"James is drinking upstairs, and John is on leave at his own place. It's easy to meet them."
Jackie clearly knew how ridiculous the nicknames of the two men he chose were, so he honestly used their real names, preserving his last shred of dignity.
But this was already useless.
With such hilarious nicknames, it was impossible to be serious.
Berry could only walk silently up the stairs toward the bar on the first floor.
The "extortion" bar was still so peaceful and relaxed, playing sensuous music, while Honeycomb Mercenaries without delivery missions sat in small groups at tables, sipping drinks.
Upon entering, Jackie waved his hand in a grand gesture, pointing toward one of the tables.
Clearly, "Jumping Shot" James was at that table.
But before the two could get close, an unexpected change occurred.
James and his tablemates were pleasantly tipsy, chatting away with beer bottles in hand. James, wearing a Bulletproof Vest and with the "Honeycomb" logo tattooed on each arm, seemed a little drunk and was slumped over the table as if asleep.
But as if suddenly woken by a nightmare, James jolted upright, sweeping empty beer bottles off the table, which shattered into pieces on the floor with a crash.
The sound of breaking glass further agitated James. His eyes glazed over, and he frantically looked around, seemingly unaware of where he was.
His body lost control, and he slid directly off the chair onto the floor. His expression was extremely panicked and fearful, and he immediately tried to scramble under the table, his hands positioned as if gripping a gun.
"Go, 'Jumping Shot's' condition is acting up! Quick, hold him down!"
"Damn it, what terrible timing!"
James's drinking buddies immediately sprang into action, looking anxious but not panicked, as if they had handled this situation before.
Just then, Berry and Jackie walked over, and the standing Honeycomb Mercenaries noticed them.
"Boss!"
"Boss!"
"Never mind me, what's wrong with James?"
With the situation escalating so suddenly, Berry was also confused, thinking James might have some serious illness.
James stared at everyone in terror, muttering something while desperately trying to crawl under the table.
Seeing this, a slightly older Mercenary nearby quickly called out to another person.
"Marcus, quick, get out your Squirt Gun! James's PTSD is acting up."
Marcus didn't hesitate; he quickly pulled out an Inflatable Squirt Gun—which completely clashed with the tense atmosphere—from his pocket and shoved it into James's hand.
Only then did Berry hear clearly that James was muttering the word "gun" intermittently. It had been muffled, so she hadn't caught it immediately.
It was truly like magic; after the Squirt Gun was placed in his hand, James actually calmed down slowly, and his body stopped shaking.
Finally, James completely stabilized, and his eyes gradually cleared.
"Funk..."
Coming back to his senses, James patted his head regretfully and slowly crawled out from under the table.
"Phew, that's done!"
Seeing this, the people around him also sighed in relief, slowly pulling up chairs and sitting back down.
Only Berry in the room still didn't quite understand.
Although she had some guesses, she was missing some details.
"It's nothing, just our soldier boy's old problem—PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) acting up."
In academic terms, PTSD refers to a mental disorder that results in delayed onset and persistent symptoms after an individual experiences, witnesses, or is confronted with one or more events involving actual death, threatened death, serious injury, or a threat to physical integrity, affecting themselves or others.
Simply put, it is a psychological disorder that affects a mentally normal person after experiencing the death of others or personally committing homicide.
In modern society, it is a common occupational hazard for professions on the front lines of death, such as police officers, doctors, and soldiers.
Among soldiers, this symptom is even more severe.
This is because soldiers often kill with their own hands and endure exceptional psychological pressure.
After all, police officers and doctors can mitigate the stress using moral factors, such as eliminating evil or saving patients, but soldiers have nowhere to hide.
Often, they kill someone completely unrelated to themselves merely for three thousand eurodollars. No moral justification can explain this, especially when it has nothing to do with defending their country.
Therefore, the probability and severity of PTSD among soldiers are extremely high.
One symptom of this psychological illness is the re-experience of the traumatic scene. Specifically for soldiers, this means they often believe they are still on a life-threatening battlefield.
This psychological disorder can be controlled with effective social care and medical security, but unfortunately, Night City lacks both.
This societal neglect makes the condition more likely to worsen, pushing veterans already suffering from PTSD toward another extreme: Cyberpsychosis.
So, this explains it.
James had an episode right after waking up, thinking he was in a Trench. In a Trench, the first thing you do when danger strikes is look for a gun and cover.
That's why the Mercenaries gave him a water gun, and his condition was alleviated.
As for why the Honeycomb Mercenaries carry Squirt Guns...
Naturally, it's to deal with this exact situation.
After all, he's not the only one with this illness. Long illness makes a good doctor; they've picked up a few tricks.
"But there are benefits, aren't there?"
Seeing the situation under control, the old Mercenary pulled out a cigar, put it in his mouth, and joked with those around him.
"We come back from the battlefield, and Night City is full of gunfights everywhere, just like being back home."
Hearing this, everyone burst out laughing.
Older people know how to find humor in suffering. With that dark humor, everyone cheered up.
Only Berry couldn't laugh.
Watching James, who had just been having an episode, now laughing and talking with everyone as if nothing happened, Berry felt a mix of complicated emotions, unable to pinpoint a clear feeling.
At this moment, Honeycomb, the organization she founded, felt a few degrees heavier in her heart.
The fact that her Honeycomb could take in these veterans, give them money, and offer them legitimate work had undoubtedly helped them greatly.
If she hadn't done this, these socially marginalized veterans would only have two paths for money: entering sweatshops or descending into Gangers—that is the endless abyss.
The now-normal James was just a regular young man.
After all, he was only twenty-six or twenty-seven, in the prime of his youth.
He possessed all the traits of youth: enthusiasm, generosity, and garrulousness. Of course, his skills were also excellent, completely contradicting his ridiculous nickname, "Jumping Shot."
Perhaps because he had encountered too few women in the military, his eyes darted away when he spoke to her, and his speech was stuttering.
But overall, he was indeed a good operative, and Jackie's judgment was spot on.
When it was announced that he was selected for the Special Squad led by Jackie, the young man jumped up three times in joy.
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