My cyberpsychosis is a task prompt

Chapter 165: Old Friends and Little Trouble

John drove his black motorcycle through the sparsely populated streets.

The scorching sun shines on the towering glass curtain walls, and dazzling spots of light shine through the cracks between the buildings. The asphalt road alternates between yellow and white, and is covered with a gray filter during the day when there is no rain to wash it off. It seems as if industrial smoke will spew out from the cracks at any time.

[Eden City-Youdong Street]

John left the bustling area along the highway at the junction of the city.

The building immediately began to fall into disrepair.

Many huge concrete behemoths are abandoned all over the city. Some are the failed products of political competition in municipal planning, and some are historical problems, the earliest of which can be traced back to the Eden City Independence War. Until now, there is no capital to solve and take over.

John rode his motorcycle through the graffiti-covered walls.

Gang thugs and idle citizens sat on the steps and empty seats.

They found a cool spot among faded billboards and scattered cans to use their headbands to pass the time.

Familiar oil drums, numerous in number, are scattered in every corner.

It was filled with various debris that was either smoldering or cooling, and the outer shells were mostly deformed and riddled with bullet holes to varying degrees.

[Shop-Black Engine Restaurant]

"I thought mercenaries were going to make a lot of money while the city was bustling, so why would they have time to come to my little corner?"

Gnaeus watched John push the glass door open and poured him a glass of cold beer without asking whether he wanted it or not.

"Damn the weather, I feel like my tires are going to melt."

John reached over and patted his work jacket, shutting off the cooling patches. It was only with this outfit that he could maintain his demeanor in the hot sun.

He picked up the cold beer and drank it down in one gulp.

The cool air went down my throat into my stomach, and was accompanied by a wave of neuralgia that rushed up to my brain, making every pore feel so comfortable that it was smoking.

John sat at the bar, pursing his lips and thinking for a moment.

"Besides Bolognese, do you have anything else with meat? Make some of your signature dishes for me to try."

"Pancakes, hamburgers, mashed potatoes..."

Gnaeus tapped the table with his sturdy old prosthetic arm and spoke to the waitress who was clearing the table.

"Find him something to eat and give him a 20% tip. He's a well-known street celebrity, so we have to treat him well."

"My pocket is tight right now."

"Then leave the motorcycle behind."

"Damn it, you've been eyeing it for a long time, right? Even if I give it to you, can this old arm really hold the V92 engine?"

John and Gnaeus exchanged a few words and looked around, noticing that in addition to the new girl from last time, there were two more waiters, also unfamiliar European faces.

He turned on the scan but couldn't find any information about Eden City.

"Don't look at it. Eden City has a new population, and gangs are fighting each other. Ordinary citizens will suffer if they try to avoid it."

Gnaeus leaned against the bar and half explained and half complained - in fact, according to the business volume of Oil Drum Street, he didn't need to hire so many people. He deliberately gave these girls the opportunity to live a stable life.

John could sense some annoyance.

He narrowed his eyes and looked over Gnaeus' shoulder, and saw a rifle hanging on the wall behind the bar. With his height advantage, he could also see a smart submachine gun under the cash register terminal.

Gnaeus crossed his arms and shook his head.

Gang warfare covers Oil Drum Street.

The gangs that were originally entrenched in the vicinity are expanding their manpower and preparing to take over the black market business in several nearby blocks. Because it is an important source of supplies, many illegal immigrants have been suppressed.

Minority groups began to form groups.

They worked with former Mexican immigrants and convinced two communities with hackers and heavy firepower to go all-out with the gang members.

Every day, bodies were stuffed into oil drums and set on fire.

Neutral citizens are the most damn unlucky.

Shootings and zombie beatings occur every day, and the peace terms that shops originally paid in exchange for protection fees are no longer reliable, as both new and old forces want to make a profit.

"Maybe this place belongs to Old K in the morning, and in the afternoon a guy called Pighead comes out to be the boss. He gets hot-headed after firing too many guns, so eating for free here is nothing."

