The Gonk and The Forge (Cyberpunk Edgerunners/2077)

Chapter 7 –

I had never considered that I would enjoy working on the clothes I wear personally. It was not something I really ever saw myself doing. I mean, it was not like I had any need of patching shirts, or trousers if they got holes in them at any point. If they did, it would have been to the recycle bins by the university with them. All my old shirts, shoes, trousers, etc. had either been donated, or sent for recycling.

I never realized that working on clothes would be something I would find satisfaction in. Even if I wasn't doing the work traditionally. Like how a normal tailor or seamstress would do it, what with not needing equipment that they would; while working significantly faster than them to boot. There was a sense of calm, that I found myself taking joy in.

It felt like I could slow down, forget the constant sense of forward momentum the city generated, and focus entirely on creating something that I could display proudly.

It also served as a perfect excuse to stop myself from spiraling into existential dread about how I'd just casually said 'Fuck you' to the principles of heat transfer and thermodynamics—because apparently, the forge's teachings about gadgets doesn't care about petty things like the laws of nature.

With magic, and potions, and whatnot, it was … acceptable. It came with the territory of the subject.

One would think that gadgetry, something that's essentially traditional technology, would be grounded in reality. But apparently, the forge's take on that is "Fuck reality and the horse it rode in on!"

Honestly, I can deal with that. It's not a big deal.

And yes, I had finally managed to read through the digital textbook on foundational chemistry that the good folks at Night City University sent me via email.

The textbook had just landed in my inbox while I was out scavenging for supplies—I did not want to think about that particular encounter!

Fuck… Now I was thinking about it.

No.

Keep on stitching! Keep on stitching! Keep on stitching!

Now the textbook sat open on my computer taunting me with chapters like "Structure of the Atom" and "Stoichiometry." And whatever other science bullshit I had chosen to leave behind in Highschool and study something else back home.

I'd set the Text to Speech function of Bing to read me the introductory pages of all the covered chapters in the book. To get a feel of what hell I was about to subject myself to, while I scrubbed myself thoroughly with bleach. And I was already feeling my brain reject the information. And the robotic voice of the AI was annoying as fuck.

Protons, neutrons, elctrons, ionic this, covalent that—everything I half-remembered from high school science, was back to haunt me. Too much to chew on in one sitting when I had other things to juggle.

I couldn't help hoping the Forge might swoop in and save my ass before the real slog began. Chemistry wasn't exactly my forte, I was a goddamned business school graduate, thank you very much! I had a very high GPA in it too!

The last thing I needed was to cram what essentially amounted to the entirety of High School AP Chemistry in one night.

I'd barely skimmed enough to get a sense of the basics of thermodynamics, before I sat down to begin working on my freezing bullets. I thought out of all the chapters in the digital textbook; it would have helped most, given the nature of the topic and project at hand.

….. it only served to fuck with my head.

I should not have attempted to make sense of highly advanced scientific principles behind the gadgets that the forge gave me the blueprints to make, based on half-remembered knowledge from a High school I had been to half a decade ago; while pulling an all-nighter and in desperate need of caffeine.

Caffeine that I cannot get for myself because…. well, I don't think I need to reiterate why that is more than I have at this point! I do not want to think about what I can sense in a cup of Matapang Coffee. Even the decaf is horrifying for my gut. And decaf coffee is horrible in and of itself!

FUCK, I'M THINKING ABOUT IT!

Keep on stitching! Keep on stitching! Keep on stitching!

At least, I had managed to work on eighteen rounds, three barrels worth of freezing bullets for my revolver. And made a cutting-edge smartphone while I was at it.

It is a good smartphone. Better than my old Seocho at least. And that thing had already been blowing all other smartphones from back home out of the entire universe. Soon, I too would take my fledgling baby steps into the future.

Well, I wasn't going to be engaging in holo calls anytime soon, but I had managed to retrofit the holographic display from the Seocho and layer on top of a pretty neat 10K touchscreen.

