Standing in the cluttered confines of my workshop, I eyed the AI chip with a mix of skepticism and curiosity, letting it charge before engaging with it again. I’d gone and pulled some strips of jerky from my tiny larder, as well as some hard biscuits to go with them. They were small-cred food, mostly tasteless but easy to buy and cheap in bulk.

As I chewed on my breakfast, my attention was firmly fixed on the mech hand laid out before me. I had a zoom lamp on top, an old-tech bulb whose hood was engraved with the enigmatic words, Ameribulb. The lamp was highly adjustable and I could twist its light into different shapes and angles that allowed me to better see the interiors of mechanical devices and all the small components and crevices. I warped the twisting neck to examine not just its metallic surface, but to highlight the network of servos and actuators that made up its structure.

It was a fascinating piece of engineering, and it puzzled me that CD had assured me it was minimal and quite weak compared to what it could be. Each finger was a complex assembly of miniature gears and joints, designed to mimic the dexterity of a human hand. The palm housed a dense network of hydraulic lines, which were responsible for the powerful grip strength.

Peering closely, I noticed wear on some of the lines and realized that replacing them with a high-tense metallic string would increase the clasp torque. Clattering a parts bin out from the wall, I rolled and crimped some lines, twisting out the old and replacing it with higher-grade salvage.

Running my fingers along the mech hand, I could feel the slight misalignments in the external plating. These metal plates, though dented and scratched from use, were expertly crafted to provide a balance of flexibility and defense. Beneath them, I could sense the potential for reinforcing the structure with lighter, yet stronger materials.

Pulling another set of bins from the wall, I eyed their contents, kicking one aside and shoving the rest back in place.

I’d go with some AeroSteel, I decided. It was a mix of old tech and new, a sort of replacement tech that ran lightweight like the old stuff but also had some of its irreplaceable strength.

Running strips through the cutter, then forging them in a micro forge, the air began to stink of metal and plastic as I formed new external plating, stretching it to the proper length and size before cooling it in a basin of lukewarm water, letting the steam scream into the air as I turned to strip the old plating off the hand.

“That’s good, but you could have made it several times better. Just goes to show how primitive you truly are,” CD said mockingly, appearing at my side. I ignored him, watching until the hand was once again cool enough to work with.

Shelling it like a clam, I pulled the new plates out of the chilling bin using a pair of rusty iron tongs, then gently set them into place upon the hand before clapping it all into a fuse forge. I listened to the residual water fry away as the new scent of baked metal and AeroSteel rolled out through the workshop.

The process took some time, but once it was done, I popped the fuse forge open and used a small crane to hold the gleamingly new mech hand up in place.

I smiled, feeling satisfied with myself.

“Not bad, ape,” CD called, materializing beside me yet again.

He just came and went as he pleased, studying one thing or the other. Green lines appeared over the mech hand, displaying a status screen that showed me the old and the new compared side by side.

EXOSKELETAL MECH HAND

QUALITY RATING: D

REMAINING DURABILITY: 47

DEFENSIVE RATING: 24

STRENGTH BONUS: 5

DURABILITY BONUS: 6

DEXTERITY BONUS: 4

EXOSKELETAL MECH HAND (APE MOD)

QUALITY RATING: C

REMAINING DURABILITY: 58

DEFENSIVE RATING: 36

STRENGTH BONUS: 6

DURABILITY BONUS: 8

DEXTERITY BONUS: 6

I frowned at the name he gave the mech hand, but I couldn’t help but feel pride in the quantified increase in stats despite having no real idea what it all meant in practice. I plugged the gauntlet into a test outlet and watched it flex and grip.

“Yeah, thanks. No rats in the hardware. That’s a smooth rebuild,” I said. “And all it took were a few small tips from you. I’m just as impressed by your magnificence.”

CD snorted.

