Blobjects, Bargains and Justifying Cracky Weaponised Cars:
"There's a physical jack in the bottom." Arccos says rather unhelpfully. The thing has no real shape or form to it beyond a human hand-shaped imprint on it. Whatever part was the top or bottom; probably entirely imagined by Arccos. "You can use a cable, or if you have the right communications protocol you can connect to it wirelessly. It should automatically install its own drivers to whatever you hook it up to, provided you have the right operating system... If you're having problems, get your IT I'ee to get in touch with me."
In reality, Arccos had no idea what sort of system compatibility issues the wasps would have. But some mean part of her felt no real guilt in thinking that she would charge Gut-Stripe in particular for coding a proper communications protocol between what she'd been using, and whatever the I'ee had... She probably wouldn't ask for that much...
And then she got distracted by Corgan. Looking him in the faceplate of his armor in thought for a second.
"You realize of course you're asking Freespacers to make you ground vehicles..." Arccos stopped again. The entire prospect of it seemed to have her mind caught in a web. "I mean, we might have some sort of tech in that department. I'd need to either get my hands on schematics for the things, or link up a polysentience connection to those enclaves some 'spacers set up on terrestrial worlds after Yamatai glassed Freehold..."
She looked around at the junker above her as it finished up the last plate of Gut-Stripe's armor. The things certainly had the equipment needed to put together... What were they called? Cars?
"Until then, we're probably stuck just... I don't know. Uso bought all those cars to strip them of their generators to turn into bombs. We can put in a different power source, then reinforce them? Won't be pretty but I'm sure you can find a way to get it all working."
Mystery Space Can Roulette, and Meet the Pooplord:
The two little'uns seem to perk up at the prospect of making even more profit. By all accounts it seemed that they'd decided that the really big space-man was okay! They both give some sort of unintelligible chattering of agreement and each take a can, one whipping out a little pocket knife and punching a hole in the top of both. One after the other. And then they go on to prove two things: Kids do seem to like engine oil. They also seem to not be that intelligent without the learning vats.
They both take a can and take a swig, resulting in one giving a little squeak of happiness as they tip the can back further to suck more liquid sugar from it. The other gags and spits a black spray of lubricant over the other one. Soon after, they both seem to have devolved into a fit of giggles over it. A little while later, they both look up at Truffleclub.
"I'm Lundy," The one in the cavalryman's cap introduces themself, then the other "An' that's Mizzie. We'll take you!"
The one called Mizzie raises their grubby hand, still spitting out some black gunk onto the sand. Lundy takes Truffleclub by a single finger, and starts tugging the behemoth along with them... Well, they actually in no way had the strength to pull Truffleclub around, but a deal was a deal. Truffleclub gets taken out for a trip through the city, eventually being led towards the inner parts of Former Osman. Not the burnt out slums by the eastern city limits, or the richer parts near the Green Sea's shores.
This was the part of town where people went to work. Much of it had been harshly effected by the invasion, stores abandoned when their owners never returned, markets depopulated... But parts of it were too crucial to sit down. And after a trip where the two urchins share the can of liquid sugar, they finally pull out little handkerchiefs (that are almost certainly pickpocketed) and clutch them to their faces. They lead Truffleclub down an alleyway between two buildings marked as being part of "Wolcroft's Tannery", however the alley itself had the words "Fallon's Night Soil Collection" painted messily on the wall, pointing back between the tanners.
Down inside, the alley has a short line of men smeared in brown stains and leading small carts which haul biological digestive biproducts. Fires burn on mud-brick stoves, with huge numbers of small corroded iron pots and kettles bubbling away on top. Apparently this was somehow the city's alternative to plumbing. A dedicated workforce that dug out outhouses, stables and ditches the city over... But at least they seemed to be recycling everything they could, in their own way. The muck seemed to be sifted through by men with pitchforks, and mixed with algae scraped from the little boilers. In the end it all was added to a huge mound of fertilizer being sold out the back end of the other alley.
They all uneasily shift at the presence of a giant automata, but one man steps out from the office. A haggard old fellow, dressed in a stained apron and long gloves. A dented top-hat perched upon his head.
"Fallon!" Mizzie chirps, "The spacemen wants to talk 'bout greenfeed!"
For Fallon's part, however, he just looked up like a man who had waded through a probably literal ocean of bullshit and come out knowing the universal truth: Everyone poops, thus everyone needs Fallon.
"Spacemen want fertilizer to garden with, eh? Or are you trying to get collections set up?"