Four months after the events of Chaos and Consequences
“Wrong. All wrong.” The elderly male Praug croaked in frustration at his shaky, webbed hands. As the years passed, the slight tremble in them had grown increasingly worse, making it more and more difficult to do the only thing at which he knew he could do. Fix things.
His workshop was very modest, a handful of tables where he could work on any ad hoc jobs that came his way, provided they weren’t requested by the Galactic Imperium. He had a personal grudge against them, and this Praug held on to grudges for far longer than he likely would admit out loud. A waist-high counter near the front allowed him to greet any guests that stumbled across his business. The door in the back was locked with an advanced biometric scanner, requiring both an iris and fingerprint to open. He didn’t want anyone just waltzing into his attached apartment, after all.
As he tinkered with the damaged synthetic humanoid separated into numerous pieces on his metal table, he wondered to himself if he would ever have the opportunity to work on something more meaningful. Putting together busted synths kept food in his stomach, sure, but there was more to this life. He knew there was. Years ago, he had a purpose, had peers he could trust, had a meaningful place in the galaxy.
Now? Now, he was stuck on some backwater, hellhole planet called Valorant in the far reaches of the galaxy called the Fringe. Technically, it could be worse. He could be dead, or rotting in Darklight Prison. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it was something. Though he could certainly do with more water around, and less ravaging wind storms that coats everything with coarse dust. He hated dust.
His eyes squinted, his hands trembled slightly as he continued to weld and wire the tiny mechanical circuit boards inside the synth’s chest. Despite it losing most of its lubrication fluid from a royal smashing by some local Galactic Imperium miscreants, it still retained that metallic scent. It filled the Praug’s slanted nostrils as they flared open and closed quickly. Most Praug were strictly against artificial intelligence, believing that it was an abomination against science.
KarDel wasn’t most Praug, though. Most Praug wouldn’t leave their greatest creation behind to transplant themselves onto a remote planet hostile in more ways than one.
They really gave you a good beating, didn’t they? Let me guess, you refused to obey their orders because it would have put you in a situation that would have likely resulted in your termination? That’s typical of them. Damn brutes. Even out here in the Fringe, their stench fouls the air we breathe.
Maybe I was better off on Praug.
The jarring thought forced him to stop his work. No, he wasn’t better off back on Praug. He would have been put to work by those Galactic Imperium oppressors, forced to create weapons of death and destruction. He liked to tinker and discover more efficient ways to make things work. He didn’t like to create things that could actually kill another living being. The last project he had a hand in creating on Praug was the final straw. Sure, it was ultimately a success. But at what cost?
He worked with a brilliant, young Praug woman. Cunning, headstrong, fierce, and a little crazy at times. She loved her work and it showed. They made a great team, and at one point he had hoped they would become more than that. He missed her more than anything.
Those days are over. Better to leave them behind where they belong than reminisce about better memories.
With an involuntary grunt, he hobbled towards a nearby wall with countless tools hung on small protruding pegs. His gimp from a prosthetic metal leg was a reminder of his past, and why he would never work for the Galactic Imperium again. He tried to split ways with them peacefully. They instead chose violence, as was their usual preference. He grabbed a smaller wire splicer, a bottle of synth fluid, and made his gimpy way back to the table to continue his work.
As he often was, KarDel was left with only his thoughts, his tools, and his projects to keep him company. It wasn’t until a throat cleared loudly behind him that he hobbled around until he was facing the entryway. Before him stood someone he never expected to see again.
“TuMar?” He couldn’t believe his eyes. They widened at the presence of someone he had missed seeing every day. Praug weren’t overly emotional beings, but even he felt a tear well up in his eyes. She had a few more stress wrinkles on her neck, and her clothing resembled a field worker with its earthy colors against her orange skin. But without a doubt, it was still her.
A genuine smile spread across TuMar’s lips; that same twinkle in her eyes warmed his old soul. “It’s good to see you again, KarDel. Or should I say, Tinkerer?”
He croaked out a raspy laugh. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time, friend. It’s almost as good to hear it as it is to see you. When I got the news that our old facility was destroyed by that madman Demico, I thought for sure you were lost with it. He leaned back slightly against the table to alleviate his aching back. “What can this old man do for you?”
“You can come in now.” she called behind her. A tall dark-skinned human with black hair braided in elegant dreadlocks stepped through the door. The black shirt he wore looked too small and it stretched taut over bulging pectorals and biceps. A green hue emanated in rhythmic pulses from where his heart should be. Baggy pants opened up near his ankles with multiple tears in the cuffs. The shoeless feet were an oddity, especially for a Human.
As KarDel examined the being, his mind raced back to his time on Praug, and he instantly realized who stood before him. What stood before him. This wasn’t a normal Human male. No, it was a scientific abomination of magic and man, created for one purpose: destroy the Aetherials.
Sensing the apprehension in his reaction, TuMar pleaded her case. “We need your help. I need your help. Please.”
That word. Please. TuMar was never one to ask for help. If she needed help, there was a legitimate reason behind the request. He inhaled deeply and let out an exaggerated sigh, knowing he had no choice. “Alright, I’ll help. But you owe me.”
Technically, I owe you for saving my life, so maybe
The Tinkerer led the pair to an empty examination table on the other side of the room and they began their work.