Experienced wanderers all know - don’t stay overnight at the landfill, or you’ll be crushed into a cube.
The scheduled weekly cleanup time has arrived.
The program starts, and the driverless giant bulldozer rolls over, piling up shanties and steel debris with hydraulic plates.
The scanner buzzes, its originally life-detecting component long since scrapped.
It turns and heads toward John.
John is jolted awake, his eyes snapping open just in time to glimpse a pile of encroaching steel spikes, barely dodging before being crushed by the garbage.
The danger is not over.
Huge blocks of trash tumble down behind him, the sharp edges cutting deep grooves and nearly scraping his body.
John hurriedly flees to higher ground.
He pants, glancing back with lingering fear, seeing over a dozen heavy machinery roaring like lurking monsters in a swamp.
John realizes, incredulous, as he checks his body - the fever has subsided, the weakness is gone, and when he touches his stomach, he even feels hungry!
After the excitement, he calms down, now facing two possibilities.
He might be completely insane.
Everything in front of him is the final hallucination before the end of a cyberpunk mental breakdown.
He’s not crazy; the text task in his mind is useful. Following its guidance, Black Light won’t kill him.
If that’s the case...
John must consider survival, thinking about how to make it in Eden City after losing his job.
Well, given the situation, let’s eat first.
[Eden City - Oil Drum Street]
The street is aptly named, with gasoline drums everywhere, their paint peeling off the steel surface, replaced by bullet holes and graffiti.
Wanderers and gang members gather here, using combustibles to light fires, sharing job information, street intel, and contraband.
[Shop - Black Engine Restaurant]
The most eye-catching storefront on Oil Drum Street.
John sits at the chipped bar, devouring a plate of food. Tortured by illness for so long, he hasn’t enjoyed the pleasure of a good meal in ages.
The owner is a muscular hulk.
Both his hands are prosthetic limbs, impressively adept at bartending, and quite painful when used to punch troublemakers.
He taps the table, "Meal money."
John pauses his eating, looks up while chewing, "I’m broke right now, can we trade for something else?"
"Scumbag, do I look like a charity to you?"
"I’m not lying. I have a few chips on me. If you can introduce me to a fence, I’ll pay double the meal money."
The money picked up from the clinic was all spent on materials.
All John had left was a bunch of illegal chips in his pocket.
He got yanked onto the bar and punched.
The owner’s prosthetic limbs were formidable, clearly a former gang member, glaring at John with bear-like eyes, growling:
"No one dares cause trouble here!"
John doesn’t resist, says, "If getting beaten means I can eat, at least let me finish the plate of noodles; they’re really damn tasty..."
The spirit of facing death unflinchingly.
Respect and appreciation for food.
John doesn’t know what touched the owner, but after washing the post-dinner rush dishes, the owner let him go.
After tossing John out, the owner even threw a business card after him.
Front: Black Engine Restaurant - Genius
[Contact Added - Genius]
John flips the card over, and the back bears a handwritten address.
He raises his hood again, and under the cover of night, walks through Oil Drum Street’s Red Light District into the stinking underground passage.
Junkies, pimps, mercenaries...
They move through the graffiti-covered ruins with intricate connections.
John finds the door number, taps on the roller shutter door.
The loud sound echoes far, activating the cameras on the columns, infrared sweeping over his body.
[Detected scan, no signs of hacking]
Those inside ensure John isn’t armed, the shutter opens from the inside.
Halfway up, a thick caliber revolver presses against John’s jaw, yanking him inside.
"You don’t seem to understand the rules, tell me, who gave you the address?"
"Genius introduced me, I’m desperate and asked him to recommend a fence."
"A fence? Show some respect, I’m the best second-hand merchant on Oil Drum Street!"
The warehouse lights illuminate a monitor, two rows of empty shelves, as if ready to open for business.
"Sounds like Santa Claus."
"Could be, follow my rules, and I’ll be gentle like an old man with a white beard. Otherwise, you’ll die a horrible death."
Cabinet’s style was punk.
A head of spiky purple hair, wearing a long, spiked leather coat.
"Remember my rules, don’t knock before 8 PM. I sell on odd-numbered days, buy on even-numbered days, and rest one week a month."
Cabinet lights a cigarette.
He wears a metallic half-face mask, his eyes glowing, seemingly wired to surveillance cameras.
The cigarette was inserted into the hole in the metal mask, smoke escaping from the vertical filter.
He offered the box to John, who refused, so he casually tucked it back at his waist.
As he flicked his coat, a brass-colored large-caliber revolver was revealed.
