Bubblegum Crisis Fan Fiction ❯ Yours Truly 2032 ❯ 3: Riders on the Storm ( Chapter 3 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

The blue and pink paint on the armour was scratched in places, the dull ceramic underneath showing itself. I could see how the suit flowed across the human body, and worked with the feminine form, almost like a piece of steel lingerie. Inside, it was lined with what looked like neoprene, a few golden plugs glinting back at me. The suit was missing its vanes, they were lying beside the helmet on the workbench, and part of the computer inside was exposed through a meticulously milled stainless steel screen.

It was Nene's hardsuit

Anime/Manga: Bubblegum Crisis Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Cyberpunk / Mecha / Sci-fi | Type: Self Insertion | Uploaded On: 07.20.2009 | Pages: 65 | Words: 61.5K | Visits: 942 | Status: Work In Progress

Yours Truly, 2032

Yet another BubbleGum Crisis SI, in the traditional form

Bubblegum Crisis....(c) Artmic/Youmex.

I'm just borrowing this for a while, for some Fair Deal fun.

Mmmkay?

Big Thank You to Antagonist, and the folks at TFF for taking a look see over this. Now onto public beta

3: Riders on the Storm.

----->>

Work didn't give me much time to think, and for that I was thankful. I didn't get any extra pay for covering for Priss, but I was able to get the time off. As Ken always said, “Never refuse your landlord”

That and he owed me one for covering on such short notice. I still hadn't decided whether I was actually going to use it or not. I'd be down 2-3 days pay, at least, though time off to rest would be nice. I'd been hoping to do some of the monthly checks and maintenance an artificial body demanded on Sunday, maybe I could get that done sooner.

33-S were maintenance free in theory only. GENOM released software updates on the last Friday of the month and I was a few months behind. There was also some contamination of my bloodstream thanks to the city air, but nothing serious and I needed to add some metals to my diet. It was really an excuse to laze around in my nightwear for a day, rather than go shopping for food, do laundry, or any of the other necessities of life.

I had the whole weekend off work now to do all of that.

I still hadn't decided if I was going to take Sylia's offer or not. A million yen was a lot of money, and I wanted to get Irene out of the city.... but what I wanted didn't really matter when it came to risking my neck and the life I was starting.

Friday morning and I still hadn't decided for sure.

My goal was to get home... and I was slowly scratching together the price of a plane ticket. Maybe six months, a year and I'd have what I needed. Just because this wasn't my universe, or whatever, didn't mean it wasn't my home. It was the closest I'd get for the time being anyway, barring a random door on a beach.

A million yen would do it in a heartbeat. A weekend's work for 10,000 €, or thereabouts? That'd be First class return flights all the way there and back. Why back to MegaTokyo? In case I didn't like what I found when I got home, that's why. I had a life of sorts here, and I didn't want to strand myself away from it. I may have been a little homesick, but I did like living here.

Do I really want to risk that life entirely, though?

I didn't have any useful skills, not from a high-tech vigilante standpoint anyway. I didn't have Sylia's leadership or Priss' combat abilities. I didn't have Nene's hacking and computer skills, or Linna's agility and grace. My technical knowledge was two decades out of date... except with regards to 33-S boomers.... my riding skills were marginal, and I'd never fired a gun in my life.

Yeah... I was genre-savvy enough to know that I'd be the redshirt... I'd be going along only to show just how dangerous the situation was for the main characters by snuffing it. While Sylia might be genuine in her intentions, the universe would have its own ideas.

And then I realised I was just being paranoid and stupid... forgetting that this wasn't some OVA series, but a living, breathing world where I lived.

Repeat ad nauseum.

That was all I could think about for most of Friday. It was a never ending loop, hogging more and more of my processing time, and giving me headaches.

Truth was, I really didn't know what I wanted to do. I spent my life taking the safe path, and I was content with that. Here I was, doing the same thing... settling into the same routine day in and day out.

I was a completely different person, living a new life in a new universe. I could change every single thing about myself, and who I was. Meg Deckard had no history, no life before May 28th 2032. People would kill for this sort of opportunity, a chance to be a new person, a chance to make some changes in the very fabric of who I was.

I had a blank sheet of paper to write my future on.

The face I saw in the mirror was different, but I was still doing the same things, making the same choices. I wanted to say mistakes, but I genuinely didn't see them as such. I wanted to do something different, but 'different' was dangerous, and danger was bad.

Story of my life really. And there I was, writing it again... almost a carbon copy...only the names and places were different. So why didn't I do the safe thing that first night and run as far away from Irene as possible?

If I'd done the 'safe thing', I'd probably be sleeping in a back alley with no roof over my head with only a bike and an empty petrol tank for company...or much worse. I took the risk, and was rewarded for it, with a house, a job, and a start at life. Of course, I nearly got myself killed... and then my mind circled right back to the start again.

It was 5 o'clock on Friday afternoon, and I'd just finished dinner. As usual, some of it had gotten stuck in my canines, but I'd worked out an easier and less painful way of getting it out. Instead of poking it out with toothpicks, I stood over the sink, set the tap running, and blasted my teeth clear with a high pressure spray of blood. It wasn't more than a few millilitres, but it did the job.... even if perfluorocarbons tasted like steel mixed with sickening chemical disinfectant.

Something about what I'd just done though, made me pause. Watching the almost pink liquid swirl around the drain, drying a few stray drops off of my lips, I thought of Sylvie and Anri.

I felt strangely guilty, and I wasn't sure why.

Because I am free now...

I am free too. Freer than I should be.

Suddenly I switched to a different tack.

What do I most want to do? What would be the best ending for me?

I almost berated myself for going back to the whole 'this isn't a TV show' train of thought. But, if 'all the world's a stage' as the Bard once wrote, and we're just characters acting out a story for some sadistic God's amusement, what do I have to do to get the best ending for myself, to fulfil what was most important to me at that moment?

Then I had my answer.

----->>

There was the Lady633, glittering in the early evening sun, the glass walls of Sylia's penthouse reflecting the streets below, the heavy evening traffic clogging everything up...as usual. I'd been standing across the road from The SilkyDoll for nearly ten minutes watching the odd customer take a break from their rush home, wondering if I really was making the right choice here.

I could see shadows moving around inside, filtering through lace bodices and satin nightgowns.

18:43:37

I swallowed my dinner again, for the second time in as many minutes. I want to do this. I want to help Irene. I want to get enough money to go home. And the way to do that was across the road and through that revolving door.

Alright, here goes nothing.

Just try not to get run over crossing the road. Traffic had ground right to a halt. Just watch for bikers filtering, or anybody making a jump for a lane, and done. I stood right in front of the door, desperate not to throw up. A granny... who looked old enough to remember World War 2...shuffled out, with what looked like a pink lace nightie in her bag. She gave me a mischievous wink and the devil's own grin, before hobbling off to wherever she wanted to go.

The underwear makes the woman, huh?

I still didn't get it.

I tried to picture myself wearing some of the things in the window, but my body in anything remotely lacy just seemed hilariously inappropriate. My usual jacket and jeans combo was fine... and what was the point of sexy underwear if nobody would ever see it on me anyway?

Well, swallow my fears and push through the door. I want to do this.... I want to do this.... And the more I repeat it, the more I believe it.

I didn't feel ashamed because I was standing in a lingerie shop, I felt ashamed because I was standing in an expensive lingerie shop. I felt a little like a Fiat owner in a Ferrari dealership. There wasn't anything here I could afford. Even the bargain bucket had a label on it with a number larger than the amount I had in my wallet.

I felt strangely small, and impossibly jealous of some jeans-wearing woman rooting gleefully through. There was nothing like not being able to have something to make you ache for it, even if you didn't actually want or need it.

I forced my focus away from the racks of delicates.... I was here for a job. Mackie was standing behind the till, looking half asleep in his mechanics dungarees. Last chance to turn back, I told myself. I had an escape plan. Just check the price of something, act shocked and stroll out the door never to hear from Sylia again.

With each step, the sensible voice in my head told me that Mackie hadn't seen me, that I could still leave. “Do you really want this sort of life?”, it asked. “Really? No... Not really... I didn't want to be shot at. I didn't want to get stabbed by a boomer's needle nails, I didn't want to get blown to pieces by a grenade. I did want a million yen. I did want to get Irene out of this city... I didn't want that lingering on my conscience every day for the next 34 years.

Is that your final answer?

Yes!... Yes it is! I only have to do this once, just this one time, then I'll have enough to get home, to get a new bike, and maybe make life a little more comfortable on top of that. Just this one time...

In the same way the journey into hell always starts with just one single step.

“Excuse me Miss, can I help you?”

“Too late!” screamed the sensible voice, a bolt of terror shooting up my back.

I wished to God I could find some way to shut that voice up. Okay... here I am... what was Sylia's code-phrase again? I leant down against the counter trying to remember it. The sensible voice had changed the bloody filename to hide it, hadn't it?

“I am looking for million yen nightgown, I was told talk you,” my voice was shaking as I spoke. The boy mechanic's eyes were fixed at a point a few inches below my chin, “And my face up here,” I added deadpan, pointing to my cheekbone.

“Um...Sorry,” the boy gulped, his eyes darting up to mine.

I could sense the fires of teenage passion roaring within him, touching off that mischievous spark lingering deep within me. I knew what my revenge would be. I stared right into his eyes, deliberately stoking the flames with savage glee. I could see the hot embarrassed blush spreading across his cheeks, burning red. I knew what I was doing and I loved it. It was my power and I would revel in it. It was my strength, my special ability, the one thing I could do which no-one else could. My confidence rose up behind me, power flooding my veins, beating him down into the ground.

And I knew from personal experience that the best way to get revenge on a teenage boy was to stoke his fires, and leave him without a fire extinguisher. I'd been on the receiving end more than once...

“You are boy, you can not help it,” I waved it off with a polite smile, backing off the throttle just enough so he didn't blow up. ”Now, can you help me?”

He swallowed the lust building in his body, “Sis is waiting for you,” he stuttered, “You have to go to the stockroom and ring the bell on the elevator,” he swallowed again, trying desperately to keep his eyes on my face, “Just let her know you're here and what you're looking for,”

“Thank you,” I grinned, backing everything off.

I left him there in a bad way, and with a few moments hindsight, I felt the first butterflies of guilt begin to flutter up. Here I am getting all hung up on how disgusting sex and stuff would be, and I leave a teenage boy standing in a lingerie shop still burning with lust.

I don't understand my head sometimes.

And worst of all, I was a traitor to mankind... `Though how could I be a traitor if I wasn't even human anymore?` asked another part of my mind. Besides, what I did to him would've worked if he'd been girl, or if I'd been a male model. Hell, that might've been funnier... to leave the boy with gender identity issues too.

Jesus Christ when did I get so cruel?

Surrounded by boxes of panties, I was giggling quietly into one hand while I pressed the call button for the lift. Maybe nervousness was a contagious disease, and the best way to get rid of it was to offload it to some other poor sod. And just not think about it. Already a few sharp pangs of fear were starting to bite deep, with a few more nips when Sylia's voice answered through a small metalplate speaker.

“Stingray, who is it?” it asked in tinny, transistorised tones.

“It is Deckard,” I said, my words straining taught, “I am here for million yen nightwear,”

“Oh Meg, I knew you'd come,” said the speaker with calm cheerfulness, “We're all up here waiting, I'll send the elevator down to meet you,”

“Thanks,”

Oh hell....

A brick wall of apprehension slammed into me.

This was really it now. The brushed metal doors opened, a soft electric chime beckoning me in. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here,” I muttered to myself, stepping inside the mirror lined carriage.

My own reflections stretched off into infinity all around me, each one illuminated by a train of spotlights, giving me headaches as my systems tried to analyse each and every one, checking for any potential threats. I focused my gaze dead on my shadow staring back at me from the shot-peened door. I'm doing this... I'm really doing this. Excitement warred with terror. I was going to see the Knight Sabers.. I was going to see the real-steel hardsuits.... I was going to get shot at, chased and generally placed in extreme mortal peril some time over the next three days.

And it was much too late to do anything about it.

“Bloody hell.... oh bloody hell,”

My voice was shaking like a leaf in a gale. I tried to call up that same confident surge I'd felt when I'd 'embarrassed' Mackie... I tried to swallow all my fears and compress them down into a little ball deep in my stomach. I tried to be the fiery, self-confident redhead I'd obviously been built to be.

All my fears lurched up the back of my throat, trying to spray themselves across the door when the lift finally juddered to a halt. My hands were shaking. Ashamed, I jammed them hard into my pockets. Shivers and chills ran helter-skelter through my body.... and I wasn't even in any actual danger yet.

Another electric chime, followed by the hollow rumble of the doors splitting themselves open, and I was faced with Sylia standing there, waiting for me. How she managed to look so elegant despite a bare cleavage and midriff I didn't know... but God damn. It must've been Sylia's special ability, or some sort of forcefield effect caused by the shimmering pearls on her earrings.

“Good evening, Meg.” she greeted with incongruously cool warmth “The rest of the team is in the living room waiting, with tea, coffee and cakes if you'd like,”

“Thanks,” I nodded, swallowing a lump, following her through a short hallway.

“That was very cruel what you did to Mackie, by the way,” she said with the mildest disapproval, “He has to stay down there for another two hours like that,”

I gave a bark of a laugh, finding the thought of the poor kid standing there all hot and bothered in a lingerie shop, with shapely women measuring silken delicates up against their ample figures, absolutely hilarious. Sylia agreed with a polite alto chuckle, hidden behind her right hand.

“Well, he will not stare again,” I stated,

“Yes, he will,”

Somehow, she seemed more at ease in her own apartment, more relaxed and unguarded. I tried to read her again, but the only signals I got back told me she was human, and even then I wasn't too sure about her. There was something 'off' about her... and I still couldn't place what it was. It wasn't like she was a cyberised human being....they were usually more obvious... she was just different, almost on the lip of the pheromone uncanny-valley

I glanced at a photograph hanging on the wall, of a young girl in a polka dot sundress standing beside a scientist...who if he'd been wearing something other than a white labcoat, might've looked like he'd belong on stage with ELO with those sunglasses and pushbroom moustache. I wondered if Sylia's strange signals had anything to do with her father.... but that's the sort of question you'd never ask a person.

I followed her into a living room smelling of polish, hot bread and coffee, plush leather sofa's and...oddly... motorcycle exhaust. The three women of the Knight Sabers were arrayed before me, with the Koyaanisqatsi vista of evening MegaTokyo with its lights slowly flickering to life as a backdrop

“....so the asshole just pulled right out on me... without even looking,” Priss complained, “he was lucky I didn't spear through his door, but the GP-z was a write-off. Sorry Mate I Didn't See You was all the blind asshole had to say for himself.”

Some things, I guess, never changed. I lost my first bike the exact same way.... two weeks after I'd gotten it.

“Well maybe you should drive slower,” piped up Nene, mouth full of scone, “Another speeding offence and you'll be limited to whatever speed the bus travels at,”

“Damn it” growled Priss... “And if you keep eating those scones, your weight will limit your hardsuit's speed too.”

Sylia interrupted with a cough, placing a single hand on my shoulder. Electricity flowed from her fingertips, and I felt my whole body tense up with lightning fear.

“I assume you've all met Meg Deckard, she'll be joining us for this mission. Now, if you'll take a seat Meg, we'll get started,”

The way Sylia was speaking, you'd swear she was starting a weekly book club meeting. And that's almost what it felt like, with Nene sitting on a couch beside a silent television in her AD Police uniform, Linna on a single armchair with her handbag beside her, and Priss on the other armchair wearing her crash-scarred red leathers ....and a scuffed Shoei helmet on the floor beside her hard-booted foot.

She was glaring at me through her fringe, chilling the entire room with her gaze.

“Hi,” I said meekly, and took the opposite end of the couch between the ADP officer and the food. Comfy....so comfy and soft I could melt into it.

“Don't get between Nene and the food, or she'll eat you too,” teased Linna.

“Oh shut up will you!” snapped back the wounded policewoman, “I've had less doughnuts in my life than you've had boyfriends in the last week.”

The dancer turned red with rage. “I'm between stages in my life, while you're between dress sizes...”

“Ladies,” chimed Sylia in, with a gentle tap on the brakes.

“I live alone, and get no larger” I stated... completely butchering what I'd meant to say anyway.

“And you won't get a boyfriend if you keep wearing cheap unflattering clothes like that denim,” jibed Linna.

I scowled, but before I could compose anything resembling a reply, Sylia finally jammed on hard with another harsh “Ladies!” in a tone that reminded me of a teacher I once knew.

“Now then, we can begin,”

Today's book is 'Small team tactics in an urban environment by former SAS member Ryan McDodd' I remarked internally. I didn't dare say that out loud, but with a little human interaction my fears had begun to melt away. Right until Sylia pulled a screen down out of the roof and the lights died. The windows themselves dimmed, turning almost opaque, flooding the room with darkness before a single projector lens in the roof whirred to life, casting the spotlight on the Knight Sabers' leader.

“As I'm sure you all know, about a month ago, a Bu-33-C model boomer under GENOM control made an attempt on the life of Irene Can. Fortunately, this was foiled,” she looked down at me, her face still as warm as if she was giving a reading from her book of the month, not a military-style briefing to three vigilantes and a redshirt, “though not without injury to Irene herself,”

That knot in my stomach started to return, and I crossed my legs trying to keep it inside.

“Sometime afterwards, I was in contact with Irene's family in Hong Kong, who requested our help extracting her from the city. We will be receiving our standard fee for this mission, and each of you will receive an equal percentage share, minus any equipment costs,”

I could see Linna counting it out on her fingertips, joyfully figuring numbers in her head. Priss' eyes shone with reflected light through her cowlick fringe like a demon's

“Originally, it was planned to be a straightforward dropoff at a safehouse organised by the family deep in the fault, but four days ago, I received a disturbing message from my contact in the family, indicating that they had discovered a leak within their organisation, and that the details of the handover, including time, date and location had been given to GENOM,”

Somebody grumbled about security, while I retreated quietly back into my chair and stole a scone to munch on. This was for real alright.

“Therefore, we had to modify the original plan somewhat, to account for this. GENOM does not know we have discovered the leak yet,” her eyes took on an almost mischievous gleam, “so we can use this to our advantage. We plan to proceed with the original dropoff, and ambush whatever forces GENOM sends, using it as cover, while Irene is driven in a covert vehicle to Megatokyo international airport.”

I had a sudden terrible realisation as to why they would want a redshirt along on this mission, a redshirt whom GENOM had descriptions of. Terror warred with anger warred with my lunch, trying to explode out my mouth at once. I forced it down with another mouthful of cake, while Nene reached awkwardly across me to steal another for herself.

“With luck, she will be on her way out of the city before GENOM even realises they've been led into an ambush.”

“We can do that ourselves, so why is Miss Ghost in the Shell here?” asked Priss.

I'd never have thought the word Ghost could have as much venom as it did right then. Linna was surprised, but I could tell she'd been wondering the same thing.

“I am bait,” I said, sounding as sour as you'd expect anyone to be about it.

“I wouldn't put it like that exactly,” said Sylia diplomatically, “ but that is essentially correct. GENOM knows Meg here has something to do with Irene, and that motorcycle she was riding is very distinctive. Together, they make a very trackable target.”

I sat there, chilled to the bone by how coldly cheerful she was as she signed my death warrant. Or maybe I'd signed it myself when I agreed to take this job in the first place.

“She's turning green,” giggled Nene.

“That's enough,” chided Sylia, “The basic plan is one of misdirection. Mackie will drive the Silky Wagon to the hospital, with Linna in the passenger compartment wearing her hardsuit, just in case... I've arranged a donation of some delicates to the hospital. Meg will arrive outside the front of the hospital with her motorcycle and wait there for Priss, who will ride with her as pillion passenger,”

“Hey, why amn't I riding?” demanded the singer,

“Because, you look a good deal like Irene... close enough to pass for her while wearing motorcycle leathers anyway. Besides, this is only a case of riding from A to B, from the hospital to the safehouse, it shouldn't require any advanced skills.” It almost seemed like Sylia was trying to reassure me as she answered Priss' question, “With Meg riding, and yourself as Pillion, GENOM should believe that it is Meg and Irene on the motorcycle. With a little luck, they will ignore the Silky Wagon.”