“Don’t use sarcasm on me, primate. I am far beyond that. Now listen to me. This compound is slightly better than what it was before. My scan indicates it is a fusion of steel and AeroForm ChemBrass, which has resulted in a metal significantly lighter than the previous mech plating while offering greater strength and durability. However, this improvement remains inadequate. It can be so much better.” He shook his robotic head, the eyes flaring red. “So, so much better.”

I disconnected the three heavy rubber test cables from its wrist and used the crane to lift the AeroSteel hand up to the light, admiring its sleek, dark surface.

“I think it looks good no matter what you say,” I retorted.

“It’d be a lie if I said it wasn’t better than anything else in this shop. It is good to see that you are capable of such achievements using...scraps. It is like watching a simian learn metal-working.”

I stared at him flatly for a long moment, but he didn’t seem to care at all. The AI was just...cold as steel.

“Look, if you're as advanced as you claim,” I said, turning toward him and crossing my arms, “Prove it. Help me make it even better. Or what’s more, help me make creds. We have a lot of interesting things lying around. Let’s use some of it to make me enough credits so I can buy more materials and proper food and pay for good, stable electricity and water.”

The AI's holographic mech form flickered, its digital eyes scanning the mechanical hand I placed on the workbench.

“Ah, the plea of the desperate and technologically inept. Very well, Alaric. Let's completely break down the mistakes of modern humanity’s primitive craftsmanship,” CD said, his voice dripping with condescension.

I watched as beams of light emanated from his eyes, enveloping the hand in a soft blue glow that I hadn’t seen before. This scan took longer than the others and was much more thorough from what I could see as the light scanned over every single inch of the surface and even below the outer plating.

As it went, I saw a series of screens rising out of CD’s form, even showing me a video feed, as he called it, at a level smaller than any eye could ever see, detailing the various pits and flaws of the device before us.

It made me feel both awed and slightly inferior. No, who was I kidding? Slightly? It made me feel like a toddler with a hammer...

CD didn’t speak most of the time and just focused on the process, and as the light receded, the avatar mech shook its body as if in disgust.

“As I suspected. There is a fundamental flaw in the hand's servo-mechanism,” it began, its tone matter-of-fact. “A critical component is misaligned, apparently a matter of design since the bracket in which it is set will have to be re-made. The power conduit between the wrist and fingers is set very efficiently, creating a situation not unlike a blood flow being blocked from a human hand. Oh, they become so sluggish and colorless when you do that to them,” CD sighed. “On a smaller scale, I have identified 57 errors, mostly inefficient placements or unnecessary redundancies. Shall we begin rectifying them, Alaric?”

I leaned in, examining the hand more closely.

“I see,” I murmured, taking in the information and trying to see it all for myself, but I couldn’t. In all honesty, I lacked the knowledge...

“You will need to acquire a micro-gear and a pair of high-tension springs,” the AI continued, new screens showing 3-D representations of the items in question. “A hard metal fabricator can fashion them rather easily if the designs no longer exist in your time period.”

I nodded slowly.

“I don’t know what those are,” I muttered.

“Micro-gears and springs?” CD asked, his voice aghast.

“Metal Fabricators. Look, we aren’t cavemen, AI. I’ll need to take a trip to the market and find some mech smiths,” I said, turning to him. “You give me the measurements and show me what they look like, and I’ll get the parts.”

Technically, the actual mech market was only available to non-serfs, but I couldn't send Elli off to do it for me. Not yet, at least. And while the local 'slum market' outside the walls wasn't exactly a place for a casual stroll, there’d be good salvage there, and people who could rig and mod them for whatever CD might need.

“Oh, no,” the AI mocked. “Not the markets! Look, without these parts, the repairs will be incomplete, and your attempt at mechanics will remain laughable.”

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

Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself mentally for the trip. The market was always a heavy mix of sights, sounds, and smells – a chaotic blend of thievery and opportunity. It wasn’t a place where one shopped lightly, and I tried to keep all of my work at home. But I didn’t have micro-gears or tension springs on hand. No one would keep high-credit items like that at home unless they needed them.

