Chapter 8

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It was less than a minute before it opened but I didn't see any potential visitors behind the glass front door. The time Daas had chosen seemed strange to me from the beginning. To open after a long break on a weekday at twelve o'clock? People who can afford to go to a restaurant for lunch, even if it's not an expensive one, are working at that time. Besides, our building is located in the very depths of a bedroom community, where there are no offices or production facilities. So there was no need to count on business lunches or profits from people looking for something to eat during their lunch break. On the other hand, what do I think about it? Is it any of my business? My salary doesn't depend on whether the place is profitable or not. In fact, the fewer customers I get, the less work I have to do, so it's a good thing it works out that way.

"Aloya!" Illea called to the girl. "You forgot to put up the signs."

"Ow!" That cry came out of the waitress's mouth like the squeak of a mouse caught unawares. "One moment!"

Running over to the counter, Aloya pulled out a pair of small, translucent plastic signs with some text on them. Then she put the first one on the countertop by the kitchen unit, and the second on the table by the entrance, the one I'd been sitting at the other day. The plates had one word "Reserve" printed on them. Oh, wow! I hadn't heard that there were any reservations. However, maybe this place has regulars. That's easy to believe, given our chef's culinary talent. From the scraps of information I could find out, there used to be a cafe here. Two months ago it was closed for repairs, so the theory about regular customers is quite viable.

At exactly noon, Daas unlocked the electronic lock on the front door from the bar terminal. A small LED sign reading "Open" is also illuminated outside.

Ten minutes went by, but there were still no customers, and I found myself thinking that it was none of my business to stand at the door like that. I'm not a waiter to greet customers, my duties are quite different. I'll have to check with my superiors to see if I can sit at a free table, and not stand there like a statue at the door. However, this occupation had its own advantage, I could freely admire Aloya. The girl kept looking outside, waiting for the first customers and did not notice my glances. She was clearly nervous, not very much, but quite noticeable. Apparently, she had just graduated from high school and had little experience of any kind of work, so her condition was understandable to me. Despite her slight nervousness, Aloya still looked amazing in her snow-white uniform and short skirt. On the other hand, if you sit at the second table to the right of the entrance, you can not lose sight of the girl...

I looked toward Illea, and she was busy whipping something with a whisk in a small bowl. Daas and Jiro were hovering over the counter and working on the touchscreen, talking quietly to each other while doing so. Apparently, no one cared about me, so I could sit down.

"I'll sit at the table," I said to Aloya. "If you need me, call me."

"Okay," the girl nodded in response and then went back to her nervous anticipation.

I took a seat on the edge of the couch, sat upright for the first five minutes, and then got comfortable. I stretched out my legs and leaned back against the high backrest. If I'm doing something wrong, I don't think either Illea or Daas will hesitate to tell me. But if they are silent, then there is nothing wrong with my behavior. After all, I'm a technical consultant, not a doorman or another waiter to stand at the door.

The early morning wake-up, the long walk to the market, and the fact that I slept a full hour less after breakfast all took their toll. I sat up as straight as possible to stay awake, but it didn't help much; I blinked slower and slower each time. I rubbed my ears with my hands, but that didn't banish the drowsiness either. Realizing that, despite my best efforts, I could literally pass out in the workplace, I decided to go to the restroom and rinse my face with cold water.

Just as I got up from the table, the front door swung wide open, and a group of athletic-looking guys rushed in, rather than came in. A wave of cold street air went down my legs, and a bad feeling of foreboding ran down my spine.

The five young men were dressed in sportswear, their hot bodies smelling distinctly of fresh sweat. It was as if they had just come out of the gym or completed a kilometer run.

"О! We're about to be fed!" Clapping his hands, one of them said.

I had a lump in my throat because I recognized one of the people who came in, it was Meck. Bad luck for our restaurant, the first customers were bikers. Five tight, tough guys, almost a third of the gang kept the whole neighborhood in fear. And, worst of all, the tall blond guy said "fed," not "order." Somehow I don't think paying for what they're going to eat here is part of their plan.