That made sense. Even if I was the maggot on the end of the hook. And bullet damage wasn't covered by my manufacturer's warranty.

“Now then,” continued Sylia, “Meg and Priss will ride to the safehouse, here at the Kilmer building in District 29,”

“Excuse me,” I chipped in as politely as I could, “What is stop GENOM from shooting on road?”

Why wouldn't they just shoot the pair of use while we were riding? I mean, that's rule one in the evil-genius guidebook, isn't it? 'Just shoot 'em!'

“Nothing,” smiled Sylia, “But they have the chance to take us out, and strike a blow against Irene's family, we can assume that's not something they'll pass up lightly,”

I had a lovely quote about how assume makes an ass out of you and me, but I held my tongue. Besides, the pun wouldn't translate across languages anyway. At least Priss seemed to feel as sour about it as I did. She had a look on her face as if I'd flared up some dark memory, and I think I knew what it might've been.

“The safehouse itself will be empty,” Sylia carried on, “Trying to take on combat boomers in such close quarters will be a bloodbath, it plays too heavily to their strengths. There will be a single saferoom, up two flights of stairs. Inside will be your hardsuit, Priss, and some weapons and body armour for Meg in case she needs them.”

Dear God... real weapons... supersonic spinning lumps of copper-jacketed lead, not just some airsoft plastic pellet shooters. I was in way over my head, and sinking so deep I couldn't see the surface. I had no hope of getting away, no hope at all. This was stupid, this has to be the dumbest thing I've ever done. I couldn't go back now... I couldn't walk out. The door was right there. I didn't think Sylia or anyone would outright kill me... but at the same time, I didn't think I'd make it through that door without a fight. With no way back, I just had to push forward and hope I got through it.

Easier said than done.

“Irene's family will set up crossfire across the street from the tops of the surrounding buildings. Myself and Nene in our hardsuits will take on whatever they cannot handle,”

Nene winced.

“This should give Priss time to get ready, and Meg time to go to ground away from the fight. Don't try to get involved,” she warned me specifically,

I just nodded. Not a problem, definitely not a problem. Never will be a problem.

“Meanwhile, Mackie, Linna and the Silky Wagon should have reached MegaTokyo airport, and Irene will have boarded her flight out of the city,”

Provided the flight isn't delayed.

“Any questions so far?” Sylia finished.

I had another scone. It helped keep my fears in my stomach, and not all over Sylia's carpet. I didn't have any questions anyway... I understood what I was supposed to do. The logical part of my mind understood why Sylia had made the choices she'd made. Everything made sense. That was the worst part of it... there was no room whatsoever to argue my way out of it. Surprisingly though, Nene's hand popped up.

“Why can't I stay on the truck with Mackie?” she asked. “Why do I have to take part in the ambush?”

I loved her for it. I wanted to use each and every one of my sexaroid abilities to make her life a wondrous ride of nothing but ecstatic pleasure from now until eternity because of it. Nene was as nervous as I was. I could see it flickering behind her green eyes, sense it radiating off of her body. She had as much love for being a frontline fighter as I did.... I was so glad I wasn't alone in my feelings. Misery loves company.

“Because I need your ECM and ECCM abilities to hide our ambush,” was Sylia's answer. Nene just ate another scone... swallowing the miniature cake practically whole. She was doing the same thing I was, I guessed. The only difference being that her fears went straight to her hips.

“Now then, let's have a cup of coffee, and we can work out the details of this together,”

And then I learned why she'd hated my instant. Proper brewed coffee, the real deal. It was exquisite. It helped at least keep my mind level and centred while the five of us went through dates, times, routes and costumes. The basic plan was pretty simple, but the devil was in the details. Sylia's planning was impossibly meticulous... she accounted for everything... it was astonishing, it was impressive, it was well beyond something a normal person could do. If GENOM did attack before the ambush, we were to make a run for it. If myself and Priss were killed outright, the ambush would be scrubbed, but the mission would still succeed. I shuddered quietly through that scenario. If they didn't take the bait at all, I was to proceed as if they did. If they started following the truck, Mackie was to drive to the ambush point, while I'd have to run through the city at high speed to get Priss to her hardsuit before the truck made it.

For the mission, that was the worst case scenario and that was made clear

Sylia played each of our strengths to a tee. Priss could fight without her hardsuit, from the back of a motorcycle if needed. Linna was capable enough to hold her own if the truck itself was attacked, and she knew Irene personally. Nene would keep the entire ambush hidden, even if she couldn't hold her own in a fight and myself... I looked noticeable, could handle an ancient dinosaur of a bike with quirky customised controls that had puzzled Priss, and had the ultimate virtue of being expendable. Even if Sylia had taken into account the fact that I'd never fired a gun in my life when she'd given me a choice of weapons.

Real guns, the real steel. Real grenades too. I'd been a bastard for using them in Counter Strike... and while this wasn't CS in any way at all, it was the only frame of reference I had that was in anyway close to actual fighting. I didn't dare tell anyone how shite I used to be at FPS's.

There was something about all the planning though, the rumination over each and every detail...even if the other women talked about them with the same ease as if they were discussing plot points in a novel.... that made me feel a lot more at ease with what I'd gotten myself into. Not quite to the point of being comfortable, but close enough to the point where I thought I might at least be able to do it. I might live through this yet.

There was just one slight problem I had to sort out before the mission on Monday morning, my bike needed to be repaired. Since the crash, it had been stored in Raven's garage, down in Timex city.... and since I was the only person alive who had half an idea just what sort of 'customisations' I'd done to the electronics of the thing, I had to help... in between basic familiarisation with the principles of firearm use and a few other little details.

It was well after 1am when the three Knight Sabers left... I stayed behind for a few minutes at Sylia's request, digesting what exactly I had just gotten myself involved in.

“So, how are you feeling, Meg?” she enquired, placing another cup of steaming black liquid in my hands. I looked up at her for a moment, receiving a softly compassionate smile back. Controlled and chilled enough to make me wonder if it was genuine or not, but still welcome.

“I think Priss doesn't like me,” was all I could really say.

“She just needs to get used to you, that's all,” the leader of the Knight Sabers told me. “I want to know how you're doing, if you still feel capable of playing your part,”

“It's too late to back out now, isn't it?” I asked my reflection in the coffee.

Sylia nodded gently, “But I can still try finding a way to ease any undue burdens,”

“I'm fine,” I swallowed that lie, “Just not used to this is all,” I took one great gulp, leaving the cup half empty. “I do feel better... I really do,”

She didn't look like she believed that. I took a deep, calming breath, feeling my belly quiver gently.

“You don't look fine,”

“I want to do this,” I told her. “I just don't want to die is all.”

“You won't” she stated with absolute confidence, “We rely on each other. We protect each other, and for this mission that includes you,”

I nodded again, searching for an answer I could give.

“Thanks,” I offered eventually.

“You're welcome,”

I downed the last of the coffee and pulled myself up off of the couch.

“I better be going anyway,” I said... half hoping to avoid any more awkward questions, “I'd like to get some sleep before tomorrow, long day and all y'know,”

I was nervous as hell, desperate to get out of there, and it was blindingly obvious.

“Goodbye, Meg. I'll see you tomorrow,”

And that was that.

I was on the mission. No going back. I said I was going to do it. No way out now. It was only on the train on the way home, drenched in the harsh fluorescent lights of the carriage, that I realised something else:

Sylia had known what my answer would be before she'd even asked the question.

How the hell did she do that?

That woman was a mystery, encased in an enigma, wrapped up in a puzzle and dressed up in a very fine ladies suit. She spoke as if she had planned out each and every thing she wanted to say, each and every branch of the conversation.

But that was impossible.

But how else could she answer each and every question as if she'd been expecting it? How else could she speak as if she'd spent hours considering each and every sentence?

I suddenly felt like a sheep all over again.

----->>

I didn't go to sleep that night. Technically I didn't really need it; I didn't get tired in the human way. Sleep still brought benefits I'd miss, but it also brought nightmares. Interrupted sleep was worse than no sleep... I'd learned that when I'd jumped awake one night after being chased to my death by the ADP, to find that my heart had been stopped while muscle in the left ventricle was regenerated.

I watched late night television, following the Polar war on one of the late night news channels, another corporate conflict brewing in the Philippines, Israel, Iran and Iraq tearing shades out of each other and a UN conference chaired by an elderly Edward James Olmos and the surviving cast of Battlestar Galactica on mankind's attitude towards boomers, and how they had to learn the lessons hundreds of sci-fi writers had already offered. This was followed by one Kate Madigan of GENOM explaining just how leveraged the world's economy was on the availability of cheap manual labour. The problem then was separating the genuine toasters, the mannequins who gaze emptily back at you, from the truly intelligent... like myself and other low-restriction type-11 models. How do you legally define awareness in a boomer?

That was a puzzle the EC was spending millions to find out... spurred by a political desire to give GENOM a boot in the hole whenever possible and save as much traditional European industries as they could.

Some Churches solved it by simply saying that any cyberdroid who wished to join the church, and understood what that meant, was allowed to do so. After all, if humanity are God's children, given life by God, and Boomers are the 'children' of humanity, given life by man, wouldn't that make them God's grandchildren? The soul was a matter of faith, rather than a matter of science after all.

Tellingly though, there were no artificial Priests or Imams.

Elsewhere, Africans still starved in their millions, the Middle East was burning since the oil-money dried up, China's economy imploded after cheap boomer labour became common and South America only showed up on the radar whenever there was a bloody coup somewhere. The US presidential race between McClane and Gruber was heating up and the most important news story of the day was how Hollywood actress' Norma Hart's fifth marriage had broken up acrimoniously after 4 weeks.

Funny.... despite the exploding supertechnology, cybervigiliantes and megacorporations pulling the strings, the world of 2032 wasn't really that different to the one I'd left. Aside from the World Trade Centre still standing in New York, and Iran and Israel being oil-and-water allies somehow, the world was strangely similar. Decadence, disaffection with authority, technology still running rampant and the basic human being reduced to nothing more than a cash carrying consumer by corporate marketing. Not so different from 2010 at all then.

Maybe that's why I slipped into this sort of world so easily, the world I'd been living in wasn't really that different, once you got down to the nuts and bolts of it.

Except for GENOM, or Grievously Expensive Never Operating Mannequins, as the more humorous observers would have it.

In many ways, GENOM defied 2010 descriptions. It was to the entire world, what Microsoft was to PC's, Intel was to chip design, O2 was to mobile phone networks, General Motors was to car design, Monsanto was to agriculture, and Google was to information management and control; and it was all of them together under the same umbrella brand of GENOM. It was omnipresent. I was a GENOM product, built at the GPCC centre just south of the city. Any other corporation could compete with GENOM in one market sector... if two tried to band together and support each other, as seemed like the logical thing, GENOM was quick to launch antitrust proceedings, while fighting off the same allegations itself, and disappearing its competitors out of the market by taking embrace, extend, extinguish to deadly levels.

And I was going to be taking this monster conglomerate on…

Oh Hell.

I downloaded some software updates while I watched, feeling the servers at some GENOM data farm somewhere nearby finger themselves around inside my skull to determine just what sort of patching I needed.

Lying in bed with a Cat-5 running to one arm, browsing the web inside my head while I waited for the updates to download themselves, that was the life. No more reading, no more scrolling through pages… the information was there for instant comprehension.

If it hadn't have been for the popups and advertisements infecting my thoughts, it would've been the perfect way to browse the web. I didn't want cyber-breast enhancement surgery for one thing, and I certainly didn't need full body prosthetics or a love life enhancement, and I didn't want to think about it. One of those I didn't want, and two I didn't need.

My boobs were just right. Not too soft, not firm. Not too bouncy when I jogged so that they hurt my back. Not so stiff that they looked like a Barbie-doll's. Just lovely, warm, sensitive and snuggly.

What I needed was some sort of instant combat skills download, maybe Eddie Lawson riding skills, and something to put between the muzzle of a gun and my vulnerable flesh that might actually have a chance of stopping a bullet.

“No flag has ever stopped a bullet, from a gun,”

I laughed at my attempt at Phil Lynott. The air-conditioner answered with a click, a pop, and a fizz as it died once more.

Well, at least I'll be doing something different, I suppose.

And the more I thought about it, the safer I felt. If everything went well, I wasn't supposed to have to fire a shot… just cover Priss for about a minute while she gets her hardsuit ready, then hide in the saferoom. The enemy wasn't even supposed to reach the building…. They'd be dead before they reached the front door, all going well.

I had to cover 1 door for 1 minute with 1 idiot-proof gun…

Seemed almost easy.

Provided the enemy took the bait. Provided they didn't just shoot us on the bike. Provided the ambush went off perfectly…. Provided a lot of things….

This is so fucking screwed up. Maybe I can get away with just not getting out of bed in the morning? At least I only had to worry about it for the next 2 days.

I clicked the news off, and set off channel hopping, looking for something to distract my mind. Funny, hentai just wasn't interesting anymore when you knew it would void your warranty, or that you could do better without the tentacles. Next…Talk show, Neon Genesis Evangelion reruns, ADP on the beat, Sazae-san, TT-rerun, a programme on boomer development, GENOM advertisements about assembling prosperity, and so on…

Fuckall worth watching.

3:27:49 am…

I'd normally only be getting in from work at that time

I'm going to miss that cash.

----->>

The trip to Raven's was a pain in the arse, to put it mildly. Take a bus to a train station that's on the right line, a train halfway across the city, another bus down into the depths of the fault and a ten minute walk through the junk-ridden decrepit backstreets of Timex city.

It's not somewhere I'd've walked through at night, anyway.

The fault was more like a forge, even in mid-morning. I didn't know if it was because the fault was closer to hell, or because the sun glared straight down the length of the canyon, but the heat seemed to flow down into the trench and stay there. The air was stagnant and still, dust and smog pooling down from the city above and flooding the air. Not even the shadows gave relief from the blazing heat. It oozed from every building, from every rubblepile, from every passing car.

Hot, humid and hellish.

Even with my jacket tied around my waist and a light t-shirt, I was still drowning in sweat. I flapped my t-shirt against my stomach trying to generate some form of cooling draft. All I did was remind myself that thermodynamics couldn't be beaten.

My body temperature held still at 39.2 degrees... that was about normal for a 33-S... It made me feel warmer to the touch, and more comforting. It also meant I suffered in the heat a little more. At least I had a way of cooling off, in heat like this mannequins started to cook their biochips. Hot days were busy days for the ADP. To underline the point, sirens raced through the city, barely a mile away.

Maybe the garage itself will be airconditioned?

Fat chance...

The building I found, I nearly passed because it looked almost abandoned. The sign above said “Raven's”, but it didn't look like anybody'd cleaned it in years. It might once have been a shining stainless steel, but was dirt streaked and rain stained by years of city pollution.

According to the graffiti on the yellowed walls, Bango Skank was here, but then he was everywhere in this city, only Kilroy had been in more places. The shutters were up, but I couldn't see much inside, the view was blocked by some truck with a wrecked black sportscar on the back.

It might once have been an impressive looking thing, a little like what you'd imagine the demon lovechild of a Ferrari Enzo and a Lamborghini Murcielago would look like... with bigger wheels and six massive exhausts out the back... but the whole front end had been smashed flat, windows shattered, gouges torn into the roof and the doors ripped clean through by something that might've been the Jaws of life. It didn't look like the sort of smash you'd walk away from, it looked like something out one of those Australian ad's....

“Just let me know if it can be fixed, Doctor, that's all,” said the truck's driver.

“Well, I don't know,” another voice answered from the other side of the truck, older and more seasoned. “If it was anybody else I'd say part it out and sell the rest as scrap, but I know what that car means to you, Gibson... I'll take a look at it, but no promises.”

Gibson? I looked up over the back of the truck, above the cars gaping exhausts.

Griffon II - Super-GT

Wow.

Somebody's on the road to revenge alright. I felt a giddy surge of adrenaline, finding the whole situation far funnier than it should've been. The truck's engine clagged to life, and I was engulfed by a sudden belch of black diesel soot. Coughing and blinded, I staggered to the footpath, bracing myself against the 'A' in Bango Skank for a moment. My blood contamination went up three points... thanks a lot for that.

I first saw the Nobel Prize winner's back, as he guided the truck around, helping the driver back it into his shop. His hair was thinning at the top, long, oil-matted like his overalls, and strangely reminiscent of Emmet Brown. I didn't say anything right away, just watched and waited at the far end of the building, admiring some of the cars up on the lifts.

One of them looked like a standard family minivan... but the entire back end had been ripped out, seats carpeting, and all, there was nothing left but the basic chassis with what looked like a turbo-compound V8 engine lined up and ready to go into the empty space. The blades of the secondary turbines were exposed and shining back at me.

That thing is going to be one hell of a Q-car.

A piston engine, with a turbine to recover power from the exhaust. Wow. Bleed air was taken from behind the turbine's compressor, so it also served as a turbocharger, with the driveshaft spun by the exhaust gases being coupled to to the main engine through some sort of gearbox.

“That's brilliant,” I commented to myself.

“Thanks Miss....,” A voice interrupted my mechanical reverie,

“Deckard, Meg Deckard,” I finished for him.

“Ah, Sylia's new recruit,” said the Doctor, “She told me you'd be here today,”

“I am only temp, not recruit,” I corrected.

“That's what the last one said,” he remarked, giving a wry smile through his grey moustache. “Doctor Elijah Raven, at your service ma'am,” he took my hand, and gave it a surprisingly firm shake. “My friends call me Doctor, my customers call me Doctor Raven, and the bane of my existence calls me 'Pops'.” he finished with a gruff huff.

I laughed. I liked him immediately.

“Now then,” he paused for a second, “Would you care to indulge an old man's scientific curiosity?”

“Huh?” I blinked, sideswiped

“Just hold out your left arm... please,”

I wasn't sure what he wanted. What I got back from my senses was that it really just was a genuine curiosity, he didn't seem to be hiding anything. Cautiously, I held out my arm, ready to snatch it back just in case.

“Thanks,” I watched him delicately grip my wrist in one hand, rubbing his fingers across my skin. He pressed down right where my data port should've been, and smiled. “It's remarkable,” he mumbled to himself “Totally lifelike,”

“I am not 'it'” I stated, offended.

“I meant your skin,” he corrected, “I can feel a pulse and everything, muscle, bone and sinew, no sign of any mechanics. You're a fine piece of work, it's a shame GENOM don't build biomimetic types any more, they were always more pleasant to deal with.”

He found out! A thrill of terror ran through my body, and I snatched my hand back as if from a boiling pot. Raven just chuckled dryly to himself.

“Don't worry,” he assuaged with a wave of his hand, “Sylia told me what you are, the whole truth. She asked me to give you a full service over the weekend,”

If anybody walking past heard that, and didn't know what I was.... they'd get the wrong idea. I laughed again.

“Service service service!” I announced gleefully to the crows pecking at the bins.

“What?” blurted the doctor, wrongfooted by my sudden announcement “Not that sort of service!”

I just answered with an impish giggle, hugging myself, before the wind dropped out of my sails.

“Sorry,” I said, “I live alone... and it gets a little boring,”

“I'll bet,” he snorted “Anyway, the bike's through in back. I was surprised to see something that old show up, how the hell did you keep that running?”

I shrugged, “BMW reliable not need much fix,”

“Except for the electrics... I don't know what you did to it, but nothing matches the original diagrams anymore. I could spend weeks figuring it out, but we have until Monday morning to get it done and ready, so lets get started,”

Truth be told, I wasn't quite sure what I did to it either. I just sort of got it running, then wired more and more things back in until they worked and called it done. Then added a CD player, a 5v USB-ish power source and audio jack for my MP3, some extra gauges....something that might've once been an eePC...

I could see why a Nobel prize-winner couldn't figure it out... he was probably assuming there was some sort of logical scientific pattern behind it.

“Should be simple enough,” I lied through my teeth.

He gave me the dirtiest look, as if he knew how big that lie was.

“Just follow me, and don't touch anything!” he warned.

I wouldn't dream of it. Definitely not touching the workstation computer that pre-dated the laptop in my bag. Not touching the face of Alfred Nobel himself, watching over the entire shop, framed by pictures of people I'd never seen.... except for one young girl, another scientist, and a silver haired woman who looked a lot like Sylia, but not quite.

