Coffee and Sandwiches - 1
I'd toast up some cheap sliced bread topped with synthetic cheese, then slice the ham—made from god-knows-what meat—as thin as possible. All artificial crap with zero flavor, but from what I'd overheard while working here the past few days, this was the only spot nearby selling proper food at sane prices.
The first sandwich I'd eaten tasted like I couldn't tell if I was chewing meat or salted rubber. And yet, even that was supposed to be hard to come by around here.
...No way.
No matter how much I denied it inwardly, the sandwich being made right in front of me was the 157th one. 157 sandwiches sold that morning alone! In a slum crawling with beggars!
Even more shocking: just a few days ago, this place couldn't sell a hundred a day. At least, not when the scrawny middle-aged guy next to me—who was now just pouring coffee—was running it solo.
Same cheap ingredients, so why the hell was the shop suddenly packed? And why was I the one slapping these together?
It all traced back to an "accident" from a week ago.
A week back, after my first night in Raze City and choking down the death-flavored free breakfast sandwich, I'd headed out to find work. Surprisingly, tracking down fixers wasn't hard. Back in my past life, guys hiring ronin all acted the same—and it seemed no different here.
But I'd overlooked one thing: in this city, I had zero rep. And rep mattered more than I'd thought in this line of work.
In my previous life, my name—good or bad—drew jobs or users. But here? I was just some nameless lab rat popped out of the ground. Nobody gave a shit.
The first fixer seemed shocked I'd found him. When I said I wanted work, he eyed my limbs and politely advised: "No jobs for outdated chrome like that. If anything, you'd be cannon fodder for a client."
Spot on, so I bowed out gracefully.
The second fixer was pissed—probably 'cause I'd walked in on him half-naked with his boyfriend. In my defense, I didn't know it was an auto-door. And seeing two dudes stripped down was traumatic for me too.
He pointed a gun and snarled there were no gigs for trash cyberware like mine. Offended but done with the view, I wished him fun times and left. Bullets were his reply.
The third? Never saw his face. His goon at the door swung first—claiming only appointments allowed—so I reflexively snapped the guy's jaw. Dodging the chase turned into tag until nightfall. Zero profit, back to the hostel.
And that night, the "accident" hit from left field.
Back in my room, I was deep into external training before meditation—bare-assed bodyweight reps—when Blanca knocked. Seeing her after one day, she said the noise bugged the next room over. Do workouts outside or on the roof, she suggested.
Neighbor must've been sensitive. Sure, this junk body groaned through my past life's ultimate external art, Ultimate Labor Refinement, but the complaint was lightning-fast.
Interrupted, I ditched training for meditation. That's when it happened.
Eyes closed, deep in circulation, that weird sensation from Wells Town washed over me again. Full dantian qi surging through my body, then drawn outward like a magnet. Faint thunder qi mixing in.
I hadn't hit Initial Thunder realm yet, but it was freaky all the same. I had a hunch why, though.
Difference from the martial world? This was a modern society powered by electricity. My Wall Force Thunder Heaven Art seemed to pull it too.
Qi or energy-wise, thunder qi and electricity weren't that different. My qi gathered slow, but siphoning thunder this way beat converting natural qi—and suited my cultivation method perfectly.
Stoked by the unexpected boon, I dove deeper. Pzzt! Blackout.
Hallway commotion pulled me out. I opened my eyes to pitch black. Faint moonlight through the tiny window kept it from total void, but dark as hell.
My left eye—decent night vision—handled it fine, but the right needed qi or time to adjust.
Adapted, I hit the hall. Same darkness. Opening the door, rushing Blanca glanced back.
"Isan?"
"...What's up?"
"Power cut out! Hasn't happened in years..."
"......"
"Should be fixed by tomorrow!" She scurried off, and I tested—raised a finger, channeled qi. Pfzt. Pale spark ripped the dark. Thunder qi faint in my qi.
...No shot.
Brushed it off, crashed. Meditation causing blackouts? Ridiculous.
Next morning: tougher, colder sandwiches, and glum guests lined up downstairs. Power out meant no toaster or slicer—rubbery bread, hard cheese, thick ham. Rubber would've been better.
Chewing jaw-achingly like the others, Blanca descended, smirking wryly.
"Jaw hurt? No power for the meat slicer."
"......"
"Sliced as thin as I could, but... Why the face?"
"...This is my default. Born with it."
Meditation couldn't cause a blackout. Forcing down the lump, throat clogged.
"Anyway...? Job hunt?"
"...Koff." Choked, coughed, set aside the next bite.
"......"
Waggled my left claw; she stifled a laugh. Just laugh already. Her pitying gaze as she left—I tossed the rest to nearby beggars and started the day.
Zero results, back to a still-dark building.
"......"
Had to admit it. I caused the blackout.
Next morning early, downstairs: grim-faced Blanca and owners huddled.
"...No power today, sales tank—but leftovers are iffy. What now?"
"No choice. Buy fresh when back on, give extras away. Can't sell this."
"...Up early, huh?"
Overhearing, Blanca spotted me, greeted. Never late since arriving, but lounged in bed—guilty as the blackout culprit.
"...Need help?"
"...Ah..."
Forced out with guilt, she pitied me—misread as desperate jobless.
No, not that. Don't pity me like a failed bum!
Averted eyes from her warm junior gaze. Couldn't explain the blackout credibly, hated the label.
Dilemma broken: heavy steps, someone loomed behind her.
"Dad. New guest. Isan."
"...Pleased. Gustavo." Scrawny guy extended hand.
Caught mid-bow, gripped and shook instead.
"Isan."
"......?"
Weirded out by my martial phrasing, but played cool, released.
"Need work?"
"...Yeah."
Asked to help, now job-hunting failure.
"Suppose..."
"Good. Needed hands."
"Dad!"
"Can't handle alone with your mom."
She raised voice; he shrugged nonchalant.
"But pay daily...!"
They bickered; I waved to stop.
"No pay needed. Meals suffice."
Blackout guilt meant free labor, but explain? Nah. Meals avoided suspicion.
She shut up—seemed fair.
"Perfect. Inside."
Grinned at her done? face, opened door.
"......"
Passed dubious Blanca; decent shop interior.
"Normally toast cheese-bread, slice ham. Now assemble. Demo?"
"Ham—thinner than that? Test run?"
Nodded; blocked my knife grab.
"Wash hands first."
"...Hygiene matters. Right."
Washed, sliced ham. As thin as possible—decades of swordplay on a slum cutting board, precise as machines.
/// That was how I landed the sandwich gig. Finished flashback on the 168th.
True martial masters blurred with top chefs... Maybe real experts ruled kitchens too? Else, four days—three really, since first no-power day fed beggars—booming on this slop made no sense.
Pondering deep on the 174th.
"Last order."
Gustavo slotted the two-sandwich ticket.
Last one—extra care. Cheese on bread, toast. Pin ham with trusty tripod claw, worn knife floats slices thin.
Stack on perfectly toasted, melted-cheese bread. Layers beat thick chewiness—agreed.
Wrapped; he approached post-checkout, handed coffee, nodded outside.
"Yours for dinner. One to that guy."
Gustaf the beggar already sipped coffee there.