The gentle drops of rain slowly caressed the metal frame of the roof tiles, sliding slowly into the drain pipe located at the end of the downward slope.
From within the small bodega, sounds of drifting jazz tunes lazily hung in the air, as two figures stood at the bar up front, breaking the harmony with noisy remarks.
"This is the last time. Do you hear me, Scrap? The last time."
One imposing manly figure stood steadfast behind the counter, most likely the proprietor of this fine establishment, while the other remained seated on a small chair on the other side.
"Oh, come on, Rust. You don't need to make a scene over petty jobs like that. It proved lucrative in the end, if you ask me. I made a pretty good chunk of change, to say the least."
Unfazed by the reproachful tone of the man behind the counter, the seated figure glanced at the hanging lights that gave off a warm glow, making the entire room feel rather intimate as a one-stop place to relax from the hustle and bustle of the outside.
He couldn't bother with the entire upheaval his last job brought through, even if it meant another earful from Rust. All things considered, he managed somehow, even if the entire ordeal paid way lower than his expectations. There were things to consider when the bills came due after all.
For one, Scrap was not an organic life form. His name was more of a legacy, affixed to him as a reminder of his lot in life and origin. He was an android, and to make things more bizarre, he was an android found by Rust in the junkyard gutter with a total memory wipe to boot.
[Scrap's inner thoughts] "Man, you can't get anything better down here in the junkyard. Up top, there's the city, filled with new shiny things, and down below, you get the scraps from the fat man's table."
"Hey, Scrap!!"
It was at this point that Rust's patience ran thin, and his indisposition gave way to aggravation. Scrap's nonchalant attitude made him quite livid.
With all this back and forth between the two, one could hardly guess the intricacy of their peculiar relationship. Even so, for all his bad temper, Rust had a soft spot for the old tin man in front.
As their banter/fight cooled down, the camera upfront at Rust's bar caught wind of two individuals wearing a pair of heavy raincoats.
Rust felt that trouble was afoot, and to give a heads-up to Scrap, he asked him to go out back and keep low for the moment.
"Keep it low, Scrap; these are your chicks that came home to roost."
"Got it, boss. Gonna get my guns ready if things go south."
With Scrap's exit, the front door opened wide, allowing the entry of the two rain-soaked figures.
With little care for manners or decorum, the individuals moved slowly toward the counter, fresh rain droplets covering the ground they walked on.
"Hey there, Rustle, or is it Rust now?"
The man did little to hide his disdain and mockery that his tone evoked. He showed little concern about Rust's birth name, making it a point to emphasize his nickname as a nice fit for his current predicament.
"Old man Rust, finally at the end of your downward spiral. How the mighty have fallen, hey?"
With a cold, calculating glare, the uninvited guest slowly examined the imposing figure standing behind the bar, his gaze remaining fixed on Rust's leg.
"So the rumors are true after all. You're out of commission permanently, hey?"
"Imagine my shock when the top hound of the local scrap lord ended his career in a sorry state like this."
Rust cared little about his guest's tone. Even so, he needed to de-escalate this ticking bomb before things got wild.
"Careful, my good sirs, the local lord is an old friend of mine, and by the looks of it, you appear to be new blood. So, better not stick your nose in things that don't concern you."
His conversation partner smiled wide, teeth bared for Scrap to see the different misshapen and irregular forms that filled his mouth. Without a care, he raised his hands in the air as a show of non-aggression.
"Fine, fine. True, we are non-affiliated, but nonetheless, we're here on behalf of our organization to seek a peaceful solution. With this said, we need one thing from you: give us Scrap?"
Rust could barely hold his amusement at bay. With a soft chuckle, he offered them a prompt to answer.
"Well, well, if it's scraps you're looking for, there are plenty to go around. We live in a junkyard, after all."
The figure kept his cheery disposition while his gaze became rather stern. He lowered his raised hands with a decisive movement.
"Funny, it's so freaking funny, right? Rust, you're a killer comedian, I tell you. You know what else kills around here, besides your jokes?"
Within seconds of his question, both Rust and his guest had their guns pulled and ready to go.
For several minutes on end, Rust kept his finger bound to the gun's trigger, awaiting one wrong move from the guy in front of him. The barrel of the gun pointed at his head. As their eyes met each other, the guy in front of him smiled once more. A rather disturbing sight to see, as if daring Rust to pull the trigger.
"Well, well, the old man has moves. Too bad you can't move that leg of yours faster. So, for the sake of pleasantry and politeness, I will ask again: Give us the android, and we will go our merry way. Where is he?"
Sweat poured down his neck, and with hands still heavy from the adrenaline kick, Rust presented his own query to his opponent.
"Gotta ask, what's your business with him? He's mine after all, so what's the problem?"
"Oh my, Rust, you should know it's rather impolite to answer a question with a question. Your walking junk heap made a mess out of our operation; we need to recuperate our losses. So we are going to take him apart and sell him piece by piece. Isn't that swell?"
With little leeway left in this so-called negotiation, Rust lifted his leg and gently stomped the floor beneath him. This one motion of his diverted the attention of the two as Scrap came from behind, gun in hand, and shots were fired.
His bullets found their mark, piercing the intruder's hand and making him drop his gun.
"Fear not, negotiations are over, sunshine, and that goes for your buddy in the back too. Hands where I can see them, you hear?"
While gripping his injured hand, blood staining the bar's floor with fresh drops of blood, his downed opponent dropped the pleasantries, his tone now filled with rage.
"Argh... it freaking burns... You think you are a tough guy. Believe me, this ain't over, Rust..."
"Fine by me. Better hurry on along the way you came before my finger slips further down this trigger. Wouldn't want to turn my fine establishment into a morgue."