Yes. That is 10K graphics. 10,000 pixels…. I do not know what the hell I am going to do with that many pixels. But I have it…. for reasons.

At least that beauty wasn't fucking with my head as the bullets were.

See, according to my textbook; The First Law of Thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred or converted from one form to another. The Second Law explains that systems naturally move towards disorder—entropy increases over time. And the Third Law says as you approach absolute zero in terms of temperature, entropy would theoretically hit its minimum.

Clear enough? Good.

Because trying to make sense of what I'd done with my bullets with any of that is already giving me a headache. That was after the massive leeway I had given it with the law of equivalent exchange that Alchemy tacked on as yet another fundamental law between the boundary of the physical-metaphysical universe.

I have about an hour left before I need to start heading for the diner. Working the seams of my jacket, readjusting the length of the sleeve, and broadening the shoulders while at it; helps me calm down significantly.

The micromanipulator gloves had finally gotten to show what they were really capable of. Not that they hadn't already by giving me phenomenal potential while aiming my gun, and hiding my distress in front of others.

My earlier forge-granted skill already greatly reduced any need for equipment for working my clothes, the micron scale precision the micromanipulators were capable of allowed me to work on all my clothes without dismantling them down to their fabrics beforehand, reducing the need for even a needle from the process.

Granted that doing so would have slowed me down for barely a few minutes, but the added precision and saved time was a much-appreciated benefit. And the level of detail I was able to focus on the clothes with the aid of the gloves was always a plus.

But I digress. The freezing bullets were a big fuck you to all the laws of thermodynamics.

Heat is a form of energy.

The blueprints for the bullets the forge downloaded to my head; essentially used an object that is moving at massive velocity, which means it is already containing extremely high energy, and imbuing a goddamned freezing effect with them.

Now, normally if such a bullet were to hit a target; it is expected that the target would get some of that energy; which would either cause it to move; or express the various other effects as it gains energy. But the significant part of this is that the target is likely to experience a rise in heat.

The bullet in question, on the other hand, would lose some of that energy and react exactly opposite to the target. It would slow down, likely shatter, and lodge itself somewhere inside the target; dissipating more energy into the target. And more significantly the bullet will have a tendency to lose some of its heat.

The math behind it is beyond me at the moment. But I get the idea.

With my bullets though?

I have, on my table, bullets that cause instant freezing of a localized region around the target.

If I were to shoot a guy in the chest, I'm pretty sure the guy's chest and all internal organs around his heart and lungs would freeze to sub-zero temperatures instantaneously. If I shoot their thigh, well my next shot would shatter their thigh down to their very bone.

The frostbite that I would be causing which would eat and disable the surrounding flesh as well as cybernetics on top of that; is an added icing on top of the cake that was an already devastating projectile I had modified.

And to build these miracle bullets, according to the damned forge-granted blueprints in my head, all I had needed was something that the forge called Cryoethan-3 Trifluoronitroxide.

Or CETN-3.

...It was a substance that did not exist.

Well, not according to my Internet Searches anyway. Nor is it anywhere mentioned in my textbook.

This meant that the forge had instructed me to modify my bullets using, what I believe is an even more hyper-futuristic, chemical compound to build my bullets compared to the chemicals and compounds available in the time period I was already in.

It was a chemical compound that I did not possess. Did not know how to create. Did not even know where to begin with to start the process of synthesizing it.

I had essentially seen the schematics in my head, thought 'Oh, neat! I can build freezing arrows, bullets, and other high-tech gadgets now!' and hadn't considered exactly what it was I was setting out to do.

I had thought 'Damn, freezing arrows are neat! Bet I could modify the design to fit bullets instead! The freezing effect must make sense realistically somehow!'

And I had fucking done it. I had crafted those damned bullets. And I had done it without the CETN-3 bullshit miracle cryo compound.

I am beginning to think that a massively stressed, sleep-deprived, version of myself who is wrangling with what I can realize is depression, is a massive hidden genius!

I knew what the compound was supposed to do. I knew what effects it could imbue. I did not possess the means to get the compound itself. Therefore, I had done what any other genius in my place would have done.