"It often happens that two groups of people sit down, find that the other person's tattoo is different from their own, and immediately pull out their weapons from their waists..."

Gnaeus started swearing.

He tapped the bar with his fingers bent, and the bullet holes on it were fresh.

John picked up the beer, turned around, looked around again, and found a crack on the glass window.

"Is anyone hurt?"

"Several old customers suffered, and some I haven't seen for a long time."

While they were talking, the waiter who had just entered the kitchen came out again with a tray of food and placed the following in front of John:
A stainless steel container filled with brown mashed potatoes, a darker synthetic steak, and two plastic bags of dip.

John looked at the waitress's back, his prosthetic eye flickering - there were burns on her arms, and she smelled of medicine when she got close.

Gnaeus sighed.

He said that recently some gang members have been robbing girls after get off work, perhaps they are working with the zombies to engage in human trafficking. A waiter on shift in the store encountered this two days ago when he was about to go home after throwing out the garbage.

Fortunately, there are many old customers and they are not far from the store.

Gnaeus and a few of his buddies heard the screams, and went out with guns in hand, confronting the group of young men for a long time before they managed to rescue the man.

"The one who was more seriously injured is currently resting in bed. The one who just served the food was hit on the arm by the incendiary bomb. He is lucky that he was not disfigured."

"You should have called me."

John scooped up the mashed potatoes and put them into his mouth. A strong smell of spices immediately came from his lips and tongue. He even had to taste it carefully to taste the meaty aroma and the texture similar to egg white paste.

Gnaeus shook his head and said that it was not yet time to kill anyone.

"Why on earth did you come to see me today?"

"I opened a shop and wanted to ask you for experience. I also want to know where I can get a car and some recipes to support the shop..."

John followed the topic and talked about his needs.

Gnaeus did not mention asking John to help out, but instead asked for more details and specific circumstances.

When he learned that John had opened a 200-square-meter shop in a pretty good location, he shook his head and said that there was really a lot of money to be made, so he might as well stop being a mercenary and do business instead.

Gnaeus spoke rudely.

But old customers all know that this guy is kind-hearted and popular on the street. He is big and strong with two metal prosthetic limbs, but he is a very down-to-earth and honest person.

He doesn't have too many ambitions and is as calm as an old man. He attaches great importance to his current life and persuades people around him to settle down.

John concentrated on eating, nodding occasionally in agreement.

He licked his lips, diluting the taste of spice and oil with beer.

"I am no longer a street kid who just entered society. My comfortable life now is built on fists and gun barrels. Business can only be regarded as a bonus. If I stop my main business, I will die."

"That's why I don't want you to help me."

Gnaeus crossed his arms, frowned, and his tone seemed to carry some kind of settled philosophy.

"John, think about it. You help me run the place and settle accounts with those gangsters, and then the next day you get hit by a stray bullet, or die in an accidental explosion or mission... What will we have left? Apart from the accumulated revenge and hatred, who can we count on?"

The look he gave John seemed to penetrate countless similar yet different figures, and finally overlapped with the young man in front of him.

"Lone wolves just need to take care of themselves. Don't have any concerns, and don't easily build up ties. Once you have a weak spot in this city, you will be stabbed with a knife one day..."

Gnaeus withdrew his gaze, picked up the empty wine glass that had just been cleaned next to the bar and wiped the water stains.

"Don't worry about me. I've survived to this day, so I have no shortage of friends and connections. But like I said, I'm just not serious about street kids."

John remained silent and did not refute.

Gnaeus did not continue to preach, but began to give him advice. There were many ways to solve the problem of delivery vehicles, and there were several channels for the problem of restaurant menus.

The first step is to hire a professional chef.

Protein paste and pre-prepared meals occupy a dominant position in the cyber age, but it does not mean that people who can cook good dishes have disappeared. In fact, among ordinary citizens there are often people who can make delicious dishes with ordinary ingredients or industrial pre-prepared products.

