Paranormal Link-9: God is Dead. Or Maybe Everyone Who Knew the Cola Recipe Did.
God is dead. Or maybe everyone who knew the real cola recipe had died off. ...This isn't cola..! My inner modern soul howled in protest. This was just black carbonated sugar water. Nothing but sugar, carbonation, and food coloring mixed into plain old H2O.
"Tell me! What the hell did you feed me?!"
"Gack... gack! You crazy bastard, you asked for cola...!"
"Tell me the goddamn brand!!"
"The can... gimme the can...!"
I shook the cat-eared bastard back and forth like a ragdoll, barking at him until he finally grasped the gravity of the situation. He stretched out a hand toward the waitress who'd been watching us from the side. At his signal, she bolted to the trash bin and came sprinting back with something in her grip.
"This is the cola you asked for! Let go of my hand, you little shit!"
I dropped the wriggling cat-ear guy—who'd been struggling to pry loose from my chokehold on his collar—and eyed the can the waitress had brought.
Wish Cola
Wish Cola? I crumpled the can—designed like some Westerner's warped vision of the East—and my face twisted right along with it.
"This is all you've got for cola?"
"...Guh, urk... What the hell are you talking about? That's cola."
"......"
What the actual fuck was he saying? My face must've looked like pure murder—hell if I know, but the waitress next to me started edging away backward, and the cat-ear guy's mug went ghost-white.
"Hey, this fucker's gonna beat up the staff! What're you all doing?!"
His desperate shout aimed over my shoulder had me glancing back. There were the owners of those stares I'd felt prickling earlier. One of them locked eyes with me, flinched, and called out to the cat-ear guy.
"...Dude, you kept nagging us last month till we got you registered as a merc. What staff?"
"That's why you're still treated like a damn kid, you moron."
"He hasn't even drawn a weapon. Draw it and we'll talk!"
"You know the rules? Bare-knuckle brawls are allowed indoors! Wanna fight? Open the betting board!"
No one seemed eager to throw down right then, so I turned back to the front.
"...You see that guy's eyes? He's straight-up lost it."
"...Psychotic? He was talking to his own arm earlier."
"Got a Los Amigos mark tattooed on his back too... This ain't your average nutjob."
Whispers buzzed behind me, but who gave a shit right now? Only one thing mattered.
"...Cola is the only issue here."
"Hic...!"
"Tell me... What happened to Coke? Pepsi?!"
"I don't know... I don't know!!"
"Speak! When you said 'cola,' what the hell did you picture?!"
"Why the fuck are you freaking out like this?!"
As the big lug's face scrunched up in a pathetic pout that didn't suit his cat ears at all, a voice cut in bluntly.
"...What the hell is even going on here?"
It sounded kinda dazed, distant.
"S-sis! This guy's nuts! Total psycho—gack!"
"Quit your whining. And don't call me 'sis' while we're working. Ugh, all brawn and no brains."
Ah, siblings. The cat-eared woman swatted away her brother as he came charging at her, then turned her gaze on me.
"Causing a scene the second you walk in. Another weirdo joins the club."
"No, it's..."
"I heard your whole tantrum. Jesus. Whatever—follow me."
She beckoned with a flick of her hand and spun on her heel, striding off without a backward glance.
"......"
...Was this that animal therapy you hear about? Staring at the cybernetic cat ears twitching atop her small head as she walked away, some weird calm washed over me. I followed without a fuss.
"So, what's your deal anyway?"
We'd put some distance between us and the bar, reaching a spot with barely any customers, when she finally spoke.
"...My deal?"
"Where'd you get a 30-year-old invite? Granny's face said it wasn't just any junk."
"Beats me..."
I mumbled something vague with a vague expression. No clue what was going on, but the invite on that data chip from Rom was clearly no ordinary ticket.
What the hell had that old coot given me...?
"Hm, 30 years back... You got ties to Los Amigos? That's the only thing that comes to mind from then. And you're rocking their jacket too. Replica? Damn good one."
"This jacket a brand? It's famous or something?"
"...Huh?"
"...Huh?"
She stopped dead, staring at me like I'd grown a second head.
"......"
"......"
Silence hung heavy. Her suspicious side-eye told me I'd fucked up somehow. Should've just stuck to "beats me."
After peering into my face for a bit, she tilted her head and resumed walking.
"...Fine, if you don't wanna spill, I won't pry. You'll be hanging around Granny anyway, so I'll hear it eventually."
Whatever she'd misunderstood, she seemed satisfied. Dodged a bullet there. I snuck a glance at my jacket.
...This thing had a story too? I'd figured it was just some nice threads from my youth. Apparently not so simple.
We wove through the maze of private rooms, then she unlocked a "Staff Only" door to reveal stairs heading down. Looked like it used to be an escalator, but it was dead now—just a regular staircase.
Clunk. Whirr.
At the bottom was a door that slid open automatically as we approached. Stepping into the basement hit me with a weird sense of déjà vu.
Empty room. Simple desk straight ahead from the entrance. An old woman sunk deep into the chair behind it.
The differences? First, unlike Rom's smoke-choked office, this place was clear of haze. Second, the old lady up front sported a pirate-style eyepatch over one eye.
