Paranormal Link-17
Digging through the abyss where all my memories I wanted to forget were piled up, I seemed to recall hearing the term "betting board" before. When that muscle-bound sphinx cat guy—male—asked the mercenaries for help, someone had said it. Bare-knuckle fights were allowed indoors, and if they were gonna throw down, open a betting board first. That must've been this bar's way of settling disputes.
The hulking brute stomped over, grumbling, and fiddled with a machine on one side of the hall. The mercenaries immediately started tapping the displays on their tables.
"Alright, first-timer, so I'll explain. Rules are simple."
Thud. She slammed a tequila-filled shot glass on the bar and began. "No weapons. No implant options that go beyond basic hand-and-foot functions."
"Betting?"
"Bet on the winner, get your payout. Fighters can't bet themselves, but winner takes 10%. And the most important rule..."
Slide. A glass skidded right in front of me.
"Down it in one go, then we start. Loser pays the tab."
"That's gotta be overpriced swill!"
"Cheap tequila!"
"Last time I drank that, no hangover—but I blacked out and woke up a day later!"
"That's 'cause you whined like a bitch and passed out, dumbass!"
Her words unleashed a torrent of groans from the onlookers. Some weirdos mixed in toward the end, though.
"Shut your traps, you assholes! Buncha punks starting shit in someone else's shop got nothin' to say!"
She silenced the rowdy crowd in an instant, then flashed a toothy grin at the cat-eared girl. "You started this fight—ain't backin' out now, right?"
Her provocative smile made me grin right back.
"Ah... hate to sell my skills cheap. No extra conditions, like one hand only or finish in one hit?"
"Conditions? Nah. Winner gets the gig—better odds than the loser. Fixers hear who got their ass kicked."
"Beating a punk like that boosts your rep?"
"This fucker...!"
The brute had snuck back and was bellowing right beside me. His face was so red, a few more words might've knocked him out without touching him.
"We ain't started yet, Dex. Wanna go? Chug what's in front of ya first."
"......"
"Aha."
Seeing him meekly reach for his glass, Los Amigos must've been a bullshit excuse. Or maybe he was just an asshole doing asshole things.
"Empty your glasses, then we go. Any more questions?"
"Cheers, maybe?"
Free booze put me in a good mood. I didn't drink much, but booze on someone else's dime always tasted best. I raised my glass; he glared back like he wanted to rip me apart.
"...Last drink you'll ever have. Savor it slow..."
He ground his teeth, pretending to be chill. Didn't wanna toast me, so I offered mine to the cat-eared girl instead. She snickered, topped off her tiny shot with tequila.
"...Hold up, you're drinking different stuff."
"This is granny's. This bar's booze'll wreck your guts."
"......"
Speechless at her shameless reply, she clinked her glass against mine anyway. Clink! Rough enough to shatter them, but she didn't care. She laughed as she touched glasses, then stared wide-eyed when the tequila barely sloshed in my nearly full shot.
Amused by her shock at such a trivial trick, I chuckled. The brute seemed to shove his glass my way again, but we ignored him and slammed ours back.
"...Urk."
I wasn't weak with booze. This was just disgustingly foul and nasty. Grimacing, I stood and checked the betting board. Odds at 2:8—me on the 2. Either they had no eye for talent, or the guy was more than he seemed.
I tore my eyes from the board and scanned the room. The brute chugging the shitty overpriced swill with a sour face. Rowdy mercenaries hollering. Guys watching me intently. The cat-eared girl eyeing me from behind the bar. I avoided the grotesque thing in the corner.
...I'd always drawn a line, calling martial world folk barbaric sword-for-hire savages. But stuck in this spot, a strange nostalgia welled up. Not great memories—chaos from the demonic possession madness... but looking back now, it felt oddly familiar and cozy.
There'd been bets like this back then too. Number 23 disguised nearby, waiting to kill me. Surrounding unorthodox scum and black thugs yapping away. Cheap rotgut tasting like trash, that blood-something prick raging to off me full of hot blood. Almost no one bet on me then either. Was it a spar? Deathmatch? What'd I say back then?
The booze stirred old memories vividly. Ah, right.
"Even if I give you three moves, you won't take 'em."
"What?"
"I'll tell you where I'm attacking. Block it, it's your win."
