Ch.340The Supporting Character’s Story – Derivative Reality

“I” was born today. When was I born? I don’t remember clearly. Is the day I emerged from Jerome’s incubator my birthday, or just the manufacturing date of my body? I couldn’t tell.

Perhaps the day I was born was a few days after Arthur Murphy died. The day when that guy Jack or whatever copied my mind… or rather, “my” mind, could also be considered my birth date.

Damn Baudrillard. Writing unnecessary things that only confuse people. Indeed, it’s always philosophers who disrupt the happy lives of happy people. Always.

Living as a mercenary wasn’t difficult. I’d never been the valedictorian at Belvedere Security Training College, but for someone who had, this kind of work was just minor cleanup.

The problem was being second. Second. The second freelancer to receive a license from Night City, the second freelancer named Arthur that Ibelli, Tinker, and Ruiner remembered. Always second.

Well, at least I was the first freelancer to witness Ibelli’s actual retirement. Can you even call it retirement? That old man now runs a private mercenary training facility. Says he wants to raise the average quality of mercenaries.

Just like in those cliché ex-freelancer movies. Unlike the movies, though… there haven’t been any stupid gangs getting themselves killed by that damn old man after messing with one of his disciples.

Still, sometimes all those worries become superficial… and soon meaningless when I look at Mia sleeping in what has been my home for five years now.

Her face was perfectly sculpted. Not natural, of course, but considering her strange charm—what Boogeyman calls “the sound of a beast’s cry”—it looked like her original face.

As I reach for Mia’s cheek, her face beautiful enough to intoxicate even while asleep, damn it. I always underestimate the beast before my eyes. Mia, who was pretending to be asleep, reaches out and cups my face.

Her fingertips are soft. They seem never to have developed a single callus. Just the touch of those perfectly sculpted hands feels intoxicating, and then her hands wrap around my neck and pull me down.

It’s definitely a force I could resist. No, it’s not just resistible—it poses no physical threat whatsoever. But the problem is… I don’t want to resist.

I should change my tactile processor. Actually, I don’t know why my thoughts are getting so deep when my brain isn’t even real but just an artificial one processing stimuli, but somehow Mia was already straddling me.

Usually she seems to smile brightly, but at times like this, she shows a mischievous smile as wicked as the original guy’s. That bastard who treats her like a little sister is annoying, but with Mia… I can’t get angry.

“Next time I shouldn’t fall asleep with you, Art. You take sleeping with Polaris for granted and start having existential worries without me. What, do you want to marry an existentialist philosopher instead?”

I can’t do anything about this conversational style that seems to read my mind. If I deny saying such things, she’ll press further, and if I admit it, the teasing will continue. I didn’t know how to respond.

But this time, my silence must have been too long. And when silence stretches too long, I realize it would have been better to give some kind of answer. The worst thing is not answering at all.

“Hmm? Why, today is Arthur’s birthday, so you were wondering if that makes it your birthday too, weren’t you, Art? Then you probably thought about Father, and after that, did you think about that copy criminal in the brain prison?”

Mia always called Jerome “Father.” I’m not sure why, but having Jerome as a father made my five-year-old life feel more like a real life.

I need to speak firmly. I need to speak firmly and take control of the conversation. I’ve always been good with words… or so I thought, but words wouldn’t come easily.

Is it a processing capacity issue with my artificial brain? No. Mia is the problem. Mia has always been the problem, and solving it was terribly difficult.

“Ah, no, not at all. Really.”

And Mia wasn’t one to easily forgive such clumsy answers. Her response makes me wish I’d replaced my face with machinery too.

“Why are you talking so stiffly? Did I hit the mark? No, when I hit the exact spot, you don’t make that kind of sound, do you?”

“Don’t say things like that so casually! What if the paparazzi get a tip…”

I’m screwed. Should have thought before speaking. As if my desperate resistance amused her, Mia lowered her head and buried her face in my neck, grinning.

“Think nicely. You were thinking bad words, weren’t you? Besides, there’s no paparazzi in the entertainment industry that T Entertainment can’t control, right? And you don’t even have any contacts saved anyway.”

“I do have one.”

