005 The First Button Snaps -1
"You've cleaned up real nice, huh?"
The old beggar said it. I'd heard it thirty times just this morning, so I was sick to death of it already. And coming from a beggar, it made it even worse.
"Compared to a bum like you, who wouldn't?"
"Well, yesterday you looked like you coulda been one of us."
Someone off to the side let out a stifled pfft, failing to hold back a laugh. I shot a glance around for the culprit, but nobody met my eyes.
"Funny how someone's laughing, but no one's smiling."
"...Don't pick fights with the customers for no reason. If you're off work, just go home."
I was glaring at the line of customers just minding their own business when a scolding voice drifted out from inside the shop. Me picking a fight? Who was the one starting shit? Feeling wronged, I looked to Gustavo, but he was ignoring me completely, focused on brewing what looked like poison in a cup—his coffee.
I clicked my tongue, gave up hunting for the snickerer, and turned away. The beggar waved me over with a grin.
"C'mon, we're heading to see that cranky old fart for some work. Looking sharp like this is probably for the best."
"...You goddamn bum."
Hearing "cleaned up" over and over from a bum was starting to make me feel like one. Grumbling, I followed him. He ducked into a rundown building not far off. At a glance, it looked abandoned with its rusted shutter down, but the side door was cracked open.
We passed down a dimly lit hallway, lit only by a faint bulb, until we reached a door at the end leaking a sliver of light.
"......"
A faint acrid stench hung in the air. It was enough to give me a pretty good idea of what lay beyond that door.
Click.
He turned the handle and pushed it open. A thick wave of tobacco smoke billowed out. The room beyond was bizarrely empty—probably cleared out on purpose to let the smoke do the interior decorating. Otherwise, the density filling the hallway and my lungs right now wouldn't make any sense.
"Crazy... I'm gonna die of carbon monoxide poisoning! You alive in there, old timer!?"
The beggar fanned the smoke as he barged in and yelled at an old man sunk deep into a chair.
Sip... whoosh...
The old man peered at us through tiny glasses, took a long drag from the pipe clenched in his teeth, and exhaled a plume through his lips. His lung capacity was insane—the smoke that had thinned out into the hall surged back, clouding the room anew.
What the hell? Was he a human smoke machine? As I marveled, the old man's hazy eyes shifted from the beggar to lock onto me.
"Where'd you drag this in from? You turn bum and start picking up trash like yourself."
"Well..."
"Trash!? Like hell!"
The beggar started to say something, but I beat him to it.
"I can take anything else, but not that, old man. That's an insult to me!"
"......"
"......"
You can stomach murderers, but not bums. After my roar, the two blinked at each other for a moment, then opened their mouths in disbelief.
"...What the hell is this guy? Psychotic?"
"...Beats me. Can even junk like that go psychotic?"
"Might be worse... Where'd you pick up this psycho killer wannabe?"
Tsk, tsk, tsk... The old man clicked his tongue and took another deep drag on his pipe.
"...Fine, if you hate 'bum,' I'll call you 'psycho killer' instead."
I had no idea why he kept harping on the killer bit, but it beat bum, so I shut up and waited for what came next.
"Those missionary bastards have been stirring shit up, making everything noisy, and now you've gone and kicked off another mess. Who do you think's cleaning it up?"
"The bum already chewed me out for it."
"Hmph... Types like you are all the same. No clue about the fallout from the crap you start. As long as someone dies—or you do—that's it, right?"
The old man's words were grumpy as hell, but they nailed the truth of the world spot-on, so I nodded slightly in agreement. Guys living by the blade were all like that anyway. In my past life, the ones truly living by righteousness or chivalry? You could count 'em on one hand. And I wasn't one of them.
"Quit nodding! I'm talking about you!"
"It's true, so I nodded."
"...Even your way of talking's a mess."
I thought I was being polite enough, but he nitpicked anyway and sucked in another lungful of smoke. At this rate, I was starting to worry he'd actually croak from CO poisoning before handing out any work.
"So you dragged this psycho here for a job?"
"...Figured if I left him be, he'd cause big trouble. Wanted you to give him something to do."
Hmph. The old man snorted and tapped his pipe into the ashtray beside him. Without even glancing at the falling ash, he packed in fresh tobacco, lit it with a flick from his fingertip lighter, and puffed away.
...I thought he'd entered a trance. Staring blankly at the ritual, I caught him glaring at me with unreadable eyes through another cloud of smoke.
"What jobs does a geezer waiting to die have? Bringing me headaches in my twilight years... Kid, what's your specialty?"
"I handle blades decently, and I can shoot straight..."
"Blades? Like a Silver Samurai?"
The way he eyed my limbs screamed With those arms and legs? A fresh wave of social alienation hit me—god knows how many times it'd be today. All thanks to that mad scientist. That bastard did this to me...
"Junkyard-grade outdated implants, no sockets—a naturalist? And you swing a sword like a lunatic?"
"......"
As he spoke, he shot the beggar a look. You really want me giving this guy work?
"You serious?"
"...Even the missionaries do fine."
A mosquito-like whine came from the big lug—didn't suit him at all. Guess the beggar didn't have much faith in me either. Not that I needed his.
"Fine, if you rammed into Hey-an's old hag and walked away with all limbs intact..."
He trailed off, eyeing my prosthetics again.
"Nah, those limbs were always like that."
"...You chose to strap 'em on?"
His gaze turned more and more like he was staring at a lunatic, so I had no choice but to open my mouth for the sake of my honor.
"Ran into some trouble on the way to this city. Wasn't exactly my choice."
"Hmm, is that so?"
He half-assed it like he didn't buy it, tapped more ash, and repacked his pipe. I was seriously starting to think I'd die of smoke inhalation before getting any work when he lit up again with his fingertip and inhaled deeply.
"You gonna give me the job or not?"
"...This area's never had much work. Just odd errands."
But, he paused, exhaling another plume. At this point, it felt less like he was smoking for the nicotine and more like he was trying to fog up the whole room.
"Lately, though, some bastards have been sniffing around everywhere."
Long-winded intro. But he looked older than my past life, previous one, and this one combined, so I held my tongue and waited.
Don't old folks just get chattier with age?
"Crawled all the way here thinking I'd retire in peace."
With a sigh in his voice, he pulled out a data chip and slid it across the desk edge. It stopped right in front of me. I stared down at it.
"There's a pharmacy building on North End 3rd Street. It's up for sale—of course, no takers."
No idiot's buying property in a dump like this. He mumbled around his smoke.
"But looks like someone's itching to live there rent-free."
"...Kill 'em?"
"......"
"Half?"
"......"
"An arm?"
"Where'd you find this nutjob..."
The old man grumbled and glared at the beggar.
"Don't kill 'em. Chase 'em off if you can. Word is they're techs booted from the market. Handle it clean, and I'll decide on more gigs. Now scram."
I raised a hand to signal I had something to say.
"...What?"
"What's this?"
"...Data chip. Building schematics inside. Don't fuck with anything. Break it, you pay."
"I mean, how the hell do I read it?"
"......?"
His questioning look flicked to me, then the beggar.
The beggar shrugged. "Naturalist, remember?"
"...Sigh... Naturalist doesn't mean caveman..."
Rubbing his temple like his head hurt, he rummaged in a drawer. No way it was my fault—blame the smoke he was sucking down more than the air. As I grumbled inwardly, a grimy electronic device slid my way.
"...Read it on that. Charge it at a public jack. You know that much, right?"
"Oh, thanks."
"Everything goes on your bill."
"......"
Old ginger's spicy, they say. This geezer was no joke—strong-arming me into buying his junk.