[This fictional piece was written by me, using characters I created in Cyberpunk 2020 and Cyberpunk Red. It is set a few years before the Cyberpunk Red setting. Players in my current online game will recognize the main character. If you missed Part 1, you can find it here.]
“Pick up your jaw, and get inside the frackin’ door, Sandy”. The fixer shook his head and stepped into the room to allow the seasoned solo to close and latch the door. Walker holstered the Colt into a thigh holster, and the grim look on his face was not at all hidden by the grey beard with black streaks. This shook Sandy even more.
“Walker! For frack’s sake, tell me what you mean by ‘Muratsa is back’. You told me you put two bullets – one of them in the head – at his apartment in the arc! Six years ago!”
“I did. He was doing God knows what on that computer in his apartment. I even made him watch me shoot his body while he was jacked in!” His voice rose almost a full octave by the end of the sentence, highlighting the rarely seen (or heard) fear of the solo. As it did, Sandy was reminded of the saying to beware the old man in a profession where men usually die young. And this old man was terrified.
“Okay. You’ve told me all that, Choomba. So how in the hell is he alive? And how do you know he is?”
The solo motioned for Sandy to move away from the door before he answered. As he began speaking, he pressed a small strip of what appeared to be thick tape across the door and door jamb. “I got a call on my throwaway cell phone. Only you and a couple of other people ever got the number. And nobody at Arasaka. And Muratsa had been dead three years before even got the blasted thing! The voice on the other end…it was his.”
“Okay, I get that. But it’s easy to fake a voice, Walker. You use your phone, not a full Agent. And it’s not like the voice couldn’t have been synthesized or something,” Sandy pleaded with the solo, hoping that there was a rational explanation that did not involve zombies or the Soulkiller program.
Walker’s voice had returned to its previous timber, but still shaking. “You don’t get it, Choom. He knew the weaponry I’d carried that day. All Arasaka gear, a loadout I’ve not carried before or since! And he knew about the thirty thousand euro that Muratsa offered, and the fifty thousand he transferred. Sandy, that was the last minute of his life! He didn’t have any time to tell anybody else about it!”
Sandy had to admit to himself that Walker definitely never Arasaka gear if he could help it. He only did on that run since it was in the Arasaka arcology. And even the fixer did not know about the fifty thousand euro. Or the thirty. “So what are you thinking? Somehow he was soulkilled right as you shot him? You did say he was jacked into the old ‘Net at the time.”
“I don’t know,” Walker replied as he shook his head. “Maybe. They can pull out brains and organs and shove ’em into a borg. Think maybe they did that after I put a hole in it? Or perhaps clones are now a thing, and they transferred the memories?” Walker was grasping at straws, and Sandy could see it was not easy for the solo. Before he could answer, Walker began pleading, “Can you reach out to your connections? I know you got ’em, Choomba.”
“Yeah, I got people to reach out to. Mostly gangs, though. Certainly nothing at Arasaka. Some low-level political types, perhaps. But I gotta know, Walker. Why does this scare you so bad?” Sandy knew it was a mistake the nanosecond the words left his mouth. The imposing man, chromed arm and all, took two steps to close the gap between them. Eyes almost black, the pupils were so wide open. Sandy’s head hit the drywall behind him before he realized the cyberarm had already clenched around the lapels of his long coat.
“I ain’ afraid of nothin’!” Shouted Walker. The fixer was barely able to touch the floor, he was being lifted so much. But Sandy knew the tone. It took on an almost imitative tone of the old 20th-century western flatvids. All he needed was a cigar, cowboy hat, and a poncho to complete the look. It took everything the fixer had to not laugh at the imagery. In fact, it took more than he had. He started laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all. A few seconds later, the arm lowered Sandy, and Walker joined in on the laughing. He was aware of how his instinctual reaction to stress made him seem to his friend. It was a full minute before the two finally recovered from the laughter enough to even see straight, both of their guts were sore.
“You always did have a flair for the 20th, Walker. I’ll reach out to my network. You lie low for now. Pull the battery from your cell, and I’ll meet you here tomorrow.” The solo agreed to the terms, but Sandy did not want to say out loud what he just saw. Walker, an experienced soldier and mercenary, who survived by wisdom, preparation, and intelligence – was using drugs.
