A/N: Uploaded wrong chapter. Please read the chapter before this one.
***
Arthur produced a mental input.
[What are your capabilities?]
A list appeared in his vision that the voice read out loud.
>Short-delay realtime translating.
>Basic biometric scanning (heart rate, body temp).
>HUD compass overlay.
>Incoming call neural alert.
>Encrypted short-range messaging.
>Partial Ad-blocker.
>Display of all installed cybernetics.
He stopped there. Good enough for him.
"How do you feel?" Werner asked as he dried his hands on a towel and looked at Arthur.
Arthur realized how higher resolution his chip software was now. He went mental and opened and closed a few apps in quick succession, which opened smoothly without hitching. No more lag.
"Much better." Arthur's words came out a rasp. He coughed out of thirst. He looked to his side. A cup of water with a white pill on a tray. "What's this?"
"Your dinner." Werner said blankly. "What does it look like, you fool?"
Arthur groaned. He threw it in his mouth and quenched his thirst. Slowly, he stood, using the table for support. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and approached it, looking at his new chip port beneath his ear.
He also realized his ear had been patched. He pinched it and felt the nerves like they were his own.
"I took the liberty of fixing that ear wound of yours with Nerveglue," Werner said from the side.
"You didn't have to," Arthur responded gratefully. Nerveglue was damn expensive and a top of the shelf applicant.
"I know. But, alas, it would have irked me if I let it be." He gave Arthur a level stare. "You can pay me ¢100 for now—I've pre-installed my Contact on your chip. As for the rest, pay it when you get the money."
Arthur nodded seriously and stood straight.
"Of course. I will."
Werner nodded.
"Does this thing have AI?" Arthur asked, which prompted a loud laugh from the Carver.
"Of course not. It is a simple algorithm that has a limited range of responses when faced with a problem, incapable of its own thinking."
Arthur didn't get it. "Fair enough."
"If nothing else, you're very welcome to leave." Werner turned away, pulling open a book on his table and resuming his reading.
Arthur went mental and checked Werner's contact. There was no profile picture or avatar, simply a black slate. He navigated to his Paywire and sent a ¢100 to Werner's Contact.
He watched his balance go from ¢352 to ¢252, but in his mind, it had gone into the negatives. He was in debt, now. Still, he didn't feel bad. He looked at the Carver and said:
"Thank you, Werner."
Werner waved him away.
***
August 2, 2081.
At 9:30 am, Arthur woke up to his chip nagging him about a call.
[Incoming call from: Raga Smith.]
[Accept or Decline?]
Arthur accepted.
"Ey mate."
"Hey," Arthur croaked, wiping the sleep out his eyes.
"Saw Snake's message?"
Arthur paused. "No." He went to his messages and saw two new ones from the Handler. He read it. "Now I did."
"A'right, we're up to date. I'll meet you at the gym, yeah? Get a warm up in. We've got a long day."
***
Arthur worked the heavy bag. One-two, slip, one-two. Step-jab, step-jab. His stance was orthodox, his gloves worn down and reeking of sweat as he repeated the same movements over and over in the corner of the Huaraso boxing gym.
The gym had the usual grunting, chain clinking and heavy bag hitting going on. Weights and standard lifting equipment by the corner, past a framed image of a bare, muscular, cocky-looking young man with a raised fist and a silver medal around his neck.
Coach Cask walked over after being a spectator for a decent minute. He said with a pleased tone and an Irish-American accent:
"You're getting better, kid. Using your legs more, less tension in your shoulders. Something good finally happen?"
He killed two people.
Arthur shook his head with a faint smile.
"Nah, coach. Just practice, is all."
"How you been, son?"
"Good, coach. Feeling better."
"Got a girl yet?"
"When I do you'll be the first to know."
Coach Cask had a grin on his face. He was old. Maybe older than Werner, but far healthier and ferocious. Thick eyebrows. Bald. Small-eyed. Short. Black and white tracksuit, the usual. Arthur often wondered if he went to bed with it. He had chrome hands.
Despite his intimidating features, the man had a golden heart. He fed Arthur, gave him a place to sleep, trained him and booked him paid matches until he got back on his feet. Safe to say, Arthur's biggest debt was owed to Cask Ironhands.
"Listen, son." Coach leaned close, grabbed Arthur by his shoulder and pulled him down. "You know that time of the year is coming round, right?
"Mhm?" Arthur squinted. "Tryouts for SCBF in september?"
Synth City Boxing Federation. Big leagues, big payouts and powerful players backed by shady promoters owned by rich Suits sponsored by major Corporations.
"I want you to go pro. Middleweight divisions. I'll take care of any required implants they require—your hands, arms, shoulders and whatever else. I'll pay out of pocket."
Arthur twinged a brow.
"I don't think that's a good idea, coach."
"Why not?"
Cause I'm a killer. "Cause… I'm not ready. I'm still new to the sport, coach. How many boxers have gone pro within a year and a half of their career? Besides, we need a Suit to back us up, don't we?"
Coach Cask opened his mouth to say something, chest full of words, but all that came out was a sigh.
"That is… true. Sponsored fighters have a much higher chance at becoming champions." He glanced at the framed picture on the wall. "It's why I couldn't be one, Art."
Arthur furrowed his brows, feeling a pang of guilt.
Coach gave Arthur a serious look. "But that doesn't mean you can't be. Sure, you can't sleep much, but with decent money we can get the treatment for it."
Right. Arthur hadn't told the coach he was dying.
"Give it some thought at least, eh?"
Arthur nodded. "Of course, sir. I will."
"Good man."
Coach Cask pulled away, smiling still, giving Arthur's shoulder another squeeze and heading back to critique his other students.
Just then, Arthur spotted Raga entering the gym.