Work Log 001 - The Man Who Came From Nowhere (4)
"Meeting the boss in the office means you met Tina too, and since you've seen Kay as well, the only ones left are Enzo and Eve."
It might be good to memorize their names. These are the people I'll be working with from now on.
"Eve's the type you can't track down outside work hours anyway... so let's go find Enzo. You'll need his approval for any purchases anyway—he's the finance guy. Second most trustworthy after the boss."
Second most trustworthy after the boss. The boss seemed pretty reliable herself. She'd pass as a decent manager for average employees, but the Wild Night crew were all overflowing with personality.
The finance guy sets how quickly and precisely credits hit my pocket. No downside in him being trustworthy.
Bola tilts her head slightly—a gesture to connect comms, apparently. She starts conversing without a sound. Full-body prosthetic means she can communicate internally without voicing it.
It doesn't last long. She tilts her head again, turns to me, and grins with her exposed left eye.
"Good. Enzo says he'll handle the report, so let's go. Oh, and one heads-up..."
She lifts her suit jacket briefly, showing me bullet scars. A chuckling laugh plays from her speakers.
"Don't call Eve by name. I heard it from the boss and used it—next thing I know, she's drawing on me. Cut her some slack; she's from Hollow Creek. Who'd want a name from that cradle of filthy zealots?"
Hollow Creek was a megacorp, a city, a religion. Hollow Creek Pharmaceuticals ranked in the top five nationwide, and the devout chairman who bought an ark-city from the U.S. government turned it into a church unto itself. Started as a cradle for fading faiths, but like everything, belief corroded over time. Praise shifted from God to the chairman, who embraced it gleefully. He became God.
Thus, Hollow Creek Autonomy became a surveillance hellhole where watchdog drones swarmed like migratory birds. For "efficiency," every man was Adam, every woman Eve... monsters bred in religion's name.
Outside, best not mention Hollow Creek faith. Normals would shoot zealots on sight; true believers hated them twice as much. No freedom to relocate either—being out and faithless meant escapee.
She wants to ditch the name but hasn't picked a new one yet. Personal matter. She doesn't seem the type to care, but quietly does. Not quite company loyalty or camaraderie like at Bellwether, but something similar exists here.
Whatever to call it.
But I stared too obviously. Bola eyes me like she gets it, pats my back lightly, and nudges me toward her pickup truck.
"I love automating and mechanizing everything. But one thing I don't automate, newbie: your brain. Don't do that—it's for inferior meatbags."
Ironically, she taps her exposed forehead skin as she says it.
Her ride's built for that augmented frame—spacious inside, comfy. We cruise LA streets.
LA lunch weather: two flavors. Smog-hazed clear days, or downpours washing smog and drowning homeless. "Moderate rain" was as rare as "moderate credits."
This city's rain reeked of divine wrath.
Near Bellwether towers, security improves, streets clean up. Pasadena with Bellwether and Caltech was livable enough. No copycats left either.
Back to downtown LA. Good streets to bad alleys: two blocks apart. Short gradient shift in scenery, city's faces.
Zones once had character; now bland towers fill them. Little Tokyo: gates, fluttering holo-flags. Korea Town: unmanned turrets, drones, android sentries guarding corp branches—no people.
Cheaper to produce four androids than maintain one soldier. Merc work's smart, but I didn't want translator dependency.
That automated corner seemed Bola's vibe, but the cold unmanned gazes lingered on me longer. No guard-bot welcomes an unmarked military augment in their yard.
Luckily, just passing through.
We pull up to a gun shop—fits Bola. Entrance oversized for full-bodies like her.
Inside, a mild-faced man waits in a chair, clutching a briefcase. Real glasses—refractive lenses. Pure human? But hands are painted prosthetics, fingers twitching interlaced. Mid-40s, black hair slick with anxious sweat, rumpled suit. Far from boss Yoon's vibe.
He stammers, shoulders hunched like open spaces scare him, adjusting glasses.
"Ah, ahh. Ms. Bola, and... th-the, n-newbie... Mr. Arthur, right? Enzo Ki, Cassetti. Wild Night finance lead... b-basically just an accountant."
His gaze flickers wildly, hesitating like he doesn't know what to say. Yet Bola called him second-most trustworthy.
"Find me anytime for field needs—browse easy. Ms. Yoon said spare no credits on newbie gear..."
An accountant for fieldwork? Amid gunfire, I'd rather not calculate taxes, but handing it off eases my mind. Otherwise, nothing. He looked ready to faint at a gunshot.
He sits clutching his briefcase; Bola nods chin-greeting, leads me to the owner.
Owner's opposite: jaw-up cybernetic. Red lenses eye me, then tsk at Bola.
"Buying weapons for meatbags? Wrong shop, Bola. Showing a kid toys? Fine."
"Kid? Bet you couldn't touch this machine. Try. I know you're dying to sell—go real. Borrow your hand proper. Know you wanna."
Owner rests prosthetic on reinforced plastic case—metal gleam unpainted. Raises fist, power cables bulging artificial muscle.
Not fast. Or my eye's frame rate's too high.
Left hand snags incoming wrist. Right fingernail—thinnest—pries near-invisible emergency release on detachable forearm.
Switch works surely, swiftly. Gears whir loose; his hand's in mine.
Bola bursts laughing. Not output—real.
Awkward pose holding his hand; she nudges my shoulder.
"Don't actually borrow, newbie. Give it back. Fresh Posthuman IV, eh? Intrigued?"
