Job Log 005 - Do Not Let the Witch Live (5)
I park the bike on the roadside of the residential street and push open the shop door. It's early morning, so there are no customers. The place looks quite different from what I imagined.
The man I saw was German. He spoke with that clipped German accent and naturally called mercenaries by their German nickname. But the shop is a Turkish restaurant. I glance at the massive skewer stacked layer upon layer with meat that doesn't reek of cultured stuff, slowly rotating. Then the client emerges from the kitchen.
Too many parts replaced with machinery to call him just a restaurant owner. His spine is definitely bolted in with metal, and on his hand he's got something like the gear I wore back at Bellwether—chrome knuckles dulled to matte black, scattering sunlight faintly. Aside from that, he looks about sixty or seventy. Borderline for "old man." Maybe because he's swapped out all the worn-out aging parts for efficient implants—he gives off a surprisingly youthful vibe. His gray hair, nearly white and cropped short, has a military edge to it. His eyes are probably cybernetic too, but gray everyday models that look almost human.
The client speaks in a voice bursting with vitality that doesn't match his age. I chalk it up to his healthy aura.
"Comparing what you saw on the call to the real thing, eh, Metzgerhund? Good instinct. No need to doubt, though. Back before Berlin turned into a nuclear crater, kebabs were big here. Retirees opening shops usually pick one of two paths: sling whatever sells easy, or have enough spare cash to cook what they actually like."
He's not piercing me with top-tier optics or hypersensitive sensors. It's just experience. I shrug lightly.
"So... you've got some financial breathing room, then. What's Metz mean, anyway?"
"Metzgerhund—old nickname for Rottweiler."
Using dog breeds as nicknames felt quintessentially Bellwether in a way I couldn't quite pin down. Security Team 4, where I was, was Shepherds; the assault team that rescued me was Border Collies. I let out a small chuckle. Most nicknames were just straight-up breeds for easy sorting. Pulling out obscure old names like Alsatian or Metzgerhund was rare.
"Even the Bellwether chairman doesn't slap shepherd names on everything in sight. Oh, and all five targets from your job? Eliminated."
He strokes his chin, nods approvingly like it's solid work.
"Were those five idiots so rotten they were only good as Pacific fertilizer?"
"Took out one first, told the rest my target was him so they should just come out. They did—unarmed. Easy cleanup. One figured out I skipped the mission report, though."
They didn't suspect enough, just trusted. Trusting usually beats doubting, but only after you've doubted plenty first.
"Efficient. Damn good for cheap merc muscle. Sit. Food's coming."
Before pushing through the door, I was most hyped for his resume line and the payout. The second I stepped in, it switched to the food. No synthetic slop stench here. Synth-food usually reeks like a curse—fishy as hell. Normals can stomach it somewhat; even my Posthuman IV dials down senses to endure, but you never forget. Real food in a spot like this? Pure joy.
Real food's pricier than synth, not elite luxury but too steep for daily. A short wait, and I get a sandwich: thin bread stuffed with chunks of dripping lamb, fresh-smelling tomatoes, assorted veggies. Synth meat lacks that grease. Often disastrously so. One big bite—fat and veggie crispness hit like bliss. After the rote chew of cultured texture and flavorless synth greens, this plain, rough, irregular bite is top-tier pay. Problem: it vanishes too fast. Sandwich gone, hands wiped—under a minute. Kinda embarrassing. Indulging raw cravings is inefficient.
The client doesn't seem fazed. Hell, he chuckles. Drops into the plastic chair across the table, smirks with one corner of his mouth.
"Thought Bellwether's killer bot leaked into merc work, but you're just a regular guy. Resume says security academy grad... why not join Bellwether?"
Nothing prying about it, so no offense taken. I lean back against the plastic chair, meet his gaze. Got excuses prepped; truth's riskier than lies right now. Might not even be pure lies—something I'm feeling more since leaving Bellwether.
"Live your whole life in Bellwether, then job there too? You'd miss the world outside the tower. Skipping it got me this sandwich—what's not to like?"
