Her nerves were still frayed from the attack, not least because she was sure she hadn’t heard the last of it. All day the front room, kept only for honored visitors, had seen a procession of cousins and friends who all suddenly developed an inventive range of pretexts for calling, usually soon after Imran had been using the telecom. She knew he was probably putting the word out. Today at least he’d been out of her hair, out hawking some Italian BTL chips and shady cyberware. Usually he traded in kind, haggling and bartering for goods he could then pass on in turn, balancing every deal with the finesse of a watchmaker. He enjoyed the game, reveled in bargaining with his fellow traders and customers, and salted away the favors any ork needed to get by in the world. It upped your survival chances like nobody’s business when the racists knew you had heat on call.

Sanjay was happy, too. Most of the nuyen he’d gotten in exchange for his home-cooked drugs had come up good, and one he’d even been able to "tune up," as he put it. He was dulled with poppy now, but he’d be heading for Mohsin’s soon, checking out the skillwires and street cyberware. She smiled remembering the day Sanjay had come home, stiff and sore, with the muscle replacements. Though grimacing with pain, he’d lifted her clean off the floor in his arms, not something he’d been able to do since that horrific day and night of agony when she had transformed. The new biceps gleamed under his oiled skin and she could see the enlarged pectorals straining under his sweat-soaked shirt. Mohsin was distant family; street gear was a far sight safer when the scalpel was wielded by one’s own blood.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of Imran giving his signal at the front door. She ran to unbolt the chains and locks, eager to see him. He bundled roughly past her, carrying a heavy aluminized case.

"It’s been a good day, sister!” He grinned, but barely gavt her a glance, intent on fumbling with the heavy catches and maglock of the case.