The Garage was a grotto of bikeparts, carparts, boomer parts, assorted gubbins, smelling of grease, steel, sweat, and gasohol. It was truly a man's paradise. There was a car parked in the corner, wedge shaped with a glint of silver off of its body panels.

“Is that...” I swallowed. “Is that really a DeLorean?”

“Yes,” answered the Doctor...

“Gre..”

“And Don't say Great Scott! Or I'll transplant your AI into a coffee maker!” he headed that one off.

Great Scott,, my mind whispered. Great Scott...my throat tightened. Great Scott... my face turned cherry read. Great Scott... my lips pursed. I whimpered and whined like a strangled puppy. I just couldn't kill the process.....

“The most excellent leader of the British attempt on the South Pole who was beaten to the Pole by Amundsen and died on the way back” I whispered

“What?”

“Never mind,” I waved it off.

“That's probably the best response I've heard so far to that,” he commented calmly. “I'm surprised a 3 year old Boomer would even know such an obscure cultural reference,”

“Back to the Future is not obscure,” I replied... it was as popular in 2010 as it had ever been.

“It is, if you're under 40,” said Raven, “Perhaps...” he thought, rubbing at his chin “It might be the brain-image AI”

“A what?”

I paused for a moment, suddenly hit by an extremely unpleasant thought, depending on just what this brain-image meant. The doctor stopped in his tracks, a solemn expression on his face as he turned towards me. Gibson was unloading his Griffon at the far end of the garage, servomotors whining with the strain.

“I've said too much, Miss... I'm sorry.” he bowed ever so slightly, “I have the bike out back waiting and we need to get started,”

A few moments of silence.

“Please tell me more,” I requested, my voice almost a monotone.

He sighed, “GENOM developed a way to copy the contents of a human brain onto an artificial one some time ago, as their competitor to cyberbrain technology. They called it Ghost-dubbing. It's a banned process now, for the simple reason that it killed the original human. It's how they made the 33-S AI, using terminal-patient volunteers. Normally, they erased any original sense of identity the AI retained, but it seems you might've kept some of yours,”

I nearly collapsed to the floor beneath the weight of it, before my auto-balancers kicked in.

“I'm not that person anymore,” I stated, my voice like jelly, “What does it matter if I never was?”

He gave me the strangest look, as if wondering what I meant by that exactly. I felt tears well up, but I held them back. My mind started spinning through the possibilities a lot of them centring on Tet's explanation of how I got here.

“Self identity can be a difficult subject in a world where even the human mind can be treated as nothing more than data,” Raven said, drawing a deep, solemn breath,

“What did Sylia tell you about me?” I asked, swallowing another lump. My stomach must've been full of nothing but lumps at this stage.

“Quite a bit,” he admitted “Quite a bit of which she asked me not to discuss with you, for the sake of your own stability”

I gave a dubious groan

“Well...” I started, “My name is Meg Deckard, whatever else I may be, that's the person I am. And if I die today, that's the man I'll be”

I don't think I quite matched the delivery, but it was enough to distract me away from a very dark place.

“What does dying have to do with anything?” the good doctor betrayed a lack of research in relevant TV sources.

“Never mind,” I waved it off again.

“Anyway, there's the bike,” he pointed to some amorphous tarpaulined shape, “Structurally it's fine, the crash bars did their job. The forks and handlebars are bent, the silencer is gone, and one of the mirrors got ripped off.” What could be expected really, “Fitting a new front end would normally be pretty uncomplicated, but that's a bird's nest of wires to work through.”

“Sorry about that,” I blushed slightly,

“Tell that to yourself, you're working through it all while I rebuild and reprogram the fuel injection system,”

It suddenly seemed like I'd gotten the easier of the two jobs. I took a deep, calming breath, “Well, how do start?”

“With little steps. First, we take the tarpaulin off,”

----->>

6 hours later, and Raven had not only removed the injection controller, but also the ignition controller from under the fuel tank, all sensors from the engine and the original fuel pump and rail along with the injectors. He was a flurry of wrinkled hands, and anecdotes about decade old motorcycles and petrol.

In the same amount of time, I managed to drain the front brakes, and figure out that I really should've labelled everything when I built it. I sat there muttering as I worked through the lot of it with a multimeter. I didn't remember doing any of it.

And because a bunch of it had to go under the fuel injection modules, Raven couldn't finish his parts until after I did. And then it would take God-knows how long to program it. These things were supposed to take weeks to do, and we had to do it in two days.

“This is never going to get done,” I told myself, despondently.

16:12:54

Separate out a cable, check for resistances between two points. Open circuit, so that doesn't connect to that. So what does? Sit there wondering about it, wiping a greasy hand across my brow to clear the sweat. Try again with a different cable of the same colour. Ask myself why I was too cheap to buy the right colour cables. Open circuit, wrong cable again. Give it a frustrated thump. Repeat a few more times for good measure.

“This is never going to get done,” I told myself, despondently.... again

16:17:12

I hated myself for dropping this on myself. What was I always told about software coding? What was I always told about design in university? Document….document…. document…. And then document your documentation just to be sure.

I sighed and sat back down on the concrete floor.

I needed coffee. Lots of coffee. Regular Boomers may be built for mindless repetitive tasks, but I sure wasn't. I didn't mind being dirty and greasy too much… it'd wash off. I didn't mind the smell of WD-40, real petrol, and brake fluid either…. It was a good mechanical smell, a strangely satisfying and functional smell

But I hate this.

Picking through fiddly little cables.

I really hate this.

Alone and without help, without mental diversion

I could hear the comings and goings in the shop out front, the whine of an airgun, a clatter of steel, and the roar of what sounded like a really interesting engine. I heard a bike arrive, baffle-less exhaust rattling the concrete and buzzing in my belly. The engine died with a rattle, a draft of distinctive, acrid gasohol exhaust washing through the building.

“Yo! Pops, that oil leak's back around the compressor shaft for the front wheel drive,”

Bane of existence… hah!

“That's Doctor to you, Priss!” came the irate reply from out front, “And Sylia's been waiting for you downstairs for the last hour,”

Sylia… here…downstairs? I didn't see any stairways. Of course, the secret base had to be somewhere. In a dark dark fault, along a dark dark street, inside a dark dark garage, down some dark dark stairs there was a dark dark closet, inside of which was…a hardsuit. Where had I heard that before?

I heard booted footsteps approaching from behind, mixed with the distinctive creak of leathers. I stared at a point just above the original VIN stamping, looking into my own shadow. I could see another formless one approaching from behind riding on a wave of irritation.

She stopped, and I sensed her curiosity as she watched me work.

“I don't understand why anybody would keep an old dinosaur burner like that around,” she commented, “Not for day to day use or anything,”

She wasn't being in anyway nasty about it, she really was just curious. I could read as much just by looking at her eyes, which were scanning over the stripped down motorcycle, engine, gearbox, driveshaft, the tail section with one undamaged pannier still attached.

“Sentimental value,” I deflected with a simple generic answer.

It wasn't a question I hadn't been asked before, but that was a previous life, and the answer just wouldn't have been appropriate.

“It must have a lot of sentimental value to pay for real gasoline, and the spare parts for something like this.” Priss said, inspecting the cracked taillight, “I've never seen anything this old on the road, just in a museum,”

She ran her fingers gently along the exposed backbone of the frame. I think she was impressed… slightly. If not by the rider then by her bike. I sat there, casting my gaze down onto the grey cylinder head for a moment, and the 4 hungry mouths of the inlet trumpets. I remembered clearing years' worth of dust and cobwebs out there, I remembered how the butterflies needed to be balanced and how much of a pain in the arse that was to do with a kit designed for carburettors. I remembered what Doctor Raven had told me earlier that day,

“I think it prove I am original, not copy,” I said, feeling a strange relief wash over me.

That caught the singer on her back foot alright.

“Damn cyborgs,” growled Priss, the air filling with restrained hostility “They throw their humanity away until they're left with nothing more than the barest sliver of what they once where, and then they cling to it as if it's the most precious thing in the world when they finally realise what they've done. If it was so important to them, why did they throw it away in the first place?”

She asked me, directly.

“I had no choice,” I followed Sylia's story, feeling oddly ashamed for lying, “Boomeroid better than death,”

“Hmmph, maybe. I just know I don't want to be buried in that Pet Sematary.,” she shrugged uncomfortably.

“Heh,” I smirked lightly, getting the reference. “Ramones?”

She nodded, placing her hand against the bike's frame where the backbone, gearbox supports and tail met in an obtuse Y.

“Shit I hate this,” the singer snarled, straining against some imaginary leash. “I don't know what Sylia is thinking of with this,” she stopped dead for a moments thought, “Good luck fixing the bike, later Deckard,” she finished simply, flatly.

“Thanks, I guess,” I stuttered, having expected more of a rant about humanity, or boomeroids, or something. I watched her back as she walked away, that gently but still confident sway to her hips as she strode across the concrete floor.

She was almost as hard to figure out as Sylia. I'd've killed to be able to read her mind, just to know what exactly she thought of me. I don't think she hated me, she probably hated what I was…or what she thought I was…but there was more to it than that; she was desperately uncomfortable around me, like she was standing barefoot on a bed of nails, and for a few moments, I wanted nothing more than to know why.

It didn't seem to be as simple as just mistrust, or suspicion. Whatever it was, it ran a lot deeper than what a person's pheromones could tell me.

Priss stopped at a door marked private, punching a code into a keypad beside the door. I heard the brass ticks as the locks cam undone, and she pulled it silently open, revealing a…. Closet? With cleaning supplies, mops, a rake and something that looked like a hoover? She stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind her with a heavy, hollow clack. The locks reclosed, the numbers on the pad rescrambled, and she disappeared.

There was no sound at all from inside.

At least she didn't punch me. Isn't that how Priss normally said hello to boomers?

An hour later, she came out looking as miffed about something as ever. She didn't even look at me as she breezed past. I heard her argue with Raven about something else, before her bike fired up and wailed away into the deepening night. It really got dark early in the fault.

Was Sylia really here though?

That door was probably a secret access to the base underneath the floor. An intrepid self-confident adventurer would probably have knocked on the door to find out for sure. Maybe that's what she expected me to do even. I found a jar of coffee instead, and ordered in a decent dinner out of my own account.

If Sylia was here, what was she doing?

I suddenly felt horrendously paranoid, like a hundred eyeballs were crawling up my back.

----->>

Grey and dull, like a summer's day at home. The last delivery of the day was a Merc' SLK with a blown engine.

20:20:20

“Are you done yet?” enquired Raven, impatiently…

“Nope,” I growled.

Though I'd finally gotten the last of it separated out. Now I just had to get rid of it.

----->>

Dimmer than a Texan governor outside, and the last customers were picking up their cars.

21:25:15

“Are you done yet?” enquired Raven, impatiently… for the seventh time in the last hour.

“Nope,” I growled growled again

I'd gotten the last of it out, thank God.

“Sylia want you to find a place for this,” He placed a box on the workbench beside me. “A 2-way scrambled radio so you can communicate with the rest of the team,”

“No problem,” I lied tiredly.

----->>

22:19:08

Dark as a black hole outside and the shutters were down. It was still hotter than hell and humid enough to near drown.

“Are you done yet?” enquired Raven, impatiently… for the tenth time in the last hour.

“Almost,” I growled once more.

My hands ached, and my joint and muscle monitors were complaining about having been locked on the same positions for most of the day. I was built for short periods of active exertion, not a long time kneeling down spannering things up.

“Remember, you still have to put the new front end on and replace all of this lot,” he reminded cruelly, poking at the medusa's head of cables, “It'll take most of tomorrow to get the fuel injection working.”

“You know sexaroids aren't built for this,” I whined.

“And old Scientists aren't built for all-nighters!” he shouted, “But it has to be done,”

“No problem,” I lied again, cowed by pessimism.

“I'm going for a snooze, later,”

Hey!

----->>

23:30:32

“Heavy! Heavy! Heavy! Heavy!” I squealed, having realised the problems that came with taking the front end of a motorcycle, and leaving it supported by only the centrestand, right before I undid the last bolt.

270 kilograms or so was a bloody heavy thing to lift by yourself, even with a decent set of straps thrown over a girder and a good ratchet.

“There's a hydraulic bike lift out front, I can bring it in if you'd like,” a male voice said.

“No! No!” I pleaded, “Take too long now, just get other end, I not do both.”

I had one strap through the frame, just in front of the headstock, and another between both luggage racks, since it was strong enough. Keeping both evened up so it didn't tip over, or pull loose somehow, or just do anything weird because I wanted to be careful, was a fine art…

“Right,” Mackie answered, “I'll get the back, and we'll do it together,”

I took one glance at the teenager, who was taking more than a glance at me.

“Keep an eye on it in case it slips, not me,”

“Right,”

No change…. His eyes never moved. How could anybody be so shameless? I certainly wasn't when I was his age… which according to one interpretation I never was… and I changed course rapidly before my thoughts got sucked into that black hole again.

It was too late to worry about things like that. Not with muscles straining, and little alarms warning me about the stress on my back and ankles anyway. Power and energy flared through my body, my bloody burning hot as it tried to keep up with demands. My reserves were already low, and I was redlining them.

This thing was so heavy I could pull with both hands on it and barely be able to move the thing. I hadn't got the bodyweight to pull it up, unlike the last time I'd done this, I couldn't just lean into it.

“Heavy!” I announced,

“There's a hydraulic lift….” Mackie reminded.

“Just do it!” I screeched. “And watch the bloody bike not me!”

The straps were groaning beneath the strain, girders creaking, and I still hadn't gotten the thing halfway off the ground…

“Count of three….”

----->>

23:45:19

The lift did the job, but not before I bent some of the bracing in my elbows, and cracked a support somewhere in my back. I slumped exhausted against the workbench, chest heaving, body drenched in sweat as it tried to bleed off excess heat.

“I told you so,” Mackie remarked smugly, a satisfied grin plastered across his face.

And no wonder…. He could see right down my top.

I felt utterly defeated.

And desperately hungry.

----->>

00:34:05

The bent front suspension was lying on the concrete floor beside me, a wagonwheel pizzabox on top of it. Chang's Tiger Pizza, the only place that still delivered after midnight. Hot food normally raised my spirits, but not tonight.

12 hours just to take the front forks off of a motorbike.

At least as long to get them back on again… then according to Raven, another solid day to get the fuel injection working. A quick estimate put the job being finished at midday on Monday… barring no more delays.

But, I had to spend Sunday night under the Doctor's care, and was supposed to spend a good chunk of Monday morning getting a basic course on how not to blow my own foot off.

“This will never get done,” I told myself.

It was a mountain of work now, getting larger and larger with each passing minute….with each bite of pepperoni pizza, with each despairing breath I took. I was exhausted physically, and starting to feel the lingering effects of nearly 2 days without sleep.

There was no way to get it done now…. None....

I wanted nothing more than to leave the garage and go home, to my apartment, and rest. With a fresh mind and body, maybe that'd make a difference. A few hours rest, and a quick, clear sprint, versus hours of draining slog…

And then I remembered the 2 hour journey home, the 2 hour journey back, and how 2 hours would make a really shite snooze after all that bother.

I hated Sylia for not giving me enough time to do this. I hated Raven for disappearing to his office. I hated Mackie for being a smug, leering pervert. I hated myself for not bothering to label everything up when I had the chance thus making this necessary. I hated myself even more for making the same mistake again…..but it was too late to change that. It was too late to back out. It was too late to finish the job. It was too late to do anything but sit there munching on pizza, stewing in my own bitterness.

I wanted to punch something… anything…. Time marched on but still nothing was getting done. Tick-Tock, the clock mocked, and I wanted nothing more than to throw a spanner at it. But then I'd have to fix the bloody clock too. If I got pissed off and indulged in some percussive relief on the fucking bike… that'd just be a little icing on a very fat cake of work.

A million yen for a weekends work… Hah!...How ridiculous.

I was an expensive, high-grade Bu-33-S… manual labour was beneath a type like me. It was like using a Lamborghini to pull a trailer full of cattle, or a combat boomer in the bedroom. I was dirty, sweaty, wearing oilstained clothes. I'd managed to damage myself….like the idiot I was….

Why couldn't Sylia have just asked me to be her personal concubine, or something?

A life in a silken cage, or this `freedom'…

The luxury of Sylia's penthouse seemed a great deal more preferable than a rundown 6-mat apartment, and an hour's commute for 12 hour days of underpaid work.

And none of this brought me any closer to actually getting the job done. Suck it up, get a spanner out, and just keep going. Better to try and fail, than to give up and fail.

----->>

02:34:56

Sleep deprivation makes sexaroids emotionally unstable.

So when I finally managed to attach the new front forks, and was amazed at how easily and perfectly they slotted home… despite being of the `Earles' type and stolen from a Honda VFR1400…. I took my t-shirt off and danced around the garage in jubilation for ten minutes, before a sense of shame and embarrassment finally caught up with me.

My second Eureka moment came a few moments later, when I realised that 90% of the wires and stuff I'd ripped out… could stay out. Power regulators for USB, speakers, CD-player, cross-cables, audio cables, digital control logic, switchgear… I didn't really need any of it… I just sort of added it at the time because I thought it would be cool to have.

And it'd make fitting that new scrambled radio so much easier.

Why didn't I think of it before? It seemed the obvious thing to do.

Because I was being stupid, that's why.

----->>

05:43:21

The sun was starting to come up, a dull grey light filtering through the garage windows. It'd be a while before it entered the canyon proper, but there was something so welcoming about it being there.

It was about that time that I began to think I might just be able to get it done. I had the front brake and clutch hooked up, and the instrument binnacle half done. Lights, horn and indicators seemed doable, and Sylia's radio could take the place of the CD player.

I was alone, still with my t-shirt off… but with the windows open, the morning air felt so good on my bare skin, I didn't mind. There was no-one around to see me anyway. I could strip naked as the factory made me and nobody would know.

No… I won't… My common sense clamped down.

Alright, I needed to clear my head. The petrol fumes really were getting to me. I reluctantly slipped my t-shirt back on, and stepped out into the still-dark alleyway out back.

The air and cooled somewhat overnight, but it was dead still, tendrils (of) steam rising straight up from the exhaust vents of some grey building across the alleyway.

The lights of the city obscured the stars… except for one, hanging lazily in the sky between DAB corporation tower and Green Food distribution.

I watched it for a minute, flickering in the morning sunlight. It was the SDPC's Genaros Station.

Immediately, I felt oddly guilty, and hurried back to work.

----->>

07:20:34

Raven delivered breakfast....the same or similar mixture of porridge and metal Sylia had given me on my first day. He didn't look tired himself, he just looked old.

“I spent most of the night developing the base program for the EFI controller,” he boasted,

“I spent it going tired and buggo,” I told him.

“You did label all the wires up, didn't you?” he asked...

“No,” I admitted, “I just removed all not needed, easier to finish,”

“Makes sense,” the doctor-mechanic conceded, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “And the new radio,”

“Still not sure...”

“Try get it in by nine,” the scientist suggested... his tone very careful not to come across as an order, “If the Fuel Injection gets in by midday, we can get all the fairing, fuel tank and lights back on, and set it up on the dynamometer for the injection to program itself overnight,”

“Can we get done on time?” I asked.

“If we get lucky, yes you can.” he answered with an almost evil smirk.

“Me?” I blurted, “I thought you fit EFI?”

“Yes,” he answered, “But a job came up. Consider it a challenge.” he goaded.

“Fine,” I sighed, relenting to more technical torture, “Do I get a manual?”

“In the box,” he assured me, “Just follow it, and everything will be fine,”

“Fine,” I sighed once more....

Long day.... another long day. I needed a rest, badly. Repair time for my elbow was given as `infinite', the same for my back. The joints needed to be immobilised in the 'Zero' position for my systems to deal with it... and that wasn't likely any time soon.

I was recharging myself with food, as fast as I was burning the energy. Fuel and oil fumes were contaminating my bloodstream, tetra-ethyl lead making itself known.

Somebody shoot me.

No, they'd do that tomorrow, after I finished this. Put me out of my misery, after the misery had stopped. That'd just be perfect.

----->>

09:36:33

I missed the deadline by about 20 minutes, but Raven wasn't bothered. He just placed the box with the new injection controller, fuel pump injectors and oxygen sensors, on the table beside me, along with instructions.

Midday? Good bloody luck.

