Chapter Text
Cyberpunk 2077: B-Sides
Chapter 1
“The Post-Capitalist Fantasy’
*****
The sky above Night City was the color of sangria, tinted with the smoke of exhaust, swirling itself like the smoke of a cigarette doused inside a discarded cocktail.
Devon spent a lot of time staring up at the sky in the company-mandated 30 second pause between stabbing the doorbell with his finger and either getting an answer from the door or moving onto the next apartment unit. Night City, under a midday California sun struggling through the filter of atmospheric ash, was at its ugliest and most uncomfortable. The noise, heat, smoke and traffic an assault to country-born senses. Since it’s also company-mandated not to break the outline of his uniform khaki pants and blue polo shirt with any personal items (like say, a water bottle), sunset was a precious reprieve. It also left one in awe at the neon skyline, Night City’s masque, hiding the scars all too apparent in the midday.
In times like this he could imagine being somewhere else, doing something else, in the last remaining city where anything was possible.
And then the door opened and hit him with the sight and smell of a middle-aged man in sweat-stained boxer shorts and Night City Slammers jersey.
“The fuck you want?” He spat, his breath tinged with rot, kibble, and SMASH.
Daydreaming over, he glanced at his Agent, switched over to his script, flicker-glanced the drunk’s bloodshot eyes, and dived into his pitch. “Hi there! Sorry for interrupting your evening. I’m Devon, and I’m canvassing for the Night City War Orphans Fund...”
“Fuck off.”
The door, lacking a slam feature, swished close, leaving Demand alone to his own aggrevation.
It’s been the same result all day. He was a canvasser, a professional charity fundraising mercenary who helped causes for a small cut. It was a poor living, the only way to get lucrative with a charity was to own one or be their accountant, but between the streets or crime, it was still a better choice, if not by much.
Charity’s were a hard sell in Night City, doubly so in the tower block he was assigned tonight. He’d preferred the corporate beavervilles or protected burbclaves of the outskirts. There he could scrape up a few eddies from the occasional soft-hearted family, and if he was lucky there’d be enough from his cut to grab a bite to eat and keep his landlord happy.
But then one of his fellow canvassers was caught by Arasaka corpo-police in their beaverville with a forged access pass. The land of plenty was closed to all canvassers until their manager scored some new ones. A reoccurring problem considering his manager was too cheap to get legitimate passes.
So all canvassers, present company included, were reduced to begging eddies from the broke people in the towers they were supposed to help.
At least it wasn’t the Combat Zone, but he didn’t feel comfortable or safe here either. All it took was getting the notice of a boosterganger looking to make a name, or a junkie desperate for what few eddies he managed to scrape up, to make his evening that much more interesting. He was in dangerous territory, and the same rule which denied him his water bottle also left him woefully unprotected.
It was also a neighborhood where the locals didn’t make the Night City Police Department feel welcome, so the police only came when trouble already went down.
He had to be gonk to fundraise in a neighborhood like this. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t in a position to refuse when manager told him it was the only route available, take it or get shitcanned. The rent was past due, he had bills to pay, and he had ambitions of his own to fulfill. There was no saying no when under such desperation.
Every rejection, from the polite ‘No thank you.’ to a gun shoved in his face, kept him further away from his goals.
He couldn’t help but resent it, but not enough to slammit on. Getting violent was bad for business.
“Man, fuck you too.” Demand muttered under his breath, allowing himself that much relief to cope. He took a deep breath and moved onto the next door, rang the bell, and daydreamed a bit more to distract himself from the night’s frustrating repetition.
*****
The air inside the vent kicked billows of dust, taxing her nostril filters and obscuring her vision behind her thick domino mask. Wriggling through the tight opening was a more strenuous workout than her daily routine, she hated its confines, but she was glad to squeeze in far enough to reach the vent cover.
A one-inch punch was like flicking a fly off a counter. The vent cover clattered on a littered floor. Two heavy gloved hands followed, then the light touch of a pair of heavy combat boots.
A tap of her finger and the lenses in her domino mask took on the appearance of milky absinth. She took a look around the room. Nothing in the brilliant colors of thermal vision but tye-dye heat signatures of other tenants in the middle of braindances or watching the vids. None seemed to take notice of her movements.