I recognized Meck but of the others, I could only identify the blond, whose name, according to the forum, was Anton. The other three looked too much like each other, all stocky, broad-shouldered dark brown hair. Of course, they weren't brothers, and their faces were different: one had a broken nose and was a bit to the right, the second had a scar above his right eyebrow, third had very deep-set eyes. But the pictures on the forum were not of the best quality, and I did not memorize them well enough to put such details in my memory.

It was good that Aloya apparently didn't know who they were, so she didn't get nervous, but took a step toward the first visitors. I felt a strong urge to run away into a back room, but I took a couple of steps forward, standing behind the girl. The Goons, on the other hand, stopped when they entered the hall and began to look around, assessing the room.

"Please," Aloya gestured at them with an inviting gesture. "Have a seat."

But no sooner do the guys take a step than a very annoyed voice of Illea comes from the kitchen:

"Kick them in the face, not sit down! Utis, put those goats out on the street!"

Shall I put them out?! Meck, who's going to twist me into a sheep's horn, looks the most squishy of the bunch. I turn around, and to my dismay, I see that neither Daas nor Jiro is behind the counter! This couple was here a minute ago, when did they get away?!

"Аh..." It wasn't easy to make myself talk. If I had a boss behind me, I wouldn't be so worried. My subjective perception was somehow certain that Daas would have no problem taking down those five bikers with one hand and not breaking a sweat. But he's not behind the bar, and we have to act now. Of course, I could turn around and suggest that Illea take these bandits out herself, only it seems like that would be an even worse option for me. "Excuse me..."

How am I going to get them out, especially after the blatant insult Illea gave them? I'm going to get at least a broken nose, at best. Honestly, if Aloya weren't around, I'd pretend I hadn't heard the chef. But because of the girl I liked and was standing next to me, I'd have to follow orders. Not because of the damned work ethic, but just so I wouldn't fall in the eyes of the pretty brown-haired girl.

"Utis! What are you mumbling about!" comes from behind. "These rascals know all too well." There's no anger in Illea's voice, just a resounding irritation. It had the familiar intonation of my older sister's when her younger sister misbehaved and told her off.

"What's wrong?" Anton makes a surprised face.

It seems strange... The Goons, instead of being insulted and angry at Illea's words, are somehow drooping and looking almost guilty. It's just me or did I get away with it this time, and no one's going to hit me?

"An, your memory as always is amazing!" My heart was literally relieved because these words of the Chief implied that she knew the bikers. "In two incomplete months, you forgot everything?!"

"Ahhhh..." Anton scratched the back of his head and turned to his men and said. "Let's go, until we take a shower, she won't let us in here."

"Exactly!" slamming his forehead with his palm, echoed Meck. "The Stormbearer doesn't tolerate the smell of sweat in her hall..."

After these words, the Goons turned around and, lamenting the injustice of life, went outside closing the front door very carefully.

"They come and stink like goats!" The chief waved them off as she went back to cutting the vegetables. "Aloya, Utis, if they come in unwashed again, chase them off at once."

"Yes!" The girl exclaims happily in response. And I can only nod because my throat is dry.

"What's all the yelling about?" Daas peeks out of the back room, just in time for it to be over.

"Yeah... An came with the guys..."

"Where are they?" the boss asks, looking around the room empty of customers.

"I kicked them out."

"Huh?!" There is a mute question in Ten Daas's eyes.

"They smelled of sweat, and Mistress Illea asked them to leave!" Aloya reports cheerfully in response to her superiors' bewilderment.

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"I heard how she, "asked for it," Daas squinted at our cook.

"Do you have something against my methods?" Putting aside the knife, Illea removed the towel from her shoulder and grabbed it in the manner of a whip.

"Save me the Three Faced!" Boss exclaims and immediately hides behind the door.

After he left, I sat back down on the couch. There was a positive thing about what had happened, for example, the drowsiness was gone as if it hadn't existed.

What happened gave me a lot of information to think about. The connection between the restaurant and the Goons, and the way Meck called Illea "Stormbearer"! By the way, that nickname suits her very well. You never know what she'll do next. She really is like a storm in that.

As bad luck would have it, just when I was really awake and had some interesting facts to think about, there were visitors. The first was a young couple: a guy, apparently a freelance designer, and his customer, a young lady in a business suit. And if the guy quickly and easily figured out how to use the touch screen to order, the girl I had to explain everything five times before she understood. Once I was done with them, I had to help a retiree couple. I thought I would have a hard time with them, but they turned out to be a lot saner than the woman in the strict jacket.

