《Gunrunner》


 The All-in-One Guide to Be Prepared

    ARE YOU PREPARED?


    (Here, an image of a cartoon cat wearing a gas mask is depicted.)


    IF YOU''RE NOT, MR. FELIX WILL HELP YOU!


    #1: WHAT SHOULD WE BE PREPARING FOR?


    XNT-01 is what seems to be a biological weapon deployed by forces of terrorism. From our research so far, we have gathered that it destroys anything organic- that is, wood, animals, and you!


    It can be carried by anything- the air, the water, and sometimes even the soil.


    #2: HOW DO WE PREPARE OURSELVES?


    Make sure you have a secure room in the house stocked with emergency rations and any tools you may need. Don''t bring a gun- they''re dangerous, and shooting XNT-01 isn''t going to stop it! We recommend stocking at least:


    60 days'' worth of non-perishable foods (cans, jerky, etc.)


    90 days'' worth of water


    1 flashlight


    1 wrench


    1 hammer


    1 screwdriver


    1 crowbar


    1 box of iron nails


    1 box of iron screws


    3 gas masks


    1 box of replacement filters for the gas mask (or 30 individual filters)


    1 radio capable of receiving FM broadcasts


    1 chessboard (or a similar board game)


    1 pack of playing cards


    a small quantity of books


    #3: IS THAT IT?


    No sir! You need to fortify your secure room so that nothing can get in. First, buy sufficient amounts of epoxy, and cover any hole you find in the room. Do not cover the space under or over the door. If the room has a window, cover any gaps between the window and the wall but don''t cover the window itself. Second, buy a MiraClean? air filter and install it under the door. Cover all remaining gaps between the door and the wall.


    #4: WHAT DO I DO WHEN I RUN OUT OF SUPPLIES?


    Don''t worry! We''ll have XNT-01 contained before that. We guarantee it. Even now, we''re successfully containing the spread in multiple locations!The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    (Here, an image of a smiling man wearing a hazmat suit with the hood pulled down is shown.)


    As long as you act according to this pamphlet, you and your family will be perfectly safe until all infected areas have been quarantined.


    STAY SAFE!


    AND DON''T FORGET, STAY POSITIVE!


    The U.S. Government


    <hr>


    The man dropped the faded paper to the ground.


    "What a load of bullshit. It''s been 13 years, and the only reason the spread has stopped is because the Scourge has run out of shit to eat."


    He smirked, and put a cigar to his lips. It was unbranded, and seemed to be home-rolled. He flicked open a metal lighter, and lighted the cigar.


    He exhaled a cloud of smoke.


    His face was worn, with lines that made him look older than he was. It looked more like leather than human skin, and his eyes glinted with what some would take to be a hint of madness. Although he didn''t wear a beard, there was evident stubble on both his lip and chin.


    He wore a leather coat with many pockets and pouches placed in unlikely places. On his head was a hat that looked much like a fedora, but with a wider brim.


    The man finished his cigar, and dropped it to the ground. He turned around, and started walking towards a motorcycle stood up against the delapidated remains of a wall. As he moved to get on it, a growl caused him to turn around.


    As he scanned the area, the source of the growling became apparent.


    It was what once was a dog- but its new form could only be described as horrifying.


    The Scourge is a type of nanomachine that consumes organic matter. It runs on the consumed matter, but when it has more matter than is needed it begins to replicate. It first breaks down the material into its basic components, and carefully reassembles them into an imitation of its own form. In this way, the Scourge is able to spread at a remarkably quick speed, provided there are ample supplies of matter.


    But occasionally, the Scourge decides that it would be better to simply take over a host and use it to gain access to more matter. As a nanomachine, the Scourge is incapable of moving on its own- it relies on the movements of the wind and water for propulsion. However, when a host is found, the nanomachines become capable of independent movement.


    The process of takeover is deceptively simple. After consuming part of the host''s flesh, instead of using it for replication it is used to "enhance" other parts of the host. This results in increased muscle mass, but loss of higher cognitive functions. This process also results in the growth of unsightly tumours on the skin of the host.


    This particular dog was practically nothing but tumors. Its fur was filthy and matted with blood and grime, and most of its head was missing, replaced with dark growths mushrooming out of its cranium. One of its eyes was missing, while the other was just barely still in its socket.


    It continued growling as it cautiously crawled towards the man. His left hand slowly made its way under his coat, while his right hand was held out, far from his body, as a distraction.


    "Here, doggy, here."


    He crooned as he slowly waved his right arm in a hypnotic circle. The dog''s only eye tracked the motion, while it continued to growl.


    When it crouched as though preparing to jump, the man whipped out his left hand from under his coat and fired a gun.


    It was a long-barrelled silver revolver, with a black polymer grip. It was completely unremarkable in every regard except for a small inscription etched on the barrel.


    ''G. L. S. 52''


    The bullet left the gun, expanding in size due to its hollow point. It flew straight and true, and entered the dog''s eye socket, destroyed the mass that was once its brain, and exited the dog''s skull to land on the ground behind it. The once-drab ground around around the dog was colored a dark red, due to the fluids spurting from its head.


    The dog''s semi-intact jaw quivered for a moment, as though trying to bark one last time, and collapsed.


    The man blew on the end of the still-smoking gun, and stuck it back in its holster. He walked over to the motorcycle and sat down on the seat, gripping the handlebars.


    "I hate killing dogs. They''re so much nicer than humans, and in this fucked-up new world, smarter, too. Well, guess that one wasn''t."


    And with that last remark, directed at the corpse of the dog, the man revved up the motorcycle and left, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

 Origins

    "He is the Gunrunner."


    The man telling the tale is old. His hair is completely white, and his hands tremble whenever he lifts his pipe to his mouth.


    "The Gunrunner wasn''t always the Gunrunner, of course. Before that, though, nobody knows who he was. He simply showed up in Florida one day, and accepted a job listing to deliver a package to Alaska. We all thought he was mad- even madder than the man offering the job in the first place.


    "Imagine our surprise when, almost a year later, he turned up again- this time, with a token to prove he delivered the package successfully. He was roughed up in all sorts of ways, but the grin on his face as he got paid was nothing but pure happiness."


    The old man takes a swig of beer before he continues.


    "He wouldn''t give a straight answer on how he managed to do it. ''I shot some things, and kept riding until I got there'' was all we managed to squeeze out of him. We were jealous, and rightly so; nobody had managed a delivery farther than one state before. ''Course, if this was the Old World, any of us could have done it. But now, what with all the monsters out there, nobody in his right mind would dare venture into the deserts.


    "He always carried a revolver. Custom made, from the looks of it. He used to joke that it was his ''lil'' boss''. After the delivery, people fixated on the most noticeable part of him- that big, silver gun- and called him the Gunrunner. Why they couldn''t settle for something simple like Courier or Deliveryman I can''t tell."


    Here, one of the listeners cuts in.


    "Then, uncle, was he insane?"


    "No, he wasn''t. Sure, he was crazier than a tick for even trying the delivery in the first place, but his mind was there- better than can be said for most of us.


    "Anyway, he was always a big romantic. Most of us wore nothing but jeans and a shirt, because if the Scourge catches you ain''t no armor gonna save you. But he always wore this dusty, faded brown leather coat and one of those hats that cowboys- gun-toting bastards from long before my time- wore."Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The man puts down his can of beer and steeples his fingers.


    "Well, after the delivery, there were lines of people asking him to deliver things for them. But he always declined. Whenever he came up in a conversation, we''d wonder why. He had the talent, and no shortage of clients- why would he decline all the requests that came his way? And then we found out.


    "He was an Exile."


    One of the listeners gasps.


    "Yes, an Exile. A criminal, deemed unwelcome by any law-abiding city in the wasteland. He even had the brand, right on his neck. Was why he wore the collar of his coat so high."


    "What brand?"


    "You see, when you get caught committing a crime too severe for simple punishment and not enough for a direct execution, you get branded. They heat up this special bullet casing with an X mark on the side until it''s red-hot, and press it on the criminal, somewhere it''s easily seen. And then they kick you out, leave you to fend for yourself. Not much better than execution, but you get a chance to live for a couple more hours, at the very least.


    "Most of the bandit gangs out there are made of Exiles. They can''t find honest work in a city, so they take to robbing others of their hard-earned money. Of course, I can''t say I blame them. If they go in a city, assuming the guards will even let them in, they''re treated worse than slaves. Even beggars will spit at them. If a respectable establishment employed an Exile, their customers would simply leave."


    The old man takes another drag on his pipe.


    "Well, back to the Gunrunner. As soon as the rumor that he was an Exile got out, we confronted him. And he confirmed it, real cool-like. That same day, we drummed him out of town. ''Course, we didn''t know he''d turn into a legend. But even if we did, I don''t think we''d have kept him here."


    The fireplace crackles merrily as the three listeners sit, enraptured by the story. When it becomes clear that the old man isn''t going to continue, the oldest of the three gently prompts him to do so.


    "Well, uncle, what next?"


    "What next? There is no what next! You all know the story of the Gunrunner. I''m only saying what I saw and heard myself. At least I can tell you he was real- oh, he was real alright. I remember when kids started saying ''When I grow up, I want to be like the Gunrunner!'' And then their parents would scold them- at least, the ones that remembered that he was an Exile- which, I believe, served as part of the allure."


    "What happened to him? How did he die? The stories never talked about that."


    The youngest leaned forward in his chair.


    "Dunno. At some point he disappeared, and nobody saw him again. He might even still be alive. He wasn''t very old when he made the run- in fact, he was about the same age I was, if what he said was true."


    "But it''s the wasteland, uncle. How could somebody survive there for so long?"


    "Mark my words, boys, if there''s anyone that could live in the wasteland, it''s the Gunrunner. He was the most badass son-of-a-bitch I ever knew, and there wasn''t no monster he couldn''t kill. Now, it''s time for bed. And don''t you tell your mother that I cussed in front of you!"