The room was clear. Enhanced vision switched off, the intruder was alone in her surroundings, which appeared to be long neglected. It wasn’t just the litter or errant laundry left on the floor of this standard conapt unit. It was the dust on top of that. No smell of rot, but the mustiness of long-petrified food. It must have been months since it was inhabited.
She never heard of any apartment in Night City that didn’t stay vacant for more than a week.
Unless something or someone was still holding it.
Feeling secure in her surroundings, she risked using the throat mic, whispering softly, native accent fuzzy under an American filter. “I’m in. You sure this is the right place?”
The voice in her earbud was thick, deep, and slavic. “Tak. Fixer say no other tenant since last one go bye-bye. Client wants trace evidence. We find it, łatwy.”
“Trace evidence. Yeah, we can do that. What are we looking for?”
“You look for DNA sample. Think sources.”
“Gonna be tricky if nobody’s here for a cheek swab, ain’t it Patch?”
“No need, Mei. Check bathroom. Best place.”
She crept slowly and lightly so that even her combat boots didn’t squeak the floorboards. In the bathroom she checked the medicine cabinet, empty but for a few old prescriptions. Then she saw the toiletries. “There! Two toothbruses, a comb, and a brush. They got hairs!”
“Not good, Mei. Be more than one person. We need one person. Only one person.”
“Well, help me narrow it down, choom. Is it a guy or a girl?”
“Let’s see... it’s young man.”
And what young man used a lady’s brush? Mei plucked the comb out of the glass and stuffed it inside an autosealing bag. “Got it.”
“Good. Swab toilet. May get more than one sample. May not.”
“Ugh... gross!” Mei flipped the toilet seat up. Taking a swab and a bag out of her long, black trenchcoat, she wiped a sample off the seat. She dropped the swap into the bag and stuffed it back in her jacket. “Done.”
“Good. Now check bedroom. Find young man’s underwear. Find bedsheets. Good source of DNA. Maybe shine black light, find it on walls? Heh.”
“That’s an image I didn’t need.” She peered into a bedroom. “Nope, this one has lady’s stuff. Hold on, I’ll check the other one... yup, Edgerunners posters, pin ups, definitely a boy’s room. And there’s a basket full of old laundry.”
“Take that. Sheets too.”
She yanked the bedsheets off the bed, stuffed them in the laundry bag, and pulled the drawstring tight. “Done. I think that’s enough.”
“Yes. Get cute little bottom home. We celebrate!”
“You wish, choombata.”
Another voice, related to American but not quite, and heavy with artificial recreation, cut into the line. “We’re pulling the van out back. Time to go, Mei.”
“Jesus, Amarok, give me a sec? My ‘cute little bottom’ barely fit through the vent. All this ‘DNA evidence’ Patch got me hauling won’t fit!”
“Then use the front entrance and run like hell. We’ll swing around and get you.”
“Nova.” was her sarcastic reply. “That’ll wake the neighbors.”
“That’s why I said run like hell. Be there in a minute.”
Even she didn’t know where they parked the surveillance van where the voices originated. She was dropped off earlier and made to go her own way to the site on foot. Real paranoid stuff for a standard break & enter.
For ten thousand euros to pick up some kid’s laundry it was easy money. Then again, ten thousand euros was never easy money. That was the given when the heard the amount. More money meant more risk. The discretion fee left their intel blind too, and the rapidity in which the client paid, was more alarming, making complications inevitable.
One of which came in the sound of a piezo electric buzzer ringing throughout the apartment.
Mei froze in place. Slowly, her finger tapped the side of her domino mask and switched to thermal. She saw a new heat bloom beyond the front door. Human sized, fairly big, a man, with an oversized Agent tablet in his hands.
The buzzer rang again. She dared not move in what felt like the longest half-minute of her day. After some muttering, the person moved on. After he got some distance, Mei risked the throat mic. “Hold on, door to door salesman. Let him clear first.”
“We’ll pull over on the other side of the street. When he leaves, you bug out. Clear?”
“Crystal.” Mei whispered, waiting.
