night-city-edgerunner:Kidsthese days…            My old manused to complain about my generation ever

night-city-edgerunner:Kidsthese days…            My old manused to complain about my generation every chance he got. It seems like everygeneration complains about the next one, claiming they’re more disrespectful,too soft, too spoiled. The reason is because the grind of surviving has crushedthe souls of most people once they enter middle age, so they become resentfulold curmudgeons, shaking their wrinkled fists at the youth they secretly envy.I always told myself growing up that I wouldn’t be like that. I wouldn’t becomeanother grumpy shriveled cliché.            But, man,kids these days…            Anna Ng islucky, as kids in Night City have it, anyway. Her parents live in Kabuki, anenclave for East Asian migrants in the Watson Development. The district is fullof towering steel skeletons flanked by enormous cranes, vast hordes ofconstruction mechanoids scurrying below like industrious insects. Anna lives inone of the recently completed arcologies built for the refugees left unhousedduring the War. Her father, a low-tier Corporate drone, sends her to a fairlydecent private school where the textbooks are only slightly older than theteachers. Anna has it pretty good. Better than I did.            That’s notenough for Anna, though. A pretty little thing, she went and got herself aboyfriend, a real piece of work. He’s not legit enough for any of the realgangs, but he puts on a show. He has the look, the style, even some cyberware,but on The Street, he’s a nobody. All that matters to Anna is that he likesher, drives a nice car, and has drugs.            Ever sincethe Feds bio-engineered botanical diseases to destroy most of the world’s coca,cannabis, and opium plants in the 1990s, getting high has become a scientificendeavor. The benign stuff you can get over the counter with a hefty mark-up,or you can try your luck on the grey market, get something imported forcheaper. You want a rush of euphoria, though, you have to find it on TheStreet, where you have to pay a dealer. Anna doesn’t have any money, but shestill pays. When she gets old enough, if she wants, she can choose thatlifestyle. But, right now, she’s just 13.            Anna’sboyfriend lives in a cargo container on the edge of Watson. It’s more spaciousthan my studio apartment, with enough room for a refrigerator, a desk, a bed. Ilean against one of the container’s bright orange corrugated walls and eat myburrito. I wait a few hours for Anna to exit the container, hail a ride in agroundcar, and leave. The place is teeming with people, extended families crammedinto single containers, a mess of flesh and sweat folded on itself. I’m not tooconspicuous. I wait until the car vanishes around the corner and then walk upto the boyfriend’s door. I knock and wait for a reply.            “Who isit?”            “Specialdelivery.”            Theboyfriend opens the door and I deliver a fist to his nose. He crumples to thefloor, curls up at my boots. He looks up at me, nose crooked, angry, confused,scared.            “Hello,lover boy.”            He scrambles away from me, butall he succeeds in doing is clawing up the rug, getting tangled in it. I reachdown and grab him by the ankles, pull him closer to me. He lets out anindecipherable whine as I step slowly over his head. I place the bottom of myboot against the back of his head, the crusty tread imprinting itself on hispasty skull.            “Listen: stay away from littlegirls.”            I give the creep’s head agentle kick, then move the foot, put my weight on it. With the other I raise myknee and then bring the heel down on the creep’s wrist, fracturing the radiusbone. There’s a satisfying crunch, like stepping on gravel. A scream burstsfrom his mouth. I kneel and clasp my hand over the lower part of his face.            “Don’t make me come back here.”            I wait for him to nod. I cansee from the look in his eyes I won’t be back.           I stand, survey the container, and spot a small pink moon-shapeddevice on a table. An inhaler. Known on The Street as Luster. It goes inthrough the lungs, produces extended feelings of euphoria, lowers inhibitions.Popular among the club scene, it’s supposed to enhance dancing and sex. I can’tremember the last time I did either.          Before I depart, I kick the prone creep hard in the ribs, aimingfor the kidney. Anna probably thinks she’s in love, poor kid. I was young once.Even thought I was in love at one time, too. Eventually reality robs romance ofits bright pink sparkle and you realize there’s no Prince Charming cosmicallyassigned to find you, just a lot of creeps.          Night City didn’t make me cynical. The War did that. I signed upwith Militech thinking I wasn’t just joining a Corporate army but a family thatwould take care of me, even after my service ended. All they asked was theyturn me into a chromed-out killing machine tripped out on combat stims. Whenthe War ended, Militech cut me loose and forgot about me. Left with nothing butbroken promises, I settled here, thinking that northern California would benice as anywhere. I made a sincere effort at an honest living, but it didn’ttake. Some people don’t play well with others. I’m one of them.            