Big Shot and Junk Shot
The technician class in Fusion Punk Apocalypse was a profession that cost far more to get off the ground than you'd expect. Class-exclusive features like Structure Scan (-40 pt), Prosthetic Adaptation (-30 pt), Circuit Control (-30 pt), and Nano Fabrication (-50 pt) all came with outrageously high point costs attached, and among players it was widely considered the worst-value class you could pick at the start.
I used to try shaving points off my build with those class-exclusive features too, at first. No matter how much I trimmed and re-trimmed using technician functions, the math never worked out. To farm the points, I'd wrap myself in disadvantage traits, and an already frail technician class that struggled to survive became even harder to keep alive. I hunted for traits that would be the least disadvantageous. When that failed, I tried progressing with the bare minimum of features. The results were never great.
It took dozens of runs going down in flames before I finally understood. As long as I clung to the orthodox technician tree, I would never squeeze out any real point efficiency.
Once I reached that conclusion, I started hunting through every off-meta magic and psychic ability that could replace the technician-exclusive features. What came out of that search was the magitech engineer build currently running on this body.
And the build I'd carved out was proving its worth beautifully even in this world that had become reality. Without a single tool — just a few strands of mana thread at my fingertips — I'd just raked in tens of thousands of credits.
My build wasn't wrong after all.
I was fingering the thick wad of bills in my pocket, soaking in a quiet sense of satisfaction, when—
BANG!
The cardboard stall collapsed in a heap.
"The hell are you? What mage outfit are you with, running a stall in this shit?"
This was a different league from the no-name cobbled-together prosthetics of the customers I'd been dealing with until now. A corporate-brand prosthetic arm with the company logo stamped on it, clear as day — and a massive gang symbol on the right shoulder to go with it. This was definitely a mafia enforcer who collected stall fees from the street vendors in this district.
But what flashed through my mind wasn't fear. It was a kind of realization.
...Ah. A mage?
That was when the customers' sudden, inexplicable shift in attitude finally made sense. They'd mistaken me for a mage because I was using magic to do the work. And from that, I could infer one more thing: compared to the era of Fusion Punk Apocalypse I'd played, a mage's standing in this time period might be higher than I'd expected.
I gave the mafia thug standing in front of me a once-over. The brand on his prosthetic arm was Volkov Industries — a manufacturer that, if you had to classify them, specialized in mid-to-low-end prosthetics. I'd need a closer look to be sure, but the arm he was wearing looked like an older model from their lower-tier lineup. Which meant he wasn't a Big Shot, at least.
Once that thought landed, I straightened up in my seat. I'd said it before and I'd say it again: in the world of Fusion Punk Apocalypse, you could not afford to look weak.
"Affiliation? Why would I need an affiliation to run a stall? If you don't have something to fix, get out of the way. I've got customers to take."
I didn't look away from his eyes. I spoke with a leisurely attitude, looking as unhurried as I could. Even with nothing to back it up, I had to look like I had something in my corner. I felt him flinch, just slightly, at my attitude.
But he was a gang member in charge of this district. With the surrounding stall vendors watching, he couldn't back down. He glanced around at the onlookers, then suddenly ramped up the pressure.
"...You little shit. Who the fuck do you think you're running your mouth at?"
CRACK!
He swung the arm with the Volkov prosthetic. My crudely assembled cardboard stall went flying to the other side of the alley, pathetic. At that point, I couldn't just sit there anymore.
As I slowly rose from the scavenged crate I'd been sitting on behind the stall, he shoved his face right up to mine, veins standing out on his neck.
"You got any idea whose turf this is, acting like you own the place? This is Black Dog Gang territory. Butcher Rex's district. You hear me? You wanna do business, you pay. You pay."
He bellowed with bloodshot eyes. His filthy breath stabbed at my nose. I had no idea how big the Black Dog Gang was, or how big a deal Butcher Rex was supposed to be, but to this low-ranking enforcer, the guy was apparently the sky itself.
"Some no-name third-rate mage rolls in here and starts mouthing off? I gotta paint your face with blood before you get it through your skull, huh?!"
I'm fucked. Shit.