She watched the man make his way to the next door until something halted him. Then she saw why. Four heat signatures, big ones, much hotter than the first one, and not centralized. The heat was in their limbs. Strange, gangly, sharp looking limbs. Many multiple lenses picking up on infrared in clusters like spider’s eyes. Their stride was too fast for a human walk, more of a lope. And in their hands were the elongated blurs of shotguns, rifles, and pistols.
All four were in a surrounding, ambush pattern, clawed cyberlegs like raptors on the hunt.
And converging fast.
“Shit.” Mei whispered. “Maelstrom. Think something’s ‘bout to go down.”
*****
“No thank you.”
“Sorry, I’m busy.”
“No thank you.”
“Thank you for taking your time to do this, but no.”
“No thank you.”
“No thanks, I fuckin’ hate kids!”
“I’m sorry, but I just don’t have any eddies right now.”
“No thank you.”
“Sorry, I have guests over.”
“Can’t you see I’m fuckin’ high right now?”
“Get off my property before I call the cops!”
“No thank you...”
“Sorry, but I really think it’s amazing what you do out here. Thank you.”
When the door closed, he muttered, “Thank me by paying me. Fuck.”
An afternoon’s canvassing introduced Devon to every kind of refusal invented by mankind. It didn’t get him any closer to making his rent on time, much less tonight’s dinner.
He was feeling a little less optimistic about his chances.
Onto the next door. Ring the bell. Look up at the sangria sky. And dream what it would be like to make real paper.
Then he heard footsteps.
After months on this job, he had a good sense of when someone would come to the door. Slight shifts in cheap conapt flooring transmitted themselves as far as the front door and to the deck beyond. It was no different than rural Missouri. One listened to surroundings to get a better read on the situation.
“I swear I heard someone inside.”
Devon shook his head. Some of the cleverer tenants ignored doorbells they didn’t expect. He’d seen it all before, but he could hear and feel movement in the cheap conapt unit.
There wasn’t much he could do about it except ring the doorbell again, make them acknowledge his existence.
There was no answer, and no feeling of any movement. A stubborn choom, that one.
“Whatever. You fakin’ it.” Devon shook his head and moved onto the next apartment. Move, ring, stare at the sky.
It was the part of the night where he felt The Tilt, the psychological headspace where one drowned in their own anger and self-pity due to poor performance. As true in sports and videogames, a canvasser fought The Tilt. Staying positive delayed The Tilt. Victory and success were the only permanent cures. Without it, there was only the slow burn of anger until it irradiated from their souls, the frustration and hostility visible to any Highrider in low earth orbit.
It was probably why he didn’t hear it until it was too late to run.
Footfalls. Lots of them. Outside and with the squeal of metal. Heavy, straight course, with beeline intent.
Not passing through, unless it was to pass through him!
On the second storey of the conapt block, he had three avenues of escape. Two were the stairs on the opposing ends of the rise, straining from heavy metallic footsteps. The third was jumping off the rise and into the parking lot below. A chromed-up person could make the fall on reinforced cybernetic legs. His were standard meat legs, and would break on hitting the pavement.
And then he saw the eyes. Eight tiny red eyes, like spiders, on a barely fleshed, mostly chromed skull. And those eyes looked back at him. Tiny sounds of whirring telescopic lenses and blinking shutters. Taking in all his data. Reading no weapons through enhanced vision, no cyberware beyond simple neuralware and a chip reader. Confirming the canvasser was unarmed and helpless.
“Fuck.” He uttered, his fears of an ambush confirmed and amplified.
The cyborg rested his shotgun rested lazily on his scarred and pitted skinweave shoulders, a clawed ripper hand firmly on the trigger. His friends, flanking both sides, were similar in cyborg appearance, each with a cocky stride and mockery coming out of speaker boxes for throats, as the situation looked brighter for them and abysmal for Devon.
There was only one boostergang who chromed-up this close to cyberpsychosis.
Maelstrom, a gang with a vicious reputation for violence and bloodshed.
Maybe the pavement wasn’t such a bad idea?
No, he was being robbed. Again. If he jumped he’d be robbed and injured, and him with no Trauma Team plan. And that’s if they let him live.
