In a different part of Blackwell, about a panty toss or two away from Hotrod's pad, a lone modded-up TDE Flügelgeist drone hovered in front of a brick wall. Either Johnny or Sylvain, feeding the view from its mounted cameras to Hotrod's ARO. The view: a logo depicting a circus tent that looked like it was hastily spray-painted onto the wall. It could almost pass for something artful, were it not done up in garish neon spray paint. An ARO displaying an identical logo floated right on top of it, ensuring the eyesore was visible both physically and virtually.
Hotrod clicked her tongue, loathe to leave the comfort of her living room just to clean up some wall a few blocks away. She kicked her feet up onto the glass coffee table, its surface currently littered with empty beer bottles, various colorful pills and inhalers. A NeuroLine command turned on the large screen that sat across from her, broadcasting an ongoing Moto Gladiatorio match. The riders of one team wore seafoam green racing leathers, and the other team was clad in red-and-white.
“That's fucking bullshit,” Hotrod slurred towards the screen. “How are the Orcas losing to the Free Braves?”
Almost on cue, her commlink chirped with an incoming message. She summoned up another ARO and sat up straight to read it.
«Sender: Pizzazz»
«Third period with two minutes on the clock! Get my creds ready, haha!»
Hotrod swiped the ARO away with a grumble and reached out to grab a bottle of beer from the table. Suspiciously light. She tipped it over and two, three drops at best dripped from the neck. With a groan, she kicked herself off the sofa and made her way to the fridge. One step into the kitchen and she kicked herself mentally for not letting one of her drones fetch the beer. “Something's wrong with me.”
She grabbed a glass of water instead. Maybe hydrating herself would get rid of the cobwebs in her brain.
“Unbelievable!” the commentator shrieked from the living room. Hotrod rubbernecked to look at the screen and her face lit up. Current standing, three all. “Orcas with a late equalizer! We are heading into extra time! But first, a word from one of our sponsors, Clean-Oh.”
The broadcast cut into an advertisement for a new detergent variant that promised ten percent more cleaning power, and only twenty percent more expensive. Hotrod downed her glass of water and immediately opened up an ARO to send a reply to Pizzazz for the counter-gloat.
«To: Pizzazz»
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«Extra time? An extra hundred creds says Orcas will smoke the Braves.»
She refilled her glass with more water and walked back to the sofa. The detergent ad concludes with their tagline: “Clean-Oh, it cleans so good it'll make you say ohhhhhh.”
Hotrod grimaced at that. “That's really shit. Whoever gave that the go-ahead is definitely overpaid.”
Another ad played on the screen, prompting Hotrod to glance at the still-open ARO of her drone's camera feed. It still displayed the ugly circus tent logo plastered on the brick wall. “Ugh, fucking Freaks. Guess I'll go and clean that up after the match.”
She issued another NeuroLine command, and the mounted camera on the drone did a full 360° rotation. Nothing out of the ordinary. So far. She leaned back against the sofa and sent a final NeuroLine command to recall the drone. No sense letting it hover out there by itself.
“Welcome back, ladies and gentleman, to the first extra period of Moto Gladiatorio between the Orronshire Orcas and the Bexley Free Braves!” the color commentator shrieked into his microphone again. “The Orcas were in a tough spot earlier, uncharacteristically conceding three points in a row after getting a comfortable two-point lead. A timely equalizer scored by Manon Grandjean extended their hopes of riding away with a win, but let's see how it pans out, here in the first extra period.”
The ref blew the whistle, barely audible over the idling engines of ten bikes surrounding him, and the game was on. The bike riders in seafoam green onscreen seemed to have hit their second wind, riding circles around the opposition. No points scored just yet, though.
Hotrod tried her best to watch the game, but a nagging feeling kept biting in the back her of mind. She clicked her tongue again and kicked herself off the sofa, stalking to her bedroom to get herself decent to go outside. A change of clothes later and she strode towards the garage, starting her trusty Amaya Katana via NeuroLine command. The matte black sportsbike screamed to life and swapped to a rumble as it idled.
She straddled the bike and pulled on the strap of her duffel bag, having it rest snugly against her back. Last check. Her Mühl AMP machine pistol rested in its quick-draw holster. Two spare mags. Her Nautilus-Seaform Nereid rigging command console, two large microfibre cloths and a spray-can of paint stripper sat in the bag. She was ready.
She sighed and sped out of her garage, wondering why being under the influence compelled her to do community service. Considering the short distance from her pad to the wall with the eyesore graffiti, she really didn't need to ride her bike, but that nagging feeling told her she'd need it to make her exit.
She came to a dead stop by the curb and immediately dismounted her bike. In the short amount of time where she didn't have surveillance on it, something got added to the logo. The words ‘Cirque de la Douleur’ in glowing green taunted her.
She flipped the visor of her helmet up, pulled out the spray-can of paint stripper from her duffel bag, and began her cleanup work.
“Stupid fucking clowns and their stupid fucking tags,” she grumbled while scrubbing.