KyokaSuigetsu
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Chapter 18: A Fixer Needs to Look the Part
🕑 Added 2025-04-01 03:12:23 +0000 UTC"To be rich, you've gotta at least look rich!"
Leo tossed the empty plastic water bottle aside and glanced down at his clothes.
No question about it—wealthy people didn't wear secondhand threads. He needed something understated yet luxurious, preferably with ballistic weave.
And then… considering his near-zero combat skills, he definitely needed a bodyguard. Whether for intimidation or survival, a reliable enforcer was non-negotiable.
Only after ticking these boxes could he spare a thought for Arasaka Academy. Who knew if his 50-year-outdated tech knowledge could even pass the entrance exams—assuming they had any.
After skimming the apartment's Tenant Guide, he hit the intercom and ordered a "corporate-tier" lunch.
Ten minutes later, he was staring at a plate of what passed for "high-end" food in Night City:
Bacon, eggs, jam-drenched toast, black-pepper sausages, chickpea salad—a monochrome spread devoid of greenery. Worse, he suspected even the eggs and jam were synthetic.
"High tech, low life."
"Night City… what a shithole."
Gazing through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the skyline, he felt only pity.
After a breather, he settled at the desk and booted up the era's computer.
Advanced as hell. Without Shironeko's guidance, he'd have struggled with basic functions.
Once acclimated, he pulled up a map and searched for nearby boutiques. Luck was on his side—an "elite clientele" tailor sat just 120 meters away.
"A noon stroll… should be relatively safe. Right?"
Prepping for the worst, he instructed Shironeko to alert Viktor and Jack—and NCPD—if things went south.
[Understood. I'll monitor all nearby devices for threats. However, to avoid detection by netrunners or NetWatch, I'll only intervene in extreme emergencies.]
[Good. We're still small-time—can't afford attention.]
Steeling himself, Leo stepped into the elevator. His first solo venture into Night City.
Outside, the city's roar engulfed him.
Salarymen with briefcases. Net-addicts with optic implants. Some even had glowing red eyes—like fucking Maelstrom psychos. His cheek twitched.
Multiple gazes lingered on him. His healthy, well-nourished physique stuck out like a sore thumb in this malnourished dystopia.
He quickened his pace toward the boutique.
"Welcome to Heywood's finest clothier! We cater to corporate elites—true societal pillars, like yourself, sir~"
A saleswoman greeted him with saccharine enthusiasm.
Leo scanned the store and nodded. "I need casual wear for school. And a high-end suit—subtle, flexible, preferably bullet-resistant."
Her smile widened. "Decisive! A true executive's mindset. Right this way—our VIP section is perfect for discerning clients."
VIP: Very Inflated Pricing, more like.
The "casual" set? Breathable bio-enhanced cotton. The suit? Custom silver-gray, lined with ballistic fiber—stopping pistol rounds and resisting corrosives.
Add two pairs of shoes and underwear, and the total came to 12,000 eddies.
The saleswoman beamed.
Leo's soul wept. That's enough to hire V for a gig!
But the rich fixer act couldn't falter. He paid without blinking.
Flanked by bowing staff, he exited—then doubled back to his apartment to change.
Before the mirror, Leo assessed his new persona.
Silver-gray blazer. Tailored slacks. All-terrain boots. Throw on some shades, and he'd fit right in at Afterlife.
Only his babyface undermined the "ruthless mogul" vibe.
Striking a few Godfather-esque poses, he deemed himself ready for El Coyote Cojo.
One problem remained:
The bar was three kilometers away. A fixer couldn't walk—that screamed "small-time."
Dexter DeShawn flaunted gold chains and a ride. Father Welles rocked gem rings and a chauffeur.
To command respect, he needed to scream: "I've got eddies to burn!"
Otherwise, why would edgerunners gamble their lives on his jobs?
Checking his account: 210,000 → 130,000 after cyberware, rent, and the wardrobe splurge.
Not enough for a car—plus, no license.
Every eddie had to count: bodyguard first, then forging his Arasaka Academy identity.
And he needed capital for cross-dimensional smuggling…
Then it hit him—the ultimate flex: Delamain's autonomous taxi service.
A quick search revealed the company was still niche, not yet the household name it'd become.
He dialed.
"Welcome to Delamain. Leave your troubles at the door."
The AI's cadence was unmistakable. Leo booked a ride.
Fifteen minutes later, a text confirmed his cab's arrival.
One last look in the mirror.
"Leo," he muttered, tapping the glass. "You were a damn good programmer. Now? Be a better fixer. A better boss. Don't fuck this up."
