The Apex Syndicate tower had an official weapon rental kiosk on the thirty seventh floor, all of sleek chrome and holographic displays and customer service representatives smiling as they had been doing in the mirror.
Twenty minutes was spent by Rook in line, with Debt Collector half falling out of his hand, and blood still crusted in his hair.
Waste of time, this is, said the sword.
"Shut up."
"They can't process me. I'm not in their system. I have not been in their system decades long.
"Shut up."
The representative will smile at you, do a diagnostic, frown but will direct you to customer support. Who will place you on hold, forty-five minutes, and send you to a supervisor.
"Shut"
"Next, please!"
The woman who presented herself was a young lady with impeccable posture and a smile that did not touch her eyes. She had a nameplate that said SUZUKI, MIKA SUBSCRIPTION SPECIALIST.
"How may I assist you today, sir?"
Rook placed Debt Collector on the counter.
"I want to return this."
Mika's smile flickered. Her eyes were on the blade the black metal, the gold veins, the complete absence of any manufacturer branding or degree of subscription sign.
Is this a present day rental out of our inventory, Sir?
"I don't know. Maybe. I didn't rent it."
"...you didn't rent it."
"It chose me. While I was unconscious. I want to return it."
The fingers of Mika flew over her terminal. She looked at the sword. Gawked at the blood streaked coat of Rook. Looked at the sword again.
"One moment, sir."
She tapped something. Waited. Tapped again.
Her smile became very fixed.
I am sorry, sir, this weapon, however, is not in our data bank. You might like to go to one of our rival locations?
"Told you."
Rook picked up the sword. Mika jerked a bit as the gold veins throbbed.
"Thanks anyway."
He had already made half way to the exit, when she called after him: Sir? The blood on your face. You may wish there was a shared washroom on the second floor
He kept walking.
The locations of competitors were not any better.
Taiyo Arms: "We do not have a system, sir.
Mitsurugi industries: This is an unregistered weapon. The returns on unregistered weapons can not be processed.
Shinwa Defense Solutions: "Sir, you are bleeding on our counter?
At noon he had visited six subscription towers, and had got six forms of the same answer. At two he sat on a concrete planter in the plaza of the central spire, watching the list of athletes change its occupancy up above, Debt Collector still across his knees.
A pigeon landed nearby. Explored an abandoned food wrapping. Looked at Rook as cold as something that had never been late with rent.
You might go to the black market, Debt Collector said.
I do not know any black market dealers.
You had one on your way to the first tower. Alley between Apex and Taiyo. Flickering sign. Man with a scar."
...you might have said, three hours ago.
"You didn't ask.
The shop didn't have a name.
Nothing more, merely a door, partially concealed by a pile of crates, and a neon lamp that strobed Xiu irregularly. The character, between strokes, was cut off one stroke, two, till it seemed no longer written repair but an excited middle finger.
Rook knocked. No answer. He tried the handle. Unlocked.
It smelled like ozone, gun oil and old cigarette smoke inside.
It was a long, low room, with racks of weapons, which were not in use, on the wall swords, axes, some of which he could not recognize, all of them grimy and silent. Bins provided with work tools and half drawn hilts. Blue flickering light in a diagnostic terminal cutting through heaps of paperwork.
At the counter a fellow was sitting in a folding chair with his feet on a box of subscription crystals.
He was a lean tall man, the kind of person who could fight should he see the notion of it but would prefer not to. Prematurely silver hair of messy black, half closed eyes of old gunmetal, one inner eyelid jerking with what could have been exhaustion, could have been boredom. There was a slight scar that started on the left side of his ear and ran to the end of his mouth professional line, work, likely a weapon that did not enjoy being refused.
He had a cigarette hanging in his lips. Unlit.
He looked at Rook. Gawked at the sword in the hands of Rook. Looked back at Rook's face.
"Debt Collector," he said. Not a question.
His voice was flat. Calm. The voice of someone who had witnessed the excessively weird things to be impressed by anything.
It's like it has been ten years since I have seen one of those.
Rook waited.
The man didn't move. The jacket, which was dark green, worn leather, with patches on the elbows, slipped off one shoulder, and left exposed on his ribs the faded contract sigils. Old scars. Old debts.
"So," he said. You are either fucked, or you have come here to get less fucked. Which is it?"
"...I want to return it."
"Hm." The man got the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, inspected it, replaced it. "That thing's not rentable. It is not on some subscription database. It is not in any illicit registry and I am well aware of them all. He tilted his head. "It chooses. Permanent binding. Why, all you are doing is getting rid of it, unless it chooses to go, which it will not, since it selected you on Purpose.<
"What reason?"
"Don't know. Don't care. That is between you and the sword that enrolled you when you were in a coma. A pause. "You were unconscious, right? Nobody even decides to be a Debt Collector.
"...yeah. Unconscious."
"Thought so." The man threw himself off the crate and stood. he was taller than he appeared when he was sitting. "Yuya Fujisaki. I repair things which were broken by authorities. You need a patch?"
"I need to get out of this."
