knees. He was mid forties, arms thick and smeared with oil, legs replaced by cheap cybernetics. His eyes moved from the robot to Ray. "Two thousand," he said, voice as flat as the dust on his boots.

Arty's eyebrows shot up. "Two grand? For that leaky rust-bucket? My friend, for that price, it better be able to cook me breakfast and file my taxes!" he declared, loud enough for the gathering onlookers to hear. He stepped forward, circling the bot, and gave its foot a push so it swung with a hollow clang. "This thing's a burned-out carcass. Half the joints are fused, actuators fried, sensors dead. I've seen fresher scrap in the municipal landfill."

"Price is the price. Take it or leave it."

Arty's smile turned cold. "Maybe. Or maybe nobody wants the hassle. That skull logo? Looks like corporate death squad tech. That's bad luck just to look at, and you want two grand? Twelve hundred, right now. Cash. Or we walk—and trust me, everyone here's going to know you're selling a deathtrap, probably with corpo trackers still buried in its core."

Ray's pulse hammered as the two men stared each other down, the crowd pressing closer.

The seller's gaze flicked from Ray to Arty and back. "One thousand six hundred. Final offer."

Arty didn't blink. "Fifteen hundred. And you throw in that replacement servo from the bin over there."

A long, tense pause. Finally, the seller jerked his head—a grudging agreement. "Fine. Take it."

Arty grinned, pounding Ray's back. "Stick with me, you'll never pay full price for scrap."

Ray managed a small smirk as he sent the payment—never expecting Arty to be so ruthless, or to have his back so fully. He moved forward and unhooked the robot, hefting its cold, heavy frame onto his shoulder. For a moment, he felt every eye in the fair on him.

"Thanks," Ray said quietly.

Arty flashed a tired smile. "No problem, man. I still owe you one after Junk Town." For an instant, his expression darkened, haunted by the memory of what they'd found there.

"I managed to sell it," Ray added, voice low.

Arty waved him off, looking away as if staring through a ghost. "Don't worry about the money. Keep it." Then, in the next breath, his manic grin returned. "So, what's next? Want to check out some cheap mods?"

Ray nodded, shifting the weight on his shoulder. "Lead the way."

Ray and Arty wove through a canyon of stalls, the air thick with the hum of servos, the sharp tang of machine oil, and the endless clatter of metal on metal. Vendors barked out deals—"Combat claws, last set!"—their voices battling against static-laced music from competing speakers. Polished cybernetic limbs swung overhead: articulated hands tipped with claws, mantis blades snapping out with pneumatic hisses, electrified gauntlets sparking blue fire. Legs with wicked blades or too many joints gleamed in the harsh light, promising agility, power, or menace for the right price.

Arty couldn't resist poking and prodding the flashiest, deadliest mods. He nudged Ray toward a table of sickle-bladed legs. "Dude, check these out—bet it can slice through a steel barrel like butter. You want something wild?"

Ray shook his head, eyes scanning past the violence and chrome. "No. I need something built for power and speed. Something that can move and jump."

Arty froze, struck by inspiration. "Legs, huh? I know just the guy."

He pulled Ray deeper through the chaos, past flickering lights and the low, electric buzz of anxious shoppers. At a quieter booth—no arms, no claws, just rows of legs: sturdy, spindly, battered, half-forgotten. It felt more like a back-alley cobbler's than a cyberware stall.

A wiry, weathered man in mirrored shades manned the counter. His own legs were a patchwork—one hydraulic, one carbon-fiber, the knee a battered, mismatched joint. He eyed Ray and Arty with a dry half-smile.

"Looking for a pair?" the dealer rasped. "Got runners, jumpers, climbers. Even a few ex-corp specials."

As Ray browsed, another buyer lingered behind him, eyeing the battered but solid pair marked speed-boosters. Ray caught the dealer's sideways glance; he knew the game.

"These," Ray said, picking up the pair. They weren't pretty, but they promised power. He hefted their weight—unexpectedly heavy and dense with potential.

