[Sunday September 15, 2075; Mechanical's Compound, Puyallup, Seattle]
Al was just hitting a dead run behind Spike when he heard Cutter's request.
It was also at that moment he realized there was more than one big meta following in his wake. Turning, he saw that behind the big oni was an even larger figure - a young but huge troll hefting an old AK-97. Dammit.
Confronting the boy, who stood a full meter taller than himself, Al began with what had become, out of necessity, his usual opening with the kid: "Don't speak."
The trollster looked crestfallen - not because of Al's brusqueness, but because he could see in the tiny human's eyes that he was going to be sent home. Nothing for it.
"Listen, they's trouble enough 'round here an' ta spare, no need ta be runnin' about seekin' 'er out. Anyway, I got a job for ya. Gon' send you the marks fer a trashy little 'lectric number come in with the circus. You find that thing lickety split, be sure an' use the marks cuz it more'n likely has a mean sec system, an' you pull out the RCC. I know you know how to do that. Then you wave down that T-bird up there, hand off the tech, an' git yourself ta yore pa. Now go!."
It had taken ten long seconds, and Al turned and went after his dog without waiting for a reply, relaying the marks to Clack and the plan to Cutter as he ran.