Predator Code (Tales from Wildhearth #1)

Chapter 01 - No-one Likes a Party Crasher

Jett's tail swished impatiently as she waited, one footpaw tap-tap-tapping against the rusty floor plates of the scrap-dealer's back room. Her nose twitched with the stink of hot metal, stale food and the chemical sting of petro-torches that boiled away in the work areas. She was lightly dressed, clad in just a kilt and a thin grey bodywrap cropped below her ribs, but she could still feel the sweltering heat.

She stood amidst a sea of broken machines, glowing orange furnaces and scuttling workers – one of Palharr District's many illicit scrap shops. Jett learned long ago that these places were goldmines if you had the contacts, but even breathing the air here made her feel filthy.

"While I'm young, Gatte," she called, unable to mask her distaste.

"Yes, yes, I'm-," the gruff voice cut off for a moment, a clatter of falling parts drowning it out. Then a storm of colourful swearing exploded from an adjoining store room. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" A moment later the otterkin trundled into view.

Gatte was a barrel-bodied male with a set of blast goggles perched on his forehead, his body swamped by a mud-coloured barkweave jacket, scorched, scratched, and sporting more pockets than Jett could count. In contrast to the vibrant orange-white of her plush fur, he was covered in a short, thick bristle of dark brown, his black, button eyes flitting left and right in constant motion. From beneath the hem of a his coat a thick, plank-like tail extended, dragging carelessly through the debris that littered the shop-floor.

"Right, now lemme see," he chattered, arms wrestling with a large bundle of components he'd liberated from the back room. "Here... here we go."
Jett took a precautionary step back as Gatte unfolded his arms, letting the pile of gadgets tumble across the worktop towards her. There were half a dozen rectangular processing shunts about the size of a clenched paw, three cylindrical coolant valves, pulled from a Panthol processing rig if she judged the model correctly; an anti-hack hardener, a handful of logic boards webbed with wires and even a scent-spoofer that would throw off all kinds of tracking sniffers.

Sweeping her thick locks of white headfur back out of her face, Jett's turquoise eyes gleamed excitedly as she examined the offerings. Her muzzle slipped into a wide grin. Gatte might've been an odd old soul, but he knew his scrap.

"You're a treasure, buddy," she told him, leaning her elbows on the counter top and gazing dreamily at the parts. "How much?"

"For?"

"The lot."

Gatte beamed. "For you? Call it an even thousand."

Jett's smile vanished. "A thousand?"

"That's a good deal!"
"I take it back. You're not a treasure, you're a pirate!"
"C'mon, Jett! I could get in a lotta trouble moving this kinda gear around."

Jett straightened up, tail curling as she folded her arms, making a show of drumming her claws for thought. Typical Gatte. The otterkin wasn't bad as fences went, but he wasn't above trying to skelp her for a few extra stamps if he thought he could get away with it. She looked from him, to the gear, and back again.

"Eight hundred."

"Je-"

"Eight hundred," she repeated. "And I'll throw in a free system clean out for that rusting heap of a computing rig you've got running this place."

Gatte shuffled uncomfortably from paw to paw, his face crumpling with indecision. "I don't know..."

"Oh, loosen your claws, Gatte. Who else are you going to sell this stuff to?"

"Alright, alright, alright," he grumbled, flapping a paw at her. "Eight-hundred it is. But I'm taking you up on that system clean out."

"I'll swing by next time I've got an opening." Jett's smile returned as she dug a paw into the back pocket of her kilt, fishing out a dozen barkstamps of varying value. Shaped to look like shavings of tree bark, the things came in a bewildering array of denominations, from dull iron singles all the way up to rare-cut crystal, a single one of which could have set Jett up for life.