When was that? When I was a mounted warrior? After the secret cave? Or...
"What the fuck you sayin', you...!"
He'd drained his glass and loomed in front of me, booze-breath blasting. It snapped me back; I finished.
"Left side. I'm slamming your head into this table right now."
"You little shit...!"
Furious brute versus calm me—a voice cut between us like a referee.
"Oh, and whoever breaks shit pays for it all."
Her words were the signal; he swung. A sharp uppercut for my jaw.
Crack.
But I'd already channeled inner power, clamping his mug from the side. Not enough qi for a thousand-catty drop, but a hundred-catty smash? Easy.
Boom!
A heavy thud echoed through the room; his body went limp, shuddering. The noisy bar fell dead silent.
Splat. He slid off the table, sprawling on the floor.
"Dex!"
One of his glaring buddies rushed over, shaking the heap.
"That bastard...!"
"Wanna keep going? Open a bet first. Normally I'd say ganging up is embarrassing, but one-shot KO—no need."
"Bella...!"
"What, want me taking your side?"
Her icy jab made him grit his teeth, glare once more, then drag the loser away.
"Hmph."
She snorted at their retreating backs, tapped her terminal to flash the results.
How'd it go back then? Oh yeah—they all drew blades and charged; Number 23 pelted me with hidden weapons. Wonder what now? I glanced around; a few guys jumped up hastily.
"Yeehaw!"
"Jackpot~!"
"Reverse bet! Reverse! Reverse! Reverse!"
"Anyone else wanna rush? That bro's got killer moves—call more suckers, let's eat good!"
The standers-up were the same whiners griping about cheap swill earlier. They'd bet on me, screaming triumphantly, shit-talking everyone.
"We won—drinks on us!"
The cat-eared girl yelled over their racket, extending a hand.
"Payout time. Gimme your terminal. Anything else you want? Say now, or I hold it back."
I shook my head no and handed her my device.
"For a stiff-named 'guild,' this place is wildly freewheeling."
Eyeing mercenaries chugging bottles with old speakers blasting tunes from the corner, she gave me a look like I was some geezer.
"Guild? ...Oh, yeah, called that 30 years back. Now it's just Guild."
...Guild, association—same diff. Grumbling inwardly at the old-man treatment, two guys suddenly flanked me.
The excited shit-talkers from before. The right one grinned, gold tooth flashing.
"Man, watching that cocky prick eat shit one-hit? Pure catharsis!"
"Bro, you're straight-up badass! Badass!"
"......"
What now, new idiots? They plopped down, yapping excitedly, guzzling their drinks.
"Thanks to you, we cashed in—this one's on us."
"Drink up!"
"......"
They set black-liquid glasses before me. Peering at the bubbling fizz... goddamn cola.
...These fuckers?
"Wanna die?"
"Nah, why?! Saw you liked cola last time!"
"Told ya he hated it!"
"...Did I drink too much? Kept hearing cola talk, thought you dug it."
Glared left and right; they bickered louder.
"You were door guard, got smashed on synth booze the night before."
The cat-eared girl chimed in just then.
"Bella, that was synth ale. Still stood proper at night—no charge."
"...Synth or not, chug that much, problems happen, Jo."
"......"
Hearing that trash name, I bolted up and moved seats away from them.
Jo? In this world? Human drum era flashbacks hit hard.
"Sorry if we pissed you off, bro. Just wanna buddy up."
"Yeah, you're skilled and all."
"...I don't buddy with Jos."
No shared tables either—beat it.
"C'mon, bro. Name's Jonathan. Jo's just a nickname."
"Sure, sure. Who's Jo? No punk with that name here."
"......"
Funny assholes. They kept bullshitting cheerfully; I sat, and Jonathan—or Jo—ordered three shots.
"No cola? This'll do. You'll like it."
"Man's drink."
"Los Amigos' booze too."
Which one's the witch? Why tag-team talk? As they giggled idiotically on both sides, three glasses hit our table.
"Picador."
"End of a job, always this!"
Their order: black liquid in martini glasses.
"...Cola in this?"
"Nah. Tequila and coffee liqueur."
...Coffee?
Slurp...
I raised it to my lips, eyeing his mug.
...Not that ugly. But betrayers ruin it. Prejudices from those pricks don't fade easy.