Cyberpunk and the Mercenary
"Since this is fate bringing us together, how about lunch?"
Amon smiled as he invited the woman in front of him to join him for a meal. Overwhelmed by the situation, she accepted his offer.
The two settled into a corner of the brokerage, which doubled as a bar, and ordered lunch from the menu. When she mentioned it was her first time at this brokerage, Amon decided to order for her as well.
"Two Dwarf Mine Hotdogs, please."
He had no idea why it was "Dwarfi" specifically, but Amon had never bothered to ask about the chef's naming sense. Turning away from the burly, muscular girl(?) in the kitchen—who still looked utterly bizarre every time he saw her—he focused on his guest.
"From experience, this one's the safest bet—no strong likes or dislikes."
Other dishes varied wildly by race or nationality, making them poor choices for someone you were meeting for the first time. Things like eel jelly soup or synthetic meat locust-topped pizza... By comparison, the Dwarf Mine Hotdog was just a plain synthetic sausage in a bun—nothing to divide opinions over.
While they waited for the food, the two introduced themselves.
"Amon Perfumrose. Ah, the surname's from the orphanage."
"Kashi Iliya. It's Iliya, not Illiya, for the family name."
She tilted her head slightly, revealing one crimson eye in a polite bow. Perhaps feeling guilty about what she'd done to him, she was exceedingly courteous. After exchanging their unusual surnames, they finished their introductions.
Soon, their order arrived. Kashi's eyes widened at the hotdogs, each the size of two normal ones.
"If you can't finish it, just leave it."
With that, Amon took a bite of his sandwich. A clean synthetic meat aroma hit his nose. For someone who ate real pork once a week, it felt a bit off. But sausages didn't differ much between synthetic and real meat, so there was no real aversion. It was tasty enough to make you forget it was made from bugs.
The sausage was synthetic meat, the vegetables a mix of synthetic dietary fibers, the tomato GMO. Individually, the flavors were trash even by polite standards, but the chef had somehow combined them into something delicious. Amon savored his hotdog with evident enjoyment, and Kashi followed suit, taking a bite.
"...!"
She looked shocked again, but Amon could understand. Rookie mercenaries—same rank as him—rarely ate proper meals at brokerages. Drinks or snacks, sure, but never full meals. The menu prices were exorbitant compared to street food, even if the quality matched. Rookies always griped about it being a scam to rip off newbies and ate outside whenever possible.
But once they had some experience and a bit of cash to spare, mercenaries handled all their meals at brokerages. Why? Because it was delicious.
There was a common misconception: places targeting mercenaries skimped on quality. In reality, they obsessed over it. For people who could die any moment, brief pleasures—food, sex, sleep—were vital. They spent freely, living like there was no tomorrow. And in return, they demanded uncompromising quality. Meals had to be tasty every time, hookers impeccably clean, beds soft and cozy. Broke rookies might tolerate less, but veterans never did.
That's why brokerage food was top-tier. Not just reasonably priced, but an absolute steal for the flavor. With so many boozers and picky gourmets among mercenaries, satisfying their palates was a seal of approval.
*Crunch crunch.*
Finishing his explanation, Amon took another bite. Kashi stared at the bite marks on her own sandwich before speaking up.
"Sorry about earlier. I must've lost my head."
"?"
Amon tilted his head quizzically. She explained her side to him.
"I mean when I picked a fight with you. I thought harassing you like the other mercs do was how to prove myself."
According to her, it was her first day at a mercenary brokerage. She wasn't even officially a merc yet, nor did she have connections. Just another typical cyberpunk youth who'd fled a bad home situation and picked mercenary work to survive.
At the brokerage, she'd bought drinks for some adventurers to learn about the life. Shoot straight, swing a blade well. Don't waste time on finesse during jobs—increase firepower instead. Mercs get disrespected everywhere, so never let anyone look down on you.
The cactus-head telling the tale pointed at Amon, who had just arrived for work.
—"As long as you're not a loser like that guy."
Cactus-head and his buddies cackled. He'd said Amon showed up all gung-ho to be a merc but had never taken a single real job. Just delivery boy errands for the brokerage—safe stuff only—so he had zero achievements compared to peers.
—"Comes here to kill people but won't risk his own neck."
Cactus-head downed his drink. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he turned to Kashi.
—"Hey, sis. Perfect chance—why not stomp that punk for us?"
It was the perfect way to follow his "never let yourself get looked down on" rule, he claimed, convincing her. Sure enough, the brokerage mercs were harassing Amon just as described. So she'd bought cactus-head's story hook, line, and sinker.
'Sorry...'
She felt bad for a total stranger, but survival as a merc meant picking fights like this. She'd believed it was some initiation rite. And now... here they were.
The swaggering cactus-head, who'd given her "tips," had fled with a clown nose. The mercs who'd mocked Amon froze when he drew his blade. Meanwhile, Amon treated the harassment like nothing, casually eating his sandwich and sharing veteran-level advice.
Whose words rang true here was obvious.
"I'm really sorry. I know it's cheeky, but... could you teach me about being a merc?"
Kashi bowed deeply, her straight black hair cascading down. Amon stared at the top of her head, flustered.
"A hotdog's hardly a 'tip'...'"
