The First Contract (1)

Morning broke after a night of work that had run me into the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ground.

I threw open the rear doors of the modified truck, and the panels swung wide with a heavy clang. The haul inside was what I'd dragged back from the hideout after cleaning out the Ratchet Crew overnight.

"Might need to wipe the blood off..."

Going in set on scouring the place had left a mess, and it was worse because they'd been so easy.

The latch clicked. The cargo bed was packed tight with everything the bastards had stockpiled—mostly cheap submachine guns, pistols, and ammunition. On top of that I'd swept up bundles of bearer credit chips pulled off the scavengers' corpses and out of every corner of the hideout, along with a clutter of scrap parts.

"More than enough seed money."

Next was security. I called in specialist contractors from La Frontera's black market at once.

Metal rang, and blue arc-weld sparks spat. The dented frame and the old shutter came out, replaced by a blast shutter of specialized composite armor.

We ought to be safe from here on.

I'd spent real credits to have the thing custom-made. Titanium-alloy plate, the sort they claimed went into bunker doors. There was probably some salesmanship in that, but it wasn't going to give just because trash mobs hammered on it the way they had yesterday. With this in place, I wouldn't be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠watching Jackie get raided and taken hostage a second time.

Once the shutter was up, I put more work into the basement. I installed a gun rack, hung the pieces worth selling, and brought in a 3D printer. One shotgun was plenty for my own use, but Jackie had begged so earnestly that I'd bought it for her. With it, she said, she could print the recon drones she was already running and hawk parts on the side. Or so she claimed.

A real little earner.

Last of all, I finished installing a high-grade encryption relay. Watching the techs work, I realized the pawn shop had already taken on a respectable shape.

A private security net like this ought to stop anything short of serious wiretaps and packet sniffing.

Come to think of it, had the original game even had a residence-upgrade feature? What I was doing now was exactly that.

A month passed after the blast shutter and the comms net went in.

I cleared the dust-choked storeroom inside the pawn shop and hauled in exercise equipment. And there it was—a private gym, just like that.

In the original, Jackie's pawn shop could be customized into a personal residence. Doing it with my own hands gave the whole thing a strange new weight.

Gear on the floor meant there was nothing to do but lift. Outside of resting, eating, sleeping, and working, I went downstairs.

"Ghk—!"

I drove the barbell in both hands up over my head.

"Heavy as hell..."

The bar was crude. I'd brought in whatever could be had cheapest and fastest nearby, and the result was a pile of scrap that had been rolling around somewhere, welded together with brute ignorance. Look close and it was rusted, too. True to that brutish look, the weight cleared two hundred kilograms with room to spare.

And yet, somehow, my body hoisted it clean. Did that even make sense?

In my past life, my back would've gone out ages ago.

I ran squats and presses without a break. The crush of joints and the pop of muscle traveled through my whole body, but I could feel it all the same—the weight I could handle creeping up, little by little, right down in the meat.

That was the setting. P-Cells regenerated damage as fast as it landed and, not content with that, adapted and reinforced the body around it. I couldn't overwhelm cyberware output in a single leap, but if gorging on protein was enough to make me stronger, it was more than a fair trade. Strength and density both had packed on since the day I first arrived here.

Huh. This is actually kind of fun.

I dropped the bar. The shock mat caved under it, and sweat ran down my jaw.

The moment the set ended, my gut roared like thunder. Hunger wrung my stomach until my head spun.

Boxes were stacked as high as I stood in the corner of the storeroom. Protein packs—spoils bought with money taken off La Frontera's lower gangs, night after night. Electrolyte ampoules and lumps of cheap cultured meat were piled in with them.

I can't exactly devour a person every day, can I?

So I had to keep cramming in calories to make up the difference. I tore a pack open and swallowed it down. I was hungry. My mouth couldn't keep pace with the emptiness.

Then a good idea cut across my mind.

Wait. Couldn't I do this by hand, too?

I picked up the one-liter energy drink and a protein pack from the floor, one in each hand. The skin beneath my palms bulged and squirmed, and with a wet hiss dozens of red tentacles surged up from under it. They punched straight through the aluminum can and the foil pack.

A strange clarity, and a rush of nutrients, climbed from my hands up my arms. In an instant the can was sucked dry and crumpled flat.

I opened my palm. The crushed shell clinked and rolled across the floor.

"Haaah..."

Someone was there. I turned my head.

"What are you doing in there?"

Jackie stood frozen behind the cracked door, eyes round. So she'd seen me drain a can through my palm. Not exactly a scenic view, I'll grant.

She swallowed dry and clutched the mug tray tight against her chest.

"B-Boss... just now... I didn't see that wrong, did I? You chewed a can up with your palm...?"

Tsk. And she'd seemed a little better lately. These days even a cough out of me had her rubbing the back of her neck and watching my face.

"Why'd you come?"

"I-I brought you this! You forgot it on the way in, so..."

I took the towel and wiped the sweat away.

"It's cold in here. Don't stay long."

I started washing up, and Jackie backed off in a nervous scurry toward the counter.

"Oh. Jackie."

"Jefe? What is it?"

"Come here."

Now that I thought about it, I had something for her. In the original I'd used it to spike affection in the dating-sim layer. Do the same here, and her attitude ought to improve.

"Here. Take it."

I drew a black paper box from the inner pocket of my coat and set it on the glass top of the counter. A gold ribbon glinted over the matte black wrap. I'd ended up spending real money to order the thing, and I had no idea how it would land.

Going by the original, she should like it... hmm.

"Open it."

Jackie dithered until I jerked my chin, then came over carefully and undid the ribbon. The wrapping came apart, and a red box showed itself. Gold foil was stamped across the lid.