 Package, 1

    The Gunrunner''s motorcycle slowly coasted to a halt.


    In front of him was a large, nondescript grey dome.


    The dome was a protective measure put into action by all surviving cities. It was a structure made of concrete, that completely encapsulated a city, and had filters to scrub air of all traces of the Scourge.


    The gates were simply glorified airlocks with guards stationed outside. Most cities only had one set of airlocks, but Detroit had two, hinting at its wealth.


    In the U.S. after the Scourge, there was no change in currency, as that would have been too costly and time-consuming to put into action. However, most people would just as readily accept a material exchange, usually involving bullets.


    Most objects deemed useless- computers, trophies, and the like- were scavenged for parts to melt down for reuse in other areas. This led to a conspicuous lack of shared information between the cities, as the only people allowed to keep a computer were the extremely rich and extremely powerful.


    "Halt!"


    One of the guards had noticed the Gunrunner, and had brought up his rifle to point at him.


    "Identify yourself or leave!"


    The Gunrunner slowly stepped off the motorcycle, with hands in the air, and began speaking.


    "I am John Tanner, citizen number 2734-19446."


    After the collapse of the government, social security numbers became useless. Thus, the cities made a new system- the ''citizen number''. A citizen number was a unique 9-digit code assigned to ordinary citizens. If a city detected any traces of the Scourge in your body, it would have you executed, then erase your name from the registry.


    John Tanner was not the Gunrunner''s real name- it was simply an alias he used when dealing with certain cities. Anywhere you went, there was someone willing to take an extra bit of money in exchange for a fake identity in the registry.


    The Gunrunner had twelve such identities. The paranoia was in part due to the fact that the Gunrunner dealt with rather unsavory individuals. Criminals were nothing new, and corruption of the higher-ups wasn''t either- but that didn''t make them any less dangerous. For instance, Detroit was currently ruled by a gang lord calling himself Felt. For two decades Detroit had been ruled by gangs, and it had degenerated into a city of vice as a result. Everywhere you went, you could see its effects; prostitutes lounged in alleys, muggers openly discussed their targets, and huge, multi-story buildings containing nothing but bars and strip clubs were sprinkled across the city like grains of rice.


    As the guards checked his identity against the list ofpersona non grata- updated only when officials from other cities arrived, which was usually once every two years- the Gunrunner softly whistled between his teeth.


    "The registry says you haven''t been checked for the Scourge in over half a year, Tanner. Better get it over with."


    The Gunrunner took the motorcycle into the airlock, and put a chain lock on it. He knew what was coming next- to prepare, he took off his clothes, folded them, and stacked them in a neat pile.


    A man dressed in hospital scrubs entered, with what looked like a syringe. It was a Detector.


    Its official name was "Scourge Bio-degradation Detector", but for convenience most people called it a Detector. It contained organic matter, typically a mixture made of a small amount of wood ash, water and phenolphtalein. When used, it would draw around 3 drops of blood, and then mixed it with the puree. When the nanomachines degraded organic matter, it let off an acidic residue, which would turn the phenolphtalein clear. It was extremely common in any city, and its rate of error was less than 0.01%.


    The nurse inserted the Detector into the Gunrunner''s arm, then drew it back and shook it gently. When the Detector''s fluid didn''t turn clear, the nurse sprayed the Gunrunner and his discarded clothes with an antiseptic liquid and told him to get dressed.


    After he put his clothes back on, he removed the chain lock from the motorcycle, and waited for the other side to open. When it did, he walked the motorcycle into the sprawling city of Detroit.


    Detroit''s architecture was mostly unchanged from before the Scourge, although many buildings had been reused for purposes they were never designed for. Surprisingly enough, it was one of the best-preserved cities in the United States- although whether this was due to mob rule or something else was unclear.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    He made his way through the crowded streets and colorful signs to a bar named "The Drunk Knight", depicting a gauntleted fist clutching a mug of beer on its sign.


    Inside was a small, cramped room that barely had enough room for the long bar that ran from one end of the room to the other. When the bartender saw the Gunrunner, his face lit up.


    "Hey, John. The usual?"


    "Yes. Help me unload it, Mark."


    The cargo that was to be delivered was a plastic crate strapped to the back of the motorcycle. It contained 12 glass bottles of wine.


    Liquor was surprisingly one of the few things that didn''t take too much of a hit from the Scourge. Although crops to make alcoholic beverages were in short supply, that didn''t stop enterprising brewers from trying out new concoctions.


    The wine was from before the Scourge, which made it extremely valuable. The corks had been replaced with a plastic seal, which interfered with proper maturing but was a necessary move as the Scourge would eat through corks and get to the liquor inside.


    Although it didn''t look like much, Mark''s bar was one of the most successful bars in Detroit, catering to all sorts of clientele. It was ranked in the top ten bars in the United States, and was the go-to place for alcoholics and wine sommeliers alike to sate their needs.


    The Gunrunner had first been hired 3 years earlier, when a nameless supplier had paid him to deliver an unmarked crate to The Drunk Knight. When he had arrived there, the bartender had opened the crate to reveal wine- which explained the large sum of money the Gunrunner had been paid. After that, the Gunrunner occasionally visited The Drunk Knight, usually on an errand, and eventually became friends with Mark, which led to him using it as a sort of safe haven whenever he was in Detroit. Not only that, but he treated the bar as a sort of a bank- every time he stopped by, he would give Mark money as an "investment". Mark would use the money as an emergency fund, and his line of work was profitable enough that he always made enough money to fill the gap whenever the Gunrunner showed up.


    After the two exchanged pleasantries, the Gunrunner parked his motorcycle in the parking lot, and set off to find another job.


    Mark had once asked him why he was so obsessed with delivering things from place to place, when he had amassed enough money to live reasonably comfortably for the rest of his life. The Gunrunner had refused to answer, leading to Mark throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. The truth was the the Gunrunner didn''t know, either- perhaps it was a sense of atonement, a way for himself to make up for the crime he committed to become Exiled.


    After 5 meetings with potential clients, the Gunrunner had a job.


    The first had wanted him to deliver a parcel across three states, but had been shocked when the Gunrunner named his rate.


    The second and third were much the same. The fourth, however, was willing to pay- but the cargo was a shipment of slaves.


    The Gunrunner had a strict policy on not transporting slaves. He disliked slavery, and found those who would degrade a fellow man in such a way distasteful. This, however, did not stop him from accepting jobs from known slavers- as long as the cargo was not human.


    He also did not transport live animals. The Gunrunner never carried many provisions- doing so would slow him down, and cost him his reputation as the fastest, safest courier in the States. Instead, he made do with the least he could. He rationed his food and drink carefully, and when he ran out he hunted for what meager game was available and filtered water from any nearby source. Transporting live animals would force him to carry provisions to feed them.


    The fifth client offered him an exorbitant sum of money to transport a large crate full of marijuana to New York. As the Gunrunner had no qualms about transporting drugs, he accepted the offer- then almost turned it down when he saw the size of the crate.


    It was almost the size of his motorbike, and certainly would not fit there. When he tried to explain this to the client, he simply waved it away, saying that he would provide the Gunrunner with a small wagon. At this, the Gunrunner relented, but warned the client that due to its size deliver would be slightly slower than usual.


    He arranged a meeting with the client at 8 AM the following day, and he went back to The Drunken Knight, where he had a cup of beer and went to sleep in his bedroll on the rooftop.


    The next morning, he woke at 7 AM, and went around Detroit buying supplies. The most important of them was fuel.


    Gasoline, as a substance the nanomachines either chose not to or could not eat, was as cheap as always, although the dwindling stocks had been slowly driving the prices up. He bought two jerry cans'' worth of fuel, and lugged them to the motorcycle.


    Next was food and water. He usually carried around 5 days'' worth of water in small, easy-to-carry bottles. Food was usually in the form of jerky, as it was compact and nutritious. The Scourage had resulted in a loss of many of the animals in the States, but once ranchers became aware of the danger they sheltered their animals carefully and were able to stop any further losses.


    Last was ammunition. His revolver took .357 Magnum rounds, and he always carried exactly 100 with him. Mining had become an even riskier job than before, as a storm of Scourage nanomachines could trap and potentially kill teams of miners. This drove the cost of metals, most notably the ones used in bullets and guns, moderately higher.


    He met the client near the airlock, and hitched the provided wagon to the motorcycle. He was not checked for the Scourage on exit- after all, it would be pointless- but his gun was checked for signs of recent use. If it had been used in an unauthorized shooting inside the city, he would be detained. Additionally, the meaning of "unauthorized" meant "unendorsed by the gangs". If a man who had participated in a gang-backed shootout had to leave, the gang would pay the border guards to look the other way.


    When all the requisite checks were completed, the guards bid him farewell, and he left on his motorcycle.


    About a hour in, however, his ears, so used to the comforting sound of the engine, noticed an irregular sound that would be unnoticed by most. He stopped, and checked the bike for the source of the noise. The source turned out to be the crate, and he debated with himself whether he should open the crate and violate the privacy of the client. In the end, he decided to open it, just in case there was a potential threat inside.


    He was not prepared for what he found.

 Package, 2

    Inside was a naked girl, bound and gagged. Judging from her sallow complexion and the visible outlines of her bones, she was underfed.


    The Gunrunner came to the obvious conclusion.


    She was a slave.


    In that instant, his anger flared up at the client. Surprisingly enough, it was more indignation at having been lied to than the actual contents of his cargo. After he calmed down, he cut her restraints and removed her gag.


    "Can you speak?"


    The girl attempted to open her mouth and talk, but due to her dehydration, all that came out was a rasping moan.


    "I''ll take that as a no. Can you write? Nod for yes, shake your head for no."


    The girl shook her head vigorously.


    "Alright. Can you stand, or do you need help?"


