Back in the Night Market, Stiletto waded through throngs of people with an extra large Sploshee cup in one hand and a nai wong bao in the other. Tonight, she was a woman of purpose. Determination. She bit into her custard-filled bun and slinked deeper into the food section.

She continued on through the twisting maze of carts and stalls and makeshift tents that made up a good chunk of the Chunk Bunk, trying her hardest to ignore all the wonderful scents invading her nostrils lest she gets tempted into making yet another detour. After all, patience is—

“Pork buns! Pork buns! Come get your pork buns here! Pork buns!”

Damn it. She knew she shouldn't have taken this turn.

Not a minute later, Stiletto now double-fisted her half-bitten nai wong bao and a steaming hot pork bun. She bit into her pork bun this time and continued her journey through the Chunk Bunk, muscling her way through the much denser crowd blocking the way to the open courtyard where the food trucks are. She's getting ever so closer to her goal.

She passed the threshold and found herself at the edge of the courtyard, packed with patrons and vendors alike. To be expected, considering the hour. She closed her eyes and took a deep whiff, searching for that familiar smell. There it was, a faint wisp of cumin and paprika. She let herself be guided by her nose, eyes still firmly shut.

She bumped into something hard. Rock solid. Something grabbed her shoulder. A hand. A bit on the larger side, at that.

“Hey, watch it!” A gruff voice bellowed, coming from somewhere above her.

“Oops, sorry!”

“Why the fuck are your eyes clo—oh. You're the Banshees' bat chick. My bad.”

Her shoulder was free again. She took another whiff. There, just up ahead. The spices were getting stronger and more varied, with coriander and oregano now thrown into the mix. She could hear the sizzle of dripping hot oil, the swish of blades cutting through air and meat. She was finally here.

She opened her eyes and blinked a few times, adjusting to the pulsing lights of the sign in front of her. Amca Hakan's Abrakebabra. The best döner kebab this side of the Slag. Scratch that, maybe even in all of Novonachalsk. She quickly gobbled up the remaining nai wong bao and pork bun in her hand before joining the food truck's queue.

She knew that she should be more attentive towards her surroundings, especially here and in current circumstances, but the intricate preparation of the kebab always mesmerized her. Two vertical rotisseries rotated slowly on either side of the window while Amca Hakan, proprietor and head chef of Abrakebabra, performed a powerful sword dance inside the cramped space. Never missing a beat, never missing a slice.

Finally, it was her turn at the window. “Hi! I want—”

“Please, do not insinuate that Amca Hakan is too old to remember a regular's order. Three large dürüm wraps, all beef, no lamb. Extra tomatoes and onions on all of them. Hakan's Flaming Spice on one. Hakan's Curry Spice on the remaining two. Extra yogurt sauce. Extra garlic sauce. Did I forget anything?” Amca Hakan twirled his thick and dark mustache, seeming a bit too pleased with himself.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you some questions.”

“—I am slightly disappointed my perfect recital did not impress you.”

“Oh! No, I am very impressed. I do want all of that, but I'm on an important mission. And you can help me. I think.”

Amca Hakan grabbed a cloth and wiped his swords. “Important mission? I like it. How can I help?”

“Well, for starters, have you seen or heard anything suspicious happening here? Or maybe suspicious people hanging around?”

“Other than you?” He boomed with boisterous laughter and proceeded with his sword dancing, slicing off bits of meat that somehow always landed onto the prepared lavaş wraps. “I jest. Mostly. But if by suspicious people you mean gang types like you, I have seen a few of them loitering around lately.”

Stiletto scrunched her face lopsidedly. “I was hoping the suspicious people didn't look like gangers, but I'll take what I can get. You wouldn't happen to know which gangs, would you?”

“Are you implying that Amca Hakan is not with the times and out of the loop?”

“Oh, no! Not at—”

“Actually, I am. I only recognized two, based on their outfits. Your ‘good’ friends the Sapphire Serpents, and the—” He turned his head to shout over his shoulder. “Yılmaz! The gang that wears red, what are they called again?”

Stiletto peered over the service window to look inside the food truck. Yılmaz, Amca Hakan's son. The complete opposite of his dad. Where Hakan was stocky, barrel-chested and boisterous, Yılmaz was lanky and restrained. She flashed him a smile by reflex, faltering just a bit when he immediately broke eye contact.

“The gang in red? Uh… can I get another detail?” Yılmaz replied in a soft voice, almost a whisper.

“The girl that flirted with you for free kebabs had fiber optic dreadlocks.”

“—oh. The Red Gorgons.”

“Thank you, dear son. Now go back to making lavaş.” Amca Hakan turned his attention back to Stiletto. “Sapphires and Reds. You kids really need to think up better names. But—” He beckoned Stiletto to come closer before leaning over the window himself, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I did see a few people that were clearly not local.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Stiletto glanced left and right and also whispered. “How could you tell?”

“Just the way they carried themselves. You know, like they are too good for this place. I saw them head towards Eddie Carmichael's place.”

“Who's that?”

“Utilities caretaker. You want to know more, go ask him.” He straightened himself up and handed a large paper bag to Stiletto, returning to his normal voice. “Your order, my dear.”

Stiletto dug around her oversized jacket for a credchit. “Thirty creds, right?”

“Oh, no no no. Not this song and dance again. You girls never collect protection money from us, so your meals are always on the house. But if you insist, you can pay me by teaching my son how to handle knives. Maybe a feminine touch is what he needs.”