“Fuck.” Devon dropped his agent and raised his hands. “Come on, guys. Please leave me alone.”
A Maelstrom cyborg cackled, his voice like mocking parody of Devon’s plea mixed with warped static. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
The leader of the group stepped up, cradling his shotgun. “We ain’t gonna leave you alone. You’re in our turf, choomba, and I don’t remember inviting you over.”
Devon pleaded, “Hey man, I’m just doing my job, y’know? Boss tells me where to go and I go, y’know?”
“No, I don’t know. Ain’t had no job, y’know?” Joked the leader, racking a shell. “Ain’t hirable, y’know?”
“I think it’s the tattoos, boss!” One of the Maelstrom cyborgs cackled.
“Yeah, that’s gotta be it.” The leader strode forward. “And thanks to corpo discrimination, I ain’t got no scratch. But you do, don’t’cha, choom?”
“Look, I got twenty dollars in my Agent.” Devon said, rapidly. “That’s enough to let me go, right?”
A clawed metal hand grasped him by the back of his head and threw him to the ground. He tasted his own blood from his nose, felt the floor against his skull and the claws yanking his head back to expose the two datachip ports on the side of his neck.
“Twenty eddies? TWENTY EDDIES!” Howled the crazed Maelstrom borg. “That all you got!”
Devon murmured through a mouthful of metal limb and the unyielding ground. “Yeah, honest! I’m canvassing for a charity. Ain’t nobody got paper up in here!”
“That’s because we’re all fuckin’ poor here, stupid!” He felt the shotgun’s barrel prod his spine. “But tell ya what, you work a charity? Well, I’m a man in need. Start with me! Gimme your eddies!”
“In the Agent! Over there!” He pointed to his dropped tablet.
“Twenty eddies and a cheapass Agent.” One of the other borgs commented. “Whatta haul.”
“Aww man.” Devon lamented, “Give a guy a break! That’s the company’s Agent. Bustin’ that shit comes out of my commission!”
“Awww, it’ll come out of his commission!”
“Kibble ‘n’ scop for you tonight! HAHAHAHAHA!!!”
“Yeah, don’t worry yerself. I’ll keep it for ya! Make sure it don’t get busted!”
A gale of cybernetic laughter came from the cyborgs. He was one bad move from being flatlined by homicidal maniacs, but his caution didn’t override his pride in this instance. Devon’s hateful glare launched like the last desperate weapon in his pitiful arsenal, and caught the Maelstrom leader in his spider eyes.
It caught the attention of his flunkies too. “Hey boss, he givin’ you the stink eye.”
“He think’s he’s a tough guy! HAH!”
He felt suborbital launches with less g-forces than the cyberpsycho’s metal fingers grabbing him by the polo shirt and rag-dolling him in the air, and the reintroduction to terra firma only considered gentle by nomad bullriders. His everywhere hurt, from his still-human spine to his original meat-parent made ribcage as the ‘borg leader’s metal hand pressed painfully down. He heard the ‘borg’s enhancements at work, from the click of tiny servos, the ropy pull of tightening myomer artificial muscles, to the whoosh-chunk of its powerful hydraulics, as the leader’s chromed, taloned foot, crunched down on plastcrete, gouging furrows, slow and powerful. It was all done to intimidating effect, ime enough for Devon to imagine what part of him would easily be crushed.
“And for that we’re gonna take the rest of your eddies!” The cyborg flipped Devon and yanked his head back, tore open the synthskin cover and exposed two metal slots. “Jack into his port and lift the rest from his bank account!”
It might have been his rotten day, or his rotten life, and the events that led up to him working a rough neighborhood while being one bad earning day away from eviction, all while being dumb enough not to go out without a piece. After all he survived, from gang shootings to life out in the reclaimed small towns of middle America, this was how he died? A cyberpsycho attack while begging for change?
He was warned by everyone when he planned the big move.
‘Night City: Shit Happens.’
He could have put it on a tourist t-shirt and made eurobucks that way.
It was all absurdly dark, and in it incredibly humorous.
All Devon could do was laugh, and laugh hard.
“What’s so fuckin’ funny?” asked the ‘borg who pinned him.