The floating population in Eden City is very large, and there are still a large number of home kitchens in areas where the pace of life is not so fast or in countries where the degree of industrialization is not high.

John had never understood this before.

Even during my time at Tiebang Logistics, I didn't remember coming into contact with anyone like him.

In the minds of bachelors like them, food only exists in vending machines, street stalls and shops, and their cramped apartments or low-rent houses have at most a microwave oven.

"When you first start a business, you only spend money but never get it back. Unless you have someone willing to join you, don't consider hiring anyone. Otherwise, you will lose money and go bankrupt, and they will have worked for you in vain."

Gnaeus suggested that John look for ready-made recipes in advance.

"I have two separate chips on hand, but most of them are pre-prepared dishes from convenient restaurants. There are a few snacks where you can consider replacing frozen ingredients with fresh ingredients."

【Chip: Kitchen Helper [2047 Edition]】

Gnaeus found something from the warehouse and handed it to John.

These recipes can only be used as a reference. The seasoning and proportions need to be repeatedly tried by the kitchen before they can be served.

Fortunately, Gerry and Maya have work experience, so they should be able to handle it on their own if we hand it over to them.

But it wasn’t enough for John’s restaurant.

Gnaeus said that you can look for such grocery vendors online or on the black market, or try your luck while shopping, and you may come across chips that record food recipes.

When the new network was being built in the early years and information exploded for the second time, it became popular to use chips to record all kinds of weird things. There would definitely be no problem finding a serious and usable recipe among them.

John currently only knows a grocer named [Cabinet]. This guy has been out of contact for a long time and his calls can only go to voicemail.

"Well, it's still a little reward."

He expressed his gratitude after finishing the last sip of his beer and actually gave a 20 percent tip when he paid.

Before leaving, Gnaeus suggested asking other shop owners.

John frowned and returned to the scorching sun, the bell of the restaurant's glass door rang behind him.

He patted his coat to let the cooling patch run at low power, walked around to the wall covered with faded paint, and saw the gang thugs laughing and chatting around his alloy RCH.

The man in the lead had a nose piercing, thin arms, and prosthetic limbs covered with a matte protective film.

[Force: Renas Party]

They are what Gnaeus calls the new force active in Oil Drum Street, mainly composed of ethnic minorities and European illegal immigrants.

The man with the nose ring reached out to touch the handlebars, but he didn't get on to feel this high-end motorcycle because the system lock failed to activate, or perhaps because the leather seat was too hot on his butt under the scorching sun.

But their expressions and attitudes were not polite at all. They even had their combat prostheses and weapons exposed, ready to cause trouble and seize property.

The man with the nose ring is obviously more knowledgeable.

He fumbled to open the side box - the magnetic baffle disappeared, revealing the Speedrunner submachine gun embedded inside. The high-end products of Fuqi Industry immediately caused cheers.

The gangsters let out strange noises and scrambled to get their hands on it to feel the texture of the cold alloy.

"You can't pull it out..."

John's voice attracted the attention of the gang members.

Many thoughts flashed through their minds. They realized that the person who spoke was the owner of the motorcycle, so they turned their heads and showed the fierce attitude they had expected in advance, and even managed their expressions...

But when the thugs turned around, they saw no one.

They blinked and seemed to catch a glimpse of a residual shadow. There should be a short-haired man wearing a work jacket standing here.

Two thugs holding metal spiked baseball bats and equipped with combat prostheses felt tinnitus and dizziness in their heads. They were the first to react and left the spot screaming as fast as they could.

The other thugs were alarmed and, following their instincts, also scattered away from the motorcycle.

After the crowd cleared, they found the man with the nose ring lying on the ground.

John put one foot on his head.

The ground was spreading red.

John's prosthetic eye flashed, and he activated S'An Westin to teleport to the front of the car and knocked down the most rude guy - fractures and coma were certain, and whether there was a sprained neck and suffocation depended on luck.

"Shit, why is he..."

