Jack straightens to his full height, roughly chest-level on most folks that come into the bar, and walks up the remaining steps, exuding as much confidence as he can muster. The whispering and scraping stops, but he can already see the two people who’d been making the noise. Peanut is trapped under one of the large metal beams that used to brace part of the roof. Apparently the explosion shook that one loose.

Normally, such a little bit of roof construction wouldn’t be a problem for someone with all of Peanut’s gear. His rig gives him enough strength to throw that beam clear into the canyon. However, it’s not the beam’s weight that’s causing the problem. It looks like it’s punched right through his cybernetic leg and gotten itself all twisted as a result of his struggling.

The guy who’s trying to get Peanut unpinned isn’t much help, either. It’s that last merc that the girl, Corva, attacked. Except, he’s missing his batons. In fact, he’s missing an entire arm. It must have been disintegrated in the explosion. A light haze of smoke still steams from the guy’s left side where the heat of the blast appears to have instantly cauterized the wound.

All told, Jack figures One Side—that’s Jack’s new name for him—isn’t doing so bad. He’s alive and moving despite the unimaginable pain he must be feeling. Of course, being freshly injured and an arm short, One Side is having one hell of a time trying to get Peanut free.

“Whatchu lookin’ at, boy?” Peanut’s fantastic disposition doesn’t seem to have suffered at all.

Jack takes a deep breath and steps forward. If he squats now, that rifle would be right within arm’s reach. “It—”

He pauses to clear his throat and will his back-flipping stomach into some semblance of calm.

“It, um, looks like you could use a bit of help.” Jack swallows hard and tests a smile. Just enough to look friendly. Don’t be a smarmy dick.

“Yeah?” Technically, it’s a question, but Peanut delivers it like an accusation. Jack doesn’t take offense. He knows he’s small. Jerks with this attitude come through the bar all the time.

“Yeah. I got some kit that can get you untangled from them pieces of my roof, no problem.”

Peanut raises an eyebrow on his tiny little head and motions One Side to stop pulling at the fallen truss. “Oh? What’ve you got, kid?”

“Well—” Jack pulls at the collar of his vest and reaches for an interior pocket. The moment he moves, he instantly regrets it. Shit. Too fast. Looks like you’re reaching for a weapon. Dumbass.

He sees Peanut’s expression harden and One Side reaches for one of the pistols still strapped to his back. He’s a little fumbly and slow, but once he gets a bead on Jack, his aim is rock steady.

Jack immediately pulls his hands back and raises them over his head. “Whoa! Whoa! We’re still bein’ friendly here, guys.”

Slowly, he unbuttons his vest with one hand and pulls open the left side to reveal the inside. Keeping his other hand raised, he gestures, pointing with his nose. “This pocket. I just need to get somethin’ outta it.”

Peanut’s eyes narrow, but it’s not the hardened look from seconds ago. More suspicious. Curious, even. “Go ahead.”

Jack doesn’t move quite yet. He points his nose over to the pistol that’s still trained on him. “You think you can get One Side over there to lower his piece? I’m just tryin’ to help here.”

The tiny-domed merc erupts in laughter. The bass in his voice jostles something uncomfortably in Jack’s stomach. He keeps his friendly smile, though, and holds back his urge to retch as Peanut finishes laughing. “One Side? Great name, kid.”

Jack doesn’t lower his hand. He just shrugs, trying to look relaxed—well, as relaxed as anyone can look while in a killer’s sights. “Barkeep habit. Lotta folks who come in here don’t like volunteerin’ their names. Gotta call you somethin’.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your name for me?”

Jack smiles bigger to try and buy time. Shit. He had to ask.

He tries to cycle through names that would work, names that fit without being either insulting or patronizing. Microdome? Wallpuncher? Mech Merc? Carlos? He could be a Carlos. None of them work. Peanut is Peanut as far as he’s concerned. Even if the tiny-headed merc gives his real name, Jack’s going to have a hard time using it out loud. Fuck it. He’s stuck anyway.

Clearing his throat, he looks the deep-voiced merc in the eyes. “P-Peanut. That’s your name.”

The look of confused disappointment on Peanut’s face is priceless. It’s like he just realized there’s a foul smell in the room, and that he’s the source of it. “Peanut? That’s the best you’ve got?”

Try to keep it conversational, Jack. Don’t let ’em ask where the name comes from. He rolls his shoulder a bit; his arm is getting a little tired of holding his vest open this whole time. “Hey man, these things are quick an’ temporary for me. Just a tool to keep track of folks. Ain’t like I announce ’em every time someone walks through my door. Or my wall.”

“Well maybe you oughtta put a little more thought in it before you let a name slip out. Or lie with a name that doesn’t suck.”

