Chapter VI

With the shrill whine of hydraulics, the chrome sphincter vomited BR0-WN™ into the bag. 

His jaw tightly bandaged, Ian’s head watched the fetid liquid splash against the bag’s plastic sides. Ian’s eye flared, emitting a red laser dot that traced his gaze up the hydraulic tubing and exposed circuity. The red dot continued its slow crawl to rest at the linked terminal displaying the familiar Reddit homescreen. 

The terminal flew through its subroutines, briefly displaying r/nazisareok and r/hellaweirdsexstuff as it converted Reddit’s aggregated content into a nutrient-rich slurry developed to meet all of Rusty’s biological needs: BR0-WN™. 

Ian looked up at the Canary device at the top of the terminal, its red eye meeting Ian’s. He quickly averted his gaze, old resentments bubbling.

Ian tapped his titanium rod impatiently, waiting for the BR0-WN™ to fill the bag.

Jeff Mathias lay on the white couch, absently caressing his .45. His fingers stroked the barrel as he stared blankly at the ceiling. Without warning, Jeff bolted upright and pointed the .45 at a photograph tacked to the wall. 

“Bang.” 

Jeff sat down, his eyes never leaving the photograph of Tom.

Enclosed in his regeneration alcove beneath a flickering neon swastika and linked to the Canary device’s mainframe, Rusty was deep in his regenerative cycle. Rusty fidgeted, his fingers knotting and unknotting as his tortured mind received the Canary’s cybernetic salve.

“Der juden”, he murmured. "Warum bin ich halb mensch, halb maschine?"

The BR0-WN™ finally done brewing, Ian scuttled over to the regeneration alcove with the bag held in two of his telescopic rods. At the base of Rusty’s sternum, a swastika-emblazoned USB port spiraled open. Rusty grunted as Ian connected the drip and went limp as the foul substance reached his veins.

A low rumble reverberated throughout the underground.

Ian looked around worriedly, sending the red laser dot scurrying wildly across the room. Jeff cocked his .45.

The wall of Rusty’s underground lair splintered under the Herculean might of Tom Depaola’s Duccati, spraying transistors and rubble across the room. 

With a squeal, the Duccati came to a stop. Tom stood up and removed his chrome helmet. He unholstered his .22 with one hand and quickly rolled a spliff with the other. His steely gaze hunted around the room, hurling righteous light into the darkest corner. Where was Rusty?

Emerging from a sidecar, Kenny adjusted his Bulls snap back and picked at his fingernails with a large machete. “What a handsome man,” thought Ian.

Rusty’s eyes snapped open and flared infrared.

“Das #fuccboi,” he whispered.