Our restaurant specialized in simple and quick meals. You don't usually expect much from such places, and you just come in for a bite to eat, because that's the place that happened to be nearby at the moment when you wanted to eat. It was all the more interesting for me to see how customers' faces change when they try Illea's cooking.

It's strange, I don't have anything to do with cooking, but it's still nice to see the appetite with which customers devour one dish after another. I think the small number of customers right now is just because word hasn't gotten out about how good the food is here. Besides, Daas hasn't bothered to advertise or otherwise promote his restaurant at all. On the other hand, maybe I'm wrong, but the price tag in our place is about a third higher than the competition. I know that this relative price increase is due to the quality products that Daas buys. But it's still not an affluent neighborhood, and that aspect could be critical and prevent this restaurant from becoming a popular place.

While I was explaining to the retirees some of the nuances of the controls, the bikers entered the hall. It was the same five, led by Anton. They had changed their uniforms for their usual leathers and, judging by their still damp hair, had taken a shower before coming back here. Aloya seated them at the table closest to the entrance, one of those with a "Reserve" sign on it. So it's the Goons who are some of the regulars? Or are they not customers but "roofies"?

While the pensioners did not react to the bikers' visit in any way, the freelance guy finished his negotiations very quickly and, after hastily paying, left the restaurant with his customer. Apparently, he was well aware of who had taken a table at the entrance, which means that this designer must be a local. Well, if the Goons are going to be here a lot, our place is not going to be very popular with the young people.

When explaining the rules of virtual golf to an elderly couple, I tried to catch a glimpse of what the bikers were talking about. They didn't think about ordering anything, didn't even touch the touchpad, but were discussing something vividly. Shifting a little so that I could hear better what was happening at their table, I continued to demonstrate the capabilities of touchpads to seniors. From the new seat, I was able to make out a little more. Meck and the chunky ones actively resented the fact that a certain Rick had gone completely mad and had been chasing them for two days as if they were recruits. They also demanded that Anton ask Illea for something. An, agreeing that the workload was excessive, nevertheless refused to ask anything of the chef.

After a couple of pensioners got the hang of the game, Illea called me over and asked me to help "An and the guys," because they were sitting around and not ordering anything. I got over my desire to keep my distance from the bikers and, gathering my will into a fist, walked over to their table. I had to do my job.

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

All five of them immediately stopped arguing and turned in my direction. Their stares made me very uncomfortable because I could read in them, "What do you want, boy, huh? Trouble?"

"Look at this," Anton, apparently tired of bickering with the others, was even happy at my suggestion, not in a good way. "Another civic seeing a biker thinks he's met an imbecile or a degenerate who, except for his bike, doesn't know anything..."

These words made me feel uncomfortable; I didn't mean anything like that when I offered to help.

"And we've never seen a smartphone before," Anton was getting more and more irritated. "Touchscreens and "Robot" are for us a miracle and a fairy tale!" All the Goons are grinning in a malevolent grin but I'm not amused at all. "And we can't even read! We are blind! The sign with the word "Menu" on it is beyond what a biker's mind can handle! Right, civilian?"

"My job is to give advice. If you don't need it, it's enough to refuse my services." I'm just an employee, it's my job, there's nothing to be frightened, nervous, or worried about. When working with people, especially in the service industry, which undoubtedly includes the restaurant business, conflict situations are always possible. I don't have to take them personally and let them pass through me. It's just a job, I'm calm...

"Well, let's see how clumsy we are... Wait, where are you going, you're a consultant, and we haven't let you go yet!" Anton interrupts my attempt to leave with a harsh rebuke.

Then the Goon, making sure that I remained in place, with a confident gesture opens the "Robot" settings menu and launches the last of the previously launched applications, thus showing that he understands the capabilities of the operating system perfectly. As luck would have it, since I was sitting at this very table before the restaurant opened, the "Look" service launches full screen. Of course, it immediately starts playing the last recording I watched, namely the " Game Arena " show. Since the headphones are not plugged into the table right now, Will Cody's voice immediately carries over the table.

"I am happy to greet you this morning, my dear viewers," comes from the screen.

