Page 34 of Stalker

"Got to run, little human." I tap Maryse's nose. "Business calls."

"Stay safe." She grabs her bag, heading for the door.

The weight of tradition settles on my shoulders as I watch her leave. If I'd already avenged Mother, I'd have earned the right to forge my own weapon - something worthy of my bloodline. The bone-steel would sing with purpose, an extension of my very soul.

Instead, I'm stuck with whatever mass-produced garbage the local AmmUNation stocks. Their weapons lack spirit, manufactured without proper ceremony or blood offerings.

The nearest outlet sits three levels down, wedged between a noodle shop and a discount cybernetics store. Their window display features garish neon signs advertising "Special Deals for Mercenaries!"

My ancestors would weep. But vengeance won't wait for proper armament. Daniels has evaded justice long enough.

I send Vorpa a quick reply:

"On my way. Just need to pick up some tools first."

The AmmUNation clerk's eyes widen as I approach the counter. His Adam's apple bobs.

"The McPistol." I tap the display case.

"Excellent choice sir." He fumbles with his keys. "Our most popular model."

The weapon he places before me sports garish red and yellow stripes. A demented clown leers from the grip, accompanied by text that reads 'When you've had enough of their fucking McShit.'

My ancestors roll in their graves.

"I'll take it."

The clerk's hands shake as he processes my payment. The McPistol disappears into the depths of my pocket, its gaudy colors hidden from judging eyes.

The Rusty Bolt's neon sign flickers as I approach. Inside, the usual mix of spacers and mercs crowd the bar. No sign of Vorpa's distinctive red scales.

I claim a stool, order synthetic blood. The minutes tick by.

My compad vibrates. A message from Vorpa:

helpupstairs

The text appears garbled, hastily typed. Something's wrong.

I slide off the barstool, weaving through the crowd toward the back. The synthetic blood leaves a metallic taste on my tongue. A narrow hallway leads past the kitchen, dimly lit by flickering plasma tubes.

The staircase rises into darkness. A Hruuthi blocks the way, his potbelly straining against a security uniform three sizes too small.

"Hey buddy." I stumble against the wall, letting my words slur. "Where's the head?"

The guard's multiple eyes blink in sequence. "Restroom's back that way." He points with one tentacle.

"No, no. Up there." I wave vaguely at the stairs. "Friend said there's one upstairs."

"Private area." The guard moves to block my path. "Staff only."

"Aw come on." I sway closer, fighting the urge to gag at his rancid body odor. "Gonna make a mess right here if you don't?—"

My fist connects with the sweet spot under his third chin. The Hruuthi's eyes roll back as he crumples. I catch his bulk before he hits the floor, easing him down silently.

The stairs creak under my weight. Each step brings Vorpa's muffled cries closer. My ancestors stir, sensing violence ahead.

The McPistol's grip warms in my palm as I take the steps two at a time. Vorpa's screams grow louder, punctuated by the meaty sound of fists on scales.