Scraping the Surface
-I can say this with certainty: no mage working for a national agency, no mage under a mega-corporation, not even the third-rate illegal mages robbing 24-hour convenience stores in back alleys truly understands Cyber Space. They all just barely skim the surface of that world, same as us.
-...Are you serious?
-Of course. If you think I'm wrong, go ahead and refute it. It took decades after magic spells first fused with computer devices in 1969 for that world to be called 'Cyber Space'. And that time saw the hybrid realm of ancient mysteries and cutting-edge integrated circuits evolve into an unfathomable infinite space no intelligent species could ever comprehend. Even if the extinct dragons came back, they probably couldn't grasp it properly.
-...So what?
-Bottom line: all that talk from those chanting spells to hack computers and terminals—calling themselves seekers of infinite wisdom, netrunners, techno-mancers, or whatever—it's all bullshit. They're peering into Cyber Space through a needle's eye, just like us. 'Spellcaster' fits them better, don't you think? And do you know what those so-called great AIs or spirits are that a few spellcasters wield? They're unidentified pseudo-intelligences swimming free in Cyber Space, captured and modded to their whims...
Roque looked up at the television screen and cracked a wry smile.
The expert's opinion on screen wasn't particularly impressive. Sorry as he felt for the passionately orating man, his take wasn't even that biting. The inscrutable nature of Cyber Space was already common knowledge.
No need to be a mage—even a basic secondary education covered it, and Roque, who didn't even have a net socket, knew that diving into Cyber Space without proper spells and coordinates was basically attempted suicide.
So the wry smile tugging at his lips now stemmed simply from picturing the expert's fate once the debate wrapped up.
The man would soon have to be cautious even about wired connections via sockets, let alone using a terminal. Dive in unaware of the risks? Might be fine once or twice, but soon he'd be tangled in all sorts of terror attacks and curses.
His implants—now his new body—would slip control and try to kill him at every turn, while his bank accounts, property deeds, and Midland citizenship would vanish like smoke.
If he were truly important, Midland's administration, MLPD, or some corporation might protect him. But to Roque's eyes, he was just a loudmouth with a handful of mage-hating fans. No one would shield him in the end. Not even those few supporters.
The reason for the backlash was simple: his words were plenty insulting to mages. Especially "spellcaster."
The dwarf moderator on screen seemed to share Roque's thoughts, carrying on the debate with a sour expression that made it clear he disagreed entirely. Roque looked away from the TV.
Inside the 24-hour diner called Change, a handful of customers sat scattered about—three or four at most.
Neat rows of gray tables surrounded by red vinyl sofas and chairs. Among them: two humans including Roque; one orc chomping pancakes with jutting tusks; and in the farthest corner, a filthy elf in a hood, trembling uncontrollably. Probably a drug addict. Fitting scenery for 2 a.m.
The diner's lights were pallid. Whether to chase away the night's darkness or some sales tactic to fatigue customers into leaving quick, who knew. But even if it was the latter, to folks inured to the city's garish glow, that stark white light felt almost serene.
At least, that's how it struck Roque.
"Heh. Brave or just plain stupid? Hard to say."
A burly middle-aged man had approached Roque's table without Roque noticing his entrance. He was tutting at the TV Roque had just been watching.
"Guy's gonna get himself killed. Doesn't look like he's got much backup, either. Can't figure what that channel's producer is thinking."
The middle-aged man slid naturally into the seat across from Roque. Roque stared down at his coffee mug before speaking.
"Least it'll pull ratings."
"Ha. True enough. Grabs attention, alright."
The man chuckled dryly, shaking his head slowly. Just then, a server approached. He waved her off casually.
"I'll be out soon."
She glanced between Roque and the man, shrugged once, and left. The middle-aged man watched her retreating back until she was far enough, then spoke again.
"So, how'd it go?"
Roque flicked his right hand without a word. A small disk slipped from his sleeve, sliding across the diner table to the center.
The man's brow furrowed slightly.
"Damn. Didn't go smooth, huh? The bodies still there?"
"Probably."
-...Probably?"
"One got away."
The man sighed lightly at Roque's reply, leaning back against the chair.
"Well, good enough. Gotta catch that one and figure out what the hell this was."
"Won't know even if you catch him. Subcontractors."
"...Then we gotta collect those bodies at least. Might have some usable implants."
He smacked his lips regretfully as he said it. Roque, who'd been vaguely staring at his coffee, looked up.
"My cut?"
"Scrap implants might fetch scrap prices if we're lucky—split that?"
"Haven't gotten my final pay either. Sliced 'em up good, but no cash on hand."
At Roque's deadpan expression, the man rubbed his temple.
"Sigh... Fine. Sell the implants, scour the corpses proper, and hunt down your balance. It'll take days to sort."
"No. Now."
"...Now?"
"Yeah."
The man's face soured.
"Look, Roque. I'll handle my end as middleman. Sorry for hooking you with a shit job. They seemed legit when they talked business. But demanding full pay right now? What the hell?"
Roque didn't reply. He just stared silently.
Meeting those eyes, the man's face paled a touch.
