Fenced with an iron mesh with barbed wire at the top was Jerry's Rigadig. An empty car lot leading to a rectangular warehouse building with a wide garage and a reinforced door on the left side. A camera was studded at the far corner—limp and low quality by the looks of it.
The garage door was closed. No neon signs were present. A nice change of pace for once. Here and there, dumps of scrap metal and ruined pieces of unrecognizable machinery rusted alone.
The bellhop said in a professional tone:
"We've arrived, sir."
Unbuckling, Arthur exited the Taksi and adjusted his coat. On the way here it began to rain, which ramped up in speed by the time he arrived. That sucked, cause he would've loved to pull out a cigarette and have a smoke.
He moved to survey the building. Rain. The distant sound of an AV flying overhead echoed in the distance. A car whizzed past to Lord knows where. A constant crackle and metal buzz somewhere far. The sound of something being made.
There was always something being made, damn it.
But the coast was clear. The only car present was Jerry's. A dust-colored SUV pattering with rain. Specifically, a Gallardo Duster.
Thick, reinforced chassis, rusted and patched up in different spots with different colors of metal. An offroad type of car, with thick tires patterned with deep grooves caked with mud. A spare tire sat atop the car. Dented and scratched but still solid.
Arthur nodded at the car. Something like a Gallardo can survive long periods of exposure in the Outer Lands. Jerry most likely did venture out there.
Arthur had never been. He didn't have much reason to. He'd get lungs full of dust on a good day, robbed and buried in the desert on a bad one.
The sides of the car were spraypainted with the words, "Jerry's Rigadig." Along with a number and a location for the shop.
Arthur arrived at the front door of the shop. He entered. A bell twinkled. Music was playing. Country music, something about guns, horses and ladies, sunsets and America.
A woman's voice rang out:
"I'll be right whichya! Gimmie a sec."
A myriad of metallic noises echoed in the backroom. A small sitting area faced a counter, divided by a swaying half-door—the kind you'd see at the entrance of an old western saloon in some dusty Hollywood reel.
Arthur's eyes lingered. Nothing special about the place. A TV screen in the corner, displaying Channel 12 News. Something about Vistatech's newest invention: carbon bones capable of cutting through steel and even stronger alloys. An augment of the rich Arthur had no business even thinking about.
Heavy footsteps thudded closer.
The woman who arrived seemed gentle on the eyes.
Lively azure eyes. Natural, as far as Athur could tell. Long blonde hair tied to a bun sitting beneath a red cap, trickles of glistening sweat gliding down the back of a slender neck. An oval face shape. Fair skin. Faint lines etched across her calloused hands, but no visible chrome above the straps of her denim work-onesie marred with black and brown stains. She made a sunny smile, then said with a faint Tennessee drawl:
"Hi there! Name's Sadie. What can I do ya for?"
Arthur went silent for a second. He coughed into his fist and said professionally:
"Snake sent me. I'm looking for Jerry."
"Oh." Sadie said with raised brows. She twirled her lip to the side, lingered a few seconds on Arthur's nose scar, then smirked. She looked over her shoulder and shouted:
"DADDY! SNAKE'S ERRAND BOY IS HERE!"
Arthur frowned, and Sadie's smirk turned to a cheeky grin.
A moment later, steps approached again. Slower, smoother gait. He glided into view. A cocky, slanted looking face with a smirk on.
Jerry had arrived, giving Arthur a long stare.
"Jerry, I hope?" Arthur said.
Jerry extended an electronic hand and said:
"You here for the car, partner?"
He had a thicker drawl than the girl. Small blue eyes under thick brows, a blonde mullet poking through a plain red cap. Suspenders stained with black engine grease, thick work boots and denim pants. Big teeth flashing in that yellow grin, above a trim goatee with salt and pepper hair.
His entire right arm was cyber. Black chrome, etched with glossy black sensors at the fingertips. A glowing circular hinge where his elbow was to be, allowing for fluid and unnatural degrees of movement. The tiny logo of a hammer with a diamond-shaped shield behind it etched underneath the palm: a Stahlschild product.
If Arthur remembered correctly, it was called a Torque Arm—capable of twisting a stubborn bolt free or bending certain metals with little to no trouble. Not state of the art, but expensive nonetheless.
