Lucille finds me on a bench in Cor2 Plaza three days later, sans a left arm. The Security Officer scrutinizes my bloodsoaked appearance, most of it dry, almost none of it mine. "Pleasant day, Ms. Drachma." I beam at her. "What have you got for me?"

She stares at my arm (or lack thereof) as she sits. "Does that grow back?"

"Nope. Can you get me a net?"

"You're loaded," she says, frowning. "Get it yourself."

"But you have connections. I want one of the ones that uses the stuff ACI skeletons are made of."

"Thought you hunted them."

"Used to. Why?"

"It doesn't make you uncomfortable?"

It's my turn to frown. "We all have our circumstances when it comes to money," I say, shrugging. "Just so happens mine was about offing people."

Lucille falters. "That's a fucked up philosophy," she says, with no regards for my feelings. "But somehow poignant."

"Do you have anything for me or not?"

She withers me with a glare. "This is big," she snaps. "Stop fucking around." I could see genuine concern for her own well-being in her eyes. She was taking a massive risk being here.

"Alright, alright. But I still need an arm net that can withstand me."

"Fine, done."

"That was too easy."

"Because the woman in your dumpster is...was Gareth Klein's daughter."

My eyes glaze over. "Who?"

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"The Dictator, dipshit."

"That's kind of important."

She reaches out and curls her hand into a claw, gesturing at my throat. I get the message. She backs off. "You're starting to appear on the radar of anyone aware of this issue," Lucille hisses. "Something big is happening behind the scenes. I don't have everything yet, but we're digging.

"Cor2 and Millenium seem to have teamed up." She sits back in the bench with a huff. "Some kind of agreement behind closed doors. Millenium got bold. After their success with the Roguehunter handbook, they're looking for new opportunities."

"What about the handbook?"

"Nothing. What are you going to do?"

My frown returns with a vengeance. "What a stupid question. I'm gonna kill them."

"No way this is done with any concern for Claire."

"Who's Claire?"

She stands. "C'mon big guy, let's get you a new arm."

-

Net surgery is quick and painless.

Well, everything I do is painless, but even I could tell this installation was smooth. Top quality. It's what having friends in high places gets you. "What were the specs again?" I ask as they fit the skin over my new synthetic muscles. I keep my eyes lowered. The room is gleaming white with blue accents. "The fun ones, not the numbers. I don't understand those."

Jonathan Clarke, sitting in the corner in exhausted frustration, flips through an infopad. "Titanium Alloy bone type redacted, same alloy weave used for muscle fibers, seven times..." He hesitates. "...Better...than a standard human arm."

"Oh, cool!" I say, chipper. Maybe I'll be able to keep this one. "Just as good as my old arm. Technology's come a long way, hasn't it?"

Clarke frowns at Lucille, who shrugs. The sleeve tightens as the finishing touches are applies. Besides the strange, waxy, slightly off skin tone, it looks like a normal arm. "It was awfully easy to convince you of this," I say, massaging a phantom sore spot. "What's so important about this whole thing?"

Lucille disappears behind the corner of my vision, beyond where the surgical chair blocks my vision. I get a bad feeling. "It's an apology," she says.

I try to move. Nothing happens. My spine hasn't been reactivated yet. I feel a touch of pressure in my neck. Either poison or sleep agent. "Clarke cooked up a concoction just for you." Lucille withdraws the needle and lobs the syringe at her partner. He dives out of the way. "Like you said, you're seven times more powerful than the standard human, but your metabolism is also seven times faster. This will put you to sleep for a while."

"Why?" I ask.

"Win-win." She returns to view, twirling the syringe. There isn't an ounce of remorse in her eyes. Fair enough. "We send you to them, they get the man they're screaming for. And we get what we want, a man on the inside. So go, Alex. Have fun with your new hardware. I'll cheer for you."

"I won't," Clarke says, now in the corner beyond my vision. His evasion tactics are hardcore. "I hope you die."

"Thanks, buddy."

My vision swims, then fades to black.