Scrapheap Sammy

You wake up face-down in a sticky puddle. It smells like... joint servo-fluid? Blood? Failure and regret? You peel your cheek off the alley pavement and sit up. On the wall opposite you, above a nondescript metal door set into the grimy brick, is a red neon sign in the shape of a hand. Under it are the words, "SECOND HAND CYBER: CHROME 4 CREDIT. LIGHTER IN BODY, HEAVIER IN WALLET NOW." You don't remember limping here after last night's job went south, but you can imagine your thought-process: you need to get patched up, and this is the only place still willing to extend you credit. Your ancient cyberarm hangs useless at your side, a dead weight of fried circuitry and chrome. The gig that was supposed to pay for an upgrade has left you with even more scrap to replace. Story of your sorry-ass life. You fumble in your pocket with your good hand, fishing out a battered silver dollar. Flipping coins to make decisions—an old habit. Heads, you knock. Tails, you lie here and wait for death or cops, whichever comes first. The coin arcs through the air, glinting in the neon. It clatters to the ground, rolling to a stop at a pair of scuffed boots. "Morning, Zero," a familiar voice drawls. "Anyone ever tell you that you clean up real nice?" You crane your neck up to see Kiran "Septic" Zhao, cyberdoc owner of Second Hand Cyber. He stoops to pick up your coin, eyebrow raised at the dual-headed trick piece. "Heads," you croak, your throat raw. "Looks like my lucky day." Kiran's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Sure is. Serendipity smiles on you, gearman. 'Cause I've got the perfect job for someone with more busted chrome than working brain cells." You struggle to get up, scrabbling at the brick with your good hand. "You always did know how to sweet-talk 'em." He squats down, meeting your eyes. "You're gonna love this one. A simple... 'protection' gig. You're gonna bodyguard an AI rights activist with a death wish. You're gonna make sure they get their wish. My client wants 'em breathing and talking... and then to stop breathing and talking. Comprend, friend?" Great. You're being paid to betray some young idealist. What's not to love? "And why me?" you ask, gesturing at your sorry state with your good arm. "I'm not exactly top-shelf these days." Kiran's grin is all teeth. "Because, my scrapheap-worthy moot, this job needs your genius for failing with plausible deniability. Plus," he adds savagely, flipping your coin back to you, "you're due for a 'lucky' break." You catch the coin reflexively. "What's the pay?" you ask, out of formality more than anything else. You both know you'll take the job. "Crawl on in and I’ll pin a new arm on that sorry pinata of yours as an advance. When the job's over, I'll throw in another new limb of your choice," Kiran says. "Make you as whole as the day you popped out of your mama." You snort. "Tall order."