Punk City's White Disaster Christmas
Punk City and the human boy spent Christmas Eve under a white Christmas, just as the weather service had forecasted. So white it blocked the roads.
"This isn't a white Christmas; it's a white disaster."
Sonia nodded in agreement beside Amon as he muttered under his breath. The snow that had started falling a week ago continued right up to Christmas Eve. Thanks to it, the younger kids at the orphanage were treating it like a festival. To little children, snow was always a welcome gift from the heavens.
But to those who had to shovel it away, snow was a curse and trash in its very existence. Most people only realized this after serving in the military or getting a part-time job. Amon, Sonia, and the other older orphanage kids, however, grasped this truth relatively early. They had to wield shovels and brooms to clear it.
Even Sonia, who had been excited about this year's white Christmas, started cursing the garbage falling from the sky after just two hours of shoveling. When a massive snowplow truck—big as a tank—passed by, clearing the snow in one go, the kids hurriedly pushed the orphanage's snow out to the public road in front. In Colorado, where the snow came down like it had lost its mind, this was the most efficient way to clear it.
Just piling it by the roadside? Who knew how long or how much more snow would fall? With the climate wrecked by environmental destruction, putting off clearing it later was never an option. That's why the city's method was for citizens to dump snow onto the roads, and then subspatial snowplows would sweep it away.
Of course, plenty of accidents happened when people couldn't dodge the oncoming plows. But in a world where thousands died from stray bullets every day, no one cared. Fortunately, this tragedy never visited the orphanage. Thanks to Amon and Sonia's strict safety controls and the kids' cooperation, they cleared the snow without incident.
Not all the kids cooperated, though. Some resented Amon's orders and did whatever they wanted. Most of them were Jimmy and his followers. The reason no accidents befell them was simple: they ignored Amon's safety instructions and didn't participate in the shoveling at all. They only came out with shovels and brooms for the special snacks after. They just huddled in a corner, giggling among themselves.
Amon left them be, resigned. Fine. As long as they don't get in the way. Jimmy and his crew would graduate from the orphanage soon anyway. Even veteran soldiers didn't get assigned chores in the army—why bother forcing these guys? Amon could just work harder himself.
The world's changed, but army rank doesn't go anywhere. Amon steeled himself like that and kept shoveling. Of course, he was pissed. Part of him wanted to flatten their skulls with his shovel. Amon wasn't some saintly adult.
But even so, he forgave them. Thinking of the Goddess who loved him, constantly reminding himself how blessed he was, he forgave them.
You little shits. No syrup in your hot chocolate later. There was a petty revenge mixed in, but Amon forgave them anyway.
Once the morning snow-clearing session ended, the kids headed back inside. Plows only came to the orphanage street in the morning, so shoveling in the afternoon was pointless. They gathered by the warm stove, chatting with the little ones.
"Big bro! I wanna shovel snow like you!"
Amon could only give a wry smile at the kid's words. Typical eight-year-old talk. At that age, shoveling probably looked fun. They didn't know your mind went numb after an hour straight. Heck, at eight, snow looked like a toy, not trash.
Amon couldn't bear to hand over his shovel, so he mumbled something about doing it when they grew up. Surrounded by his little siblings, melting his brain with sweet hot chocolate, that's when a visitor arrived at the orphanage.
Who could it be? Who'd brave this blizzard? No guesses. Not a government official checking on the kids' safety— if bureaucrats worked that hard, the city wouldn't be such a mess. Robbers? No way. Even crooks needed to eat, and they'd just get stranded trying in this weather. Besides, what was there to steal from an orphanage?
Documentary crew? Cult recruiters? He dismissed those too. Anyone piercing this snowstorm had desperate business or needed the snow to come. Most likely: cops fining them for uncleared snow. It had happened two years back. Technically, no need to clear for 24 hours after a plow passed—you couldn't shovel forever.
But that cop fined them anyway. Needed quotas, figured the director didn't know the law. Hinted at bribes if they didn't want the fine. The director's sharp legal knowledge sent him packing. For the record, that cop pulled the same stunt on other houses and turned up dead in one's yard the next day. The mark was a gang lieutenant.
Anyway, precedent made it likely. Or certain. No way someone braving this snow was a saint. With that thought, Amon focused on the entrance. Who'd come through that door?
Waiting by the stove with a view of the door, a nun soon opened it. In walked a man in a suit—salesman through and through. Too far to see details, but a company badge gleamed on his chest.
Which one? Unknown company. Amon knew megacorps by color or silhouette, but not this badge.