Arthur met his cold metal hand with his fleshy own and said evenly:
"I am."
"Nice to meet ya." Jerry grinned, flashing unhealthy teeth stained through years of smoking.
"Likewise," Arthur said, nodding. He sent a glance at the girl. "Your wife doesn't like me too much."
Sadie's grin turned to a glare.
Jerry guffawed. "Naw, man! That's my daughter."
Arthur raised his brows in surprise, even though he clearly knew. "Oh." He said nothing more.
"Hahaha…" Jerry put a hand over her shoulder and gave her a shake. She said nothing. "A tough nut, this one. Be careful 'round her. She takes after her mother, and that's as much a compliment as it is a warnin'."
Arthur nodded. He wasn't in much of a mood to converse, and Jerry must have seen that look on his face.
"You seem new, partner." Jerry swung the counter door open and gestured for Arthur to walk through. "Are ya new?"
Arthur followed him into the backroom. Sadie remained behind and tended to the counter. "Is it that obvious?" he said.
"Not to everyone. I got an eye for detail, see?" Jerry tapped his eye. Arthur squinted, wondering if it was an optic when Jerry barked a laugh. "Naw, man! No optics. I don't need tech for somethin' like that."
The mechanic shook his head. "Seems we're losing more of ourselves every day 'cause of these damned Corps and their advancin' cyberstuff. I always wonder how our forefathers managed without it."
Arthur remained silent as Jerry opened the door into a small but chaotic storage room. Autoparts sat on shelves, on the floor, on work benches with all sorts of tools laying all around. The cold air pricked his skin. A strange metallic smell tickled his nose.
"Know your way around the streets?" Jerry asked him with a sideglance.
"Enough to get by," Arthur responded.
"Do yourself a favor, kid, avoid the crowds. Saw that Wilkside Gun Range robbery on the news?"
Arthur shook his head. He didn't watch the news. He saw it as a rope people willingly strung around their necks and let others pull them around with.
Jerry continued. "Jack Boys stole a truckload of guns, the crazy bastards. They're gettin' into it with the Machinists. I hope they tear themselves apart and leave us the heck out of it."
Arthur said nothing. The pair went through another door. The garage, at long last.
Spacious, to say the least, lit by bright overhead lights.
A car, one of two, was propped up by a hydraulic lift, stripped of all parts save for an engine, wheels and spine. It had no seats nor chassis. Thin, multicolored cables ran across the underside, spreading outward and converging to an OBD-II scanner clamped to a cart stacked with supplies and screens flickering with diagnostics.
Arthur's focus shifted to the second car. The Pereira, exact as the picture Snake Eyes had sent him. He circled it, saw two pairs of exhaust pipes at the back, heavily tinted windows and a matte finish on the crimson paint. The rims were stylish and aerodynamic.
Jerry spotted his expression and, like any man with a passion for his job, offered his two cents on his work of art. He made a toothy smiled and said:
"It's a beauty, ain't it? Vilero took this baby out of production back in '73. Old but gold, if you ask me. Two-point-nine twin-turbo V6. Seven hundred horsepower. Zero to sixty in three seconds. Tops out at three-ten."
He leaned closer and whispered with a crazy light in his eyes:
"And that's before she lights up with Nitro!"
Arthur pursed his lips, faking being impressed. It's not that he wasn't—it's that he simply didn't care. Nitro was highly contraband, often used in illegal street races. Jailtime was involved.
He said under his breath:
"Too fast for the road."
"No chit, partner." Jerry hawked, then spat a gob at a nearby bucket. Arthur's face twitched. "It's for competition. C Leagues, nothin' fancy, but still decent."
Jerry pointed at an item sitting atop a cart beside the car. "Them's the keys. Be gentle with 'er."
Arthur walked over and grabbed the key fob. A sleek oval shape divided into three buttons, unlock, trunk and alarm, with the Vilero logo at the bottom: a pair of silver wings over the letter 'V'.
Just as Arthur was about to press the unlock key, there was a loud noise outside:
A fast vehicle burning its tires as it brakes to an abrupt stop. And another. Then a third.
Arthur shot Jerry a frowning look, and his face was as grave as Arthur's.
Arthur and Jerry spoke at the same time:
"Fruck."