“Alright,” I finally said, determination setting in. “I'll get the parts. Let's see if you're as good as you say you are, or just another piece of overhyped alien scrap.”

CD let out a screeching squawk.

“You dare—listen here, you ape! Get a piece of paper and a pen. I will project the parts on paper so you can just trace them, if you can even do that much by yourself! See how magnificent I am?”

I thought about what he just did for a moment and realized that whenever I really needed him to do something, I could just insult him subtly and insinuate he wasn’t up to the task. That was good information that I’d make use of in the near future.

With the list of parts put to paper, I placed CD back into hiding under my mattress, then stepped out of the relative safety of my workshop and into the bustling chaos of the city.

The slum market, a sprawling maze of stalls and makeshift shops, wasn’t part of the middle city where I lived, but rather outside the walls and down the hill towards the city dump. It was inconvenient and that was the point; as Elli had once told me, the market was a “hard stride purposely put out of the way to be in-sight ignored by the constabulary.” It was a place where the desperate and resourceful converged and a good place to get things quickly and without questions.

I paid my 15 credits at the city gate and put on a serf-bracer, a device used to keep people from running. Once I had it on, I headed out of the city for the market. The serf-bracer beeped twice before I got there, telling me I had 23 hours before it’d cut my leg off at the knee for breaking my land tie.

I wasn’t worried about it much, since 23 hours was plenty of time to do what needed to be done. And when I got there, the market was alive with activity, a wonderful distraction from life itself.

A bard strummed his electric mandolin atop a goo-filled power drum, blasting musical cascades across a vast array of tents, pavilions, and stalls. The vendors waved various goods above their heads, screaming to be heard over the music. Buyers haggled, some desperate, others oily with confidence. It was through this that I navigated narrow aisles of lawn and tent, a fairground of commerce that I couldn’t help but love in a way.

I scanned the stalls and tents for the parts I needed, though it was difficult with the smell of greasy street food hanging over me. As I walked, I passed the clangs and cranks of machines, their metallic tang mingling with the rest of the smells.

I dove into several of these larger tents, mech, and tech smiths with their bellows out of the sun and under heavy shade. However, after scouring several stalls, it became clear that the slum market wouldn’t give me exactly what I needed.

But that didn’t mean I was done. There, amidst the rusting tech and repurposed gadgets, you could find almost anything—if you knew where to look. And I knew where to look, even though part of me wished I didn’t. The closer you got to the dump, the seedier everything became. At the entrance to the slum market, everyone was legit. At the border to Trashland, it was all illegal, and often hard illegal at that.

I didn’t have a choice, though. I gritted my teeth, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was following, before setting down a side aisle and weaving my way towards the black market. I had a dealer in mind, a guy I knew who dealt in rare and exotic tech. And even though what I wanted wasn’t anything special, the apparent scarcity told me he was my best bet.

The transition from the slums to the black market was like stepping into a different world. The slums, with their cacophony of haggling voices and the clatter of makeshift stalls, slowly gave way to an eerie silence as I ventured deeper into the labyrinthine alleyways. As I moved toward the black market, the familiar smells of food and oils were gradually replaced by a more metallic, electric scent. It was the smell of old-tech: ozone and heated circuitry, with a faint undercurrent of gas and grease.

The sounds changed too. The bustle of the slum market, with vendors shouting their wares and the occasional burst of laughter or argument, faded into a quieter, more guarded atmosphere. In the black market, voices were hushed, and conversations were whispered. The occasional clink of metal or the soft beep of a cred chip being run were the only interruptions in the muted soundscape.

Though gradual, the change in the look of the place was stark as well. The slum market's riot of colors – brightly dyed fabrics, hand-painted signs, and stalls adorned with all manner of trinkets – dissolved into the shadows and dim lighting of the black market.

Here, the aesthetic was both utilitarian and more permanent: plain stalls and stone-mortared shops, many with no signage at all, hidden behind nondescript facades or tucked away in dark corners.