“You mean the one you got three years ago when you hit someone who made you angry for taking high-resolution photos of me from outside the no-photography zone, and then wanted to compensate them? They won’t publish your words as an article.”

Why do I feel like I’m on a leash? Mia wasn’t spying on me. I was the one who contacted her because I was worried the issue might escalate. I didn’t want to burden her by trying to handle it myself.

Still, I know exactly what repertoire comes next. I need to preempt her. If I preempt her here, I might somehow regain control of the conversation.

“I-I know what you’re going to say next! You’re going to talk about the original guy again, comparing us and trying to make me jealous. Right?!”

“No, I’m not?”

I’m screwed. Of course, it’s easy to refute claims about things that haven’t happened with a simple denial. Why can’t I think straight?

“No, I’m not?” Why doesn’t this method work when I’m on the receiving end? My mind really wasn’t working at all. Is it a performance issue with my cognitive processor? I knew it wasn’t. The problem was always Mia.

“Another bad thought. Hearing you say that, I’m thinking… Arthur wouldn’t have threatened his lover with paparazzi talk in a situation like this. Right?”

I gave her the opportunity to say that. Now I feel like whatever I say will back me into a corner, and just as I feel there’s no escape, my vision is obscured.

The soft touch of skin meets my face. I think I wanted to replace my face with machinery a few minutes ago, but I’ve decided to cancel that. It was a terrible thought. Really.

Mia knows exactly when to comfort. And she knows the right words too. A low, gentle voice that neither Amelia Valentine nor Polaris would use came softly.

“Art, do you know why I call Jerome ‘Father’?”

I was wearing a voice module, but I didn’t want to use it in this situation. And of course, I get scolded.

“You can speak with your voice module, can’t you? If you’re going to pretend to be stupid and open your mouth, the comfort you’re receiving might disappear. Is that okay?”

There’s no way she wouldn’t read me. After shaking my head in her embrace, I spoke through the voice module attached to my neck. It wasn’t because I was conscious of the original. Really.

“I don’t know. Jerome, that guy, he’s just a pervert. The title ‘Father’ doesn’t suit him.”

“Everyone has a father or mother or something similar, right? I thought if you had one too, you might worry less about existential things when you’re with me… do you dislike it?”

“Mia, you already think of me that way. That’s why I’m not Arthur Solberson. And having something like that doesn’t make things better…”

“I thought you said you didn’t know?”

She cuts me off again, leaving me speechless. But the silence doesn’t last long. Because Mia doesn’t want silence to linger.

She gently strokes my head in her embrace, and I hear her lightly patting me as if to calm me down. Not just the sound. The soft touch comes with it.

“I’m trying to give you a life that feels like a life and a past that feels like a past, when all you have is a non-life and a non-past. Why do you think I went on a nationwide tour with a mercenary who had just gotten his freelance contract?”

I could have given a good answer, but what came out was filled with petty revenge for everything I’d endured.

It was literally petty revenge. It wasn’t difficult to notice that either way, it was a vulnerable answer that could be easily played with.

“…To make me wear a Gardner costume in Detroit?”

At those words, I heard Mia’s laughter from beyond my still-darkened vision. It was laughter I couldn’t understand. Mia was enjoying herself.

“Yes, that’s one reason. Since your past is just a crude homage and parody of someone else’s past, I thought we might as well make it definitive while parodying. I won’t tell you what that means.”

Listening to Mia… was Gardner the original guy? No way. He was a completely different person. No. The original guy was good at acting so…

“By the way, did you know that a mercenary’s full-body tights are literally sexual appeal? Even Ruiner wears a bodysuit as thin as body paint, saying it’s ‘for quick cooling,’ right?”

I was trying to make some further deductions, but that gentle whisper from Mia cut off all my reasoning, leaving only shame and voice bursting out. I shouted through my voice module.

“That’s why I said stop saying things like that! Change the subject. Change the subject.”

What was I thinking about? With heat rising to my face, I couldn’t remember clearly. Mia was persistent. If it were just verbal persistence, we would have been married three times by now. And she read that thought too.

“Then, shall we talk about Arthur’s wedding, Art?”

Of course I kept my mouth shut, or more precisely, my voice module remained silent, but that was obviously the worst choice.