I fired up the stove in my kitchen, mixed in some thoroughly distilled water, with half a bottle of Abydoss-King-size alcohol, and two cans of Tiancha. Simmered, and stirred clockwise for three rotations, and counterclockwise once.

Et. Viola. I had my instant freezing potion!

After that, everything else had been easy. The micromanipulators easily helped me lace the inside of the hollowed-out bullet with the potions; and boom! I had my freezing bullets. Well, eighteen of them.

All of them were of the homing variety too, which was the simpler aspect of this entire project. Micromanipulators are a godsend with working with really tiny stabilizers and other retrofitted parts salvaged from old Cyberware.

This entire headache makes me think that trying to make sense of the schematics and knowledge of the forge from a traditional lens is going to be an exercise in futility. But it really isn't something I can give up, and go 'Fuck it. We ball!' and not try and learn what it was that I was really doing.

Chemistry itself was essential to improving and solidifying my alchemy. I was sure that understanding the principles behind every other gift the forge would grant me would prove to be extremely beneficial in the long run.

I slip out of the old, baggy T-shirt I'd been wearing all night and pull on the shirt I had just finished working on. The fabric is smooth and fitted perfectly to my shoulders and chest. It's light, not much different than what it had been before, but I could already tell the world of difference in how it felt. It was cozy, comfy, and almost perfect to feel on my skin.

The added reassurance that it was also something I knew could shrug off a knife swipe or worse, mantis blades, also made that feeling seem extra nice.

The trousers come next. Dark and practical, they slide on with ease, fitting like they were made for me—because they were. With the same level of comfort and protection as the shirt.

Finally, the jacket. Pulling it on, I feel the snug fit settle perfectly along my shoulders and arms, the high collar brushing against my neck.

I was now more armored than a medieval knight of yore! Well, a medieval knight in double layers of fantasy magic chain mail.

I was hoping that wearing double layers of clothing would mean extra protection from whatever lunatic with a knife, sword, or mantis blade up their ass would fail at their attempts at murdering me.

Not that I was expecting shit like that every time I stepped outside my apartment. That would be ridiculous.

Grabbing the bullets from the desk, I pocket the Overture, alongside my new Smartphone; and step out of my personal reality through the open closet door. Seeing what little sun creeps in through blinds, and the sky-scraper jungle outside, I can see that I still have some time before I need to head out for the diner.

Just enough to go through my email again, and check if Marmur Bank has responded to my request for upgrading my account with them.

Luckily, they had responded.

[Subject: Account Upgrade Confirmation – Marmur Bank

Dear Mr. Vargas,

We are pleased to inform you that your request for an account upgrade has been successfully processed. You can now utilize the integrated data terminal in your device to facilitate direct, seamless transactions.

With this upgrade, you can enjoy the following benefits:

Instantaneous Eurodollar Transactions: Send and receive payments securely across Night City and beyond.Multi-Currency Support: Exchange and transact in affiliated digital currencies, ensuring you stay connected to the global market.Biometric Encryption: Transactions are safeguarded with Marmur Bank's state-of-the-art neural encryption or biometric verification protocols.Ledger Transparency: Access a comprehensive, real-time transaction history via our secure MarmurBankNet app.

At Marmur Bank, we take pride in offering unparalleled security for your digital transactions. Our Quantum-Secured Crypto Protocol™ operated and monitored by NetWatch, ensures every transaction is protected against even the most sophisticated threats from Cyberspace.

Should you require assistance with activating the data terminal feature or any additional services, please do not hesitate to contact our Customer Care team available 24/7.

Thank you for choosing Marmur Bank—the trusted financial institution of Night City.

Sincerely,

Virtual Account Services

Marmur Bank™ – Banking Beyond Reality

This email was generated automatically. Please do not reply.]

It was followed by a link for their app that I quickly downloaded onto my new Smartphone – that thing deserves a name for itself, I don't think '10K smartphone' was something I want to call it forever– and finally, I could now use money like a normal person.

