The MEG-8 overpass was almost always empty this time of night, a small miracle in the traffic chaos of Edge District. The side barriers glowed with the reflected light of the amassed traffic in the crowded highways below. Only those with a C-star pass were permitted to drive on the skyway overpasses. Their clean fluorescent yellow and blue lines hummed against the solid black of the MEG-8’s pristine asphalt surface, with only a handful of vehicles luxuriating in the vast space to speed through.

Amado inhaled the cold air through his helmet’s rebreather, body relaxing against the chassis of his bike. The overhead streetlights cast their indifferent gaze onto the road at intervals. They pulsed with a rhythmic whoosh-whoosh around him as his bike sped past each illuminated pole. The twinkling silhouettes of the Edge District Towers rose as he rode towards the black horizon of the freeway. They pierced the dark clouds, towers so high they stood like broken fingers against the neon stains of the night sky. He made his way to the tallest one, a speeding shadow limned in light, his ident-chip gently beeping in his helmet’s HUD at every checkpoint.

After parking the speeder in its charging station, Amado swiftly swiped his keycard before the scanner could check him for weapons. It was always a pain having to approve his own security checks after the scanner would detect the 3 pistols holstered in his jacket.

He sighed, stepping into the empty silence of the 178th floor, before entering his suite. As the door hissed shut behind him, the searchlight of a patrolling chopper briefly illuminated the stark lines of his small but luxurious suite. A world of black and white edges, furnishings made for function, the corners of unpacked boxes casting shadows like eternal staircases. He stepped towards the recessed bed in the centre of the room, his feet muffled against the soft plush of his carpet.

Amado slowly removed his helmet, dropping it haplessly to the side of the bed. His gloves, boots and jacket followed. He was too tired to clean his weapons. Hell, he was too tired to clean himself, for that matter. He absently scratched at his stubble, feeling the dried blood flake off his face. He could still smell the hydraulic fluid on his knuckles from where he’d manage to punch through a powersuit chassis.

Christ, today’s job was such a bad one.

The payoff, as usual, was excellent. But it cost him more in effort and energy these days. Besides, Amado was almost as rich as any of the Big Four, and even better, without any of their responsibilities. He’d even managed to upgrade most of his cybernetic processors so that he didn’t even need a team anymore. It was, on the whole, generally more relaxing to be able to do some of his smaller jobs without a point man jabbering in his ear. It would have been good to have someone there today, though. Even just to tell him to stop punching, the fool was already dead.

Rycker used to do that, hold him back just enough. Or maybe not, since he’d probably not listen to his jabber anyway. Amado sat on the edge of the bed, the lights were still off in the apartment, save for the soft ambient lighting that edged the furniture in a low cool light. He stared at his hands. Even in the general dark of the room, he could still see the remnants of today’s violence, stained and streaked across his synthetic skin.

It wouldn’t have stopped Rycker from tutting, grabbing his hand and bringing it close to his face to inspect. Rycker’s ocular processor would swirl (it would glow bright blue, a stark contrast to the honey gold of his organic eye), lenses focusing and running infinite algorithms to assess the extent of the damage. Amado hated the scrutiny, but never pulled back from Rycker’s grip as he grabbed random tools from his makeshift techmed kit. It was easier to suffer through the inane chatter, and mild reprimands of his former point man as he unnecessarily patched him up, than to argue.

Rycker would just pout, his bright red hair flopping over his good eye (the organic one) and lightly tap Amado’s knee with one of his many badly maintained tools. “Better that I check it now than see you on an actual techmed cutting table, Big Guy.” He’d use one of his more blunt tweezers to straighten the wiring on Amado’s artificial transverse carpal ligament, before rummaging in his poorly organised duffel bag (a cheap Hello Kitty knockoff he’d stolen from a gym) for a miniature solder unit.

“Besides” Rycker would add, after artlessly jamming the solder tip onto the titanium screw that held the ligament in place. “I wouldn’t have to do this to you if you’d only listened to me.”

He’d look up at Amado then, grinning like a teenager in a stickerphoto-booth, the gold of his organic eye brighter than the LED receptors of his cybernetic one. “So next time, listen to me and you wont have me fawnin’ over your pretty little hands.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Amado would then wrench away from his grip, grumbling about impertinent colleagues and not needing useless advice from a hyperactive Netrunner. Then he would test his repaired hand, noting that the slight stutter in his wrist had stopped and that he no longer felt the phantom pressure against the back of his fingers. Rycker’s grin, syrupy and infinitely infuriating, would widen with pride.

