The servant spared a second to lay down and stretch in the hovercar's open seating area. His organs had regrown enough to no longer hurt but his tendons were still too tight, and sitting hunched over in the hovercar's slightly too-small controls didn't help. He always wondered if Fairbanks intentionally left his toys at baseline human specs to keep his servant just a little uncomfortable and "on his toes," or if he was just too lazy to change the settings.
Or possibly too cheap, for the same reason why the cloning process always skipped the optional steps to loosen up a new body. Ultimately, the reason didn't matter and he didn't have the power to change it. But in these first days when his insides felt like they were made of wood and twine, the servant always wondered how it helped him actually serve his proprietor.
Voices from out of sight shook the man from his thoughts. Good thing, too — the plush carpeting of the hovercar was far too comfortable. He sat up to a chorus of gasps from the people who thought they were checking out an empty vehicle, ripe for looting or whatever else those sorts did. Hand grace these simpletons, they were so filthy, but that's what happens when you choose to live in a garbage bowl like Belvidere.
He may not enjoy wearing a bodysuit that covered every centimeter of skin, but at least it meant the servant didn't need to breathe the toxins that settled below the tarmac line. The uniform also discouraged people from speaking to him, and after the hovercar's security system tasered the nearest prole he walked through the street with a wide enough berth. Which was fine, he hated crowds.
Unfortunately, try as he might, the servant couldn't ignore the crowd completely. Hardwired eye nerves tracked subtle movements from all directions, searching for any threats towards Fairbanks. Even his genes wouldn't let him relax when his master wasn't around, but it helped him notice the changing crowd.
The smart proles ducked their heads and walked away, while the curious ones stuck around. They were opportunists, and mostly looked at each other to see if anyone else was desperate or stupid enough to try something. A handful of proles broke off and boldly walked right up to the servant — so stupid, not desperate — followed closely by the curious opportunists. Yet, the leader proles wore newer and cleaner clothing than the others, so maybe he could actually reason with them.
The servant held his hand up, and a 3D hologram of the robot appeared that made him take a step back. His memories from the fight were fuzzy at best, thanks to the stimulants, but he recalled how weird the thing was and it took him a moment to clear his throat. "This robot is wanted for crimes against upper management. On behalf of the Great Job Creator Fairbanks, I am authorized to pay §10,000 in CyraCorp debts to anyone that brings it to me."
While he spoke, the clean and/or stupid proles had fully encircled him. One nudged another and said, "I swear all the tech in this place is cursed. Did ya hear that the big manager's big gun exploded?"
"Shit, I heard someone actually shot the 'Great Job Creator,'" another said, complete with the exaggerated air quotes.
"And there aren't any eyebots up my ass for once."
"I dug up a toaster that shocked me, is that worth any money?" The other proles found this very funny.
"Hey, how stretchy is that fancy suit?"
"Ain't no way is that going to fit your fat ass." The laughter increased, and everyone took another step closer.
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The servant sighed, and started measuring out the heaviest person in the crowd. He knew better than to try appealing to their simple minds, but usually the stupid proles scatter after their strongest numbers crumple. Or in two steps everyone will be close enough that one long cut with his monoblade would do more than enough, until a pleasantly grating female voice cut off his thoughts.
"Error. Advanced integrated systems cannot be deployed until setup process is complete. Please contact CyraCorp technical support to register your CyraCorp Shadowbane Exosuit. Thank you."
Fucking Fairbanks, this had to be intentional. He braced himself to do things the hard way when a small explosion sent the crowd scattering. The sound dampening in his helmet counted as basic life support, so it functioned just fine, but he felt the faintest ripple of the soundwave. Warning signals blared in his ears instead, as visual scanners picked up a cloud of gunpowder residue — actual, patented gunpowder, not the homemade sludge used by the truly desperate.
Standing in the middle of the residual cloud, and now in the middle of the empty street, was a woman digging her pinky finger in one ear. "Woo! Always forget just how loud that is," she half-yelled, shifting her shotgun to the other shoulder and away from the driver. The woman was short and curvaceous, but she moved with deceptive strength; she had an absurd amount of wild red hair, but equally absurd front teeth.
A hybrid castoff, then? She approached the driver without any fear or threat. Rather, she ignored him entirely, and instead stopped to study the robotic hologram with one finger tapping at her teeth.
"Hmm. It's pretty different, but… Mage from the Machine, Machine Mage…" She leaned to the side and pretended to look around the robot, flashing a buck-toothed grin at the driver. "I think maybe I can help ya out. But first! What do you get once you get that robot? What's your reward?"
Of all the strange questions that the servant tended to get from proles, this was not one of them. "I do not receive anything. Well, I get to return home and resume my normal duties?"
The grin flashed wider. "Great! So we can help each other out. You get to go back to that dumpster pearl you call home, I get the ten grand. And revenge."
"What was that?"
"Nothing! Anyway, I'm Jenakite, friends call me Jena." She held out a hand, and the driver stared at it.
It had been so long since anyone had asked his name that it took some effort to recall what he was supposed to answer. His production line was the general go-to, even if he hated the name.
"What's that? Friend, you're going to need to lose the mask if we're going to work together." Jenakite waved her other hand in front of her face and continued, "This whole dehumanizing thing just ain't going to work, at least whenever we're talking."
At the servant's command, the mask lost its rigidity and retreated upwards into the stylized driver's cap. With a faint glow the hat's brim switched to a small atmospheric forcefield to filter out the air and ultraviolet lights. Still effective, but less powerful than the physical mask and the driver blinked rapidly in the sudden light. He wasn't entirely sure why he followed her request so readily, usually he took every opportunity to say 'no' to someone.
"Holy shit you are pale!" Jenakite shouted, ruining the moment of vulnerability. "Do they call you Powder? Monochrome? Pinkeye? I bet it's Pinkeye."
The driver, not named Pinkeye, sneered down at the hybrid woman. "My name is Jellico."
Jenakite snorted. "Really? I'll call you Jelly. Now come on already, my arm's getting tired here." She wiggled her hand for emphasis, which had never dropped from its open invitation.
"Ms. Jenakite, I don't know if —"
"Jena, I told you," she corrected him. "What's to get? You've got my back and I've got yours, until we get that bot. Let's shake on it and go, Jelly."
Despite every cent of programmed training, a grin tugged at the corner of Jellico's lips. Fairbanks is not going to be happy when he learns that his servant willingly worked with a mutant. Jellico's long fingers easily engulfed Jena's tiny handshake, but her grip was rock steady. "Yeah, let's go get that bot."