Duty Log 001 - The Man Who Came From Nowhere (3)
I hesitate to pick her up unnecessarily—my body, already riddled with bullet holes, might shake too much—but I'm more worried about Kay teasing me. Still, I scoop her into my arms and leap lightly off the ground, vaulting over the wall. Gravity seems to look the other way for a moment. It's like how people marvel at ants lifting pebbles dozens of times their size, but to the ants, it's just everyday routine. I clear one wall, then straight-line through the alleyways that would've required a dozen turns on foot. The CCTVs are all pointed downward. Get just a bit off the ground, and they won't spot you.
Once we're clear of the mobile unit's search radius, I set her down. Her prosthetic arm, still sparking with electricity, jerks unnaturally, but she seems in no danger of dying. The moment I release her, a static-laced scoff bursts out in disbelief.
"Two-zip, cowboy. Where the hell did you come from? I figured those Sau bastards had bolted for the hills, leaving me to get scrapped—and then bam, out of nowhere. What, you been stalking me on the down-low?"
"Got a little help from the IT guy at my new company. You okay?"
She shakes her head. Only after popping a painkiller from her belt pouch and chewing it down does she exhale a sigh laced with the scent of meds.
"I'll live. The arm took a glancing hit. No merc skips ballistic plating in the gut, so they were lining up headshots. Gimme a minute's rest, and I can walk out. And 'new company,' huh? You're still a weirdo. We just met for the first time—or did we? Your reaction last time was suspicious too. Gonna keep denying it?"
I shrug. Just a matter of taste, nothing more.
"How many people actually like watching someone they know take a bullet to the face? Sure, if you're powerless and useless, you gotta stick your head in the sand anyway... but you're not, right?"
That last bit comes out cockier than even I intend—almost smug. "I could, so I did" is the kind of line that makes you cringe just saying it. The honest truth would've been not knowing why myself.
"Total weirdo. Anyway, next round's on me. If those Sau pricks don't slink back soon, I might put in a hit request with your name on it. Whaddya think? Solid idea, right?"
"I'd just catch hell for snitching."
She shoves my shoulder with her good hand—human side—and I barely budge. A Posthuman IV body doesn't fly that easy.
"Realistic at the worst damn timing. Whatever, thanks. Lemme see that hand. Yeah, yeah. Thanks to somebody, I got your agency's registration number. Gonna round up those runners and figure out which company sent 'em to fuck us over—then fuck 'em right back. Don't help then. This is personal. Who hires a merc crew that can't handle their own beef?"
She grabs my hand, grunting as she hauls herself up. Clutching her shoulder, sure, but walking beats sitting in the gutter. She beats me to the goodbye, playing it casual like I didn't just save her ass. Her voice stays chipper—forced chipper.
"Alright. Catch ya later, weird pure-human merc. Wait, not pure-human. Offline-r, then. Yeah, rolls off the tongue. Booze is on me for real—pick up!"
Nobody's pure in this city. Even the pure-humans who brag about not having a single cybernetic implant as life's greatest achievement aren't that pure. They're all aphids slurping corporate honeydew in this hyper-accelerated tech age—just without swapping out body parts, so they get the "pure" label anyway.
A shutter click echoes from the drone, like it's snapping pics of her limping away.
A mischievous voice leaks out. "Ooh! Nice shot—a back-alley merc's commute. Pulitzer potential? Should I whip up a press badge? Gimme a name rec! Fake IDs are a pain—everything else's easy, but naming? Too bland's suspicious, too flashy and nobody buys it!"
I'm getting the hang of handling her nonstop chatter. She's light-years from straight-laced. Extremes call for extremes.
"Ask the boss if Wild Night bans side gigs, and won't she shoot back, 'Who put that idea in your head?' Can't lie about it."
"Pulling that shit right after saving my ass? Hilarious... Hey! That's a threat, that is! Can't a girl talk without you going nuclear? Fine. Fine. I'll figure it solo! Anyway, get back to base without the mobile unit spotting you. Oh, you... drive? Got a ride, but can't pilot it. Still gotta clock in. You get me?"
I sigh and answer. She plays independent, then gloms on when she needs something—kinda funny.
"You live close to the office, right? Walk it. No hobby of playing carpool chump."
"Hackers die walking!"
"Your title's Wild Night IT specialist—not some middle-school hacker fantasy. Specialists own their shit, so your legs gotta own the walk. Step up."
The drone whines. I expect a tantrum, but silence stretches. Weirdly long. Then it reconnects. Kay's voice, frantic.
"Oh, right. Yeah! Could be. Own your shit, got it. Walking in—see ya at the office! Hanging up?"