A bitter laugh rose in my throat. In the world of Fusion Punk Apocalypse, you had to watch out for Big Shots. But that was a concern for after you'd built up a certain level of recognition, reputation, or power. In the early game, when you hadn't properly settled in and had no name recognition, there were things far more dangerous than Big Shots.
Low-level thugs with nothing to lose and nothing in their heads, who couldn't tell a smart play from a stupid one. They were the most dangerous type in the opening stages of the game. I called them Junk Shots — the lowest, worst rank in my 5-Stage Big Shot Classification.
Most of these Junk Shots were emotional and impulsive, which meant they'd pull unpredictable stunts that had put my character in danger more times than I could count. Even if this Junk Shot's right-arm prosthetic was an old mid-to-low brand model, one solid hit would kill me instantly in this scrawny body with zero martial stats and the worst possible muscle efficiency.
No choice, then...
A low-ranking enforcer's goal was obvious anyway. Collect the stall fee. And right now, on top of that, get recognized as a tough guy by the surrounding vendors. If I filled those two needs, I might be able to slip out of this.
Or...
Just in case of the worst, I also prepared to use telekinesis. With Precision Telekinesis, I did have a way to handle a low-ranking enforcer. I didn't want to use it on a gang member in charge of this area, but I needed a backup plan.
That was when it happened.
"Hey. Black Dog brat."
From between the stalls, from a gap like an alley, an old man walked toward us. A long exhale, and cigar smoke drifted over on the wind. A worn coat wrapped around his entire frame, burn scars covering half his face, thick white hair, and a lanky, imposing height — an old man who left an impression.
That guy...
I remembered him. The old man who'd been watching me take customers and repair things for a long time, smoking a cigar the whole while. I'd been keeping an eye on him as a potential customer, so I was sure.
"Since when did the Black Dog Gang start shaking down my apprentice for stall fees?"
The moment the thug saw him, the hand that had been reaching for my collar quietly dropped.
"Huh? This guy's your apprentice, sir? I've never seen his face."
The swagger from a moment ago was gone from the thug's voice.
"That's right. I just took him on, so of course you wouldn't know. Or what — you expecting me to file a report with you every time I pick up a new apprentice?"
The man flicked the ash from the cigar in his mouth, muttering it casually. His voice was even, but those eyes felt plenty sharp.
"N-no, sir! It was a misunderstanding! I just didn't recognize him, that's all..."
"What? You think saying sorry to me settles it? You smashed my apprentice's stall. You apologize to him."
At that, the thug's face went dead white.
"I-I'm sorry! I didn't know you were the old man's apprentice..."
The thug who'd just apologized pulled something from his pocket and set it on my palm. Bills worth 20,000 credits.
What the hell is this.
That was 5,000 credits more than the repair fees I'd collected from the three customers earlier.
"This is compensation, as an apology. Please forgive me!"
The guy who'd been screaming about painting my face with blood just moments ago was now so polite I barely recognized him. He apologized, then bolted toward the far side of the night market.
Silence fell in an instant. The surrounding stall vendors were holding their breath, reading the old man's face.
Did this body originally know this guy?
I turned it over slowly in my head, but he didn't exist in Seol Gyehyeon's memories either. Whether he knew what I was thinking or not, the old man smoked his cigar and slowly approached the wrecked cardboard stall.
"...Thank you for helping me."
The old man said nothing, just started looking me over — face and body. It wasn't a particularly unpleasant gaze, but it still made me a little uneasy.
"Do you know me, by any chance?"
He wasn't in Seol Gyehyeon's memories, but I asked anyway.
"No. First time meeting you."
The answer that came back wasn't what I'd expected.
"Then why did you help me?"
"I told you. I helped you because you're my apprentice."
...What is he talking about? We've never even met. How am I supposed to be his apprentice?
I was standing there, baffled, when he spoke again.
"I've been watching you this whole time. I liked your skill quite a bit."
The man tossed his cigar to the ground, crushed it underfoot, and jerked his chin toward the inside of the alley.
"Follow me now, and I'll take you on as my real apprentice. What's it gonna be?"