"Did anyone see it?"

"Hey!"

"You fucking..."

……

The gangsters went into a rage after seeing the scene clearly.

John shook his head, his eyes twinkling, and repeated what he had just said in a calm tone.

"You can't open it like this...you need to unlock the weapon first."

【Authorization: UNLOCK】

He reached out and grasped the Speedrunner.

Click.

A faint but clear voice was heard.

John quickly pulled out his submachine gun, turned around and pulled the trigger. Blue arcs spurted out ammunition, and the smart ammunition pierced the surrounding air steadily and quickly.

The thugs' counterattack was a beat slow.

The short burst of gunfire ended.

They fell to the ground wailing, twitching and bleeding.

Some people pulled the trigger but shot the bullet into the sky. The guy who started the Swanwestin was forced to stop running and fell a little further away, also seriously injured.

These people are even more afraid.

They are equipped with melee implants and must know the pros and cons. They are well aware that their eyeballs are not on the same level as those of Swanwestan and John.

"...Ah, huh~ I'm sorry, I, hiss..."

The person who was speaking dragged his legs away with a terrified expression.

"I, didn't know... it was your... car... I'm sorry, you always... drive a supercar, I... didn't recognize it..."

"you know me?"

John raised his eyebrows and changed the magazine in front of the other person, then nodded after getting the answer from his expression.

"That's fine."

[Street reputation increased, and district influence has been unlocked. 】

"I didn't kill you because I was too lazy to carry the bodies, but you have to be grateful. Well, I just had a very good mashed potato lunch with beer, so I didn't let your brains pop out and affect my mood..."

John checked the wounded one by one, searching for any valuables that were easily accessible, but his expression and tone were very serious.

He picked up the fallen metal stick and hit the head of a strong man who tried to resist. The effect was very good. The remaining guys who could still move even voluntarily handed over the cash.

The amount is actually not that much. Most of the gang members roaming the streets invest their money in prosthetics and entertainment.

The key is to have the right attitude.

John nodded, saw the bright red ground dried by the sun, and gave a final warning.

"You should know that mercenaries make their living by killing people. Tell your boss clearly and walk around when fighting for territory. I believe he doesn't want to see me at work."

He squatted down and patted the other person's pale face.

"If he doesn't listen, then I'll mention Du Raymond of the Rift Party and Tiezu Kumbu of the Exiles... They are both big bosses, and they have a lot of people under them. They all became my work experience."

John stared at him as he slowly stood up, then mounted his motorcycle with cold eyes.

The roar of the Alloy RCH sounded and moved away from Oil Drum Street, and finally slowly drove towards the East District.

John drove among the tall buildings of Eden City.

The series of tasks prepared in front of the store are still going on, and no further hints or steps are given, so you can only rely on your own brain to solve them.

John didn't take the little trouble seriously and started looking for a second person among his contacts who might be able to help.

[Contact-Barry Kitt[Voice call]]

[Fuck, the wind is so loud, are you riding a bike? John, you better tell me you are running for a living instead of riding, otherwise I will put you on the blacklist because I have a lot of fucking troubles.]

John tried to whistle, but failed because of the wind pressure.

"Then I think calling is a bad idea. To put it simply, I need a delivery vehicle right now. Um, it's best if it doesn't require payment or allows installment payment, you know..."

【…】

There were hits and horns coming from the phone.

Barry was probably sitting in the police car fully armed again. The city was in chaos and violent incidents were happening frequently. As the lieutenant colonel of Eden City, he would definitely have to rush to various crime scenes.

[What's the note I left with you? Car thief?]

"Well, I was actually wondering if the ECPD has any illegally seized vehicles that need to be dealt with. I can exchange them for labor. Also, there should be a lot of separation chips in your evidence room. Can you help me ask if there are any decent recipes? I opened a store..."

Barry rudely interrupted the conversation he was about to start.

