It was finally happening.
Arthur Wayne took a deep deep breath, standing by the busy entrance of Neno's Night Club. Even from here, he could hear the music reverberate in his chest, alongside his thumping, slightly nervous heart.
He put a hand on his holstered gun. It calmed him down almost immediately, dispelling his anxiety. Weapons had that effect on him. Perhaps similar to how normal children felt when embraced by their mothers.
He frowned, let go of the gun and whispered to himself:
"Stop being a pussy."
Immediately, Arthur trotted down the flight of stairs decorated by green neon signs and obscene graffiti of male genitalia on the walls.
Standing by a large iron door was a bouncer. Black, bald, full lips and a stoney face, black compression shirt and plain pants. Tall and muscular. His left eye was glowing blue, his right pupil black.
Arthur approached and the bouncer's apathetic gaze fell down on him. He lingered for a moment, then said calmly:
"I'm here to meet Snake Eyes."
The bouncer said nothing for a moment, then put a hand to his ear. There was a subtle shift to his expression. Arthur guessed he was communicating with someone via mind-link.
Wordlessly, the bouncer nodded. He looked at Arthur and said in a burly voice:
"Spread your arms."
Without warning, the bouncer patted him down with rough hands: over his faux-leather coat, under his gray shirt, over his arms, down to his waist where the bouncer encountered his pistol, paid it no mind, and continued downward over his jeans, thighs and shin.
Standing back up and unlatching the iron door, he stood aside and said:
"Go."
The door was a gateway to another world. A dancefloor in the center where twenty to thirty men and women shared in a trance, beams of multicolored lights swaying down on them from above. The Brazilian funk drilled into his ears and chest.
A bar stationed to the side, a shelf stacked with glass bottles of alcohol, a Holotv displaying an mix martial arts matched between two cyborgs above the countertop. Towards the corner, narrow iron stairs climbing to a second floor overlooking the drunk madness below. Someone was vomiting into a bin in the corner.
Arthur grimaced with disgust. He hated nightclubs. The music was too loud, the people got on his nerves, and he hated the damned smell.
"Snake Eyes's on the second floor, end of the hall." The bouncer shoved him in. "Don't lose your way, kid."
Arthur staggered through and found his balance. The door was slammed shut behind him.
Arthur sneered at the iron door. "Prick."
He looked ahead and made for the stairs, when a short-haired, pink-eyed woman grabbed him by the arms. She was tattooed across the arms, chest and waist. She whispered in his ear:
"Heya, big boy. Wanna buy me a drink?"
Arthur looked at her coldly. He could smell the bitterness of alcohol on her breath. He yanked his hand away and sneered:
"Fruck off."
She pulled away and stared, offended. Arthur was already climbing the stairs, each step croaking under his weight as curses hurled behind his back.
Faced with the door at the far end, he knocked twice.
A pause, followed by a muffled:
"Come in."
Arthur twisted the knob and creaked the door open.
Smoke flowed from the burning tip of a silver cigarette in Snake Eyes's slender hands. Arthur recognized the brand: Sivir Silver. Expensive. A week's worth of salary for him.
Four separate monitors sat in the corner. CCTV footage of the nightclub. The dancefloor, the bar, the dark alley just outside the club, and the entrance near the bouncer. A bundle of thick wires slithered from their ports and into the ceiling.
Seated behind a faux-wood table, Snake Eyes's cold, sharp green eyes resembled that of a reptilian's.
A snake, true to her name, though Arthur had never seen one in real life due to its rarity.
Her lips were plump, red lipstick. Long blonde hair, swooping over her left brow and reaching her shoulders. A small mole just above her top lip. South African.
She wore a blue breaker jacket above a white shirt with black leather pants, and gestured Arthur to sit with her cigarette.
Arthur seated himself in an uncomfortable chair opposite her.
Snake Eyes exhaled a cloud of smoke and regarded Arthur with an amused smile. She said with a distinct South African accent:
"Arthur?"
Arthur nodded. "That's me."
"You're taller than I expected," Snake Eyes said. "Not the ugliest I've seen walk through these doors, either."
Arthur smiled faintly. He was 6'1. Square nose with a scar across the ridge — no doubt made with a serrated knife. Thin lips, dry and scarred. Light scruff on his chin. Black, dull eyes ringed with dark circles. An insomniac, but who wasn't in Synth City? Saber-like eyebrows, Caucasian features, olive-tanned skin and short black hair with the sides shaved.
He'd just turned 24.
Arthur smiled faintly, but it didn't touch his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You'll take what I give." Snake Eyes scoffed, snuffed out the cigarette on a glass ashtray and leaned back in her chair. Arthur's eyes lingered on the crumpled silver. "You done this before?"
Arthur shook his head.
Snake Eyes hummed to herself, raising her feet to her desk. She was wearing white sneakers. "Know how it works?"
Arthur shrugged slightly.
"You give me a job, I do it, I get paid."
"Dumbed down," Snake Eyes said, crossing her arms, "but yes, that's the gist. Before I give you work, I need to know what cyberware you've installed, plus your qualifications and equipment." She tipped her chin. "Go on."
Arthur spread his right eye open with a thumb and an index. "I have a basic Visitech optic. Retina-display with HUD."
He tilted his head to the side. Showed her the slit beneath his left ear—standard cortex dock, within which a basic chip was neatly slotted into.
Gave him access to the Net, along with basic commands he could conjure through mental-link.
"Kirov D-03 model. Standard issue, no neural enhancements."
Snake Eyes creased her thin brows. "Fruck me, mate. That's older than I am. I'm hoping for a surprise here."
Arthur made no change in expression.
He raised his left palm up. At the base of his hand was a standard Link—a pullout cable with a pointy tip at the end. Connected Arthur's cortex to whatever could embrace it.
He raised his right hand. His palm was discolored compared to his left, and his fingertips were pale between segments. "Shock Absorber. Had it carved yesterday."
Unholstering the pistol from his belt, Arthur put it on the table with a loud thud. An iron chassis, with sharp, blocky geometric lines. Sleek, with a laser — off, currently — at the tip for accuracy. The grip was lined with black rubber, the magazine loaded. It had no scope, except two small ridges on the top you'd use to line up a target.
"Koji .30 Cal. Light weight."
Snake Eyes looked unimpressed. "Okay. Still standard chit. What else?"
Shrugging, Arthur made a wry smile. "That's it. I have basic aim training, I was an amateur boxer, and I've had one or two mixed martial arts fights. It's why Raga invited me here."
Raga was an associate of Snake Eyes's that Arthur met a few days before. The Aussie had seen Arthur train, maybe saw something in him Arthur didn't see himself. He promised good pay, though, and Arthur didn't think twice.
Snake Eyes hummed to herself. She lingered for a moment, her eyes piercing through Arthur's own. Suddenly, she said:
"You need this badly, eh?"
Arthur frowned and said nothing. She was right.
Snake Eyes spoke:
"You're no Viktor Kaizei but I can work with you."
She gave a predatorial smile.
"Let's get you a job, eh?"