Raze City - Part 2
In conclusion, though I'd put it coolly as "I strode right into the streets," I actually had nowhere to go. So I stood by the roadside for a bit, soaking in the city's vibe.
Citizens who'd replaced body parts with chrome. Guys passed out on the pavement, soaked in booze or whatever drugs from midday onward. Right next to them, others grabbing collars and bellowing with booze breath. Those hulking brutes covered in cyberware—maybe think of 'em like martial artists from the jianghu. The overall atmosphere felt just like a street dominated by black or unorthodox sects.
Thinking of it that way made the scene feel oddly nostalgic. I let out a hollow chuckle at these hopeless souls with their aimless lives.
"Hey, mister."
Whoa, he took that punch without dodging. The collar-grab turned into fisticuffs, and the brawl erupting in the middle of the street was pretty entertaining in its own right. Fights between amateurs are always the most fun to watch.
"Mister!"
For the record, my official age on paper was twenty-six. Not old enough to be called "mister," so that wasn't aimed at me. I kept my eyes forward, leisurely spectating the punch-up without turning.
Both had guns holstered, but they stuck to fists—impressive restraint. Looked like even hopeless lives had their code of honor.
"Hey, bro over there."
"Huh?"
I turned at the sudden voice calling me from the side. There stood a girl with an exasperated look on her face.
"……."
"……."
An awkward silence fell as the fight wrapped up with a winner.
"You punks!!"
The victor was a cop who'd barged in.
"Run!"
"Shit!"
The two who'd been beating each other senseless moments ago scattered in opposite directions like they'd rehearsed it.
"…You really pretended not to hear 'cause I called you mister?"
"Nah. Was too busy watching the fight."
"……."
Her suspicious glare was nothing new. Everyone I met eyed me like that right away; now, folks who didn't suspect me felt suspicious instead.
"First time here, right?"
What, a mugger? I gave the girl in front of me a proper once-over. Brown skin, thick brown curls—she wore boyish jeans, a tank top, and a baggy parka. Latina, by my limited reckoning. She looked young, but hell if I knew. Back in the Central Plains or out here, I'd never once guessed a woman's age right. Sure, some were at the rejuvenation realm or masters of youth-preserving brews, but mostly it was my own damn nearsightedness.
I'm no petty small-minded fool who ignores his flaws with gritted teeth. I own what I suck at. Yeah, I'm the blind bastard who can't peg a woman's age accurately even if she cakes on the makeup.
"Nah, I'm a total local. So local I'm itching to leave the damn city."
"…That ancient cyberware of yours isn't even sold here."
"……."
This jerk again. Always this jerk. Staring at my left hand, it wiggled its three fingers back like it was innocent.
"…Um, you sure you're okay?"
Maybe regretting striking up the convo, she stepped back as she asked.
"Totally fine."
I dropped my hand, giving up the staring contest with the freakish tripod, and insisted I was good as new. For some reason, she backed up another step.
"No weird noises or anything…?"
"Nope. Just gets hung up on everything and pisses me off daily. So, what's your business with me? If you're robbing me, make it quick before I get attached."
"…Huh? Robbing?"
Her voice dripped with disbelief. Weird. By now, it should've been mugger, pickpocket, or assassin sent to kill me—one of the usual trio from my data logs.
"You really okay…?"
She circled me once, peering, then shrugged. "Eh, you'll be fine. No place to go, right, mister?"
Back to "mister." Blame the wasteland beard, I guess.
"How 'bout our shop? Food, lodging. Long-term discount."
"……."
Fourth option: the bellhop pitch. This isekai world added a new one. Back in the martial world, inns wouldn't hawk to me. They'd avoid talking; if I showed up late, I'd get booted by evening or next morning at best. I never drew on civilians, so I'd wander off. Most nights, sky for roof, ground for bed.
Such a pitch felt refreshingly novel.
"Sounds good. Lead on."
Heart thumping a bit, I followed. The street's faint people-scent faded; vagrants multiplied. Evening now—more closed shops than open. Walls plastered with indecipherable graffiti and tattered ads. Musty stench wafted in.
"……."
She luring me to sell me off? Glancing at my hand—scrap value? Nah, they'd sell me. Butcher meat?
Such thoughts made me appraise her features ahead. No betrayal aura yet.