That Wild Night respect vibe hits here too. He nods curtly, extends a hand first. Firm shake.
"Mission skills top-notch, character solid. I'll call for more work. You need anything... well, this old dog's got limits."
"Joints all machined—'old' doesn't sell. Retired to this spot? I'm the one owing help. Call when you need."
Grab my helmet—faint blood wipe marks—and head out. Tsking from behind. Forgot a pistol? Turn: he's reminding me.
"Watch your step today. Hollow Creek heresy inquisitors prowling. Escapees obviously hit LA... you know those fanatics don't talk sense. Zealous bastard cult."
Slagging them as fanatics? Means he's religious. Knows they tarnish everyone. Selfless Hollow Creek inquisitors aren't human. Better tell Eve. Or maybe she knows. Suggest holing up in the wastes till they leave? Nah, bad idea. Could just say thanks, but some stubborn itch makes me ask:
"Where at?"
"Why?"
Can't answer my own why. Probably think observing Creek folks might reveal more about Eve. My hunch, even I don't buy it fully. Quick excuse brain kicks in—half-second old, delivered casual.
"Gotta know locations to dodge 'em, right?"
He taps the counter lightly, skeptical look.
"Telling you spots makes you sound like you're hunting, not hiding. Farmers Tower front, word is. They get rally permits easiest."
Come to think: last Jane Roe campaigner was there too. Thought it coincidence, employee maybe. Nah—leniency. One more goodbye, out the door. Mount up, loop wide opposite Farmers Tower. No need to worry him. Far enough, park, call Eve.
Rings quick. Connects; her voice, cleared and icy.
"What, Arthur? Me dropping by unannounced was weird enough—you calling first feels off too."
I lower my voice. Check sparse crowd.
"Heard Hollow Creek inquisitors downtown. Figured you should know... not too nosy, right?"
"Always so sweet, Arthur. Fine, I knew. Watching 'em. Holidays yours if you want—come keep me company? Just looking at 'em gives me chills."
Like peering at spiders through glass? Not sure why, but Hollow Creek inquisitors plus Eve? Trouble brewing.
"Yeah. Heading now. Morning solo job, client tip—don't sweat me ditching all holiday. Where?"
Follow her address, ride. Remember mid-way: not my bike, Tina's loaner. Full charge payback fixes it. Pull up to cafe, spot Eve in dim corner, hard to see from street. Wave off—instead, order bland coffee, grab seat. Holo-bush decor frames Farmers Tower; front: one white sealed power suit, four others. Not people. Flanking with SMGs: two Adams, two Eves. All blond.
Eve points through holo-foliage with plastic straw, whispers:
"Middle's inquisitor, guards are clones. Inquisitors mostly Adams. Clones are lay believers; inquisitors more cult-leader obsessed."
She knows Hollow Creek inside out. Escaping that faithless zealot ark? Knowledge is survival. Cliche "knowledge is power" hits hard when it's literal.
I watch Farmers Tower front quietly as she explains.
"Hate your Hollow Creek memories that much, yet staring? Got a plan?"
Her eyes meet mine briefly. Probing deep, vetting trust. Non-cyber, she might see it.
"Gonna pick a fight, get 'em booted from LA. We're Bellwether contractor staff; they're outsiders. Same megacorp eases entry, but not insiders."
"Why?"
If just hating inquisitors, more options. This aggressive purge? Not her usual.
"Real deal—they're here. Hollow Creek escapees. Hitting the road soon. LA too close to Creek. But they gotta believe escapees are here. Piss 'em off minor, get ejected—they'll think Bellwether hid 'em, spark beef. Escapees slip away meanwhile."
Yet you stayed put. Words rise, swallowed. Won't get answers. Prying her past? Bad move. Issue: Bellwether's not ideal. Teams don't collab—even surface skim shows it. Pile on inquisitors? Nah. Bellwether thrives on efficiency. Freedom boosts it. They'd smash Creek meddlers gladly. If whole LA branch thinks so, might unite against external threat. Merc peon fretting Bellwether? Laughable.
