Morning Walk

Night City. Neon, Brain Dances, gangs, and preem burritos. Soy, MSG, and synthetic bean wrapped in a bread-like substance. A wave of salt hits my tongue as a blend of meat and vitamins scold my mouth. The XXL Burrito machine sits opposite me beside some Pure Caf vending machines. A half dozen or so benches form a plaza with a handful of trash cans spread amongst them. Everyone's got their own deets, figuring out the next gig, planning their next fix or coming off their current high. No one bothers to watch me.

Good days get better.

The trash was still flowing out of the cans like a river and someone puked chunks last night. Hell, spent condoms litter the tile. Still I’d take it. Better last night than now. I reach down to my frankenstein legs kneading the knotting biobits. Phantom pain mixes with the cold tingle of frayed muscles.

Distraction time. Booting up my antique Arasaka I pick out a city camera that's still in one piece.

*Pinging System*

A rush of endorphins hit the back of my skull, the cramps in my legs vanish in a flood of net code. A slight buzz hit me as the camera pings off two Night City Police loitering around the next block.

I ping a few vending machines, struggling with their internals before I got a high from the info pouring in from their nodes. Breathing out I let the data high come down before I check on my legs.

A spindly bit of bone and meat with synth muscle and some pre, pre, pre, prewar chrome. They still felt a few inches off from where they were. The data coming back to my Araska’s is close to functional. I tighten both sets of legs, lifting the rest of myself up with the grace of a freshly chromed monkey.

Now walk. Half willpower, half self hacking, my legs creak up and stumble. Stumble than walk. I get into a rhythm of dropping and lifting my legs.

Bio bits are cramping, chrome’s screaming, but I’m moving. Pinching my mental dial I tune the radio in.

“Look through my kiroshis’s, all you see is Night City Streets…” the beat of the rap syncs with my legs, smiling, I walk through my hometown.

An array of unknown faces with random bits of chrome and ethnicities pass me. The occasional smell of gun smoke and glitter lounges in the air smothering the trash that congregates on Watson’s Industrial side. Maelstrom chooms nod their head to synth music as the wind pushes in the acrid smell of the factories.

I nod to the beat, “Enticed by the neon lights, I chose my life…”

Making my way past the sex motel and the tweeking joytoys I walk into the lobby of our apartment building. Most of the factories and adjacent apartments died when I was a kid but gramps and his factory marched on.

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I stopped on the third flight of stairs munching on the last bits of my burrito. My back door to the building's security gave me a synopsis of the day.

My upstairs neighbor brought a joytoy home and is having a blast. Side by sides were rocking to some BD’s and the glitter they took this morning was starting to hammer their systems. Granddad waited for me. Sitting at his usual counter side perch, eyes burning holes in the door.

Fifth and sixth floor left me a pile of sweat. Huffing past the BD enjoyers, and barely aware of the rhythmic thump above me, I open the door. Grey hair, a gaunt face, and lean factory muscles frame the old timer. He sits on a stool sipping a fresh brew of caf, the aroma mixing with the tar and burning paint smell of his cigarettes. Guess he was having a good day too.

“Pretty peaceful day out there,” I say, digging through my pocket before finding it.

“That so,” he says nodding in approval as I slide the Mox BD onto the counter.

“Something with MILF’s right?” He nods, taking another sip.

“Don’t take too long in the shower. You smell like vomit.” he says rolling the BD across his fingers.

I nod tossing off my rags as I walk to the shower. A “Burn the Corpo” beater and some cargo shorts going on to the ground with my panties.

The shower took up a corner of our living room. A square of white plastic walls beside rotting carpet. The curtain fell off years ago and well, got better uses for eddies.

Hot water pummels my back. My neck loosens up than my shoulders. Turning around I let my lower pelvis take a beating, uncoiling my hips.

Gramps got up from his usual waiting perch and plops on to the couch sliding the BD wreath over his head. A toothy grin spread across his face.

Drying off with a ventilated towel I pull on an oversized Samurai Hoodie. Then fresh underwear and a pair of cargo pants that I tighten down with a belt. Walking around the clothing piles I slide open the closet door and crawl in. Pretty sure he didn't get it up these days but seeing it once, even in the peripheral, was enough.

I settle into my den, closing my eyes and letting the net take over. The cameras and intercoms integrate into my senses. A jumble of daily lives echoing through my ears and eyes. Street kids huffing glitter, maelstrom gangers downing beers and grease on an off day, a couple going at it with bd’s jacked into their heads. I let those lively gonks settle into the background as I set to work. The node connecting Watson to the outside world wasn’t great but the fixers and gangs kept a decent amount of ICE and wiretaps hanging around. I pinch the dial letting slivers of the ICE defenses make contact with my systems. I have messages.

TRIGGER HAPPY “DATA VIRUS FUCKING WITH MY NEW BLOODS FIX IT!!!”

TRIGGER HAPPY “NOW!!! YOUR GRAMPS PORN STACHE CAN WAIT!”

CRIPPLE “ Back. If you want it done, pick me up.”

TRIGGER HAPPY “ FUCKING GONK! BE THERE IN FIVE NEW BLOODS PUKING ALL OVER MY GARAGE!!!”

I could feel the cybernetic roar from the old war dog, guess I’m making good eddies today.

Picking up a few connectors and my info vizor I shove the Lexington into my side pocket.

“Got work today, be back whenever!” I yell, pushing the closet open and deltaing for the door, “Don’t overdo it this time!” I shout behind me as I toss myself towards the stairs.

I make it to the ground floor wheezing as Trigger Happy pulls up in his armored truck. Synth beats overpowering the roar of the engine; a Maelstrom Spider-Optic tag covers the passenger door. Pulling the slab of steel open I crawl in.

“DOGSHIT PUKE EVERYWHERE!” The borg screams, crashing the truck into gear.