Thalos moved through the back alleys of Sector 4, his hood pulled low over his face. The adrenaline from the fight with the Copperhead Gang had faded, replaced by a cold, calculating focus.
The Ribs were different at night. The smog that hung over the slums turned a sickly shade of neon purple, illuminated by the flickering holographic ads for "Dream-Sticks" and cheap cybernetics. In the shadows, things scurried—rats, addicts, and desperate scavengers.
Thalos ignored them. He walked with a new weight to his step.
He had 150 credits in his pocket and a sack of monster parts on his back. For the first time in his life, he wasn't looking for trash in the gutters. He was looking for an upgrade.
He wound his way through the maze of rusting shipping containers until he found a dead-end maintenance tunnel. At the far end, a heavy steel door sat embedded in the wall of a massive ventilation shaft. A neon sign flickered above it, buzzing like a dying fly:
"Doc Silas - Cybernetics & Organ Dealer."
Thalos approached the door. He didn't knock immediately. He scanned the area.
[Perception Check: Passed.]
[No immediate threats detected.]
He raised his hand and knocked. Three hard raps.
A mechanical whirring sound echoed from the wall. A small panel slid open, and a camera lens extended on a telescopic arm. It focused on him with a red laser eye, scanning his face.
"Closed," a voice crackled from a rusted speaker box. "Unless you're bleeding to death. In which case, payment is upfront. No credit for corpses."
"I'm not bleeding," Thalos said, his voice rough. "I'm selling."
He shifted the sack on his shoulder, letting the heavy clatter of the chitin plates echo against the metal door. He untied the top and held it up to the camera lens, revealing the jagged, obsidian-black edge of a Razor-Chitin Plate.
The camera zoomed in. The lens rotated, focusing sharply on the material.
Silence.
Buzz. Clank. Hiss.
The heavy steel door unlocked. Pneumatic pistons hissed as it swung inward, revealing a blast of cold, antiseptic air.
"Come in," the voice said, sounding significantly more interested. "Don't touch anything. If you break it, I harvest your kidneys to pay for it."
Thalos stepped inside.
The shop was a nightmare of biology and machinery. The air smelled of formaldehyde, ozone, and burnt copper. Glass tanks lined the walls, filled with green preserving fluid. Inside them floated organs—hearts, livers, eyes—some human, some definitely not.
On the opposite wall, cybernetic limbs hung from hooks like meat in a butcher shop. Chrome arms with built-in blades, hydraulic legs with jump-pistons, and optical units that tracked Thalos as he walked across the metal grate floor.
Doc Silas sat behind a reinforced steel counter at the back of the room.
He was a small, frantic-looking man with wild grey hair and a bloodstained rubber apron. He didn't have hands. His forearms ended in complex, multi-tool mechanical manipulators that twitched constantly—screwdrivers, scalpels, and soldering irons rotating in place of fingers.
"Show me," Silas demanded, pointing a scalpel-finger at the counter.
Thalos dumped the sack. The three heavy Razor-Chitin Plates clattered onto the metal surface.
Silas's mechanical eyes—which were literal camera lenses implanted in his skull—widened. He picked up one of the plates, scratching the surface with a diamond-tipped drill bit.
Skreee. The drill didn't leave a mark.
"Razor-Back Beetle," Silas muttered, his voice trembling with excitement. "Fresh. Very fresh. The edges aren't even oxidized yet. The bio-residue is still moist. Did you scavenge this from a corpse pile in the deep mines?"
"I killed it," Thalos said.
Silas stopped. He looked up, his lenses zooming in on Thalos. He scanned the ragged mining suit, the canvas cloak, and the lean frame.
"You?" Silas scoffed. "A slum rat killed a Razor-Back? With what? A mining pick and bad language? Those things eat squads of armed mercenaries for breakfast."
"Does it matter?" Thalos asked, leaning against the counter. "Do you want them or not?"