Well, a normal person for Night City. A normal person in Night City who had no Cyberware….

Anyway.

Providing a fingerprint and retina scan as the app directed for the bank account, I was relieved and somewhat filled with excitement to finally not have to pay the surcharges that I had suffered the past month for cash transactions anymore.

I can already see what little stored amount I had in the account displayed on the holographic touch screen of my phone. That amount brings my soaring mood down instantly.

Anyway. It's time. I should leave for the diner now.

A quick pat-down confirms I've got everything—potions, gun, smartphone, keys. All set. With one last glance around the apartment, I lock the door and step out, bracing myself for another round of sensory assault from the building's lovely automated features.

And, right on cue, the goddamned ads in the elevator start blaring. Again.

"A solution to your problems! Pollution in your sector? Did the Ripperdoc fuck your procedure? Or your wife? Or both?! Or did the radiation in your area cause your baby to sprout genetic mutations? We have you covered! All World Insurance! We can help!"

The voice is so chirpy it grates against the vague thrum of a headache I've been nursing all morning.

I don't even flinch anymore; it's burned into my brain at this point. I could probably sell the pitch better than the AI running it. I don't even want to get into the imagery that often plays with it.

But the real kicker? I know how worthless their policies are.

I've gone through their insurance policy in excruciating detail. After Marmur Bank tried pulling their little contract stunt, I've learned my lesson. I did it with All World, Trauma Team, and most other corporations that sell some form of subscription service that I had thought would be useful to make my life easier here in the past month.

All World Insurance is everywhere—Night City, NUSA, most of the world, really—but what they actually do is a joke. Their policies offer just enough to look appealing on the surface but are riddled with so many loopholes they might as well have a "No Refunds" sign in bold across every page.

Like they can reject anesthesia coverage in the middle of an operation! Or only cover a part of it, and say 'Fuck you' for the rest.

There was a reason one of their execs was gunned down outside a hotel in Watson.

What is a patient in need of life-saving surgery to do without anesthesia coverage? Stick a piece of iron and clench really hard? Fuck that noise!

There were much better alternatives, of course. Equally expensive too.

Trauma Team is the king of that hill. They don't need gimmicks like this. All World might boast about covering your little cybernetic cold, but Trauma Team? They'll haul your bleeding, half-dead ass out of a warzone if your bank account's fat enough.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. I'd managed to ignore the other ad entirely. Cheers for me!

Finally. I step out onto the grimy ground floor, already greeted by the first wave of street-level ads trying to lock onto my attention. Holo-displays shimmer in my peripheral vision, pitching everything from synthetic noodles to new neural implants.

The streets are already alive, well they never really go to sleep so what difference is there?

Drones and AVs zip overhead, neon lights flicker, and the hum of chatter and distant engines fills the air. I weave through the bustle, keeping my head down, ignoring whatever ads are screaming at me from the walls, the sidewalks, or the passing cars.

It doesn't take long to reach the diner.

A van screeches out of the attached parking lot, cutting across the curb just inches from where I'm walking. The roar of its engine hits me first, followed by a rush of air as it zips past, way too close for comfort.

"Hey!" I yell, jumping aside and barely avoiding becoming roadkill. "Watch where you're driving, assholes!"

The side door of the van slides open as it careens around a corner, and I catch a flash of movement. Someone leans out, screaming, "Fucking punch it, Misha! Get us away from the freaks!"

I can't even get a clear look at the driver or the passengers before the van tears off, tires screeching like they're running for their lives.

"God damned Lunatics," I mutter, heart still racing.

Dusting myself off, I check myself over for anything that might've gotten scuffed or broken in the near-miss.

I grumble under my breath, shaking my head as I move forward toward the diner.

…..And the diner's glass windows are shattered, peering inside the furniture is a broken mess, the TV on the corner has bullet holes in it, and there are mangled and bloodied corpses strewn all across the floor, the counter, and the walls. There is blood on the goddamned ceiling too! Neither Archie nor Rafael are anywhere in sight.

What. The. Actual. Hell.

