Chapter Text
Three quick knocks came from the front door.
Echo’s head sprung up from his side project, another automated drone, sitting motionless in front of him on his desk.
Three more knocks, louder than before.
Echo put the screwdriver he was holding next to the drone, got up and went closer to the door.
Even more knocks came from the door.
“Shop’s closed!” Echo half shouted, hoping to make the person on the other side desist their continuous knocking.
“I am in urgent need of repairs,” the other answered with a tired voice.
“Shop’s closed,” Echo repeated with finality.
“I have a chip with a hundred fifty thousand credits on it. It’s all yours if you help me.”
A hundred fifty thousand credits was not a lot, but also not an amount to throw away with nonchalance, especially for regular repairs. There could be anyone on the other side of the door though. Was the risk worth the money? Not for Echo.
“I have sustained extensive burns on both of my arms implants,” the other person added, their voice wavering a little at the end. “A couple of hypodermic anesthetic patches in exchange for the chip at least.”
This stranger was begging for help at his workshop’s door because of burn injuries. There simply was no justifying not helping someone in need in Echo’s opinion, regardless of the money involved. Especially with burn injuries, which he knew hurt like a bitch.
Before he could change his mind again, Echo unlocked the door.
On the other side a man was standing slightly hunched over. His face was covered by a plain black mask with the number 707 on the forehead. He was wearing a sleeveless hoodie. His exposed arms were charred up to the elbow. The smell of burnt synthetic skin was strong and unpleasant.
He must have been in a lot of pain, Echo was sure now just by looking at the state the man was in.
Echo opened the door completely, pointing to the reclined chair reserved for on-customer repairs.
“Sit,” he ordered.
The other entered, keeping his arms straight beside him. He sat where indicated, careful not to touch anything with his charred hands.
While he entered, Echo was quick to close the door behind him. Then, he started gathering tools and materials he thought he might need, the first aid kit too. He sat on a backless revolving chair and started to get to work.
The guy was looking at him, slumped on the inclined seatback and arms limp, palms up, over the armrests. His breathing was labored and his shoulders were tense.
Echo quickly put on clean latex gloves, unpacked two hypodermic anesthetic patches and put each of them on the other’s upper arms inner side. He could feel his breath slowing as soon as the anesthetic started having an effect.
He started working on the left arm first. The synthetic skin of the arm implants was completely scorched, but still holding its place.
“Did you put your arms in the back of a shuttle engine or what?” he muttered under his breath. If he was heard, he did not receive an answer.
Echo carefully removed the skin with a scalpel, exposing the mostly undamaged metal casing beneath. The real skin on the edge of the implants near the elbow had sustained damages too. It was nothing extensive, but probably the source of most of the pain. He rubbed a good amount of soothing burn cream that he always kept in the first aid kit over the damaged skin. He moved over to the other side of the chair and repeated the same work on the right arm as well.
After a change of gloves, Echo examined the implants themselves to assess their state. They looked like standard issue models, but to someone with Echo’s experience, the mods on both hands were obvious.
He looked up to the owner of those arms. The guy’s head was leaning against the headrest and he looked like he was looking straight ahead of him. Echo was not sure because of the mask.
He opened the casing to examine the inside of one of the arms. The circuitry was in good condition, no burn damage that he could see. The wires on the forearms alone could not tell him the purpose of the mods and exposing the hand ones would have taken too long.
“Can you move your hands?” he asked. The guy closed and opened both hands slowly. The pain probably made that simple movement way harder than it looked.
If he could move all his fingers with no apparent issues, it was not worth uncasing the hands. Echo let his curiosity about the mods go and closed the arm up again.
Substituting the synthetic skin on the forearms was not a complex job. The hands, though, took the better part of two hours. The fingers were made of many little individual casings and replacing their skin was not a job that Echo was particularly excited about. Nonetheless, he sat there, a work lamp over his head, and he replaced every bit of charred skin with his usual meticulousness.
Once that was done, Echo bandaged the real burnt skin just under the elbows, not before applying another dose of soothing cream.
“Done,” he sighed, taking his gloves off and throwing them into a nearby bin. His eyes were burning from the exertion and he was way too tired to even consider putting away his tools.
The guy got up from the reclined chair and examined Echo’s work. He rotated the arms to examine them from all angles and clenched his hands several times before he was satisfied. He then turned to Echo, who was leaning against one of the work desks, stifling a yawn and rubbing his face with one hand to stave off sleep.
“Thank you,” the other said, holding out a cred chip that Echo had no idea where it came from.
“You’re welcome.” Echo took the chip and checked the value, a hundred fifty thousand credits. “Get yourself checked by a doctor too.” When he noticed the other going for the door without acknowledging him, he said louder: “Or at least get some antibiotics! You do not want to get infections on an implant socket!”
By the end of the sentence the guy was already out on the street, the door closing silently behind him.
Echo went to bed that night incapable of elaborating what had happened to him that evening. The next morning he woke up almost convinced that he had dreamed everything, if it was not for the mess of tools and materials that he had left in the main room of his workshop.