Cyberpunk and Mercenaries
The sun was creeping over the horizon one morning. Inside a highway rest stop where gentle ♩♪ music played softly, a man covered head to toe in tattoos tapped the shoulder of the guy next to him with the reggae dreads.
"What?"
"Hey, hey, check that out."
The dreadlocked guy turned to where the tattooed man was pointing. A TV mounted above the bar was broadcasting the news.
The Dungeon Management Association has officially designated the dungeon that appeared in Colorado as White Dawn Dungeon.
Interest sparked in the dreadlocked man's eyes as he watched the news. Reading his mind, the tattooed guy grinned aggressively.
"Wanna head there?"
"Isn't that the Hickzen Group's dungeon?"
"Yeah. Word is the three-dollar boys swept it, but there's still plenty of good stuff left."
"Then let's move."
The dreadlocked guy shoved his hot dog into his mouth and stood up right away.
> Ding! Payment received.
With a flick of their fingers to pay for the food, the two bolted out of the bar. Amon, who had overheard their conversation from the table right behind, set down his newspaper and sipped his coffee.
'So the mercs are all flocking to Colorado.' The pair who just left seemed to be part of that crowd. And the reason was obvious: the dungeon.
'A megacorp dungeon after all this time.'
Dungeons popped up all over the world regularly enough—they weren't that rare. Mid-tier companies ignoring safety protocols during experiments, or megacorps sabotaging each other, meant about one new dungeon every two years per region. But when a megacorp itself turned into one? That was rare. Amon's research showed it was the first in the US in a decade.
The bigger the company that spawned the dungeon, the more dangerous it was—but the rewards were sweeter too. That's why mercs from as far as California were rushing to Colorado the moment Hickzen Group went down.
'I've already cleared that dungeon... Wait, no. Clearing it solo might've hyped the demand even more.'
Dungeons varied wildly, each with unique traits—hence fields like dungeon studies. But the key point: the White Dawn Dungeon Amon conquered was the type that stuck around even after the boss died.
'Makes sense. The demon was summoned, and the monsters were executives under divine punishment.'
The news called it a respawning-monster type with no boss. Translation: tough for elite mercs chasing the top, but a goldmine for rookies and mid-tiers wanting steady gains. Plus, while the three-dollar group looted the prime intel and data, mercs wanted scraps, gear, and leftovers from the buildings. A "cleaned-out" dungeon still shone for your average gun-for-hire.
Which explained why mercs from across the US—and the world—were pouring into Colorado.
In that tide, Amon and Sonia headed the opposite way.
Sip. At a rest stop on the highway from Colorado to California, Amon sipped his coffee. The artificial flavoring and caffeine left a sticky aftertaste even he, no coffee connoisseur, could tell was cheap. But he wasn't drinking for taste—he needed it to stay awake. Sip.
"Father, safe travels ahead."
Amon grimaced at the godawful brew and addressed the priest across from him.
The priest, still groggy, managed a weak nod toward Amon.
Amon's trip to California wasn't just with Sonia. The Squinty Priest had been "dragged" along too. Officially, it was coincidence—he was being dispatched to California anyway, so he was just dropping them off. But after learning he'd also been appointed Sonia's seminary professor starting next year? Yeah, right. No one was buying that.
'Way too obvious...'
Anyone could see he was chaperone and watchdog. After all, only the Vatican knew Amon had soloed White Dawn. Letting ties with him and Sonia slip would've been a waste. So they sent the priest—connected to both, with flexible status.
Amon still remembered the priest's face when he got the dispatch and professor appointment papers. Like his past-life coworker sent to the boonies: a powerless salaryman's silent scream, words dying on his tongue in public.
And so the priest got dragged along, his own will thoroughly ignored.
To shorten the trip, they rotated drivers in three shifts. Rubbing his dark-circled eyes, the priest said to Amon,
"And Sonia?"
"She says eating before bed messes with her sleep, so she's crashing on an empty stomach."
"You had a rough dawn shift too, Amon."
Until this rest stop, Amon drove with Sonia shotgun. Now, leaving, the priest would drive, Amon shotgun. Sonia, next driver, needed shut-eye. But Amon had to keep the priest alert—chat, spin yarns, whatever. In any world, shotgun meant staying awake with the driver. Manners.
"Father, coffee?"
Amon offered a cup as part of shotgun duty. Whether from the caffeine or the foul taste, the priest's eyes snapped wide after a sip. Finally ready to grip the wheel.
"Grab snacks on the way?"
The priest declined. Renting a car meant no spills inside—headache city. They just stocked zero-sugar cola for the road and headed out.
—
"No exhaust! Love the environment!"
Passing eco-protesters picketing outside, the two climbed into the car. The priest turned the key and muttered like a prayer,
"Please... please..."