The cabinet exhaled a puff of smoke, scrutinizing the client in front of him: "What do you have to sell to me?" Latest content published on novel⁂fire.net
John pulled the chips from his pocket, tossing them all onto the table.
The cabinet picked one up, scanned it for viruses, and directly inserted it into the data slot at the back of his head. Moments later, he raised an eyebrow, whistled lewdly, and looked at John with surprise.
"Unique taste, pure and ad-free, can you tell me where you got this stuff?"
"A collection from before, now I’m unemployed, taking it out to exchange for some cash to get by."
"Are you messing with me?"
The cabinet squinted his eyes. "I deal with dressed-up scums every day, to be honest, you don’t have that stench."
"Do you really need to ask so much about receiving dirty goods? Why not just scan my biometrics and sit me down for a deposition?"
The cabinet didn’t question further.
In front of John, he counted the quantity, each chip tested through antivirus software.
John leaned against the wall, waiting quietly.
The subway rumbled overhead in the tunnel, muffling the faint sounds of gunshots.
"You’re the best secondhand dealer, why not find a fancy shop?"
"Haha, you’re too young, this place is connected in all directions, lots of hidden passages, right next to the subway entrance."
The cabinet waved the chips in his hand. "Respectable ladies and gentlemen, can spend fifteen minutes on the platform and indulge in special tastes."
He stood up, tossing over a card.
"I bet you don’t know the goods, but I don’t do deceitful trades. The price I’m giving you is fair."
John caught the tossed white card, swiped it in the slot of his prosthetic limb, and the account was credited with a considerable amount of money.
He stuffed the empty card into his pocket, then asked, "Do you have any job recommendations?"
"For jobs, go find Genius, I’m a secondhand dealer, for buying and selling goods you can contact me."
"So what do you sell?"
"Weapons, equipment, ammo, all sorts of contraband."
The cabinet said, kicking open a box.
Inside was a pile of arms, all common street stuff.
John, though recovered, was just an unemployed transporter, not a roof-hopping cyberpunk mercenary.
The Black Light in his head was strong...
But not every Shark Coin enemy would dive into his consciousness willingly.
"I do need something to defend myself, um, how much for that revolver of yours?"
The cabinet shook his head, taking a final drag of the cigarette. "Good weapons need to be customized with the right parts. If you want to cut corners... just find a notorious thug on the street, take him down, and grab what’s already assembled."
"I don’t want to die yet."
John lowered his head to rummage in the box and chose a silenced pistol, paired with high-grade armor-piercing rounds.
Very expensive, for life-saving use, not daring to skimp.
[Shop - Black Engine Restaurant]
There were more customers at night, quite lively.
John pushed the door open, swiped double the meal price on the blank card, then tossed the card on the bar.
He sat down casually.
"Something to eat, please."
Genius brought over some spaghetti with meat sauce, pouring an extra glass of chilled beer.
He answered without looking up, eating voraciously and downing a couple of gulps of beer.
When he was about to choke, the drink felt immensely satisfying.
John let out a loud burp, only then raising his head to ask Genius, "Is there any work suitable for someone like me? I’m hoping to earn a meal, the cabinet said you might offer advice."
"What kind of person are you, where are you from?" Genius asked.
John ensured no one was watching, then quietly tugged at his coat collar, revealing the dirty uniform underneath, with the Tiebang Logistics logo.
Genius frowned, "A corporate dog?"
"Laugh at poverty, not at prostitution, mate. Back then, it was starve or run long-distance for the company, what else did you expect me to choose? I’m just a low-level transporter, and one that’s been completely abandoned."
[Main Quest: Truth of the Incident]
[Description: Uncover the details of the last job, understand the accident. ]
[Reward: Prosthetic Limb [Model-T17]]
John paused, saying nothing.
Genius stared at him for a long time, leaning on the bar with his arms crossed, saying:
"If you’re looking for work, either join a gang to stick together or become a mercenary, find a middleman for work."
"Does it have to be that way?"
"Don’t aim too high, kid, every big shot in Eden City climbed up from the gutter."
"I’m just tired of toiling for others."
"It’s not that you have to pledge to a faction, but remember, work is what puts food on the table. Once you’ve saved enough money, you’ll have more choices, start a business, modify a vehicle for delivery, or upgrade your prosthetic, and take those dangerous, thrilling jobs."
Genius thought for a moment, then continued.
"In any case, first go buy some clothes, shed the company’s skin, and I’ll introduce you to a job."
After John spoke, new words flashed before him.
[Side Quest: A New Beginning]
[Description: Earn your first income]
[Reward: Collector Robot Blueprint [Model-T05]]