Sure, he'd learned it from a veteran merc uncle during an errand who drunkenly spilled the beans, but that didn't make him a veteran.
Still, Kashi was resolute.
"No, that convinced me."
Thinking back, cactus-head's advice had zero practicality. Just posturing bullshit labeled as "industry rules," no real job tips. Amon, meanwhile, dropped useful info right off the bat. Plus, she'd clearly seen the sword he'd used to intimidate cactus-head. As someone knowledgeable about gear, she knew it was top-quality—not for a rookie rank.
'No wonder strong mercs never touch him.'
The ones harassing Amon were just scruffy punks with cheap gear and no implants. Well-equipped or cybered-up mercs had never bothered him. They'd probably recognized the sword at his hip.
She hadn't clocked it until he drew it. Then she saw its worth: at least platinum rank to wield properly. Exceptional.
'Retired megacorp ninja, maybe?'
In this world, gear equaled skill. Wielding that marked Amon as guaranteed competent. Ninja defections or vanishings into merc life were common, so her theory fit.
She couldn't let him slip away. Learning from him beat any mid-tier punk for survival odds. She was convinced.
She pleaded with Amon.
"I want to survive as a merc."
Unlike others, her goal was just endurance—no dreams of legends or quick climbs. Just safe meals and a bed. Absurd mindset for such dangerous work, but she was dead serious. Her desperation touched Amon.
Too nice to refuse outright, he thought,
'Seems like a good kid...'
In cyberpunk merc circles, admitting fault and apologizing put you in the top 1% for character. He recalled game NPCs and real mercs:
—"No need to apologize for lacking intel. That's why the pay was fat, right?"
—"We're just using each other anyway. Yesterday's friend is tomorrow's enemy."
—"You know it was business. Forget I shot first."
Fuck. Among those assholes, Kashi was top 0.1%.
Personality: pass. Amon punched numbers on his calculator. Bringing her along? Fine outcome. Not dungeon runs or high-risk ops—just safe errands. She'd watch, learn basics. No loss for him.
He couldn't say no.
"Alright. Let's go together."
Amon figured nothing could go wrong on a simple errand.
*
"Fuck. Shouldn't have thought that."
A curse slipped from the devout believer's lips.
Hiding in a massive alley dumpster, he heard mechanical voices approaching, mixed with gunfire.
Rat-tat-tat!
"Come out, you tiny-dicked shits!!!"
A gang member roared, spraying bullets into the air. Amon leaned against the stinking bin, ignoring the filth, and sighed.
'Damn bastard. Even leaving causes trouble.'
He recalled how things went south. It was supposed to be simple: merc fetches item, meets Amon, hands it over. Amon verifies, pays up. Routine errand—the brokerage boss guaranteed safety.
One prerequisite: the merc isn't a moron.
This one shattered odds with cosmic idiocy.
'What the hell was that guy?!'
Same-rank rookie. The "kids these days" type the boss griped about. Barely trained, convinced "mercs just shoot." Fetched the item by raiding a gang hideout.
It was a plain trade. Pick up goods quietly. Client was legit, gang shady—mercs just bridged the gap. Both sides normal: client prepaid credits, gang ready to hand off peacefully.
Except the merc was a transcendent moron. Fueled by justice? Grudge? Weird interpretation? Greed for the card and goods? Who knows. He shot up the gang mid-handover for an item he could've just bought.
And died. Bullet-riddled in seconds—his last thoughts a mystery.
But the mess didn't end. Enraged gang assumed brokerage plot, used the merc's signaler to lure Amon as "job complete."
Amon arrived expecting safety, found the merc's severed head on a car hood, gang guns trained.
"You merc fucks are all the same!"
A strange gang member's shout as he fired at Amon and Kashi. From the head and rants, Amon pieced it together.
'Goddamn cyberpunk...'
He muttered his umpteenth curse today. Classic misunderstanding here—daily life, really. He'd forgotten, dulled by peace.
Explanation? To trigger-happy psychos? The idiot merc died solo for his stunt—that wasn't cyberpunk resolution.
Misunderstandings weren't solved with words. Fists, blood, cash. No cash? Fists and blood it was.
'Kill the gang?'
Doable. He could wipe these five. But it'd burn bridges with brokerage and gang.
'No choice...'
Blood optional. Fists it was.
'Boss'll smooth it with their leader.'
Forgiveness easy sans killing. Can't revive dead, but cripples heal. Broken bones, paralysis—keep 'em breathing, talk later. Another cyberpunk fix.
Steeling himself, Amon glanced aside. Kashi trembled, clutching her pistol—safety on, finger on trigger. No training.
'She really is a total newbie...'
How'd a girl like this end up a merc? He took her gun. She jolted at his touch.
Amon whispered,
"Mind lending me your pistol?"
His confident eyes instilled trust. She relaxed her grip. He nodded, took it.
"Stay quiet here."
"Fifteen minutes, tops," he added, peeking past the bin. Gangs' eyes elsewhere, he scaled the wall beside—jamming his dagger for footholds—vanishing into a derelict building's third-floor window in seconds.
"!!!"
Kashi gaped as Amon checked the chamber in the shadows.
'One pistol mag.'
Enough. Bat-human pacifism flickered in his mind as he leaped to the opposite building.