I hand over limp wrist. He reattaches, tests, grins back.
"Padded my skull waiting—you rip it off. Damn, quality. Sample tissue? Girlfriend in Bellwether mobile—touch Posthuman series, she knows fast. So, what for this meat-machine? Role?"
"Boss wants him blacked-out, carbine rear-guard. Suggest carbines, SMGs. Newbie, faves?"
Bellwether-only experience limits me. Mention "Bellwether short rifle"—he fetches pristine issue carbine from back. Perfect.
Investigator of leaks, now just user. Civilian model? No—security spec, suppressor included. Familiar weight.
Twist off suppressor. Attachments: Pitts & Morrison specialty over Bellwether.
Huh. Thinking it stirs taboo thrill. Corp days, no rival gear or praise. Now? Free.
"Suppressor from Pitts & Morrison. Rifles Bellwether does well, but..."
"Dress corp kid for party? P&M accessories best. You know, squirt. Ex-Bellwether?"
"As if."
I smirk corner-mouth. Ex-Bellwether eyes: hybrid abomination. Rivals ban cross-use, but civ barrel swap fits. Capitalism crushes grudges.
"Bellwether rifles premium. Months now, flooding market—auctions turn auctioneers rappers."
He rapid-fires slang, then cocks head curiously.
"No rumors supply rats? Volume's insane—not usual drip."
Bellwether gear black market. Omen? Boss wouldn't tolerate leaks. Security never short—didn't know.
Black market guns, copycat docs... Bellwether frailer than thought? Solid inside, leaky outside.
"Never worked Bellwether, but... no such rumors. Supply tight."
They suspect anyway—blind bluff.
Test customized rifle in VR backroom sim—realistic range. Safer, cheaper than physical. Outdoor ranges: rich-only.
Grip perfect, suppressor superior to Bellwether stock.
Exit VR. Think Berta—medical AI. Miss her already. Only truth-teller when brain-alone.
Missing emotionless AI? Common.
Bola's matte-black repaint packs case; Enzo tallies credits. Swift, precise—bare eyes, no smartglasses.
Return: all three cram Bola's truck. Enzo beside me clutches bag, stammers.
"Ah, ah. Meant to say... Mr. Arthur. Gear first—important, right?"
"Yes, sure. Pre-job cheap buys cost blood mid-op. Bola vouches you're solid—no supply worries."
Kind words; he shakes head. Anxious eyes lock mine—clear, no stutter.
"No. Pre-job cheap? Mid-job needs more credits, not blood."
Beast growl? Hallucination? Maybe not.
Eye him.
"I know vendors, rush delivery—including drone/bike to bullet hell. Gutsy ones."
His eyes flash sniper-deep. Medieval alchemist demoing lead-to-gold—zealous certainty.
"Bullets? 9 credits mag. Combat? 20. Vehicles? Rentals cheap—under 1k."
Stormy speech softens, back to timid.
"Air assault pricier, but doable. So... please. Call me, don't push..."
Bola chuckles output.
"Why our frail meatbag's 'Cash Alchemist.' No lead-to-gold, but credits conjure ammo, anything—delivered."
Her quarter-face smiles.
"Plus post-job canned beer in the van. Only flaw: preps Valentina's driving share."
"I'll drink that now—no issue, right?"
"Good kid. Merc agencies get useless psychos, rookies from corps. Rookies turn psycho."
Her sharp eyes pierce anew. Chills.
"Where's your crazy? Act normal... like volunteer types."
Want to blast Self-Actualizers and Bellwether biotech freaks. Swallow it. Revenge personal. All hide theirs. Me too.
"Mild case—wanna seem nice."
"Worst say that."
Lunch skip: KSC for synth-material burger. Cultured patties vs. real beef? Fast food magic—no bad diff.
Krill-paste, chlorella "cabbage" better than cultured. "Clean Pacific: real Filet-O-Fish!" poster—decades old, older than me.
Armor shopping downtown: grateful for company procurement. Bola's picks suck; Enzo's tailor fits. Realizes: finance does buying, but he's too meek vs. her "my spots."
Bought there.
Shift time. Relieved for driver, head to Wild Night.
Auto-door sticks; Enzo opens.
Dump gear in on-call room. Cot harder than hotel—better. Soft beds trap nightmares, drowning dread.
Staring evokes throat-slash, monster face. Shake head. Not fully healed—Bola right.
Voice: "Clocked in."
Last intro. Hang vest, case on wall hooks, step out: dark-blue bob merc. Eve.
Don't call her that. Violin-case gun slung, oversized flight jacket. Eyes stranger unpleasantly.
Thin build, skin-texture prosthetics—near-human, joints painted visible.
"Heard newbie coming. Gaze earlier... sorry. Merc life: strangers in space grate. Nice, Arthur."
Cold tone—not boss's warmth-veiled ice. Hers: warmth gone, pure chill left. Similar, key diff.
"Ah, yeah. Nice too. So..."
Rehearse no-Eve—fails. Blank otherwise, tack on.
"Senior?"
Lame—even to me. Four years unused.
Cold face smirks faintly, tone lighter.
"Someone spilled. Hate name less than senior title? For now... senior. Fine."
Wild Night intros done. Know them somewhat, all have secrets.
No merc license yet—no first job. Log ends here.
Wild Night... worth sticking. Still nowhere-man, but direction set.
Thanks, Francis. Sincerely—hope his guilt eases.