Suddenly, I realised that if Sylia had been downstairs when Priss arrived... she hadn't left all night, unless there was another back entrance somewhere. Yeah, there probably was somewhere... she wouldn't stay awake all night just to watch me.

Would she?

Why would Sylia be watching me?

----->>

10:47:41

A motorscooter buzzed up outside, engine popping and ringing off the alleyways outside as the owner searched for somewhere to park. I could hear them shuffling around outside, whispering and cursing, looking for their keys, their chain lock, their keys again, then somewhere to stash their helmet.

I recognised the voice immediately. Somebody I wanted to talk to. Somebody I could whine to and who might actually listen.

“Good Morning Doctor!” I heard her great with a refreshing cheerfulness.

Already, she was dragging me up out of the morose depths of my sleepless depression.

“Sylia's downstairs,” the Doctor answered, his voice cracking with fatigue.

I was brimming with a strange, deluded excitement, as if rescue was about to come bubbling cheerfully through the door. I could hear her walking, a distinctive sound made by her favourite heels.

She rustled through the door, that candyfloss hair of hers radiating happiness and salvation from labour. Resplendent in her AD Police uniform, Nene Romanova smiled when she saw me sitting on concrete, coated in dark streaks of grease and grime.

Then she giggled maniacally,

“You look like you've been dragged through a sewer, Meg,” she forced herself to say.

“Thanks,” I groaned, deflated

“Yet you still manage to look so sexy, even when you're so dirty,” she said, her voice suddenly becoming very small, and a little jealous.

“I guess that my talent,” I answered, shrugging. “Beside, ADP uniform suit you well,” I returned, hoping the old trick when dealing with women still worked.

“I really like the skirt, it shows off my legs without making it seem like it's too...” she placed a finger on her lips, hunting for the right word “... desperate,”

I giggled.

“How's Sylia's test going anyway?” she asked standing over my shoulder as she cast a critical eye over my work.

“Test?” I questioned.

“Yeah, sure, Sylia tests each new member before they join.” she told me, “Mine was to crack an online code, I was the only person in the world to solve the problem.”

Her chest swelled with pride, her green eyes gleaming.

“Join?” I blurted out.... “I'm only here for the one mission,”

Nene's bubble burst, her pride deflating.

“Sorry, I wasn't supposed to say that,” she said morosely, propping herself up against the bike, “Sylia's going to kill me now,”

Actually join the Knight Sabers?

“It's okay,” I reassured her, holding my hands up to stop some imaginary attack “I'm not really want to join either. And Priss not like me, uh... so probably never anyway”

The hacker relaxed a little, understanding what I was trying to say.

“Priss didn't like me either when I joined,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Linna neither, it's just the way she is with new people. Once she gets to know you, she's really quite sweet,”

Priss and sweet seemed to go together like GENOM and corporate responsibility, at least in my own limited personal experience.

“Maybe,” I dodged, “Nice to talk to human though... I go insane all night alone,”

Nene smiled again,

“I thought you lived alone, Meg,”

“Yeah, but...” I paused,

“I know..” she cut in, “I need a boyfriend too, but I just don't have the time for a true romance.” a beat as her expression darkened, “And no Romeos seem to have time for me either,” she sighed tiredly. “At least none that don't need batteries,” she added quietly, her voice almost mouselike.

The pair of us shared a perverted giggle, knowing just what she meant.

“I don't really need that,” I shot straight, “Not really interested in sex,”

None at all, genuinely. I was the coldest of cold fish in bed.

“Want to trade bodies then?” Nene enquired, her eyes sparking again, “It seems such a shame to waste such a sexy body on a woman who doesn't event want sex. With my body, you could enjoy beer again, and I could enjoy the deep passionate love a woman like me desires,”

Nene drifted off into dreamland, hugging herself across the chest. I placed my hands on my own boobs for a moment, confirming that I was just as much a woman as Nene, only without any form of womanly drives.

“They want spend time with my body, “ I said flatly, with strange bitterness, “not with me. Anybody who like Nene, they like who you are,”

It wasn't just men either. I kept those drives disabled for a reason. Funny, the first thing most men would say they'd do if they woke up one morning in a body like this, was that they would find another willing companion, usually their favourite anime gal and get 'exploring' together. Well, I wasn't a human woman, was I? And there was no need to explore when I knew exactly what I could do, and what it would feel like. I'd even tested it to be sure... out of boredom.

I smirked briefly at that thought.

“I don't know,” shrugged the pink-haired woman, “It's nice to be needed, even if it is just physically,”

“Neon Genesis Evangelion?” I wondered,

“What's that?” Nene asked, the conversation suddenly derailed.

“Old anime,” I waved it off, “Nothing important,”

“Ah,”

An oddly awkward silence for a few seconds, then Nene starting tittering gently, holding her pink nails against her lips. Then Nene started giggling softly, slowly building an inexorable momentum, like an accelerating locomotive as she struggled to hold it in... pressing her hand hard against her mouth, her face matching the colour of her hair. The dam broke, the full torrent of laughter flooding the garage.

“What?”

My voice was small and shamed

“Your hands were greasy,” she point to my chest.

Two mucky handprints covered my chest, one on each side.

“Thanks for telling me,” I said, in a bitter, embarrassed deadpan.

“No problem,” she gave a teasing grin. “Now I really got to go. Do your best, Deckard,”

“See ya later, Alligator,” I waved her off.

“One more thing!” she stopped dead, “It's a little something Sylia had us do as a team building exercise after Linna joined,” The pride had returned behind her eyes, as she handed me micro-holographic disk labelled `Asu e Touchdown' “It turned out pretty awesome, even if I only did the backing vocals,”

“Awesome, thanks,” I beamed back, holding the multi-hued reflective disk.

“It's encoded at nearly 2 megabits a second, so it's practically an analogue signal, “

She quickly disappeared into the same closet Priss had hidden in yesterday. It was nice to be able to talk to someone.... it made a break from the monotony of a chirpy multimeter that had an irritating Eliza-based personality.

I had the disk, but realised I had nothing to play it in. That was a bit of a downer.

There was still the matter of the mucky handprints on my top. Simple solution; I took it off, pulled it inside out, then put it back on. It worked, even if the label was on the outside, along with the obviously cheap stitching.

“Uh...” a voice interrupted, “The Doctor finished the controller module,” it said, swallowing something.

Mackie was standing there, a grey box with a jumble of cables running out of it in his hands, pressed against his striped shirt, his face an almost dreamlike chance.

I wanted nothing more, than to be able to bloodily rip out of this attractive disguise, and reveal the heavily armed and now very pissed off steel monster within. The lecherous boy-genius must've figured as much... he calmly placed the box on the floor, and slipped quietly out of the room, back to work with Raven.

Nice... he's learning his lesson.

Even if the only remotely dangerous thing I could actually do was grow my fingernails out by about 10 millimetres, if I broke one off. That might just be enough to leave a really nasty scratch, maybe even break the skin. The very same mechanisms that allowed some boomers to fuse with battletanks allowed me to regrow a broken nail.

That bent brace in my arm finally jammed, and freeing it broke the thing clean off the bone. It didn't hurt, metal held no nerves, but it triggered red-alerts in my AI. There was only a slight numbness, and the disturbing sensation of something crawling around inside under the skin. It meant I couldn't do any more heavy lifting.

Repair time: 14 hours with joint immobilised.

And still I had work to do. Lot's of it.

Hopefully my arm wouldn't drop off before I got this done.

I felt like crying out in despair, the fleeting ray of Nene's sunshine having long left this place for the world beneath. Instead, I grimly forged on, fitting the fuel system.

O-ring on the injector, injector snaps into fuel rail. Repeat three more times. Fit new pressure sensor to the end of the rail, replacing return feed. Mount the whole lot back onto the inlet and admire.

I don't want to join the Knight Sabers.

The more I said it, the more it was beginning to sound like I was lying to myself. This was tough, but strangely enjoyable, once I began to make progress.

----->>

12:34:56

“Why is your arm duct-taped?” Nene enquired as she left.

“Duct-tape fix everything,” I explained.

And it helped stop the broken brace from moving around too much inside... even if the glue did itch like a hundred scratching ants.

I found an MHGD player buried under some tools…. And with a spanner as a microphone, sang along. If Sylia was watching me, she was probably rolling on the floor laughing. The thought of that nearly had me doing the same.

----->>

15:10:11

Linna came and went in a whirlwind, dropping something off downstairs, before running back out… something about a starter motor for her Renault Scenic.

The fuel tank was back on the bike, everything was hooked up and seemed fine. There was nothing but the fairing, Sylia's radio and the crash-bars to go. Some might've suggested that the bike actually be started before fitting all the cosmetic stuff, but there was a very important reason for waiting until the whole lot was done...

I just didn't think about doing it any other way.

A sudden surge of elation picked me up and carried me forward as I realised that I might just be nearing the end of my torture. In the distance was the top of the mountain, framed with sunshine and cherubs, and a sparkling glass of the best German lager waiting just for me and me alone.

Just because I couldn't enjoy the deleterious effects of alcohol consumption, didn't mean I couldn't enjoy the cool, crisp, refreshing flavour.

Dinner came and went, the power surge driving me forward with even greater enthusiasm. I was giggling madly as I fiddled with a blue fibreglass panel, scratched and damaged by the crash, and warped just enough out of true to be an absolute bollox to refit. It should've been frustrating, but I was beyond that... I was finally going mad... I was finally going to finish this thing...

I wasn't going to dance around butt-naked in celebration.

Not when there were people known to record such things with hidden cameras.

I was going to drop to the floor, resting back against the workbench, and laugh maniacally for about 5 minutes at it all. I didn't get tired in the human way, I just got a bit nutty…. like Windows 98 left running for a few days, it got less and less stable, until eventually it went completely insane and slaughtered your data.

I really needed to sleep.

My memory was fragmented, my thoughts starting to fray at the edges. I didn't know why I stayed awake the night before… well, the Friday night anyway… but I regretted it.

Oh right, nightmares.

Shit… I should've been off work today…

----->>

18:01:10

Only about 2 hours later than billed , the rebuilt BMW was up on the dyno, tank full of about 10k yen's worth of Exxon's finest petroleum spirit, and a capful of lead additive I added to save the valve seats.

It had taken three of us pushing, Raven, Mackie and myself, to get it up there, and to connect all the monitoring and control circuitry up to the self programming ECU. I was surprised actually how well I understood how it worked. Raven had spent most of last night programming the ideal power and emissions settings and vehicle environment settings, among other things. Then using a combination of fuzzy logic controller and basic perceptron artificial neural networks to program the FLC, the bike would tune its own ignition and injector timing for peak fuel-efficiency, throttle-response and power overnight.

It was a similar principle to what my own AI operated on, but a lot less complicated. If I was human level say, this thing wouldn't even be an ant. It was still pretty cool though, it learned how best to deliver the performance the rider wanted by comparing its response and result in one instance with the ideal response and result, then updating its control systems and triggering functions accordingly so that they match better. Then lather, rinse, repeat.

And so basically, the more the bike was ridden, the better it got.

The downside with using ANN's was that there was no guarantee it would ever arrive at an ideal solution, or no way of knowing how long it would take to do it. Each attempt at training the ANN would result in slightly different results. There was also the possibility that it would get a little…weird…in the solution it found.

But none of that interesting technobabble actually mattered if it didn't fire up. An expectant hush fell upon those assembled as I stepped up, and placed the key in the ignition. Outside, I heard the buzz of another engine approaching

“Wait, wait,” Mackie pleaded, “Priss will want to see this,”

Great, just great. Casting her grey clouds of mistrust over everything. I was already nervous enough as it was. If this thing didn't fire up, it'd be hell getting it fixed on time, and there's no way in hell I'd get enough rest before the mission and I might just fall to pieces crying on the dyno at the futility of it all.

Just the thoughts of it brought tears to my eyes.

“Hey, Pops… where is everyone?” I heard the singer's voice outside, “Is Sylia still here?”

“In here!” shouted the doctor, his voice painfully loud in such a small room, “And that's Doctor to you, Priss,”

Mackie chuckled. I cursed my luck, and prayed that when I fired it up, nothing exploded. That'd be so embarrassing. The room was barely big enough for three people, let alone four, what with the dynamometer equipment itself, air blowers for the radiator, ventilation for the exhaust, the two handcarts containing tools, a workstation computer, and a 200 litre tank of petrol overhead, feeding the bike's own fuel tank.

Priss pushed through the door, muscling her way into an already cramped and petrol-fume filled room, before closing it behind her.

“Is Sylia here or not?” she demanded… not angrily.

“She hasn't left,” Mackie assured her, enjoying the sight of the woman in figure-hugging red leathers.

Priss never even looked at him, she just didn't care anymore. She ran her eyes across the bike, and I felt her mood suddenly perk up.

“Has it been started?” she asked,

“No,” said Raven, irritation flaring

“We were waiting for you,” Mackie assured her smoothly.

Priss just nodded dismissively, completely ignoring the attempt.

“It really looks well,” she placed a hand up against the cylinder head, “What sort of power does it make?” she asked me.

I suddenly felt horrendously uneasy. She was only curious, I tried to tell myself. More than curious, Priss was fascinated by it, so much that she barely even acknowledged me.

“We haven't started it,” Raven reminded.

“Manufacturers specification then,”

“90 brake horsepower,” I said, before remembering the world had gone metric, “About 70 kilowatts I guess,”

I couldn't remember the exact conversion off the top of my head, but that'd be close enough to it.

“That must've been something special 50 years ago,” she said, peering at the new injection system through a radiator vent.

“Not really,” I shrugged, “It is touring bike. Two people in comfort,”

“Ah, I see,” Priss smiled at me… slightly, almost imperceptibly, but she smiled at me.

She ran her fingers across the crash damage, frowning a little, before placing her hand on top of the new mudguard and tyre. “Too bad about the damage,”

“That'd take too long to fix,” Raven barked, “But we need to get this running, now, unless you'd like to walk tomorrow,”

That snapped her back to the real world, her mood hardening once more, “Well, fire it up,” she ordered.

“Here goes,” I took a deep breath, and turned the key.

Ignition on. No smoke billowing from anywhere, no blown fuses. The new radio came to life, displaying 888:88 MHz CODE 88 on it's green LED display. Another deep breath, switch the killswitch to `run'.

The fuel pump buzzed to life, building pressure in the injectors, the instruments flickering and checking, red oil-light winking back at me. No smoke, no fire… time for the acid test. Push the little green button…

Click went a relay under the fuel tank. My heart arrested for an instant, before the starter laboured to life, cranking over three times. The tachometer needle flickered, the injectors fired, and…

Nothing.

Click, and it stopped dead. Four people exhaled, disappointment flooding the room. Killswitch and ignition off… And I suddenly wanted to cry.

“Try again,” suggested Raven.

I nodded. Ignition, killswitch, starter and the engine cranked once, twice, then let rip with a sudden, heartstopping backfire that sounded for all the world as if the entire building had blown up. Instinctively, we ducked for cover, waiting for the smoke to clear.

“Warn me before it does that!” Priss shouted, livid. “I was right beside the exhaust and I have a concert tonight!”

“Use earplugs next time,” suggested the doctor unhelpfully.

Mackie took his fingers out from his ears, and I crawled out from beside the crankcase with `Sonic overstress' alarms announcing themselves inside my head,

“Sorry,” I offered.

“Third time lucky, Deckard,” Suggested the teenager leaning against the workstation.

I nodded. It felt like the last chance, and my hands were shaking. Ignition, Killswitch, starter… crank once, crank twice… and the engine finally caught with a burp, roaring to life with a belch of blue smoke and the sweet smell of raw petrol, Priss jumping back in fright in case it went off like a bomb.

“It's running!” I roared above the din, “It's actually running,”

I almost didn't believe it. A little rough, a bit smoky, and definitely very rich, but still… It revved, it responded; there was good oil pressure. Everything seemed alright. The ventilation was blasting air through, blowing it up out the chimney again, the engine clattering and roaring painfully in such a confined space. It fuelled the excitement deep inside… I did it… God damn it, I fucking did it…

“Burning oil!” Priss shouted, pointing at the back.

“Normal!” I answered, “Piston rings spin and line up,” I made spinning gestures with my hand to explain, but Priss herself didn't seem to get it. It really was just a quirk of the bike's design… honestly.

Mackie said something to Raven that neither of us heard, and I gave the engine another prod with the throttle, making the little white needle do a little dance on the rev-counter. Priss jumped up, an excited gleam in her eyes… and I suddenly felt very nervous again.

“May I?” she requested, pointing to the saddle.

I nodded jumping down off the dyno as she threw her leg over the saddle. She kicked the bike into gear with a characteristic crunch and I smiled, ear to ear. Priss Asagiri was on my bike…

Raven supervised as she built the revs, running the bike gently up through the gears. It pitched forward and back as she teased the throttle, the torque reaction from the driveshaft kicking the tail up and down.

Priss was alive, a blazing gleam in her eyes as she held the engine just above idle in top gear. She was revelling in it, the sounds, the smells, I could see it forged across her face, I could feel it flooding the room and it seemed to carry me with it.

Burning petrol, such a sweet smell, compared to the acrid, harsh gasohol.

“Give it a run!” Raven ordered, and Priss nodded.

She slammed the throttle hard open, the engine bellowing as it was asked to give all it could. Drifts of black smoke were ripped away up the chimney, engine coughing for a moment as it ran dangerously rich. The machine jumped back into its stride and Priss leaned forward, down towards the clocks as if in her own mind, she was charging towards some distant point on the horizon

I could feel the power buzzing through the room…

I made it do that….

The room was filled with a mechanical symphony of roaring engine, whining transmission, chattering tappets, chittering injectors, the deep hollow burr of tyre against roller and the turbine wail of the magnetic brakes deep inside the dynamometer.

The machine music built to a thundering climactic crescendo. Raven and Mackie had their hands over their ears, but I stood. The engine trilled against it's limiters, straining, coughing and backfiring as fuel and spark were cut and retriggered when the revs dropped.

Priss snapped the clutch in, letting the engine drop to a soothing idle and leaving the driveline to freewheel.

“What's the result?” she asked.

With the roar of the engine now dropped to a muted idle thrum, it seemed almost possible to hear her talk normally.

“59” shouted the doctor back,

Nice… especially with the engine still coughing from time to time as the mixture went funny. Priss was laughing, and maybe shivering. She placed both her hands on the fuel tank, and smiled, before giving me and Raven a thumbs up.

I nodded meekly…feeling strangely shy.

“Mackie,” said Raven, “Set the perceptron training cycle running, and make sure Miss Mechanical Holocaust here doesn't break anything,”

“Hey!” barked Priss, “It's not my fault that the engine you built threw a con-rod and blew itself to pieces,”

“It's not my fault I didn't design it to do twenty-thousand RPM's. Most sensible people don't make engines do that…” countered the Doctor.

“I told you it jumped out of third when I was trying to pass that car…”

“It wouldn't have jumped out of gear if you bothered to use the clutch once in a while,”

“Tch,” Priss rolled her eyes, revealing a new demonic gleam, “One more Pull!” she announced, snapping the throttle open once more.

I winced, a picture of my night's labours exploding in a shower of piston, crank and petrol filling my imagination.

“I don't want to see this,” I mumbled to myself… sympathetic tears welling up.

Raven gestured for me to follow outside, and I gladly did. I didn't want to see my poor machine die.

I was amazed how still and quiet the garage seemed, after the cacophonic noise of the dyno-room. The engine's roaring was immediately muted by soundproofing as the door slammed shut behind the pair of us.

I was shivering. Excitement, terror and a hundred other random feelings were running through my body.

“She loves bikes,” commented Raven, “She just gets a little too enthusiastic at times,”

I wondered why she'd get so enthusiastic with a 20-odd year old BMW with cracked fairing panels and chipped paint, before remembering that from Priss' perspective, that bike was probably older than her father.

“I hope it survives,”

“It will,” he reassured. “And if it doesn't, well, there's a GPz1000R outside you can borrow tomorrow,” he chuckled dryly.

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” his shoulders dropped, “Anyway, these services normally take a few hours, and I'd like to get my beauty sleep tonight, so if you can get undressed, and get all that dirt washed off you, we can get started upstairs. I've prepared a room in my apartment for the job,”

I just nodded, running a tired hand through my hair, “I need sleep too,”

Long day tomorrow. Even if it still seemed almost dreamlike…or nightmarish. I was going to take part in a KS mission tomorrow. I was nervous… I was also looking forward to it for some crazy reason, I genuinely wasn't sure why.

