The dim light of the bar and the noise of the music made it easy to disappear into the crowd and pull off any shady deals that needed to stay hidden from prying eyes. Zeno lazily sipped his beer, waiting for his target to appear. He reopened the job description in the app and skimmed the details. A simple gig with a hefty payout and no complications expected.
A girl plopped down on the stool next to him. The floral stench of her perfume clashed disgustingly with the bar's usual odors: cigarette smoke, booze of every variety, sweat, and the ionized tang of implant overuse.
"Scram, sweetheart. This seat's taken," Zeno drawled, fixing her with a heavy glare from under his dark locks.
The girl looked him up and down, then snorted arrogantly, "Taken by who? An invisible leprechaun or somethin'?"
"Wow, razor-sharp wit," Zeno scoffed and took another swig.
"Uh-huh."
She ordered a synthetic cherry cider, and Zeno grimaced, imagining the cloying sweetness of that swill, just like her perfume.
"I'm waitin' for someone, get lost, sweetheart," he repeated.
"Relax, big guy. I'll grab my drink and bounce off."
"You're way too mouthy for a dame prowlin' a bar solo. Reeks of trouble," Zeno sipped some more of his beer.
"And what's that smell like? Daisies?" She smirked, snatching her glass from the counter, "Your throne, Mr. Grumpyface."
"Good riddance."
Zeno watched the stranger walk away, openly admiring the curve of her denim-clad ass, indulging in the vivid fantasy of pinning her down, her thick long hair wrapped around his fist. As she wound her way toward a corner booth, her eyes scanned the crowd with deliberate focus, as if she was hunting for someone specific.
Zeno glanced around too. The bar was packed tonight; a couple of potential targets were definitely here. He pulled out his phone again, opened the job app, and scrolled up and down the feed before locking the screen with a flick of his thumb. As his arm moved, the implant in his wrist emitted an unnatural, rattling whir. Gotta hit up a tech soon. His eye was glitching too, sporadically projecting holograms when it shouldn't. Zeno patted his pockets, searching for an Anpassen—the meds that kept his body from rejecting the implants. Lately, he'd been popping them more often. Either the dosage had gotten weaker, or his system was building tolerance. He turned the vial pack in his hand, then shoved it back into his pocket. Better not mix this shit with booze.
His gaze swept the room again, landing on the girl in the corner. She was tense, scanning the crowd, fingers drumming against her glass. Definitely waiting for someone and clearly not a lover.
A faint distortion in the electromagnetic field tugged at Zeno's attention That was the target's implant signature. He double-checked the job details, drained his glass, and turned to the bartender to order the signal drink: red liqueur.
Soon, a petite woman clambered onto the stool beside him. She looked about that age where people start asking how the grandkids are doing.
"Good evening, young man," the woman had a deep, raspy voice - the kind not every seasoned smoker could boast with.
"Evening," Zeno slid the liqueur glass towards her. "Help yourself."
"Thank you," she took an elegant sip. "Do you have the package?"
"Yes, ma'am." Zeno nudged the flash drive hidden under a napkin across the counter.
"The liqueur here is quite excellent," with practiced ease, she palmed the napkin and drive, plugging it into the port on her wrist the next instant. Zeno watched her gaze grow distant as she analyzed the data streaming directly into her consciousness via a specialized implant. Satisfied, she retrieved a payment chip from her purse and handed it to Zeno between two fingers.
"A pleasure doing business with you."
"Likewise," Zeno scanned the chip's code, transferring the credits to his account.
The woman finished her drink, climbed off the stool with slight awkwardness, and vanished into the crowd. Zeno casually made his way to the booth where his new acquaintance was sitting.
"Still sitting alone?"
"I'm not alone. I've got an invisible friend too," she said with a mocking smile playing on her lips.
"Oh yeah? What's his name?"
"Peabody Bang."
"Peabody Bang? What kind of stupid name is that?" Zeno slid into the seat across from her.
"Oh he's a complete idiot," she glanced briefly at Zeno before scanning the crowd again.
"If I were your friend, I'd advise you to be more careful. Sweet little things like you shouldn't be alone in places like this, running their mouths."
"Noted."
Zeno let his eyes wander over her curves once more.
"So you said you were waiting for someone?"
"I didn't."
"Could've sworn you did. Well, since you're not waiting for anyone, maybe I could buy you a drink?"
"No thanks."
"What, you don't accept drinks from handsome guys?"
She wasn't really listening, her eyes searching the crowd. "Yeah, something like that."
"So I'm not your type?"
"No offense, sweetcheeks," she drawled, mimicking his vocal mannerisms, "but piss off."
Zeno clutched his chest feigning hurt. The girl didn't buy his performance - she'd apparently spotted her target. Zeno followed her gaze to Simon Walker.
"Walker, huh?"
"What?" she stood up, grabbing her barely touched drink.
Zeno caught her wrist. "Hold up."
"Let go."
"What do you want with Walker?" his grip tightened.
"What's it to you?"
"Maybe I'm here for him too," Zeno shrugged casually.