“Yeah. I’ll keep that in mind.” Jack tilts his head back at One Side. “So you think he can put that down? My arm’s getting sore like this.”

Peanut waits a beat, almost like he’s pleased at Jack’s discomfort and wants it to last a bit longer. Finally, he turns his attention to One Side. “Lower it, Wheps. The kid’s not hiding a cannon in there.”

Slowly, reluctantly, One Side—Wheps—lowers his gun. Jack allows himself to exhale and lower his arms. It’s like just having the sights on him put a weight on his chest and now it’s lifted, but not entirely. Wheps doesn’t re-holster the pistol or put it down quite yet. He just holds on to it, tapping the barrel on the side of his leg. Jack resists the urge to glance over at the rifle near him and reassures himself it’s still there on the ground, ready when he is.

Peanut looks back at Jack. “Tretch.”

There’s a moment where Jack just stands there, awkwardly staring at Peanut, trying to figure out what he means and failing. “What?”

“That’s what you call me now. Tretch.”

“Tretch?” The name tastes weird as he says it, like the guy just slapped together a bunch of tough-sounding sounds and decided to pass it off as a name. “That’s your name?”

“It’s better than Peanut.”

If you say so. Jack narrowly avoids blurting his thoughts aloud. “So, Tretch, you wanna keep talkin’ names or you want some help getting unstuck from that bit of my roof?”

“Yeah, kid, what’ve you got in that fancy vest of yours?”

Jack pulls his vest back open and stops to cast a glance over at Wheps. “I’m just reachin’ in the pocket, yeah?”

The one-armed merc doesn’t say anything, just keeps tapping the barrel of his gun against the outside of his leg.

Assured that he probably won’t get shot just this moment, Jack fishes around in his vest’s inside pocket. The pocket’s not deep, but all the same, it takes him a second to find what he’s looking for. It’s a little metal cylinder, about as long as his hand and roughly the thickness of his thumb.

He pulls it out with a bit of a flourish and proceeds to unscrew the top. “As a waypoint, Bule’s a bit remote, but that does get us some benefits. We get some of the more exotic merchants comin’ through here. I got these from a guy trying to roll his way down-canyon. Was sayin’ somethin’ about pickin’ through some of the abandoned mines down there.”

The top of the cylinder releases with a pop and Jack pours its contents into the palm of his hand. He catches himself staring at the three irregularly-shaped beads, kind of a bluish violet color. Each has a lighter violet core that moves and undulates randomly, like little pulsing galaxies dancing within the interior of the stone-like beads.

He looks up and catches the tail end of Tretch’s facial expression. Who knew a person’s eyes could get so big in such a tiny head? Jack grins, snorting and just barely keeping himself from bursting into laughter. The noise is enough to snap the half-mechanical merc back to his more typical resting bitch face.

Shit. Gotta recover. Jack puts on a bit of his sales voice and answers the question before it’s asked. “That’s right. You’re lookin’ at imbued tech right here. Each of these little beads is a hollow resin casing printed way up in the bones of Old Cago. And on the inside of each—”

“Not interested.” Tretch stares at Jack, right in his eyes. But it’s not like he’s trying to mean-mug Jack; it’s more like he’s actively trying to avoid looking at the beads in Jack’s hand. It’s alright, though. Jack is ready for this.

“Look, I know you might be a little—” He pauses, hunting for the right word. Can’t tell a hardened merc that he’s scared or nervous. It’s a crapshoot tryin’ to figure if these are the type with egos that can’t take a scuff to their candy coating. However, the right word isn’t coming.

“You’re damn right I’m scared. That shit’s no joke.”

Well. That solves that.

“Look, kid, you can just put those things away right now. Got no interest in soulmancy.”

“Naw, man. You’re in a remote part of the world. We only see a raid here every other year or so. Soulmancy? Please. Always thought that was a dumb name. ’Round here, we just call ’em fixins.” That’s a bit of a half-truth. Jack is really the only one who calls them “fixins.” And while these imbued beads did come from a crazed traveling mine-jumper, most of Jacks beads are ones he made himself.

For a half a beat or so, Jack thinks he sees Tretch raise an eyebrow in interest. Just enough of an opening. I can totally close this.

But for now, the deep-voiced merc still has his hard front on. “Drop the sell, kid. You do your dealin’ on someone else.”

“Alright, I know you’re concerned. And anywhere else in the world, I would be too. Sensors are really good at tracking anyone doin’ any kinda soul fixin. But you’re in Bule, a small burg cut into a canyon wall.” Jack extends his arm, presenting the beads like a gift. “An’ although the fixins imbued in just one of these is more than enough to get you loose, the amount is so small and we’re so far out, none of them sensors will ever know you used ’em.”