    She nodded, but stumbled and fell as she attempted to get out of the crate. Thankfully, the Gunrunner caught her before she fell. Had she hit the ground, she would have most likely broken multiple bones. While supporting her, he walked over to the tarp lashed to the back of the motorcycle and spread it out on the ground. Within minutes, he prepared an impromptu meal of jerky and water for her.


    The moment she saw the food, she grabbed a handful and eagerly stuffed it into her mouth- then retched, her starved body rejecting the sudden intake of food.


    "Easy there. Take a drink of water, first."


    As she swallowed gulp after gulp of water, tears started to form at the corners of her eyes. She seemed surprised by this, which led the Gunrunner to believe she had been dehydrated to such an extent she was unable to cry. The indignation which he had felt previously had entirely given way to a righteous fury. In all his time as a courier, he had never seen a slave mistreated this badly- of course, there would have been multitudes hidden away and tortured like this girl, but nobody dared display a severely mistreated slave in public, fearing the beseeching eyes of others.


    Fearing she would suffer water intoxication, he gently pulled the bottle from her mouth. He took a piece of jerky, and took out his knife. The Gunrunner noticed how the girl''s eyes were suddenly fearful, watching the blade, as if expecting it to move towards her at any moment. Instead, he wordlessly cut up the jerky into small squares, and handed them to the girl.Stolen story; please report.


    The Gunrunner was angry, and God help anyone in his way.


    He didn''t delude himself with visions of grandeur- he knew he couldn''t completely bring down slavery, not after it had been so deeply imprinted into the minds of people living in the United States. But what he could do was make the disgusting excuses for human beings who had forced this girl to suffer feel the same torture, tenfold.


    Suddenly he felt a wave of crushing guilt, and he gripped his head in his hands, unable to look at her. Why had he ever accepted jobs from slavers? Why had he fooled himself into thinking that simply by refusing to transport slaves, he had successfully distanced himself from the industry? No,howhad he fooled his mind into thinking so? How had he allowed himself to be blinded, to be led by the nose, to be tricked? He was a fool. A damnable fool of the lowest caliber, and he was worthy of death.


    And then he felt a small hand on his shoulder. The girl was leaning over his crouched form, looking worried. In his rush to blame himself, he had completely forgotten that she was there. He turned his head and gave her a reassuring smile, but she didn''t seem convinced. She squatted down, grasped his left hand in both of hers, and pulled it away from his face. They stayed that way for some time, and the Gunrunner had enough time to plan a rudimetary sketch of what he would do next.


    First, he would find a city at a reasonable distance from Detroit. Anywhere close, and informants would get information to the client that the Gunrunner had backstabbed him. Once he got there, he would bribe an official to add an entry for the girl, so she could go about as a normal citizen.


    Secondly, he would have to train the girl. In her current state, simply giving her a citizen number and leaving her to fend for herself would be equivalent to a death sentence. He would train her to defend herself- against both men and beasts, although the line between them was rather blurred.


    As he wrapped up his plan, he realized that the girl was still naked. He stood up abruptly, took off his coat, and put it on the girl.


    The coat was much too big for such a young girl, and it dragged on the ground, but she showed an expression of such obvious delight that he let her be for the moment.


    Where would he take her? He lingered on Philadelphia for a moment, then dismissed it as too close to New York. Undoubtedly the receiver would also be angry at the loss of the girl. Chicago? Maybe. He could also go further, but he didn''t think he had enough provisions for the journey. He decided that he would stop at Chicago, since if he needed he could go from there to another city.


    He turned to consider where the girl would sit, and found she had already clambered on top of the large metal box he used to carry provisions. It would do.


    The Gunrunner walked to the wagon hitched to the back. Although the wagon would hinder them, the marijuana would help them get a decent bit of money. He hadn''t brought much from Detroit, and if he entered the city without having delivered the girl he didn''t doubt that he would be hunted. He closed the crate, and double-checked the connection for any looseness. Satisfied, he sat down on the seat, and revved the engine.


    He felt tiny arms around his neck, and smiled. The girl, scared of the engine''s noise, had grabbed onto him for comfort.


    Yes, he would do whatever he could to make her life better. He swore on it in his mind, as the motorcycle accelerated and the girl shouted with exhilaration.

 Calamity

    3 hours later, about halfway to Chicago, they saw what looked like a dust devil in the distance.


    "Shit!"


    The Gunrunner slowed to a halt.


    As any experienced traveler of the metal desert would know, any major movement of wind was likely to contain the Scourge. It was still better than when the Scourge was so common that simply venturing out of the cities could infect you, but it forced travelers to be extremely cautious when dealing with such natural phenomenon.


    "Why. Did we stop?"


    A small voice asked from behind him. Thanks to the water, she seemed to be able to speak again, but she still talked as though her own throat was unfamiliar to her.


    "Can you see that dark thing over there?"


    The girl chose to nod vigorously instead of opening her mouth.


    "Well, that''s full of the Scourge. Which means we should avoid it."


    "What''s the. Scourge?"


    The Gunrunner froze. He hadn''t expected her to be educated, but to not have been told about the Scourge- that was simply insanity.


    As he pulled the motorcycle off the road in order to go around the storm, he gave her a history lesson. About how the world had been ravaged by the rampaging nanomachines known as the Scourge, and what happened after. He purposefully didn''t tell her what it was like before the outbreak. It was better that way- the Old World was long gone. Dead. Buried. No amount of hoping and stories would bring it back.


    The dust storm was closer now, approaching at a rapid rate. More rapidly than he had anticipated.


    "Shieeet."


    Typically, dust storms had a radius of around 100 meters. This was much larger than the dust devils of the Old World, mostly due to the increased amount of dust and dirt available for the storm to draw on. This one was a whopper- it seemed to be a 120-meter, which would make it the second-biggest one the Gunrunner had ever seen.


    At this point, he doubted he could simply dodge around it- the storm was approaching too quickly, and he didn''t want to be caught out in the open. Instead, he began unloading the tarp.


    The tarp, although much like an ordinary tarp in appearance, was special. The Gunrunner had initially purchased it from a street vendor in Florida, and over the years he had modified it to be able to keep the Scourge out. He coated it with a liquid epoxy solution for protection, then covered it with another layer of tarp for durability. The result was bulky, heavy and hard to use, but it would keep most things out- unfortunately, it also kept out oxygen, which meant the Gunrunner had been forced to cut a hole in the tarp and install a filter, which clogged often and was extremely unreliable, especially for the purpose he had meant the tarp for. But he had no other option- staying in an airtight tent with no ventilation was simply a way to commit suicide.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    He finished setting up the poles, and ushered the girl inside. After they had both crawled in the small, cramped tent, he closed the opening with an airtight zipper.


    The tent was more of a rigid balloon than an actual tent. He had found the plastic frame in a yard sale in Michigan- the owner had absolutely no use for it, and had been more than happy to get a few bucks in exchange for it. The frame made sure that occupants weren''t hurt as badly if the tent happened to get tossed around- which was often- and now, the Gunrunner was grateful for it.


    The storm drew closer and closer, its sound heralding its presence. And then it arrived.


    With a noise like thousands of tiny fists pummeling the tarp, the tent entered the radius of the dust devil. It was tossed about, jolted from side to side, and once even flipped upside down, but the Gunrunner wasn''t too worried. Judging from its speed, the storm would pass in an hour at most. Next to him, the girl cried and whimpered, clearly scared. He didn''t know what to do. He had never been very good with kids. After contemplating what to do, he reached out and grasped her hand. Her head whipped around, her frightened eyes meeting his cool, calm, assured ones. Soon she stopped jumping every time something large hit the tent, and the two listened to the cacophony in silence.


    And then, it was over.


    The Gunrunner waited a full 15 minutes to make sure the storm had passed, put on a gas mask and poked his head outside the tent. The storm was a mass in the distance, rapidly dwindling, and even as he watched it grew smaller and smaller until all that was left was a wisp of brown.


    The motorcycle had managed to come through unscathed, for which the Gunrunner was grateful for- it was his second most prized possession, and replacing it would not be cheap. He noted a couple of dings and dents on the sides- he would find a mechanic to straighten them out later. For now, he would get to Chicago. After wiping the dust off the bike, he called the girl.


    "Hey, come out. We''re leaving."


    She crawled out of the tent, and stretched. The girl watched the Gunrunner closely as he removed the frame and packed up the tent, and then clambered on top of the pile to her seat.


    After one last examination, the Gunrunner took off his gas mask, hung it from the handlebars, and turned the ignition.


    <hr>


    The man watched the motorcycle drive off into the distance. He had been tailing the duo ever since they left Detroit. He did not question why his employer wanted him to follow them. He was paid, and paid richly- for that price, he would follow them to the ends of the world if they forced him to. The man had watched the storm approach from a safe distance, and had watched the Gunrunner''s method of weathering it out. He admired the man- it was too bad the Gunrunner would die once he caught up to them.


    The man pulled the binoculars from his face, pulled the sand-colored plastic sheet off his body, and hopped on his bike.


    He was fond of it- it was sturdy, without an engine to malfunction. It was quiet, and reasonably fast. In short, the perfect vehicle for tailing someone.


    He was not in much of a hurry. Judging from the direction they were going, they were trying to reach Chicago. Whatever business the Gunrunner had there would take at least a day- he would reach the city before the Gunrunner left.


    The Stalker was on the hunt.

 New life, 1

    The duo came to a halt outside another featureless grey dome. He had asked the girl to stay in the crate of marijuana- as she didn''t have an official identity yet, she would not be allowed to enter. He trusted that the guards would allow him to enter without opening the crate- after all, he was the Gunrunner. His reputation for keeping the privacy of his clients was legendary.


    One of the guards stepped forward, gun pointed at his chest.


    "We''ll have to search your cargo for any contraband."


    By contraband, they meant anything that could compromise the safety of the city- explosives, infected material, and the like. Most cities didn''t regulate the flow of formerly forbidden objects like drugs and guns.


    "Sorry, I can''t let you do that. Client confidentiality."


