"What—what a waste. These high-quality Prosthetics could have sold for a fortune."
Putato touched the premium auditory sensor that had been re-installed and let out a sigh of relief. He then immediately turned his gaze toward the other three.
The iron-men, clearly Syndicate members who killed without hesitation, seemed to freeze like startled quail under Putato's stare.
Even Mo could only mutter about Putato wasting valuable Prosthetic implants.
Consta was the first to break the silence.
"Yes—yes, you saved our lives. There is no issue with you being the boss."
Immediately after, Arnold spoke up as well.
"To confront the enemy in such a dire situation... you possess the true spirit of The City. I have no objections."
Despite his string of misfortunes, Putato was still buzzing with excitement. As long as he secured his promotion, being deaf wouldn't matter.
The three men then turned their attention toward Mo. This fellow, who was now nothing but a torso and a single leg, tried to look away.
However, when Putato pulled out the money he had earned from Finn, Mo's head snapped back.
"You can bring in money. That settles it."
[Congratulations on your promotion in the Brotherhood of Iron]
[Acquired Work Item: Hematic Pump]
[Description: A high-grade Prosthetic designed to accelerate oxygen supply to body cells.]
[Effect: Once this Prosthetic is installed, it can be manually activated to provide a comprehensive boost to physical attributes for an extended period and significantly accelerate wound healing.]
Good stuff!
With this, at least when facing a powerhouse like Gyeong-mi, he wouldn't be caught without a chance to react.
If Gyeong-mi had thrown a long blade at his head without a word during their previous encounter, Putato would not have been able to dodge.
He wouldn't even have had time to pull out a stun grenade.
"So—so what do we do now? You killed the Doctor. Who is going to treat our bodies?"
"Can't I do it, Consta? Come and assist me!"
Tearing open the syringe packaging, Putato directly drew half a tube of blood and began his own blood analysis.
Consta, the only one with all four limbs intact, quickly stood by. He was dazzled by Putato's incredibly skilled technique.
"Consta, sterilize the chair and the armrest."
"Al—alright."
Putato lay back on the chair and took a deep breath. Since there was no Doctor, he had to install the Hematic Pump himself. This device had to be placed directly next to his heart.
Even if he had left that Doctor alive, Putato wouldn't have dared to let that man operate on him. If anything was maliciously added or removed from his body, it would be fatal.
Fortunately, his Cyborg talent granted him superhuman Cyborg modification techniques.
"Pu—Putato, you aren't trying to commit suicide, are you?"
Putato bit down on a sweat-soaked towel and began to cut into his own chest. His precise movements quickly broke through flesh and blood, gradually exposing his heart.
The Brotherhood of Iron clinic fell eerily silent.
Even though they frequently harvested rats' kidneys to sell, watching Putato—a living person—dissect himself was incredibly unsettling.
Who were the real iron-men here?
The three fully Prostheticized individuals had almost forgotten the sensation of breathing. They were so shocked that even their mechanical cooling fans stopped spinning.
Completely focused, Putato desperately fought back the fear and agony of self-dissection. He stared intently at his crimson chest, methodically activating the auxiliary tools.
"Ugh!"
A mechanical hand quickly connected the Hematic Pump to his circulatory system. Nerves swiftly linked up, sending a strange, tingling sensation through Putato's frame.
Fortunately, while most of the Prosthetics in the clinic were low-grade, the auxiliary tools were of acceptable quality.
Putato nearly chewed through the towel in his mouth. He slowly moved his mechanical arm and, sweating profusely, began the process of stitching himself back up.
Muscle layers, subcutaneous layers, skin layers, pleural layers—Putato flawlessly sealed each one until only a hideous, jagged scar remained on his chest.
"Fixing brace."
Consta stood frozen in place until Putato called a third time. Only then did he hand over the undershirt.
Straping on the chest brace, Putato slowly got off the bed. He traced the surgical scar through the fabric, his heart a whirlwind of emotions.
He had stitched Khaji's Card into the skin of his chest to prevent losing it. He could now directly sense its data.
Did this count as being connected heart-to-heart with Khaji now?
"What—what did you just put in yourself? That didn't look like anything from this clinic."
Arnold, leaning on his one remaining leg, asked suspiciously. Putato's reply was another question.
"Are you ready?"
Putato walked up to Mo and pulled her up.
"Wha—what for?"
"For healing, for modifications, and for making a lot of money."
And then, of course, I'm going to sell you to the Stray Dogs, so I can figure out a way to join them!
The Brotherhood of Iron had been squeezed dry. Putato figured that a violent Syndicate like the Stray Dogs would offer him a much faster path to advancement.
But before that, he needed to increase the Brotherhood of Iron's value to enhance his bargaining chips with Gyeong-mi.
"It—it seems that in The City, you are our senior after all."
"I—I trust you."
Consta encouraged him as always.
Exactly. Since you've forgotten that you shouldn't trust anyone in The City, allow me to teach you all a valuable lesson.