My luck just can't be that bad! I refuse to believe it.

Nope. Nu-uh. No way!

I don't think that God, Morgan Freeman, Cthulu, Dormammu, or whatever other entity that decided to send me here, also specifically cursed me with shit fucking luck. If they did, I want a refund. Yesterday!

"Hey! Anybody in here?! Mr Torres?!" I shout, brandishing my Overture as I rush through the wide-open door of the diner.

No response.

My heart pounds as I carefully leap over the bodies strewn across the floor, my boots crunching against shattered glass and debris. "Archie! Rafael! Someone! Say something!" My voice echoes through the diner, but it's met with an eerie silence.

The stench of blood is thick, metallic, almost choking.

My gut twists as I vault over the counter, narrowly avoiding another corpse slumped against it. Gritting my teeth, I push forward, heading toward Rafael's office at the back of the diner. There's blood everywhere—smeared on the floor, splattered against the walls, and dripping from the counter edges.

My gaze flickers down to the faces of the dead—or rather, what's left of them. That's when I see it: holographic masks flickering weakly over their faces. Recognition hits me like a gut punch.

It's the fucking scavs.

My hand tightens around the grip of my revolver. "No way. No goddamned way! They didn't... they couldn't have..."

My thoughts spiral, my voice rising in a panicked mutter. "This is not my fault. They didn't come here because of me. There's no way. No fucking way!"

I stumble back, catching sight of a blood trail leading straight to Rafael's office door. My pulse races as dread knots my stomach tighter.

"Is somebody in there!" I yell, rushing toward the office. My voice cracks, desperation clawing its way through my chest. I train the overture at the door, as I slowly approach it. "Answer me! I have a fucking gun!"

Just as I reach for the door, my foot catches on yet another body. I trip, falling to the floor with a grunt. Before I can even curse, a deafening roar of shotgun fire peppers the space where my head had been a second ago.

My breath hitches as I freeze, the echo of the blast still ringing in my ears.

A voice from inside screams, raw and pained, "You'll not get me, dickwads! Come at me! I'll show you all!"

I know that voice! Panicked and manic, but it's still Archie.

What the hell!

I crawl away from the door and shout back, "Archie!"

Another burst of shotgun pellets tears into the door, splintering it further.

"Archie! It's me! Hey! It's me! Zain! STOP!" I yell, my voice cracking as more rounds pepper the plastic door. The thing is shredded beyond belief, hanging on its hinges by the barest minimum. "Archie! STOP!"

The firing finally ceases. For a long, tense moment, there's silence, then a groaning voice breaks through.

"Zain…?"I hear her voice, but then the shotgun cock again. "Show me your face! I don't fucking believe you! Not for a goddamned second, choom! Show me your face!"

I swallow hard, pressing myself against the wall beside the door. My breath comes in shaky gasps as I call out, "O-okay, Archie….calm down, its just me."

"NO! SHOW ME YOUR FACE OR FACE LEAD MOTHER FUCKER!" She screams from inside.

Holy shit…. I do not want to stick my head in there. There is a cock of shotgun. "HEY! You pull anything anything and I will blow your head off! Show me your face!"

Goddamnit! I have no other choice.

"O-okay…..Archie. Just promise me you won't blow my face off! Please! It's really just me." I reply, hoping beyond hope that I'm not about to die. I had been in far too many such situations in way too short a time.

Seconds stretch into an eternity before I hear a sharp clicking sound.

"Fine!" she snaps. "But don't think I won't pull the trigger if you try anything, choom. Gun's still on you."

I hesitate, my heart hammering against my ribs. Gulping, I slowly raise my hands higher, keeping my revolver pointed to the ceiling, and peek through the shattered remains of the doorway.

There she is, crouched behind a broken desk, her shotgun unwavering and trained directly on me. Her face is pale, streaked with blood—Rafael's blood. Behind her, the sight makes my stomach churn.

Rafael.

