The processor unit is actually not just a processor (with control AI included), but a set of intentionally flashed schematics of what the fabricator can produce.

  It was in the part where they were stored that the hole for the thread was drilled.

  This explained why Marcus didn't try to get the fabricator for himself: it was mostly the weapon's digital schematics that was damaged, or rather destroyed. The unit allowed testing through external devices, and my ECHO diagnostics showed losses.

  However, the unit was still quite working, and there were enough working schematics for my needs. Including cartridge blocks of all kinds. There were armor plates and shields, but they were of such low quality that I wouldn't even be able to sell them cheaply, and I wouldn't use them. Especially with a trophy license for armor alloy.

  And anyway, it's still the skin of an unkilled bear. In order to turn into the larva of a tycoon-industrialist, I still need to collect the materials for evolution - that is, the access key, and the fabricator itself. And then I need to extract the raw materials for processing.

  ...It all sounds like I'm going to be settling down to live on Pandora. What a... strangely unperceived as absurd thought.

  And, speaking of absurd thoughts... Roland and I made a nice profit on our last crazy venture. So now and then the thought began to arise - if this venture was so profitable, then maybe it wasn't a crazy at all?

  I'm fighting it. The remnants of common sense are more valuable the less of them there are, just like with any other resource.

  After Roland left on his own, having taken his honestly earned share, I took up a new job in my specialty, given to me by Moxie - at first alone, then other workers arrived, bandits in appearance, but quite worthy builders. And - this brought unexpected bonuses. The building had to be remodeled to fit Moxie's needs (a couple times I thought it would be easier to build from scratch), and in the process I came across a secret vault. Some money and ammo - including a stockpile of grenades, regular and rocket-propelled! - and a strange Eridian relic. Nah, they're all weird, but this one's weirder than usual. It looks remotely like a shard of a very thick-walled vase, and the ECHO identified it as an "Eridian relic. Fragment ????" And it marked it specifically. It's a quest item, probably even a story item... I'll give it to Tannis later and let her handle it.

  But first, I'll attach the tracker. Just in case.

  I also had to clear another area for the archaeologist, where I encountered an incident strange even for Pandora. As usual, I was clearing the usual wildlife, the standard set of skags, rakks, and skithyds, as suddenly a bullet flew in from somewhere. Well, or rather, the ECHO showed from which side bullet hit the shield, of which there is still fifteen percent, no more. Sniper, definitely... I immediately took cover behind the prepared wall - remember, children, caution first! - and was only a fraction of a second ahead of the next bullet. The ECHO AI again indicated the direction of the shot, and I let my shield recover and tried to see the enemy. Barely had time to move my head away, avoiding another bullet...

  Well, I won't drag out this story - it was tense, but rather tedious - and I'll get right to its denouement. The sniper was a skag.

  ...Yeah.

  I find that hard to believe, but it's a fact. It looks like the skag tried to swallow the sniper, but it couldn't fit all the way in, so the barrel was sticking out of its mouth. And this thing was somehow managing to fire the gun in a way that was beyond common sense.

  P-pandora, my ass. That's the kind of environment you have to work in.

  - What do you want me to do? - I asked incredulously.

  In exchange for the key, this Pandorian showbiz (and entertainment industry in general) owner wanted nothing more than to have me fight in her arena. As she stated, "a good fighter will contribute to the spectacle and promotion..."

  - Isn't that a bit of a complicated scheme if you want to get rid of me? Although, this way you won't have to pay a hitman, and you'll have a show... Anyway - nope.

  I've given it some thought.

  - And by the way, it's not gonna work for you. I'll either set up a bunch of turrets in advance, or I'll cheat in some other way, but either way, it won't be a show. After all, my motto is "caution and discretion."

  Moxie raised an eyebrow and looked at the 'Money is Money' inscription on my armor.

  - It's a new motto, - I explained. - Life makes you grow on yourself and set new goals. I'll write it down later. In any case, this option does not suit neither you nor me.

  - All right - the woman did not insist. - In that case, another option. I need someone to deliver a package to a friend of mine, and take something from him.

  I looked at her suspiciously.

  - Was this option prepared in advance to look like an good alternative to the first one? - I asked.

  - Why not? You can take any of them - this fox said. I've given it some thought.

  - How much more problematic would he be than the first option?

  - It's less dangerous, - she said instead of answering, confirming my suspicions. - It's just that... Crazy Earl is a bit... difficult to communicate with.

  I thought about it some more.

  - Is he deaf and mute and living in a bunker that has to be reached through skag packs and minefields?

  Moxie looked at me with interest.

  - Have you thought about working as a fortune teller? You bet there'd be customers.

  I sighed.

  - How good was my guess?

  - Fifty percent, - the lady said. - Usually fortune-tellers don't get more than twenty, so think about this career.

  I finally agreed. In fact, it was obvious from the start that I would. Moxie managed to convince me that she'd given me this "quest" instead of doing it herself not only because of its complexity (there was no question of "not so much"), but also for a number of reasons ranging from personal animosity to the fact that I was on hand in time... at least, not under her heel.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The fact that the object of my assignment was nicknamed "crazy" didn't bother me; the same Moxie is also called "Mad Moxie." Anyway, look for someone normal on this crazy planet. I can't even vouch for me. Besides, he's not deaf and dumb, and he's out of land mines. I guess.