"Cheeky-looking punk."
At least she didn't lead with "you look like a murderer." Small mercies.
"So... Rom's still kicking?"
"Fit as a fiddle. Voice so loud I thought my ears would bleed."
"Must be a real pain in the ass, huh? Always ignoring orders, stirring up trouble."
Both jobs had been minor fuckups on my end at worst, so it stung a bit. But the old hag looked ancient—older than my entire past life's span combined, just like Rom—so I just shrugged it off.
"Still pounding the booze?"
...Booze? A prickly feeling hit me. I swept the room with my senses, eyes locked on the old woman to avoid tipping them off if they noticed.
Her fingers tensed subtly on the desk—maybe hovering over a panic button. The cat-eared girl who'd brought me tensed up too, body coiled, attention razor-sharp on me.
...Guess I'm still getting the murderer vibe.
They thought I'd offed Rom and jacked that invite. I'd gotten this suspicion so often, I could sniff it out like a pro.
Why do I always get this shit?
I grumbled inwardly and spoke up.
"Dunno about booze, but the smokes? He'll croak from those any day now." A petty twist of spite crept in. "Satisfied with that answer?"
"...Cheeky brat. Bet you've wormed your way into that old fart's good graces."
She snorted, pulled her hand off the desk, and fished three glasses and a crystal bottle sloshing with amber liquid from a drawer.
"...Doc probably told you to cut back on the drinking."
"What of it? Skip a few drinks here and I'll live another century? That old coot's still chain-smoking like a chimney."
She poured modest splashes into two glasses, then filled hers to the brim—like it'd overflow any second.
"One drink."
"......"
A deep sigh leaked from behind me. Hah.
"C'mere and have a taste, kid. Real whiskey—hard to find these days. Not much left."
Just like Rom, she slid a glass my way with pinpoint precision. It glided to a perfect stop at the desk's edge.
I rarely sipped slow, but my mouth needed disinfecting anyway. I grabbed it and knocked it back in one go.
"You crazy fuck!"
A curse flew my way, nearly making me spit. But something told me pulling that stunt now might trigger whatever button she'd been eyeing. I swallowed the fiery liquid, feeling it burn down my throat to my gut.
"Who drinks good shit like that?!"
"...Me. Nice aroma."
"...Jesus..."
She stared at me like a scholar watching barbarians torch a library. Total lunatic gaze.
"...Not just that old fart—you'll give me a rage-stroke too. Look at you, spitting image of those Los Amigos assholes."
"...So..."
I glanced at the cat-eared girl sipping her drink nearby.
"What's Los Amigos?"
True to her word, I had to spill in front of her. As expected, I got the "you're insane" stare again.
"...Wore their jacket without even knowing what it is..."
"Pfft—HAHAHAHAHA!"
Her dumbfounded mutter got drowned out by booming laughter that shook the basement. No smokes for this one, so did she swap her lungs for cyberware? The old lady wiped tears from her eyes after that lung-busting guffaw.
"He handed you that jacket with zero explanation? HAHAHA! Who from? Size gives me a guess."
"......"
"Eh, no point digging into old aliases now. Big guy or little guy—spill it. Make it fun, and I'll hook you up with membership and an account. Good one!"
The old buzzard sounded thrilled, and sure enough, her glass was already half-gone. She bitched at my one-shot but downed that much when?
Drinking godhood or some shit? I marveled at how she'd snuck more booze without me catching it—hell, even pre-isekai Thunderclap Sword Sovereign me wouldn't have—and opened my mouth.
"Little guy gave it. Big guy said it looked cool... guess that meant 'you're next on my hit list.'"
"Both still alive? Impressive."
"......"
"Don't make that face, punk. You look like a psycho killer. Least you ain't eyeing me, my granddaughter here, or that worthless lump upstairs."
"...So what is Los Amigos?"
"Legends. Figure it out yourself if you're curious."
Her tone said bringing it up anywhere else would end badly—unless it was these three. I'd ask the beggar later. Or Rom.
Decision made, time to get what I came for.
"So... what're the account and membership for?"
"Using this place."
"You won't say how?"
"Build up a record, you'll learn. Or cozy up to my granddaughter here—she'll sort you out."
"......"
She edged away when I glanced over. Not interested in buddying up, apparently.
"Weird one, huh? Cyberware looks scavenged from a junkyard. Los Amigos ties, old fart vouch. Fresh lunatic or just another corpse—we'll see."
"...Legends, right?"
"Damn straight—they mean the same. Rookie. Normals either die or never step foot here."
She cackled drunkenly, swirling her empty glass.
"Go make his account and membership. Clean account!"
"Don't sneak any more pours, Granny."
Clack. The cat-eared punk snatched the bottle from her hand and shook it, leading the way like "follow me."
"......"
I glanced back. She grinned, raising a mysteriously refilled glass of amber liquid in toast.
Honestly caught me off guard—I hadn't seen her pour either.
As I gawked, her lips moved.
'Cheers to the rookie whose future's either fresh madman or fresh corpse.'
That smug lip-sync pissed me off. I shot back,
"That old coot's pounding more booze."
Her eye flashed, and she lunged like a real feline.