Snake Eyes was a Handler.
A Handler was someone who gave Freelancers and Mercenaries work. A middle-man who connected clients to workers in a lucrative, very shady market.
Crime.
Arthur knew first hand how difficult a job was to come by, and he'd worked it all. As a garbage man, as a delivery man, as a cashier and pest exterminator. Lord knows how much pest and garbage littered the streets.
But he was living to work and working to live. This wasn't a life worth living.
Crime paid.
"Give me your Contact. I'll send over the details of the job."
Snake Eyes extended her hand. Similar to Arthur, she had a slit across her palm. There were other ways, but this was the fastest.
Arthur roped out the Link from his palm and connected it to hers with a distinct click.
Immediately, a female voice in his head spoke, its tone professional and clean:
[Link Detected. Accept or Decline?]
Arthur sent a mental command, accepting the request.
The details poured into his head. His optic displayed the newly processed information in the left corner of his vision. Blue lines of code with red undertones, yet the font was wonky and thick. Dyslexic-friendly:
>New Contact: Snake Eyes.
No additional information came except for a profile picture of a vicious green snake coiling towards the sky with an open maw, fangs dripping with poison.
Snake Eyes unclipped the Link from her palm and gestured towards the door. "You can leave now. I'll send you the details over comms."
Arthur nodded his head and turned for the door, down the stairs, past the zombies dancing their heads off, and knocked on the iron door.
It unlatched with a loud clink and creaked open.
Arthur walked out and didn't spare the bouncer a second look. Ascending the stairs and exiting, he walked out of the alleyway and into the city sprawl, the humid air wafting in his face like an open oven.
A car shot past the road, nearly folding a jaywalker in two and almost crashing into a scooter.
It drifted to the right as it passed a T-intersect. Two police cars immediately followed, red and blue lights flashing, sirens blaring, an electronic speaker shouting:
"Stop the car or we will open fire!"
In a flash, they were gone.
Arthur laughed to himself. This was a small corner of Synth City known as the Blister: a sprawl running with all sorts of filth, human and otherwise. The buildings were rundown concrete: years of neglect and lack of maintenance. The air was moist, thick with bitter carbon and dust. Further away you went from the city center, the looser the laws got.
He threw himself into the flow of people.
To his left, way out in the distance, was the Synth City's skyline. Like misshaped teeth reaching for the skies, buzzing with Flies, flashing with adverts and holographic scenery seen through a heat haze.
Arthur glanced at the sky. Clouds were forming for rain.
Then, a distinct ping popped in his head, followed by the symbol of a (1) appearing in the corner of his retina, besides the time and date.
>1st of August, 2081, 1:32 A.M. (1). .
Arthur opened it, reading it slowly.
>New Message.
>Snake Eyes:
You're gonna head to 44th Street, look for a chopshop called Jerry's Rigadig. Jerry's a friend, but he doesn't do car deliveries for clients. Get the keys from him and deliver the car to our warehouse. IN ONE PIECE. I've sent the location to your Maps and a picture of the car. Don't screw this up. For your sake and mine.
The Cut: ¢250.
Arthur's eyes widened at the amount.
250 ¢redits. Two months worth of rent in that shoddy little apartment of his with some spare change, just for something as simple as delivering a car.
Nothing would come easy, though. With his luck, there was a shitstorm brewing somewhere along the way.
He opened the message file containing the picture. It spread over and occupied his vision.
Arthur wasn't too impressed. The car wasn't his tastes, but he had no doubt it was worth more anything he could afford. Faster than anything he'd ever ridden, too.
A four seater. A sleek red body with blunt curves but a sporty exterior. The back lights were a pair of elliptical shapes, the frontlights had an angry appearance, low-pointed and sharp. Low to the ground, a thin spoiler hung off the trunk.
Steeling himself, Arthur made a mental command to check his Maps. A circular HUD appeared in the right corner of his vision: displaying the surrounding buildings, roads and shops he could visit. Nothing detailed like with other models: just simple blocks and geometric shapes. He looked for the chopshop and warehouse in question.
Arthur clicked his tongue. The chopshop was at least thirty minutes away, and the warehouse was even further. He could take the Maglev, but his Metrocard was running low. Enough for a one way trip he intended on using on the way back.
He went mental, and uttered a phrase that opened an application he'd installed on his old Chip. [Taksi.]
Stuttering at first, the Taksi avatar unfolded into his vision, this time anchoring itself to the bottom-left corner.
It took the form of a bellhop: red pillbox cap, polished smile, and a neat red-and-gold uniform, shown from the waist up. The resolution was low, murky and a touch glitchy, thanks to his dying chip.
[Hello, Mr. Wayne.] The AI smiled with perfect teeth. It disgusted Arthur, that sort of jolly happiness corps thought the masses were into. [Where would you like to go today?]
[Jerry's Rigadig. 44th Street.]
[The fare is ¢21 for a Deluxe ride, ¢15 for Premium, and ¢7 for Regular. Confirm your choice?]
[Confirm Regular.]
The bottom right appeared with a string of numbers, as usual whenever his wallet suffered a dent.
His cash balance—reduced from ¢35 to ¢27.
[A car is on the way, sir. Pleasure, as always.]
With a final smile, the avatar disappeared.
Arthur waited patiently. The nice thing about Taksi was their seemingly instantaneous appearance. Just a few minutes after you finished calling, a Taksi car would—
And there it was. Rounding the corner, a plain black sedan glided into view, coming to a stop right beside Arthur.
The car was nondescript, plain. Passable as clean, but unremarkable. It had a small tab on the top that flashed in holographic letters:
OCCUPIED.
On the side doors and hood was a "TAKSI" label—white on black text.
Arthur put his palm on the backseat window. It recognized his registered fingerprints from the app's database and the car door opened on its own.
Arthur slid in and the door closed.
The backseat was comfortable but dirty with suspicious stains. Damp, the seats aged and smelling like cheap perfume mixed with sweat. A stinker sat before he did.
The crappier the District was, the lower the quality of its services.
The front seats were barriered, replaced with screens you could watch TV on.
The screen flickered on, alongside the air conditioning set to a low hum.
It was the bellhop again with that damned smile.
"Seatbelt, Mr. Wayne."
Arthur grunted, pulled the seatbelt and clicked it in. The damned thing just wouldn't move without it.
Immediately, the car began humming with movement. A steady speed, abiding by speed laws as it merged into a lane and picked up the pace.
Laws.
What a joke, Arthur thought, frowning.
The Disunited States of America (DUSA) was a scattered mess long before Corpses slowly chipped away and challenged their authority.
Arthur peered out the slightly tinted window. At the city. At the filth, at the place he called home. His grandfather had once told him stories of the distant, better past: how, in his father's time, wild animals roamed green jungles and birds soared free among the stars.
Nature was purer. Still exploited, but reserved.
Now, no such purity remains.