Devon couldn’t shake his head, being held immobile, but he could speak his contempt. “If I got any eddies for ya, you think I’d be doing this job?”
The ‘borg shrugged. “Then we get to watch as my friend’s black ice slow-roasts your fuckin’ brain now, won’t we?” As the gangers cackled, Devon felt the cold stab of a cable into his neck. “’Cause it ain’t about the eddies. It’s about respect, and if you don’t show it, we show you what happens.”
Helpless, afraid, and moments from death, the certainty of it all took the heavy weight of his mortality off him.
All that was left was to wait for the black ice program to crack his cyberware like an egg. It was probably cheap ice too, would leave him in a seizure on the pavement and open to any other treatment. Maelstrom wasn’t gentle. He’d be lucky if he survived mutilation.
“Man, fuck you too!”
Why not let The Tilt win while facing down his own death?
*****
“Shit! They got my way blocked!” Mei hissed. “How soon you gonna be there?”
“Another minute.” She heard the squeal of tires and the sound of screaming traffic in Amarok’s mic. “Sit tight! Have they noticed you?”
She switched off her thermals and crouched. “Not yet. They’re hassling some burn-brain doing door-to-door.”
Amarok said, “Last thing we need is a civilian in the middle of a dust-up. Hold your position.”
“Maybe they’ll just take his eddies and run...” She stopped on hearing a huge thump outside the door. There was lots of synthesized shouting, the mood turned from heckling to outright hostility. The one natural voice, pained and labored for breath, held the tone of someone who saw their own future and it was ten seconds short.
His last defiant spat of attitude was turning into a self-fulfilling prophesy under the shadow play of the blinds covering the living-room window.
Four ‘borgs. And the civilian prone while one of them jacked into his chipware slot. Not the best odds.
She faced worse.
Mei backed to the kitchen and switched off her thermals. Taking a crouch, she said, “Sorry, he’s about to get flatlined. I’m going in.”
“Mei, don’t...” She tapped the boring conversation button on her mic. Amarok’s nagging would have distracted her as she settled in a slammit on mood. Her legs tightened, her gloved fingers crinkled, and her eyes focused on the moving shadows.
A track-and-field dash across the conapt, a jump off the top of the coffee table, and a tuck of her arms, and she was through the cheap conapt’s window like a cannonball, to unfurl her heeled combat boots, driving fine optic lenses on two ‘borgs on each of her sides past their metal and into their meat.
Optics could see everything and put her domino mask to shame, but these ‘borgs took it to such an extreme there was always a chance at sensory overload, when their world got distorted to a spiderweb of busted lenses. Or no visuals at all when the whole multioptic mount failed entirely. Leaving them blind and scrambling for a visual.
Their leader, and the hacker who was just as astonished as their mark to see Mei Li bust through the window, were still active. The leader levelled a shotgun in Mei’s direction, racked a shell, and opened fire.
The leader ‘borg was all about power. He wasn’t nearly as fast, even with enhancements. Mei saw his movements and jumped, her legs bracing her between the wall and a support post as buckshot whistled below her crotch. She didn’t waste time to watch the ‘borg pump his shotgun out of fury. She leapt off her split stance and kicked the shotgun out of his hands.
Devon and the hacker ‘borg were enthralled by the poetry of her movements. It was like watching a kung-fu braindance, her moves darting and striking, hitting what little meat showed visibly on the leader ‘borg’s body with price and rapid chain punches. The ‘borg’s arm flicked open a massive mantis-claw, a ‘wolver’ capable of slicing the darting, black-clad, trenchcoat-fluttering fighter in two. The ‘borg didn’t lack the effort, but held a huge gulf in capability when she ducked the wolvers and kicked his knee out from behind, buckling the massive chromed-up body.
“HACK HER!” The leader demanded out of vox-distorted panic.
The Hacker worked his nerve back enough to function the Agent in his hands, switching it to wide-read and searching in her direction. He couldn’t get a proper track, her movements were too fast, dashing like a mongoose, weaving like a snake. The leader ‘Borg had the speed and enhancements, but she made him look slow and clumsy with each punch and kick landed.
“I can’t! The bitch ain’t chrom...”
