The ensuing shakedown of electronic bits and bobs went about as well as anything could have in the zone. All of the gathered scavengers, like chrome vultures pecking at a machine corpse, after all valued the pieces enough that getting blasted by one another in some standoff was not in their interest. The spindly legged cyborg left with the precious, precious hardware which was laden with everything from combat data to whatever soft updates he had jammed in, while the boosters picked apart the metal and left with arms, forearms, hands, an eye or two, among others. Theron waited patiently despite all of this, the quarry as close as it could be to its extraction as it had been and still alive, remarkably.
All the gizmos inside keeping Golemeth going the gang wasn't about to play with, at least not without their ripper doc. Like the shaggy band of hyenas they were, they were hooting and hollering from start to finish, and with it all said and done left the once giant, unstoppable killer a mess of deformed flesh. Cyber didn't actually go in the body, but people forgot that and just hacked off and jammed in all they could fit. Take it off? Well, as the hunter noted, boots splashing through a blood tinged puddle by the target, it left them as a lump not even capable of defending itself. That was the issue Theron had with cyberware, one really, but a big one. Without your tech, you were just meat and everything wanted to eat you. If the world outside didn't get you because you lived in the wrong side of the city, the corps would and just devour your livelihood. Something they couldn't take away from you was whatever was in your blood, some things just that permanent, and not everyone was interested in taking a life so they could later get hosed by corporate security or the cops. Vigilante justice wasn't a thing, but what was a thing was revenge killing, so picking people apart of their gear? A better option than coldblood unless you knew no one would notice or miss them.
A glance down an alley then back, Theron was alone - brain dead cyborgs without enough processing power to think don't count more than a potted plant does - and now it was his turn. Granted this was going to be a challenge, all he had to do was get him to the nearest terminal, make the call, and the extraction team would find itself here to haul good old Golemeth away to his fate. So with one knee down, both enhanced hands on the effective corpse, the solo gripped and strained. In one motion, one burst of energy, he lifted and tossed up over his shoulders the prize and pushed to standing.
The reeking scent of damaged coolant, mingling with singed blood, burnt electronics, and some exposed ports where limbs once were did not make this any more pleasant. If anything this was the worst part about all of this, worse than the gunfire and exchange, worse than the freakshows that might go back on him, worse than any of that. Why? Hauling around dead weight that was pretty vile wasn't his idea of glory or goods. But the promise of more modifications? Some exceptions could be made, which was what he kept reminding himself as he staggered slowly around a corner, carrying the awkward shape up on his upper back. A terminal was never far, most every corner had them, but ones that were still operating in this side of the Combat Zone? That took time.
All the locals kept their heads indoors and had shut out the nightly crazed gunfight, making the march a comparatively easy task. The haze and glow was gone, the man mostly a silhouette in the darkness, trying to slip from street to street covertly like a pantherine cat.