    "You shitting me? Open that crate, now."


    The barrel of the rifle was practically touching the Gunrunner''s chest. He stood, arms crossed, frowning slightly as the guard''s spit flecked onto his face.


    "Hey, Gil, take a chill pill. He''s the Gunrunner, for fuck''s sake. If we can''t trust him, who the fuck we gonna trust?"


    Gil turned his eyes towards the other guard, who was holding his hands, palm out, in a placating manner.


    "Well, who the fuck is the Gunrunner?"


    "What, you live under a rock or something? He''s only the best courier in the entire States, and the first one to manage a cross-country delivery. Let it go, man, he''s got a reputation to maintain."


    The rifle drooped, until it was pointing at the ground between the Gunrunner''s feet.


    Gil glared at him, before turning away and stalking off. The other guard came up, and extended his hand.


    "Sorry about that. Ol'' Gilbert over there''s got a bit of a short fuse. Real honored, by the way. That shipment of insulin two years ago saved my sister''s life."


    As the Scourage only demolished biological material, it left everything else completely untouched- and in some cases, even managed to sterilize it. This meant that hospitals, pharmacies and factories were fully functional, though most lacked personnel to operate.


    Two years ago, Chicago had run out of insulin and a couple of other commonly used drugs. The board of governors paid the Gunrunner to obtain and deliver those drugs from any working factories that produced them and were willing to sell. He managed to pull it off flawlessly, turning up with a crateload of insuline, morphine and thorazine quickly enough that casualties caused from loss of drugs were minimal.


    "Glad I could help. Now, if I could get inside, that''d be great. I''m tired of staying out in the wasteland, smelling like sweat and piss."


    The guard laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.


    "Sure, walk right in. Say, you haven''t had a Scourge check in a while, why not-"


    "Got it done in Detroit."


    "Oh. Well, then, I''ll tell them to let you in without a check."


    The guard opened a locked door on the side of the dome, and went in. After a few minutes, he re-emerged, and waved the Gunrunner towards the airlock.


    Inside, Chicago was much the same as before- despite the loss of the John Hancock center. Due to the government''s inability to handle the Scourge, rioters had filled the streets of Chicago. In the course of the rioting, a group of people armed with guns had forced everyone out of the tower, and then detonated charges at the base that toppled it- into another block , demolishing it. The group had been thrown to the police by the enraged crowd, but the fallen tower was still in ruins.


    After the riots, Chicago had been filled with corpses- prime material for a Scourage infection. During the cleanup, somebody opened the airlock, which let the Scourge in. The citizens had barely reacted in time, locking themselves in their homes as the nanomachines ran rampant through the streets, killing anything unlucky enough to be outside.


    Due to this incident, Chicago was nearly completely wiped out- but they managed to force the infection back in the end. Flamethrowers were an invaluable asset- despite being unwieldy to use and heavy to carry, they could stop a Scourge infection dead in its tracks. Fire was one of the few weaknesses the nanomachines had, and pretty much the only one readily available other than electricity. When exposed to a flame, the nanomachines burned and shriveled up into masses of black dust. This black dust still carpeted some parts of the city, and most of the buildings showed scorch marks.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The Gunrunner wheeled the motorcycle into an alley, and then opened the crate. The girl climbed out, stumbling over the long hem of the coat.


    "Listen carefully. You are not allowed to let go of my hand, in any circumstance. There are plenty of bad people who would capture you and sell you back into slavery, so you need to pretend that you''re my daughter in anyone asks. Understand?"


    The girl nodded, and he smiled reassuringly.


    "Good. Now, I imagine you. must be getting pretty tired of that heavy old coat."


    At this, she shook her head, but he plowed on.


    "We''ll have to get you proper clothes, first. Can''t have you running around with nothing but an oversized coat."


    They walked around, looking for a clothing store. Nobody bothered them, though whether it was because of the Gunrunner''s stormy expression or the fact that he kept his hand on his gun was unclear.


    After blocks of unmarked buildings, the two finally came across a clothing store.


    As they entered, a small bell rang, prompting the man and the woman behind the counter to turn around.


    "Welcome!"


    This was from the woman, who walked out from behind the counter. The Gunrunner marveled at how short she was. Could malnutrition have stunted her growth?


    "Er, do you have any children''s clothing here? For her."


    He gestured at the girl, who waved a sleeve-covered hand. The woman, after noticing her, gasped.


    "Oh, my, but she''scute! Is she your daughter?"


    The woman had the girl''s face between her hands, and was giggling as she rubbed the girl''s cheeks. The girl sent a panicked look at the Gunrunner, so he stifled the grin threatening to appear on his face and coughed.


    "So, the clothes?"


    "Hm? Ah, yes. Over here."


    The woman led them through racks full of clothes to a wall festooned with coat hangers, from which hung colorful shirts, pants, skirts and underwear. The Gunrunner was hopelessly stumped, and turned to the woman for assistance.


    "Uh, er, could you, say, help me choose clothes for her? I''m, not very good with things like this."


    "Sure! This... And this... And maybe- no, this..."


    Every time she spoke she thrust more clothes into the Gunrunner''s arms, until his face was almost completely obscured by the mound of clothing he was holding. The Gunrunner desperately looked around the store, and met the eyes of the cashier, who was wearing an inhumanly wide grin. When the Gunrunner raised an eyebrow, the man shrugged apologetically, and mouthed ''sorry''.


    "Do you have any changing rooms?"


    The woman barely looked up from the clothes.


    "Yes, that way."


    "Thanks."


    He dumped the pile of clothing on a bench in the changing room, and left while motioning for the girl to enter.


    "Try everything on, and pick out whatever you like. As long as it fits, that is."


    He sat outside the room, and waited for the girl to choose her clothes. As he waited, he drummed his feet on the ground and watched the owners conversing in low voices. Although he couldn''t hear them, he could guess the content of the conversation- they were discussing some extremely amusing inside joke.


    The door to the changing room opened, and the girl exited, wearing a truly horrendous ensemble.


    She was wearing a blank yellow t-shirt that clashed magnificently with purple shorts, and to top it all off she wore the brown coat over everything.


    The Gunrunner was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor. He was also pretty sure he was mumbling something. What he was absolutely sure of was that he sighed, and took the coat off her. She was holding a now much smaller pile of clothing, and the Gunrunner carried it to the counter.


    "How much?"


    The cashier counted the clothes carefully before replying.


    "This comes to- 45 dollars. Thanks, and have a good day!"


    As the Gunrunner left, he realized he couldn''t remember the faces of the couple. This was unusual for a man like him, whose skills in perception were unmatched. He wondered if he was getting old.


    At his side, the girl was beaming up at him. She likely had never gotten to choose her own clothes in the past. Just the new clothes seemed to have transformed her. She was still pitifully thin, but there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes.


    As he made his way through the streets, a man bumped into him.


    "Oops, sorry, sorry. Excuse me."


    The Gunrunner frowned. He had the nagging feeling that he had seen this man before, but couldn''t quite place his face.


    <hr>


    The Stalker was relieved. It had been necessary to get close to the Gunrunner in order to slip the tracker into his coat, but for a second he had been worried that he would be noticed. He turned a corner, and walked two blocks before taking out a handheld device that looked much like a mobile phone. He checked that the tracker was still active, and smiled. Unlike the Gunrunner, there was no warmth in the smile. It was a predatory grin, as though the Stalker was some sort of wild animal.


    On his way to Chicago, the Stalker had come across a group of bandits. He had spotted them from afar, waited them to turn their backs to him, and had silently approached, using abandoned houses and cars as cover. When he got close, he slit their throats from behind one by one. The last one was rather troublesome- he noticed the warm spray of blood from one of his comrades, and had turned around. The bandit had been fast. He had almost managed to bring the gun up before the Stalker''s knife slammed into his jugular, instantly severing it and draining the life from his body.


    His prize was not the money the bandits carried, although he still took their wallets. No, it was their vehicle. The bandits had owned a battered truck with half a tank of gasoline- more than enough to make the trip. This discovery had shortened his travel time significantly, and allowed him to enter the city a little while after the Gunrunner.


    The hunt was on, and the hunter had the scent. All that was left was the kill.

 New life, 2

    The next thing they needed to do was sell off the marijuana.


    Like most cities, Chicago had established a Board of Drugs to regulate the distribution of formerly illicit substances. There were depots on practically every street, where people could both buy and sell drugs at a price set by the Board.


    The Gunrunner did not imbibe drugs. He could not understand why people would voluntarily disable their mental faculties for hours on end, and for him such a distraction could prove deadly. Cigars were his guilty pleasure- he knew it would kill him someday, and yet he allowed himself to smoke one every day.


    The depot that the Gunrunner chose was like many other depots- repurposed from a convenience store, the shelves, instead of stocking snacks and groceries, housed plastic containers filled with carefully labelled bags. A clerk behind the counter jumped to his feet as the Gunrunner entered. Contrary to expectations, employees in drug depots were typically not allowed to smoke their wares. Not only was it a loss of profit, stoned employees often smoked themselves unconscious, and thieves took advantage of this to steal entire boxes full of drugs.


    "Welcome to the Green Leaf. How may we help you?"


    The Gunrunner had scooped the marijuana in the crates into plastic bags bought from an actual convenience store, and wrote "Marijuana" on them with black marker. Afterwards, he had found a suitably sized plastic tub to carry the bags.


    He had told the girl to follow him inside. Although he did not want her anywhere near drugs, he also did not want her outside without him.


    "I''d like to sell some marijuana."


    "Alright, could I see your seller''s license, please?"


    This was the tricky part. People who grew drugs were issued a seller''s license from their local Board of Drugs, which allowed them to sell their drugs to anyone, anywhere. As the Gunrunner had no such license, he fell back on an excuse.


    "It''s from Marcus Dent over in Cleveland. Check his license."


