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Krash peeled the bloodied gloves off his hands and tossed them aside, aiming for the now-full medical bin he’d have to empty before he left. He’d promised Frankie he’d clean up her mess, and that was exactly what he’d done.
Saw blade for the bones. Scalpels for the organs. Everything else tossed. What else could he do when the Park Officer she’d so carelessly dumped on his table was already dead? His guts disembowelled; mechanical arm ripped from its socket.
Krash salvaged what he could. Sparky might call him a doctor, but that wasn’t what he was known for. Whispers from above reached even his bunker. The Harvester, they called him. Butcher was another. All fair terms, when it came down to it.
He did what he was told, if it meant keeping the semblance of freedom he had. Down here, he could experiment to his heart’s content, tweaking his inventions day in and day out, away from the filth that littered the surface.
No one disturbed him.
Well, no one should have disturbed him.
Frankie was on a whole other level. More than a few screws loose, if you asked him, and now she’d gotten him entangled with the Gwendroid and all the danger that posed. And she’d dragged Andi along for the ride.
Andi.
She shouldn’t be involved in this. She’d actually managed to make something of herself, last he’d heard. Most didn’t look kindly on Crownies, but it was better than the alternative.
He glanced down at the bin and sighed, gathering its contents for incineration.
Much better than the alternative.
By the time he’d finished, nothing was left. The bones had been reduced to ash, and he’d added four new stasis jars to his wall of organs, ready for transplant… for the right price, of course. But all that shop talk was Sparky’s deal.
He grabbed his coat, swigged a mouthful of room-temperature coffee (eugh!), and started locking up his bunker. It’d be morning soon. He needed to get some shuteye before he was inevitably dragged into the next incident.
As he switched the sign on his door to Out, he felt, more than saw, a presence behind him. Krash spun around, his hand closing around the wrench he kept in his pocket.
Andi stood just outside his bunker, head bowed, looking just as tired as he felt.
His grip loosened around the wrench.
Had she waited for him? He thought she’d gone home with the Gwendroid.
“Oh, Krash. Sorry, I was just…” Andi trailed off awkwardly, seemingly unable or unwilling to admit any wrongdoing. “How’s our guy?” she asked.
Krash frowned. What was he supposed to say to that? Frankie obviously hadn’t told her he was dead, and she genuinely believed he could fix the unfixable. He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. That she’d unknowingly helped cover up a murder.
Andi wasn’t like them. Her hands were clean.
He pretended to fiddle with the door for a moment, avoiding her gaze. “He’s fine. He doesn’t remember a thing.”
And never will, he left unsaid.
After all, dead men don’t speak.
“Thank god,” Andi muttered under her breath. “He wasn’t looking good.”
Fuck.
She really didn’t understand the mess she’d gotten herself into. No one could’ve survived the injuries he’d sustained. Whatever the Gwendroid had done, it was ruthless and brutal, almost personal in the torture inflicted. If she were human, he’d have thought she had a vendetta against the bastard.
“So, how are you getting rid of him? Is he passed out?” Andi asked.
Krash balled his fists, looking anywhere but at her. Frankie owed him big time.
“Listen, it’s better not to ask so many questions,” he told her bluntly. “If Sparky hears you’re digging into his operations, it won’t be good.”
Andi crossed her arms, visibly annoyed. “I can handle Sparky.”
“Can you? ’Cause from where I’m standing, you’re already doing his dirty work for him. Or are you just keen to turn the Gwendroid into a sex bot?”
Andi spluttered, taken aback. But she had nothing else to say. They both knew she only had access to the Gwendroid because Sparky thought he could turn a profit. Disgusting as that was.
“Whatever,” she ground out, effectively killing the conversation.
Someone had to remind her of the stakes, and if that made Krash the bad guy, then he’d be the bad guy. One of them had to be a realist, and Krash, well, he’d already made his bed.
He just wished she hadn't come so close to making hers beside him.