With his plan set, Putato wore a smile. He laid out all the Prosthetics available in the small clinic. Most were low-grade, but a few were of decent quality—enough for the Brotherhood of Iron to rise again.
The three looked at the confident Putato and his chest brace, suddenly feeling that he was a born leader. He possessed that true spirit of The City: a man who would prioritize an objective even over his own life.
"So—so expensive. Why don't you just install it on me, then sell it?"
"Your lives are more important to me than money."
What I want are the big players. Do you lot even have any market value left?
Mo's severely damaged Prosthetic eye locked onto Putato's face. She couldn't comprehend why Putato would say such things—and actually follow through with them.
In her world, her father had sold her mother just to afford an Office entry fee. Her mother had sold her father for Syndicate intelligence rewards. Her neighbors had even sold her siblings to Backstreet 23—not for labor, but to be processed into food.
Mo found it hard to imagine District 23 taking cannibalism for granted, and she was equally unable to grasp Putato's seemingly selfless musings.
"Real—really?"
Putato, utterly exhausted, lay back in his chair. He looked at the three iron-men he had refurbished, a sense of pride swelling in his heart. He didn't even bother with Mo's questioning.
Charge up. Sleep. The Brotherhood of Iron finally has a rare chance to catch its breath.
Click.
Putato stretched, his entire frame emitting the sound of cracking bones. The moment he opened his eyes, he was startled.
Hematic Pump!
The moment it activated, his circulatory system surged. Putato's body temperature rose alongside his physical attributes, which increased significantly. The world in his eyes seemed to slow down by half a beat.
This Prosthetic was incredibly powerful. Putato felt the fleeting illusion that he could actually take on the Stray Dogs.
"You want to be a robotic succubus? Why are you getting so close while I'm sleeping?!"
"Sor—sorry."
Mo bowed slightly, an action that caught Putato off guard. Her movement wasn't mechanical; it felt more human. No, Putato felt he was being paranoid. Mo was human to begin with.
"Everyone, charge up! Unplug your cables immediately; we're leaving."
"Are—are we running away?"
"Running away my ass! Not only are we staying, but we're going to expand this place and grow stronger than ever!"
"But—but the Stray Dogs are too powerful. If we stay, we'll just be slaughtered. Why don't we relocate?"
Putato looked at the hesitant Mo, sensing that she had developed a psychological scar from their previous defeat.
"If we can't beat them, we report them. If they're causing such a scene here, there must be Fixers in the Association looking to eliminate Syndicates, right?"
"Don't fear the obstacles; we must face them head-on!"
"But—but we're a Syndicate too."
Putato fell silent. It seemed tricking these people into a suicide mission was still difficult. He quickly pivoted to a new strategy.
"Then what about all the money we painstakingly collected?"
Although the wealth accumulated by the Brotherhood previously had nothing to do with Putato, he still adopted the persona of a responsible leader. Mo's new Prosthetic eye instantly brightened.
"Putato—Putato is right. Even if we flee, we have to get our money back."
"Those—those guys are sweeping the whole area. Their stronghold must be undefended. With these upgraded Prosthetics, we can still make a fortune!"
...
"Here, it's right here!"
The ragged trash elder enthusiastically led the way, with Gyeong-mi and his group following close behind. They came upon a chaotic clinic filled with metal scraps and discarded Prosthetics, but found no living soul.
"Gyeong-mi, I told you only idiots trust these trash elders who live in dumpsters. This is just an abandoned Prosthetic clinic."
Zulu, the bald man with his arms crossed, complained in dissatisfaction. Beside him, the white-haired Dino looked at the trash elder with a strange intensity.
"Impossible. Does a trash elder really have the guts to fool us?"
"Perhaps they fled."
Dino pulled a painting from his waist and re-confirmed the details with the trash elder.
From the camera he recovered, a blurry but unmistakable image of Putato's face stared back.
Bang!
Gyeong-mi's fist, reinforced with iron rings, slammed into the trash elder's face. The impact instantly sent a spray of blood and shattered teeth flying across the room.
Gyeong-mi hauled the dying elder up by his collar, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he let out a guttural roar.
"I value a promise above all else!"
"If you find my money, you live. If you don't, you'll die in place of that flashy bastard!"
Listening to the carnage below, Putato swallowed hard, feeling as insignificant as a cornered cockroach.
Just as they were preparing to move out, Putato had spotted Stray Dogs patrols swarming the street. A direct confrontation was suicide. Fortunately, the Stray Dogs weren't conducting a house-to-house search—yet.
Putato realized he had to retreat and sacrifice his comrades to save himself.
It was a cold calculation. The personality chips of the three Brotherhood members were already safely tucked in his pocket. Their discarded Prosthetics were left buried under a pile of scrap. Putato himself was wedged into a cramped ventilation duct above the clinic, peering through the slats of the vent cover.
There simply wasn't enough room in the ducts for four people, and they couldn't outrun a mob of Stray Dogs. In a desperate stroke of ingenuity, Putato chose the only path left: the most dangerous place is often the safest. As long as he survived this wave, he'd live to see tomorrow.
