Hand in the air, I ordered a glass of water from the menacing old man behind the bar. The boisterous concert went to an encore.
Only after blood and scrap of prosthetics filled the floor, the crowd went back to their usual seat as they laughed with one another. The lad with the annoying face, who joined at the kicking session at beginning, came up to me.
"Quite a performance you did there, Faust." He tapped my shoulder while chuckling. "I helped ya, so you owe me something. How about a free booze?"
"Heh, say that again when you're doing something helpful, dumbass." I shifted my gaze to the crowded wide pub before shouting, "Everyone! Mister Tony is feeling generous again! He says that all food is on him!"
The crowd responded.
"It's time to feast, boys!"
"Big Guy Tony, you're the man!"
"Darn it!" Tony punched my guts, letting an amused grunt escape from my exhilarated expression. He then drilled his fist onto my cranium. "You'll pay for this, you gray-haired weirdo!"
"Bahahaha! Don't worry, I'll pay half of it after my next job! It's not a busy hour, there were only less than twenty people here, and take that as a lesson before acting like I owe you something!" I saw a barmaid passing in front of me. "Two sets of chicken tenders please! Also, package it so I can bring it home."
"Oy!"
As the shenanigans ensued, one of the barmaids proceeded to clean the broken remains of the two cyborg bozos and went back and forth to drag some of the components to the backroom.
She was merely a child, yet her face was unfazed and seemed to get used to this kind of scenery. I heard that she got recruited by one of the cooks and had been serving the Cassandra Tavern with the other waiter since then.
After Tony decided that nothing could be done and started to accept his fate, the adorable barmaid went to me and handed me the business cards of the cyborgs and went back cleaning with a blank expression.
I smiled and thanked her.
With subliminal curiosity, I examined the cards.
"I see, so they are the Patchers from the Headsign Office. Quite the prospering one too, if I need to add."
Tony looked over my shoulder. "Headsign Office? The one that you trashed just now?"
Office and Patcher, they were interchangeable when made into a conversation.
Every District was filled with those Offices, whether it was the Hives or the alley world.
What is a Patcher and an Office, one might ask?
You could say that the Patcher is an occupation for someone who professionally 'patches' a problem in exchange for money.
From meaningless errands, to exploration, to contract killing; they will do whatever you wish, so long as you pay them sufficiently.
Starting from the lowest, Grade 11, to the highest, Grade 1—their service costs may vary, depending on their ranks.
And for people to know them and come to their door, the only logical step was to form a group or guild, referred to as an Office.
Yep, it was a thriving business.
After the slogan and icon of the business have been made, they would only need to find a way to create a name for themselves, or maybe form a possibly non-beneficial relationship with a famous Office to start their journey.
Though, most young and new Patchers would prefer to join an already available prestigious Office instead of making a new one with their own chumps.
That is, if they are talented.
"Bingo! Ten meaningless points for you."
"I'll be thankful if the points are Solus instead. So, what is their average grade?"
I smirked to the clueless Tony.
"Grade 10 to Grade 9. A normal skunk of the Vascular, you can say. Though, I heard that they are stinking rich."
"Never heard of them."
"Of course you haven't. They reside within District 51 after all. Or so I heard." I shrugged. "Do know that they are likely capable of suppressing a hard threat with their equipment, a 'Nihil' or two, perhaps, not."
"What a waste of money then, being in the hand of such fools. But damn, that's quite far. You seem to be messing with some fancy tin-heads if they're willing to travel that length."
"Bud, IL-trains exist."
Tony sighed. "Only those from the Hives can say that, those who live in the Vascular don't have the permit."
The barmaid brought the chicken tenders, neatly packaged in two boxes inside a plastic bag and placed it on the counter.
"Haha, anywho." I got up from one of the stools, slipping the food bill to the men behind the bar. 420 Solus, three pieces of vibrant acrylic-wrapped paper went out from my pocket. Two were bright red and one was green.
With my food acquired, I casually moved towards the exit as I waved without looking back. "I'll be going back now. See you at the 'Hunter Gathering' this week, Ton-ton~!"
"Don't you dare get yanked into the dark!" Tony shouted. "I still need that darned money! Wait, it's almost midnight already. Shit! I need to sprint to my shelter!"
I checked my pocket watch, it was 10:11 PM. Better to make haste for my apartment and assess the spoils to see if I can survive another day.
Not to mention, midnight was near.
"Oy, Faust! Thanks for the entertainment, heheh." The standing guard of the patron Syndicate grinned, saluting my presence after I exited from the door. "It's been a while since the last bar fight, things have been getting boring in this area of the Lowstreet."
"Heh, don't slurp back your own words when there's a heavy conflict in this intersection later. Still, don't forget to tell me if there is another job for the ripe, ey?"
"Aight, I got yer back."
The cold finally bit into me. I tightened my jacket before putting my free gloved hand in my pocket.
T'was nothing but a normal day, a normal life, in the belly of the City.