“More on the group behind last week's terror attack, the 'New Bolshevik Revolution' who claim to inherit the revolutionary mantle of communism. The Revolutionary Communist Party, currently the largest terrorist organization in the United States, also claims the mantle. Both groups--” Tim shut off the TV with a sigh.
“Hey Tim!” Bob, his usual morning company, complained. “I was watching that!”
“It's a bunch of crap, Bob,” he replied, tired.
Bob was young, not even thirty, and fresh out of the Intervention Corps. He was a lot like Tim had been at that age, listless and antsy, still looking for action. TV would spit ideas about duty and honour and all sorts of crap but the only reason to join the corps was money and adventure.
“Still,” Bob grumbled. “Should have at least heard them out, they might have dropped a clue. Know thy enemy and all that.”
“They ain't commies, Bob.” Tim rolled his eyes. He remembered the real communists, the Venezualans, the Colombians. “Bunch of hopped up kids off their head with ideas.”
“Uh, that's what a commie is,” Bob retorted. “Idealist idiots willing to kill for their cause.”
“You were in the corps,” Tim changed the subject suddenly. “Where did you hit up?”
“Yemen, Somalia, and Pakistan,” he answered proudly, always eager to chat about his time stuck in. “Would have gone to Afghanistan but...well, you know.” Tim nodded.
“Yeah, I know.” He sighed. The bell over the door tinkled suddenly and Tim looked over, brightening up. “Hey Tess, how's it been?”
“Hey Tim, been good.” She had a smile on her face, but looked pretty tired.
She had another girl with her, a ginger, just a bit taller. Couldn't have been more than a year older than Tess was. It was hard to tell though, considering her two thick black eyes. Her nose was slightly crooked, and her lower lip was swollen and had a freshly healed split. He glanced between the two off them briefly.
“So uh.” Tim blinked. “What's brought you in today?” She shrugged her backpack off and opened it up while her friend studied him and Bob. Sizing them up, it felt like.
“Wanted to see if you knew this,” Tess replied, setting a cloth bundle down on the counter. She struggled a bit opening it and revealed...
“Well I'll be.” Tim put his glasses on. “An Enfield socket bayonet. You know this things probably two-hundred years old?” Tess' eyes widened.
“Whoa really?!”
“Yup,” he said with a grin, eyeing the socket turned hilt. “Looks like someone modified it a little. You?”
“Nah I...found it.” Tim didn't quite believe her, but wasn't about to interrogate a little girl either. Those days were behind him. “Hey Bob,” Tess said suddenly, getting distracted like usual. Girl had a touch of the ADHD about her. “How're your legs?” Tim winced, but Bob smiled.
“Oh not too bad today.” He rubbed the flesh just above where it met steel prosthetic. None of the fancy kinomatics or abtech for him, just a couple curved, metal struts. “Weather's been nice so they ain't aching. How's uh, your friend?”
“Name's Rache,” the girl muttered. She sounded young...and that nose was definitely broken. “I'm fine. You should see they other guy.” They both shared a humourless chuckle.
“Anyway Tess,” Tim pulled her attention back. Not uncommon in their chats. “Were you looking to sell this?”
“Oh, nah.” She shook her head and wrapped the bayonet back up, then placed it in her bag. “Wanted to know what it was, you know? Never seen a triangular knife before.”
“It's 'cause of the wounds it makes,” Bob piped up. “They're harder to stitch up 'cause of the shape.” Tim grimaced and cleared his throat.
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“Actually,” he started, eyeing the young man. “That's a widely spread myth. The real reason is because this was a hell of a lot stronger than a sword bayonet. Soldiers weren't expected to do much cutting in the 19th century beyond supper and shaving. Plus these things were meant to stand a reasonable chance of goring a charging cavalier. Generally you want your weapon not to break.” Everyone but Bob nodded in appreciation. That was fine, he'd get it one day.
“You staying safe out there Tess?” Bob asked. “Lotta bad guys around these day.”
“I can handle myself,” she said with a smile. “Besides, those NBR mooks are all behind bars anyway.”
“They ain't the only ones out there,” he said in a low voice.
“Trust me, it's fine.” She turned her head and grinned at Tim. “Sooo...last time I was in you mentioned I needed plates for my carrier. How much--”
“Outta your price range, little missy,” Tim cut her off. In truth he was a little uncomfortable with what he'd already sold to Tess. It felt like encouraging her in the wrong direction. But at the same time... “Even my cheapest level III, and you'll want at least that, is four kay. It only goes up from there.” She grimaced, though her friend didn't seem too fazed.