Vroom. It started fine.
"Phew, thank God."
His vague gratitude mumbled, the priest hit the gas. The car left the rest stop and merged onto the highway, Sonia in the back, bound for California.
In the awkward silence, Amon broke the ice to fulfill shotgun duty.
"Father, what made you become a priest?"
The priest stared ahead, lips wrinkling slightly. After a beat, he answered.
"Safety."
"Pardon?"
"In this shithole world, the safest spot for divine power users is the Vatican."
"Uh..."
Amon's eyes darted, caught off-guard. The priest he knew? Sketchy looks aside, solid guy. Reliable, good priest—not a saint, but decent. Never imagined that answer from him.
Reading the silence, the priest preempted.
"Don't get me wrong—I don't love the Vatican either. I'm just a Vatican commuter, not one of their own."
"You can say that?"
"Wasn't some calling. Exorcism work? Feels like tightrope-walking with your life. Body just leans toward stable, safe gigs."
Made sense. Some stake their lives on faith; others prioritize survival without ditching belief. Gray area—no right or wrong, easy to empathize.
If not for that one line from the director.
"But then..."
Amon recalled. The director said the priest was hellbent on dragging him and Sonia to the Vatican.
A guy like that claiming loose Vatican loyalty? Hard to buy.
As if reading his mind, the Squinty Priest chuckled.
"Why drag you two there? Safer in the Vatican, figured I'd suggest it. Plus, pads my record."
"...Pragmatic as hell."
"If goodwill pays off, why not?"
Amon shut up. Brutally realistic.
'More mysterious the longer I watch him.'
Amon revised his take on the priest and kept the chatter going from shotgun. Conversation with 12 hours left to California.
The multi-day trek to California wrapped with Sonia's driving shift. The trio dumped bags at their pre-arranged house and split. Priest to return the rental; Sonia to college for enrollment. Amon, per plan, to the merc brokerage.
'More mercs hanging around than expected.'
With a megacorp dungeon in Colorado sucking mercs in, California should've emptied. But nah—obvious in hindsight. No dungeon could quiet the heart of it all.
'This is ground zero.'
California: stage of Punk City 3. True ending made its protagonist a merc legend, turning the state into a holy site. Megacorp dungeons aplenty too—clustered corps backstabbing and overreaching. Recent decade quiet, but once churned one a year in chaos. Unconquered megacorp dungeons still dotted the map. No wonder the merc mecca.
'Been ages. How's it not bankrupt?'
Amon dug through game lore en route. The landscape had changed beyond recognition—nav needed—but the brokerage? Timeless.
Pavaroma. Meaning unknown. Owner promised to explain on return—then got assassinated. Epilogue said his son took over; apparently still running 50 years later.
'Ground zero of ground zeros.'
In-game, Pavaroma topped California brokerages. Now allegedly third online, but Amon the purist didn't care. Nostalgia was key.
He checked the two swords at his waist, ignored the bodyguard edging away, and hit the autodoor.
Whoosh. Alcohol and grease smells welcomed him. Eyes tracked him as he crossed to reception.
Normally, his looks would've charmed. Not today. Masked, and stares mixed curiosity with fear.
Amon ignored the stares, reached reception. Rule of thumb: cute receptionists everywhere. This one's original face? Gender? Who knew. But pretty.
She glanced up from her screen.
"Gasp!"
She nearly toppled backward.
Amon blinked. What'd he do?
Shrugging it off, he stated his business. Pro that she was, she processed while eyeing him warily. Soon, his official merc license printed under his name.
"Thanks."
He pocketed the card. Mission done—registration only today. No dungeons, no jobs.
Then the nagging question hit. He asked the one person here who couldn't flee.
"Why do folks keep freaking out around me? Am I wanted or something?"
Trembling, she pulled her phone. Snap. Showed him the pic.
A blue skull motorcycle helmet stared back from the screen. Amon tilted his head.
'What's the issue?'
Every piece of his gear had purpose. Bike helmet: headshot defense, top danger in dungeons/jobs. Red bike suit: mobility, heat resistance; modded for ballistic plates, steel chest plate. Yellow rain slicker over: acids/blood. Camo pants: landmines, EOD-grade. Fingerless gloves: dexterity over full protection. White combat boots.
Weapons: katana and arming sword for tactical range.
Perfect, in his eyes.
'Bang for buck nailed.'
Pure cost-efficiency made him proud. Reincarnated senses sharp as ever.
Others? Polar opposite.
'Psycho killer?'
Outfit screamed unhinged maniac ready to snap. Yet he felt zero vibes from it.
She clocked his fashion-blindness, gave up convincing.
"N-no, nothing..."
Amon cocked his head and stepped out in full kit. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. The old hand wouldn't grasp human hearts until his lover chewed him out at home.