"I—I don't know! I swear I saw them carried in here! A few Prosthetic modified men!"
"Then find them! Your life is on the line!"
Gyeong-mi hurled the elder onto the reclining chair. Putato watched the old man's trembling form as he desperately scavenged through the debris, his terror palpable even from above.
Clink. Clang.
Dino ordered his men to kick aside the piles of scrap metal for a closer look, while Zulu urged Gyeong-mi to keep his cool.
Steady.
Putato lowered his head and held his breath, forcing his heartbeat to a minimum. He just had to wait for the Stray Dogs to clear out.
Suddenly, a calloused finger poked through the ventilation opening. The fingertip stopped mere inches from Putato's nose. He could see every grime-filled line on the man's skin.
Damn it!
Did they have Prosthetic oculars capable of infrared scanning?!
No, impossible. The Stray Dogs were notorious for favoring tattoo augmentations over hardware.
Putato broke into a cold sweat. He watched as the finger flicked a twisted piece of metal into the duct and retracted.
What was that? A signal?
The ambiguity sent Putato's mind into a frenzy. If they found him, there was no backup. He was a dead man.
"Look! Look here! I wasn't lying!" the trash elder shrieked. "They escaped through the ducts! Look at this Prosthetic part they dropped!"
Putato cursed the old man. Why is this fossil so sharp? How did he manage to guess right by pure luck?
Die for me just once, old man!
"Move. Let me see," Gyeong-mi's impatient voice rumbled directly beneath him.
Putato discarded his fear and gripped his combat knife. He had the Hematic Pump and the element of surprise. If he timed it right, he might be able to gut Gyeong-mi and use him as a human shield.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He focused every sense on the movement below, ready to spring.
He heard the sound of someone stepping onto a bed, the rustle of fabric, and then Gyeong-mi's confused grumble.
"What is this?"
"Who brought a cat? It's black, useless, and ugly as hell."
"Dino, doesn't this cat look familiar? Like the one Gyeong-mi crushed earlier."
"You mean the pervert who turned his own daughter into a Catgirl?"
"No, the one belonging to those two Prosthetic guys."
A startled shout rang out, followed by the sharp sound of shattering glass.
"What kind of monster is this?!"
"It just bit his head off! Is this some Corporation experiment that broke loose?"
Before Putato could process the chaos, Gyeong-mi's familiar vitriol erupted.
"I really don't understand why every piece of trash thinks they can provoke me!"
Boom!
The fight spilled out of the clinic and into the street. Putato waited nearly thirty minutes before he dared to move.
When he finally peered out, the clinic was empty except for the trash elder, who was scavaging for gilded scraps. In his hand, he clutched Consta's severed head.
Putato didn't care about the cat or the Stray Dogs' nonsense anymore. He dropped from the vent.
"Put my people down!"
After hours of painstaking work, Putato managed to revive the three.
The battered trash elder was now bound alongside the Doctor, screaming in agony.
"I—I thought you'd handle this guy, but he led the enemy straight to us," Mo muttered.
"He still has a use," Putato replied coldly.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound of metal striking metal echoed through the trash-filled alley. In an instant, trash elders popped out from every dumpster like a swarm of groundhogs. One of them was calmly brushing his teeth.
The man stopped when he saw Putato and Mo hauling their captive elder. He spread his arms wide.
"Bro, cats have their alleys and dogs have theirs. We maggots only share the trash bins to survive the winter. We don't know each other."
"He offended you. Do as you wish."
The elders began to retreat back into their bins, returning to their rat-like existence.
"I need something from you. Here's a down payment."
Putato threw the money he'd earned from Finn onto the pavement. The trash elders' eyes practically turned green with greed. They pushed the tooth-brushing man forward to negotiate.
"Money is good. We can enjoy life for a moment. Take one of our worthless lives if it pleases you."
"If you want to play 'human blood buns,' I can pick two starving ones for you."
Human blood buns?
Putato's original intent was merely to use them to track the Stray Dogs' movements.
"We trash elders are dizzy with hunger and riddled with disease," the man continued. "It's hard to get a good meal, but dying with a full stomach is a decent end."
"Last time, a Syndicate locked four of us up and starved us for two days. They finally tossed in a roasted duck. I remember Marner bit the throats out of the other three just to have it all for himself."
Bang!
Putato kicked the man's trash bin over, his fury boiling over. He opened his mouth to scream at the filth-covered man, but the sight of the elders cowering in fear stopped him.
The memories suddenly flooded his mind.
The first time he had killed, he felt nothing. He had been under the illusion that he had already killed Khaji at Good Office. He had become a true resident of The City in less than three days. What right did he have to judge these people?
"My name is Putato. I don't want your lives. I want you to answer me."
"What is my name?"
The elder hesitated, suspecting a trap in this grim game.
"Putato. Your name is Putato."
"Good. Second question. Where is the Stray Dogs' stronghold?"
"I can provide a guide. We can find their general location."
"Last question. Can I join you?"
"Huh?"