"Okay, just do it," Beulla muttered, her voice hardly loud over the noise in the bar.

The ripper doc's face split into a crooked grin, metal teeth glinting in the harsh light. "Smart choice. Now, if you're nauseous about seeing your brother's brain, I'd suggest waiting in the tavern, this ain't gonna be pretty."

Beulla nodded, slipping out of the operating room, the tavern's smoky haze enveloping her as she sank into a grimy stall, her eyes never leaving the door behind the bar.

“Miss me, Harlot?”

A shadow fell across the table. "ain't you a sight," a gravelly voice sneered. "Comin' to our turf, ignorin' us, refusin' our hospitality, that's just bad manners."

Beulla kept her gaze fixed on the tabletop, wishing the punk to leave yet He didn't.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to ya," he growled, leaning in close. His breath reeked of cheap synth-alcohol and cigarettes, the tavern fell silent, patrons suddenly fascinated by their drinks, no one wanted to cross the local gang.

“I am talking to ya, corpo harlot…”

A hand gripped Beulla's shoulder, spinning her around, finding herself face-to-face with a man filled with cyber eyes glowing an unnatural red.

"Stay away from me," Beulla shouted, her voice loud.

The punk threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, grating sound, Five more men joined him from the other tables, forming a menacing semicircle.

Fear coiled in Beulla's gut as rough hands seized her arms before getting thrashed, her foot connecting with a shin, A fist slammed into her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs.

"Help!" she gasped, but the other patrons studiously avoided her gaze.

As they dragged her towards the door, Beulla twisted, spitting directly into the lead punk's face.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!!”

For a moment, everything froze, then, with agonizing slowness, the punk wiped his cheek, his cybernetic eyes whirred, focusing on Beulla with cold precision.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, the barrel of a gun pressed against Beulla's temple, its metal ice-cold against her skin.

A scream pierced the air, frightening, everyone thought it was the poor girl's scream of death, yet…

It came from behind the bar, precisely the ripper doc's room.

"What the fu—" the punk leader began, but his words died as the door burst open.

Zatrice stumbled out, with one eye blazing an unnatural crimson, Blood covered his face, mingling with circuitry that pulsed beneath his skin, one arm hung limp at his side, sparking.

A tinny voice emanated from Zatrice's phone, discordant against the tavern's shocked silence:

"Safety protocol initiated."

Zatrice's lips stretched into a maniacal grin, his gaze fixed on the gang surrounding his sister.

pupil contracting to a pinprick, lips pulled back in a silent snarl, baring teeth stained red with his own blood.

The punk's grip on Beulla loosened, his attention drawn to the blood-soaked figure before him. "The hell happened to you, chrome-job?"

Zatrice's response came in the form of movement so fast it blurred, His good arm shot out, fingers wrapping around the punk's throat tearing it apart, before The tavern erupted into real chaos.

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Two punks raised pistols, their neural interfaces feeding targeting data directly to their optic nerves, Three others fanned out, mono-filament blades extending from cybernetic arms with a soft hiss, while The last, a mountain of vat-grown muscle, cracked augmented knuckles.

Zatrice moved.

A table flew through the air, smashing into the gunmen, wood cracked, sending both sprawling. Zatrice was on them in an instant, his good arm crushing bones as he slammed their heads together, leaving them in a heap of twitching limbs.

“I got him…..I got his hea–”

A blade whistled through the air, Zatrice ducked, the mono-filament edge slicing a shallow furrow across his scalp before retaliating by driving his elbow into the attacker's breastbone, the punk's chest cavity caved in with a crunch, strengthened ribs no match for Zatrice's feral strength.

The big one charged, meaty fists swinging, Zatrice sidestepped, using the punk's momentum to send him careening into the bar, glass shattring, a rainbow of liquor cascading over the floor.

A razor-sharp blade sliced through the air, aiming for Zatrice's throat, he caught the punk's wrist, whining as he applied pressure. The mono-filament blade dropped from nerveless fingers as Zatrice twisted, dislocating the head with a wet pop.

The last blade-wielder lunged, cybernetic legs propelling him forward with inhuman speed, slowing time.

Zatrice grabbed a nearby chair, swinging it in a wide arc. The impact sent the punk flying, his trajectory ending at a table across the room, the hit splintered the wood, lying motionless in the wreckage.

The big one was up again, roaring in rage, Zatrice met the charge head-on, They collided like freight trains, the floor trembling beneath their feet, locked in a wrestler's embrace, neither giving ground.

Then Zatrice's foot lashed out, catching the punk's knee, Synthetic ligaments tore with a sound like ripping paper.

As the giant toppled, Zatrice's hands found purchase on his head, A sharp twist, and it was over.

Silence fell, broken only by the hum of Zatrice's malfunctioning cybernetics and the soft plink of leaking fluids.

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Bodies lay strewn across the tavern floor, a carnage that had unfolded in mere seconds.

Zatrice stood in the center of the massacre, chest heaving. His remaining eye darted from one fallen foe to the next, searching for any sign of movement. Finding none, his gaze settled on Beulla, who stood frozen behind the bar.

Zatrice's knees buckled, crashing to the floor, sparks flying from his malfunctioning cybernetics, His body twitched violently, caught between man and machine, neither fully in control.

"Zatrice!" Beulla cried, rushing to her brother's side, she cradled his head, her hands coming away slick with blood.

A throat cleared behind her, The ripper doc stood in the doorway of his operating room, his augmented eyes taking in the carnage with clinical detachment.

"Well," he drawled, "this complicates things."

Beulla's head snapped up. "Help him! Please!"

The doc's lips curled into a sneer. "Help him? After what he's done? Do you have any idea who that was?" He jerked his chin towards the mangled corpse of the gang leader. "That was Razor Jack, top dog of the Steel Jackals. And your brother just turned him into hamburger."

"I don't care!" Beulla shouted. "He needs help!"

"You're right, he does," the doc agreed. "But I won't be the one to give it. I've got no interest in being on the Jackals' hit list."

Beulla's voice cracked as she pleaded, "There has to be something you can do, I'll pay anything."

The doc's cybernetic eyes whirred, recalculating. "Anything, huh? Well, more leuros will certainly help to leave Runner city let's say... double my original price, and that's just to start."

"Done," Beulla said without hesitation.

The doc cursed under his breath. "Fine. Get him on the table. Now."

They hauled Zatrice's twitching form onto the operating table, The doc's arms extended into a dizzying array of surgical tools, each more terrifying than the last.

"This is going to be messy," he warned. "And fast. We don't have time for anesthesia."

Beulla nodded, gripping her brother's hand as the doc got to work. Blood and pain following his words.

Zatrice's screams echoed through the tavern as the doc replaced limbs, organs, and eyes with ruthless efficiency.

Minutes passed in a storm of agony and the smell of burning flesh, finally, the doc stepped back, wiping his hands on a gore-stained towel.

"That should do it," he muttered. "He's more machine than he was, but he'll live."

Beulla stared at her brother's reconstructed form, fresh scars crisscrossed his body, his eyes replaced with glowing purple orbs.

The doc leaned in close, adjusting the new eyes with a series of tiny tools, as he worked, a smile spread across his face.

"You know," he said, his voice low, "with these upgrades, you'll be a real thorn in Yoshida's throat."

Beulla's blood ran cold. "Yoshida? What does he have to do with this?"

“Everything..”