Paranormal Link-23
Rom, whom I'd thought might be pissed, wasn't as furious as I'd expected. If his usual grumpiness was a 10, this was maybe a 5? The other 5 points were just nagging, though.
The old man had called me in about a job hunting the perp behind a violent incident downtown a few days back. The problem? The description matched a guy with outdated implants in his left arm and right leg. Officially speaking, it felt unfair to suspect me right off the bat just for that. In a city this big, was I the only one rocking ancient limbs? And I wasn't some thug beating people up for no reason anyway. Of course, my protests fell on deaf ears, and I had to endure a solid 30 minutes of lecturing before he let me go. I was rubbing my still-ringing ears as I stepped out of his building.
[Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.]
The terminal I'd finally switched to vibrate mode after asking Blanca about it started buzzing again, demanding attention. It rarely went off like this—what a weird day. Was I popular today or something?
[Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.]
Come to think of it, this old hunk of junk didn't even have a motor, so no real vibration. Blanca had once dissected something similar and told me they faked it with the built-in speaker. Whoa, knowledge gained.
By then, the annoying buzz finally stopped. Unknown number, missed call. I pocketed it and headed to Iron Valley.
"Nah, that part should go over here."
"But won't that cause durability issues on the exterior?"
"We're short on materials anyway, so treat the shell as expendable in the design."
"...Oh, so basically assume the outside gets wrecked from the start..."
"And make the internals tough as nails. That way, it'll last a good while with what we've got, and we can experiment more once we solve the power problem."
Once I got to Iron Valley, there was nothing for me to do. Just sit there bored, listening to the two women chatter incomprehensibly about engineering, their foreheads practically touching.
How long had I been staring when the woman from the next room stepped back from the workbench and approached me?
"Done?"
"Not done—just out of time."
I pulled out my terminal and checked; it was nearly 5 PM already.
"No clock function?"
"Just saw it—on this."
What an out-of-left-field question. Hadn't she just watched me check the time right in front of her? She tilted her head instead.
"Your eye."
"My eye?"
No one was suggesting implanting a clock in healthy eyeballs, so I pointed to my left cybernetic one. She nodded.
"High Class III, right? It should've come with a mini-processor inside, displaying the time by default."
She was talking so fluently—I didn't remember her being this chatty. As I stared, she slowly reached out and cupped my cheeks.
No hostile intent, so I stayed put. Her face drew closer.
"Hmm..."
What the...? Her eyes gleamed as she peered into my fake one with fascination.
"Not just a standard High Class III—it's customized. Fully closed circuit, no external interference possible... Nice workmanship."
"Nice workmanship?"
I waved my industrial claw in protest, but she didn't even flinch, fixated on my left eye.
Is she another crazy quack?
I eyed her suspiciously, but she ignored it, glued to my implant. Sure, people stared me in the eyes plenty, but having someone ignore the good one to bore into the fake like a maniac? Creepy—weird, anyway. Not that I was scared or anything...
"Eep."
She suddenly squeezed my cheeks hard, forcing a weird noise out of me.
"...What're you two doing?"
Blanca had finished cleaning the workbench and was watching us.
"He said he couldn't see the clock, so I was gonna remote-activate it, but it's a fully closed custom job."
"Wait, that eye's an implant too, Isan oppa?"
Blanca's eyes went wide with surprise as she shoved her face in close too. Her huge, sparkling pupils peering in doubled the weirdness.
...Those eyes were too clear. She wasn't about to ask to disassemble it, was she? Eyes that pure could look downright manic, and I was starting to shiver when her hazel ones narrowed.
"...Hard to tell, huh."
"Implants this high-end look almost natural. Tough to spot without close inspection. Normally they'd auto-match the iris color, but up close? It's off—probably not using that function."
"...Uh... yeah...?"
"Plus, folks with good eyes react faster than implants in emergencies. Watch the movement, and you can tell."
Her gaze shifted from my left eye to my right. Our eyes met, and she smiled sweetly—but aligning both fields on just her right pupil made her look even more psycho. She released my cheeks and stepped back.
With her retreating, Blanca finally realized how close we'd been—practically nose-to-nose—and backed off in a hurry.
"S-Sorry! Got carried away..."
"...It's fine. Long as you don't ask to yank it out later..."
"As if!"
Blanca retreated, face flushed, yelling back as I shrugged and joked.
"How's the leg?"