    Marcus Dent was a fairly well-known drug farmer for whom the Gunrunner had run deliveries in the past. Claiming that it was from him would allow the Gunrunner to sell the drugs with only minor repercussions.


    The young clerk flipped through a notebook, muttering "Marcus Dent... Marcus Dent..." under his breath, until he stopped flipping the pages halfway through.


    "Ah, yes, Mr. Dent. His license is valid, but it expires in 3 months. Could you tell him to get it renewed as soon as he can?"


    "I will."


    The Gunrunner hefted the tub onto the counter. The clerk''s eyes widened slightly, and he opened one of the bags to extract a pinch.


    "This will have to be tested before you can sell it. Don''t want people selling random leaves mixed with dope. Is that fine with you?"


    "Sure. As long as I get to sell it all."


    The clerk put the pinch on a specialized machine that looked much like a scale, and pressed the button. Before the Scourge, due to the softening of laws on recreational drug use, companies had started to make testing kits for drugs. This particular machine detected trace molecules of known terpenes (harmful drugs), and also checked what type of drug the supplied material was.


    The first light on the side of the machine turned green.


    "Alright, no terpenes. That''s good. You''re not here to poison anyone."


    The second light on the side of the machine also turned green.


    "Cannabis confirmed. Good! You''re selling what you claimed to be selling."


    The clerk took out a large metal basin, and paced it on a mechanical scale. He then began emptying the bags into the basin. In the end, the scale showed a weight of around a kilogram and a half.


    "That''s a whopper. The going rate for a kilo is about 2100 now- I can give you 3150 for this load."


    "Sold. Take it all."


    As the clerk counted out hundred-dollar bills, the Gunrunner took a look around the depot. There was a certain attractive quality to the neat rows of bags- labeled "marijuana", "cocaine", or "meth" depending on their contents- and the Gunrunner made a lap around the entire depot. He added a line to a mental clipboard:Carry poisoned drugs to distribute to bandit groups?


    By the time he returned to the front of the store, the clerk had finished counting out the bills. The Gunrunner took them and put them in one of his front pouches. He didn''t use a wallet- he simply used separate pouches for bills and coins. He took the girl''s hand, and walked out.


    "Why did you sell leaves?"


    The Gunrunner let out a mental sigh as he prepared himself to explain to the girl what drugs were.


    "Well, those leaves are special. Lighting them on fire and smelling the smoke makes people happy. But it also makes people dumb for a while."


    "So it''s a bad thing?"


    "That depends on who you ask. Some people call it the best thing in the world, and some people call it the worst. I like to think of it as neither. It''s only bad for people who use too much of it. But I''d prefer it if you didn''t try any."Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    The girl nodded, then turned around.


    "What is it?"


    "I thought I saw a weird man looking at me, but he''s not there."


    <hr>


    The Stalker ducked behind the wall. He had almost been spotted by that damn brat. And he called himself a professional!


    The tracker in the Gunrunner''s pocket had been doing its job marvelously, broadcasting his location every second. The Stalker was waiting for the Gunrunner to let down his guard. The moment he did, the Stalker would leap out from the darkness, slit the throats of both the Gunrunner and the girl as neatly as slicing bread, and leave before the authorities had time to respond.


    The Stalker was a professional assassin. He had made a name for himself after he committed a string of murders in his home city of Detroit almost a decade ago. The victims had nothing in common except for the murder method- all of them had their throats slit. During this period, he earned a nickname- the Detroit Slicer. He liked it, and continued to kill whenever he pleased, until he brushed too close to getting caught to be comfortable. He decided the Detroit Slicer had to disappear.


    But how would he sate his appetite for murder? He turned to the criminal underworld for the answer. He showed up at gang meetings, often unannounced. Whenever he was denied entrance, he would cut- not enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate. Soon, the gangs of Detroit took him seriously, and began hiring him for jobs.


    His first gang-backed job was the murder of a prominent politician. Even after the Scourge, the wealthy played the game of politics. This particular politician had been advocating a crackdown on gang activity, and thus the gangs had decided he had to go.


    The Stalker tailed him carefully for two weeks, recording his behavior and analyzing it for patterns. On the fifteenth day of the job, the politician was found dead in his apartment, a noose around his neck and a pair of scissors in each eye. When the noose was removed, the head fell from its body- the politician''s neck had been roughly severed. The killing caused an uproar, but nobody thought to associate this murder with the Detroit Slicer. Impressed with the way he followed the target, the gangs had given him a new nickname- the Stalker.


    After that, he had been hired for more lucrative jobs, sometimes even outside the city of Detroit. And then one day, a man paid him to follow a legend- and murder him if he betrayed the client.


    <hr>


    The Gunrunner frowned. Degenerates were always a problem, and he couldn''t always be with the girl. He decided to buy her a knife.


    Knives were good for self-protection. Although he would prefer a gun, he didn''t think her slender wrists could handle the recoil- maybe in a few years. But for now, he would buy her a knife.


    Plenty of stores sold knives, from ordinary grocery stores to even gun stores, but to find the best one would need to find a dedicated knife store.


    Stores dedicated to selling knives were surprisingly rare, but the Gunrunner knew there was one in Chicago. He had seen it himself, but had passed by as he did not need a knife. To him, his revolver was enough.


    "Hey, are you tired yet?"


    The girl tilted her head to the side while thinking what to say.


    "Um, a little bit."


    "Well, we''ll make just one more stop and then we''ll find a place to stay. Is that fine?"


    She nodded. He smiled. He had always thought of children as whiny, annoying creatures, but this girl wasn''t like that at all. Perhaps, he thought, it''s because of her rather unique background. None of the children I''ve met so far were born as a slave, and then tortured.


    The knife store was in the mercantile district, which was about 10 minutes away on foot. After the rioting died down, the city had been divided into multiple districts. The residential district housed most of the citizens, and the mercantile district was where one would go to buy an object they needed, whether it was a gun, tools, or food. Of course, there were stores located outside the mercantile district- the clothing store they visited and drug depots, to name a couple- but most of them were located inside the district, as potential customers were plentiful. The industrial district took up almost a quarter of the entire city- containing nothing but factories, this was where manufactured goods were made. Almost none of the factories requiring specialist knowledge were active, but the ones that didn''t churned out products day and night. Lastly, the business district took up the least amount of space, and was home to the wealthy, who could afford to finance actual companies- although they were nothing like the companies of old. The politicians also frequented the business district, and one level of the underground garages for a building had been repurposed for the mayor''s use. Why underground? The incident regarding the John Hancock tower had prompted the move. The mayor didn''t want to be caught on the top floor of a skyscraper while someone was knocking it down- and neither did the people working for the mayor. The slums were located between the residential and industrial districts- it contained the houses with worst damage. As the city collected rent from people staying in intact houses, the poor were forced to live in partially demolished houses in the slums. Additionally, the slums also housed the red-light district, which trafficked sex and slaves.


    The entrance to the city led out to the residential district, which was why the Gunrunner''s route to the knife shop was fairly simple. All he had to do was walk to the mercantile district, and head for its southeastern edge. Unfortunately, fate seemed to have other plans.


    The Gunrunner chose to cut through an alley in order to get to the mercantile district. In the alley were three, well-muscled men, covered with tattoos and drinking beer. Keeping a tight grip on the girl''s left wrist, the Gunrunner made to walk past them. At that moment, one of the men reached out and grabbed the girl''s right arm.


    Instantly, the Gunrunner pulled out his gun and put it to the man''s head.


    "Let go, or you''ll find your brains in the wall you''re leaning against- except you won''t, because your eyes will be turned into a white mush from the bullet."


    The man released his grip on the girl''s arm, and walked backwards towards his two friends, who cracked their knuckles and sneered menacingly. The Gunrunner ushered the girl behind him, keeping the gun trained at the head of the grabber.


    "What are you gonna do about it, old man? You ain''t so fool to shoot someone in the middle of a city, right?"


    This was from a man with a yellow mohawk. He swaggered forward, keeping his fists at the ready. The Gunrunner transferred his aim to Mohawk''s head, and his grin faded. Then, in a movement so fast his hand became a blur, the Gunrunner turned the handgun around and grabbed it by the barrel, then hit the thug on the side of the head with the grip with a loud thwack. As the man crumpled to the ground, his eyes rolled up so far that only his whites showed, the Gunrunner casually replaced the pistol in its holster.The other two stood there, stunned,then charged the Gunrunner, yelling.


    The grabber reached him first, fist outstretched. Bad form, he thought detachedly, as he grabbed the fist and the arm connected to it, and used the grabber''s own momentum to throw him over his shoulder. Grabber hit the ground on his back, with the wind knocked out of him. The Gunrunner took the time to deliver a solid kick to his head, for the knockout blow. And then the third hoodlum thrust a punch at his gut, which the Gunrunner diverted to his right, although he was unable to stop the punch from connecting with his side. Nasty bruise, he thought. Take a week to heal. He then used the proffered arm to pull himself closer, then kneed the attacker in the groin. As he recoiled, the Gunrunner delivered an uppercut, a jab, and another jab to his face. To finish him off, the Gunrunner spun and delivered a roundhouse kick to his solar plexus.


    If a stranger had happened to walk by at that moment, they would have seen an incredible sight. An old man, behind whom was a little girl watching the scene interestedly, and three men splayed out on their backs. One of them was missing multiple teeth, another was foaming at the mouth, and the third was simply unconscious, albeit with a round bruise on the side of his head.

 New life, 3

    The Gunrunner turned, and crouched to look the girl in the eyes.


    "Are you okay?"


    The girl nodded, her eyes shining with admiration.


    "How did you do that? You- you just-kicked their asses!"


    "Language, young lady! Where''d you learn that phrase? Hey, stop giggling!"


    After the girl managed to compose herself, the Gunrunner took her by the shoulders.


    "Are you absolutely sure you''re okay? Those men over there are just an example of the types of bad men that would like to take you and force you back into slavery. You must never go off alone, alright? I don''t want anything happening to you."


