The bar was dimly lit, though still brighter than the dance floor up front.
Behind the counter, a scantily dressed bartender twisted her body to the rhythm of the music, clutching a large bottle of liquor.
Her synthetic skin looked cheap, like mismatched scraps crudely stitched together. Her face was no longer human, smothered in tangled circuitry.
"What can I get you?"
As Arthur stepped closer, the speakers embedded in her cheeks crackled with a shrill, piercing voice—harsh, but loud enough to cut through the noise.
"Something strong... Forget it, I'll just look myself."
Playing the part of a regular customer, Arthur grabbed the electronic menu off the table and pointed at the whiskey option.
The man he'd been tailing sat at the bar, boasting to a group of chrome-junk misfits, sloshing liquor down his throat.
Arthur tugged his hat low, lifted his glass, and quietly sat beside him.
"A few days ago, a cyberpsycho went berserk—the one who butchered everyone at City Hall.
We snagged his stuff, ripped it right from Trauma Team. The kind of danger we faced? You couldn't begin to imagine."
The man's voice was so loud Arthur caught every word without effort.
The others jeered back with mockery.
"Made a fortune, huh? Then why'd you come crawling back broke?"
"Think we're clueless? Those Trauma Team contractors are just grunts, no better than street sweepers."
"And word is you pissed off some big shots. You'd better start worrying about your neck."
The words hit a nerve, and the man exploded in rage.
"Our hands are clean!
Once we sell this cargo, we'll be living large in the city.
You worms will still be rotting in this industrial dump."
In a place full of lunatics, his outburst barely stood out. As expected, the crowd only laughed.
The exchange drew a line through the group—mockery on one side, anger boiling on the other.
Soon the man stormed off toward the exit, groping women as he passed through the dance floor.
Arthur noticed none of his companions followed—they clearly thought he was a joke.
Counting off the elevator timing in his head, Arthur set down his glass and went after him.
The neural link made everything seamless—like little more than a glance.
The elevator marked the divide between two worlds. The moment Arthur stepped back onto the street, silence wrapped around him. Only a faint buzz lingered in his ears.
It was the perfect time to act. Spotting the figure ahead, Arthur drew his gun.
The next instant—
"Bang!"
He fired without hesitation. Out here, the sound would carry far, and it was better to strike well clear of their hideout.
The man collapsed with a scream.
Arthur strode up, smashed the butt of his gun into the man's mouth, and the cry turned into muffled whimpers. He grabbed him by the waistband and dragged him into a nearby abandoned factory.
Arthur fell back into his old trade with ease, showing no signs of rust even after nearly two centuries.
Grabbing the man by the collar, he hauled him upright and cracked him across the face with a brutal punch, then slammed him against the wall.
"Shut up! Don't play dumb!
I ask—you answer!
Or I'll put a hole in your skull."
The man nodded frantically, but Arthur kept the pistol pressed to his temple.
"Talk. You were the ones stirring up trouble on Wakako Okada's turf?"
With several teeth missing, his voice came out slurred and pathetic.
"Don't kill me..."
Arthur clamped a hand over his mouth and drove his knee into the bullet wound in his leg.
Staring hard into his wide, terrified eyes, Arthur's raspy voice cut through again.
"Last chance. I like the truth. And I like good boys."
"Yes, yes—it was us!"
"Why?"
"Someone found out what we had. We had to silence them."
"What was it? Who's after it? Why kill witnesses?"
"A few days ago, when that cyberpsycho went berserk at City Hall—we stole his cyberware.
It's a data-separation Shard for an auxiliary neural link. Arasaka's paying top dollar, and Militech's hunting it too."
Interesting. So the corporations were involved. That thing had to be worth a fortune.
"Send me your boss's info, and you walk away."
The moment Arthur's neural link received the data, he sent the man to hell with a single bullet.
He torched the scene clean—he wasn't about to let the corps sniff his trail—and headed for their hideout.
...
By the time Arthur arrived, it was past midnight. Inside, the four remaining thugs were dead asleep.
Taking control was effortless. Soon, their so-called "leader" lay pinned to the floor, blood running down his face.
"Talk. Where's the Shard?"
Spitting blood, venom flashed in his eyes as he glared up at Arthur.
"Who do you work for? What Shard? I don't know what you're talking about."
That chip was his ticket out—no way he'd give it up.
Arthur didn't waste a word. He jammed the gun barrel into the man's wound and twisted.
"Where's the chip?"
"I won't—"
Arthur angled the barrel, fired again, and repeated coldly:
"Where's the chip?"
"It's in my head! Take it! Just spare me, I'll disappear, I swear!"
Arthur reached behind his neck, felt the slot, and pulled the chip free. Without a word, he silenced him with a final shot.
He snapped an image with his neural link, left the fire to consume the evidence, and walked away from the Northside Industrial District.
The steel-frame factories wouldn't let the blaze spread—it would burn only what Arthur wanted burned.
Without delay, he headed for Westbrook.
By then, Jig-Jig Street had shed the chaos of night, lying deserted and hollow.
Arthur didn't mind. He found the pachinko parlor and walked in.
A handful of bleary-eyed patrons still clung to their machines, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and cyberware strain.
The jangle of bells echoed as Arthur pushed deeper inside, spotting a burly young man behind the counter.
"I'm here for Wakako. Took her job—time to collect."
The youth's eyes flickered, clearly syncing with someone, before he replied:
"Follow me. The boss is inside, having breakfast."
Arthur stepped through a door into a private room. Wakako knelt behind a low table.
"You finished in a single day? Efficient as always. So, the result?"
Her wrinkled face softened into a gentle smile, almost grandmotherly.
"They're all dead. I don't know why they chose your turf, but just like your intel said—five of them. None survived."
Arthur had no intention of mentioning the Shard. This was corporate business, and their trust hadn't reached that level.
Vik's words rang in his mind: too much weight in a deal could crush a Fixer's credibility.
"Oh? Then take these photos."
He sent her the images of the corpses.
"No survivors, but these will do. I'll pay you 2500 eddies.
You did well. Let's stay in touch. Every new friend means endless business."
Their eyes flickered as the transfer went through. Arthur saw the 2500 appear in his account and smiled.
"Of course, ma'am. Generosity always buys friendship."