"The fight..."
"Gotta show my face. Prepped this too—they'll recognize. Hollow Creek waits for prodigals till they rot."
She pulls long blond wig from under table. Cult leader can't miracle identical clones, so dyes all blond? Superstitious. Religions systematize desires toward god. Hollow Creek? No system. One desire: leader's. Peak inefficiency. Inefficiency's the only sin Bellwether knows; efficiency, its sole virtue. Carve it out like rot from fruit. If her play excises inefficiency from this Bellwether city, count me in.
"Need help?"
Eve shakes head quick. Opens to warn of danger, pauses. Beat of hesitation.
"Can't say no after I blocked your security chief meet. Just... stay close, keep me steady. No jumping in if it gets hot. Got it?"
She knows I'd dive into danger. We both know my answer's yes.
Laugh-light tone: "Like I said yesterday—you're shouldering my share of responsibility too."
She sighs, not mad. Hiding in holo-bush, blond wig on Eve... pretty, but fake. Blue hair suits better. She grits teeth, hating the shoulder-length strands' feel. Whispers:
"Stand first, offer hand. We walk to Farmers Tower, rile the inquisitor. One rule: no one dies today. Got it?"
Not "don't die"—don't kill. She knows my Posthuman IV specs cold. I rise, sling gun bag, extend hand. Her near-skin prosthetic grabs it—warm like body heat, no pulse. Soft silicone, not flesh. Hand-in-hand, toward Farmers Tower.
Sole corp caring if smog sky's blue or gray. Glimpsed garden behind windows. No need to close in. Inquisitor spots Eve's face, fumbles holo-screen gestures, blocks us.
White sealed power armor, wood-trimmed frame. Overlong plates clank like plate mail. Only non-white: display helmet. Face materializes inside—elderly, way older than morning client. Not the inquisitor; remote view via helmet feed.
Wrinkle-bagged round face, toothless maw, thinning hair scraped neat-ish... Aging's inefficient too. Eve's grip tightens. That's the cult leader, bet.
Closed eyes make him benign grandpa. Open, screaming:
"113764 Eve... Hollow Creek prodigal! Back to Father's arms at last. Always loved your blond best. Speak—come to return to me?"
Calling her Eve even in fantasy? Creepy as hell. Toothless drone like man-skin puppet. Still, she knows how to enrage him. Yanks off blond wig, reveals blue hair, voice shaky:
"Hell no. Told you a million times, won't stick—so came to repeat: never returning. Shut off Hollow Creek hymns in Bellwether city and fuck off."
Display elder looks disappointed. Megacorp chairs don't mope long—they dictate.
"True love hurts sometimes. Fetch Eve, inquisitor. Lord's with you. I'll handle Bellwether—worry not."
Feed cuts; helmet blanks white. Farmers security: one minute. Bellwether assault team: three. Inquisitor finally drops avatar face, draws back-weapon. Sealed armor buys short time. Flex aug body. Flamethrower. Long nozzle with swinging censor, back-mounted idol of leader—not crucifix—flashing light. Revulsion surges. He crosses himself weird—even to my religion-illiterate eye—says:
"Clones, pray and hold. 113764 Eve: arresting for murdering church founder and fleeing New Eden. Fear not—sin's minor glitch, admin-wipeable. Lord reprograms you, sister."
That doctrine drivel? Laughter slips. She said make noise. Noise? Insult.
"Silicon Valley hack plays cult guru, cribs scripture from programming 101? And you swallowed it blind. Gets why Bellwether funds public ed now. Crystal."
Inquisitor picks barbaric payback over flamethrower. No words, no curses—just fist. Armor joints whine taut, powered punch motors toward me. Not lightning, but I twist shoulder, take glancing. Bellwether drone sirens as sealed inquisitor assaults contractor citizen. Assault/arrest on ally staff? Assault team's plenty. One or other: mobile team, slower. Three minutes left.