Location: “Spin Cycle” Laundrette (Brixton Hill)
Time: 10:15 AM
Current Balance: ￡9,150
They sat on the curb outside a Chicken Cottage, catching their breath.
Tony stroked the Bass?Driver like a pet cat. The hammer hummed, low and pleased.
“We looked cool,” Tony said, vibrating. “Did you see me? I looked cool. The physics engine literally couldn’t handle me.”
“You looked expensive,” Cameron said, checking his wrist?comp. “We have nine grand. We have no armor. If that Rogue had actually stabbed you, you’d be dead.”
“I have High Agility,” Lenny said, picking his teeth with a stolen toothpick. “I dodge.”
“You have High Luck,” Cameron corrected. “Luck runs out. We need protection. Arthur—minimum viable for a tank build?”
Arthur wiped dust off his clipboard with a wet wipe.
“For a front?line heavy?” He tapped his pen. “Class?4 Ballistic Plate. Ceramic composite. Four thousand per unit. We can’t afford it.”
“We’re soft?locked again,” Tony groaned. “We have a god?weapon and we’re naked.”
“Not naked,” Lenny grinned, standing and brushing off his oversized hoodie. “Just… vintage. I know a spot.”
“Lenny,” Cameron warned. “If this is another fence—”
“It’s not stolen!” Lenny looked offended. “It’s refurbished. Upcycled. Eco. Come on. Auntie Val will sort us.”
---
Spin Cycle
The shop didn’t look like an armory.
It looked like a laundrette that had survived a small war.
The windows were steamed opaque. The sign above the door read:
SPIN CYCLE — LAUNDRY & REPAIRS
Blood Stains Removed While U Wait (scratched underneath)
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
They stepped inside.
The air was thick with bleach, industrial detergent, and the metallic tang of scorched plating. Massive machines rumbled along the wall, churning water that looked suspiciously pink.
Behind the counter stood Auntie Val—broad?shouldered, grey dreadlocks tied back, scrubbing a dented breastplate with a wire brush.
“Lenny!” Val boomed. “You little rat. You still owe me for that invis?cloak you shrank in the wash!”
“It was a texture error, Val,” Lenny said, leaning on the counter with a grin. “And I brought customers. Paying customers.”
Val’s eyes swept Cameron, then the Bass?Driver on Tony’s shoulder.
“Heavy hitters,” she said. “And broke, by the look of those tracksuits. What you need?”
“Armor,” Cameron said. “Full squad loadout. Budget is… tight. Nine grand.”
Val laughed—dry, hacking.
“Nine grand for three kits? You’re shopping the defective rail, darling.”
She pointed a soapy finger toward the back.
“Defective & Deceased. No refunds. No questions about how the previous owner got cooked.”
---
The Fitting Rail
The rail was a graveyard of bad decisions.
Dented helmets. Scorched chest plates. Greaves that didn’t match. Everything smelled faintly of ozone and regret.
“This is unhygienic,” Arthur said, holding up gloves with two fingers missing. “This is a biohazard. There is dried organic matter in the stitching.”
“It’s just rust,” Cameron lied, already digging through heavy plates.
He needed mass. Something that could take a hit and stay standing.
He found it: a chest piece of riveted steel, painted bright, obnoxious caution?orange.
[ITEM: INDUSTRIAL BLAST VEST]
[TRAIT: HEAVY]
[DEBUFF: RESTRICTED MOVEMENT]
“Construction surplus,” Cameron muttered. “Demolition crews.”
He tried it on. It was heavy. It smelled like sweat and old oil. But when he tapped it with his knuckles, it rang solid.
“It fits,” Cameron said. “I look like a traffic cone, but I won’t die.”
Tony was already on helmets. He lifted a sleek visor lid.
“Oh, this is sick,” Tony said. “Daft Punk vibes.”
He put it on.
“I can’t see,” Tony muffled. “It’s pitch black.”
“HUD’s burnt out,” Val shouted. “That’s why it got binned. Five hundred if you still want it.”
“I’ll take it,” Tony said instantly. “Blind monk aesthetic. Very meta.”
“Lenny?” Cameron asked.
Lenny held up boots that looked normal until the soles pulsed faintly.
[ITEM: GRAVITY BOOTS (MISMATCHED)]
[LEFT BOOT: 50% GRAVITY]
[RIGHT BOOT: 100% GRAVITY]
“They’re glitched,” Lenny said, slipping them on. He took a step—one leg floated, the other sank—giving him a weird, bouncing limp. “I love them. Makes my hitbox weird.”
Val’s gaze landed on Arthur.
“And you, sunshine?”
Arthur stood rigid, arms crossed.
“I am not wearing dead people’s gear,” he declared. “I have standards.”
“Suit yourself,” Val shrugged. “But if you walk into the arena in that shirt and tie, you’re a target.”
Arthur hesitated. Looked down at his clothes. Looked at the world outside.
“Do you have…” he swallowed. “Sterile protective equipment? Decommissioned lab stock?”
Val smirked. Reached under the counter. Lifted a plastic?wrapped package like a relic.
“Hazmat suit,” she said. “Surplus from the Pandemic Event of ’29. Reinforced rubber. Acid?proof. Air?filtered. Never opened. Sterile.”
Arthur’s eyes widened. He touched the plastic reverently.
“It’s pristine.”
“Three grand.”
“Sold,” Arthur said immediately.
“Arthur—” Cameron started.
“Non?negotiable,” Arthur cut in. “Sterile field. Medical necessity.”
Cameron exhaled through his nose.
“Fine. But you’re carrying the med supplies.”
---
Checkout
They piled the gear onto the counter.
- Industrial Blast Vest (Cameron)
- Burnt?Out HUD Helmet (Tony)
- Glitch Boots (Lenny)
- Sterile Hazmat Suit (Arthur)
“Total’s eight?five,” Val said. “Leaves you enough for a kebab and regret.”
Cameron tapped his wrist?comp.
[PAYMENT SENT: ￡8,500]
[BALANCE: ￡650]
He caught their reflection in a washing machine door.
Orange blast vest. Burnt?out helmet. Bouncing boots. Yellow hazmat suit.
They looked like a health and safety violation that had achieved sentience.
“We look ridiculous,” Cameron said.
“We look like Defaults,” Tony corrected, visor down. “Until the match starts. Then we look like legends.”
“Speaking of matches,” Lenny said, checking his phone. “Registration for the Wildcard bracket closes in ten minutes.”
“Wildcard?” Cameron asked. “I thought we qualified.”
“We did,” Lenny winced. “But we missed induction because we were out of bounds. Auto?booted. We have to re?qualify.”
Cameron closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled.
“Soft?locked,” he muttered.
He grabbed his staff.
“Run,” Cameron said.
They burst out of the laundrette and sprinted down Brixton Hill—Cameron clanking like a filing cabinet, Tony running half?blind, Lenny bouncing asymmetrically, and Arthur rustling like a bin bag in a hurricane.
