After two nights of sleeping in the cockpit of the Jerboa, Buster Harkness found himself approaching the gate of Martenwol. Now that he was here he felt a small tingle of nerves, but nothing like the terror he had anticipated.
He still had the security access loaded in his tablet. With a few taps he signaled the gates and they began to swing open.
The bodies in the security booth had been removed. All the bodies had been incinerated when the humans from Zed Steadman swept it. Every corpse they checked had tested negative for any lingering Little B but that wasn't enough to change anyone's minds.
After half a year of neglect the exterior looked largely unchanged. Some dust and grit that had blown over the walls was piled up in doorways, and purple lichen was starting to bloom on the sides of the buildings. He had seen active bases in much worse states of neglect.
He walked the Jerboa over to the motor bay and docked it, alone. All the other walkers and vehicles had been hauled off to Zed Steadman. The hospital was now perhaps one of the most well-armed human stongholds in existence, thanks to him.
True, the humans might have been planning to assault the base anyways. But most of the munitions would have been used up or destroyed. Table scraps instead of a feast.
It was hard to argue against the effectiveness of biologics. He hoped that he hadn't made too strong a case for them with the windfall that the Martenwol Massacre had provided. He was never going to make them again, and he really hoped the humans would never ask him to.
The base had been left to burn out in standby mode since removing the generator core would be too dangerous. The motion sensors woke up the base room by room, hallway by hallway as he strode back to his old room. It was exactly as he had left it: Bare. He set his duffle bag on the table and unpacked his belongings. He filled his vaporizer and took a puff, remembering the last time he had used a vaporizer there: Filling the oil reservoir with viral suspension and being too nervous to test it before leaving.
Buster tucked Petro's multitool into one of the pockets of his shirt. He took one of the sealed snack mix rations out of the bag and ate it hungrily as a late breakfast. Then he set off exploring the rest of the crew quarters.
He didn't know exactly how much time he had before Mirabelle and Kincade arrived, only that he had until tomorrow to find anything that could help him. He figured that the crew quarters were more likely to contain hidden and overlooked supplies compared to the rest of the base; after all, he had overlooked it himself on his own exit.
Room after room, identical save for the personal effects on the walls. Framed pictures of families. Posters of popular vidcons and pop idols. Most of them didn't even have the drawers turned out. Protein bars still far from their expiration date, loose challenge coins, nothing useful.
Finally in a room that his tablet said belonged to a member of security, he found something. The humans that had searched the room would think nothing of the graffiti on the side of his desk: a series of interlocked safety pins scribbled in green ink. But when the panda saw it, he almost did a double take. No way it could be that easy.
The safety pins were the symbol of the good guys in a popular series of vidcons. In the levels, the developers helpfully signposted healing items and ammunition with graffiti to indicate that friendly forces had been there ahead of you. This guard must have been a gamer, because when he put a hidden compartment in his desk he couldn't help but include a little reference for all the other gamers out there.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
For the first time in many years, Buster was thankful that he had been a gamer.
He tried pressing his paws along the side but there was no seam and nothing gave. He tried looking under the desk, nothing. Finally with a forceful roar he pulled the metal desk away from the wall, finding the back to be hollowed out and a sealed oblong metal box tucked inside.
The panda was so excited that he fumbled with the clasps as he set the box on top of the desk and went about opening it. He flipped open all four of the slim latches and pulled the lid up, revealing a padded foam interior: an unloaded pistol, a loaded magazine for said pistol, and a grenade.
It was the first time Buster had ever held a gun. It was Nakunan so his enormous finger comfortably fit inside the trigger guard, and the grip rested comfortably against the pads of his paw. Imitating what he had seen on television and in vidcons, he took the magazine and slid it into the stock. Gave it a firm tap with the palm of his paw. Held it up to the light, saw the little safety switch on its side. Gave it a flick with his thumb, finding the click to be satisfying to the touch and to the ear. He held it up to eye level, looking down sights for the first time.
He didn't know anything about guns, but this was a no-frills pistol. Boxy, rectangular, the sights were just raised grooves of metal at the beginning and end of the chamber. Semi-automatic. They wanted something reliable as a backup but with more finesse than a revolver, he guessed.
He popped the magazine out and counted the bullets inside. Sixteen. He couldn't guess their size or payload, they just looked like bullets to him. Boring bullets. The kind that wouldn't do much against the Jerboa, let alone an armored walker; he didn't know what the Freelancer was bringing., but they weren't known for being underpowered.
He looked at the grenade next. It was classic Nakunan design, pockmarked grippable black cylinders with brass-handled caps. Even a child knew how to use one: you gripped the handle, pulled out the safety stopper, let the handle go, counted down a few seconds, and threw it. It looked very basic like the pistol, so he guessed that it was a typical fragmentation grenade. Rather than anything cool like an EMP grenade or a thermite launcher. Something that might actually do more to a walker than annoy the pilot by ruining the paint job.
Still, it was better than nothing.
He always had the folding knife in his multitool as a last resort. He had no combat training or interest in punchsports, so even if the Freelancer decided to forgo the walker entirely and fight him one on one the best he could hope for was a draw.
He hoped he wouldn't have to fight. He would if he had to, but he didn't think it would do much. He was better at talking, and they had explicitly wanted to talk to him.
Over the past year he had imagined a lot of conversations with Mirabelle: angry conversations, apologetic conversations, embarrassing conversations. The idea of having to beg for his life had come up a few times, but never like this. He obviously didn't know her as well as he thought he had, but he had something to work with.
The grizzly bear, on the other hand? Total wild card. There was something to him, but the panda just couldn't make the connection.
At least when Lance had taunted him he had been nice enough to show off his hardware. Buster didn't even know what Kincade was going to be arriving in.
Unable to scavenge anything else useful from the crew quarters, Buster returned to the motor bay. All the tools had been removed, no active disassembler this time.
Still, at least they don't know I'm armed. The only reason I'm still standing is because people keep underestimating me and I'm lucky. Maybe those will both continue.
With his day of searching and scavenging complete, he returned to his room. He warmed up a foil pouch of meat substitute in savory sauce, devouring the ration at his desk as he sat with his tablet in front of him, jotting notes and organizing his thoughts.
It felt creepy, writing out a plan of attack against a person he had spent so many years with. She drew first blood, so to speak, but that didn't make it any less fucked.
At least with Lance he had been able to enjoy the pure visceral thrill of defeating an enemy. As bad as Mirabelle might make him feel, he didn't hate her. If anything, a small part of him had still hoped that one day they could be friends again. If not that, then he hoped that she would find a new better life without him.
Maybe that's what this is, he mused as he headed to bed, She's found an exciting new life as a Freelancer and I'm just a bounty to her. If that's the case, good for her! I've found a new life too, and I'm not going to give it up without at least trying to hold on to something.