The acidic tang of decayed silicone seared Leo's sinuses as he adjusted the counterfeit sunglasses. Across the folding table littered with nostalgia bait, a zit-faced kid scrutinized a PlayStation 2 like it held nuclear codes.
"Final Fantasy X?" The teenager's scoff carried undertones of Hot Cheetos and parental neglect. "My cousin junks these behind Circuit City."
Leo's jaw tightened. He could taste the lithium leakage from the brat's Gameboy Advance, count the rust particles flaking off its battery contacts. The bracelet hummed against his wrist - a primal purr vibrating through bone marrow.
"Memory card slot." Leo tapped the console's underside with a rusted screwdriver. "Dev codes from Square's Osaka studio. Try finding that on your cousin's dumpster dive."
The kid's carotid throbbed. Leo's pupils narrowed to vertical slits, capturing the microscopic hologram shimmering beneath the Sony logo. His cuticles burned as claws threatened eruption.
"Deal." Grubby bills hit the table reeking of dimebag residue.
When the cash brushed his palm, reality fractured. Binary code bled from Andrew Jackson's face, coalescing into ghostly email fragments:
From: satoshi@vistomail.com
To: █████@d
...proof-of-work system analogous to mineral extraction...
"Picasso!"
Leo blinked back as Vic Kowalski's meathook palm slammed the table. Three prowl cars idled behind the junkyard fence, cops sipping coffee with predator grins.
"Municipal tax." Vic's meth-rotted breath wafted across counterfeit games. "Two grand or we start impounding."
Leo tasted blood. He could count the oxidation spots on Vic's revolver from twenty paces. "Last week was eight."
"Vig, kid." Vic leaned closer, revealing the gang ink - Nightwatch Genetics' DNA helix crossed with brass knuckles. "Think we don't notice your 'special editions'?"
The bracelet flared. Leo's vision shifted infrared - fourteen hostiles, three intercept points, sixteen bullets in chambered weapons. His healing factor's limit: four direct hits.
"Don't."
The voice came from behind a CRT pyramid. A Chinese man in a tourist-trap hoodie dissected an Xbox motherboard, prosthetic fingers dancing across solder points. Military-grade actuators purred beneath anime stickers.
"Copper's at $4.35/lb," the stranger muttered. "Better smelting than protection."
Vic's neck mottled crimson. "The fu–"
Sirens screeched.
Leo smelled them first - stale polyester and neglected firearm oil. Tactical boots crushed vintage cartridges as blacksuits swarmed.
"FBI! On the ground!"
Chaos detonated. Vic drew iron as Leo's claws shredded cheap plastic shades.
Snickt.
Time stretched.
Leo's fist cratered a cruiser's hood. Transmission fluid baptized his face as the bracelet feasted on metal. Bullets shredded quad muscle - white agony then wet squelch of regeneration.
"Fuckin' X-Files reject!" A fed unloaded wildly.
Leo caught the glock's slide mid-kickback. Claws sank into steel alloy, tongue flooding with nickel tang. The bracelet glowed magma-orange, digesting the pistol's components.
"Eat lead!" Vic's wild shot grazed Leo's temple.
The world burned in thermal hues. Leo saw through concrete - spotted the Chinese stranger calmly harvesting GPU chips from an ATM carcass. Saw EMP generators rolling in. Saw Nightwatch trucks loading arcade guts.
"Move."
The stranger materialized beside him, prosthetic arm transforming into crackling tesla coils. "Unless you wanna fuel their kill-drones."
They breached subway barriers, Leo's claws melting turnstile steel. The stranger tossed contact lenses swimming with crypto addresses.
"Victor Chen." He tapped his glowing eye implant. "Heard you nibble."
Behind them, blue flames consumed the marketplace. Leo's remaining human ear caught radio static:
"...X-07 confirmed... Requesting Silver Unit..."
Victor flashed LED teeth in Morse code. "Welcome to endgame, Lobo."
In the tunnel's belly, the bracelet whispered elder secrets.