    The girl nodded again, her expression solemn. The Gunrunner clapped her on the shoulder.


    "Good. Now, let''s get going."


    As they left the alley and walked out onto the street, the Gunrunner couldn''t help but remember her inquisitive eyes as she watched him beat up those thugs. Most kids would be covering their eyes and cowering in fear, but she had watched, as though she was completely unaffected by the violence happening before her eyes. This was more than a little disturbing, but the Gunrunner put it down as simply another aftereffect of the harsh treatment she had suffered.


    They passed colorful stands advertising everything from food to ammunition, but the Gunrunner ignored all of them until he stood in front of a building, completely unmarked except for the sign above its door: Blade Emporium.


    Inside was a spacious, plain white room with a black tile floor. It would be just another drab building, if not for the multitude of blades covering the walls. Simply calling the Blade Emporium a knife store would be an insult- the shop carried much more than just knives. From push daggers to longswords, the variety of blades on show were all immaculately polished.


    The owner was a wiry, balding man with sharp features that made him look like one of the knives he sold. When the Gunrunner walked in, he was sharpening a butcher knife. Then he paused, and looked up from his work.


    "Welcome, welcome. How may I help you?"


    "I need a knife. A small one. One that would, say, fit in a child''s hand."


    The shopkeeper''s eyes strayed to the girl, who was fingering the handle of a kukri, then snapped back to the Gunrunner. He leaned under the counter, and brought out a knife. It was designed in much the same way that the M9 bayonet, formerly used by the U.S. Military, with a curved blade attached to a black polymer handle. The Gunrunner nodded appreciatively.


    "Self-made?"


    "Yes. Stainless steel, all the way."


    After the Scourge, many enterprising weaponsmiths had tried melting down scrap metals and forging their own weapons. Of course, most of them quit early on- usually discouraged by the low quality of their work- but some continued, and emerged successful. One of the most successful such weaponsmiths was Walden Hart, who established a company (Hart Weapons) which made guns and other weapons, as the name would suggest.


    Yet more talented weaponsmiths went solo, working as freelance designers and crafters, like the man at the counter in front of the Gunrunner. These experts usually put more care into their blades than one normally would.


    The Gunrunner took the knife, and tested the balance in his hand. It was weighty- but still light enough for throwing, if needed. He put the flat blade of the knife on his index finger. The balance was almost at the center of the blade. This was critical in a throwing knife, because this meant that the knife be thrown while holding the blade or the handle. An unbalanced knife would need to be thrown in a specific way, or unable to be thrown properly at all. He called the girl over, and placed the knife in her hand.


    "How does it feel? Is it too heavy, or too light? Does it feel too long?"


    His worries were unwarranted. The girl had a big smile on her face as she swished the blade through the air.


    "That girl''s a natural, if I''ve ever seen one. Look at the way she holds the knife- it''s almost like it''s an extension of her arm. If you want, come by later- I''ll give her lessons. Course, it won''t be free, but I can give you a discount."


    "I''ll think about it. You have a sheath to go with it?"


    The shopkeeper tossed a simple black polymer sheath, onto the counter. It was flat and square, with a slit on one of the shorter sides for the knife. It had a simple loop on one side for use with a belt. It was no Buck, but it would have to do.


    "How much for both?"


    The owner put on a face of mock concentration.


    "Let''s see... Before the Scourge, this would have been around 120 bucks. Now, if you account for price fluctuations, it''d be worth around 150. Oh, and it''s a custom job, so let''s say 170 as the final price. How ''bout that?"


    A sort of strangled half-gasp came from the Gunrunner''s mouth.


    "That''s plain robbery. That''s what this is- extortion!"


    "Take it or leave it, pal. And methinks you''re going to take it."


    It was true. Even if the price was high, it was a good quality blade, and thinking about it, the Gunrunner knew that he would be hard pressed to find a better price elsewhere. So, with the audible sound of grinding teeth, the Gunrunner pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and threw them on the counter. The shopkeeper counted out three ten-dollar bills while whistling, and waved them goodbye as they left.


    "Don''t forget about the offer for the lessons! Have a great day!"


    "That cheeky little shit..."


    The Gunrunner tugged the knife out of the girl''s hands, put it in the sheath, and handed it back to her.


    "You shouldn''t pull out a blade in public- it makes people scared. You should put it in your pocket, and only take it out when you have to use it."


    "Okay..."


    The girl grumbled in assent, and the Gunrunner smiled.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    "Now, let''s go find a place to rest for the night."


    <hr>


    The Stalker had found himself a place to stay for the night. Although he could simply have paid for a room, he had been unable to stop himself from committing another murder. He would have the Gunrunner''s blood on his knife soon, and the thought excited him to no end. He had killed many people, from vastly different walks of life, but he had never killed a living legend before.


    He had knocked on the door, an angelic smile on his face, and when a middle-aged woman opened the door, had stabbed her neck with the knife in his right hand. His left hand, holding a towel, came up under the woman''s chin to neatly catch the gout of blood spurting from her neck. He had walked into the apartment casually, still supporting the woman''s corpse, and closed the door behind him. When he was sure the bleeding had abated somewhat, he laid her corpse on her back, the towel still on her throat, and dragged her further into the apartment.


    The Stalker had been delighted to discover the woman had lived alone. The apartment was sparsely furnished, but had all the essentials. He left the woman on the floor and checked the tracker. The Gunrunner was still moving. Good. That would give him plenty of time to do what he needed.


    First, he wrote a suicide note for the woman. Because he didn''t know any of her personal circumstances, he went with a template. He tweaked the details a little, and rewrote it on different pieces of paper until he was satisfied. The previous revisions would be burned later.


    Next, he took a look around the apartment. He found nothing of interest in the bathroom cabinet, nor in the bedside drawer, but he struck gold in the kitchen. Beside a small bottle of aspirin was a bottle of thyroxine tablets. The woman had most likely had them prescribed due to thyroid problems- most likely hypothyroidism- but they were also occasionally taken as anti-depressants. The Stalker tipped half the bottle into his hand, which he emptied into a plastic baggie, and then purposefully spilled some on the ground near the kitchen table. He left the bottle open, with the cap next to it.


    He then checked on the corpse. The blood on the towel was starting to dry, and he removed it from the woman''s neck to allow some of the congealing blood to gather on the carpet. He arranged the woman''s hand in a way that made it seem as though she had been holding the towel to her neck, but had dropped it when she stabbed herself. He left the knife as it was, still sticking out of her neck- he had chosen an ordinary kitchen knife for this purpose, knowing that anything else would be suspicious. Of course, this scene would never hold up to careful examination- but he didn''t think the police would have enough time for suicides, especially since the rate had gone up astronomically since the Scourge.


    He checked the tracker again. It was time to go.


    <hr>


    The Gunrunner checked in to a seedy-looking hotel. Hotels, like factories, had come through relatively unscathed- albeit extremely understaffed. Judging from the look of this one, it could even lack basic amenities. It couldn''t be helped, though- and besides, they were only going to stay the night.


    The youth in the bellboy''s uniform behind the counter was pimply and sullen, not looking up even as the Gunrunner stepped up to the lobby counter and cleared his throat.


    "Each night''s 80 dollars, checkout before noon. No meals included. You pay when you checkout, not before."


    Said the pimply youth as he tossed the Gunrunner a key ring with the number 451 on it. The Gunrunner stared at the youth, one eyebrow raised, then shrugged and turned away. As the elevators were nonfunctional, the Gunrunner and the girl were forced to climb the stairs up to the fourth floor. By the time they reached their room, the girl was panting, although the Gunrunner didn''t show any signs of exertion.


    Their room was small, cramped, and had only one bed. The Gunrunner would have to sleep on the floor. He hoped there weren''t any bed bugs in the mattress- although there was an ominous, brownish stain on one corner.


    The girl fell backwards onto the bed, kicked off her shoes, pulled up the covers, and fell asleep almost immediately. Not too long after, soft snoring sounds began to emnate from the slightly bulging covers. The Gunrunner smiled, and sat down in a rickety wooden chair that creaked as he leaned backwards. Although sitting down wasn''t his favorite way to sleep, he preferred it to sleeping on the dirty, matted ground. He closed his eyes, and relaxed.


    <hr>


    The Stalker was at the entrance of a hotel. According to the tracker, this was where the Gunrunner was staying. It took 5 minutes for the Stalker to come up with a plan to kill the Gunrunner. He would disguise himself as room service, and use the same tactic he used for the woman he killed earlier the same day.


    He walked in. Again, the pimply youth made to simply toss him a key ring- then froze, as he felt the cold steel of a knife tickling his Adam''s apple. He raised his hands, not daring to swallow.


    "Strip."


    The youth shot the Stalker a horrified look, and hesitated. The knife dug in slightly, drawing a single bead of blood. The youth winced, and began taking off his pants.


    After he had taken off his entire uniform, leaving him only his underwear, the youth shivered, more from his terror of the knife-wielding man in front of him than the slight chill of the evening.


    The Stalker contemplated the figure in front of him. As much as he did not like leaving a trail of bodies, he would have to silence the boy. Yes, he would. If he didn''t, the terrified idiot would start blabbering a mile a minute, and the police would start to suspect a connection between the murder of the woman and the murder of the Gunrunner.


    He motioned at the door with his knife. On the youth''s face was an expression of relief, and he began turning to face the door, hands still in the air.


    As soon as his back was turned, the Stalker stabbed his knife in the small of the youth''s back. He dropped without a sound, his limp body thudding on the ground.


    <hr>


    The Gunrunner woke from his doze at the sound of knocking at the door. Who would be looking to visit at this time of the evening? Certainly not the pimply youth at the lobby.


    "Who''s there?"


    He called out, and received a response from a masculine voice:


    "Room service."


    His suspicions were now like flies, angrily buzzing around in his head. Room service? This seedy hotel had room service? He didn''t think so.