"...Don't look at me like that. Damn, it scares the shit outta me every time."
He dug into his coat, pulled out a slim plastic card, and set it on the table.
"Should cover what you're owed. Implants depend on the haul, so we'll settle later."
Only then did Roque shift his gaze, pocketing the card. He nudged the disk toward the man.
"Take the disk."
"This? Could fetch a decent price if I find the right buyer."
"Too much hassle."
The man's face brightened.
"Haha! That's why I like you. You get win-win."
"Cut the crap, Philip."
Philip laughed heartily despite the curse, good-natured as ever. Standing with a grin, he straightened his coat with a couple pats.
"Swing by my office tomorrow."
"Why?"
"Why? Got work."
"Already?"
Roque looked less than thrilled. Some might say steady gigs were a blessing. But most Midland mercenaries weren't that diligent.
Jobs needing mercs were inherently dangerous. Bullets and fire flying, always leaving bodies unless luck soured hard. Just hours ago, Roque had dashed through hails of gunfire. Dodging visible shots was one thing; if a tiny metal slug pierced flesh, he was as dead as the gunmen he'd cut down.
So mercs, once a job paid out, hunkered down spending till broke. Hedonistic binge-livers. Mercs were that breed, in the worst light. Roque planned to coast on this payout and future implant sales for a while.
Philip grinned.
"Come on. This one's solid. No bodies, promise."
"Freezer plant said the same."
"This client's an old contact. Not risky. Needs someone strong for a quick job."
"If it's truly safe, why hire a merc? Whatever. See you tomorrow."
As Roque nodded consent and glanced at the table, Philip chuckled and dipped his head.
"Tomorrow it is."
Philip left. The diner, briefly stirred by his arrival, fell quiet again.
Not silent, though. The ceiling's old fluorescent hummed low; the orc's meal smacked wetly. The TV debate had devolved to raw invective. The old human at the bar clucked his tongue at it. The corner junkie elf wheezed harsh, grating breaths amid shivers.
Roque rested his arms on the table, hunched slightly, taking in the scene. Everyone holding down a late-night diner seat was alone. In a city packed denser than anywhere, its heart teemed with the profoundly lonely.
Could start a chat with someone. Folks lingering this late in a diner corner might secretly crave it.
But none had the slack to reach out first. If they did, they wouldn't be here moping solo. Lonely yet too lazy to deal with others—a gathering of the isolated. Such was Change Diner in Midland at 2 a.m.
"Coffee?"
Snapped from deep reverie, Roque looked up. The server met his eyes, tilting the coffeepot. He nodded reflexively.
She refilled his near-empty mug, flashed a warm smile, and moved on. Offering refills around as with him. Her ponytail of soft brown hair and uniform-clad back imprinted in Roque's gaze.
By the time she reached the junkie elf, Roque turned to peer beyond the glass wall. Neon signs smeared hazy—wet from street mist or window condensation.
"Move, fucker! Gonna kill you all!"
A shrill scream erupted from one side. The wheezing junkie elf, seeing ghosts or whatever, toppled his chair standing. A small pocketknife gleamed in his hand.
"I said move!"
The brown-haired server startled at the yell, dropping her pot amid the sudden chaos. Glass shattered with a crash, black coffee splattering the floor.
The junkie's eyes widened at the sight. Like a mage divining futures from spreading stains and glinting shards. Though unlike real mages, this was just drug hallucinations.
"Hee, hiiiek...!"
He staggered. The blade whipped unsteadily through air. The server, masking panic, spoke up.
"Sir, please calm down..."
The elf's wild eyes fixed on her, gleaming feral amid his ravaged, drug-scarred face.
"Calm? Fuck that—wanna calm you first? My doom's coming, and you talk calm?!"
The wandering blade flashed toward the brown-haired server. She froze at the glint. Other patrons blinked frozen in shock, no one acting.
A gun might've prompted dives for cover; a mere pocketknife left everyone awkwardly glancing around.
Roque, calmly gazing out the window till then, stood. He strode straight for the elf and server. Eyes converged on him.
The junkie sneered, lips twisting.
"What, playing hero? Noble knight, huh—"
Before he finished, Roque closed in swift, hand snapping out.
"...Huh?"
The pocketknife was now in Roque's right hand. He dangled it before the elf's eyes. The junkie's widened.
"What the fu—"
Before he could react, Roque's left fist whipped like a spring-loaded lash. A sharp crack—the elf's jaw spun. White shards like teeth pattered to the floor.
Eyes glazing milky, the elf slumped against the wall, then slid down bonelessly. Roque calmly set the knife on a table. A toy next to his blade.
"Call the cops. I'll clean up the junkie."
"Pardon?"
Ignoring her daze, Roque fished bills from his coat, tossed them on the table, and met her eyes. Black met green.
"Coffee was good."
"Oh, uh... thanks..."
He exited as she stammered. She called after him as the door shut, but his stride didn't break. Mounting the Black Knight parked out front, he twisted the key without pause. The engine growled, vibrating the seat.
By the time the brown-haired server stepped outside, the Black Knight's black frame had vanished into the skyscraper canyons.