The sun was barely above the skyline when the motorcycle rumbled its way into Adelaide.
Or what was left of it.
The city wasn't a metropolis anymore—not like the pictures in old books. It was a crumbling skeleton of concrete, rusted metal, and sun-faded graffiti. Skyscrapers had been gutted, their glass long shattered. Most had been converted into makeshift housing or workshop towers for the desperate. Banners of patched-together tarps flapped from windows. Trash fires burned in steel drums. The scent of oil, sweat, piss, and diesel hung thick in the air.
They passed a half-collapsed shopping mall now used as a swap market. Cass barely slowed as they weaved past a crowd of prisoners-turned-merchants hawking used electronics, crude knives, and hot meals of questionable origin. All the people stared at them. Most of them had visible brands on their necks.
Wang pulled his scarf tighter, hiding the "M" burned into his skin. Cass tossed him a brown one earlier.
"Here," she said. "Put this on. Yours is too noticeable."
"Thanks," he muttered, wrapping it loosely around his neck and lower face.
"Keep your head down. And don't run your fuckin' mouth. Fred's the only reason we're here."
Wang raised a brow. "Fred. That your boyfriend?"
"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped. "Fred's a bastard. But he owes me."
They pulled into what used to be a car wash. The structure was mostly intact, the inside converted into a messy garage full of half-stripped vehicles, tech scrap, and hydraulic arms hanging like spider legs from above. A mechanical buzz filled the air.
A man in grease-streaked coveralls stood under the hood of a busted buggy, his back to them. Balding, thick forearms, smudged goggles perched on his forehead.
"Fred!" Cassandra barked, cutting the engine.
The man didn't flinch. He set down his wrench, wiped his hands with a rag, and turned around.
"Well fuck me dead," he said, grinning. "You brought me a new stray."
"He's not a stray," Cass replied, kicking the sidecar. "He's broke, missing an arm, and I need you to fix that."
Fred whistled. "A whole arm? Expensive."
"I'm payin'."
Wang stepped out of the sidecar, clutching his side, looking around at the workbenches. He could smell burnt plastic and motor oil. "So this is where magic happens?"
Fred looked him up and down. "What's your name, kid?"
"Wang."
Fred snorted. "Course it is."
"Problem?"
"Nope. You got an attitude, though. You fit right in."
Wang showed the stump of his missing arm, already sealed and cleaned, but crude. "You got anything secondhand?"
Fred nodded and walked over to a cluttered metal shelf. "Got a few arms. Nothing fancy. Power cell's decent, neural relays are mid-tier. You'll get basic grip strength, probably eighty percent dexterity if your nerves aren't too fried."
Cassandra leaned in. "Don't give him some broken scav piece. I'm paying. Full price."
Fred turned to her, lifting an eyebrow. "You sure about this, Cass? This kid mean that much to you?"
"No," she replied. "But I owe him. He saved my ass."
Fred shrugged. "Alright then. Let's bolt it in."
He patted a stained reclining chair that looked half medical, half torture device.
"Sit. Shirt off."
Wang hesitated. "This gonna hurt?"
Fred grinned. "Oh yeah."
***
Forty minutes later, the workshop echoed with a high-pitched whine as the new arm locked into place with a hiss of pneumatic pressure. Wang gritted his teeth as Fred adjusted the sockets, aligning the prosthetic's baseplate with the remaining nerves at his shoulder. The pain was like electricity dancing up his spine.
Fred inserted a neural filament into the contact port and slapped the side of the device. A soft green light flickered on.
"Try flexing," he muttered.
Wang looked at the arm—matte brown steel with scuffed knuckles and chipped paint. He clenched his fingers. The digits twitched. Then curled. He flexed again. The servos whined. A ball-bearing clicked.
"It works," Wang muttered, voice hoarse.
"You'll get better at it," Fred said. "Takes a week to sync properly."
Cassandra stood nearby, arms crossed. She watched him carefully. Not like a mother, not like a friend. Just… like someone who needed to know if the machine worked.
Wang pushed himself to his feet, rotating the wrist and testing the elbow.
"Thanks," he said, turning to her.
Cass just nodded.
Fred wiped his hands again. "Alright. You're patched up. Try not to get this one blown off."
Wang chuckled. "No promises."
Cass threw him a spare shirt from her duffel. "C'mon. Let's get a drink. You're buyin'."