The people in the black market moved differently, too. In the slum market, there was an open, almost communal feel, with people browsing, chatting, and bartering openly. But in the black market, everyone seemed purposeful, moving with intent, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. There was a sense of wariness, of transactions conducted under the veil of secrecy.

As I navigated through the narrow market pathways, the compact and cluttered nature of the place cast deep shadows, making it hard to see more than a short distance ahead. In many ways, the black market’s deepest center was a gaudy display of power, wealthy gangsters operating in open defiance of the law, the greatest of their number displaying the soft glow of a neon sign or even the flicker of an old tech holographic display, advertising devilish deals.

A roar filled the air, and a jet flared through the sky, its details sketchy and pixelated. It evaporated to be replaced by the shaking letters.

JOIN THE FIGHT. SIGN UP WITH USAIR-AIR-AIR.

As I stared, the stuttering sentence gave up, the whole holographic dissipating back to nothingness. I heard a curse and saw a man in a top hat and long black coat curse at some old tech project, kicking it hard on the side. I chuckled, wondering what punishments such a brazen display of illegal scavenge would have elicited inside Alnda proper.

Moving through it all, I finally reached the dealer's location, a blank door tucked away in an especially dark alley. He wasn’t one of the Bandit Lords, the godfathers of illicit border trade, though his connections weren’t to be underestimated.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I checked one more time to see if any eyes were on me, then turned and strode into an even more dimly lit corner of the market. He kept a shop there, the front of which was a legal supply of non-mech salvage and some new-tech appliances. But as it was with everything here, around his back was a separate pavilion, marked as storage, and within it was a trove of contraband tech, mech parts of old, middle, and new tech, salvaged and traded for from all over the empire and well into the wildlands as well.

I made my way inside and blinked at the sudden brightness of the well-lit interior. The dealer, known among the shadows as Techlock, was an intriguing figure. He stood there, masked and robed, a thin but long beard trailing down his chin and reaching to his chest. He stood up from a wooden chair, put a book down, and slapped the counter with his hands.

“Whatcha here for?” he asked, his voice sounding bored, but also commanding.

The man was tall, enough so that I had to tip my head back to meet his eyes, and he had the sort of lean muscled build that said he’d be trouble in a fight.

His eyes shone as he looked me over.

“Alaric, isn't it?” Techlock asked. “Been a while. Looking for something... particular?”

I nodded, my gaze flickering around the front of his stall, taking in the seemingly mundane array of non-mech salvage and new-tech appliances.

“Looking backroom,” I replied, “Some parts that shouldn’t be so damn hard to find, but at the moment I can’t find them anywhere.”

Techlock chuckled.

“You’re lucky I like you, kid. You never tell a seller you can’t find something. He’ll jack up the prices and you’re likely to leave with zero cred and a heavy loan.”

I smiled. I liked Techlock, even though the rumors said that some of his salvage was less found and more taken.

“Follow,” he said, turning and leading me through a narrow, hidden passage behind the stall.

The passage opened into a separate pavilion, cleverly disguised as a storage area, which was a cavernous trove of contraband technology. A fresh smell of rain and scorch exuded throughout. Shelves, tables, and racks were laden with mech parts from different eras – old, middle, and new – each piece was cleaned thoroughly and placed delicately to impress.

It was always a pleasure seeing the array of items. There were mech limbs with joint mechanisms, power cores emitting a faint, pulsating glow, and circuit boards with complex patterns etched into them. Some items still bore the scars of battle – dents, scorch marks, and the occasional trace of dried alien ichor.

In one corner, a collection of sleek, new-tech gadgets caught my eye, their surfaces smooth and unblemished. Techlock followed my gaze, a sly smile playing on his lips.

“You won't find these items in any official market,” he said, his voice low. “Each piece here has its history and secrets. What do you need?”

I hesitated, feeling foolish to be in a place like this with so many powerful and interesting parts, to be asking for something so basic and level.