The door opened behind, allowing the roar of the bike to flood the room once more. Booted footsteps behind, and the sense of thrilled excitement, and a strange confusion accompanied them.

“Thank you, that was fun,” Priss said flatly, passing me by.

“No problem,” I answered,

I watched Priss as she stepped into that same closet…

I still didn't understand her.

----->>

The greatest pleasure in a sexaroid's life had nothing at all to do with sex. The greatest pleasure in a sexaroid's life was that wonderful post-service feeling, that clean mechanical high. My lungs were clear of dust, tar and pollution, my blood clear of all contamination. My arm was repaired, my joints checked and bracings adjusted. All my electronic controls and cybernetic regulations were in perfect tune, my whole body running at its peak efficiency.

I felt new, completely renewed.

I lay naked on a steel workbench, strapped down and connected to Raven's diagnostic gear by 108 nerve impulse needles, LAN and dataport. My shoulders were clamped at both 'vampire' transfer ports, either side of my neck. I could see myself through three different surveillance cameras at once, forming a 3-D image of the doctor working on my body in my mind.

I could watch an unmarked 8-wheel truck pull up outside, Mackie and Priss loading an unmarked crate, or my bike running through its training cycle unsupervised, if I wanted, but I was fascinated by myself, and what was happening to me.

The engineer still living within was curious to see what was under the skin. I was cyberpunk.... I loved it.

The greatest feeling of all though… was of the dirty, contaminated blood being drained out of my shoulder, pumped through filters, cleaned, purified and heated, before being pumped back through my body. I could feel it heating my body from within, warmth and power, a renewed vigour flowing through my veins.

It was pure exhilaration without even moving. I never wanted to be anything else but a 33-S, ever again, because then I'd never be able to experience that sensation once more. All the little quirks and glitches, the minor irritations and niggling practicalities of being something other than human, in a world build for humans by humans, seemed totally worth it. I felt like a new person, mind, body and soul.

Being human may have been easier day to day, especially in this city, but being a cyberdroid was interesting. Like comparing a Honda FireBlade with a Ducati 916. One might perform better day to day, the other had its challenges, but I know which one I'd like to ride…

At least until the novelty wore off.

----->>

I woke up on Monday morning, and it felt the same as any Monday I'd ever experienced. Weekend over, time for work. T.V. on the radio channel, cereal time, get ready for work and then…

Remember that I had a very different itinerary today.

At 08:29:19 in the morning, it seemed strangely surreal to think that, in just twelve hours time I might be dead in a hail of bullets. It seemed a distant possibility, on a morning that otherwise seemed so normal.

Talk radio was clamoured with callers complaining about TIEC, and GENOM's rumoured purchasing of government lands, along with news of a Bin strike. The shower was cold, the air-conditioner still broken. Outside, the sky was leaden with rain threatening. The city was hot and humid beneath its rolling grey blanket. Thunder seemed likely. Parts of the fault would probably flood as well, the roads would be jammed up with traffic, and trying to get anywhere worth a damn in the city would turn into a soaking wet nightmare.

How appropriate, considering the day that was in it. God was in his Heaven, and he loved that sort of cheesy stuff.

For some reason, I decided to spend more than a few minutes clearing up the mess my apartment had become over the last 4 weeks, a little like my old place actually, before I'd `arrived' in town. Spare clothes I'd meant to wash on Sunday were gathered into a black bag, trash cleared up for recycling, and I emptied the dishes from the sink.

I felt like I should be going to work later today.

I thought about doing it anyway. I'd certainly be less likely to get killed.

I felt oddly ambivalent to that, though…. It seemed impossibly far away in the future, despite only being in a few hours' time. I was supposed to pick the bike up at around 11, get to Sylia's before 1, then get to the hospital where Priss would be waiting with a new hairstyle at 7pm on the dot.

Crunching away on Green Crisp cereal, like I did every Monday morning, it seemed genuinely impossible.

Of course at one stage, living in MegaTokyo with a boomer body, meeting the Knight Sabers and generally doing everything I'd done over the last 4 weeks had been `impossible', too.

I got fed, dressed and washed, same as always. The same as half the city out there. Human or boomer, male or female, 90% of the necessities of life were the same either way, the other 10% were still novel enough to be entertaining.

I left the apartment with the first patterings of apprehension starting to flit across my gut, a few spots of rain carried down to the ground by a fiendishly cold breeze that chilled the bones.

I wondered if I shouldn't just ring Sylia and tell her I couldn't come out today, on account of the rain. I could enjoy my last day off work in comfort, rather than mortal peril.

Something told me that she'd drag me out, at this stage.

“Besides, you wanted to do this, remember?” I reminded myself out loud.

----->>

It started bucketing rain the moment I reached Raven's. The bike was standing there waiting for me, cleaned as much as possible, with a new set of luggage stolen from the same Honda as the front suspension fitted to the back.

I borrowed a helmet, assured by Raven that the owner wouldn't mind, but couldn't find any waterproofs or proper safety gear. But needs must, and I had to get that bike to Lady633.

I found the delivery wrappings for an old mannequin. They were plastic, transparent and a little dirty, but with the proper application of inspiration and duct tape, would keep most my body nice and dry.

----->>

The accident on my first night in MegaTokyo was never far from my mind as I rode to Lady633, especially each time I filtered forward through traffic. I winced each time something moved. Slowly, steadily, covering the brakes just in case somebody decided to bolt for an opening in the traffic.

I was half shivering, and not from the cold.

The heat from the engine was welling up, slow-cooking my legs. My plastic shield may have kept everything below the neck dry, but it also trapped body heat and moisture. I was sitting in my own personal sauna, and not really enjoying it at that. My skin would prune-up as easy as anyone's.

But it was better than being soaked to the bone.

When the traffic cleared along the main highways, and I was able to build up some momentum, I realised that, despite the modifications to the bike, or the fact that I was thousands of miles away from home, in a completely different universe… It still felt much the same as ever to ride. A little stiffer perhaps, and more eager to rev, but essentially the same.

I was back in the saddle, and it was almost as if I was back in the control of my own destiny. I wasn't being thrown forward by Tet into some sink or swim situation, or quietly manipulated into wanting to do what others wanted me to do…

I was in absolute control of myself and my fate. What route I took, how fast I rode, I had the choice. Whether I lived or died was determined by my luck, my skill at riding, and how well I'd put the thing back together over the weekend.

My luck bag was empty, my skill bag wasn't even a quarter full… and for some reason the ABS warning light was on, despite the brakes working fine.

Not taking any chances in the wet, I didn't have any moments… aside from slide when braking across a manhole cover that the ABS caught… fortunately. It still scared the hell out of me, not because falling off a bike at under 10mph was really just going to be embarrassing, but because I had the horrid feeling that nobody in this city would brake, or even notice if I fell in front of them.

Hmm, I wonder if that sense of control was why Priss rode?

I passed a few binmen, picketing beside their parked up truck. Citizone green waste disposal. It was a tangerine orange truck.

“Men before Mannequins,” one of their placards read, “More human jobs! Less welfare payments”

Hence the Boomer Taxation act being debated in the Diet, whereby an annual tax per-unit would be levied upon all cyberdroid owners, to pay the mounting social welfare costs of displaced workers. The People wanted it, The Corporations didn't. One had votes, the other had money…

In politics, with elections a few years away, guess which came first?

And while those men were striking, GENOM salesmen were reminding their employers that cyberdroids never formed unions, or joined pickets, never complained about working conditions, or health insurance, they just worked.

As much as the world had moved on from 2010, or 1910, some things never changed.

I spent so much time watching them, I nearly ran into the drivers door of a taxi, the driver of which had been rubbernecking at the same thing. Git should watch where he's driving…

My thoughts kept being drawn to Priss though, and what I'd told her on Saturday evening. I glanced down at my reflection in the clocks, and saw only a dark helmet, and the vague outline of a human form beneath it.

It felt the same. It smelt the same… more or less.

Certain that I'm not a copy?

The BMW was proof. Cast aluminium, welded steel and moulded fibreglass. This bike, and my computer were the only artefacts I had, beyond the memories in my head, to prove those memories weren't just a programmer's joke. I or he…..or whatever… had been a real person. And something about the big Bee-Em felt a lot more solid and real than that Dell laptop, it proved my family existed, my dog, my home…. And more things than that.

It was home in a way, what was left of it, one last little fragment of what had once been reality.

I sighed inside my helmet, suddenly feeling completely and utterly alone, and appallingly homesick.

Appropriately, a pair of GENOM G12 mounted THP patrol-bikers then took it upon themselves to pull me to the side of the road, and give a half hearted lecture on the importance of wearing proper government approved safety-gear, while joyfully inspecting every inch of the machine.

They were friendly, polite and really just curious about the bike. They left me standing petrified for a few minutes, before riding off with a congenial “Ride safely,”

Well, that was certainly different…

And at the same time, absolutely terrifying.

I tried to reassure myself with the simple knowledge that no boomer could be terminated, until it was made certain it was a boomer. The only surefire way to be certain I was a 33-S, and not a biomimetic boomeroid, was lethal, meaning I could never be confirmed as a boomer, without actually saying so. The Catch 22 was, my cover was as a boomeroid, and boomeroids were handled automatically by the AD Police… as boomers.

Any attempt to save myself by claiming I wasn't a boomer… I get shot. Vice versa, I get shot.

In both cases, the only thing saving my neck was the fact that the ADP officer had to form a `valid opinion that I was an immediate threat to public safety' before he pulled the trigger.

That little caveat was a paper shield if I ever saw one.

----->>

Inside the parking garage under Lady633, I parked up beside a red 300SL… replica. That was so disappointing. It looked enticingly like the real thing, right until I found the car's tax disk in the window, listing it as a Mercedes S450 originally built in 2020.

Nice job though.

And I laughed at the mild irony of a replica human, being a little put off by a replica car.

I wasn't nervous in anyway, I wasn't apprehensive. I wasn't excited, I just sort of `was'. In a strange way, it felt even more unreal than that replica car, like I might wake up back in my bed on a Monday morning any minute now…

I thought I'd be a quivering jelly of nerves, but no, I was strangely calm. There was definitely no technology involved in it controlling hormones, no secret boomer self defence programs or combat controllers kicking in.

Some of the cars in there were interesting, the other residents here obviously being pretty well-to-do also. I spent a few minutes gazing and an old Alpine A310, with a few cans of Yebisu and an old red jacket on the front seat, a matte black Skyline GT-R, the R32 version I think, with a fat pipe, and an impressive looking shark-nosed 2015 M6, gazing head on at a nearly-new GENOM Lowe saloon, parked beside a Sturm-Tiger sports coupe.

You could tell a GENOM executive a mile off… apparently, while GENOM were responsible for more than two thirds of the world's cars, nobody but GENOM executives bought GENOM sportscars, or GENOM luxury cars.

The world's most popular car was the GENOM Maus, and variants… 4 wheels and a fifth to steer with, 4 seats, a multifuel engine that could run on just about any flammable liquid, and not much else. The Third World ran on the things.

But enough automotive gratification, I was here for a job. I found a lift in the back, beside a Toyota van. The sub-basement and penthouse could be accessed only by a complicated looking key, or a call button.

I felt the first nervous thrill of excitement run through my body as I pushed the button.

“Stingray,” the lift speaker answered,

“It's me,” who idiot? “Deckard, I'm here for the job,”

“Ah Good, I'll bring you downstairs. Something's come up that we have to talk about,”

What? I wondered, before remembering Nene the day before, I'll bet Sylia wasn't too pleased alright. I suddenly felt very small, and very ill. The doors opened, drawing me forward into the same mirrored carriage, closing behind me. The lift dropped abruptly, causing my lunch to rise up the back of my throat.

What was Sylia thinking? First she outright tells me that she doesn't want to have me as a Saber, because of Tet, then, if I understood Nene right, she's testing me for membership anyway. Why?

Testing, or grooming? A sudden bolt of anger sent shudders through my frame. She knew I'd join the mission, the money was tantalising, and the chance to make up and save Irene soothed my conscience.

What was going on behind that calm demeanour?

I didn't want to be that sheep being nudged up that final alley. Yes I can say no, but it's so much easier to say yes. Well then, I should say No!... a resounding, Ian Paisley NO, just to prove that I can't and won't be treated like this.

But, if I want to say yes?

Saying no for the sake of saying no is stupid.

I knew what was going on… at least I had that in my favour… I had all, or most of, the information. I could make a clean choice if it came up. Be confident, cool, and in control.

Easier said than done.

The doors opened again to a brightly lit laboratory-slash-workshop. The walls where white, the floor a hard-wearing industrial green, polished so clean I could see my reflection. I felt ashamed to be dripping water. Something vaguely humanoid, but too large to be human was laid out on a workbench beside me, hidden by a white sheet. Cables and conduits led from under the sheeting to an inactive mobile workstation, and a transparent tank full of blood-red hydraulic oil.

A few sharp angles from underneath had tugged the sheet tantalisingly taught.

A motoroid perhaps?

“Sylia, I'm here,” I announced, my voice nervously quiet.

“I'm in the back,” she answered, her voice coming through an armoured door locked open. Through it, I could see a light, what might've been the edge of a workstation computer.

Three motorslaves were parked beside a dividing wall, opposite what looked like a CNC milling machine, and some sort of liquid filled tank with a long articulated arm arching over it. It looked like some rapid prototyping equipment I'd once used, but beefier somehow. A few activity lights flickered red, the machine tools standing idle.

The room smelled of oil, gasohol, WD-40, ozone and what might've been burning plastic. Some more machines I didn't understand gathered around another empty workbench, arranged around a human-shaped workbench, arms, legs and head, with cut-outs for cable routing and access.

This is where the hardsuits were built…

I stopped for a moment, feeling sick, feeling giddy, feeling like a child in a chocolate factory, surrounded by wondrous things I couldn't quite comprehend, but I knew the end product was awesome.

Feeling a little like a trespasser in the garden of mechanical Eden, I quietly inspected one of the `slaves, a matte green one. It looked like no motorcycle on earth, cables and connectors running through and around what might've been an engine, machined gold sockets staring back at me from the seat, hand controls and fuel tank. A blank LCD screen showed nothing but the same titanium grey as the rear-wheel casings. I crouched down, placing a tentative hand against the front swingarm. The vanes in the wheel were scorched by heat, like the inside of a jet turbine, but the arm itself was almost shockingly cold.

And apparently milled from one solid block of aluminium.

I could see the tool marks running along the surface, with rounded corners where clearance had to be allowed for the mill itself. Braided steel hydraulic lines were carefully lockwired into place, running to the brakes, and what looked to be a hydraulic motor built into the front wheel hub. It was an exquisite thing, intricate and hand assembled with the greatest of care, yet it somehow projected an aura of pure mechanical strength, almost as if it had been hewn by Prometheus himself from one solid billet.

I could see how it worked, the joints and servomotors which powered the transformation and propelled it forwards. In the metal, it all made perfect sense.

“Oh wow,” I whimpered, awestruck.

I was shivering. I felt as if I was a mortal sinner for leaving the smallest of fingerprints on the polished metal, like Eve taking a bite of the apple. I moved on in a hurry before God appeared.

This room, this was a wondrous place, an Aladdin's cave for engineers. Not even a personal tour of the Enterprise by Scotty himself could top this. For one thing, if I really looked at things, I could just about comprehend how they worked, and why they worked that way.

I nearly stumbled through the door, greeted first by a single vaguely anthropomorphic, almost human-sized figure, headless, and hunched forward almost, with its legs cut short. The head, was on the steel table beside it.

It was Nene's hardsuit.

If I could've, I would've gone to bed with it. I wanted one so badly it hurt…

“What do you think?” somebody asked. I barely heard them.

“Awesome,”

I tried not to drool, I tried to take my eyes off of the mechanical wonder and address the person speaking to me, but I couldn't.

I shivered as I struggled to breathe.

“It's beautiful,” I said, barely whispering.

A dinner fit for Caligula could've been served on my eyes as I inspected every last little detail. There were connection points to match those on the motoslaves, a small filler-cap marked H20 on the backpack. Parts were plastic where it made sense for them to be plastic, such as insulators, ceramic around high temperature areas, like the single booster nozzle under the computer, and precisely machined metal everywhere else.

And still, it showed a fashion designers eye for the female figure. The armour flowed across the body, working with the wearer's natural curves, rather than against them.

“Thank you,” said Sylia.

I wanted to touch it, but I didn't dare, I just swallowed my lust and tried to focus my thoughts. This was why she wanted to meet me down here, not up in her apartment, or at the garage. She wanted me to see this.

“Nene was right,” she continued, “Even if she wasn't supposed to mention it.” Her voice betrayed mild annoyance, “I was watching you in the garage, and this is, or was supposed to be, a test,”

“I guessed the first part,” my voice quivered out while I tried to regain control. I should be filled with indignant fury, not awestruck by a shiny hardsuit… sooo shiny….“But why test, when you say you do not want me, on first day?”

“I said I didn't want to be bullied or coerced into accepting a new member,” corrected the leader of the Knight Sabers, “Not that there would never be an open position,”

“Shit,” I swore under my breath, not quite believing it.

“I wanted to wait until after the mission, originally. But I didn't want to leave Nene's indiscretion hanging over your head the entire time. I'm sure you'll agree, the last thing anyone needs at a time like this is a distraction,”

I was shivering, shaking like my own personal earthquake, and I had no idea why. Blazing excitement warred with blistering terror, and a few sparks of anger I was trying desperately to stoke.

“This is fucked up,” I muttered half to myself, shaking my head. “I don't know, I really don't know. No hasty choice,”

I needed to sit down. Badly.

“That would be wise,” she half chuckled, “This is a big commitment. You'll have to change apartments to one nearer here for one thing, it'll ruin any night time plans you'll ever make, and it'll be unlikely you'll get a chance to leave the city any time soon,”

So I'd have to give up on my goal of going home then.

“And I might die,” I added. Deep breath. I was starting to sober up a little. “I wanted go home, using money from mission,”

“That won't be possible,”

Again, I nodded. I seriously wished I could sleep on it, but this really wasn't something I wanted hanging over my head when the bullets started flying. My heart wanted to do one thing, while my head just spun around in dizzy circles.

Which is exactly what I think Sylia had intended.

I wished I could faint, just to buy more time to think about it. But no, I had to answer. Here and now. Another deep breath, and another step on the road to damnation.

It reminded me of some sort of mortgage ad from the TV. Shiny new house, brilliant car, suit of powered armour, lots of money, happy safe family in their own home, the suddenly the obligatory acknowledgement that you've signed your soul over to the devil, after a year the house will worth much less than you still owe, and that you better not miss a payment or you'll go straight to hell.

“Always small print,” I said, exhaling. “I should be furious,” I laughed nervously, “I know why I here and not in penthouse,”

“And why might that be?” asked Sylia, feigning being wounded

“Because I not resist a hardsuit,”

That woman was, is, and forever will be the master of the mindgame.

“That's part of it, yes,” she admitted with a wry smile, “But also because the suit itself needed to be repaired, and the firing range is down here.”

I just nodded again. A sheep in the presence of her master. All according to the plan, somebody else's anyway. Story of my life. Here goes. “I'll do it,”

I think mice fart louder than my voice was when I said that.

Sylia nodded, extending a hand, “Welcome to the Knight Sabers, Meg”

I took it warily, being surprised at just how hard the skin on her palm was, and how firmly she gripped.

“Thank You,” I forced out.

There was something strangely cathartic about it. Getting shot at by one single boomer on one single mission didn't seem so bad, considering I'd just agreed to do it for a living.

I suddenly felt like running out of there, screaming.

“I can get the baseline data for your new hardsuit next Sunday, and it will take about a month to construct. With luck, that will be enough time,”

I suddenly realised just what she was doing, and why she wanted a 5th member.

“Before things Blow up?”

I hoped she'd recognise the episode titles I'd told her.

“Exactly. Whether Mason believes that the DVD disks represent the real Knight Sabers or not, is a moot point, we have to proceed as if he does,” a gentle mischievous glint sparked in her eyes for a moment, “I for one would like to have something to surprise him with, in case he decides to move against us.”

