The Mercenaries' Holy Land, California in Cyberpunk
In the cyberpunk heartland and holy site for mercenaries, California State, countless mercs headed to the brokerage early in the morning, jostling alongside ordinary office workers and small business owners on buses and subways. As the morning sun rose, triggering massive population shifts, Amon and Sonia's morning came comparatively late.
"Ugh..."
"Awake now?"
Amon, fresh from dawn prayers, had prepared breakfast for Sonia. Her school schedule was always later than most others'. The Vatican, which funded her scholarship, might have opinions on it, but she had no intention of going through seminary to become an elite holy knight. All she needed was divine magic—nothing more. So there was no need to cram her timetable with classes just to boost her grades. Thanks to that, she enjoyed a much more leisurely schedule than her peers, with late mornings and early evenings. Even so, the Vatican couldn't cut off support for her. They were the desperate ones.
They must rate her potential as highly as mine.
Whatever report the Squinty Priest had filed, the Vatican seemed to value not just Amon but his connection to Sonia as well. Otherwise, they wouldn't tolerate her slacking off as long as she maintained minimum credits for graduation.
"Yaaawn~"
"Get it together. You've got jam on your mouth."
Wiping the sleepy Sonia's mouth, the two finished their slightly late breakfast. After grooming, they began their day an hour behind everyone else.
"Have a good one~ Do well at school~"
"You too—don't get hurt~"
Sonia headed to the academy, Amon to the merc brokerage. It had been a month since Sonia enrolled in seminary and Amon became a merc. In that short time, he'd learned a lot.
I was a frog in a well.
Fashion sense aside, the real issue was his ignorance of the modern merc industry. Amon had thought he'd updated via internet searches from the game's 50-year-old lore, but that was arrogance. In this world where info and gear performance were everything, progress had far outstripped his imagination. Tech had exploded geometrically during the World War, and in a setting where daily life was war, it kept advancing at breakneck speed.
Weapons aren't simple anymore...
Gun systems hadn't totally changed in 50 years—bullets still flew via gunpowder explosions, augmented by magic if needed. Cyber implants got you so far; then came magic tattoos for special functions or gene mods to push human limits. That much matched his old knowledge. What had changed? Entities.
Entities weren't just exploited for power plants. Body parts or byproducts went into any tool if useful. Merc gear too—loaded with functions Amon couldn't have predicted.
Even that gorilla had infinite storage via Stairway to Heaven...
Amon recalled the mad gorilla from long ago. Word was, illegal mods adding infinite storage to grenade launcher implants were merc standard. Not on the net since illegal, but insiders knew. If he'd missed disabling that launcher first, his corpse would've been next to some nameless cop's chunks.
Realizing this, Amon scrapped plans to dive straight into dungeons upon becoming a merc. Too much unknown. Not just monsters—people too. Blind rushes meant backstabs and death. So he built from basics: errands. Evolved to delivering quest rewards after verification. Sometimes shadowing mercs to observe. Repeating this earned him a nickname: "Pavlovroma's Dog." A pun on Pavlov's dog. Mercs signaled completion, and reward-laden Amon appeared—like clockwork.
Other errand boys existed, but only Amon got tagged because he was a merc too. Brashly getting certified day one, now doing menial tasks? Mercs mocked him as a coward.
He knew the nickname. They flung it openly.
Ding-dong, ding-dong.
"Hey, dogshit. Bring some booze here."
A merc rang the signal as Amon entered Pavlovroma. He smiled amiably and fetched it. En route, a merc "accidentally" bumped him, spilling some. Amon endured their bullying stoically. Give as good as you get, or look weak. In this rough industry valuing that creed, his patience only fueled their sadism. A hassle-free toy. That was his rep.
Yet he'd never snapped. Not saintly kindness. Amon preferred actions over words. Simple reason he bottled rage: Low-tier trash doomed to die soon anyway.
Wasting anger on the dying? Pointless. He did nothing special—they were all same-rank mercs, and in cyberpunk, they died by nature.