Too abrupt for a hang-up. Personal stuff, probably—she'll brush it off. But it hits home again: my old workplace bonds were tailor-cut. Everyone's neck-deep in their own crap, barely glancing at others. Caring's the suspicious move. Bellwether loyalty greased that wheel. Without megacorp brainwashing, maybe this is just natural.
One more step into naked LA. Back to the hotel for my overnight bag. The bustling office air to solo packing—night-and-day temp drop. Seasonal shift, maybe.
Grab the box, raid the so-called minibar "for guests" for chocolates to kill hunger, chug the mini-fridge water. No penny wasted. Later I'll think water-thief, but hey, room's empty.
Snag my laundry from the lobby, check out. Bellwether's lunch break's ending—back to shifts. Probably when I "died." Starting to accept it.
Freshly laundered clothes smell like softener—nice change. Box under arm, step out. Eyes lock with a woman at the auto-door. Guest? Sidestep right—she mirrors. Left—same. Blocking me.
Before I ask, she thrusts a glossy flyer. That name boils my blood.
Natural Humans Are Beautiful. PureHuman terrorists.
"Hi there, sir! Tired of those clunky machine whirs on the street? Think jamming tech into flesh is grotesque...?"
Smart play: play along, suss 'em out. Instinct growls. Reason's maxed blocking the urge to smash her face with my Posthuman IV fist—for them.
My voice grates metallic. "Fuck off. Not interested."
"Hear us out! We're not pushing de-aug surgeries. Sure, world's full of 'natural human good' clinics—but set that aside! You're a pure-human yourself! No implants in eyes or hands, even pulling your phone old-school...!"
I'm this close to yelling whose fault this is. Then eternity hits.
A reinforced fist—power armor style—swings from my side, backhanding her face sideways. She's pure-human alright—no scream, mid-sentence collapse, twitching inefficiently.
Turn to see who punched for me. Not power armor. Full-body prosthetic. Spine jutting mechanical, skin plated like armor-grade steel, flesh just a sliver of left eye and brow peeking from metal faceplate. Stray hair dangling—that's her "human" sum. Quarter-face screams female, but calling her that feels pointless. Operational hum says the rest's all chrome. Pump whir instead of heartbeat, circulating blood—if any—in her 2-meter-plus frame.
Her left eye and ballistic camera optic lock on me. Thick lens refracts, camera whirs busy, but naked eye feels more human. Gut sense, no proof.
Black coat over protruding spine-rig, slacks, no top—machine body's flawless, no complaints. PureHumans hate mods; she's cyborg supremacist, owning it. Otherwise, ridiculous.
Her voice outputs—not speaks. Vocal cords long chrome'd.
"What? You were just yapping 'same pure-human' bullshit. That would've tanked a spin without dropping, but pure-humans crumpling like that? Nah."
Mockery drips. I tense for the downed PureHuman, but she judges no more violence needed, pats my shoulder light.
"Comparisons suck, right? Yours came from Bellwether's top devs. Theirs? Some meatbag nobody. No wonder it stings."
She knows I'm Posthuman. More PureHumans approach; she slings off her long bag, zips it wide. Ballistic coat, face-only vitals—cocky as hell.
Bag holds a rifle. Mobile unit squad-grade. To normals, a machine gun.
She levels it. "And hey, catching Sau scum dissed like that? Time to draw. Don't compare meat-made meat to flesh-forged machines. Got it?"
Damn. Interview boss and Valentina seemed Wild Night's sanest. "Sau" confirms agency. PureHumans drag their half-turned girl and bolt. She stows the rifle, extends bare-metal hand—silver gleam, no paint.
Handshakes are human—prosthetic wearers go left. Hers mocks like a sneer. Still, I grip. Heavy.
"Kay said watch the new guy—find him tangled with meatbag trash. Name's Bola. Wild Night field op. You'll field too—workload drops, finally."
She cut comms for urgent personal shit but sent backup. Kay ain't half-bad. This one's mod-mad, flesh-hater—but not evil.
Key her values. Replay: performance. I'm premium stock, no mods needed; they're trash meat. Value: specs, ability. Perfect for hyper-speed era. Prove it direct.
"Ah, yeah. Arthur Murphy. They call me Offline-r—no neural link, so I ping off-grid."
"Kay's always overlay-netted; you'd ghost her. Unless you glue a phone to your face. Wait, you and those creeps...?"
Cut her worry. Banter for peers; value-proof for her.
"Don't lump me with flesh-clingers pretending purity's a flex."
Expression: approving. Spot-on. She beams.
"I'm Posthuman'd up. They'd kill for Postman gig as life goal."
Her exposed left eye crinkles—real laugh, not output.
"Gets why Kay bitched not to rag on your no-implants. C'mon."
Kay... better than thought? Chatty as hell, but that's baseline here.
"Eight hours to shift, but mercs can't slack suits—gotta pack heat. Liked your answer: on the house. Follow."