"Eight hundred," the dealer said. "That's a bargain."

Before Ray could answer, Arty cut in, voice sharp. "Come on, uncle. The gears are loose, servos scratched, firmware's ancient. Five hundred."

The dealer nodded at the rival shopper, playing it cool. "Six-fifty."

Arty tapped his chin, then grinned. "Sounds good."

Ray handed over six hundred fifty credits. A prickle of doubt ran through him—was this enough? Was he just chasing a ghost of the person he needed to be? Or was this another step in his private war to outrun his past?

The dealer leaned in as Ray took the legs. "Take care of those. They've seen more action than half the mercs in this sector."

As Ray took the legs, Arty's head snapped toward him, eyes suddenly serious. "Dude, we need to move," he said, grabbing Ray's arm.

"Why?" Ray glanced around, the press of bodies hot and close, the reek of oil and sweat thick in the air.

"It's about to begin."

Before Ray could ask more, Arty was already dragging him, weaving them through the crowd, their path lit by the riot of neon and the metallic clang of boots on steel decking. Ray let himself be pulled along—until something caught his eye at a nearby stall.

He planted his feet. Arty stumbled to a halt. "Man, come on. We're gonna be late!"

"Wait a minute." Ray moved to the stall, drawn by a battered helmet on display. An old woman stood behind the table, a cigar clenched between her teeth, hair chopped short, her eyes sharp as monomolecular blades. She wore military fatigues, the fabric faded from too many washings but still carrying an air of authority. Ray guessed—probably a Fifth Corporate War vet.

She saw him looking. "That one's seen more than you ever will, kid," she rasped, her voice a deep bass worn ragged by too many smokes.

"That helmet. How much?"

The helmet was black metal, V-shaped visor, a bullet hole dead center. Scorch marks and gouges marred its surface. Whoever wore it was probably long gone.

"Nine hundred," she said.

Ray sent the credits and lifted the helmet, hands trembling as he turned it over. Something in the weight, the shape, the scars—it felt like history. Like grief pressed into steel. He thumbed the bullet hole, imagining a split second of memory from the day it was made.

Arty gawked. "Ray, are you out of your mind?! You never buy at the first offer! And what, you think there's secret tech in that scrap?"

Ray shook his head. "No. My dad fought in the Fifth Corporate War. I've got a photo of him in a helmet just like this." His voice came out soft—softer than he meant.

Arty fell quiet, awkward for once. "Sorry, man. That's… that's a cool helmet. Guess we're all chasing ghosts."

Ray just nodded, letting Arty lead him on.

They pushed through to the edge of the fair, where a crowd had gathered around a caged arena. The air here vibrated with shouts and the rumble of stomping feet, each impact humming up through the stands. Arty climbed the rickety tribune, waving Ray up. Ray sat beside him, the battered legs and helmet heavy in his lap, the robot propped at his feet.

Inside the ring, two small robots squared off—a battered cylinder with welding arms and a six-legged crawler bristling with electrodes. The crowd pressed in, roaring for oil and sparks. The air shimmered with heat and the metallic tang of ozone. A buzzer blared. The cage doors slammed. The fight began.

The crawler darted forward, metal limbs scraping the floor. The welder spun on its axis, a jet of blue flame flaring from its arm. Sparks showered as the crawler sidestepped, then lunged—jabbing electrified talons into the welder's side. Smoke billowed, fans in the arena ceiling whining to keep up.

The welder twisted, torch arm slashing, catching the crawler on a rear leg. Metal screeched. Circuits spat showers of light, electricity arcing from joint to joint. The crowd howled as the machines battered each other, fire against lightning, steel against steel. For a moment, Ray couldn't tell which bot was winning—all he could see was chaos, fury, and raw invention. His thumb traced the helmet's battered visor, feeling the sharp edge of the bullet hole.

Arty leaned in, grinning. "Now that's entertainment."