Duty Log 001 - The Man From Nowhere (1)
A cheap holographic clock blares, jolting him awake from sleep. He instinctively reaches for his head to summon the duty-assist AI, but disgust surges up to his jawline, clenching his fist. Was he planning to smash the bed? One swing with this fist would shatter the frame entirely, and the money the security supervisor had so kindly scraped together would vanish into repair bills. No money means he can't even afford to get angry. He barely calms his boiling gut and heads for the shower.
The bathroom features a flyer for a clone brothel advertising "half the rights, half the price," wedged into the shower booth frame. Guess that makes this a full-on cheap motel. He snorts, washes up adequately, and steps out. Irritation bubbles up—he's woken up thirty minutes before his shift starts. He fiddles with his phone for a bit. Thirty minutes flies by. He's not hungry, so he grabs a bottle of water from the knee-high fridge stocked in the hotel room and downs it. Even this must be thanks to the Posthuman IV augmented body's performance. Around the time he's checking his pistol like it's a company holiday morning, his phone rings—Francis calling. He starts feeling a twinge of regret for what he did to the guy last night. Come sunrise, he feels a bit more decent. That feeling circles the sky with the light, only to vanish completely over the horizon by evening. It fades away.
He's still not used to it. Manipulating the floating HUD feels entirely different from this tactile control. Better to get accustomed. "Hey, Arthur. I pinged your office first thing this morning... They were suspicious about me recommending someone else, but told me to bring you in anyway. Where you at?" He doesn't want to admit he's holed up in a hotel, so he just names the neighborhood vaguely. As he lifts the phone screen during the call, Francis's address pops up. About thirty minutes from here. A mercenary agency has to know how to put on a show. Even if contract fees are tight, they build in the city center; even with just three or four operators, the locker room's sized for twenty. To people, one agency isn't much different from another. First impressions are everything. So he has to head downtown. He printed a resume yesterday, but handing that over and expecting to get hired feels ridiculous. Still, at least the work history section isn't blank—it's been expunged. Blank means nothing there; expunged means there was something. Maybe he can game it. They can't expect him to navigate to a company he's never worked for, fresh off a dishonorable discharge he's never even experienced. First, he needs a place to crash to even think revenge. Francis didn't ruin his life. He's just a security vulnerability. The bastards who exploited that vulnerability wrecked everything. High positions come with big responsibilities. A regular Bellwether Corp desk job isn't that high up, but it carries its share. Not anymore. He lost the position, shed the duty. He'll gun them all down, then shamelessly testify that he hates the terrorists who bombed Bellwether Corp and dirtied the city's peace. As long as he's not on security detail, it'll count as mitigating circumstances. Sure, he's ex-security, but the branch president already made sure he's not anymore. No need to worry. He tucks the pistol into his jacket, tosses yesterday's clothes into the hotel's laundry chute, and steps out.
The morning city is still hazy gray. The sky looks like soda water with a pathetic splash of blue curaçao—blue-ish, but suffocatingly gray. He must've forgotten what real sky overhead feels like after too long leaving "home" in the mornings. The air reeks, but his augmented body's dual-filtered respirator handles it. Overall, a tolerable morning. He boards a bus downtown. The vehicle's mostly empty—not heading toward megacorp towers. He counts his luck for a seat, watching the gray-white-black road streak by. He learns bus stop locations for the first time and gets off smack in the city center. Phone map up, he hunts the building Francis mentioned. Downtown means he's hyper-aware of the pistol as he walks. Yakyeong Mercenary Agency—sign looks like two sticks in a circle, like a pause logo. Easy to spot. Like he said, merc work thrives on bravado. Office right on the street corner overlooking the intersection, outdoor lot boasting two logoed armored vans side by side like a flex. Not a big outfit. One for jobs, one backup. He doesn't know merc life well, but Bellwether's rapid response teams managed vehicles that way. Heard it's run by a Bellwether retiree. Confirmed, he heads up to the third-floor office. No curtain wall like Bellwether HQ, but decent enough. Stairs sloped gently, building owner clearly maxed out on upscale touches. Probably why the agency leased here—for the facade. Third floor, he stands before the auto-door with the pause-logo decal. Sensor pings, but no open. He waves lightly at the woman visible inside. She checks the stuck door, approaches. Black armored coat. Turtle neck hides a plate underneath. Just a hip pistol, but the office reeks of gun lube. Mercs don't usually clock in mornings. The door that ignored him slides open as she nears. Locked to outsiders? But she speaks first, a touch flustered. High-end sniper cybernetic eye—dark gray like Bellwether issue, no dye job on the black short cut. Mid-forties to mid-fifties. Not retirement—ambition or greed. Voice tries friendly, but sharp-edged. "You could've at least run diagnostics. Anyway, come in. Yakyeong Mercenary Agency. What brings you...? You're the one Francis Pandey recommended?" She's forcing warmth, but the edge peeks through. She sized him up just like he did her. No casual speech from her. "Yeah. Mind if I pull out my resume?" He pats his jacket's inner pocket—opposite the pistol. She nods curtly; he hands over the twice-folded sheet. Her brow twitches reading it. Fair. But instead of emotional inefficiency, she asks calmly, "Francis said he'd recommend someone from Bellwether security."