Well, fifty years changes mountains. Normal. He'd seen plenty of new companies since arriving. Not important. He focused on the salesman talking to the nun at the entrance. Couldn't hear, but the constant bowing suggested he wasn't trouble.
No, snap out of it, Amon. This is cyberpunk.
Cyberpunk Rule #2: No such thing as a good corporation. Especially big ones—the bigger, the less likely. In this world, corps were just gangs with firepower to ignore laws and cops, dressed nice with insurance and legal protection.
Someone like that bowing? Never good intentions. Amon glared with conviction.
Soon, the director led the salesman to the reception room. They emerged smiling warmly—cozy vibe even from afar. Amon second-guessed his suspicions as they approached the stove.
The kids warming hands or melting hearts with hot chocolate noticed and turned. Wary of the stranger, but the director's kind smile eased them. If she trusted him, he was trustworthy. Her reputation was that solid.
Amon pondered breaking his ironclad "never trust suits" rule. As he wrestled with his beliefs, the director introduced the man with a benevolent smile.
"He's from Hickzen Distribution, the ones who donated goods last time."
Hickzen Distribution. The kids gasped. Ruler of U.S. logistics, popping up out of nowhere—natural reaction. Amon's eyes narrowed further. Suspicious. What did a megacorp lack to brave this snow for an orphanage?
The director's explanation cleared it up.
"One of the donated items was haunted, so he's here to discuss compensation. Tell him about any damage, and he'll assess and compensate. They've donated steadily for years. I vouch for them—speak freely."
Now Amon got it. Cyberpunk Rule #1: Money and deals don't lie. The salesman was here with good intentions, at least.
Generally speaking, money and deals don't lie. This rule supersedes all other cyberpunk axioms—absolute law. Even when Amon posted it on his past life's forums, everyone agreed.
Of course, some questioned it.
Apply the rule: Corps weigh killing a customer vs. compensating financially, then act. Arms corp? Fine to kill—confident in cover-up, firepower, and even if exposed, less damage than sparing. Insurance or security firm? Can't kill. They sell "life-saving" image. Short-term gain, but exposure craters reputation. Who'd trust a customer-killer with their life? Better pay to silence or act only as last resort.
Thus, in deals involving money (or equivalent), no betrayal—unless the other's a psycho or too dumb for math. Rule #1 is absolute.
That's why the director trusted the salesman easily, and Amon opened up. A logistics firm with a haunted donation? Reputation nightmare. Massacring orphans to cover up? Inefficient. Better settle as "tragic accident" with compensation—wholesome PR win.
Plus, Amon knew another reason.
Probably me and Sonia. A Hickzen-level corp had its own intel net. They'd know about divine power users here. Years of donations built goodwill. One haunted vase ruining it? They'd lose sleep.
That explained a department-head-level suit braving the snow. Bosses must've chewed him out. Evidence: fatigue under his eyes.
Poor guy. Amon, who'd pulled double night shifts at a black corp, felt pity. But pity wasn't forgiveness. That haunted vase caused hell. He wanted mental anguish compensation. Too bad he couldn't reveal divine power or say he Bible-smashed the ghost to oblivion. He had to play "mortal hero who physically exorcised it."
That edited tale reached the salesman. His eyes turned to Amon.
Suspects divine power, huh. But Amon wasn't dumb. Countermeasures ready: silver anklets on him and Sonia under their pants.
The director called them "ghost-repelling luck charms" at first—seemed like germanium junk. But right after wearing, Amon noticed: they blocked divine power leakage. Felt warm energy trapped at the feet.
Salesman gets nothing. As predicted, he prepared to leave, oblivious. Mild suspicion, but circumstantial—no certainty. Director hurried him out amid confusion.
"Take care going back!"
Kids waved tiny hands. He gave an awkward smile and left.
The salesman left the orphanage, trudging through the snow with frost-rimed glasses still on. His steps were confident in the blinding blizzard. Beyond the frosted lenses, his eyes gleamed red, staring ahead. Hand in longcoat pocket, he muttered to the air.
His eyes whirred, pupils readjusting. The piercing prosthetic gaze pierced the storm. In the perilous snow squall, he shrugged casually.
"Both? Impossible. You know mystic power users: one per region. Two in one city defies principles."
Of course, it didn't explain two anklets. But he had a theory.
"Looks like one's a decoy. Y'know, Japanese term? Shadow samurai. Kagemusha, yeah."
He moved the glove from his mouth, resuming.
"Yes. Understood. As ordered."
His soliloquy ended. The suited man in the longcoat marched into the blizzard, steps unwavering.