The Bone Parish is a gang of about ten augment strippers who operate in Detroit with a disturbing specialty: they harvest augments from the dead. Graveyards, morgues, disaster sites, combat zones — anywhere bodies accumulate, the Bone Parish appears. They're not fighters or kidnappers like the Skinners in Cleveland. They're ghouls. They dig up the recently buried, bribe morgue attendants, and follow the sound of gunfire to collect the freshly killed before anyone else can claim the chrome.

The crew is tiny but efficient. Ten members with a clear division of labor: two scouts who track deaths and burials, three extraction technicians who remove augments, two logistics handlers who transport and store the harvest, and three salespeople who move the product through black-market channels. They operate out of a condemned funeral home in Detroit's East English Village — a location chosen for its macabre appropriateness and its ready access to embalming chemicals that help preserve extracted augments.

The Bone Parish occupies a unique ecological niche. Their supply is consistent — people with augments die every day — and their overhead is low because their donors don't fight back. The augments they recover are often in better condition than what the Skinners pull from living victims, because the Parish takes its time and doesn't have to work around a struggling patient. They've developed a reputation for quality product, which generates steady business from chop shops and gray-market clinics.

Everyone despises them. Even criminals who deal in stolen augments find the Bone Parish distasteful. The crew doesn't care. They've embraced the revulsion as a form of protection — nobody wants to be associated with them, which means nobody pays close attention to their movements.