Us, now including me. Oh damn.

“So you believe… the disks are real?”

“Ever since the Superboomer at the Kawasaki factory opened itself up to reveal the Satellite controller,” she told me in a surprisingly straight shot. “I'm sorry for keeping it from you, and I do apologise for being so harsh and direct at the time, but I think you understand why I had to do it,”

I didn't know what to say, I just looked down at my booted feet. I didn't really, not right away anyway, but I gave a gentle nod nonetheless.

“Good,” she knew I didn't, but she moved on anyway, “Now, back to today's business. It wouldn't do to have our newest member shoot themselves by accident,”

“No, it wouldn't” I gave a false laugh, trying to sooth my own spinning head with humour

On to the firing range.

I've never fired a gun in my life…. Not counting my electric experiments. I wasn't in any way excited, I was still too overwhelmed, and terrified I'd embarrass myself by breaking something.

----->>

Sylia Stingray could read people's minds, that was the only logical conclusion. How else could she have done it? It was only with ten minutes cold reflection that I fully understood what she'd done, and what she had planned.

Once she'd decided on a Fifth Saber to surprise Mason, she looked for a candidate. Since I already knew about the group, and had the same knowledge as Mason, I was the logical choice. The only problem was, she had to make me want to do it. I'd specifically said I never wanted to be a hero…

First, from the moment I left Lady633 with her harsh warnings ringing in my ears, she waited and watched how I lived in the city. She watched for any more interference from Tet, or for me to run to one of the corp's to make a quick buck. Once it became clear that I wasn't going to betray the Sabers, that I wasn't reporting back to anyone or that no-one was secretly watching me and using me as an unwitting pawn, she moved forward to the next stage.

Second, she offered bait, a `dangerous' job with money and a soothed conscience as a reward. She knew my conscience would bug me over Irene, or the money would attract me, so she knew I'd say yes to one. If I didn't, then I really was serious and she'd leave me alone, but if I went along to the meeting, she had me hooked. It meant I was open to the possibility of leading `the heroic lifestyle'.

Next, there was a test of my perseverance, my willingness to carry through with what I'd agreed to, and a little more on top of that. It also tested my competency as a mechanic, my understanding of technology, and my ability to learn and adapt. If I couldn't do it, then I couldn't do it, the mission would continue somehow, and I'd've gotten a nice paycheck and a thank you for my troubles when it was done.

But I did, and so got the emotional payoff from completing the task fully, and the physical reward of a full body service to reinforce the idea that good things come to those who forge on through unpleasantness.

Next, she showed me the hardware of the Sabers, up close and personal, something she knew no person of an engineering mentality could resist. It was the seed of another juicy carrot planted in the back of my mind. That was when she asked the Big Question, but if Nene hadn't blown it, for which I was assured she would be punished by paying for a `Welcome to the Club' meal, the final test would've been the actual mission itself.

If the mission was completed, I passed. Along with the nice juicy paycheck, while I was riding on an emotional and adrenaline high, she would've popped the Big Question, probably from inside her hardsuit, by which time I would've been powerless to resist.

If I got killed, the whole thing was rendered moot.

Masterful, truly masterful. I really should've been mad, but the truth was, I was much too impressed by how she'd done it, and it was hard to be angry with a person who'd been so calm, comforting and polite about it. She'd eased me gently into it, rather than throwing me blindly forward. With hindsight, I figured that if I'd called her on it, she'd've happily come clean then still carried on regardless with a new backup plan.

Remind me never to play chess against her.

----->>

As a welcome-to-the-club gift, Sylia'd arranged for a new set of leathers, boots and a helmet which would link up with the new radio fitted to the bike. It was pretty anonymous black, except for some grey trim, but it was properly armoured, surprisingly flexible for new leather, properly waterproof, and properly sexy…

Sylia had an eye for the feminine figure alright, and I looked shit-fucking hot. My butt could cause an accident… people paying attention to me, and not the road.

Something about that thought made me feel strangely giddy. I had another set of similar leathers for `Irene Can' along with a spare helmet, which I stashed in the bikes pannier, alongside my jacket, jeans and old boots.

I also managed to surprise myself with how well I could shoot… for a beginner anyway. I had a boomer's hand-eye coordination. I'd decided on a Misaki M42-A1, the same weapon used by the ADP. It felt like a toy in my hands, more plastic than metal, a little rattly… the sort of thing that'd have `Made in China' stamped on the side and shoot little 1-joule pellets. Even the sound it made as it fired, a hard crack with a metallic ring, a little like a golfball struck hard by a driver, was nothing like the thunderous boom I'd expected. The weapon recoiled, but it didn't blast my shoulder off.

It really did feel like a toy.

The fist-sized chunk the 5.7mm round knocked out of the target though, was very, very real.

And thinking about it suddenly reminded me of my own mortality. If it could kill a human outright, it could kill me outright too. I was a biomimetic android, not a combat model. Just a single 5.7mm round, not even to the head, would be enough to drop me.

And I was going to ride into an ambush where hundreds of these things would be flying about, where even more deadly firepower could well be aimed right at my head. And I'd agreed to do this, not just once, but as a paying job.

I sat astride my bike, gloved hands on the bars, shivering, whimpering, panting and trying not to throw up. I've just thrown my life away… I've just gotten myself killed… if not today, then soon. Shot to pieces, blown apart or bloodily ripped limb from limb… take your pick.

My stomach finally had enough of it with that mental image… I vomited a chime mixture of breakfast, lunch and reaction catalyst across the bonnet of a sparkling white Toyota parked beside, wretched violently enough to bend `something' inside, then fired once more.

Quivering like a turkey at Christmas, and suddenly feeling fatally exhausted, I dropped down onto my bike's fuel tank, resting my head lazily against the instruments. My gut gurgled and complained as I spat the last of that disgusting brew out.

The smell of petrol and hot oil cloaked the vomit as best they could.

“Why did I do it?” I asked myself out loud.

Because I wanted to.

“Why did I want to do it then?”

Because Sylia made me want to do it.

But did she really, or did she just latch onto something that was already there? If on day one, she'd asked if I wanted to don a shining hardsuit and fight the good fight, would I really have said No?

I honestly didn't know.

`Well, I'm now a Knight Saber,' I thought. It didn't excite me; at least not once the cold reality of what that actually meant had begun to sink in. It wasn't just a case of swanning around in shiny suits popping steel cannon fodder. A brutal death lingered behind every corner. One misstep at the wrong moment, one stroke of bad luck, just the one time no matter how often I'd won, and that'd be it….game over.

“Fuck it anyway,”

I started the bike. I had a job to do, and I was suddenly starving hungry. Even a condemned man gets a final meal.

I'd condemned myself, the least I could do was feed myself as well. Good food this time, from a decent sushi place. At least I could die happy.

At least Sylia and I had agreed not to tell anyone else, until tonight.

----->>

I pulled into the hospital carpark ten minutes early, chaining the bike up by its frame. I was welcomed by an electronic sign.

MegaTo__o Mercy Hospi_al, it read, some of the backlit letters having failed thanks to the penetrating rain. The whole lot suddenly went dark, shorting itself out with a puff of blue smoke. When it rained in Megatokyo, it rained.

Acid rain dragged pollution down from the atmosphere, blackening concrete, attacking steel, and slowly fingering its way into each and every exposed piece of electronic equipment, eating away over time at any protective seals.

Nothing lasted if left outside for long enough. Only glass seemed to resist it.

The rain could even give susceptible people a rash, if they were unlucky. It was one in a ten thousand, at most, but that was still a lot of people in this city. Supposedly, it was the factories in Kawasaki that did it, or the gasohol fumes, though nobody could prove anything and anyone who tried got sued out onto the streets.

I was calm enough, calmer than I expected to be anyway. I was a little twitchy, a bit edgy, but I wasn't a basket case. I knew what I had to do, and I could do it. I had to keep my food where it belonged, speak a few lines, not forget Priss' disguise gear and… shit…

With my imaginary tail between my legs, I doubled back to the bike and retrieved the bag.

Outside, the hospital looked like just another rainwashed skyscraper in this megatropolis, identified only by the single large neon green cross on each faÃ§ade of the building's crown. At least I didn't need health insurance; most pathogens took one look at my systems and gave up. That and most medicines either just plain wouldn't work, or made things much worse.

So no painkillers or paracetamol for headaches….

Trying to exhale my apprehension, I took my helmet off… it's always good manners, and went in through the front doors.

Inside, through almost an airlock of automatic doors, guarded by an actual human security guard in a navy uniform who smiled thoughtfully at me, the first thing that struck me was the stink of chlorine. It smashed my senses like a wall, muddying my sense of smell, making my eyes water, and disabling my pheromone senses entirely.

It was like being blinded for an instant, before I readjusted.

Greeting me was a large waiting area, just about big enough to park a few trucks side-by-side. It was about half full, most people inside seeming to be reasonably well to do. A few families buzzed around, waiting for mommy or daddy, some parents hugged each other. It felt a little like an airport waiting terminal, with the check-in desks at the far end.

There was one separate check-in area per insurance company accepted by the hospital, a desk for information, and one final area for the uninsured. The only cyberdroids in the entire building were the ones behind the reception desk.

“May I help you, miss?” a platinum haired one requested. Just another pale-skinned mannequin, with those same dead eyes, probably turned out from the same factory floor. The only thing different were the clothes it wore; a powder blue blouse, a hard wearing skirt, and a pair of cheap plastic shoes.

Remember the words… deep breath… play the part. I'm only here to pick a woman up, nothing more. Swallow your fears…

“I am here to pick-up discharge patient,” what was Irene's pseudonym again, “Her name is Miki Itou,”

The cyberdroid entered the name, its fingers a working almost metronomically… and it still stared at me. It didn't even need to look down at the terminal screen.

“You must please give your name, Miss…”

Another demand phrased as the most polite request imaginable.

“Susan Keith,” I answered.

“Thank you,” it acknowledged, keying the name in while I quietly prayed it didn't ask for id. Sylia had been certain they wouldn't, but there was always the exception at the worst possible moment.

“Room A225, Toshio Suzuki memorial private ward. Follow Blue route four to elevator nine. There is a Miss Oomori and a Miss Tomizawa signed in as visitors. Thank You and Good Day.“

“Thanks,”

I wondered to myself why I'd bothered, when I knew beyond doubt that it really was just an appliance, a Bu-72-D, with a type-9 AI. And thanks to those obvious toasters, all cyberdroids were tarred with the same `talking white-goods' brush.

Carrying my helmet under one arm, I pushed through the hospital corridors, keeping my eyes on the blue line. The signs were bilingual, but the English parts weren't in any English I knew.

All I knew was I was heading towards Paediatrics, Cardiographology, Cybercerebral Imaging and several recovery wards. The corridors themselves were wide enough to drive a car through; one wall made up of offices, private beds, wards and examination rooms filled with God knows what medical technology.

All was white and sterile.

The other wall was assaulted by the monsoon outside, the city outside melting in the sheeting rain. I was still dripping spots of dirty water as I walked, staining the polished floor and drawing sour looks.

I passed a melancholic young woman sitting in a wheelchair who screamed as I walked by her. My heart spasmed, my whole body trying to break into a panicked run. Had somebody figured out what I was? I asked myself, What was happening?

I glanced around frantically…

No sign of a combat boomer bearing down on me with claws drawn, nobody with a pistol aimed at my head. Just a woman, surrounded by blue-bloused nurses and a white-coated doctor as she wailed in agony.

How did I do that? I wondered, guiltily. I wanted to apologise, but I wasn't suite sure what I'd done. Instead, I just hurried away before somebody put 2 and 2 together and decided to ask questions. When you're an unregistered cyberdroid entering a building on a false name, the last thing you want is people asking questions you're going to run out of answers to very quickly.

I took a few moments to calm down in the solitude of a brushed steel lift. I forced my free hand into my pocket to stop it shaking, tried to focus my thoughts on what I had to do, not on what would happen if I got caught, and generally failed at both.

I was aware of each and every CCTV camera and security guard I passed. Each and every set of eyes in the building watched me as I tried to get through the building as anonymously as possible, but a figure hugging set of leathers and a sexaroids body made it anything but…

I tried not to look at the guards, or the cameras… that was the worst thing you could do. If you look at them, it means you're interested in them, and that begs the question; why are you so interested in what the guards are doing?

So, I hurried on, focusing on nothing more than a sign at a junction dead ahead that read “Toshio Suzuki Memorial Ward 2027”. A dark haired, well built woman was stretchered past me, my reflection shimmering across the surface of her steel right arm. I glanced at her a moment, flexing my own arm before returning my attention to that same sign again.

It was a cool relief to finally find the door marked A225. Overcome by the strange sensation that I might've been followed, I glanced over both shoulders. Nobody seemed to be watching me. Good. The door slid open, and I stepped inside.

The room was small, barely big enough for the bed, a table, and a chair. Priss was sitting in her own red leathers, legs crossed and using the table as a footstool. The singer sported a brand new hairstyle, her trademark fringe trimmed short with a straight edge, with a spread of hair like a bird's tail feathers at the back, uniform and clean cut, and dyed a much deeper, almost mahogany brown.

It was a perfect match for the young woman in the bed, being fussed over by her black haired friend.

“Took you long enough,” Priss commented.

“It is monsoon out,” I defended “I have clothes for disguise,” I held up the sopping wet bag for all to see.

“I hope they're dry,” remarked the singer, already undoing her boots.

“Meg, I'm just finishing Irene off here,” said Linna, looking up from her hairdressing kit just long enough to acknowledge I'd arrived.

“Hi,” Irene almost whispered, and I suddenly felt like running out through that door.

“Hey,” I tried to give her a smile, and felt like an idiot for doing it. “How are you?”

“Much better,” she said, “My new arm still feels a little weird though,”

She showed it to me, comparing it with her other hand. They looked identical, exact mirror images of each other. Linna'd told me, that rather than go through the bother of pinning the bones together, and months of agonizing recovery, they'd just replaced it with a biomimetic.

“It looks real,” I said,

She gripped her hand tightly shut, smiling at me for a moment,

“Meg Deckard here is a boomeroid,” Linna told her, earning a sharp glare from me for a second.

“It was either this,” I pointed to my chest, “or death,”

“I can't imagine that,” she said, almost sullenly, “It's not my arm, but it feels like it is. Anything I touch, feels almost like I'm touching it through a glove,”

“You'll get used to it,” I reassured, trying to be confident about it. “Better than old ones,”

She nodded thoughtfully, holding her artificial hand in front of her eyes.

“More trouble than they're worth,” Priss threw her opinion into the ring, already stripped down to her underwear. “Especially maintenance, and interface issues. And boomer syndrome,”

“But bioneumatics don't have that problem, do they?” wondered Linna out loud, getting the word wrong in the progress.

“Nope,” I said, “I never have problem with it. I know what I am.”

Priss gave me an odd look, while I silently cursed myself for not saying `who' like I'd meant to.

“Didn't you keep that bike as an anchor?” she asked me, anchor referring to anything used by boomeroid level cyborgs to remind themselves of who they are, to hold their personalities in place against the tide of the machine.

I just nodded. “But one arm, it's not going to be a problem, I mean, would you let me stab a knife through it?” I asked Irene

“No!” she yelped, cradling it suspiciously to her chest,

“See,” I smirked. “Protect like original. It means something so no problem.”

I had no idea what I was trying to say, maybe something about how her mind feels it's her own arm enough to protect it as if it was. Truth was I was bullshitting out my hole, and succeeding.

Priss was now naked as the day God made her, and I could see the scars of her life written across her body. There were white bubbles that had once been road rash spattered across her legs, hips and arms, sharp white slashes across her stomach, shoulder and along one of her forearms. She practiced what she preached alright, one of her legs showed the tell-tale signs of having been pinned together with some outside supports. Reminding me of the job offer I'd just taken were the still healing burns on her shoulder and a pink splash just above her hip.

I honestly questioned for a second, if she was really human, to be able to take all that punishment, and still look so beautiful.

“A change inside the body still brings a change in consciousness,” she said, her expression neutral “And give me my damn clothes, Deckard, I'm not going out naked,”

I offered the bag I'd nearly forgotten about, which she snatched gruffly from my hand. Evergreen and ocean blue leathers, a contrast to the red Priss normally preferred, along with silken underwear, courtesy of Sylia.

“I guess I better get dressed then,” Irene said, and sounded more nervous than I did. Again, I was glad I wasn't the only one.

“Not until I've finished you're hair,” Linna held her down gently, “I have to make you look like Priss here, remember?”

“There's no rush anyway,” remarked Asagiri with a smirk, “Mackie's still probably unloading the truck,”

“I wonder if they've had to give him a blood transfusion yet,” wondered the fitness instructor, finger to her lips, “With all the nosebleeds he's having, he'll need one,”

The four women in the room giggled musically. It felt good to be part of the group; it broke the stress and tension of the upcoming day's work.

“He might ruin the merchandise,” I warned. “Especially unload one at time by hand,”

“How can we be sure he didn't just roll around in the back on top of the open boxes?” Priss asked, now almost dressed,

“Or try them on?” Linna wondered.

I glanced out the window in the door, seeing there were no Peeping Toms stealing a glance, just in case.

Priss gave us a twirl in her disguise, “What do you think?”

She looked so much like Irene, it was uncanny. Give her a white blouse and a loose skirt, and she'd be a dead match for Irene on that first night.

“Shows off figure nice,” I said. “Real good hips”.

A trademark of Sylia's, apparently.

“Looks just like you, Irene,” chipped in Linna.

“It feels weird,” was Irene's opinion. “I think you look like more my sister, actually.”

“It'll have to do,” shrugged Priss, “Besides, somebody now has to dress as the greatest singer in Megatokyo, or this won't work,” Her eyes sparked menacingly. Terrible things were going to happen to Irene, especially since Priss' worn leathers seemed just a little on the too-big side for Irene's slight figure.

Somehow, it worked. It was almost funny. Priss had a much deeper voice than Irene, and watching to two women speak with what seemed to be each other's voices was surprisingly funny. There were telltale signs of course; different eye colour being the main one, but it was close enough so that unless you stopped either of them and checked, you wouldn't be able to tell.

And a decent pair of sunglasses could cover that

“We're ready,” real Priss told Sylia through a mobile phone.

“I hope this works,” ersatz Priss said, looking entirely too nervous for the part. It really was like watching a first-timer cosplaying.

“Mackie should be done soon,” Linna said, “I guess Priss and I will go help him,”

Priss giggled in a way real-Priss never would have. It was funny to watch, especially with Irene's voice a register higher than Priss' in the first place.

“Me and Irene will get on road,” I said, feeling the weight of responsibility drop right onto my shoulders.

This was my part and my part alone. Irene looked about as thrilled as you'd expect her to be about it. She was going along with it because she was under orders.

“So,” Irene started, hands on her leathered hips, “Where did you park?”

It'd just be my luck if the bike had been stolen in the mean time, wouldn't it?

----->>

“It's been a while since I've been pillion,” Priss said offhand.

Outside, I could feel her discomfort radiating hot and uneasy. She stood, holding one arm with the other, keeping a quick lookout while I got the bike unlocked.. Under the concrete shelter I'd parked the bike under, it was dry enough, except for a few spots blown in on a gusting wind, but the rest of the car-park was fast becoming a shallow black lake.

“This weather. I hate rain ride,” I said, my hands betraying my true feelings by shaking as I tried to unlock the chain. I couldn't get the key into the hole.

“How long have you been riding?”

About two months,

“Not long,” I answered, trying to dodge around. Reflect the question. “And you?”

“Since I was sixteen,” she said. “Might've been going nowhere, but at least I could go nowhere fast,”

I wasn't sure what to make of that, Priss' lifestyle was completely out of my sphere of knowledge. Up until a month ago, I'd been the normal, ordinary person with a home, family, college.

“Fast... I not want crash,”

I didn't care for crashing at all. I'd done it twice before.

“Crash happens.” shrugged the master of motorcycle mayhem. “You don't become a better rider if you don't push your own limits and learn from your mistakes,”

“Dead don't learn,” I snarked.

“Don't push too far then,” Priss rebutted caustically.

The chain came loose and I stashed it roughly in the pannier with my clothes.

“Especially in monsoon.”

Fucking weather.