    He took a look at the peephole set in the middle of the door. He could see a man, wearing the same uniform as the youth, holding what looked like a stack of towels under one arm and an out-of-sight tray in the other. He made to unlock the door- and hesitated. With one hand on the revolver, he turned the lock, and opened the door.


    <hr>


    The Stalker was frustrated. Why wasn''t the old man opening the door? He''d thought his disguise was convincing enough. His right hand, gripping a hidden knife under the stack of towels, was starting to hurt from holding it too tightly. His left was holding a tray- but an empty one. He had purposefully stood in such a way that only the edge of the tray would be visible through the peephole.


    At last! The door started to open. Wait, he told himself. Wait. The door opened wider. And wider still, until he could see the Gunrunner''s face. And then he struck.


    <hr>


    With almost superhuman reflexes, the Gunrunner flinched out of the way, which saved his life. Had he been a moment too late, the knife would have gone through his cheek, and into his brain. As it was, the knife only grazed his right cheek.


    Before he could slam the door shut, the unknown assailant wedged a metal tray between the door and its frame. That bought him enough time to step into the room.


    The attacker''s features were unidentifiable in the dim lighting of the room, but the lithe grace with which he moved was unmistakeably that of an assassin. He struck again, this time a wide swipe at the Gunrunner''s chest, and the Gunrunner jumped backwards into the wall. He drew out his pistol and was about to pull the trigger, when the assassin grabbed the barrel and diverted the gun to discharge harmlessly at the ceiling. At the same time, the knife moved forward, aiming for the Gunrunner''s chest.


    With his left hand, he grabbed the wrist of the knife-wielding hand and twisted it, forcing it to drop the knife. The other man, to his credit, did not even wince- he simply let go of the gun, and with his suddenly free hand punched the Gunrunner in the face.


    The Gunrunner, stunned, slid down against the wall, his revolver held limply in his right hand. The attacker kicked the gun out of his hand, then reached down to grab the knife. At that moment, the Gunrunner lunged, tackling him to the ground and knocking the knife away. He began to punch at the assassin''s face, but after the second blow they were easily blocked by the younger man, who punched the Gunrunner''s face once again, this time producing an audible crack. With blood streaming from both his mouth and nose, the Gunrunner swung away at his opponent until he felt something hard impact his neck.


    <hr>


    The Stalker felt the Gunrunner go limp, and let out an exultant roar inside his mind. He crawled out from under the other man, and looked for his knife- he couldn''t see it. He would simply have to use his fists, instead. He began to strike at the limp body of the old man.


    <hr>


    The girl silently slipped from beneath the covers, hands tightly gripping the handle of the knife the Gunrunner had purchased for her. The assassin had failed to notice her, thanks to her slight frame. Softly, she tiptoed up to the man, distracted in his fury against her benefactor. She closed one eye, aimed, and thrust.

 New life, 4

    The girl stood up. She felt nothing, despite having killed a man- perhaps it was the fact that he had tried to murder the Gunrunner, or the fact that it had been so easy, so simple, to slide the blade past his skin and into his defenseless neck. She snapped out of her reverie, and crouched down next to the unconscious form of the Gunrunner. After slapping him lightly, to which there was no response, she determined that he would likely not wake any time soon.


    This posed a problem- the dead man would be discovered sooner or later, and she and the Gunrunner would have to escape before then. Having to answer to law enforcement would bring nothing but problems. However, she was nowhere near strong enough to drag the Gunrunner around, so how would she do it? When she dragged the unconscious form of the Gunrunner out into the hallway, she saw her answer.


    She took one more look around the room, to see if she was leaving anything behind. A glint under the bed caught her eye, and she drew the would-be murderer''s knife from underneath the bed, unnoticed in the heat of battle. It was a fine blade- although no doubt used to take many lives- and it would be very useful to her, along with the knife the Gunrunner bought for her.


    There was an unused luggage cart placed against the wall. She adjusted the Gunrunner to the best of her abilities, and wheeled the cart to the stairs. It would be a rough ride, but the Gunrunner wouldn''t be awake to feel it. Or, at least, she hoped.


    After four floors of loud clattering, muttered curses and much manhandling of a poor bruised body, the girl wheeled the cart out of the stairwell and out the doors of the motel, barely sparing the dead young man a glance. To her, he was simply another body to be noticed, a mere minor inconvenience. The fact that his body was so noticeable was a more pressing concern, and she took a moment to drag him behind the counter, although she couldn''t really do anything about the bloodstains unless she took the time to find a mop and water.


    Outside, the cover of the night helped her proceed unnoticed. What few people who were outside at that time weren''t very interested in the little girl. People went about their own business. It never paid to be nosy.


    Of course, this meant nothing to pedophiles, like the one who attempted to accost the girl as she resolutely continued pushing the cart.


    "Where are you going, little lady?"


    The girl ignored him, and walked past him. His wide smile turned into a frown, although it wasn''t visible in the dim light. However, he wasn''t dissuaded. In this cruel post-apocalyptic world, children were conditioned to be wary of everything. Such a reaction wasn''t entirely unexpected.


    "Isn''t it a little late for you to be out without your parents?"


    This time he stood in front of the cart, and then noticed the body sprawled on the cart. His eyes widened, jaw dropping as he watched the girl. And then he noticed the girl showed no signs of slowing, and hastily jumped out of the way, avoiding a possibly nasty death by being crushed under a hotel luggage cart.


    And then his mind considered the possibility that the man on the cart was her father, and that perhaps he had gotten so drunk that he passed out and she had to cart him home. Yes, that might be the case, he thought. What a wonderful chance- he would be able to kidnap the girl and deal with a possibly vengeful parent at the same time.


    And then he made a fatal mistake.


    He dismissed her ignoring him as a simple childish fear of strangers- nothing more. If he knew exactly what was going through the girl''s head, he surely wouldn''t have attempted to assault her.


    The man feigned disinterest, leaning against a nearby wall, watching the girl leave out of the corner of his right eye. And then he began sneaking towards the girl. He was sure the girl wouldn''t hear him approach, not over the clattering of the cart. When he was close enough, he suddenly grabbed her from the back, pinning her arms to her sides, while blocking her mouth with his left hand. He frowned, surprised by the lack of resistance. No matter. An unresisting victim was easier to handle than one that fought back.


    The girl was extremely exasperated with the assailant. Really, did he think that just because her arms were pinned, she wouldn''t be able to retaliate? Her annoyance only grew when he ran into an alley, and pinned her against the wall, attempting to pull down her pants. While he was busy undoing his own fly, she discreetly checked that both of her knives were within easy reach. She watched as a lump of flesh spilled from his undone zipper, which he stroked in an attempt to quickly cause it to engorge. This was her chance, and she took it.


    She drew the army knife out of its sheath. The man''s eyes widened as he looked up from his cock and noticed what she was doing.


    She drew it back. The man stumbled backwards, suddenly so scared of the child he had been about to rape.


    The knife whistled through the air, aimed unerringly at its target.


    It cut through the tip of the assailant''s member, splitting it in half, until it was buried to the hilt in his crotch. The girl offered him no respite, as she tugged the knife upwards, cutting the skin to the front of his body in half. She didn''t stop until the knife cut into the flesh of his neck, then thrust vertically, buring itself in the underside of his chin, piercing through his tongue and the roof of his mouth, up through the nasal cavity, and into his brain.


    The man''s body fell limp, blood trickling to the ground. The girl pulled the knife out of his head, and wiped it on his clothes. The murder would no doubt be attributed to an unknown murderer with a knife, who killed three people in a rampage and then suddenly disappeared.


    She walked back out of the alley and resumed pushing the cart.


    <hr>


    The girl didn''t encounter any assailants after that, although she did come against an obstacle she hadn''t considered.


    She would need to find a safe place to stay for the night, but she doubted that anyone would allow a little girl accompanied by an unconscious, bloody man to stay in their establishment for longer than the time needed to tell them to leave. This ruled out any place she could rent using the Gunrunner''s money, which meant she would need to use one of the abandoned apartments.


    The city was littered with such apartments, easily identifiable due to their usually scorched exteriors and crumbling architecture. Such apartments had been abandoned ever since the Scourge, and although the city had tried its best to get rid of all traces of the nanomachines the abandoned apartments stayed abandoned, due to a combination of fear for any lingering traces of the Scourge and superstition about ghosts that may possibly reside in them.


    The girl had no knowledge of either, of course. She had simply seen that some apartments were unoccupied, and thought that she could use them as a safe haven until the Gunrunner woke up. Soon enough, she had come by a block of abandoned apartments, with a radius of roughly three buildings.


    The lack of elevators irked her greatly- she wasn''t looking forward to dragging the Gunrunner up stairs, and there weren''t any rooms on the first floor of the building she chose. She pushed the limp body off the cart, grabbed him under the shoulders and began the long and arduous journey to the second floor. There the rooms were in various states of disrepair, from simple, bare rooms to rooms filled with refuse and debris. She chose one of the empty rooms, and closed the door behind her. The electronic lock on it had failed to work long ago, but security wasn''t what she was looking for, anyway.


    From the Gunrunner''s pack she took the tarp and spread it on the ground, providing a rather thin layer between the floor and their bodies for comfort. She then searched through the pack, looking for medical supplies. After minutes of searching she finally found an unmarked bottle she ascertained as alcohol after taking a whiff and some bandages. They would have to do.


