Want to read ahead of schedule? Head over to Patreøn.
[https://www.patreøn.com/amattsu]
The link is also in the synopsis.
______________________________________________________
It wasn't until a month later that I finally managed to deal with all the tasks and accompanying problems that had piled up. The cyber-cats were successfully legalized, and I registered them for a monthly tax, totaling 1,000 eddies per pet. The longer I live in this city, the more I encounter various fees that slowly but surely drain money from my wallet. And then there's the annoying tax system, where you have to make the payments yourself. I'd accumulated so many that I had to offload everything onto Vega, freeing my brain from the monthly headaches. Fortunately, the income tax in Night City isn't too harsh, amounting to only 5% of my earnings.
Due to the massive lack of personal time, I completely forgot to call Wakako. Making people wait isn't my style. Reaching out to her turned out to be surprisingly easy. She answered my call calmly, and after a few minutes of polite small talk, we finally arranged a face-to-face meeting. It was set for Saturday at an old pachinko arcade on Jig-Jig Street. The name of the street didn't exactly fill me with excitement — crowds of prostitutes and hustlers, not to mention the Tiger Claws gang that patrols the local "attractions" day and night, guarding their assets.
On the day of the meeting, I prepared in advance, just in case, taking along my trusty pistol, the Wingman. The gun had proven itself well, and I'd even managed to make some modifications. I had to change the muzzle brake design to reduce the weapon's recoil. A pistol of this caliber is hard to handle for an average person, and I planned to sell similar modifications. Trading in upgraded weapons was common in the city, so my "humble" workshop wouldn't attract too much attention.
"Are you going alone?" Inga tilted her head questioningly, waiting for my answer.
"The meeting's set for noon, so you'll have to keep an eye on the workshop by yourself. Just take orders, and if something urgent comes up, get help from Vega." I winked at the blonde, hiding the gun holster under my clan jacket. "Hopefully, nothing happens while I'm gone." Waving goodbye, I nearly bumped into a stranger at the door.
"Sorry, I was lost in thought," the stranger apologized in a peculiar way as he walked past me.
"It happens," I shrugged, continuing toward the elevator.
"You're the owner of the workshop, right?" The man's voice suddenly called out from behind me.
"To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" I stopped abruptly and turned to face him.
My gaze immediately locked onto his unusual appearance. He was tall, well-built, and dark-haired, with visible augmentations on his face. What stood out was the special visor he wore, designed by Militech — a piece of tech nearly impossible to acquire without the right connections. His arms were also quite unique, the kind you could only get through very influential contacts. It was Militech's "Stormtrooper" model, which never even made it to the internal market.
Besides everything else, the stranger had chosen his clothing to conceal his combat potential, making it difficult to assess at a glance. Most likely, I was facing a former special forces operative or someone with similar high-level training. His implants were clearly worn — something I could tell from the slight tremor in his hands and the scratches on his knuckles. Of course, the wear and tear could have been attributed to a recent skirmish, but in that case, his clothes would have been damaged too. I couldn't help but wonder why he needed me.
"Jeremy Martinez, mercenary," the man introduced himself, extending his hand. "I saw your services advertised and would like to get a check-up." He didn't waste any time, getting straight to the point.
"Alex Mitchell, humble owner of this workshop," I replied, returning the handshake. "How long has it been since you last serviced your implants?" I asked, diving straight into a rather delicate question.
"About three years ago," Martinez answered, making me whistle involuntarily.
"Three years is a long time," I shook my head, taking a closer look at his augmentations. Typically, maintenance is done quarterly at best, with sensor system recalibrations happening every six months. This situation was practically unheard of. "The creators of these implants really did a stellar job."
"I see you've got a sharp eye. Other techs and ripperdocs just threw up their hands, offering at most a basic system rollback. I had to spend a fortune on immunosuppressants," the mercenary said with frustration, his left index finger twitching again.
"I've never worked with augmentations of this level, but I'll do my best," I said, pausing to search the megatower registry for his address. It came up quickly, and it turned out we were neighbors on the same floor. "I'm a bit tied up at the moment, but I can probably make it around five in the evening. I've got some pressing matters I've been putting off for a while. If time's an issue for you, we can reschedule."
"No, I can wait," the man shook his head, then paused. "Just in case, I've sent my contact details to your email."
"Got it," I said, adding Jeremy to my contacts and forwarding the info to Inga. "Is that all?"
"Yes," he replied, closing his eyes briefly. "I won't keep you any longer." With a dramatic shrug, Martinez turned and left.
"What a pompous ass," I thought, shaking my head as I followed him out. Good thing I decided to leave early; otherwise, I might have been late. "And he really does remind me of someone I used to know in my previous life — a whiskey lover."
***
Traffic density in Arroyo is relatively low, but the situation in other city districts is drastically different. Starting in Japantown, it becomes almost impossible to get anywhere by car. That's why I decided to get myself a good motorcycle, the ARCH model.
This two-wheeled beast was purchased from a contact of mine in the Aldecaldo clan. The ad had been up for about a week, but due to the high price of this model, no one was willing to buy it. Shelling out over 60,000 eddies for a used bike isn't something many people are ready to do. However, having been raised in a nomad clan, I knew exactly what this machine was worth. The ARCH is a premium-class motorcycle, with an original price nearing 140,000 eddies.