[Wait a minute, John. First of all, what you are talking about belongs to other people's areas of profit. When I am free, I might be willing to make a phone call to arrange some labor, but now is impossible! ]

Barry became angrier and angrier as he spoke, even resorting to shouting. It was obvious that he was not a good-tempered leader at work.

[You better fucking look up what the ECPD Lieutenant Colonel position is on the internet. If you confuse me with a street middleman again, I will throw you into a private prison for reflection.]

He hung up the phone rudely.

John grinned and didn't take it seriously.

He knew that he had disturbed the other person's work.

If I were on a mission and shooting, and someone called me and asked me which girl was the prettiest in the West Side red-light district, I would probably have a similar reaction, and maybe even not as nice as Barry's.

John drove through the newly developed neighborhood.

His next destination was the Coffs Glendon Car Sales Center, where he planned to look for Raphael, whom he had just met.

Unexpectedly, Barry called back.

"Hey, Mr. Lieutenant Colonel, are you really going to arrest me? Where is the hovercraft? Why didn't I hear any sirens? Damn it..."

[Shut up, John, you said you wanted a car?]

"Yes, for business delivery."

[Are you interested in the cash transporter? It has been in service for six years and has just completed annual inspection and maintenance. The performance and armor are fine. 】

"…You want to encourage me to rob a bank?"

John frowned, turned into the shadow of a skyscraper, slowed down and stopped the car to wait for explanation from the other end of the phone.

Barry said that he had encountered a bad thing.

A transport truck of a financial auction house on the edge of the jurisdiction was robbed, and the police officer who was assisting in the escort was shot dead.

[I know the police officers who died. Although they can't be called honest and kind, they definitely didn't deserve to die. One of them still has a family. I suspect there is a mole among the auction house's top management. After all, the security guards and mercenaries didn't fulfill their obligations.]

"Has the entire money transport truck been hijacked?"

[Yes, the positioning device was damaged. He was a professional car thief. But now people from all sides are obstructing our investigation. The final outcome is to pay a pension to the police officer who died.]

"You think it's not enough, right?"

[That's right. Your job is to make those bastards pay the price, and then dump all the goods on the scene into the black market and sell them to the middlemen. I need to take 70% of the money earned as a supplement to the pension. In exchange, I will cover for you at the official investigation level. I will keep the car, and you can dismantle the system and locator and use it to transport goods...]

"It's a good deal. Give me the location. You must have your own connections and clues, right?"

[Waiting for your message in the mailbox. ]

Barry hung up the phone.

He clearly has a lot of work to do.

John recalled the kind of car that auction houses often used, and suddenly he grinned - this thing is quite luxurious on the streets. I'm afraid only professional transportation companies like Tiebang Logistics would use something better than it.

He checked his private mailbox and moved the coordinates into the navigation system.

The black motorcycle drifted on the spot and sped away in the other direction of the city.

John was thinking about the auction house along the way.

They are backed by a large amount of capital and multiple banks, and are involved in luxury goods and art transactions among high-level wealthy people. The so-called armored trucks are actually loaded with similar things.

Since the maturity of electronic currency and capital chip technology, physical currency can be seen less and less on the market.

The thief was very skillful and his equipment was professional.

It is obvious that there is a traitor among the auction house's top executives.

This probably involves some difficult to deal with bad debts, which require an accident to cover up.

They did not dare to let security insurance intervene, and they also paid hush money to the mercenaries. After all, professional agencies could easily discover clues, give very serious warnings, or even destroy the plans.

The private security businesses chosen by auction houses are all high-end companies that have withstood the test of the market, such as the leaders in the private armed field like Faqi and Isaac, so that customers can pay with peace of mind.

These companies have mature business operations, huge backgrounds, and astonishing resources and professionalism. If you dare to commit insurance fraud in front of them, you will be retaliated against without regard for the consequences.

Therefore, everyone who was not in trouble in this transaction was a participant. Only the police officer who was required to assist in the transportation due to government regulations was unaware and became the only victim of this dirty deal.

(End of this chapter)