"Th-this smell...?"

Jackie sucked in a sharp breath.

"Southland chocolate. More than half cocoa butter."

With trembling fingers she peeled the foil back and put a piece in her mouth. She couldn't even chew. She only blinked, and then tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

"Hhk... hnn—waaaaah!"

Jackie clutched the box to her chest and burst into tears like a child.

"¡Dios mío... this is real chocolate... it's melting in my mouth...!"

"That good?"

"Good doesn't even cover it! I've never eaten anything like this in my life...! Jefe!"

Face a mess of tears, she threw her arms around my waist.

"Jefe! I'll work my heart out today! My loyalty is yours!"

Watching her mumble around the chocolate, I let out a short laugh. Ready to lay her life down.

So she loved a gift of chocolate, just as she had in the original. That made her easier to handle. From here on, whenever things turned awkward, putting chocolate in her hands ought to mean less flinching.

I watched her crunch away like a hamster and sipped a fresh cup of synthetic coffee. She was enjoying it so much I almost reached over and took a piece.

"Ah—ahhh..."

She looked like a mouse who had just lost the entire world, fidgeting in a panic, so I quietly stopped teasing her.

A little cocoa butter and they call it luxury. What is this...

The world of Escape from Nowak billed itself as cyberpunk, and even the food was bleak. Pollution and climate collapse had made cacao desperately scarce. A European megacorp, Mertier, and the Texas bastards had monopolized the farms, so everything on the open market was fake—palm oil, synthetic flavoring, caffeine, and a dump of sugar, sold under the name of chocolate. Buy a bar at the corner store and it only chewed like rubber.

If I wanted to get her the expensive kind now and then, I needed money. I'd already squeezed the neighborhood punks for everything they were worth. It was time to grow the operation, without overreaching.

I got down to business and brought up work.

"I don't have a neurochip, so I can't register an identity on the official citizen net or the merc network."

"I know. There's no chip in your brain, so..."

"So as far as the outside is concerned, I'm this pawn shop's security. Every outside contact, every contract, the laundering, the brokerage—all of it goes through under your name."

"U-under my name?!"

Jackie's eyes went wide.

"You're scarily good at washing hot goods and keeping the books. I'll handle the bleeding and the neck-breaking outside. You stay behind the counter, safe, and print the contracts."

"Then... should I try getting a line to some old fixer?"

"Don Papa."

At that, her eyes flew open.

"Mi jefe? You know him?"

"More or less. Heard he knew your uncle, too. That right?"

She nodded, careful.

"Yes. When they were young, he and my uncle drove smuggling trucks together and became sworn brothers... He still gets in touch now and then, so..."

Don Papa. Real name, Marcos Valdez. One of the heavyweight fixers entrenched through Nowak City's major districts, and the old fox who held La Frontera's back alleys in his fist. In the city's underworld, there wasn't a soul who didn't know the name. In the original, too, he was the key contact you could reach first through Jackie's pawn shop.

"Put the call through."

Jackie tapped the terminal keys. The line hopped through the rooftop encryption relay a few times, and past the beeping handshake a thick, wet cough came through.

"Oh, mister! It's me, Jackie! Jacqueline Lopez!"

"No! I paid the debt off! All of it! Really! I... I'm calling because I want to take proper contractor jobs, officially, out of my uncle's shop!"

The silence broke under a bellow that tore at the ears.

"I-I'm serious! And I'm not working alone, either. I've agreed to work with an exclusive contractor!"

Marcos's voice sank, cold.

"Papa! He's not a gangster! He's an incredibly capable, incredibly strong guard!"

Jackie shot me a glance—how far was she allowed to go. I gave her a small nod.

"Actually, robbers hit the pawn shop last time."

"It's fine! They were Ratchet Crew, and my guard took care of all of them! The crew's gone now, too!"

The voice on the far side of the terminal went quiet for a moment.

Jackie pulled a miserable face and held the terminal out.

"Security for the Lopez Pawn Shop."

The rough sound of someone drawing on a cigar came through.

"Seven. Call me Seven."

"I'll do that."

Just when it seemed to be passing smoothly, Marcos's tone hardened.

"Yeah?"

A fixer's probe. At a time like this, the sure play was to recite the recent state of Nowak City burned into my head from the game.

"Southern La Frontera—one of the Ryuseikai crews just got swept away by the Black Dragon Society, and the remnants scattered. Up north, the Steel Heads' main force has the industrial zone locked down, but the crackdown on Shanghai Treaty contraband dried their money up. In the central districts, Zhongtian Biotech and Galton Industries are squaring off for a proxy war. A heavyweight fixer like you has to be sick to death of managing a district in the middle of all that. Am I wrong, old man Valdez?"

Tap, tap. The sound of an ashtray being struck broke the quiet.

A short, empty laugh came through the call.

"Flies were getting at my plate, so I cleared them off. Trash has to be sorted on time if you want the district clean. Wouldn't do to have another Ratchet Crew show up."

Silence again. Jackie watched, tense—and then laughter exploded from the other side of the terminal.

It had worked.

"That's what I want. I hate having corporate types sniffing around, same as you."

"Talk."

Sure enough. A contract I knew.

"I'll handle it. I trust the payment won't be late."

"I'll think about it."

Click. The call cut.

A buzz. The green lamp on the counter terminal flickered, and a contract climbed the screen along the encrypted line.

Jackie stared at the printed sheet, looking as if her soul had stepped out.

"Don Papa... actually gave us a job...!"

It meant something, for her and for me. With a formal contract in hand, I had finally set my foot on the starting line of the original story.