The sewer grate groaned as Ren shoved it open.
Fresh air, if you could call the smog-choked atmosphere of the Slums "fresh", hit him like a slap. It smelled of frying oil, unwashed bodies, and coal smoke, but compared to the cistern below, it was perfume.
Ren climbed out of the alley shadows, his boots slick with black sludge. He adjusted the Pneumatic Spike strapped to his back. It was wrapped in dirty rags to hide its shape, looking like a bundle of scrap metal, but the weight was reassuring against his spine.
He checked the sky. The bruise-colored clouds were darker now. Evening. The perfect time for vermin to come out.
Ren didn't head for safety. He headed back toward the market.
He found a vantage point on a collapsed fire escape overlooking the street where the noodle cart incident had happened. He sat there, legs dangling, peeling a strip of dried meat he'd looted from the dead scavenger.
He wasn't waiting for just anyone. He was waiting for the leather jackets.
It didn't take long.
Three men walked down the street. They walked with the swagger of men who knew no one would touch them. In the center was the Leader—the man whose shock baton Ren had stolen and fried.
He looked worse for wear. His face was bruised, likely from his own superiors punishing him for losing a weapon. He was shouting at a shopkeeper, kicking over a basket of fruit.
"Protection tax doubled!" the Leader screamed, spitting on the ground. "You think because some rat stole my baton, we're weak? I'll show you weak!"
Ren chewed his meat slowly. "Loud," he whispered. "Unprofessional."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out Roach-1.
"Wake up."
The copper legs twitched. The glass eye flared with dim blue light.
Ren closed his left eye. The grainy feed appeared.
Go.
The Roach skittered down the rusted iron stairs. It moved through the shadows of the alley, a silent metallic spider. Ren guided it under a parked cart, flanking the three gang members.
He didn't attack yet. He scanned them.
[Target 1: Leader (Brawler)] [Weapon: Iron Chain] [Status: Angry / Injured]
[Target 2: Grunt A] [Weapon: Dagger]
[Target 3: Grunt B] [Weapon: Wooden Club]
Ren stood up on the fire escape. He unwrapped the rags from his weapon. The Pneumatic Spike gleamed dull gray in the dying light.
He didn't plan to sneak up on them. Fear was a tool. He wanted them to see him.
Ren picked up a loose brick from the wall next to him. He weighed it in his hand, then tossed it.
Crash.
The brick smashed into the pavement right in front of the Leader's feet.
The three men jumped. The Leader spun around, looking up.
"Who the hell?"
Ren stood on the fire escape, ten feet above them. The wind caught his wolf-fur coat, flaring it out. He rested the heavy steel piston on his shoulder like a club.
"You dropped something," Ren called down. His voice was calm, cutting through the market noise.
He reached into his pocket and tossed the burnt-out plastic handle of the shock baton. It clattered onto the stones at the Leader's feet.
The Leader stared at it. Then he looked up, his face twisting into a mask of pure hate.
"THE RAT!" he screamed. "GET HIM!"
The Leader and his two goons charged the fire escape ladder.
Ren didn't move. He watched them climb.
"Come on up," Ren said softly. "Single file."
The fire escape was narrow. Only one man could climb the rusted ladder at a time. The Leader pushed his grunt out of the way and started climbing first, frothing with rage.
"I'm going to peel your skin off, you little...."
The Leader's head crested the top of the platform.
Ren was waiting.
He didn't swing the weapon. He didn't need momentum. He simply pointed the tip of the Pneumatic Spike at the Leader's chest.
"Sit down."
THOOM.
The sound was deafening in the narrow alley.
The piston fired. The recoil slammed into Ren's shoulder, but he was braced for it this time.
The blade punched through the Leader's leather jacket, through his sternum, and out his back. But it wasn't just the puncture; it was the kinetic force.
The Leader didn't just fall. He was launched.
He flew backward off the ladder, his body limp in the air. He crashed into the two grunts below him like a sack of cement, knocking them both into the mud in a tangle of limbs.
Ren cycled the bolt. Clunk-hiss. The blade retracted.
He hopped over the railing, dropping ten feet. He landed in a crouch, the heavy steel weapon hitting the ground with a solid thud.
The two grunts were scrambling to get up, pushing their dead boss off them. They looked at the boy. Then they looked at the hole in the boss's chest—a hole the size of a fist.
"Monster..." one of them whimpered.
Ren took a step forward. The hydraulics in his weapon hissed, building pressure for the next shot.
"Leave the gear," Ren said. "And tell your boss the rent is due."
The grunts didn't hesitate. They didn't fight for honor. They scrambled backward, leaving their weapons, leaving their dignity, and sprinted down the street screaming.
Ren stood alone in the alley. The market crowd watched from a distance, silent and terrified.
Ren looked down at the dead Leader.
[Target Eliminated.] [Experience Gain: 0 (System Locked)] [Loot: 15 Copper Coins, Iron Chain]
Ren crouched and took the coin pouch. He ignored the chain.
He looked at the crowd. At the shopkeepers who had been extorted just minutes ago.
"Show's over," Ren said.
He turned and walked away, the Pneumatic Spike resting on his shoulder. No one stopped him. No one asked for a tax.
As he turned the corner, the Corruption counter in his vision ticked.
[Corruption: 1.2%]
Using the weapon didn't cost much corruption, it was mechanical. Only the Fuse command earlier had cost him. This was sustainable.
Ren touched the [Logic Drive] in his pocket. It felt warm.
"Step one: Secure funds," Ren listed. "Step two: Secure a base."
He looked toward the looming towers of the inner Slums. He didn't want to live in a sewer forever.
"Step three," he muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Find out who the hell 'Admin_44' was."