“Real bikers ride in all weather,”

Well, it kept my mind off other things, anyway,,

“I not real biker,” I stated my case, “I am commuter who got bike because more fun and better in traffic than car.”

“A bike is always better than a cage,” Priss gave me a thumb's-up.

“Even in weather like this,” I agreed.

Funnily enough, that was almost true. At least I was dry thanks to the waterproofs, and normally, I'd be out of it quicker. The roads were also a hundred times more lethal, and drowning seemed to have become a possibility.

The bike fired up with a characteristic judder, helmets on, saddle up, and deep breath. I felt Priss' weight behind me, depressing the seat down. It was strange, she made a specific effort not to touch me. She kept her legs apart, and held herself as far back on the seat as she comfortably could.

It was another needle to my gut that reminded me just how much she trusted me.

“Wow, this is actually pretty comfy,” I heard her comment over the intercom, her voice a little muffled, but still surprised. That one compliment made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Fidgeting in the seat, I gassed the engine gently, feeling my fears buzz through my body. Lightning flickered overhead and through my veins, thunder rolling through my stomach.

“Are you ready for this then?” I heard Priss' voice ask, distant and tinny.

I swallowed my apprehension, and just focused on doing what I had to do. This was my show now; I'd better make it a good one. Ten miles through the city… 16000 metres, that's all. Just that little distance forward, the multiply and repeat. One metaphorical foot in front of the other. Easy, right?

I didn't believe that for a second, but it made me feel a little better. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes for second. Be calm, first step. “Let's do this,”

Set radio Channel 288. Code AE85. Mode: OPEN Lock as Preset 1

“Knight-Leader, this is Knight-Rider.” I spoke in what I hoped was a cool clear voice, “Tiger has her stripes.” What was the other part of the fucking code again? Right” “No sign of poachers,”

“Knight-Rider, Knight-Leader, acknowledged. Broadcast diversion 1,” came Sylia's terse, commanding reply.

“Wilco,” I said, for no reason other than saying `Wilco' and meaning it.

Channel 175, Code S13, Mode: NRW. Lock as Preset 2. Now let's give GENOM something to listen in on. One thing that had been given away, were the original radio codes to be used.

“Knight-Leader, this is Knight-Rider,” I repeated. “Idle at starting point. Tiger is in the bag, awaiting instructions,”

“Knight-Rider, Knight-Leader, acknowledged” was Sylia's repeated reply. “Proceed at discretion to ensure safe arrival,”

“Yeah, this weather is nuts,” I complained, suddenly feeling breathless. Priss groaned behind me. “Wilco”

Switching back to Preset 1, I hooshed the bike down off its centre stand, no problem so far. The stand snapped up with a the same solid crack as always, the machine bouncing on its suspension. Priss fidgeted in the seat as she adjusted her balance.

“Wait for Sylia,” Priss instructed as I grunted with the effort of paddling over 300 kilos backwards.

“Yeah, yeah,” I puffed.

“Knight-Leader, this is Knight-Light,” I heard Nene's voice. “Tiger's Den is dark.”

Meaning the Hou-Bang ambush was properly hidden, and there were no GENOM agents hovering around to shine a light on it.

“Acknowledged,” Sylia responded.

“Knight-Leader, this is Knight-Guard,” It was Linna's turn, “Cheetah has her spots, The Watcher is in the driving seat. No sign of poachers.” Perfectly professional. “Or peekers.”….Or not.

“Acknowledged,”

I glanced at the vehicles in the carpark, a stray few braving the rain before their cars floated away. Any one of them, could be loaded with my death. I scanned for blacked out windows, dark coloured GENOM Automotive saloons, any obvious `secret agent' type cars.

Nothing stood out. Maybe the rain kept them away. Ride through the wet, don't crash. They won't follow. No guns, no fighting, no dance with death, Irene is safe, and the whole mission ends in a beautiful damp squib…emphasis on the damp….Please God.

I don't know what made me think the man upstairs would be more likely to listen to me anyway tonight, than he was a month ago. Whatever it was would be proved wrong anyway.

The little microphone in my ear hissed to life once more.

“Knight Sabers, sanjo”

Thrills of giddy excitement reverberated through my body with those words. I almost expected the view through my visor to cut away for a moment, to an animated image of Sylia standing on some rooftop, lightning splitting the sky behind her.

Not that Sylia Stingray would be dumb enough to stand on top of a towerblock in a thunderstorm.

A tidal surge of new confidence rushed through me.

“Yes!” five women's voices barked.

I giggled privately, crunching the bike into gear. Here goes everything…

I stalled it, the big BMW guttering forward, coughing then going embarrassingly quiet for the briefest of shameful instants, before peals of Priss' mocking laughter rang in my ears,

“Nice one, Meg,” she placed a warm hand on my shoulder.

Any confidence I had, dissolved as I dropped down to the tank, hiding from the shame of it. Even the fuel-pump seemed to be mocking, burbling, buzzing and hissing at me. I gave an exasperated growl, pulling the clutch in and stabbing at the starter.

The bike fired up once more, I gave it an enthusiastic handful of throttle and lurched away hard enough to frighten Priss for the briefest moment.

“Watch it!” her voice blasted in my ear.

“Sorry,” I muttered, not even close to being.

I didn't stall a second time, I made sure of it. I'd never live that down. I crawled through the carpark, rain pattering and rattling off the tank and fairing. There were a few cars moving, but none of them seemed too interested in us.

“Maybe they won't come out in the rain,” I wondered aloud, hopefully.

“Don't count on it,” my passenger shot that down abruptly.

I just groaned, pulling up at the exit. Check, check right, road clear, deep breath and away. I watched behind for a few seconds, checking to see if anything was following now.

Nope. Nothing but the rain, Starbuck.

“Knight-Leader, Knight-Rider, We are en-route, still no sign of poachers,”

“Understood,” Sylia's voice answered, “Can you give an ETA at Tiger's Den?”

“Not now… hard to ride in rain at speed,”

Please don't make me rush, I pleaded mentally.

“The priority is to arrive, not to arrive quickly, speed is at your discretion,”

“Tha- uh- Roger,” I said. “Knight-Rider out,”

I cut the channel, switched to the second preset and then repeated the same first message on the decoy channel. It seemed a bit silly to me to be attracting attention, especially since nobody seemed too interested in following anyway, but that was the plan.

If they weren't following us, I was quite happy to let that sleeping giant lie….

But then there was the chance they'd realised we were the decoy, and were homing in on the Silky Wagon. If that happened, they'd make a break for the Hou-Bang ambush, and I'd have to race through the city to get there ahead of them… fuck the ambush, doing anything over 40mph in weather like this would be lethal.

“This is Knight-Guard, en-route to the dropoff, cheetah is comfortable, no sign of poachers.” Linna's voice crackled in my ear as another bolt of lightning flashed above.

“Thank Christ,” I murmured to myself, feeling the weight lift off my shoulders.

The rain had kept them away.

The same rain which was already running in little rivulets down between the fairing and the tank, pooling in what was once a speaker cutout and generally trying to insinuate itself into every single nook and cranny.

The same rain which kept me from seeing more than 50 yards ahead, through spray and streaming water across the windshield. Riding gear had moved on a bit in 20 years' time, I was warm, dry, and not at all sweaty. It was still bloody lethal out, rainwater steaming and hissing off the engine, the front wheel ploughing a shallow bow-wave through the rainwater running along the road. The front end went light in my hands as it aquaplaned through a puddle, and my heart almost stopped.

Don't crash, I prayed silently, gripping onto the bars for grim death and hoping the machine would just finds its way through each time it happened.

Some poor unfortunate made a dash for their car, their newspaper umbrella having long disintegrated.

1 mile down, 9 more to go. If it wasn't for Noah's flood, this'd be easy.

------>>

I'd been riding for ten minutes, picking my way through traffic, puddles and the ongoing radio chatter. Almost halfway there, and no sign of anyone following… and I said as much about every two minutes over the radio. Every few minutes, Linna would cut in with the exact same thing.

Hello Missus Quincy, can Mason come out to play…? Oh No No, ladies, his new Boomers might rust in our acid rain… Dawww…

Just when I'd convinced myself that GENOM had stayed at home, Priss' voice hissed in my ear,

“We're being followed.”

I glanced around… nothing but the same traffic as a moment ago.

“I don't see it,” I said. Nothing that looked like the traditional `Evil Car'. No black paint, no blacked out windows, nothing like that Lagonda car that'd chased Irene and I. Some kid in a family minivan waved back at me as I filtered passed.

“Three cars back, red Toyota Corolla GT,” she said tersely.

I saw the car… it looked ordinary enough. 4 passengers, a slight dent on the front bonnet. Its popup headlights glared back at me, flashing off the mirrors for an instant as it pulled back behind the minivan we'd just past.

“Looks ordinary,” I said, returning my attention to the road.

“No,” hissed Priss, “It's them. You really have no combat sense do you?”

“Never done thing before,” I defended limply,

“Look how it rides on the road,” she instructed, “It's wallowing on its springs which means it's heavily loaded, but there's no space for luggage, unless it's full of gold.”

I gave a glance back at it, over my shoulder. It did seem loaded, but there were only four people inside, broad shouldered

“Don't look!” Priss barked.

I snapped my gaze back to the road ahead, just in time to avoid running into the back of a slow moving ambulance.

“There's only four people in that car,” continued the singer, “The only way that car could be loaded so heavy, is if the passengers were heavier than they should be. There're four combat boomers in that car,”

“Bloody hell,” I stuttered out, swallowing a sudden rise of bile.

Priss almost sounded like she was realising it. I glanced down at the bikes instruments…nothing had changed, up at the back of the truck in front….“North Central Positronics - Moving on with the World,”….then back at the following car.

I could hear my breathing, quick and heavy, my body charging up to run as fast and far as it could. My wrist tightened itself around the throttle, the big BM responding, slowly building more speed. A green panelled sign for a motorway exit flashed past, lightning flickering across the sky once more. I have to run away, I have to get away somehow. Just squeeze the throttle and go, dive off onto some side road, belt forward through traffic, just run… run… RUN! It implored. Just fucking Run away! it screamed.

Which is exactly what they want me to do, a small voice reminded, nearly drowned out by a fight or flight response jammed firmly on `flight'.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“Keep going, they're not going to shoot at us in public,”

Priss was completely unfazed by it. 4 combat boomers, nothing but a fact of life for the battle scarred woman. I thought about those scars for a moment, and felt my whole body shudder. I could see that car still in my minds eye, lurking back there. I snatched glances in the rain-soaked mirrors, looking for it, trying to watch for it making any sudden runs.

Alright, I have to radio this in… I have to do my job… do my job, do what was discussed. That's my best chance to get through this. Just focus on the task at hand, and don't go to pieces. 5 miles down, 5 to go. Almost halfway there, almost over.

Select Preset 1. Make damn sure it's the right one, because I don't want to give the game away.

“Knight-Leader, Knight-Rider,” I tried, my voice shrinking down into the pit of my stomach. I swallowed hard, and took a single, sharp breath. “We have poachers, four to one vehicle,”

“Shit! There's two of `em!” Priss cut across the channel.

“Two Cars?”

“Yes!”

Fuck Me.

“I understand, continue as planned. The tiger's den is still dark,”

Sylia's voice had softened. She could tell how terrified I was, and she was trying to reassure me. Probably not, but it made me feel ten times better to think she was.

I didn't know if it was the vibrations from the engine, or my own simmering terror that made my limbs go numb.

“Where is it,” I asked Priss, even though I didn't want to know.

“GENOM Lowe, black, hugging the crash barrier in the fast lane about 20 yards back,” she told me.

And there it was, plain as day. A car for the grim reaper himself, or herself. I could see the driver, and the passengers' outlines through the windows. I recognised the hair immediately, even though there was barely more than a silhouette to go by.

“Jesus Christ, it's the same one,' I whispered. I could see its silver claws bursting through my chest, shining pink blood dripping from the wounds before my body shut down…

“What?”

“Same Boomer that try kill Irene!” I nearly cried

It wasn't beaten by the Knight Sabers, it ran off. And now it was back

“Well, revenge will be sweet.”

I could hear Priss grinning as she spoke. I glanced back at her, her eyes aflame with the same burning passion I'd first glimpsed in the dyno room. She didn't look afraid…

“How you do it?” I wondered.

“Do what?”

“Never mind,” I shrugged it off, deciding not to pry. Anyway, I had one more radio call to make.

Preset 2, back to the decoy channel. Try to sound calm, try to sound confident.

“Knight-Leader, Knight-Rider. Making good progress, still no sign of poachers,”

“Understood, dropoff point is clear,”

Click back to the main channel, another glance at both death-cars and then back to the task at hand. 4 miles to go. Take the next exit off this expressway, down into the fault, then 2 miles of surface streets. I could see it ahead, glowing almost radioactively, each little raindrop reflecting the lights from below.

There was a good chance I'd die down there… Or it would be more correct to say, it has ceased function. Either way didn't matter a bloody toss, the end result would still be the same.

I wonder if this is how the maggot on the hook feels, staring into the dark abyss of the fish's gullet?

----->>

I tried not to look back. I tried to focus on the road ahead, on the route that had been planned out. The bandit cars just lurked behind, making their presence known via the occasional flash of headlights in the mirror, or growl of an engine spooling up to pull ahead of slower traffic. They gnawed like rats at my confidence.

The fault was already dark, streetlights winking into life automatically. Run-off cascaded down from above, through open sewers and falling from broken streets. A lot of businesses were shut, shutters down and sandbags at the door. Millions of gallons a second were draining down from above, and the water was already deep enough to lap at the bike's crankcases and tug at my boots. I crawled through it, not daring to push above 10mph. Drowning the engine and stalling would be deadly for the pair of us.

“It never rains, but it pours,” Priss commented.

I chuckled dryly at that.

“It is slowing enemy up too,” I said.

Thank goodness for small miracles alright. It must've been the slowest chase in history, crawling along flooded roads at barely a joggers pace, churning up a foaming wake behind which glowed red under the taillight. The nauseating smell of sewerage crept into my helmet, assaulting my nostrils even after I'd snapped the visor shut. It was hilarious, when I thought about it, each time I took a turn I expected one of the cars to rev up and try to ram us, but of course they couldn't, any faster and they'd suck floodwater into their engines.

It made riding a bloody nightmare, but it also kept us safe, and it gave me something to concentrate on other than the hundreds of horrible ways I could die. I just focused on the grim pool of light cast by the bikes headlight on the surging effluent. A doll drifted past, pulled by some unseen current.

“Knight-Rider, Knight Leader, can you give E.T.A?”

“Knight-Leader, maybe 5 minutes, this is slow going,” I answered,

About a mile out, I guessed.

“Tiger's Den is still dark, and is dry,” the Sabers leader told me.

I wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or not.

“The flooding is slowing down the poachers too,” jumped Priss in, “Their cars are having the same trouble we are. I don't know why they haven't abandoned their vehicles yet, they could run us down on foot in a heartbeat in this,”

“Don't jinx,” I jibed, suddenly feeling the full force of my fears roll back in.

“Shit,” Priss swore, “Arrogant bastards. I bet they're just waiting for us to make a mistake. If we go down, they pounce on us like hyenas on a dying Zebra.”

Horrible mental image

“For fuck's sake stop that!” I spat back, “I'm scared enough as it fucking is,”

Silence…. Oh shit.

“Knight-Rider,” Sylia's cool voice anchored my thoughts, “This is no time for profanity. The Tigers' assessment is correct. Take your time, keep your head, and focus on your task,”

I could hear giggling from behind me.

“I understand,” I responded, cowed by shame.

“In other words, just get on with it,” Priss put it a little better, “And don't worry about things you have no control over,”

We came to a dry patch, relatively, and could pick up a little speed again. Not a lot, but enough. It gave the assassins a chance to ram, but they held back, content to taunt us with their presence, looming in convoy about twenty yards behind. They matched my speed exactly, slowing when I pulled up, then accelerating to match when I pushed forward…. They could kill me any time they wanted, but they didn't… they just let me keep going. Why? Why don't they just do it and get it over with?

Don't think about things I have no control over?

Easier said than done.

Raindrops glittered as they fell through streetlamp halos, looking like little shards of glass dropping from the sky. 19:35:23 and it was already dark as midnight down here. One last left turn, I knew it would be the last, and my heart jumped to the back of my throat. I came face to face with the building that might well become my tomb, squatting in ominous darkness straight ahead, maybe 200 yards away. The lights were off alright. Tiger's Den was still dark.

“Accelerate, Accelerate!” Priss urged, and I didn't argue, “Put some distance between us so we can get off without getting run over.”

The bike squirmed and squalled in protest as I wrung the throttle hard open. This was it… this was it… I gave three sharp blasts from the bike's horn, echoing down the canyon streets. The engine roared between my legs, wind howling over my helmet, rainwater plashing up against the bikes structure.

I stopped being afraid. I wasn't calm either. I slipped out of both. I had a clear, concise idea of what I had to do, and I knew exactly how to do it. I glanced quickly up at some of the building rising on either side, looking for signs of any weapons, any gunfire.

There was none.

The bandit cars were accelerating hard behind, but even a half-century old motorbike could leave them for dead. My whole body was rigid, taut with tension, my breathing sharp, quick and heavy. My blood burned with energy enough to move a planet, it felt like. I was ready to snap, I was ready to bolt, I wasn't ready to do this but I didn't have a choice in the matter, did I?

Three more blasts from the bike's horn, almost mournful in the concrete canyon.

“Knight-Rider, we see you,” came the reply. Terse, but just what I wanted to hear.

I didn't feel safe, not by a long shot, but I did feel protected. Now then, all I had to do was time this right. I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking. I covered the brake lever with my hand, waiting for just the right moment.

The speeding bike splashed through another puddle, rainwater exploding in a glittering rainbow fountain. The machine slid terrifyingly under me, but sheer momentum kept the whole lot travelling in the one direction.

Brake… stop…run.

The safehouse building was rushing forward to meet me, all five stories of it formed from black-stained concrete. It looked derelict, unlived in for years, the door hanging open as if the last person out had forgotten to lock it.

I waited for for a fraction of a heartbeat more, and just grabbed as hard as I could, stamping down on the back-brake so hard I was sure I'd bent the lever. The ABS cut in immediately pulsing in my hand.

The machine slewed sideways at a heartstopping angle, Priss suddenly finding herself fighting to hold on. The brakes squealed, tyres howling across the road as they were held on the point of locking up. The safehouse rose up, still closing rapidly…. Too Rapidly!

“ToofastToofastToofastToofast!” I yelped out,

No again! I'm not going to crash again. I screwed my eyes shut, expecting the final, crushing pain of flesh/concrete impact. I could hear both chasing cars charging up behind, not bothering to even slow down. If we didn't hit the wall, they'd ram us, and smash the pair of us into it. I could feel Priss tense behind, the blue Knight Saber ready to make a jump for it, just in case.

Then, silence, more or less…the bike stopped and stalled, leaving nothing but the rain, and the roar of rapidly closing engines.

Sidestand down, ignition off, and I released a breath I'd forgotten I was holding.

“Run dammit,” shouted Priss, already halfway to the door. “Unless you want to die again!”

Fuck no…

The bike dropped onto its stand and I jumped off, nearly tumbling to the footpath as my foot caught on the saddle, and dragged the machine clear over onto its side with a metallic crash. I winced… that sounded expensive, but I didn't dare look back.

“Just hurry up!” pleaded Priss, already halfway through the door.

I steadied myself on my legs, boots struggling to grip wet pavement. I chased after her, already panting hard. I could hear the V8 roar of the approaching car, bearing straight down on me. They weren't going to brake… my shadow lengthened rapidly, the pool of yellow light cast by the charging GENOM Lowe's headlights swallowing me whole. I stumbled through the doorway, scant moments before the car followed me, smashing through the doorframe and wall, punching shattered bits of concrete, wood and steel into the building's lobby.

I landed flat on my face, cracking my visor on the hard edge of a staircase. Something heavy bounced painfully off my back and I rolled over on top of it, jamming whatever it might've been into my shoulder.

Scant inches from my booted foot was the smashed front bumper of the Lowe; it had wedged itself inside the smashed doorway, doors pinned shut. The engine was dead, the bonnet scratched and crumpled, the windshield cracked and shattered. Steam hissed out from around a piece of twisted steel frame wedged in the radiator. I breathed a sigh, liquid relief cooling my veins, as I snapped my broken visor off.

