4:50 AM.
The Carver's location was a bar called the Rochester, a popular restaurant chain found deeper in the city. The interior was cozy, with faux-wood chairs and tables, hanging warm ceiling lights and a wide counter neatly lined with stools.
A London-style pub. Made sense, considering the owners were British twins who'd migrated from the Disunited Kingdom.
The place was semi-packed with the kind of crowd that late night drinking suited. A pop song played in the background with catchy, repetitive lyrics that Arthur had heard before. He couldn't be bothered to find out who it was.
He approached the counter and the bartender walked over to him.
Bald head, collared white shirt and black vest. He had a forgettable face.
"What can I do you for, mate?" British accent.
"I'm here for Werner."
He twinged one eyebrow. "And am I supposed to know who that is?"
"A Carver Snake sent me to find."
"Ah." The man swirled a gob of spit in his mouth, stared hard at Arthur for several seconds, then leaned forward and said quietly:
"Back door. To the left. Knock three times and wait two seconds, before knocking again." His eyes gained a severe edge. "Do not get that wrong."
Then he walked away, tending to someone else.
Arthur shook his head. He headed to the back, past a table of drunk construction workers jeering and laughing amongst themselves.
He found the door, creaked it and reached a corridor. Type you'd find someone dealing in. Was this really the place Snake had in mind?
He took the first left and met another door. Iron, this one. A thin slit at the top looked like it could slide past just enough for someone to peer through.
Arthur remembered the bartender's instructions.
Three knocks.
Two seconds.
One more knock.
Then Arthur waited.
The door slit slid open in a flash.
A pair of intense black eyes poked through, glowing darkly under the dim light of the corridor.
The man said impatiently:
"Who the fruck are you?"
He had an accent.
German?
Arthur responded:
"Snake Eyes recommended you to me."
The man seemed agitated by his response. He shot back, and his German accent burned clearer with each syllable:
"And I told her to tell me before she sent any scoundrels to my door! Verdamnt!"
He rudely shut the slit in Arthur's face.
Arthur frowned, paused just in case the man had a change of heart, then sighed in disappointment when the Carver didn't.
He turned to walk away, but just then, the slit opened again.
"Wait."
Arthur turned with impatient eyes.
The man took in a deep breath, then said in a calmer tone:
"Are you ill?"
Arthur frowned.
"No."
The man had a quick manner of speaking:
"The discoloration and dryness in your eyes, the dark bags under it, the paleness of your skin. You have an illness, do you not?"
"Insomnia," Arthur said.
Silence.
The German seemed unconvinced.
"Just insomnia?"
Arthur grimaced with annoyance.
"Fruck are you so interested for? You wanna take a gander over my nuts to look for any warts?"
The German's eyes flickered and he barked a laugh.
He shut the slit and came into view once the door hinged open.
For his age, Werner had a good head of salt and pepper hair.
His temple housed three small hexagonal ridges, both hands and fingers etched with lines up to the nails.
Not as crude as a Torque Arm, but something more surgical and nondescript.
He had dark rings around his eyes, eerily similar to Arthur's—a scholarly but crazy light to them. Clean shaven but wrinkly, pale skin and an unwelcoming face. He had a white labcoat on, with crisp boats and a neat appearance.
He made a beckoning gesture. "Well? Come in and shut the—"
Werner coughed twice, wheezed ugly-like and coughed again.
Bending, he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out what seemed to be an oral stim—similar to an inhaler. He shot a dose of misty, healing air into his mouth and took calming breaths.
Arthur did him the favor of closing the door and hatching its locks. He was starting to get sick of doors. He turned and took in the spacious room.
The Carver's office was clean, unlike the usual backdoor surgeons Arthur had experience going to. A see-through freezer sat at the far wall. On the right, the operating table with intricate metal parts and a moveable illumination device.
Storage cabinets and neatly packed supplies sitting on a wide table connected to the wall. Thick power cables ran across the floor to a plug, neatly organized and sorted.
"You good?" Arthur asked as Werner walked over to his fridge and took out a glass of water.
"Better, now," Werner said after a few gulps. He looked at Arthur with a strange light in his eyes. "I'm a sick man. But so are you."
Arthur snorted. "I told you. It's insomnia."
Werner scoffed derisively.
"Do you really think you can keep your illness hidden from a trained eye? I'm a doctor, yunge. Curious and willing enough to lend you my services. I will ask again." He leaned forward and enunciated:
"What is killing you?"
Arthur said nothing. There was no point in hiding it, he supposed. Not like it mattered much anyway.
He uttered one word:
"Huntingtons."
Werner went pensive, slowly rubbing his shaved chin with a distant face. He remained silent as the words hung in the air. He said under his breath:
"Huntingtons…" He looked at Arthur. "Do you know how to say hunter in German?"
Arthur shook his head. "No clue."
"Yaeger. Written with a J in German."
A small pause.
"Nice." Arthur didn't know what to say. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Ah. Forgive me for thinking you were smarter than you look." He flipped around his chair before a ruder response arrived. "You used your monthly MIRA check up to find out?"
"Mhm."
Arthur did. MIRA stood for Medical Intelligence and Replicant Assistant. An AI doctor that gave citizens of Synth City a free monthly checkup. Lord knows they needed it. Hardly anyone could afford any doctors anymore. An actual doctor trained to treat illnesses.
A bronze Red Cross membership card cost nearly 5K and it was the lowest tier. Capitalism frucking sucked.
"It's a shame, truly. They figured out cancer, parkingsons and MSA but your illness and mine are yet to be cured."
"And your illness is?"
"Cystic fibrosis," Werner said.
Arthur hadn't heard of it before. "Is mine worse or yours?"
"Hmm. Hard one, that. Mine is hard to live with. But yours?" He gave an eerie chuckle. "It'll get worse and worse until it makes mine look like a walk in the yard."
Silence after that. Occurred to Arthur that Werner was a trained medic. The man looked as knowledgeable as he was insufferable to speak with, so he knew what he was talking about.
"I do not mean to dispirit you," Werner said, noticing the change in air. "We're all going to die one day. I have lived long enough to see the world evolve into something not worth living for… and maybe it isn't anymore. Let us move on, shall we? What are you here for?"