Pure martial-arts poetry in Devon’s eyes. He’d never seen anyone gonk enough to take on a Maelstrom borg using nothing but kung-fu. It looked like she was winning too, but all it would take was one good hit from the ‘borg to turn the spirited fighter into roadkill.
Devon well acclimated himself to the reality of the situation faster than the hacker ‘borg, and while he attempted to patch into the nimble fighter’s non-existent cyberware, Devon pulled pistol from the holster of one of the blinded and writhing Maelstrom ‘borgs, pressed it against the hacker’s temple, and pulled the trigger. Meat brains and cybernetic components dashed like a busted Faberge egg, his last words caught in distortion as metal and meat permanently ceased to work in simpatico.
One of the blinded ‘borgs regained enough vision to see the hacker fall limp to his feet. It didn’t take long for its cyber-addled brain to identify the source of hostilities. He found the little fighter, roared a synthesized battle cry, unleashed a scythe-like wolver, and charged.
“BEHIND YOU!” Devon shouted.
Mei dropped past the leader’s clawing arm and drop-rolled underneath the wolver of the other ‘borg. Her body could have kept its momentum, but bumping into Devon halted her, tangling the two together.
And facing down one of the ‘borg’s wolvers in a downward swing.
Devon had the stolen pistol in his hand.
Top of the line, or a cheap Dai Lung Streetmaster like the one in his hand, the steps didn’t change. Aim down the sights, hold your breath, and fire.
The first two shots punched through the subordinate borg’s chest. Not nearly as chromed-up as his leader, the ‘borg’s blood poured through his metal jaws as he fell and bled.
The leader, mockingly and uncaring about the fate of his henchman, almost came down with his wolver.
Devon’s shots walked up the cyborg’s chest and to his head, each impact answered with a curse.
*pop* “Fuck!” *pop* “Fuck!” *pop* “Fffrrrrrkkk!” *pop* “Ffffrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...” *pop* “KKKkrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!” *pop*
The ‘borg leader, more metal than meat, found the limits of his transhumanistic makeover, as even hardened metal skulls were not infallible to a roof-of-the-mouth penetrating shot from a Dai Lung Streetmaster.
He fell like strings cut on a puppet, blood mixed with hydraulic fluid, cyberware twitched rigor-mortis from misfiring nerve clusters.
He no longer felt The Tilt.
And if there was any doubt, he saw the domino mask slip off his rescuer’s face. What struck him first was the skin. Her light freckles, her epicanthic folds, and her short, spiky black hair, all natural from neck to scalp. There were no panels, no lines, no tattoos. In Night City culture it screamed so far from the edge they joined pocket protectors and slide rulers on the coolness scale.
After what he watched, he was reminded of the first rule of cool in Night City. Style over substance, and this woman showed massive surpluses and export capability.
It certainly was cooler than Devon’s corpo-mandated polo shirt and khaki, no matter much he tried to front a tough appearance, or balancing it by sporting the Constitutional Arms Tactician shotgun he picked up off the ground.
The woman’s smile showed her mild amusement. “Seriously, you must be short-circled going door-to-door in this neighborhood. What were you thinking?”
He looked down at the floor, feeling foolish for acting thuggish after the fact. “Yeah, well, I like food and shelter more than I hate my boss, so here we are, living the post-capitalist fantasy.”
She nodded her head. “Ain’t that the truth. Hey, if it’s any comfort, thanks for the save.”
“Yeah.” Devon said. “Living is kind of a comfort. And thanks for saving me first.”
The mask went back on, and she was back to the less-genuine cool of an action-flick Kato-inspired poserganger.
They heard a crash over the balcony. The last remaining ‘borg crawled itself over the edge, crashing into the roof of a car. It shook off the remains like a wet dog and limped away from the wreckage. He came to a halt when a black courier van skidded to a halt and opened its side door, and one of the biggest chromed-up monster solos he’d ever seen stepped out, shouldered his Militech Ronin assault rifle, and unceremoniously cut the ‘borg down like grass.
Devon was about to duck for cover until she put a hand on his shoulder. “Chill. That’s Amarok. He’s with me.” She waved to the massive rifleman. “Yo! Choom! Hold your fire! The dork’s with me!”