  Anyway, I just needed to get to the bunker through the skag-filled junkyard. It was nothing.

  The main thing was to make sure those skags didn't turn out to be - again - armed.

  Have you danced with the devil... uh, not quite the case. For all the evilness of the skags, there's no way they're the devil, even the ones that belch fireballs (elemental effects, yes).

  However, the pale light of Elpis, Pandora's moon, gave the scene a slightly mystical look. Piles of wreckage of some sort of machinery, including even whole vehicles, overgrown with Pandorian vegetation and mosses in places, fluorescent flowers poking through the metal. The growling, the whining, the sounds of gunfire and the squeal of circulars ricocheting off metal... Fantastically exciting.

  At least from the outside. On a computer screen, it must have been interesting and maybe even beautiful.

  For me, it was intense and dangerous work.

  Yes, it's probably worth noting that as a result of Moxie's last assignment - and closing part of the quest chain - I gained another level, reaching 13 (hopefully a number of no consequence), which brought me another portion of the agony of choice. Two portions, actually, as I discovered to my considerable annoyance that I still hadn't used a point from the last promotion.

  However, this time the decision was made quickly, albeit with a bit of doubt. One point each in Technical Competency, closing it out, and in Basic Military Training. Turrets are the basis of my combat power, plus this skill helps a lot with other things, and military training on Pandora is like school education on normal planets: you can't get anywhere without it.

  And these two upgrades clearly demonstrated their value during the walk to the abode of a psycho living in a junkyard among skags. Especially when combined with the new armor materials.

  Despite the improved eyesight and the fact that Elpis provided ample reflected light, visibility in the junkyard was poor. The mountains of junk weren't light-conducive, you know... Skags could come out of just about anything, so I grudgingly accepted the waste of ammo as fact and shot first for sound, having quickly learned to distinguish wind sounds from extraneous sounds. And now - something squeaked, clattered, and I immediately fired a volley from the shotgun - a regular one - in that direction.

  - Meow - quite unconvincingly, and even mechanically, came from the direction where I heard the sound. Well, at least it wasn't a skag....

  - There are no cats on Pandora - I reported.

  - ...Woof? - After a short pause, the unknown person suggested.

  - Dogs, too - I hummed, lowering the shotgun. - A free recommendation: next time, you should study the fauna of the planet you're traveling to.

  - Thanks for the advice, meat bag, - said the voice. I immediately raised the shotgun again, and asked suspiciously:

  - Claptrap?

  - I have nothing to do with this disgrace of a robotkind! - said the voice indignantly. - Don't insult me by comparing me to these inferior, non-functional, aesthetic-less parodies of a real death machine!

  - I won't believe it until I see it, - I said firmly. As far as I could hear, the voice came from the same height as Claptrap's. - Get out, or I'll spare no grenade.

  A bluff, but it worked.

  - All right, all right, but don't shoot - the voice hastily reported, and from behind a pile of junk rolled out... rolled out....

  This unit was really unlike the woe-robot, the owner of which I have the misfortune to be, but its appearance - primarily the design and coloring, white-blue-orange, stirred in me unpleasant memories.

  - Maliwan? - I asked suspiciously, and it sounded threatening even without my intention.

  - That's right, let me introduce myself: T0ST-R2D2 of the Maliwan clan, former Minister of Economy of the Free Confederation, - he tried to bow, but it didn't work well on wheels.

  ...О. Indeed. Toaster.

  - Be thankful you wasn't a coffee maker, - I muttered, loosening my grip on the weapon slightly. - I have a short conversation with Maliwan coffee makers. What are you doing here?

  - Well... It's pretty intimate, - the robot folded its arms, similar to Claptrap's. I pointed my gun at him suggestively. - But, as a demonstration of my friendly intentions... You see, I'm a refugee. After the unfortunate end of the Free Confederacy, I was probably the last survivor. A lucky chance allowed me to arrive on this remote planet, leaving my past behind, but fate has condemned me to loneliness...

  - Anyway - I interrupted him.

  - Anyway, I'm trying to reproduce, - the robot said with a touch of irritation. Oh. Well, there are materials here, I suppose. However...

  - Uncontrolled self-reproduction by robots is actually forbidden, - I remarked.

  - We can make a deal - the robot noted.

  - Like what? - I asked.

  - For example... Attack, my brothers! - shouted the toaster and rushed for cover, and then shots rang out from all sides.

  ...I knew I couldn't trust Maliwan's tech.

  - Uh, my brothers? - The robot repeated uncertainly from behind the pile of junk he was hiding behind. - Brothers! Sisters?

  I clapped my hand on my chest, the inscription on which now read "Caution and discretion above all else - but money is money".

  - I've got a turret set up at every convenient point, - I announced, walking over to the toaster. - Any last words?

  - All I wanted was to create an army of killer robots and take over the world. Is that too much to ask? - the robot asked sorrowfully.

  - This planet is already too crazy, - I said, and pulled the trigger.