Outside, the rain redoubled its efforts to flood the world, pelting hard against tarmac, concrete and steel. I heard the other car skid to a halt, before crashing hard into something…I prayed it wasn't my bike.

I saw something move inside the Lowe, the wrecked vehicle rocking on its suspension as something inside fought to free itself. A single, feminine fist punched through the windshield, scattering splinters of glass. Its fingers stretched, nails shining monstrously, pink blood running free from dozens of little cuts….

“Bloody hell,” I muttered,

“This is no time to sleep!” Priss' urgent voice snapped me out of it.

I looked back up the stairs, the Knight Saber standing at the top of the staircase, waiting for me, but ready to save her own ass if it came to that. Well, I didn't need to be told to save my neck twice.

“Bloody Hell!” I repeated, scrambling to my feet, glass shards and concrete dust giving way under my weight. A sudden, sickly orange flash lighted the inside of the building for an instant… funny lightning, I thought,… until the hand of God slammed me too the floor a second time, The air rushed out of the building, being sucked clear out of my lungs, shattering each and every window, it held there for a second, waiting while my insides burned in agony, before rushing back in again with the force of a runaway freight train, filling the air with flying shards of glass, concrete and steel. It was a kick to the stomach, a punch right to the core of my being, and for a few moments, I wondered what it could have been.

A quick glance over my shoulder and over the concrete-dust grey roof of the wrecked GENOM car told me the second chasing car, the red Toyota, had ceased to be. All that was left was a burning wreck billowing acrid grey smoke. And that hard rain I'd heard was a rain of lead.

I didn't waste another second, picking myself up, and scrabbling desperately to the top of the staircase to meet Priss. The pair of us were like ghosts, grey and pale with concrete dust and dirt, clinging to our wet clothes. She coughed a mix of spit and ash into her hand.

“Upstairs, apartment 204,” she said between coughs.

“I know,” I winced as something bit deep inside my shoulder… not broken, but definitely something not right. It felt more like a trapped nerve than anything. The dust tickled at my throat, sucking moisture out if my body. I coughed hard, hacking some muddy mix up from deep inside my chest. Warnings flashed through my mind about airborne toxins and bloodstream contamination, but I ignored them.

“They may have blown the other car up, but that won't stop whatever's out there, they'll just scorch them damn things up a little,”

She grunted with the effort of hauling herself up the stairs, I guessed she was hurt more than she seemed. My body was burning hot, energy charging through my veins. It was the same as on that stage… hot, sick, tired and terrified. The pair of us practically fell through the door into a surprisingly clean apartment, considering how musty the rest of the building was.

On instinct, I kicked the door hard shut behind. It was heavy enough to near crack my ankle.

Outside, there was a battle in full swing. I was awestruck for a second, fusillades of fire raining down into the streets, answered occasionally by stabbing purple beams of light, hissing flickering through the rain. I saw a man blown through a window, burning as he fell to the ground. He screamed a wordless scream.

I didn't see him land.

A white streak darted, from point to point, dodging probing laser and gunfire attacks. It rose up on a brilliant blue flame, dodging one attack, before dropping down for a second pass.

“Cover me for a minute,” Priss ordered, “They'll come up the stairs after us. When they break through, give them everything you've got.”

I nodded dumbly, taking my helmet off as I did so. There was a gun, two magazines of ammunition and a pair of little green pear shaped objects waiting on a coffee table in front of an old leather couch. It chilled me to think they were real. They still looked like toys.

“Good Luck,” I said…

“I'm not the one who'll need it,” Priss answered back.

She left me alone in the room, disappearing into the saferoom where her hardsuit was kept. My senses withdrew into the room itself, excluding the battle outside. My world was those four walls, green paint peeling a little, a single wood-box TV in one corner, a coffee table with my helmet on it, a sofa big enough to hide behind, a gun, and two surprisingly heavy grenades.

And one closed, fireproof door.

A brainwave struck me. If I'd known better, if I'd known just how powerful a grenade was, or just how stupid setting one off inside a confined space was, I'd never have done it. But my experience with weapons was Counter Strike and Die Hard…. And Speed 2.

That's where I got the idea. A really stupid idea.

I pulled the pin out of the grenade… believing I could just put it back in again if this didn't work. I knew well enough to hold the handle down to stop it going off right away. The door handle was steel, tarnished a little, but there was enough space between it and the door for me to jam the grenade in, bashing it up from the bottom until it was stuck so tight not even God could've moved it.

The idea being that if one of those boomers followed us up, it'd open the door, the Grenade would drop, and she'd get a nasty surprise right at her feet, while I hid safely behind the couch, protected from any explosion or shrapnel.

I smirked savagely… yes, this would work. A delicious trap.

I hid behind the couch, crouching down low on my ankles. I could hear them coming up the stairs, floorboards creaking under their weight. My body was shivering… this was thrilling, this was exciting… I'd get the drop on them…. I had my trap. I was in control. Priss was still changing; I heard something metallic hit the floor in there. What was that?

And then, one was at the door.

I knew nothing except the sound of high-heeled feet, slowly approaching, testing the handle. A bolt of pure excitement ran through me, expecting the sudden bang of detonation. I clutched my gun close to my chest, finger gently resting against the trigger… despite being told not to do that… it was comforting.

The handle rattled, another explosion outside whipping up dust and glass shards. I braced for the blast, huddling up into myself. I just hoped it'd go off.

The door was kicked open, with a sharp crack, splintered wood from the frame sent flinging through the room. I heard something pop, maybe the grenade hitting the floor, maybe not, followed by a hard, hollow bang, and I guessed the door bounced open against the wall.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realised the grenade was a dud.

“All clear,” a woman's voice said, with inhuman calm. Flat, controlled, deadly.

It doesn't know I'm here.

I froze solid, my body locking tight. Seconds stretched into hours. I could hear the boomer breathing, a biomimetic type probably. Where's Priss? Why isn't she ready yet? Only a few seconds, that's how long I had before it found me… I couldn't take that on… not hand to hand anyway…. Fuck me what do I do, where's Priss?

Still getting ready.

“Come up,” the boomer said, another pair of bare feet approaching.

I gripped the gun tight, holding my breath, crouched down. If it gets in, it'll find me. Only a few seconds. If it has anything like my senses, it already knows somebody *was* here recently. I could definitely sense it… a cold void of malice and murder. Where the fuck was Priss? What was taking her so long?

There's no way she could get out the door, not in time to save my neck from a gruesome death.

Shoot it! Part of my mind begged. Just shoot the bitch! Fuck me that sounds like a plan. Shoot until it falls over or runs away. When? Before it bloody well finds me! If I can surprise the bastard, I'll get her bang to rights….

Right…

Go!

My body didn't move.

Go goddammnit!

Nothing but a twitch.

I winced. Maybe four seconds since the boomer kicked in the door, not even that before it found me. I heard it take a step inside, moving closer. I swallowed bile… again, gritted my teeth… thought of something to say… forgot what it was… then went for it.

“Hey!” I shrieked as I jumped to my feet, not really able to come up with anything more dramatic. The assault rifle came to my shoulder, as practiced, and I stared at the boomer for a fraction of a second.

She was that same one… with the same blonde perm, the same sinister eyes and an evil, lupine grin. She wore nothing but a blue bodysuit, her bare arms and feet bloodied and coated with a fine layer of grey powder. She fixed me with her malevolent gaze, almost glad to be facing some resistance. Ghost-grey eyes sparked with inhuman life.

I shrunk back for a second, my whole body filled with the purest form of despairing dread. So she could control her pheromones too…

5 seconds since the door opened, and I squeezed the trigger. I felt the gun's mechanisms latch, a distinct and separate instant before the first round fired with a sharp slap, like somebody whacking a stick against my eardrums, followed by that distinct metallic ring.

Then another…then another… full auto fire, finger jammed hard down on the trigger. Give the bitch all sixty rounds. I'll get you, you won't get me. Fuck all that stuff about single shots and controlled aggression, HAVE SOME OF THIS SHIT!

I watched her body jerk, bullets peppering her figure, and the wall surrounding her. Pink PFC-blood mingled with plasterboard and concrete dust. How long would it take for her to actually drop?

4 shots… 5.... 6…7…8… 9….10, I could count them out.

6 seconds since the door opened. She whipped around, fingernails sparking as she dropped her hand. I saw those savage nails hanging for the briefest of seconds in midair. Instinct took over and I stopped shooting, trying vainly to dodge to the right and dive out of the way.

Something bit me on my left breast, a little like a horsefly bite, but deeper, followed by another in the shoulder. Another hit the wall behind me with a crack, with two more following it fractions of an instant later.

I had enough time to wonder if that was it, before every single synapse in my body exploded in electric agony, current flashing through my veins. I screamed hard, my whole body dropping limply to the ground, driving the nails in deeper. Alarms announced themselves in my mind for the briefest of moments, before my systems went dead, overloaded, they'd shut down to save themselves.

With dawning horror, I realised my organics systems were left to freewheel on their own. My heart stopped, breathing too… there was no signal to regulate them… my body shivered and spasmed as the brain tried to take control, as I tried to make sense of what just happened.

“Enemy cyberdroid neutralised. Proceed to target,” I heard. Impassive.

I mewled around on the floor, struggling to control myself. Nothing did what it was supposed to. That wasn't fair! I could hear it moving again, stepping into the room… coming towards me… ready to deliver the final blow.

Not that I'd need it, I had about a minute before my whole body began to shut down for the last time.

This isn't fair… I wasn't supposed to die like this… I don't want to die… why did I want to do this?....I want to go home.

I managed to roll onto my back, pressing against the back of the couch.

“I want to go home,” I whimpered… “I want…” Ten seconds after the door opened, the grenade decided to martyr itself.

I didn't hear the blast, I felt it. It dropped on my chest like a great fat elephant, blowing the air out of my lungs, and popping my eardrums with a roar like somebody'd brought in a thousand jet engines and set them to full throttle inside my head. The whole world went a burning orange for an instant, hot and searing, before it faded a deathly grey.

The elephant on my chest bounced off, cracking ribs, bolts of pain arcing around my chest and through my stomach.

And then, the world went still again, except for a high pitched death-scream in my ears, and the shock of something heavy landing a few feet above my head, far enough to be out of my field of vision,

“Fuck me,” I mouthed, unable to breath.

At least I knew I wasn't dead, I hurt too bad to be dead.

I was lying on my back, frozen…staring at a ragged, dirty ceiling. A few small slabs of plaster dropped, loosened by the blast. I could see the bloody end of on off the nails, standing proud and painful in my breast.

I wanted desperately to pull it out, but couldn't move my arm. No strength, no power, no control, not even enough to flex my fingers.

No fear…. Just strangely calm.

Something starting ticking inside my head.

19:39:23

I could feel my body restarting, power starting to flow, cybernetic systems which had shut down rebooting themselves. Each one announced itself in wonderful sequence, heart, lungs, liver, power regulators, flow controllers, interface linkages.

A punch to the chest and my heart started again.

Blood was flowing through my veins, power to my systems. I felt giddy, I felt elation… I felt as if I was riding on a cloud of energy, my body bootstrapping itself back up.

My lungs followed, drawing in a deep, ragged breath. Agony seared my chest, ribs cracking and grinding against each other. Somebody was sitting on me, that's what It felt like, and they gained weight with each breath.

I could taste blood… my blood… I could feel it gurgling up the back of my throat.

I tried to roll over, but I just yelped in pain as a hundred new agonies announced themselves. The nails burned through my body, one scratching against bone.

Even before I looked at my own self-generated damage report, I knew I was in trouble.

But I wasn't going to die.

Where was the boomer?

I craned my head over, ignoring the pain as best I could, desperate to know.

It was lying face down, with an expression of pure surprise frozen on her features. The eyes were wide and empty of whatever malevolent life had fired them, the mouth agape and leaking blood. Splinters of scorched wood stood proud and tall from the cyber-assassins back, at least half a dozen, some larger than my forearm. Sparks sprouted fitfully from one that seemed to have gone through her spine, and into her power regulators.

I cackled, a hacking, pained, dry cackle.

I got her… thank Christ I got her. I was bleeding out my shoulder, I'd broken ribs, and something wasn't right inside … but I got her first.

Another pained grunt, each breath firing sparks of agony from my chest as the nail-needles dug themselves in deeper. My ears were still screaming, energy draining from my body. I felt something hot and liquid flowing across my chest.

I didn't hear the door behind me open, a shadow, sleek, elegant and feminine fell over me. I looked up, praying it wasn't some second boomer ready to finish the job, and smiled.

Priss was in her hardsuit, standing over me, like a guardian angel encased in blue steel. Oh wow…

“Holy shit,” I heard… at least, I think that's what it was. Her voice was tinny, transistorised and distant. She offered her gloved hand to help me up, and I looked at it, not sure if I could even stand for a second.

“I blew her up,” I coughed up, my voice painfully loud.

The hardsuit looked down at the wreck, then in the direction of where the door used to be.

“I can see that,” said the hardsuit. I swore to myself she was laughing as she said that. What was so funny? “And half the damn building with it! And Sylia thinks I cause too much collateral damage.”

I tried to laugh, but I just whimpered in pain as the needles dug in deeper. I took her hand, black fabric glove warm to the touch and strangely welcoming, and she pulled me effortlessly to my feet. Pains darted through my chest, and I slumped against the wall, panting heavily, tears in my eyes.

I got my first good look at the damage, and realised just how much of a moron I'd been to set a grenade off indoors. The television in the corner was gone; only a shattered plastic casing remained. The door was gone; most of it was stuck in pieces in the back of the combat boomer at my feet. Most of the far wall was gone; it had only been lightweight gypsum on a wooden frame. The floor was sagging, and the ceiling above had already dropped, burying another vaguely anthropomorphic form in a pile of plaster and concrete. It wasn't moving either.

“I'll be damned,” I breathed out weakly. I got two. Fortune favours the stupid it seems. The grenade got stuck between the door and the wall, and blew both ways…. Delicious dumb luck… I couldn't've done it on purpose!

Pain, exhaustion pulled me towards the floor, trying to pull me down into unconsciousness. I wobbled on my feet for a second, wishing I had something better for a prop than a steel doorframe. Strength was draining from my body, trickling down the ends of the nails.

“There's a first-aid kid inside,” said the hardsuit, “Now sit back and watch how it's really done,”

Priss bulleted through the broken window, thrusters flaring blue as she jumped. I felt the concussion of the exhaust resonate through my frame for a second, quickly followed by a second explosion outside.

Clinging for dear life to the doorframe, I tried desperately to push myself level. I was starving hungry, thirsty as a desert and physically exhausted. I was chilled hot… somehow… sweating but still shivering. A new set of explosions kicked up outside, shaking the buildings frame. Some more of the ceiling caved in, but I ignored it… I had bigger problems.

I was bleeding, maybe not quite to death, but enough to cause problems, and every breath sent liquid fire through my chest. I hauled myself into the saferoom, barely finding the strength to pull the door shut behind me. I knew I wasn't going to die.. the bleeding would stop eventually, and my repair systems were already kicking in… but I felt like I'd picked a fight with a train and lost.

There was a cot bed in the room, Priss' leathers, a rack to hold the hardsuit, and a simple first aid kit. No windows, just clean, painted concrete. Coughing brutally, spitting muddy gobbets of blood and concrete, I picked up the first aid kit, and dropped into the cot.

I yelped in pain, feeling my vision swim, unconsciousness reaching up to claim me. Something blew up outside… maybe another boomer, maybe another building… I had other problems…

I had to figure out how to get my jacket off, with several inches of bloody ceramic sticking out of my chest. Okay…. I had to get the nails out first…. Deep breath… Ow!.... just be calm… take a firm grip….Jesus Christ this hurts… 1…2…Oh God please don't make this painful….3… Pull!

Mason himself in the Tower probably heard me scream.

And it still fucking hurt to breath! Why couldn't that fat man get off my chest? My ears were still ringing, and I still had one nail in my shoulder. Jesus Christ I'll never take the piss out of the crucifixion again…

The fighting outside sounded like it had stopped, not even five minutes after we'd arrived. Mission complete. Relax… take another deep breath…One more pull…

This won't hurt a bit…..

----->>

“Well,” said Sylia, placing her helmet on the table beside the others. “Irene is on her flight to Hong Kong. The money is on the way to our accounts, and the boomers have been destroyed,”

Even drenched in sweat with hair like a drowned rat, with her almost pearlescent armour scoured, scorched and scratched, she still managed to project that calm, businesswoman aura.

The only aura I could project was one of pain… a torturous mixture of deep, throbbing, pulsing agony throughout my body, and sharp, biting pains in my chest and shoulder. The bleeding had stopped, but I still couldn't breath right.

“Except for the damage to the building,” she raised an eyebrow at me and I shrunk back. “All in all a successful mission,” Sylia summed up. “Good work everyone,”

Nene cheered in her pristine hardsuit, the AD Police officer still fresh and dry.

“That's easy for you to say,” Shot Priss, staring down into her own helmet, before fixing her with a teasing grin, “You weren't the one who nearly got her head punched off by a burning boomer,”

There was a sizeable dent in the armour's temple where something had punched it, hard.

“Or nearly evis… Evas…stabbed.” I muttered lamely.

“Well, I had to maintain our cover,” Nene defended with a pout, placing her armoured hands, on her armoured hips with a crack. “And hide the Hou-Bang… they had no idea about radio discipline… professionals my butt!”

Priss sat back against the far wall, placing her helmet in her lap. The way she was staring into it, you'd swear it held the entire universe.

“Mackie will be here with the truck in about a half-hour,” said Sylia, busying herself within a radio headset, “Linna will be with him. We will head back to base, and call it a night,”

“I call shower first!” chirped Nene, raising her hand,

“Oh come one, you didn't even break a sweat, little miss cheerleader,” Priss bit back, fixing her.

“I'll have you know, that computer system gets very hot!” defended Nene, her face reddening, “At least I'm not some Ape-woman who blows half a building up trying to take out just two boomers,”

I went red… giggling quietly into my fist.

“That wasn't even me, the ghost in the shell here,” pointing at me. I scowled, hating that term. “Decided she wanted to set some fireworks off while she was in the same room,”

“Oh…” Nene stopped dead

“I did not want be stabbed,” I frowned, still feeling a few pangs of anger, “And Priss took long time to get dressed,”

“I'd like to see how fast you can strip and board a hardsuit, eh, Deckard?”

Those red eyes stared through me, and I whimpered, not daring to challenge them. That tsunami of discomfort reared up behind her for a second.

“I don't think a blast like that will be something she'd be keen to repeat,” Sylia edged in, “At least outside of a hardsuit anyway,”

I grasped the implications, but was much too tired to get excited

“Does this mean?” gasped the hacker.

“Meg has agreed to join us,” confirmed the Sabers' leader.

“Congratulations Meg!” Nene bubbled, jumping in her hardsuit before she gave me a thumbs up.

“Thanks,” I answered, giving her a weak smile.

“Welcome to the club,”

I giggled nervously, praying she didn't try hug me, and accidentally crush my body in her arms

Priss glanced up at Sylia for a moment, surprised, before her whole body relaxed into thought. I tried to read her for a moment, and got back nothing but that same discomfort… not quite distrust, but definitely discomfort… She took a deep breath, the chest of her armour rising and falling.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly, her eyes dropping to the depths of her helmet once more. She swallowed something, closing her eyes for a second before opening them again.

I wondered just what the hell was bothering her, but decided not to push it. I really was to bloody tired to be worried about it, and the last thing I wanted to do was fall asleep.

I was a Knight Saber.

Get me something to eat first before I run out of power, then maybe I'll celebrate.

----->>

A Third Chapter. Doubles the length of the Fic, or thereabouts. Sorry about that

1: I am reliably informed that Meg should've been killed outright by the grenade blast. I know this, but I'm not going to let a little thing like reality get in the way of a good plot. It's based on an anime anyway…

2: Next chapter might well be as long as this one… Tet will be back… an artifact from the Dark Tower books may appear. I'm not sure yet. It'll be a while before I update though… goddamn this one was hard to do.

3: First person perspective is a bitch sometimes… as much as I wanted to show the fight outside, better to stick to Meg's own viewpoint… Sorry. But there's no more irritating thing, than a story that jumps VP's

-Dartz