The bike had been fully customized, with many of its factory issues ironed out. Bob, the seller, hadn't initially planned to sell the motorcycle, but he recently found himself in serious debt. He lost a race and couldn't pay up. His car was put up as collateral, and to get it back, Bob put his ARCH up for sale. A car means a lot to a nomad, and in a way, I understood his reasons for doing this. My conscience wouldn't let me buy such a beast for the asking price, so I ended up purchasing the bike for 80,000 eddies.
"And here's my beauty," I said as I lovingly ran my hand over the cold frame of the motorcycle. In one swift motion, I swung my leg over the seat, settling into a firm position. After playing with the throttle a bit, I finally roared out of the parking lot.
The street greeted me with the familiar hum of traffic, coming from every direction. The city's residents had long grown accustomed to it, paying it no mind. It took me two weeks to get used to it myself, which I considered a decent adaptation period. It used to take me much longer.
On the way, I passed by pedestrians, moving as one in a direction known only to them. At first glance, they seemed to be wandering aimlessly, more like video game NPCs than real people. The thought amused me. If I found myself in their position, I'd likely be just another part of the drifting mass on the streets.
"Amusing," I thought, my lips involuntarily curving into a semblance of a smile. The megapolis can really make you feel the insignificance of a single person in all its grandeur.
It took me about fifteen minutes to reach Japantown. I could have made it faster, but the damn traffic lights were clearly not in my favor today. Aside from the ride itself, I had to find a parking platform. These platforms are essentially lift-based parking spots where you can leave your vehicle for a relatively small fee. The payment is hourly, with some conditions. The longer you rent the spot, the cheaper the overall cost. American mass-consumerism at its finest — they practically force you to buy more at once because it ends up being cheaper that way.
"Thank you for renting. Please be reminded that if you fail to pay for overtime, your vehicle will be towed to the impound lot," announced the robotic voice of the AI.
"Yeah, yeah..." I rolled my eyes, walking away from the parking spot at a leisurely pace, my hands habitually shoved into the pockets of my jacket.
In reality, Japantown isn't the largest district in the city, though at first glance, it might seem enormous. The illusion comes from the dense cluster of skyscrapers, all connected to form something truly monumental. From the outside, this district could be described as a genuine "concrete jungle." And like any jungle, it has its predators. The Tiger Claws have managed to expand their influence significantly during my absence, taking control not only of Kabuki but also nearly the entire Watson district. Only a few blocks remain under the control of the police department, though that's hardly a testament to the department's effectiveness. The real reason is the district's proximity to the city center, where corporations have established a zone of total control. If any gang dares to pull off something big in the central district, corporate enforcers will immediately crack down, making a brutal example of anyone involved in the incident.
"And why couldn't we have picked a more decent place for a meeting?" I muttered, glaring at the neon purple sign glowing above me. The area was littered with the usual assortment of Night City trash, and in some spots, I could even see dried bloodstains. All in all, it was quite the colorful location…
During the day, the streets were less crowded, but even so, there were plenty of prostitutes loitering around, eager to reel in their next sucker. As I walked, I passed a couple of Tiger Claws, loudly arguing in Chinese. Unfortunately, I didn't understand the language, but the visor's built-in translator helpfully displayed their conversation for me.
"Hah, Jun, I swear it was that damn kid, Jin Mori."
"Are you kidding? How did he manage to steal those food containers right under your nose?"
I didn't catch the rest, but it seemed like the guy was either lying and ate all the food himself, or the kid really did manage to swipe the goods and was now on the run. The situation triggered a pang of nostalgia for the days when we barely scraped by.
"Hey, handsome, looking for a good time?" I had barely paused when one of the courtesans pounced on me.
"Not interested," I waved her off.
"Maybe you'd like our braindances? We've got recordings for every taste and more," she hinted, clearly implying some dark content that was better left untouched.
Without bothering to respond, I continued walking, effectively cutting off our one-sided conversation. The last thing I wanted was to engage with street prostitutes pushing themselves and illegal braindances. Black braindances are dangerous, often filled with content that could give you nightmares for weeks. Rach once showed me a recording of one in cyberspace. By the end, I wanted to track down the person who made it and give them a taste of their own "unforgettable" experience. Thankfully, I was just an observer, so I didn't feel anything myself, but for those unlucky enough to experience someone else's emotions…
Luckily, this time, my autopilot didn't fail me, and I found myself right at the familiar pachinko parlor. I'd been here once before with Susan and had memorized the route well. There was no security at the entrance, which wasn't surprising. Wakako was a big shot in Japantown. Her sons held high-ranking positions in the Tiger Claws, providing her with plenty of "protection."
I walked straight to Wakako's office, bypassing the people gathered around the arcade machines. Retro games were highly valued in Night City, and similar machines could be found in almost every café or similar establishment across the city. No one stopped me at her office door, so I walked right in. The sickly-sweet scent of incense hit my nose immediately, emanating from the mistress of this establishment. Wakako didn't rush to greet me, so I had to start the conversation.
"Good day, Okada-san," I greeted her in perfect Japanese, which clearly caught her attention.
"It's good to see you again, Alex." Wakako responded without adding an honorific to my name, a move that was ambiguous at best. It could be interpreted in various ways, but knowing this old, cunning woman, she had likely done it on purpose.
"Susan mentioned you wanted to discuss something with me. I'm listening." I assumed a relaxed posture, leaning casually against the doorframe.
"Hmm," Wakako hummed, extinguishing her cigarette in an ashtray with deliberate slowness. "A man of action, I see? I appreciate that." The Japanese woman slowly rose from her chair and walked over to a shelf in the corner. After rummaging through it for a moment, she pulled out a distinctive pendant, which made me freeze involuntarily.
"Where did you get that?"