Chapter Text
It was nearly unheard-of for the kind of person who wore hovercouture — with complete privacy shielding, at that — to come into a grungy little place like this. They tended to have people for that. In fact, the people whom they had tended to have people for that.
But there it was, the sleek white suit that contained everything. He didn’t touch the floor. He didn’t smell the air.
Behind the facescreen, Richard looked around at the little meat-market. Well, not entirely meat, that being part of the point. The people up for grabs were all well-cybered — and wasn’t that a linguistic bundle of implications? The word meant both ‘mechanically implanted’ and ‘controlled,’ along with some other archaic etymologies. Not that Richard could be too condescending about that. Not when he was here … shopping.
He found himself hoverwalking toward the least-organic-looking person there, preparing himself for another false alarm. The man was still human-shaped, but with various lights and wires and exposed metal plates showing through, along with bits of black carapace armor scattered here and there. It took a moment for Richard to realize that the armor was left in the places where it would be trickiest to strip for parts.
It took another moment for him to realize that this was absolutely not a false alarm.
It was him. It really was him. Part of Richard was so relieved, but part … worried it might have been better to never find him at all than to see him both so transformed and so …inert. “…Davy?”
At the question, Davy’s eyes lit up — one figuratively, the other more literally — and he raised his head. “If you’re talking to me, Sir, my name is Dav. Or Dee-Ay-Five, to my database file. Either designation is applicable.”
“I… see.” Richard was glad the filter would keep the ache out of his voice. “But did you …used to go by Davy? Before the war?”
“It’s possible, Sir. Couldn’t say for sure. My mind was staticked early in my enlistment. That was about seven years ago.”
Richard made his mind stop doing math in terms of the last time he’d heard from Davy. “Oh. What about nowadays? How do you feel?”
“Well, Sir, my sensation processors are adjustable, but in need of some minor repair. My remaining organics have, I think they’ve said, about 75% sensation when processing isn’t turned off.”
Goodness, Richard loved his suit sometimes. The perfect pokerface, and most people couldn't read body language when you were hovering. He might as well have been a talking sign that said 'rich bastard' on it. "Do you recall what made them in need of repair?" he asked, not seeming enraged at all.
“Apparently, a B-Tex M92 Anti-Personnel Missile, Sir." He brightened a little, and the one organic eye had so much of Davy in it that Richard wanted to cry. "But I am informed we successfully took downtown San Diego back.”
“Yes,” the filtered voice said. “Yes, yall did. And you’re … for sale?”
“Yessir. At a discount.”
Richard wanted to punch every administrator in the place, except for the fact that he’d never learned to throw a punch. “Well, my name is Richard Ressler, and I’m buying.”
There was no reaction to the name, and something broke inside Richard. But speaking of broken… “Is… is there an in-house shop for your most urgent repairs, or will they all need to wait until we get to the local studio in my neighborhood?”
Davy — or rather, Dav — took a few minutes to answer that. Richard could hear a whirring sound as he was stared at. “You’re…asking about the in-house shop, Sir?”
“Yes, I… I didn’t mean for the question to be so resource intensive. I can ask —”
“They’ll tell you that you should use the in-house shop, Sir. I’m not supposed to say this, but … I’d rather use another one, and it would prevent your being overcharged by 25%. Just to let you know, Sir.” There was an intense uncertainty in that one organic eye.
“If you want somewhere else, we’ll do somewhere else,” Richard assured quickly, making himself focus on that and not on hoping against hope that maybe some part of that intensity was recognition after all, that maybe there was some subconscious trust that allowed Davy — Dav — to confide that far in an apparent stranger.
He then went to give these … people … the minimal price. They accepted it. “Be careful, Sir. These ex-military types can be a lot of trouble.”
“Your Concern is Noted.” The suit filtered out most of the frost, but the middlemen — if one had to call them men — let the rich guy be. Richard led Dav out to his autoflyer slowly — so very slowly, because there was some kind of hitch in the step of that right leg.