Amarok shouted, “No shit. New output?”
“You wish!”
Another voice, a well modulated voice Devon swore he heard from a song, said, “Awww, ease up. You know his dick’s a total weeb.”
“Yeah, I know. Apparently I’m not the right kind of asian for him. His loss!”
“Your dick become bigot when I install Mr. Studd, yes?” Another voice, Patch’s commented from the back.
Amarok rolled his eyes as he disconnected his smartgun cable from his optic port. “Whatever. Are we going, or you need to set up a dinner date.”
She turned to Devon and sighed, “Sorry, that’s my ride. Gotta jet.”
Devon nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Parting’s such sweet sorrow and all.”
She chuckled. “Got a way with words, neh?” She offered her hand. “Li Mei-Li. Chooms call me Mei.”
“Yeah, I’m Devon.” He shook her hand. “I mean, that’s my name and all. Ain’t got no handle.”
“Really?” She said, bemused. “Well, work on that.” She climbed over the broken glass and back into the apartment. “Go ahead and klep what you want off the ‘borgs. Nobody’s gonna miss ‘em anyways.” A sack of laundry was thrown out the window and onto the street below. She climbed back out. “And while you’re at it, get yourself a new job and some better clothes. You won’t demand much respect looking like that.”
“Like it was my choice.” He picked up his Agent, and spied a wad of eddies on the leader’s body. “But yeah, fuck eviction. I’m gonna ask for a day off.”
Amarok waved vigorously for Mei’s attention. She waved back and was about to jump off the ledge when she stopped. “Suit yourself, but I’m sure you noticed nobody gets nothing by asking nicely.”
Devon chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right. I think I’ll ‘demand’ it.”
Mei nodded with respect. “Demand. Sounds preem.”
“Yeah, ‘spose it does.”
Her smile lost its sarcastic edge. “Keep it. It’s yours. Cya around!”
Devon wasn’t sure if she referred to the handle, or what she palmed into his free hand before she jumped off the ledge, landed on the busted roof of a car, bolted into the courier van, and sped away. When he looked down into his palm he held an ebon business card with stark, white font and the silhouette of a pinup girl with bunny ears and an automatic rifle for a logo. Below it stamped a name.
Usagi Edge Operations.
Or as the raised fonts implied by acronym, U.E.O. Further below was citynet and Agent contact information.
He felt the dead hacker ‘borg’s agent dangle from his chipware slot. He yanked the cable out and took a look at the new piece of hardware. A better model than his company-assigned unit. His now. So was the shotgun. He collected the pistols, mostly cheap Dai Lung Streetmasters and polymer one shots, popular with gangers on a budget. The Federated Arms X-9mm was worth keeping, he tucked it under his belt. The rest of the guns he stuffed in his carryall bag.
It was when he reached for another Streetmaster that he saw a bundle in the pocket of the dead ‘borg leader.
A big, thick, wad of eddies.
Company policy was to take any such ‘contributions’, report it, and get his usual ten percent cut. Then again, it was company policy not to fight back since it ‘undermined the charity’s reputation’. He decided not to report the dead ‘borg’s ‘donation’ to corporate and stuffed it in the carryall.
He made another decision that was about to affect his life. His shift ended now, tonight, an hour early. His job was ending as soon as he came to the office and returned the company Agent device and his gonk uniform. His bridges would burn as soon as he made demands for better work conditions. New Agent devices, legal beaverville access cards to get into safer routes, light armorjacks for every canvasser, and no more working in innercity conapt blocks that were one major crime away from becoming combat zones. If his supervisor didn’t sign a legal contract to the effect in front of his eyes, he’d take one of those cheap guns and asked whether or no his supervisor had an armorjack for himself.
What were they gonna do? The charity wasn’t backed by a major corpo like Arasaka or Militech, and the NCPD was too understaffed and overwhelmed to bother with every single minor assault case.
And if the his supervisor still had the stones to say no, he had other ways to hit them where it hurt.
He wasn’t just a canvasser. He was a Rockerboy, and he had a list of demands.
Demand.
The handle did sound good.