"Оh!" Meck immediately gives out. "It's the Arena!"

For three minutes they watch the beginning of the program but then the bikers get bored and start skipping.

"No way... This is crap. It's all piu-piu!" commented one of the big guys I didn't know, the one with the scar. "I wasn't even hooked by the game, and watching other people play, what could be interesting about it?"

"Exactly...' Meck backs him up. "An, shut this mess down."

"Au," Anton agreed.

Lex Alipov was just broadcasting from the screen in the middle of his game showdown: "Stormtrooper of the Defense Team - Runner to Boot..."

Before Anton presses the "close" icon, thus winding down the broadcast, he is immediately interrupted by a chorus of voices.

"Stop!"

"Take it back!"

"That's Rick's nickname!"

"Rewind it!"

Just bored almost to the point of yawning from the show, the guys now looked like a pack of wolves that smelled blood. I was all ears, too. Was that the Runner an acquaintance of the Goons? Or is he even one of them? And wasn't this the same Rick who had exhausted them in training?

In obedience to the general chorus, Anton rewound the program to the beginning of my match, after which all the Goons turned to their ears. As luck would have it, I was called by Aloya to help a new visitor, an older woman in her forties, to understand the controls. The lady was very comprehensible and got the hang of it in just a couple of minutes. But no sooner had I stood up to overhear what the Goons were going to talk about, after watching Lex Alipov's game showdown, than Illea beckoned me to her.

Our chef had somehow pressed something on the touch screen for customer requests, and she was thrown into the factory settings menu. Turning everything back on, I ran into Daas, who had finally finished his business in the back room and stood behind the counter.

"When there's no work, sit at the bar," he told me.

In principle, it makes sense. From the bar counter, I have a good view of the whole hall, and I'll be in full view of the customers. So if they have a problem, they can call me quickly enough.

"What's up with the guys?" Boss, with a nod of his head, left no doubt that he was asking about bikers.

"Scolding..." I shrugged my shoulders and decided to be a little verbose this time.

"What happened?" It didn't work out that easy, the bosses want to know the details.

"They thought my offer to help was a veiled insult." Ten Daas's eyebrows were drawn together, so I guess I'll have to explain. "Since the interface we use is intuitive for any smartphone user, the offer of help in mastering it was perceived by the young people as a discriminatory insult to the demeanor of their subculture."

I can't stand political correctness, for me, everything is better to speak directly but in this case, this piling up of words helped me show the idiocy of the Goons' claims to my person.

"Ahem..." Daas took about twenty seconds to digest my tirade, absorbing the meaning of what I'd heard. "They called you - Civilian?"

"Yes..." How did he guess that?

"Ignore it. They're actually nice guys. More than that, in fact..." he added and stared into my eyes in a way that made me a little uncomfortable. "But for people like you, they have a certain... Let's just say... Prejudice. Yes... That's the word."

"People like me?" Do I have it written on my forehead that I am a student?

"Yeah, to people like you," he brushed me off without explaining anything. "Forget it, I said, get it out of your head. These guys won't do anything to you. They come at you, you tell them to go fuck themselves." What, just like that? Goons and "go to hell"? I actually still want to live.

"I don't run as fast as the bike can move," my voice is full of sarcasm.

"I'd be surprised if you weren't," Daas grinned broadly, understanding my statement correctly. "But I mean, as long as you work for me, you can put a big and hard to all their claims and attacks..." He pauses for a moment, and then adds: "But if you start a conflict yourself, you're an idiot." I nod in response to his questioning look. "Well, that's good," he looks behind me and throws up his hand in greeting. "Hello, An."

As I swivel on the bar stool, I see Anton walk up to the bar.

"Don't get sick too," the biker holds out his hand to Daas in return. After a firm handshake, the Goon squints at me and turns to his boss. "I have a favor to ask..."

"Speak in front of Utis," Daas brushed aside his hints of one-on-one conversation.

"Rick is out of his mind. Chasing us around like we're green... You should talk to him or Eph... ...or Illea could ask him to calm down." The strange hesitation in our chef's name makes my ears perk up.

"For Rick Deckart to just start pushing you around? I'm sorry, I don't believe it," Boss rubbed his chin. "You probably screwed up somewhere, and now you're taking it out on me?"