Sending wary glances, we walked on. Eyes gathered—vagrants from alleys staring.
"……."
I tensed, ready to draw sword anytime, but kept my gaze neutral, ignoring them. No need for eyes; ki-sense told me all.
"Hey, Blanca!"
A grizzled old man sprawled among vagrants shot up, waving our way. Bushy brown hair and beard; build so massive, I mistook him for a bear at first.
"Oh, Gustaf!"
Blanca waved back enthusiastically.
"Who's that murderer-lookin' fuck trailin' you?"
…What? I whipped around, startled. How'd I miss his presence so close? Chills ran down my spine—but nothing behind. Empty street.
"……?"
Confused, I turned back. Blanca and Gustaf both stared at me.
"…He's a guest. New in town, looks like."
"Yeah? Don't take just anyone. Streets are rough lately."
"When aren't they?"
They bantered with haha-hohos, casually stabbing my heart. Deep enough for inner wounds. Calling me a murderer lookalike…! If I weren't such a magnanimous soul, I'd have drawn steel and demanded a deathmatch right there.
"……."
"We're here. …Why the face?"
Wanna say 'cause I look like a killer, but that's too unmanly. I shook my head, hiding the hurt, pretending nothing.
Her stop was the street's cleanest spot. Among sparse open shops, it looked tidy—sandwiches and coffee, apparently.
…Coffee?
"…Hrm."
A vague unease hit as I eyed the sign. Then someone descended the side stairs.
"Oh, a guest?"
A plump middle-aged woman appeared, approaching and scrutinizing me intently.
"Stayin'?"
"First time in the city."
"Happens sometimes~ Folks show up aimless, no plan. Where from?"
"Just past Runner Road, before Chinatown."
"Made it through there okay? Runner Road's no joke."
Sandwiched between the presumed mother-daughter duo chattering away, I stood like a rice straw dummy.
"Oops, got work. Show him up, dear. End room on second floor's free."
"Got it."
The whirlwind mom vanished; Blanca grinned at my dumbstruck self.
"Relax—this is probably Raze City's cheapest decent flop."
"…That's classic rip-off talk."
She shrugged and climbed. "Here. Rules: No guns indoors, no blades. No late-night racket or noise. No drugs in rooms."
Irrelevant to a cultured martial artist like me. I half-listened, peering inside. Clean but worn and cramped.
"Breakfast free. Lunch if you help out. Dinner for pay—or eat out, no issue. Questions?"
"…Room rate?"
"Oh yeah, 300 credits prepaid. Month's stay. Weekly or nightly costs more."
Two realizations hit. One: No clue if that's fair, cheap, or what. Two: No idea how much I had.
"At that price, what's your margin?"
Bluff when clueless; gauge reactions.
"Fair point. Parents like helping strays without a place."
"Even shady types like me?"
"Honestly, outsiders like… er, sorry."
About to say "hick," she cleared her throat, glancing.
"Outsiders cause less trouble. Locals are riskier—help one, get dragged into mess. No ties? Safer."
"Tough gig."
"…It's good work."
Good deeds are tough. Muttering, I dropped my bag. No scam vibe; I'd pay as quoted.
…You might say "didn't see Jo's betrayal coming?" Nah, never cared about that punk.
Anyway. Zipped open, fished out Lena's credit chip, handed it over.
"…Whoa, total relic."
"…Yeah?"
"See? Total outsider."
"…Fine, say so. This won't pay?"
"Lucky for you."
She twirled the chip deftly between fingers. "Our terminal's ancient too."
"Handy."
She nodded. I plopped on the bed; old mattress creaked, but cushion was decent.
"Oh, help all day, covers a night's stay. Consider if jobless. Other guests might snag it first."
"Got plans."
Cyberpunk = merc, right? Like a ronin gig. I'd scout that.
"Ah, but good luck with that."
She mimed my three-fingered hand. Honestly, hers looked more useful. Depressing.
"…You don't know my skills. I…."
"Nah, not that, but… anyway, good luck!"
Thinking I'd ramble, she laughed it off and bounced.
I get it. Relic cyberware? Hard to trust. But my true worth's inner, not skin-deep.
Men speak through results. I won't argue your mockery of my limbs—past or present.
Whether you're trash or I am? Results will tell.
And a week later, I was North End's top sandwich artisan.