Time to mislead a bit. Announcing silence violates gag orders, but dropping hints toward truth doesn't. "Must've been a misunderstanding. Never worked at Bellwether." She lets out a dry chuckle. She gets it now—they're playing twenty questions against their wills. "Well... okay. Two years at Bellwether's security training academy, graduated, but no Bellwether employment." Her mind's clearly churning inferences. He waits while she fishes for info without asking outright. "No serial on a Posthuman body, expunged history—starting to make sense. Care to share your academy callsign? Might verify it." Her sniper eye flickers briefly. She doesn't care what it was. "Shepherd Six... no, Alsatian Three." Bellwether security has Shepherds, not Alsatians. Alsatian's academy-only. "Shepherd... Guard Team 4. Heard Shepherd Six swapped a month back. Posthuman IVs take a month to culture, right?" She glances, expecting confirmation. He nods shortly. Reason clear now: he quit Bellwether over this body. No more details. She strokes the blank serial field with her porcelain-smooth milky prosthetic arm, muttering. "Explains the door glitch. Not on blacklist, I'd hire you... Mind if I check? Rare assets like you don't roll in off the street. Appreciate it." He nods readily. She takes the resume to the inner office. Returns with a handheld metal detector. Testing if he's worth calling "valuable resource." He sets aside the pistol-laden jacket, spreads his arms slightly. Detector sweeps—no beeps except belt buckle and zip. Her face imagines his post-hire. So resignation reason: ambition. Unknown what kind. But such types don't drop necessities till goals met. Worth trusting, maybe. While watching her expression, a woman limps out from the back office on lightweight prosthetics that look barely framed. Hungover face. "Boss, checks clear. Not on blacklist—not just absent, Stephanet doesn't even recognize his face. Newbie, huh?" Not just legs prosthetic—beer-can hand's crude early-model too. Lightweight obsessives like street racers? But she looks normal. Pale from hangover, light brown long hair, logoed shabby tracksuit, bleary face, generic blue cyber eyes—unemployed slacker vibes first. Real street racers have unfocused eyes from stripped safeties, love crash impacts and chassis shredding their modded bodies. They hum constantly from engine-heart implants. Easy to spot. Races exist in net sims too—hyper-real, augmented beyond life, they claim. But street racers crave the wreck and pierce. Untamable, uncatchable. Anyway, she clashes with the agency's image so far. He'd pictured crisp metrics from the boss; maybe even that's facade. Boss gestures her inside twice, offers her flesh hand to rebuild the cracking pretense. He grips lightly. Shakes. "Blacklist clear, confirmed your implant-free Posthuman IV augmented body as expected. Welcome to Yakyeong, Arthur. We're Bellwether's official partner, aiding night security to make Los Angeles safer. Call me Yoon."
Nothing good happens after midnight. The saying flashes through his mind. Doubts creep in—bad call hitting a night guard outfit. Nah, pointless suspicion. Betrayed by the company he trusted last night, wasted three-hour grace on sober frustration. He said anywhere's fine; he'll endure anywhere. Deep breath, shakes her hand up-down lightly. At least re-employed in a day. Satisfaction enough. "Any company spotting my value without proof is always welcome. Looking forward to it." Boss matches her facade perfectly—at least he likes her rigid professionalism post-hire. "We're one of Bellwether's official partners; you're off blacklist, so license by tomorrow. Quick rundown: 107 agencies contracted for night security; we're bid-priority 46. Not top, but up to here, low-risk decent-pay jobs roll in."
46th. Great start. High-risk high-pay goes to top talent first. Scraps trickle down; 107th gets meaningless busywork. Money's fine. "Weekly schedules from Stephanet Sundays 11 PM; emergencies daily 11 PM, or anytime for real urgents. Commute short as possible. Uh, your commute time?" Commute issue. Can't stay hotel-bound; doubt this tiny agency houses him. Honesty best. "As you guessed, crashing hotel now—no place yet. Thirty minutes ideal." Her face twists at the inefficiency. Bellwether hates waste; its retirees loathe "about" or "roughly." "Lots of luggage?" One box—he says; her grimace eases. She leads him inside. Night-shift office empty now. Just the light-brown-haired woman slumped over a desk. Yoon shakes her awake, taps floor with heel like Bellwether style. "Valentina, tidy on-call room 2—half's your stuff. Arthur, check it. It'll do as temp quarters." On-call means no rent—guess he's gotten poor. Face rubbed pleasurably on cold desk, she rises, cyber eyes locking his. "What, real eyes? See why boss favors you, offline boy! Think you can custom-slot a greenhorn wherever, right boss?" Yoon sighs. Nudges her toward room, swallows retort. "Wish you'd distinguish implant-broke rookies from implant-free military posthuman, Valentina." Friction visible... but things going smooth. Even accounting for zoo-animal treatment once full staff arrives, quizzing his pure-human status endlessly.