Then, out of nowhere: "Take it off."
"Take what off?!"
She said it so casually, like it was nothing.
"Last time you ran long, the joint hurt, right?"
"...That was the quack who installed it..."
"No."
She cut me off and reached for my waist. I slapped her hand away—smack—and she just stared blankly.
"Poor fine-tuning, plus it's overtightened inside. Your weight gain from hardcore external training lately isn't helping either."
True, my bulk was up from intense training, and yeah, the joint had ached during that run. But...
"...Talking like an expert doesn't clear you of quack suspicions—hey, hands off!"
She kept trying to yank my pants down, so I glanced at Blanca for backup. She was watching from a distance, eyes gleaming with excitement.
"Sis really knows her stuff—why not let her check?"
No allies in this cramped space. Just two engineers—one crazy, one not. In the end, the pair of them pinned me down and... [censored]. Not that it'd go that far, but at tonight's invited dinner, I hoped Lopez Wife wouldn't ask the color of her panties. ...I'd have to tell the truth.
Trailing after their nonstop chatter in grim defeat, my leg actually moved smoother—less annoying offset sensation, fewer unnatural hitches. Guess she wasn't a total quack.
...Or maybe she just lucked into it like stepping on a rat while backing up.
With that bitter thought, we arrived at the now-familiar sandwich shop.
"See you at 7, then."
With Blanca's farewell, she and Melissa split to their rooms. Nothing else to do, so I sprawled on the bed for some qi circulation and breathing exercises.
Circulation beats food! Yeah, right. Nothing beat real chow. After days of sandwiches, I timed my ascent upstairs perfectly for fresh dinner stimulation.
I'd once thought of that sandwich as emerging from a brutal tree... or was it a farm? Either way, I was the harvester. But what if dinner was sandwiches too? True martial artist dining? Screw that—who cared? Gluttony was human, even for murim folk.
Lost in dumb thoughts, I reached the top. There stood the door to the owners' place—never been inside—with Melissa waiting in her usual outrageous outfit. She'd washed up; her face was clean.
"Hey."
"We've been together all day—what's with the sudden greeting."
As we chatted idly, the door opened—someone must've heard us. A faint, sweet aroma wafted out.
"Come on in~! Almost ready—just sit and wait!"
Lopez Wife's cheery voice had us awkwardly shuffling to the table. Gustavo, setting utensils, gave us a light nod hello.
We sat in the guest spots facing the couple. Lopez Wife bustled in with plated dishes.
"Dig in, everyone!"
Thuds on the table: big, square meatballs of ground meat.
"Those look delicious meatba—"
"Meatloaf."
She corrected me mid-bite, so I shot her a glare. She just grinned and took a slice from Lopez Wife.
"...Thanks for the meal."
I followed suit—meatloaf, meatball, whatever; semantics didn't matter.
Once everyone was served, dinner began.
...
......
........
I didn't have much in common with Lopez Wife, but she matched my first impression: kind, bubbly... and chatty.
"Thanks for always helping at the shop. Oh yeah, you said you're a merc? Business good?"
Right—my brain. Oh, and you're teaching Blanca workouts? Thanks for looking out for our girl. (Blanca tried: "Mom, let him eat—stop talking." No dice. It worked briefly, then she was off again.)
Oh, you look way healthier than when we met—gained some weight. Muscle too.
In situations like this, I kept a mildly serious face, nodding lightly or giving short replies to dodge slip-ups. A variant of my Silent Empathy Technique—great for averting verbal fumbles, especially with old masters or women. Key: don't just nod dumbly. Mix in responses to avoid seeming dismissive, save silence for near-miss moments.
Like when she'd say I looked better with muscle/weight gain, and I'd almost blurt, "You've got a sturdy frame yourself, ma'am." The Hebei Peng Clan girl who'd heard that nearly decapitated me with her sword. Fiercer than any punk—still haunts me, that blade whistling at my neck.
"Melissa, you're on vacation, right?"
Finally, her attention shifted to the neighbor beside me. I could eat. Fork and knife speared meat—Gustavo and Blanca shot me pitying looks. Still warm, sauce bloomed richly. Not premium ingredients, but compared to sandwich ham? She'd put real effort in.
"What was your job again?"
Over her neighborly prying mixed with chitchat, I swallowed...
"Cop."
"Pfft—cough! Hack!"
I choked hard.