    The Gunrunner''s face was badly swollen, and he was missing several teeth, but the most worrying injury was his broken nose. The girl, having no knowledge of proper rhinoplasty techniques, did her best with what she had. First she washed her hands with a liberal dose of alcohol, then sprinkled it on his nose for good measure. She then attempted to push the broken bones back into a vaguely nose-like shape, which she did for multiple hours, the Gunrunner occasionally letting out a pained grunt. After she was satisfied with her work, she used the bandages to make a makeshift protective splint that covered his nose and prevented the pieces from shifting around too much. By the time she was finished, dawn had arrived, and she collapsed from exhaustion, lying on top of the Gunrunner as if he was a large hug pillow.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    <hr>


    The Gunrunner woke to a massive headache, which was understandable considering the beating he had taken the previous night. His mind was rather muddled, but as his brain started working again he suddenly panicked, worrying for the girl. The he noticed that she was asleep on top of him, hugging him tightly, the gentle sounds of her breathing easing his worries. He relaxed, and began patting the girl''s head idly as he tried to recall what had happened.


    He had checked into a motel. Then he had been woken by a suspicious room service delivery- and the man was actually an assassin! Now it was coming together- he remembered how he had blacked out in the middle of the brutal beating he had received, and he gingerly touched his nose to find the splint there. He looked down at the girl''s tousled hair, impressed, then his thoughts turned to the assassin. Who had he been? And more importantly, where was he now? He turned his head to look around the room he was in, but it was completely bare- which told him that it was an abandoned apartment. His memories told him that the assassin was still alive and well, but the fact that he was still breathing contradicted that. Surely the assassin would have taken the opportunity to kill him?


    At that moment, the girl woke up, roused by the patting. She looked up and smiled at the Gunrunner, who smiled back. And then the smile turned into a grim frown as he sat up, mind still fixated on the whereabouts of the assassin.


    "What happened after I was knocked out? Do you remember?"


    The girl nodded, although she was hesitant to reveal what had happened. Would he regard her as a murderer, a monster, a cold-hearted killer after the way she had killed without remorse? But then she remembered how he had cared for her, despite the fact that she had been a mere slave, Maybe, just maybe he would accept her still.


    "He didn''t see me because he was fighting you. I cut him with the knife you bought me."


    Here she took the knife out of its sheath, and showed the Gunrunner the dried blood that encrusted the blade. She had completely forgotten to clean it after the kill, and it would be her fault if the blade became rusty and dull.


    The Gunrunner was astonished by this. He had not expected the girl to defeat the assassin- certainly a child could not overpower him. However, he was thinking in terms of sheer strength, which was why it was so hard for him to accept the truth; even the mightiest warriors can be taken down with little effort, provided that they are unaware of the attack and there is an unprotected vital spot available. This was the case with the death of the Stalker- blinded by his rage and bloodlust, he had not noticed the girl creeping up behind him as she prepared to kill him.


    "Are you sure he''s dead?"


    "Yes, yes I am."


    A defiant glint had come into the girl''s eyes, as though challenging the Gunrunner to berate her for killing the assassin. Of course, no matter how strange he found it, he would never be mad at her for saving his life. The Gunrunner stretched, yawning, and crawled over to his pack, rummaging through it until he found a pocketknife. He unfolded it, revealing many different attachments that were no doubt useful in some situation, then selected a small mirror. He used the mirror to look over his face, lingering on the bruises, cuts and the improvised splint. He nodded approvingly at the last one, acknowledging that it was a somewhat well-done job. The cuts and bruises could be an issue- such facial injuries could unnecessarily intimidate people. He would need to wear a mask until they healed.


    "Well, what do you want to do today?"


    The girl tilted her head, evidently confused.


    "What do you mean?"


    "Do you want to go shopping, or eat something, or just go sightseeing? It''s up to you."


    The girl silently contemplated her options, and the flinched as the Gunrunner put his hand to his face and shook his head.


    "Before any of that, I need to have a citizen card made for you. Or you could be arrested for not having one.


    "But first we''ll need to choose a name for you. Do you remember what your parents named you?"


    The girl shook her head in denial, and the Gunrunner felt that pang in his heart again.


    "I''m sorry. It must be a sensitive subject for you. Well, then, I wonder what we could use..."


    The Gunrunner stroked his stubbly chin as he thought, and was reminded of the fact that he needed to shave. And take a bath.


    "How about Halley? Does that sound alright to you?"


    "Halley? What does it mean?"


    "Well, do you know what a comet is? No? Well, a comet is this giant ball of ice in space, way above our head, even further from us than the moon! It flies around and around in an oval shape, and it melts while it flies, and it makes all sorts of pretty colors that you can see in the sky. This year is the year that Halley''s Comet is supposed to come by again, so I thought it would fit."


    The Gunrunner was a relic of a past where information was at one''s fingertips all the time. A time when a few gestures could let you know about everything from global warming to things in space- and that was what the Gunrunner had wanted to know as a kid. His room had been decorated with posters of astronauts and stars, and it had gotten to the point where he had once proudly declared that he was going to be an astronaut when he grew up, much to the embarrassment of his parents, who were no-nonsense blue-collar workers who knew dreams were just that- dreams.


    The girl stayed silent for so long that he was afraid she would reject the name, then her face broke into a wide grin.


    "I like it!"


    "Great! Now, your last name is Donovan. Got that? Halley Donovan."


    This was the Gunrunner''s actual last name, something he hadn''t used in years. But now, he felt that if she didn''t have his last name it simply wouldn''t feel right. Besides, he could always have multiple IDs made for her, so her real name would stay hidden.


    "By the way, do you know how old you are?"


    "Umm, I think I''m 9 now. My birthday is August 14th."


    "Okay. Wait, how can you remember that when you can''t remember your name?"


    "I-I remember a party. My mom and dad were singing a song to me in front of a plate with a piece of something sweet. It was called... Umm... Cake! That''s what it was. There were two funny burning things sticking out of the top."


    The Gunrunner, seeing how her eyes had suddenly started tearing up, quickly put his arm around her and patted her back. What kind of monsters would enslave a little girl like her so readily? He asked himself, already knowing the answer. The kind of fucked-up monsters that were so common in this fucked-up world.


    "There, there. It''s okay. You''re safe now."


    <hr>


    The Gunrunner was standing in front of what looked to be an iron door, with a square slot near the top. He knocked on the door in a rhythmic way.


    Tap, tap tap, tap tap tap, tap, tap


    A metal plate covering the slot from the inside was pushed away, revealing a pair of shrewd-looking eyes.


    "What do you want?"


    "Gold of the finest caliber."


    And so ended the password exchange. The knock indicated that the Gunrunner was a customer- the password indicated that he was affiliated with the higher circles of the information brokers. The password itself was a metaphor for how the right information used in the right way could be worth more than gold.


    The Gunrunner had run multiple errands for the brokers, both before and after he became a customer. He had asked them to pay the debts they owed him by initiating him into their midst- and they had readily agreed. This was incredibly convenient, as there was a group of information brokers in almost every city.


    The information brokers did many things, not just the gathering of information. Sure, they bought and resold information, but they also managed inquiries regarding forgeries and false identities. Bribes were terribly effective against underpaid government workers who had access to the database, and not long after the first bribe they would be forced to continue working with the brokers through blackmail. After all, aiding and abetting criminals by giving them false identities was a serious crime indeed.


    The door opened, and the man at the slot ushered the Gunrunner inside. He made to stop Halley, but froze at the Gunrunner''s glare. The inside was surprisingly cozy, and was about the size of the back room of a bar- which was precisely what it was. Either the bar owner was part of the brokers or was affiliated with them in some way and allowed them to use the space, probably in exchange for rent. The room was littered with tables, at which people held conversations in hushed voices.


    The Gunrunner took a seat at a table, Halley next to him, and soon a man in the trademark outfit of a broker- horn-rimmed glasses, and a tuxedo with a white rose label on the left breast- came and sat in front of him.


    "How may I serve you today?"


    "ID. Three. Halley Donovan, Michel Jones, Casey Gomez. 2052/8/14for all of them."


    The Gunrunner wasn''t particularly concerned about the birthdays of the fake citizen cards- after all, people with the same birthdays were nothing out of the ordinary.


    As he detailed what he wanted, the broker jotted it all down on a notepad, then thought for a second.


    "That amounts to 6, but since you''re a frequent customer and part of the circle I can give you a discount. 4."


    "3."


    "No less than 3.5."


    "Deal."


    The two men were discussing the price of the fake identities, in thousands of dollars. After the negotiations were over, they shook hands.


    "Will you be paying here, or later?"


    "I''ll be paying in Detroit."


    "I suppose you''ve already heard the speech about overdue payments?"


    "Yes."


    The information brokers had a strict rule- the customer must pay within a week of the deal or the deal is considered void and hired killers are sent after them. The Gunrunner wasn''t worried about this- after all, he had plenty of money at Detroit. The brokers were like a company- they were paid wages, instead of percentages of profit. The ones who managed the entire scheme were unknown to most brokers, and certainly not to the Gunrunner.


    <hr>


    The rest of the day passed without any incidents. Due to Halley''s reluctance to choose what to do, the Gunrunner decided that she would be experiencing every option. First, they went shopping. Halley, surprisingly enough, had a penchant for flashy clothes, and she emerged from the session with two new pairs of pants and three new t-shirts. The Gunrunner himself only bought a pack of surgical masks- they weren''t uncommon, and they managed to cover up most of the injured areas of the Gunrunner''s face.


    After that, they had shish kebabs covered in a sticky brown sauce for lunch. The Gunrunner had laughed at Halley''s antics after she accidentally burned her mouth trying to eat the kebab before it cooled down.


    The Gunrunner retrieved the motorcycle from where he had parked it- a secluded alley- and was relieved to see that it hadn''t been vandalized while he was gone. Normally he would entrust it to the care of a mechanic, but he had completely forgotten to do so the day before.


    And then they went sightseeing.


    The motorcycle completed a lap around the entire city, weaving around slower vehicles and pedestrians. Halley laughed the whole time, the wind blowing her hair backwards as she clung to the Gunrunner to stay on the bike. This took a couple of hours, and as the afternoon sun shone bright the Gunrunner knew it was finally time to leave.


    He bought ample supplies for the trip, saluted the guards on his way out, and revved up the engine, leaving behind a cloud of dust as he zoomed into the wasteland, heading for Detroit.