"With what money?"
She smirked. "You got a new arm. That means you owe me again."
He rolled his eyes. "Figures."
***
The motorcycle came to a slow stop in front of a beat-up brick building that looked like it should've been condemned ten years ago. The windows were cracked or boarded, graffiti ran up both sides like wild ivy, and a rusted antenna jutted out from the roof at an awkward angle. The front door hung slightly off its hinges and buzzed like a dying fly when Cass swiped her chipped ID card through the lock.
"Home sweet shithole," she muttered, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder.
Wang stepped off the sidecar and looked around the neighborhood. Broken glass littered the pavement, and a group of shirtless guys were smoking something foul-smelling on the curb. One of them had a tattoo across his forehead that simply read "FUCK."
"This where you live?" Wang asked, raising a brow.
Cass didn't slow her pace. "Yeah. What, you expect a bounty hunter to be shacked up in a fuckin' luxury suite?"
"Would've settled for something that didn't smell like piss and trauma."
She chuckled dryly. "That's just downtown Adelaide for ya."
They climbed three flights of creaky metal stairs. The railing was duct-taped in two places and bent at a sharp angle on the second floor landing. On the third floor, Cass stopped in front of a steel door sprayed with faded tags—one of which read "CUNT SLAYER" in neon pink.
She unlocked the deadbolt, gave the door a good kick, and pushed it open.
"Alright," she said. "Don't touch anything that looks sharp or crawls."
Wang stepped inside and immediately regretted it.
The apartment smelled like old gun oil, dirty laundry, and stale beer. The floor was covered in scuffed linoleum, most of it peeling up at the corners. The tiny kitchen to the right looked like it hadn't been cleaned in weeks—plates stacked in the sink, open tins of beans on the counter, and a questionable stain on the mini-fridge.
To the left was the "living room." A cracked leather couch sat beneath a broken ceiling fan, surrounded by piles of magazines, ammo boxes, and a stack of disassembled firearms. Cass's jacket was tossed over the backrest, along with what looked like a blood-stained towel. A dented space heater leaned against the wall next to it.
She walked ahead into her bedroom and kicked the door open wider.
"This is me," she said without turning around.
Wang peeked in and blinked.
Cass's room was… chaos.
A single mattress lay on the floor without a frame, the sheets half-off and wrinkled. There were clothes everywhere—tank tops, torn jeans, mismatched socks, bras hanging from the corner of a wall-mounted shelf. A gun holster was pinned to the wall like some kind of twisted wall art. There were a few old posters: one of a cyberpunk action movie from twenty years ago, and another of a heavy metal band with flames and tits everywhere.
Empty beer cans were scattered across the desk, which was somehow still functional, piled with maps, bounty papers, and a glowing old tablet running diagnostics on something.
"You, uh… live like this?" Wang asked.
Cass turned, lifting a brow. "Like what?"
"Like a raccoon with a vendetta."
She snorted. "You want a five-star bed and a scented candle? You can fuck right off back to the outback. This is what I can afford."
"Fair," Wang said, raising his hands. "Just… didn't peg you for the type who sleeps in a laundry war zone."
She walked back into the living room, grabbed a blanket from under a pile of gear, and tossed it onto the couch.
"You're on the sofa. Don't bitch. It's got fewer bloodstains than my bed."
Wang caught the blanket and looked at the couch. The springs made a sad groan just from him looking at it.
"Cozy," he muttered.
"You want a mint on your pillow too?"
"I was hoping for chocolate, but I'll settle for not getting tetanus."
Cass lit a cigarette and sat on the window ledge, letting the smoke curl out into the night air.
"You're lucky I even brought you here," she said, glancing at him sideways. "Most people I haul in end up in a shallow grave, or some syndicate's dog cage."
Wang threw the blanket over the couch and gave her a nod. "And here I thought you were warming up to me."
She chuckled again, slow and dry. "Keep dreaming, murderer."
Wang flinched a little, but didn't respond. He sat down on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, the fan slowly clicking overhead like it was counting down to an explosion.
Cass tapped ash into a tin can on the ledge.
"You hungry?" she asked.
"Depends. You cooking?"
"Fuck no."
"Then I'm starving."
She smirked, just a little, then flicked her cigarette out the window and shut it with a bang.
"Welcome to home base, Wang," she said. "Don't get too comfortable."
Q: Do you ever plan on visiting Australia?