II: The flame beyond the cold mountain
Nyla's POV
Nyla moved down the alley's uneven path, modulating her boots scraping against worn stone. The growing murmur of vendors overlapped with the sharp sizzle of the grilling meat stall, which was already venting smoke between stacked crates. The three uni-wheeled androids were working hard setting up the shop with a DJ who was still setting up his DJ booth. Her fingers twitched against her left augmented arm. The implanted joint still hummed with fresh calibration cycles beneath the grafted skin.
A hollow pressure pulsed behind her ribs, timed to the growing scent. Her jaw tightened, teeth pressing into her scarred lower lip. No weight in her pockets. Just the fading imprint of Arika's leftover roasted synthesized meat and sticky rice and the boring hospital food from the lunch.
"Gun Challenge!" The greasy-haired man's voice cut through the plaza chatter as Nyla passed. His grin widened when their eyes met. He gestured toward the faded crimson sign propped against the wall. "Ten Dolls, Ten Deca! Twenty Dolls, Twenty Deca!" His gaze swept across the lower downtown crowd. "Real sedo for the brave ones—under ten seconds!"
Nyla watched as a scrawny kid stepped up, a rusty pistol clutched in his trembling hand, albeit he missed every shot. The greasy-haired man's grin widened. He gestured toward the kid's threadbare jacket. The kid paled, then surrendered the money as he scanned his wrist interface with a whimper.
Nyla's gaze narrowed. This guy's no amateur. His eyes tracked the movements like a predator sizing up prey, his stance too balanced for some cheap street hustler. The way his fingers twitched toward his belt: too practiced, too ready. This wasn't just a game. It was a trap.
He caught her stare and flashed that practiced grin. "Feeling lucky, sweetheart?" His fingers tapped the faded sign. "No sedo? Just leave your piece as collateral." His gaze lingered on the .357 magnum strapped to her thigh.
Nyla didn't move.
This guy's slick, she thought. Too slick. That grin didn't reach his eyes.
"How about this instead?" She raised her SAI arm interface, the military-grade universal equipment wrist wear, the technology mass-produced by SAI owned.
The man rubbed his chin, feigning thought. "Miss the shots, you owe me ten sedo to get it back." He shrugged, then nodded toward the alley. "Or—we could work something out. Got clients who pay extra for a woman with... specialized skills."
Her fingers twitched toward her holster. Skills? The word tasted bitter on her tongue.
He had no clue who he was dealing with.
Nyla's stare remained steady, unblinking.
"Alright," Nyla said, clicking open the arm-interface locking mechanism under her wrist before sliding onto the counter with a deliberate clink. "I'll play your game."
She drew the 9mm, its weight familiar against her palm. This arm still feels like someone else's limb. The servos hummed softly, not quite in sync with her movements.
She planted her feet, ignoring the murmurs from the onlookers. The greasy-haired man's grin wavered—he hadn't banked on her accepting.
Ten small cuddly dolls lined the rickety table, their painted smiles mocking. Twenty would've been pushing it, even for her old self. Ten? Should be nothing.
But this wasn't about the sedo. It was about the quiet, seething need to prove she hadn't lost her edge—that the metal fused to her flesh hadn't dulled what made her dangerous.
Her breath steadied, the alley's noise fading into white noise. The dolls stood in sharp relief against the dim light, their painted grins frozen targets.
The 9mm rose in her grip, the new arm's servos emitting a faint, uneven whine as they compensated for the recoil. Her optics flickered—crosshairs stuttering before stabilizing. The connection lagged, neural feedback delayed by milliseconds.
Five-point-six seconds. That was the calibration window. A lifetime when rounds needed to fly before an opponent finished blinking.
The timer pulsed to life. Her finger curled against the trigger. The first shot cracked out—wood splintered as the nearest doll's head disintegrated. Two, three, four—each muzzle flash illuminated the jerky twitch of her arm's actuators struggling to keep pace. She adjusted her stance, tendons straining as she overrode the limb's sluggish response with raw muscle memory.
Eight, nine… The timer ticked down relentlessly. She reached the tenth doll, her finger tightening on the trigger. One more. Just one more.
Click.
Nyla's optics flickered—crosshairs stuttering before locking onto the target. Should've been a clean hit. However, the doll remained upright, its painted grin mocking her. The timer pulsed red: 10.32 seconds. Her gut tightened. Should've counted the rounds.
The servos in her new arm whined faintly, still struggling to sync with her reflexes. Damn thing's lagging again.
"Now lady," the greasy-haired man gestured toward the alley, his grin widening. "Or we could work something out—call it even."
Nyla's teeth pressed into her lower lip.
"Brother, that isn't how SAI handles business," the newcomer drawled, adjusting his fake-looking wig. His sunglasses gleamed absurdly in the dim light—who wore shades at dusk? "We eat Demon Lord's goons for breakfast. Territory pride and all that." He leaned across the greasy man's table with a conspiratorial grin. "Why don't you show the lady what you've got stashed under there, eh?"
The second man reeked of cheap theatrics—more suspicious than the first.
"What's that supposed to mean?" The greasy-haired man's hand darted beneath the table.
The newcomer—wig askew, sunglasses reflecting the alley's grime—snorted. "Mean? Means she hit the doll, and your game's rigged, pal." He jabbed a finger at the dolls. "See that switch? Magnetized base. Ain't no bullet gonna knock 'em down clean." He reached across the table, flicking a small hidden switch. The doll wobbled, then snapped back upright, a small metallic bolt hidden at the bottom of the doll's bottom part.
The greasy-haired man sputtered, color rising in his cheeks. "That's—that's just..."
"Hey, old man," the kid snapped, shoving forward. "Give me back my money."
The gangster cracked his knuckles, his long hair tied neatly back above his flowery shirt and black suit. "How dare you scam my kid like this." His growl carried the weight of promised violence. "You wanna leave here with broken bones instead of my hard-earned sedo?"
"Sure it is." The newcomer winked at Nyla. "Name's Albert, by the way. Are you going to let this lowlife cheat you, or are you gonna join me for a drink? Celebrate your new implant?"
Nyla eyed Albert, cataloging the details: cheap wig, worse sunglasses, and forced grin. Undercover? Or just another hustler?
"Thanks, but I've got other places to check out," Nyla said, retrieving her temporary-assigned arm interface from the counter.
"Damn, tough crowd," Albert sighed, adjusting his ridiculous sunglasses. "Fine, fine—here." He grabbed her wrist and yanked up his sleeve before she could pull away. The battered arm-interface beneath his cheap disguise pinged to life, projecting a holographic badge that shimmered between them.
"Second Lieutenant Albert," he muttered, tapping the interface. The SAI insignia rotated slowly in the air. "Aux-Recon-7. Happy now?"
Nyla studied the badge, then his face—finally placing him. "That explains the awful disguise."
Albert snorted. "Hey, blending in's an art." He tugged his sleeve back down, glancing over her shoulder. "Now can we move?"
"Wouldn't recognize you if you weren't waving that badge around," Nyla muttered, giving Albert another once-over. "Got a good reason for the getup? Or is this just how you dress?"
"You think I'd actually choose to dress like this?" Albert checked his disguise again, his fingers twitching at the cheap fabric. "Seriously—that bad?"
Nyla scanned the alley's dim perimeter with a sniper's instinct. Movement at two o'clock. Three o'clock. Damn observers. "Just move," she muttered.
"A lighter flicked behind us," Nyla muttered, keeping her voice low.
Albert's fake grin vanished, replaced by sharp focus. "I know where to take you."
Who's watching? She resisted the urge to glance back, keeping her eyes forward.