This time, Tretch doesn’t hide his raised eyebrow of interest. He casts a glance over at Wheps, who looks like he’s been good to go for this ever since Jack popped the top on the cylinder. The one-armed merc even holstered his gun in its place on his back.

Tretch isn’t quite ready to be reeled in, but the hook is nearly set. Jack resists smiling. Of course, it’s all bullshit. Bule’s last raid was just a couple months ago and sensors from either side in the war can totally sniff out even the smallest amount of imbued tech. But for one of these beads, there’ll probably only be a small crew coming to town. By the time they get in, Jack will have had this deal set, his bar will be mostly fixed, and this merc and his one-armed buddy will be long gone.

The big merc with the tiny head starts to speak, offering the last little bits of resistance. Jack doesn’t let him get it out, though.

“Lemme guess, the contract on your current gig says you can use all the augmentation you want, just no fixins—soulmancy. Right? No worries there either. This stuff dilutes out in twenty-four hours, longer than the travel time to the nearest other outpost or town. An’ I know ’cause I tried it and tested it myself. There used to be four beads.”

More bullshit. There did used to be four beads, but Jack’s got no idea how long this stuff stays in the body. He used that bead a different way. Doesn’t matter, though. The hook is set. Tretch is all in.

“What do you want for it?”

Jack doesn’t hide his smile this time. “Twenty-five percent.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh come on, man! Look at what you’ve done to my friggin’ bar!” Jack realizes he’s starting to get a little loose with his tongue. Slow down. He uprights one of the few chairs that hadn’t been completely destroyed and eases into it. The nausea never really got the chance to subside. He takes a peek at the abandoned rifle, still slightly hidden on the ground next to him. Still within reach. That said, yakking on these guys’ boots isn’t going to do much good for his bargaining power.

Pausing a beat, he starts over. “Look, the girl’s a bounty, right? Means you’re getting’ paid. And paid enough to staff a pretty badass four-deep crew. Well, one and three-quarters deep, now.”

Jack nods in the direction of Wheps.

“Seems to me that I’m the one with the kit to get you out and I’m also the only one here who can deliver her to you. Since you’re responsible for the damages to my bar, it’s only right that some of your payday gets pointed my direction. Hell, you pay me right now, an’ I’ll give you a discount. No need to give me the full share of one of your dead. I’ll just take twenty percent. The other five points can go to fix ol’ One Side’s one-handed clapping problem.”

“Kid, you outta your damned mind?” Tretch squints at the pint-sized barkeep and slams his fist on the ground next to him. It’s enough to make Jack’s stomach lurch dangerously. Tretch’s voice is a growl. “There’s no deal. I could tear you apart in an instant.”

“Not with that busted-ass rig of yours.” Jack points at the mangled chaos of cybernetic parts dangling from Tretch’s right side.

Tretch straightens his back and leans toward Jack. “Wanna find out for sure? Don’t try me, boy. There is no deal. There’s no choice. Just two steps: you hand over the girl and I think about not killing you for being annoying. That’s all there is.” Tretch’s thick voice shows no indication of weakness, no hint that he’s affected at all by his compromised state. In fact, the very sound of his voice has the same effect as a gut check on Jack’s not-entirely-stable digestive system.

“Where’s your leverage, ya shrunken-headed doof?” Jack is now far afield of the old man’s advice he’d repeated to himself earlier. “You’re having a hard time just sittin’ there. Even with this imbued tech, it’s gonna be trouble for you to move at all when you’re out, let alone secure a prisoner like her for delivery to—”

He pauses at the realization that he’s got no details on the actual bounty. But it gives him an idea. A bad one. It might be enough to push the negotiation his way, though. He leans back in his chair, casual-like. “Where would you take her? Can’t be but so far. You know, I’ve got half a mind to cut out the middleman and just deliver her myself. Then I’ll put the whole payday in my pocket. Who’s the buyer? Actually, know what?”

He slips the imbued beads back into the metal cylinder and screws the top back on. “Don’t you worry yourself over it. I’m sure I can find out myself in the trades.”

“You little shit! I’ve been chasing this collar for damn near a month. Like hell I’m gonna let you steal it from me.”

Jack stuffs the cylinder back into his inner vest pocket. “Hey, fair’s fair. Either we deal and you stumble away happy, or we don’t deal and I go on a road trip and come back to my bar very happy. ’Course, that last one is much more bothersome for me. So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just take the twenty.”

“Boy, you are dense. You have no idea what you’re getting into here, do you? You don’t even know the buyer, and you think you’re just gonna mosey your way in and get paid? Ha! You haven’t even asked who she is. You wanna know who’s on the buy? Fine—”

“No deal.” The voice floats into the conversation, barely strong enough to interrupt. Corva steps up the last stair from the basement and glowers at the three of them. Defiance fills her eyes despite the weakness in her stance.