“That's pretty cheap,” the girl with black eyes said. “Surplus?”
“Everything here is,” he replied. “People say it like it's a dirty word, but it just means the army didn't need it. They're good though. I ran a couple of the batch through some tests.” The girl nodded sharply.
“I'll keep that in mind,” she said. She talked like a soldier and that made Tim's skin crawl. “That all you wanted, Tess?”
“Oh, yeah.” Her smile grew. “Sorry, we're getting some breakfast before working out.”
“Working out?” Tim asked, looking at the battered girl. “Sure you're up to it?”
“It's a broken nose,” she said dryly. “My arms and legs work just fine.” Tim let out a little sigh. Kids.
“We'll keep it light,” Tess promised, slinging her backpack over her shoulders. “Okay, see ya Tim! See ya Bob!”
“Bye Tess,” they both replied. Tim shook his head as the girls left the store.
“I worry about her,” Bob spoke after a moment.
“Think I don't?” Tim asked. He didn't need an answer. “She's a smart girl, vicious too. Bet you she gave the other one that walloping.” Bob chuckled and the bell tinkled again. Tim's eyes narrowed at the young man walking in. “Hey Bob, you mind running to the back and grabbing a couple tins of 54R? Wanna proof them before putting them on the shelves.”
“Sure boss.” He rose without complaint and headed to the storeroom as the new customer strode up to the desk.
“Morning Tim,” he said politely.
“Fred,” Tim replied tersely. “You didn't call ahead.”
“Apologies,” the young man said with a shrug. “Usual comm lines are all messed up with the new crackdown. That's why I'm here though. I heard you're taking delivery of a hundred sets of body armour?”
“Hardly armour,” Tim said. “Flak jackets, old ones. I'd be surprised if they even stopped fragmentation any more.”
“A placebo is as good as a cure.” Fred shrugged again. “Better than jeans and a t-shirt.”
“Guess so,” he said and sighed. “You want them, I assume?”
“We can pay. Plenty set aside in the war chest.”
“No, no.” Tim shook his head firmly. “I won't make you do that.”
“You need to eat.”
“So do you and yours.”
“Tim I--”
“Fred.” The sharp tone silenced the young man. Tim lowered his voice and continued. “Take 'em. Truck's scheduled here tomorrow at six in the morning. Bring two guys and something to move 'em in. I'll make sure the cams are down for 'maintenance', so y'all don't even need to worry about masks.” Fred's mouth set in a grim line and he nodded.
“Alright.” He sighed and his face softened. “Means a lot, you helping us like this, but they're going to catch on sooner or later.”
“I'm an old man that's been robbed a few times.” Tim said shaking his head. “I'm even a vet. They don't look at me sideways anymore.”
“Still, we should look at getting you out. Network's willing if you are.”
“Save it for people that need it,” Tim replied. “ 'sides, I'm no good as I am. These bones aren't built much for fighting anymore.”
“Alright,” Fred said with a sigh. “Fine. We'll be here bright and early tomorrow. “Thanks, comrade.”
“I ain't your comrade.” He didn't deserve that courtesy. “Now scram, I got a business to run.”
“Sure thing.” Fred gave him a warm smile and left. Not a moment too soon, since Bob returned with the ammo.
“Who was that?” he asked, always curious. A soldier's curiosity though, Tim could hear it in his voice.
“Oh just a fella looking for some protection.” Tim offered Bob a smile. “Same as anyone else on this bitch of an earth.”
“Preaching to the choir.”
Bob set one box of ammo down in front of Tim and took one for himself. Both men opened their respective tins and got to work checking the ammunition. It was too bad Bob hadn't quite reached the same conclusion Tim had from his time in the corps. The system was rotten the whole way through, and all they did was prop it up. It was about time for a change, a revolution.
Tim would never be a comrade, he'd done too many awful things for that. Still, he'd support those that were where and when he could. A hundred sets of shitty flak jackets might net him a few grand in profit, but it might save a real comrade's life. A small price to pay, he thought. Besides, he could always claim it on his insurance. Sure his premium would go up, but he'd be taking that money and funneling it into more equipment. More profit. One day, maybe, Tim could help the cause more directly. For now though, this was enough.
A down payment on a debt owed in blood.