Yes, this time too, the problem wasn’t Mia but me. Looking at all the enhanced bodies around, I got caught up in the thought of having to compete for the bouquet and did something stupid.

And of course Mia wouldn’t let that go unmentioned. Mia spoke with a genuinely pleased expression, which was the worst for me.

“Why, Art. You were the one who brought the bouquet to me. All I whispered to you was ‘Isn’t catching the bouquet the bride’s job?’ and you were about to throw the bouquet away. That’s mean.”

When Mia says I’m being mean, it really feels like I was. There was no guide for a hitchhiker drowning in this inhumanly charming presence.

And when all the logic and rebuttals I can muster in my head run out, all that’s left is irritation.

No. Even irritation can’t be properly expressed at times like this. Though I hate to admit it, it becomes like throwing a tantrum. If it were just irritation, she wouldn’t be so indulgent.

It might not matter. I’m twenty-eight, but… if we’re being precise, I’m also five years old. Not old enough to be criticized for throwing tantrums. Probably.

“But still, I don’t want to wear a dress even then… The original guy looked good in a tuxedo. I would too. Really. He and I look alike. Don’t we?”

“Not at all. I probably have more in common with Arthur than you do with him. And you know I have several pieces of evidence that you look good in a dress. You were really pretty.”

To be honest… I’ve gotten used to it. It wasn’t the first time Mia had taken me to private parties after her performances, and dresses were the best disguise when I needed to pretend I wasn’t the mercenary who had guarded Mia during the day.

Still, the issue was psychological resistance. I could wear a dress at parties where appearances mattered, but not at a wedding. That’s when the person matters more than the appearance.

I wanted to say my psychological resistance was… strong. I’m somewhat Arthur Murphy too. I could have used that excuse five years ago, but now Mia’s clutches have extended even here.

My non-life filled with non-past, the life of callsign Revenant, changed dramatically after Mia suddenly entered it.

As it began to fill with real life and real past created with Mia, I couldn’t even consider how much of Arthur Murphy remained in me anymore. Everything was jumbled.

The original guy is several times more skilled than me in everything, with an unnaturally innate proficiency, so maybe Mia chose an easier prey after being outmaneuvered by him.

It didn’t matter. Mia was too sincere for this to be just stress relief, and I followed her nationwide tour… we even chose Jerome’s Christmas present together, and there were many trivial things.

Therefore, perhaps, maybe because I’m thinking of the warm skin before me and the smiling someone beyond it, a dress wasn’t strange for Arthur Solberson.

What I had wasn’t psychological resistance but just petty rebelliousness. I decided to honestly admit it. And I needlessly burrowed deeper into Mia’s embrace like a child throwing a tantrum.

If Noah Verami saw the mercenary with the fancy callsign Revenant floundering like this, he would burst into laughter. I was certain.

But… let him laugh. In this terrible time of self-recognition—actually not terrible at all, just belated—Mia’s embrace was more important than the thought of someone laughing at me.

This high-speed era demands that people run. It applauds those who fall and quickly get back up on their own feet to run again, and sometimes even this morning laziness becomes unacceptable.

Usually. Usually. But if you run fast enough, no one cares if those in the lead take it easy, and Mia was one of the fastest runners in this high-speed era.

Running so far ahead, all she did while waiting for others to catch up was occasionally take a day off to come see me.

Thinking about it this way, I should probably say thank you. The moment I think that, the warm skin touching my face pulls away, and soon I’m looking vertically into Mia’s smiling face.

“Wouldn’t I be surprised if you suddenly said thank you without context, Art? It’s cute, but there’s no context. Not at all.”

Still, this time I had my own punchline. I had a chance to show that this relationship wasn’t entirely one-sided. Before I could open my mouth, Mia’s face slowly approached.

Not that she had ever given me that chance. The expectant feeling when lips and body heat meet, when breaths mingle, is quickly buried by penetrating pain.

The inside of my lower lip stings, and the taste of blood seeps through. After experiencing this so many times, I still struggled. I feel the urge to shoot those who call Polaris the saint of the high-speed era.

Perhaps this is how derivative reality lives. Rooted in actual reality, yet without a stem, growing branches and leaves, blooming flowers, and bearing fruit.