The first call from the Fixer came that very day. The voice on the line was thin and frail, yet it carried a confidence that was hard to read.
Arthur glanced at the caller's name—Wakako Okada.
"Kid, I hear there's a fairly reliable newcomer in Watson District. A friend of mine left me your contact.
I've got a job—nothing too big, nothing too small. Interested?"
Her tone was like that of a kindly old neighbor, but in Westbrook, this woman's word was absolute.
"I don't have many specialties, but if it pays, I doubt I'll refuse."
"Young people always talk big. Let's hope you're not all show.
I'm sending you the job details now. Do it well, and we'll be working together often."
Wakako hung up.
At the same time, a crisp ping echoed in Arthur's head as the mission data was transmitted.
"Handy little thing."
Arthur tapped his temple and pulled up the file.
Westbrook. Jig-Jig Street. Wakako Okada's turf. A robbery had gone down two days ago.
Calling it a robbery wasn't quite right—it was a massacre. Everyone in a doll shop had been slaughtered, and the perpetrators even killed a few passersby during their escape.
They fled north, cutting through the city center. Wakako's people couldn't risk a shootout there and eventually lost them. Still, they were sure the crew had made it into Watson.
The gang had publicly humiliated Wakako, and she sure as hell wasn't going to let it slide. Time to find out who was harder to mess with.
At the end of the file was a note from Wakako regarding payment:
"I'll pay you 2000 eddies. If you do well, I don't mind paying more.
But! Don't bring me back a pile of unrecognizable meat."
"Shit… am I back to doing cop work?"
Vik must have caught Arthur's muttering. He shut off the boxing match on his display, spun his chair, and looked at him.
"Already on your first gig?"
"Rats stir up trouble down south, then scurry north thinking they'll never be found."
Arthur shrugged, picked up a pistol from the table, and stood.
"I'm going to see what this world's about."
"And with just that plain pistol?"
Vik sounded more like a nagging mother than a ripperdoc.
Arthur had already reached the clinic's door when he stopped, turned, and asked,
"By the way, how much do I owe you?"
"A little over ten thousand…"
Clearly too low.
"Hey. What's the real number?"
"Forty-seven thousand eddies. Friendship discount."
Arthur watched Vik shrug, then turned and walked off.
"Great. Might as well sell myself to Scavs."
Leaving the clinic, he climbed the stairs to Misty's Esoterica and Chakra Harmonization.
It was broad daylight outside, yet the shop was dark, lit only by a few stubborn purple lamps. Misty's strange makeup made her look like a witch pulled out of a swamp.
"Looks like you've got work. Want to draw a card?"
Arthur frowned as he walked up to the counter. A stack of rectangular cards sat neatly in front of Misty.
"What's this?"
"A little trick… to peek at fate."
Her explanation was vague, but Arthur got the idea.
"I thought only blind beggars pulled this kind of scam. So, how do I draw?"
Misty spread the deck out across the table and gestured.
"As you like. Pick however many you want."
Arthur casually drew one from the middle, flipped it, and laid it on the table.
On the card stood a lone figure, back turned to the world, a pale set of scales serving as his shoulders and bones.
"Oh, a special one.
It's called Justice, the card of conflict resolution.
It calls for order, to pierce lies and deceit, and return things to their natural state. Justice speaks of a fair verdict—but also the procedures that must be followed."
Misty smiled after her explanation, but Arthur's face was blank.
"Yeah, I'm not cut out for mystical mumbo-jumbo."
He raised a hand and pointed behind her.
On the wall hung a mounted deer head, and resting on one of its antlers was a gambler's hat—brown leather, brims slightly curled at the sides, the curve sharp and natural. It was nearly identical to the one Arthur had worn in his past life.
"I'll take that instead."
Misty followed his gaze, then smiled softly and took the hat down.
"Then… consider it a gift.
May you walk in peace."
...
Wakako's people had already tracked the gang to an abandoned factory in the Northside Industrial District. A favorite hiding place for rats.
The old Fixer wanted Arthur to find out why they'd attacked her and promised extra pay for the intel.
Leaving survivors, though, would make things harder.
And Arthur was still broke.
The streets of Watson were like cheese crawling with maggots.
The wide boulevards carried the clean scent of civilization and corporate gloss, but filth in the gutters and stains on the walls reeked over it all.
Sometimes, the shadows of the past weighed heavier than desolation.
After a long trek, Arthur reached the abandoned factory Wakako had mentioned.
It was a cluster of low, chimneyless buildings, surrounded by solid walls with no breaches.
The sun had sunk westward, and in the fading light, the factory sat in eerie silence.
Arthur found cover beside the compound. He didn't believe these lowlifes had any discipline—he just needed to wait for them to slip.
Sure enough, around midnight, a figure crept out of one of the workshops and slipped away.
Arthur hung back, trailing silently.
The Northside at night did little justice to the name Night City. Aside from a few broken streetlights sputtering sparks, the district was dead silent.
The figure headed straight north, turning into another abandoned factory.
Arthur didn't think twice—he followed.
The stench hit instantly, so foul it nearly choked him. Vomit covered the floors, fresh and old, all reeking of alcohol.
Inside a workshop, the figure was gone. From one corner came the rumble of an elevator.
He'd gone down.
Arthur had two choices: go down after him, or wait for him to come back up.
After a moment of thought, he chose to go down.
The spot they'd picked wasn't random. They had no roots here, but they weren't about to waste a hideout like this. And judging by the setup, the basement was likely a pleasure den.
Arthur summoned the elevator. The doors slid shut, and the platform began to descend automatically.
Before it reached bottom, vibrations thudded through his feet, the pounding rhythm of music growing louder.
When the doors opened, the sound blasted into him like a storm.
Ahead stretched a corridor lit by blinding, strobing lights.
Two burly men slumped against the walls, twitching occasionally like half-dead junkies.
Arthur rubbed at his ears, stepped over the bodies, and moved on.
The music hammered at his skull.
A circular hall opened before him, packed with bodies thrashing in a frenzy, drinks flying from their hands.
The air was thick with chaos. The lights overhead were like sand thrown in his eyes, blinding and harsh.
Arthur didn't waste time searching the crowd. He shoved his way through, rough and direct, until he reached the bar.
...
(70 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser