Freddy left the barber shop, finally feeling like a civilized person again. His unruly mess of a beard was now sharp and angular, and his long, gunky hair was now tamed into a moderately wavy curtain stretching just past his neck and resting upon his shoulders.
He quite liked having longer hair. He'd spent most of his life with a hairstyle similar to this.
And now, it felt like the only part of "him" that remained.
He was wearing a new brown jacket, gray sweatpants, and a rainbow sweater, together with a cute scarf wrapped around his neck and soft gloves to keep his hands warm and rings hidden. It was quite hard finding clothes that fit him. Every article he was currently wearing was a bit tight here and there, but he hadn't seen a tailor to manually adjust it yet.
While his initial impression of this town was that it wasn't the outlaw dystopia he had expected to see, its ugly interior still showed at a closer look.
It was subtle. There were no corpses on the street or broken windows everywhere.
But the cats were hostile.
His adopted mother once said that places were best judged by how friendly the cats were. On his walk through the town, he had only seen two cats: one with a broken tail and the other missing an eye.
Both fled at the sight of him.
Everyone he came across was armed. Even seemingly ordinary elderly office ladies had a metal baton strapped to their waist.
Nobody greeted one another. Nobody even looked at one another, despite the constant feeling that everyone there was highly aware of their surroundings.
He knew how much he stood out. Yet nobody even glanced at him. They sped up when he turned to face them, so they did pay attention to him. But direct gazes were absent, almost like they were taboo in these parts.
Even the kids he'd seen had these small devices on their hips that he hadn't noticed. Those were small alarms.
While Nova York had been teeming with cars, this place was far from widespread adoption of such etherology. Carriages still dominated here, mostly pulled by feathered drakes. The creatures looked like big chickens, which was kind of funny, but their beaks full of serrated teeth weren't a joke.
He'd been hoping to sit down for some coffee somewhere, but relaxed cafes weren't a thing here. There were only bars. And of the loud, stinky kind. Other than that, there were gambling dens pretty much everywhere he looked, as well as a number of strip clubs. He hated such places.
Still, he had to start somewhere. Thus, he picked the nearest regular bar he could find and walked inside.
When he opened the door and stepped inside, half the people there went quiet and looked him over. Only men were present inside, and it was obvious that they clothed and styled themselves to look dangerous, or tough at least. Tattoos, shaven heads and eyebrows, scars, and frowns permanently etched into their brows.
The bar itself was a rustic, cozy place, with wooden furniture and surprisingly nice wall decor. A keen eye spotted the subtle damage across the walls and signs of repair.
To his surprise, a notable percentage of the clientele were one-stars. They didn't mix with the mortals and mostly occupied corner tables. There were 9 such people there. That didn't seem like many, but that was 9 more than he expected to find. Archhumans were not commonly found in mortal places.
Freddy was cloaking his star, meaning that most of them would presume him to be a mortal, but he could tell that some of the ascended were giving him squinted stares. One of them—a heavily tattooed man—was glaring at him particularly hard. The man was onto him, likely presuming that Freddy was either a two-star or a cloaked one-star.
No more than ten seconds later, most of them lost interest and went back to talking and drinking.
Freddy eyed the place, looking for empty tables. There were none, so he shuffled to the bar and sat there instead.
"What'll it be?" the bartender asked.
"A beer," he said.
Frankly, Freddy never understood the love for beer. To him, it just tasted like piss. But for some strange reason, he felt a powerful aversion to ordering anything else. A man like him just had to get a beer. It was practically the law. Either that or whiskey.
The choice quickly proved to be a shitty one.
Yup, tastes like ass.
But he bore with it, gulping the drink as if it were heavenly dew. Once done, he ordered coffee.
The bartender handed it over a few minutes later. "Here you go, man."
"Thanks," Freddy said as he took a sip. It was bitter, tasting of unwashed equipment, sloppy preparation, and old beans. But to him, who hadn't had coffee in months, it was like the water from the fountain of youth.
To a complete lack of surprise on Freddy's part, a one-star aura got up from one of the chairs and moseyed on over to him. "Hey," a man's voice called from Freddy's side.
He turned to face the man who was taking a seat next to him. It was the heavily tattooed guy.
"Hey there," Freddy greeted the man. "Is there something you need from me?"
"You're not from around here, are you?" the man asked, clearly already knowing the answer.
"What's it got to do with you?" Freddy asked.
"Nothing with me," the man said. "But if you're looking for work around here as an archhuman, you'll have to talk to my boss first."
"Excuse me?"
"I expect as much."
"That aside..." the man started, leaning back and sucking air through his teeth, then slowly breathing it out. "This is a big favor you're asking for, good man. Are you prepared to work and pay it back?"
"Naturally."
"Well, what can you do for me?" the man asked. "If you don't mind, I'd like to conduct a brief interview."
"Sure thing."
The man proceeded to question Freddy about his talent and previous occupation. Naturally, Freddy lied but kept the story close to the truth. He said that his talent was a strength-boosting one.
Technically, that counted as a combat talent, but how talents were sorted was a bit arbitrary.
If it could be used in any way to fight, a talent could be classified as a combat talent. Many non-combat talents could "technically" be used in combat and vice versa.
As such, he declared that he had a strength talent and that he used to work at a warehouse where he sorted heavy industrial materials. It wasn't the best lie he'd ever told, but he said it convincingly enough. He knew enough about warehouse labor to sneak a detail or two in to help sell the story.
"Hmmm..." the man hummed as he scrutinized Freddy's face. "A strength talent... I have to be honest with you; our primary business doesn't really have much of a need for musclemen like you. We're mostly in the sphere of, uh... real estate and business management."
And here comes the 'but...'
"But," the man said, "I would be more than glad to welcome you on board as a bodyguard."
Freddy faked looking torn for a long second. Obviously, a delicate, peace-loving man such as himself was far too fragile for work like that.
"Don't get the wrong message," the man rushed to add. "This will rarely, if ever, require you to actually get into a physical fight. Just flash your star at any troublemaker, and that will be more than enough to scare trouble away. We'd be glad to offer some training if you want to be able to fight effectively."
He maintained the torn look for another few seconds and then finally sighed dramatically, deciding that he "didn't really have a choice" or whatever the sleazy businessman assumed was happening. "All right," Freddy said, forcing a smile and nodding. "I hope you are being honest about the risks, good man."
"Me? Of course!" he spat with a laugh. "I'm not one to spout lies!"
"I will take your word for it," Freddy said. "You seem like a stellar guy."
The rest of the deal proceeded smoothly. Freddy signed a contract for a six-month period where he would work as a bodyguard for $40,000 a month, which wasn't bad for such a position. But, well, that wasn't really the type of money a peak two-star would usually be paid. It was far too little for that.
Still, that wasn't the reason why Freddy was getting a job.
He carefully checked every clause in the contract, and to his surprise, it was pretty fair. At the very least, this man knew he shouldn't push the terms when employing a man like Freddy.
As soon as he was signed, the man personally escorted him to have a fresh ID forged for him. The corruption was hilariously open. He'd have thought that at least the first town past the border wouldn't be this outwardly corrupt.
He was asked what name he wanted to write down on the ID. Numerous possibilities flashed through his mind: Mark, Jonas, James, John, Pete, Frank, Joe—the possibilities were endless.
So he settled on Freddy.
Freddy Cliff, 47 years old. That was old enough that his gathering wouldn't appear to be too prodigious.
So much about him had changed throughout the past two years. Now that he was left with nothing but his hairstyle as a reminder of the person he used to be, he realized just how much the loss of identity pained him.
His name was Freddy. And why should he choose a different name, anyway? There was so little connection between Freddy Cliff and Freddy Stern.
He was given a place to live. The apartment was big but abysmal. It was moldy, with rusty faucets and stained walls. The furniture was literally rotting from age and water damage. Freddy was given permission to do whatever he wanted with the place, which was a nice way of saying, "Renovate it yourself."
The very next day, he started his work. Unsurprisingly, he was posted to guard the big boss himself, right beside a man who was barely into his second star.
At first, Freddy genuinely intended to work for the six months, if anything, just to get a bit more familiar with how stuff worked there.
But he learned a bit much a bit too quickly.
Namely, they weren't in the business of "real estate and business management."
They were in the business of extortion and human trafficking.
It was thinly veiled and done in the filthiest way imaginable, especially the latter part. When he first overheard a conversation about a mother who was forced into sex work because she couldn't afford the overpriced rent, he knew he couldn't stomach continuing to work there.
He gave it a week, just long enough for it not to be suspicious.
Then, one night, just before he went to bed, he called a name. "Bloodshed."
The following day, Jeffrey was found dead in his room, his throat torn open and eyes gouged out. A freak wild spirit attack, they said.
Within days, the company collapsed as competitors capitalized on the sudden chaos, and Freddy was on his way to a new town deeper in the heart of the Northern Belt.