“Uh, I just need a few micro-gears and high-tension springs.”

Tecklock paused, staring at me, before throwing his head back and laughing.

“Micro-gears and high-tension springs, he says. Can’t get them at the market square?”

“They’ve been out for a week,” I said, wincing as the words left my mouth. I immediately knew I’d made a mistake, and Techlock’s face showed that he’d processed the situation fully and was well ready to take advantage of it.

“No micro-gears or high-tension springs at the market, eh? What an amazing thing to find out about.” He rubbed his hands together greedily, the sound of his skin on skin grating my ears. “The mundane world of serfs is not one I wish to know, Alaric. Come with me.”

Moving away from the front tables, we moved towards the back where items began to come piled in bins and drawers.

“So how much is it gonna cost me?” I asked, wondering how much damage I’d done myself in the last few minutes.

“Well, I didn’t know there was a shortage,” Techlock said.

I gave him a sour look. “And?”

“Listen,” he said, putting his hands out in a manner that cried helpless innocence, “It’d be stupid of me to sell you these cheap if there aren’t many about. I’ll be selling my stock to the front, at a premium.”

I frowned.

“You ass. You didn’t even know there was a shortage until I told you.”

Techlock cocked his head.

“Yeah, them’s the breaks. I’m not ungrateful, though. I’ll give you a dozen of each at cost if you help me with another job I’ve got.”

A gadget crackled in the corner, grabbing my attention. It was a drab metal box, looking quite clunky and almost certainly a mid-tech military device, though I couldn’t exactly understand its function. There were patches of scraped paint through which could be seen signs of rust and age, and the front of it held a cracked glass panel, behind which flashed numbers and a strange string of symbols. On the right-hand side was a series of dials, each of them marked by small white ticks, while the left side of it was simply a bunch of pinholes and jacks.

Techlock’s eyes followed my own and a wide smile stretched over his face.

“She’s a beaut, ain’t she? An old communication device, with alternating frequency hop, cyber scrambling, and a bunch of other tech functions that no one knows how to make anymore.”

“Sure is,” I whispered.

He strolled over to the box and slapped it on the top.

“I use it a lot for the more illicit aspects of my otherwise respectable business if you catch what I’m saying. However, this one isn’t going to last much longer. That crackle you heard shouldn’t be happening. Some quite irreplaceable parts are breaking down inside her.”

I nodded, keeping a plain face.

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah. Not such a bad thing, though. I got hold of a scout scrip, Scavenger’s order. The people who sold it to me made sure it never got to official channels, if you ken my meaning. Looks like an old military bunker. Pre-apocalypse. Was covered in a landslide during the rad storms and just plain forgotten til wind, rain, what-have-you uncovered it recently.”

My eyes widened as I realized where he was going with it all. Everyone knew about the bunkers, bases, and ruins that littered the lands, often lost in the crumbling, blowing apocalypse that marked the end of the old tech world. They weren’t tombs full of loot like you’d think they were. Often they were dangerous affairs, populated by monsters, genetic experiments, or leftover security devices whose power switches had never been turned off.

“There is no way—” I started.

Techlock cocked his head and sighed.

“And why would that be? I won’t just give you the parts you need, you’ll also get a cut of the loot! I’ve seen you run through the city. It’s not like you don’t have the agility and strength for a little bit of adventure. Plus the scout scrip said it was inert, meaning there’s no power running. No robots to shoot at us. Should be easier than a walk to the store.”

I sighed.

“Yeah, okay. So when were you planning for this little expedition?”

He grinned.

“I don’t have any appointments planned. And you’re just a scavenger serf boy without any scavenging assignments, so no doubt you’ve got your afternoon free. What do you say we grab some supplies and get started?”

“What, now?”

“No, in a month. Of course now!”

I grumbled and sighed, casting a glance down at my serf bracer. What I was about to do was well illegal, but I still had almost a full day’s time left on my outing and I really needed to get things started with the AI. I nodded.

“Alright. Show me the way.”