Stiletto laughed. Dorkily. “Sure thing! Thanks, Amca Hakan!”

She shifted aside to let the person behind her order, taking a whiff from the bag and sighing. She's going to eat good tonight and—

A message ping interrupted her thoughts of kebab dinner and romance novels. She pulled it up.

[https://i.imgur.com/D5UySA7.png]

She quickly composed a reply, knowing how Oni can be about waiting for a response.

[https://i.imgur.com/N15gJCj.png]

Stiletto cracked a wide smile and pivoted on a heel, slinking her way through the crowd once more.

----------------------------------------

Hotrod turned to face Mary, dusting her hands in an exaggerated manner before pulling out her pack of Lucky Thirteens. With a flick and a clink, a lit cigarette was now trapped between her lips. “Took a bit longer than I liked, but you can now continue picking out your fruits.”

Mary actually quirked a brow. She wasn't used to this style of confrontation whatsoever, seeing as her choice of weaponry heavily suggested that there was usually not a chance for actual confrontation when people decided to step.

The absence of shooting prompted the merchants and regulars to stick their heads out and determine if it was safe or not; quick reports of gunfire and the sound of slumping bodies was generally the stopwatch when it came to disputes in the Slag.

“They're going to cause the same issue with someone else later, most likely,” she finally responded after a moment of hesitation, hefting her big-ass RPM over her shoulder with ease as if she was built like a troll. She turned back to the wicker baskets of fruit. “Something to deal with later, I guess. Thank you, though. That was—I'll talk about it later.”

“Probably, yeah. Bit too much trouble to keep track of small fry like that, though.” She blew a quadruple of O-rings upwards, exhaling loudly after she did so. “Now we got some stupid yahoos from Bumfuck, Steele District trying to move in, on top of the Serps issue already on our plate.”

“It'll just be a problem for the other girls if they come around here. I don't think it's fair to leave a figurative caltrop laying out for someone else who doesn't know.” Mary glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe spread the word around to the girls so they know to be careful?”

“Oh, definitely. That's why I asked for his name. With a name and face, thanks to these babies—” Hotrod pointed at her cybereyes. “—it won't be a nasty surprise for any of us.”

“Face, maybe. He could've been lying about his name,” Mary blurted out in between her inspection of the various apples in front of her.

“Fair point. I'll ask Oni to dig around and see what his deal is.” Hotrod quickly composed a NeuroLine message, attaching a still image of Lheng's face and adding some brief details of the earlier encounter before sending it off. Sorted.

“Thank you, again. 'Cause I've—Totally weird to say it, but I've never seen anyone get talked down like that.”

“Words are basically the same as weapons. Just gotta use the right ones for the job, y'know? I'm not the best at it, but good enough.”

“I know, I know. But most of the time it's always one side trying to talk it out, and then… you know. The other side decides they used words way too long to understand and they get the crap shot out of them.” She flipped the RPM off her shoulder and let the barrel angle towards the ground, still holding it like it ain't no thing. “—Most people just shoot at me immediately, so.”

“Just opening fire on a pretty face? Cretins.”

“Wouldn't you open fire on an eight foot tall bug-thing?” She rolled her eyes, her toothy smile returning. “That's pretty much the main reason why people decide to shoot at me.”

“Hey now, you're doing yourself a disservice by saying ‘bug-thing.’”

“Okay. Mechanical bug-thing.” Mary drew an invisible circle in the air with her index finger. Most likely taking notes on how many of which apples she's getting. She actually bothered to look about her surroundings now, realizing that there could be further trouble afoot. “Still, you know what I mean. 'Cause most people are going to crap their pants.”

“Fair point. Custom work like that, people probably don't think 'ware at first glance. Or maybe they do and it's the custom nature that freaks them. Who knows? All I know is it's icy as shit.”

“I, uh, I don't know if that was you hitting on me, though.”

“I dunno, was I? Just calling it how I see it.” Was she? Who knows.

“Er, still don't know if I'm supposed to say thanks to ‘icy.’ I'll… still say thanks.” Mary glanced back at Hotrod and then returned to focusing on the fruit selection in front of her, looking a bit flustered at a simple compliment.

The stall owner rolled her eyes.

“I think that's an appropriate response, yeah. Like I said, just calling it how I see it, but you're welcome.” Hotrod glanced at the vendor to look daggers—

And immediately tensed up when her vision went dark, a pair of soft hands coming from behind and covering her cybereyes.

“Gueeess whooo?”

Hotrod recognized the unhinged sing-song voice in a flash and suppressed a grin. “Judging from the size of the hands, it's the most talented chef of our chapter, Cherry Pie.”

“It's… nooot. Also, Cherry's hands are way bigger.”

“Ah, my bad, my bad. I meant to say the most talented wrench wench of our chapter, Blackjack.”

“I feel like you're doing this on purpose now and that I should stab your eyes out.”

“Whoa, okay, calm down. I knew it was you, Stil.” Hotrod's vision returned only to see Mary raising her RPM with a concerned look. “—okay, let's chill. Mary, this is Stiletto, resident knife aficionado. Stiletto, this is Mary. She's from Shiftcrank's chapter and on loan to ours.”

“Hi!” Stiletto looked unfazed, despite the barrel of an actual machine gun being pointed in her direction. Looks like having a few screws loose has its perks after all. “Oni told me to come to you. And, I think I got a working lead.”

“Yeah? Tell us after Mary's done picking out her apples.”

Stiletto lifted a paper bag up. “Kebab?”