"Nuh-uh. He got his tail burned in his favorite game, and so epically that he broke a couple of doors the day before yesterday and smashed four makiwaras in anger this morning. Because his loss, it turns out, was posted online, and it's already gotten a couple of million views in less than a day. And now he's been giving us a twenty-five-mile cross-country run every morning, plus in the gym, he's been treating us like strangers."

Wow, there's a harsh order in this gang! The guys are as physically fit as those in the Olympic reserve boarding schools. Before, I didn't associate the words "biker" and "discipline" with each other; on the other hand, I only know about the mech riding subculture from movies and news reports. Likely, all my knowledge on the subject isn't worth a dime.

"You have electability in the gang. You're the one who made him the coach. What's that got to do with me?" said Daas, not hiding a smile, looking straight into Anton's eyes.

"He respects you..." Goon averts his gaze.

"And Illea is afraid." What a revelation! "I know. So? Guys, that's your problem. Replace Rick with Lance, he's just as good a coach, I can vouch for that."

"Lance?" Anton's face twisted as he'd just chewed an unripe lime with the rind. "He's normally worse than Rick when he's mad. Talk to the Runner... Please."

"An... " in a very soulful and very concerned voice, says the boss. "Go [censored] yourself." I almost choked up, so dissonant was the tone in which the phrase was uttered. "You need to help Rick," Boss raises his voice. "Get him out of his depression, and you come here and cry to me instead of helping a comrade. Are you really, fellas. You [censored]... You and Meck and all the rest of you. I see you're only concerned about your own [censored]. We're G.D.D.'s. What kind of "G.D.D." are you if you can't help your own group?" To my unspeakable surprise the Goon did not freak out at this rebuke on the contrary, he sunk and bowed his head. And what is HGD?

"And in what game did our "master of indirect control" get his tail kicked?" How is it that Illea manages to sneak up so stealthily that her words make even Ten Daas flinch?

"Battle Arena of Avalon, a shooter, a network shooter," confused, but nevertheless correctly explains Anton.

"Utis," the dark-haired beauty turns to me. "You're almost a pro at this particular discipline." I'm a little afraid of her correctness because of not a "game" but a "discipline"! Something the chief is up to, and the thought makes me feel a little uncomfortable.

"Almost," I nod, trying to figure out what the catch is. "But I'm a long way from being a real pro. And I'm injured, too."

"Anton," Illea turns to the biker now. "Let's say, take Utis with you, we'll let him go for today, let him talk to Dekart. He'll explain what's what, and how, and maybe he'll help him with something. He's been playing for years, and he's even won something at a pretty serious level." Do they want to sublet me to a gang? "Am I right?" That's a question for me.

"Yes, technically right." And why not, actually? I'm sure I'll have a more interesting time than here! Especially since, according to Daas, the Goons aren't a threat to me, as long as I work for him and don't show off. Besides, I'm very curious to see "Runner to Boot " in real life, especially after the way Lex Alipov described his talents.

"Um," Anton looks at me with great doubt for almost half a minute. "It could have worked. Yes... If only... But it's not going to work," he said with an annoyed click of his tongue. "Rick won't listen to the Civilian." Something tells me this group of people doesn't mean 'civilians' in the same way I do. To me, it can either mean "civilian" in the mouth of the military, which is completely inappropriate here, or an ordinary law-abiding member of society, which is the name of various informal groups. I thought it was the second option when bikers call me that, but there is something much more contemptuous lurking here.

"Well, then sit back at the table, and finally order what you want to eat," - Illea waves Anton away, upset that her proposal did not pass.

Daas's gesture also more than eloquently confirms the chef's words, but it is much more rude and profane. The biker's shoulders slump and he slouches back to his table.

"What is HGD?" as he withdraws, I ask Daas.

But Boss is defiantly staring at the touchpad, pretending not to hear my question. I have enough brains not to insist on being heard, so I pretend that I did not say anything in a questioning tone. I already have a lot to think about. For example, about the bandits who keep the whole neighborhood in fear, and with whom even the Syndicate prefers not to mess, but who are afraid of the pretty girl-chef of a little-known restaurant. It's so surreal, I swear on the Face of Hades.

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