Silas narrowed his eyes, calculating. "The plates are in good condition. I can grind them down for high-grade armor plating or sell them to the mercenary guilds for shield grafting. 300 credits for the lot."
Thalos didn't blink. He reached out and put his hand on the plates, preparing to pull them back.
"500," Thalos countered.
"400," Silas snapped instantly. "And I'll throw in a basic med-kit. Take it or leave it. You won't find another buyer in Sector 4 who won't just shoot you and take them."
Thalos hesitated.
400 credits. Plus the 150 he had taken from the gang leader. That was 550 credits.
In the Ribs, a nutrient bar cost 2 credits. A dose of "Clean" medicine for Elara cost 200. This was a fortune.
"Deal," Thalos said.
Silas tapped a console with a metallic clack. A credit chip slid across the counter, along with a small white plastic box marked with a red cross.
"Pleasure doing business," Silas grinned, his metal fingers reaching for the plates.
As Silas grabbed the loot, one of his mechanical sensors brushed against the back of Thalos's hand.
Beep-Beep-Beep.
Silas froze. He looked at a small monitor built into his wrist. The waveform on the screen was spiking red.
"Wait," Silas whispered. The greed in his voice was replaced by something else. Curiosity. Fear.
He looked up at Thalos. "Your bio-readings... they're off the charts. High density muscle fiber. Calcified epidermis. Your skin temperature is ten degrees higher than a human's."
Silas's mechanical fingers twitched toward a sawed-off shotgun mounted on a magnetic rack under the counter.
"You're not wearing armor under that cloak," Silas realized. "That is your skin."
Thalos didn't panic. The System flashed in his vision.
[Threat Detected: Doc Silas (Lvl 6)]
[Status: Alert / Calculating.]
[Target is curious, not hostile. Yet.]
Thalos placed his hand flat on the steel counter. He squeezed.
The metal groaned. Slowly, visibly, the steel surface warped under his fingers, leaving a deep indentation of his handprint.
"I have a condition," Thalos lied smoothly, his voice dropping an octave. "Genetic mutation from the chemical spills in the mines. It's stable. And it's none of your business."
Silas looked at the dent in the steel. Then he looked at his shotgun. He did the math. Before he could raise the gun, Thalos could likely rip his mechanical arms off.
"Of course," Silas stammered, stepping back and raising his manipulators in surrender. "A condition. Very rare. Very... potent."
Silas's fear faded quickly, replaced by the opportunistic glint of a merchant.
"Listen, kid," Silas said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "If you can hunt Razor-Backs with your bare hands... or whatever you used... I have clients who pay a lot for... exotic organs. Fresh ones."
A holographic window popped up in Thalos's vision.
[Quest Offer: The Organ Harvester]
[Objective: Bring Doc Silas a "Venom Sac" from a Stalker-Spider.]
[Reward: 1,000 Credits + Blueprint: Kinetic Knuckles.]
Thalos looked at the quest. 1,000 credits. That would secure Elara's safety for months. It would buy them a ticket out of the Ribs.
"I'll think about it," Thalos said.
He pocketed the credit chip and the med-kit. He turned to leave.
"One more thing," Silas called out as Thalos reached the door. "If you ever want to sell... samples of your blood... I pay double the market rate. Purely for scientific interest, of course."
Thalos paused. He looked back over his shoulder, his amber eyes glowing in the shadow of his hood.
"Don't hold your breath, Doc."
He stepped out into the night, the heavy steel door hissing shut behind him.
Thalos walked to the nearest market stall, a vendor selling "Real Food"—canned peaches and dried meat that hadn't been recycled from waste. He spent 50 credits without hesitation.
He carried the heavy bag of food and the med-kit back toward his apartment.
He had money. He had a contact. And now, he had a new target. The Stalker-Spider.
"Just wait, Elara," he whispered to the smog-choked sky. "We're going to eat like kings tonight."