"Can't help you there." Yuya wound around the counter to stare at Debt Collector narrowly. "I can tweak your firmware. Even the Blood Tax spikes, and open some of the personality modes that its original manufacturer put under lock. Less actively hostile, the whole experience?
I heard so, said Debt Collector.
Yuya frowningly lifted his eyebrows. "Still has voice modulation. Impressive. The majority of weapons that grow old lose their focus.
"I'm not 'that age.' I'm well-maintained."
"Sure you are." Yuya looked at Rook. "First consultation's free. I will do a check-up, inform you about what I can, what it will. You want real work done we bargain.
The hilt got tighter in Rook's grip. I don't have money."
"Didn't ask for money." Yuya pulled something with a diagnostic cable somewhere under the counter. "I take secrets. Favors. The news on how the system disintegrates individuals. A pause. Or I simply get bored and do it on the house. Depends on my mood."
He held out his hand.
"The sword. Counter. Now."
Rook hesitated. Debt Collector said nothing.
He placed the blade on the work bench.
The diagnostic lasted seven minutes.
Silently Yuya worked, with his cables into the points on the hilt, which it appears would not have appeared without being touched. His hands were not rapid, not nervous. Just efficient.
The terminal screen flickered in inexplicable screens that Rook was unable to read. Code, waveforms, something that resembled a heartbeat monitor bursting in irregular rhythms.
This is intrusive, Debt Collector said to himself.
All of it seems to be invasive to you, Yuya answered without glancing up. You are a tool fleshripped to gouge out resources out of unintended debtors. Thou art all personality invasion.
"...fair."
Rook slumped against a load of boxes. "You know a lot about it."
I am well informed on a lot of things. Yuya tapped a key. The waveform stabilized. Debt Collector was an experiment. Early enforcement model, before the subscription service had decided on how to make its money on punishment. Too efficient. Too cruel. They put it away, made friendlier models and denied that the prototype existed.
"But it did exist."
"It always exists." Yuya's voice was very flat. "Things like that don't die. They simply sit and wait till a desperate person comes to their rescue.
He pulled the cable. The veins of Debt Collector throbbed once, slower than would have been normal.
"So," Rook said. "Can you fix it?"
Fix it, no. Make your experience better, perhaps. Yuya swiveled the terminal screen to allow Rook a view. "Your Sync rate averages 23%. That's abysmal. You are basically slugging with a dull tool that at times offends you.
"I don't just insult him. I am constructive about criticism.
"Shut up." Yuya tapped the screen. Blood Tax spikes are hard to forecast. The drain is fast flowing when you miss a match or do not perform well. I could flatten that curve curve it more, so that it would hardly take you to the hospital.
"How much?"
"A secret." Yuya leaned back. Something I know That thou dost not know. There is something wrong with the system or with the leaderboard or with the actual process of the subscription service. His steel-grey eyes were quite motionless. "Everyone in this city has one. The thing they saw but failed to publish. The pattern that doesn't fit."
Rook considered notices of eviction. Medical bills. A landlord who had since ceased excuses.
"I don't know anything."
"Then you owe me later." Yuya shrugged. "Interest-free. I'm feeling generous."
He took a little metal instrument and stood and looked at Rook.
"This'll feel strange. Don't move."
Debt Collector was touched by the tool.
Rook felt it in his chest.
A throb, as of a second heartbeat. Something moving, adjusting, finding itself a new rhythm, something that had not been there before. Not painful. Just... intimate. As though somebody had gotten inside his ribcage and re-furnished the place.
"...oh," Debt Collector said.
Its voice was different. Softer. Less sharp at the edges.
"That's... better. The spikes are dampened. I can continue to feed, though it will not be so bad. A pause. "Why did you do that?"
Yuya was already washing his tools. "Boredom. Curiosity. Take your pick."
"No one does things for free."
"I just did." He looked at Rook. You need another patch, you bring with you information. Something good. The sponsors do not want people to know something. A pause. "There's always something."
Debt Collector was picked up by Rook. The hilt was hotter than they were. Not uncomfortable. Just... present.
But where do I get a hold of such information?
"Climb the leaderboard. Make friends. Make enemies." Yuya took his cigarette lit it, the first time Rook had seen him light a cigarette. Individuals in this city buy and sell secrets the way money is bought and sold. You'll learn."
He puffed smoke to the ceiling.
In what, sixty-eight hours first match? You should probably train. Or sleep. Or drink such things that do not regret.
The blade in his hand was looked at by Rook. The veins of gold beat continuously, endlessly.
"Thanks," he said.
Yuya waved with one hand, without raising his eyes. Already attentive to something, some other weapon broken and to be repaired.
Rook left.
The alley out of it was dark and narrow and stunk of garbage and antique neon.
He knows what he said to you, Debt Collector told him.
"Yeah."
"About me. About the system. With regards to what waiting on the top of the leaderboard.
"Yeah."
"Are you going to find out?"
Rook started walking. Twenty minutes away was his apartment, beyond the butcher shops, beyond the flickering streetlights, beyond the never-ending radiance of the leaderboard in the sky.
"Rent's due in four days," he said. Later I will have to worry about secrets.
"...that's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."