I don’thave a title, but if some creep is bothering your teenage daughter, somedeadbeat won’t make good on a debt, or if you just want someone to leave youalone, there’s a good chance I’ll get a call. I spend a lot of time inroach-infested flophouses, seeing the real cesspool in one of the scummiestcities on Earth. Still, I’m my own boss, I set my own hours, and I make adecent living. Besides, what else am I going to do with all this chrome theygave me? I could fight on the independent circuit and retire in ten years witha brain like porridge, or I could become an edge-runner, do dirty work forpeople with particular problems. I have a limited skill set and, like it ornot, it revolves around hurting people. Most of the time, the people I’mhurting deserve it, too.            I pop openthe door to my ride and slide in, the leather seat audibly sagging against mybody. Even for an average sized person the Galena is a tight fit. I use myagent to call Pollen. A few chimes and her portrait fills the screen, grinning.A blonde bony middle-aged woman dressed in black. Her face is all right angles:pointed nose, strong jaw, high cheeks. When she smiles the edges get sharper.It makes me nervous.           “Job’s done,” I say, starting the car. “That was easy. What elseyou got?”            “You’reefficient,” Pollen says. “I got a client who wants to meet you personally.”            I sigh. “My rep should speakfor itself.”            “Some people still require anindividualized touch.”            I shake my head, grit my teeth,force out a “Fine.”            “Sending you the location.”            The address is an apartment innorth Heywood, an area loaded with generic mass-produced multi-dwelling units.All the major franchises have set up shop, their doors fringed by self-containedvending machines dispensing everything from ramen noodles to surgical masks tolive rhinoceros beetles. There are just as many people here as where I camefrom, but this time I do look conspicuous because the people here are decidedlymore affluent and more light-skinned. Most of the cyber-ware is focused onfashion than application. Not many veterans here either. I feel eyes on me as Iwalk into the lobby, call the elevator, and make my way up to the 18th floor.The hall is empty.            I have a bad feeling aboutthis. I’m reminded of the time my unit walked into an ambush in the SacramentoValley based on deceptive intel about an unguarded Arasaka supply depot. I wasone of the survivors lucky to escape, albeit minus a leg. Once you’ve endured onetraumatic event, you become sensitive about walking into potential ones. I’vebeen through several traumatic events so, yeah, I’m pretty damn paranoid. Beingparanoid has saved my hide more than a couple times, though, so I trust my gut.            I knock on the door with mymeat hand so as not to bother the neighbors. The door whisks open and I realizeright away I was right. I have walked into an ambush.            “Hey, Charlie,” Demetrius sayswith a tender smile. He’s young, Black, tall, lean.            There’s an uncomfortablesilence until the door flutters shut behind me. I slot my optics back fromtargeting mode and take a few cautious steps toward him, my stance assertive,my voice low. “What is this?”            “I’m sorry for doing this, butyou weren’t answering my calls,” he says. “It’s the only way I knew for sureyou’d talk with me. I duped Pollen into making a meet.”            I sigh, loud and long thistime. “Duping Pollen is risky for your health.”            Demetrius goes from caring toanxious. “Are you going to tell her?”            I won’t, but I don’t want totell him that. There are chairs and a sofa, but I make a point of remainingstanding. I cross my arms and stare. “It’s over. I made that clear.”            He puts up his hands and triesto approach me. I tell him with my eyes that’s not a promising idea and hehalts. “I get it. It’s fine. But you need help. Professional help.”            I sigh once more, but this timeit ends with a guttural snarl. I hooked up with Demetrius months ago. I didn’tknow it when I met him in the bar, but he is a Trauma Team psychotherapist andsocial worker. Most TT customers must pay a small fortune in monthly premiumsto get sessions with him. I had several “sessions” with him for free, alongwith an unsolicited diagnosis. I ended things when he decided to turn our funtime into a personal crusade. He got it in his head he wants to save me frommyself.            “I don’t need anyone’s help.”            “Those are famous last words.”            “I’ve been doing all right sofar.”            Demetrius shrugs. “So far,sure, but someday something’s gotta give.”            I glance out the window at thechurning humanity beneath me, all the possible clients and targets down on TheStreet. Biz is the one constant in Night City, a nagging vibration that neverleaves your subconscious. I should be hustling. I don’t have time for Demetriusand his psychobabble. I need to keep earning. This is a futile distraction.            “Don’t contact me again.” Myeyes lock his and I jab the air with a finger for more emphasis. “I mean it.Next time you waste my time, I’ll drop you myself, I swear.”            “Charlie, listen…”            He goes for a hug, but I shovean open palm into the center of his chest, push him away. I don’t hurt him, buthe wasn’t expecting me to be forceful. He winces and backs off. “You think youknow me,” I say coolly. “You were just my input. That’s all you were.”            “People aren’t supposed to dothe things they made you do.” His voice is plaintive, almost pleading. “Theyused you. The things you did, the things you told me, not all of it is yourfault.” He reaches out to touch my shoulder. “You’re a victim, too.”            That crosses the line. I pivoton my back foot and push forward. My fist hits him beneath the ear. The punchwas spontaneous but hard enough to knock Demetrius off his feet. I see the samebewilderment and fear the creep showed me earlier, but not the anger. Demetriusreally does believe I’m a victim, and that makes me want to kill him.            “No one ‘makes’ me doanything,” I say. “I’m not a victim. I’m not a victim!”            No response to this, althoughI’m not really listening anyway. I turn around and leave the same way I came. Iconsider giving Pollen a call, but I’ll wait, say the meeting went sour, andthe job died on the vine. What’s more important is that I get through thismoment. I close my eyes and try to visualize a calm, placid landscape, like awaterfall with mellow waters trickling over a cliff into a serene pool, or lushverdant meadows underneath a pristine sunny sky. I try not to think about lemonyellow tracers marking targets in the dead of night, explosive devices eruptingbeneath light utility vehicles, or automatic gunfire sprayed over huddles ofcowering civilians. Every synapse in my brain is begging for the drugs thecombat medics would give us to keep us occupied, focused on something otherthan a collection of agonizing memories torturing our psyches.          I feel the overpowering urge to consume enormous quantities ofalcohol.          The Riptide is a popular bar with Militech veterans, nested in oneof the more squalid corners of Watson. It also happens to be within staggeringdistance of my own apartment. The bartender, Seth, is a chunky white dude witha shaved head and shiny metal dentures. He looks like someone stuck a strong-jawedaction figure in a garbage disposal. He’s polishing pint glasses when I walkin, motions to my usual stool. “Well, well,” Seth says, tossing his towelcasually over his shoulder. “Welcome to the party.”          The bar is cloudy, shadowy, lights kept dim as patrons, headsdown, nurse their drinks, none of them mingling, all of them alone together.The sludge of heavy metal and electronic bass pulsates from the ancient soundsystem. The Riptide is one of the most depressing bars in Night City, whichputs it in the running for most depressing bar worldwide. It’s an oasis fordisposed soldiers, where we can retreat from the world.          Seth drops a tall glass of draft beer in front of me, the whitefoam on top sliding down the slide onto the scarred wood of the counter. I nodmy thanks as I take a sip.          “How’s the new prosthetic?” I ask.          Seth flexes his left arm, a sinewy jumble of wires and rods,capped with a radial claw instead of a hand. “Russian junk,” he answers withresignation. “What can I say? You get what you pay for. Take care of thatMilitech chrome you got, Blitz. Trust me.”          “Believe me, I do, and I got the receipts from the techs to proveit.”          “By the way, your boyfriend came around the other night, lookingfor you.”          I grimace. “He’s not my boyfriend.”          “Your boy toy, then. Whatever.”          I slap my meat hand against the bar. “He’s nothing to me, allright?”          Seth gets indignant on behalf of the drunks I’ve disturbed aroundme. “Relax, relax. I just thought you’d want to know. I thought you two were acute couple.”          I gulp down the last quarter of my beer and signal for another.“I’m looking for work, Seth. You heard of anything? Did Hardy finally squarehis debt with Birzhan?”          “No, word is Hardy lit out for Los Angeles, took his chances onthe run.” Seth poured me another drink, put it before me with a languidclumsiness. “I do know of a job, though. Friend of mine has had trouble with alocal bithead, goes by the handle Lorem. They’ve been breaking into my friend’ssystem, making a real mess of my friend’s Net security. Nothing serious needsto happen. Just a warning, that’s all.”          “Really? You want me to scare a netrunner?” This feels beneath me.          “Just a warning. And find out who they’re working for.”          I take a drink of my beer. “What’s the address?” The Edge of Glory, Chapter I: Introduction https://archiveofourown.org/works/28686405/chapters/70327392 -- source link

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