Half his brain is exposed, a torn-off the shoulder cybernetic mantis blade arm skewered through his hut, his lifeless body slumped against the wall. Blood coating everything—the desk, the floor, even the fragments of the shattered computer.

There are two more dead scavs inside too. One of them has had his mantis blade arms dismembered, while the other spilled all his guts out on the floor.

I bite back the bile rising in my throat.

"Archie…" I croak, stepping carefully into the room, my hands still raised.

After a moment of very intense scrutiny from her, as she observes my face, she slumps the shotgun falling from her hands.

"I almost blew your face off," she stutters, as she manically looks at the bodies in the room and at her father "I did blow their faces off – oh, hell! Fuck!"

"Hey, hey, hey! Easy! Look at me!" I replied, my throat dry, as I rushed to check her tucking my revolver back in my jacket. I didn't know what I was doing. I don't think she should be looking at the body of her dad right now. "Archie, look at me. Deep breaths. Deep Breaths"

She looks up at me, her face pale and streaked with blood—some of it hers, most of it not. Her breath comes in short, shallow gasps. She fights me as she tries to look at her dad. I was trying whatever comes to mind to get her calmed down.

"Deep breaths, Archie" She takes a big gulp of air. "Yes, now…"

What do I do now? Fucking hell. I was in no position to calm her down. I wasn't feeling calm myself!

"T-tell me what happened." I try and hope that's the right thing to do.

Her breathing quickens again, her words tumbling out between sobs. "We'd just opened. It was—it was normal. Just another morning." Her hands twitch, clawing at her knees as she stares past me, her voice trembling. "Dad was getting everything ready. I was at the counter. Then they—they came…"

I hover over her awkwardly as she collects herself. God damnit I don't know how to handle such a situation. David Martinez had handled a similar if a much more watered-down version of this just a few days ago.

He had managed to make it seem effortless back then. I was taking whatever cues he had shown then and throwing them all at the wall to see what stuck.

"They just started shooting! Dad—he pushed me down, covered me—he wouldn't let them—" She continued after a moment.

Her voice cracks, and she chokes on a sob. "He grabbed the shotgun. He killed most of them, told me to run for the office, but then he –"

Should I even be getting an account of the situation in the middle of all this, just in front of her father's corpse?

She doesn't give me a chance to tell her to stop.

She lets out a shaky breath, and continues. "He took a mantis blade to the back, but he kept fighting. Dropped more of them, even with the blade and arm sticking from his guts" she says, her voice hollow. "I-I couldn't do anything as they fought…. I just stood there…. Till one of them rushed at me with a machete."

Her words hit me like a physical blow. I lurch forward, grabbing her shoulders gently but firmly. "Archie. Are you hurt? Tell me you're not hurt."

Her gaze flickers to me, unfocused. "I'm not… no. I'm not hurt," she mumbles. "Dad didn't let them. He—he shot him down, pushed me into the office. Kept fighting."

Then she looked at the other two bodies in the room.

"One of them shot my dad in the head," She said blankly. "I–I took Dad's shotgun and killed them both."

Fucking hell….

I – I was out of my depth in dealing with this. I needed to…

"I am calling the cops" I say, as I fumble with my smartphone.

She doesn't move, doesn't even look at me. Instead, she stares blankly at Rafael, her lips trembling. "Why?" she whispers, her voice cracking. "Why did they attack us? What the fuck did we do to them?"

Because of me. I want to tell her. Because I had killed their buddies and let Petrova walk away. And now Rafael was dead.

The police call operator answers, their tone clipped and professional.

"911. I am obligated to inform you that you will be charged 5€$ for every minute of this call. What is your emergency?"

What? No. Unimportant.

"Yeah, please send the police, the scavs just shot up the diner I work at. It's the ♡♡♡♡ diner. By Crescent and Broad Street."

The operator responds immediately, their voice monotone but efficient. "Alright, please tell me your name and verify the address again. That is the Four Hearts Diner, between the Gold Niwaki Plaza and Crescent and Broad Street, correct?"

"Yes, yes, that's the place!" I confirm, my voice strained with urgency. "My name is Zain Vargas. Please, just send someone!"