Fools blind to basics' importance...
They saw him as a mere payout delivery boy. But errands weren't simple delivery. Why use a merc over a drone? Rewards required verifying proper completion, no issues. Couldn't trust clueless couriers, so low-rank same-rank mercs handled it. They learned ideal completions, optimal weapons per scenario, stealth contacts, infiltration routes, tips, repair procedures.
Basics galore. Those calling him coward? Wannabes blinded by glamour and ease, blind to danger. They ended up trash-trucked by cleaners without Amon lifting a finger.
Plus, Amon trusted his way. Pavlovroma's boss backed it.
— "These kids these days..."
Amon recalled the boss's words.
— "If you're gonna merc, build basics steady like you. Kids don't get it."
The wheelchair-bound elder explained: 50 years ago, same-rank mercs did errands to gain experience slowly. Amon followed game lore. But after the legendary Mercenary King ushered the great merc era, any mutt rushed brokerages. Same-ranks skipped drudgery, grabbing guns post-registration. They mocked errand-doers as cowards. 50 years on, basics-via-chores became "loser shit."
Most brokerages ignored it. Cannon fodder aplenty—talent survived, trash filled landfills or sewers.
But proud Pavlovroma boss differed.
— "Just rubs me wrong."
The old man grumbled, wheeling. Old same-ranks had basics; now skips caused contact fails. Subtle quests once for same-ranks went to silver+ only. Even silvers were green, so gold or bust, he griped.
Amon empathized. He'd played that era; boss was legendary pre-curmudgeon. Now wheelchair-bound, but Punk City 3 true ending supporter—hiding protagonist's fugitive status. Amon knew.
Thus he heeded the elder.
Rough tongue, solid pride. Won't send me to danger.
Sends to safe basics-building. Proof: month of errands, zero peril. Even got tips from decent mercs. Steady foundation sans issues. Would continue till boss greenlit.
Thus Amon toiled silently, crossing himself to tamp rage—but that day differed.
"Hey, zealot."
"...?"
Amon turned at the voice behind. Might not be him, but guilt pricked. It was a woman. Black hair, red eyes—striking beauty glaring, brows angled.
Me, huh.
She snapped without preamble.
"This a church? Where you drawing crosses?"
What? Picking a fight?
Amon puzzled. Casual hazing? Likely. Tripping, tomato soup dumps daily—cross nitpick fit.
But lips moved naturally.
"The Lord said, 'Our temple is ever in the heart.'"
Couldn't admit rage-tamping cross, so best spin.
Didn't land well.
"Hah, you zealots always that. So my mom donating dad's fortune to church? God told her to 'expand her heart temple'?"
"Oh... such tragedy..."
Amon pitied genuinely.
"Don't know details, but if she did, fair call me zealot."
Sounded like goddess insult, but Amon knew blasphemy: faking her name for evil, or baseless mockery. Her gripe? Legit if believers shamed the faith. Goddess perfect; humans not. Healthy faithful Amon humbly accepted.
Her anger just. But she gaped—expected rebuttal, not cool nod? Flustered, she faltered.
"Uh..."
Then her trailing cactus-head merc butted in.
"What? I curse too? That bitch fucked my life—gahk!"
Thwack.
Words cut short. Amon had separated sword from sheath, tripped him with sheath, crushed throat. Blade tip at mouth, he menaced.
"Thy tongue cursed. Shall I cleave that viper half?"
Blade nicked cactus-head's nose tip. Sharp Hickzen guard sword sliced skin on touch. Merc paled blue.
Fearing nose-loss, he lisped desperately.
"Mercy! Went mad briefly... Will tithe church proper, forgive!"
Amon etched vertical scar, done.
"No next time."
Cactus bobbed frantically. Blood clown-reddened nose. He stanched flow, fled brokerage.
Commotion over, Amon wiped blade blood on handkerchief, turned smiling to woman.
"Where were we?"
Eye contact steady, hand still cleaning.
She thought: Did I poke the psycho?
Spot-on, surprisingly.