First thing in the morning, I took my usual spot at the workbench and began clearing the backlog of requests that had come in the day before.
It was a convenient setup—as long as I had the parts, most repairs were a one-button job. With my skill, no task was ever truly difficult.
Of course, the work wasn’t constant. Some weeks I’d be bored out of my mind with nothing to do; other times, the jobs would pile up like an avalanche. Yesterday had been one of those unlucky days where a dozen trivial requests all hit at once.
"...The volume's a bit much," I grumbled.
I picked up the comm-terminal I’d left on the desk. If I passed the jobs to my regular courier, he’d handle the deliveries on his own as long as I stuffed the invoices into the drop-box outside.
I punched in the details. Done.
My workshop-and-living-quarters was, in a sense, prime real estate with zero rent. As long as I earned enough for daily expenses and food, I didn't need much else. That was why I set the rates for standard repairs lower than the market price. The common folk in this city were perpetually broke, after all.
In exchange, I made sure to rip off the people who looked like trouble.
"...That said, having all the work flow to me is its own kind of problem."
Getting glared at by others in the trade was a hassle. Although, in reality, they didn't just glare—for some reason, they were all terrified of me. I had no idea why.
Regardless, there were some items I preferred to deliver myself. Today was one of those days. The client was Greed Claw, one of the most notorious gangs in the city.
I had a bad feeling about this one. It smelled like trouble, which meant I couldn't entrust it to anyone else. I had no choice but to head out and deliver it personally.
The item sat on my desk—a mysterious IC chip. Just looking at it gave me no clue as to its purpose. I carefully tucked it into a shock-resistant, anti-static case, then slid it into the inner pocket of my jacket.
"...Alright."
I gave my chest a light pat to confirm it was secure and prepared to leave the workshop.
Stepping outside, I was greeted by a typical morning in Neo Babel. The thick, dusty air refracted the light, so instead of brightening the city, the sun cast a diluted, grayish haze over everything.
My home stood on the corner of a back alley. I’d heard it was once a building for the city’s power distribution system, but now it was a derelict, rotting husk. I’d simply moved in and claimed it as mine.
I scanned the street. The smell of mystery meat wafted from a food stall that had appeared before noon. Next to it, a row of shacks made of scrap wood huddled together. Junkies sat slovenly on the ground, already lost to their highs.
Yet, a wide, empty space remained around my workshop. It was a strangely quiet corner where no one dared to linger.
"...Well, I suppose I should be grateful for the peace," I muttered with a wry smile.
I pulled down the shutter. The hanging sign swayed, letting out a sharp metallic clink.
FIXER—that was the name of my shop. A place where things got fixed. Nothing more, nothing less.
＊ ＊ ＊
I left the shop and began trudging toward the main street.
Calling it a "main street" was a stretch. On both sides of the road, a chaotic jumble of shops, stalls, and junk dealers of unknown origin lined the path. With every breath, the scent of oil, spices, and sweat filled my lungs.
Some people used the fancy name "Market Street," but it was really just a hodgepodge bazaar. It was a teeming crowd where the wealthy, the destitute, and people carrying suspicious contraband were all shoved together.
Looking up, I could see the neon lights of the Upper District peeking through the gaps between crumbling skyscrapers. Even in the middle of the day, they blazed with the intensity of a midnight entertainment district. That was the den of corporate suits and intellectuals. People in designer clothes walked with squared shoulders, while actresses flashed perfect smiles on holo-advertisements. It was another world entirely.
Meanwhile, the ground I stood on was the Free Zone—the Free Autonomous District.
Despite the name, it was nothing more than a glorified slum. You were free to do as you pleased, but the law held no power here. Outlaws set the rules, and violence maintained the order. "Freedom" sounded nice, but in practice, it just meant people died however they liked.
My destination was Greed Claw.
They were one of the major gangs that ran this city and, for me, a persistent and troublesome regular customer. On the surface, they maintained respectable facades like vehicle maintenance, parts reclamation, and security. Their true business was far more blatant: illegal chips, modified weapons, black-market vehicle flipping, and trafficking in human parts. They were essentially a mobile black market.
"Honestly, they're quite the jacks-of-all-trades..."
I couldn't help but grumble. Still, thanks to them, the repair requests never stopped. Fixing vehicle frames and firearms that had been caught in "minor" explosions was grueling work. To them, I was a convenient contractor; to me, they were a reliable cash cow. A symbiotic relationship, I supposed.
But this particular repair felt different.
Repairing an IC chip wasn't unusual in itself, but normally, an organization would use their own specialized technicians. Whether it was a data chip or a modification chip, having it leave the premises was a security risk. Yet, they had gone out of their way to send it to me.
"...Smells fishy."
I was lost in thought as I walked. Then, I noticed a side alley just ahead—an area shrouded in the shadows of the surrounding buildings, completely invisible from where I stood.
But I knew someone was there. More specifically, I could see the Speech Bubbles they were emitting.
My power allowed me to pick up the consciousness of everyone in the vicinity indiscriminately, but if I did that, the air would be so cluttered with dialogue that it would be unbearably noisy. So, I usually tuned it to only display "consciousness directed at me." It had taken me a long time to learn how to control it, but now it was as natural as breathing.
A Speech Bubble was floating clearly behind the wall. The beauty of this power was that I could see them regardless of physical obstacles.
《That bastard... looking down on me... I'll kill him... Hehehe.》
The hostility was painfully obvious. I snorted softly.
"Do I remember making an enemy...? Well, I'm sure the list isn't empty."
I didn't claim to be a saint, though I didn't recall ever being actively malicious. Maybe it was a junkie with a fried brain, or some self-proclaimed hero of justice. It didn't matter. I’d simply brush away the sparks before they caught fire.
I slowly slid my hand inside my jacket and drew my sidearm from its holster.
The Haag Model 3.
I had built it myself from a pile of scrap. It looked like an antique that fired live rounds, but the internal electromagnetic cylinder added massive acceleration to the gunpowder’s kick, allowing it to hit with the force of a railgun.
"I don't care about the physics; the point is it's stupidly strong."
With a wry grin, I aligned the muzzle with the space just below the Speech Bubble. I paused for a beat, then pulled the trigger.
The heavy thrum of exploding gunpowder blended with the high-pitched whine of electromagnetic convergence. A streak of white light pierced through the wall, tearing through the air with the crackle of a thunderclap.
An instant later, a gaping round hole appeared in the alley wall. The figure on the other side was gone, with only half of his upper torso remaining.
The atmosphere around me stirred for a moment. There were gasps of shock and fear, but they didn't last. A few beggars and thugs immediately swarmed the site, hoping to scavenge whatever the dead man had left behind.
In this city, the death of a single man didn't stop the clock.
I tucked the Haag Model 3 back into its holster and kept walking without a second glance. Someone might have been caught in the crossfire on the other side of that wall—but that, too, was just life in Neo Babel.