The operator's tone remains infuriatingly calm. "Please confirm if there are any active threats in the area."

"What?" I ask, confusion laced with frustration, before shaking my head quickly. "No. No active threats in the area. The scavs are gone. Please send a squad!"

"Sir. Calm down and cooperate with me as I identify the appropriate response for the situation," the operator replies, their tone unflappable.

"What the hell? What's not understandable about a goddamned shootout?!" I snap, my voice rising.

"Sir. I understand the situation, but please cooperate, and I will be able to help you soon," they reply, their tone maddeningly steady.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to take a shaky breath. Fine. Calm. Just stay calm.

Archie is sobbing quietly beside me, her gaze locked on her father's lifeless body. Shit.

"Sir. Is there anyone previously wounded, or injured in the vicinity? How severe are the wounds?" the operator asks further.

I hesitate, glancing at Archie. Does she count? She's unhurt physically, as far as her own assessment can be trusted.

"Maybe one? I—I don't know," I stammer, the frustration bubbling again. "Look, just please send someone here!"

"Alright. I have a complete understanding of the situation. As there are no active assailants in the vicinity, you are advised to clear out of the diner. A dispatch unit will be over to your location in two hours."

WHAT THE FUCK?

"WHAT THE FUCK?! WHY IN TWO HOURS? SEND THEM OVER RIGHT NOW!" I shout, pacing through the gore splattered across the office.

"Sir, I apologize, that will not be possible. Please standby for assistance in due time. You will be charged 45€$ from the attached bank account to this device. Thank you for calling the NCPD, and remember, we are here to Protect and Serve you!"

The line cuts off.

I stare at the phone, my hand shaking, the absurdity of their response reverberating in my head.

"What the fuck," I whisper. "What the actual fuck?!"

"Two hours…" I mutter under my breath, my voice cracking as the weight of their indifference presses down on me.

Archie is still there, trembling, staring blankly at Rafael's lifeless body. Her soft, uneven sobs punctuate the heavy silence of the room.

I grip the phone tightly, my knuckles white. My mind races. Two hours.

What the hell am I supposed to do for two hours?!

"Fuck!" I hiss, shoving the phone into my pocket, pacing the gore-filled and destroyed office room, blood and guts staining my shoes. "I can't believe this shit! The goddamned nerve, Archie!?"

I need to think. Like a calm and reasonable person.

I am not a calm and reasonable person.

Nothing about this situation leads to the thinking of a calm and reasonable person.

As if consolation, trying to get me to calm down somehow. I feel the forge move in the back of my head.

The vibrant galaxy of stars and their configuration of revolving constellations becomes clear in my eyes.

The forge shifted in my mind, constellations rearranging into a new pattern. A weight pressed against my consciousness for a brief second before it lifted, leaving me with clarity—and a new acquisition.

A goddamned chemical synthesizer.

A compact, microwave-sized marvel capable of synthesizing any non-magical chemical known to man, up to 12 ounces at a time.

All controlled through an app that was now on my smartphone. Somehow.

The damned thing was already sitting inside my personal reality, pristine and ready to use.

And now, apparently, I don't need to lose my mind over magically creating substitutes for Cryoethan-3 Trifluoronitroxide anymore. I could synthesize the real deal with just this.

Just after I had finished agonizing half the night about the law of conservation of energy, and coming up with a magical substitute for the ultra-hyper futuristic cryogenic compound, the forge decided to say a big old 'Fuck you' to the law of conservation of mass as well.

Can. Deal. With. That.

I'd spent the whole night and early morning brewing that damned substitute potion —fumbling with sleep-deprived alchemy—only for the forge to hand me the perfect tool to get the original thing just as I finished.

Was the entity behind the forge laughing at me? This entire thing seemed like a very bad, off base, bizarre joke.

No.

There were probably a million other uses for the synthesizer, but my brain couldn't handle thinking about them right now.

Maybe I could use it for organic ingredients? What else, could it handle food if I knew their chemical structures?

