Work Text:
Desperation drove most to your doorstep, trembling as their bellies stoked fires so strong they made suns pale in comparison. Their eyes darted, assessing the clean office and workshop, as if they were wondering the validity of the rumors. A back-alley mechanic who took the money of criminals, crooks, and high society alike had to certainly have signs of that wealth. Or perhaps they thought morality was tied to cleanliness.
You cared not.
And they only cared whether you could fix their problem.
It made for a very convenient workflow.
But the man who sat before you was a deviation from that norm. He was surefooted, a little curious in the way his head turned to gaze about the darkened space. His eyes lingered not on you but on the prosthetic arm you kept behind your desk, the finger joints extended and the gun attachment on the wrist popped out, unloaded.
Never gave his name but you liked his drawl. You’d heard it from folks in a distant system. Aeragan-Epharshel was an ancient land, home to a language as old as the green plains and permafrosted mountains and dusty canyons; you were certain your mentor would have loved it there. So much to explore and learn from those who came before.
The stranger told you a story of a boy who grew up taming horses and identifying plants. Caring for everything around him. Isolated though the planet was, it was not without a law of entropy and a reciprocity that few ever even knew existed anymore. Of a child whose smile lit up a room like the sun itself.
There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his eyes when he stood a bullet up on your desk. In the glint of the lamplight, you caught three letters: IPC.
The one party you never took funding or clients from. The Interstellar Peace Corporation was, quite ironically, the exact opposite of what it stood for, in your opinion.
“You specialize in cybernetics,” the man tilted his head as he leaned back in his seat. The wood squeaked. “And rumor has it, you go beyond the usual…modifications. I ain’t done in this universe ‘til that bullet is buried in the skull of the leech that sucks planets dry.”
His words were pinched tight by this teeth, jaw on edge. This man, this stranger off the streets, knew what he wanted and you wondered how many others in your profession turned him away. Plenty would. There was a liability in taking the human form too far, both ethically and bureaucratically. Too much red tape, too much diffusing of pre-conceived notions.
No wonder your mentor chose the path of eternal funding and embraced his legacy.
“Before you tell me, ‘No’,” the man drawled. “Know that I have endured harsher summers and brutal winters than most o’ your so-called patients, doc. I can handle what needs to be done.”
“I don’t doubt that,” you replied, fingers reaching for the bullet and holding it up to the light.
Those who were so glued to their convictions made for difficult clients, though. They were stubborn.
Worse, really, you reminded yourself as you looked up and noticed the barrel of a gun staring back at you. No one would stand between a hunter and his prey.
“I ain’t got the money. Not now. But with your…assistance, I can make it worth your while. Consider me a lifetime customer.”
You put the bullet back on your desk, a peace offering. He took it back and tucked it away, gun still trained on you.
“I don’t work on those who threaten me.”
A second, and then two, before he clicked his teeth and holstered the weapon. He gestured with open hands to demonstrate he was unarmed and then folded them in his lap.
“You’ll have a difficult road ahead,” you advised. “Years of assembly.“
“A full cybernetic body that preserves my noggin and my perfect eyesight is hardly unreasonable. It’s been done. Everyone knows you studied hidden away from the Aeons, under the Heretic. He’s dead, o’ course, but if I were a gamblin’ man…”
“You don’t strike me the type.”
“I ain’t,” the words came out strained, frustrated with a huff of breath. “A waste o’ money and time. Frivolous. All I’m sayin’ is…if I wanted the easy way out, I wouldn’t be here. I know what I’m signin’ up for.”
Your eyes traced his haggard face, white hair with tinges of black that had seen better days, a muscular frame trimmed a little too lean in places due to malnutrition. A hat more pristine than his dusty pants.
“Lay down over on the table,” you jerked your head in the direction of the vivisection table off to the side of your workshop. “We’ll start with your measurements.”
The man let out a slow exhale, one you didn’t dare attribute to relief. He rose with a steadiness you recognized only in those who trusted in their abilities and convictions, who would succeed not just through skill but by the cognitive bias that they embraced with every fiber of their being.
“Just promise me one thing, cowboy,” you said, collecting a tablet from your desk.
He turned, weight shifted to cock his hip impatiently.
“I don’t want your money. But when we’re done, you’ll tell me your name. I want to know what to call the one who succeeds in gutting the IPC.”
He smiled, crooked and charming, and you wondered if you ever saw eyes sparkle like that in this office before.
“It’s a deal, doc.”