“C’mon Big Guy” He’d stand, stretching with satisfaction as he tossed his tools carelessly back into his bag, “You’d be lost, and bored out of your nut without me!” He’d then saunter over to the minibar on the wall and invite himself to a generous amount of Blue Label, before Amado would loom behind him and take back the bottle.

“I’d have peace, and some goddamned blessed silence, is what I’d get.” He’d growl, which never failed to make Rycker’s smile grow even bigger, his mismatched eyes narrowing in mischievous delight. “Now get the fuck out, before I dock your pay.”

Rycker would laugh, gulping the remains of his drink before slithering out of Amado’s apartment, running his fingers down the side of Amado’s arm and tapping off on his knuckles with satisfaction. Rycker would often blow an infantile raspberry at his boss before noisily kicking the door shut behind him.

Amado would sneer at the closed door, listening to the uneven thump of Rycker’s footsteps on the plush carpet before they’d fade out with the muffled ding of the elevator doors.

Now, in the silence of his darkened room, Amado glared at the torn silicone skin across his knuckles. He clenched his fist, feeling the wiring that moderated his ulnar nerves tighten across the misaligned casing in the carpal ligament. He had been clumsy when he’d tried to tighten the screw on the casing last time, which led to a mild twitch in his pinky finger when he relaxed his hand. A minor inconvenience, which had no real consequence on his abilities as an assassin. Now that he didn’t have to share his earnings, he could consider upgrading his arm to a fully mechanised combat arm. The basic loss of tactile sensation could easily be replaced by more expensive jobs and even better upgrades down the line.

He leaned back on the bed, eyes focusing on the reflected lights scattered across the ceiling, streaking overhead like overpass lights against a black road. The soft memory foam ensconced him as he wiggled further up the bed, finally making himself comfortable after what had seemed an endless day.

Speaking of which, he raised his hand to activate the wrist HUD tool. Cool blue and violet holographic screens fanned out above him as he swiped through applications. Amado sorted through the categories until he found his bank app. Finding that he was richer than he was yesterday, he idly began swiping through the other apps. The ghostmaker protocol, an information altering app that Rycker had designed (one of the few useful ones that he still used) began scrubbing through CCTV and news footage in the background. Amado squinted and reached upwards to tap on a floating tabloid page.

The Shadow Killer Strikes Again! Another Falcon & Anson Lawyer struck off the record! The headline flashed in garish orange, sub-headed by a translation in sanskrit. Amado grunted in mild amusement as he watched the ghostmaker protocol hack the cover image of a blurry dark silhouette reflected in the window pane of a burning car, and replace it with a generic stock photo of a building. Of all the places that today’s job would get mentioned, he wasn’t expecting the Kolkata Watcher to be at the forefront of any real journalism. Nevertheless, he smirked as the digital letters spelling out the witness’ quote began to glitch out, only to be replaced with AI generated testimony. He scrolled down, fingers skimming across the junk media content, amused at the connecting article links (US Government hiding aliens in accounting firm! Parisians suing legendary director, Bobby Cage for defamation of city!)

He growled as his pinky twitched, inadvertently tapping a banner ad. The cool wash of light blue gave way to vivid pink and yellow as three screens cascaded open, advertising Virtual Vickis, Holo-Joytoys and the latest from Bad Dragon. Amado rolled his eyes at the winking face of a blue and orange tinted Pleasure Construct, a 3d holographic arm peeking out of the window, beckoning him to click in.

Today had been a bad day, after all…

He swiped the other open windows and tabs away, clicking into his preferred window. Logging into his pre-existing account and grunting in mild irritation as another screen popped up.

[[Welcome Back, A.A, would you like to resume your last session?]]

In the gloom of his apartment, washed in hues of translucent pink and orange, there was no one to judge him for his choices. Just the silence. He closed his eyes and inhaled before opening them again, tapping on the floating neon green ‘yes’ on the interface.

The screen vanished as the media projectors in the ceiling paired with his wrist console, sweeping away the HUD functions and open apps to weave the soft curves of legs straddling his waist, stitching partial-hard light upwards to build a supple torso, long arms leaning over him on either side of his head, and finally, a face, smiling down at him with a mischievous grin. Amado stared at the face, familiar, yet alien, as it glowed in holographic backlight.

Amado reached up to brush the bright red hair from their face, sweeping it away from their golden eyes.

“Heya, Big Guy”, they purred down at him. He sighed as he rested his hand against the curve of their cheek. Inadvertently, his pinky twitched.