This just hammered home the fact that I really needed to knuckle down and study chemistry properly.

Shaking my head, I refocus myself on the disaster at hand.

At least the forge's interruption meant I could think with a calmer head.

I need to get Archie away from her father's corpse. Out of the diner entirely. The parking lot?

The cops should arrive in an hour and some minutes, so I can't go much further than that.

Was the parking lot safe? Would the scavs come back? They had managed to find me at the Gym, at the diner. Where else then, will they show up? Was it even the same group of scavs?

What about after the fact that the cops showed up?

What do I do then?

Wait, do I even have a job here? What am I thinking?! That isn't important.

I will manage, Archie's just lost her dad.

I move to Archie and gently grip her arm, helping her to her feet.

Her face is pale, her tears dried into streaks of salt and grime. She doesn't resist, but she flinches at my touch, her blank stare breaking as she refocuses on me.

"What… what did the cops say?" she asks, her voice hollow.

"They're on their way," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "They'll be here in a couple hours."

She takes a shuddering breath, her shoulders rising and falling unevenly before she nods.

"Come," I say softly. "Let's get out of here. I'll… I'll take your dad. I'll bring him outside…"

The words feel heavy in my throat, and I don't know if I actually should. Moving him feels wrong. It feels wrong to leave him lying there too.

Fuck.

I should've covered him long ago. He doesn't deserve this. Not to be left like this—with his brains leaking out for all to see.

Archie nods again, her lip trembling as she steps toward the door.

She bends down, picking up the shotgun from the floor, her hands shaking as she grips it tightly. She doesn't look back as she walks out, her figure disappearing into the bright light of the diner's shattered entrance.

I glance back at Rafael. Goddamnit.

Kneeling beside his body, I grab the mantis blade arm skewered through his gut. My fingers hesitate for a moment before I tighten my grip and slowly wrench it out. Blood gushes from the wound, pooling around him, soaking through my newly worked clothes and dripping onto the already ruined floor.

I barely notice the mess. I could not care less about the ruined clothes at this point.

Carefully, I slide my arms under his body, ignoring the cold, sticky sensation of his blood against my skin. His weight is nothing to me, it's the cold of his skin that's making my skin crawl.

I step out into the sunlight, blinking as the harsh glare stings my eyes. The heat of the pavement radiates upward, a cruel contrast to the cold weight in my arms.

Archie is sitting on the bench outside the diner, her back pressed against the corner of the windowless wall. The shotgun rests on her lap, her fingers gripping it so tightly her knuckles are white. Her head is tilted back, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling with slow, shallow breaths.

I lay Rafael down gently on a less damaged table in the diner, positioning him with as much care as I can manage. And sit down beside her.

All there is left to do is wait.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

(A/N)

HAPPY NEW YEAR! EVERYONE!

And a belated Merry Christmas!

TECHNO BABBLE! SO MUCH TECHNO BABBLE!

Oh, and if you're wondering why Freezing tech is so easy for Zain. The Gadgeteer perk is from DC. The Batman side of DC. That includes one I used in Arkham Knight and the Arkham series. The ice grenade. So, freezing tech is simple for him.

As for the Police response. Bro is not a corpo, but lives in a corpo district. Victims are not corpo, because diner, and the lady was pinging all biomons. No corpo ids calling for help.

In Judy and Ev's sitch they had said they would come only after a full day. I think if Judy'd been living in Westbrook the response would have been quicker. But not as good as possible.

And the charge thing. Well that's just canon lol.

Domain: Toolkits: Mundane

Chemical Synthesizer (Hive Queen Quest) (100CP)

This microwave sized machine is truly a wonder of modern science, able to synthesize any non-magical chemical known to man in up to 12 oz batches. Synthesizing a chemical takes roughly an hour and works via a small Tablet interface. * A bit underpriced for any matter creator, even with the small volume and time needed, born from lacking knowledge that ever matter falls under chemical.

Zain opened with 0 CPs. Earned over 250 by the time of roll. Used 100, ended with 150.