"Let. Go."
"Nope."
"I said let go," her voice dropped an octave.
Zeno shook his head with a smirk - which quickly vanished when she sent an electric pulse through his arm. His wrist implant short-circuited, forcing his hand open.
"You little –!"
She was already striding purposefully toward Walker. Zeno decided to observe how the situation would unfold, flexing his hand as residual electricity still danced along his neural filaments, making his fingers twitch involuntarily.
Just then, the girl collided with Walker at full speed, dousing him in cherry-red liquid that spread like a bloodstain across his crisp white shirt. Zeno barked out a laugh, immediately recognizing the thief's simple yet effective ploy. She played her part flawlessly with the wide, apologetic eyes, trembling hands fluttering over Walker's chest as she dabbed at the stain with napkins, no doubt murmuring endless apologies. And then the masterstroke: her unbuttoned collar offering a distracting glimpse of cleavage. Walker fell for the trap within seconds, even managed to grab her ass as her nimble fingers slipped into his jacket pocket, emerging with a slim chip case. Zeno had to admire how she executed this age-old con with such precision.
"Damn smooth," Zeno muttered under his breath.
The girl pretended to rush off to replace his drink, but the moment Walker glanced at his phone, she pivoted and vanished through the exit door. Zeno caught up to her in the parking lot as she hurried toward her car.
"That was some slick pickpocketing," Zeno called out, deliberately drawing out his vowels again.
She froze mid-step and turned her head slightly. "No idea what you're talking about."
Zeno burst out laughing. "I could use a partner with quick little fingers like yours."
"And you are…?"
"Zeno Voss."
She studied him, as if trying to place the name. "I don't work with mercs."
"Make an exception for me?"
"Not a chance."
She moved toward the car, but Zeno's reflex-enhancing implant let him close the distance in a blink, catching her wrist just as her fingers brushed the door handle, despite being several paces away moments before.
"Maybe you'll share the loot then?"
"In your dreams!"
"I could always search your pockets myself, you know. Walker must've been carrying something real good."
"Looking to lose some limbs, pup?" a crackling charge danced between her fingertips as she spoke.
"Go ahead! Fry me to a crisp."
"You're awfully cocky for a guy stuffed with faulty hardware. How's the arm? Still glitching?"
Zeno raised his hand, flexing his fingers despite the visible static jumps in the joints.
"Better than ever."
"Want another dose?"
"Bring it on," Zeno challenged.
She hit him with another jolt - much stronger this time. The shockwave rippled through his implants and neural threads, just enough to force his grip open but not enough to drop him completely.
"Nice buzz."
"Want more?"
"You're way too eager," Zeno grinned, stepping closer again.
"Oh you like it rough, huh?" She unleashed another paralyzing surge. Zeno dropped to one knee as his implants fired erratic shutdown protocols, trying to minimize the damage. "Might need to replace a few circuit boards after this," she leaned in with a cheeky smirk, "sweetcheeks."
Zeno's body, accustomed to constant augmentation support, collapsed onto the pavement like a useless sack of meat. Without his implants, his muscles refused to obey. He lay sprawled on the filthy asphalt, struggling to remember how to breathe naturally as waves of pain crashed through him. His heart, deprived of its artificial pacemaker, stuttered erratically as it was searching for its natural rhythm.
The girl slid into her car and fired up the engine. As a final gesture, she tossed an emergency beacon toward him, the kind that pinged local tech crews.
"Maintenance is on me," she called before slamming the door. Tires whispered against wet pavement as she vanished.
Zeno managed to roll onto his back, staring up at the smog-choked sky. The clouds glowed with the city's neon vomit, like some mythical unicorn had regurgitated a rainbow. His fingers twitched toward his pocket, but he lacked the strength to pull out his phone and check if the tracker he'd slipped into her jacket during their scuffle was still active.
His optic implant glitched again, replaying that memory: Lyra calling his name, her voice muffled by the backs of Cleaners. Zeno squeezed his eyes shut, but the holographic echo persisted "Zeno… Zeno…" It was like a corrupted file stuck on loop.
He stayed there, motionless, until an AugTek van rumbled to a stop beside him. Two technicians climbed out with practiced indifference. One rummaged for tools while the other plugged a diagnostic monitor into Zeno's neck port, barely glancing at the readings.
Damn, son. You got properly* fried," the tech observed, fingers dancing across the holographic diagnostic display.
"Tell me about it."
After a quick scan, he called to his partner:
"Martinez, log this as a Wang Corp client," turning back to Zeno: "We'll hook you to basic life support, but Wang's black-box systems are off-limits for us. You'll have to tough it out 'til their lab."
"Peachy."
Zeno hauled himself up with the tech's help, his movements jerky like a marionette with cut strings. They loaded him into the van where a support unit hummed to life, that was a temporary substitute for his fried neural controllers. Martinez punched the nearest Wang lab into the nav. The AI routed them through neon-soaked streets, AugTek's logo flickering across rain-slicked windows.
"Who zapped you, man?"
"Feisty little alley cat."
"Expensive taste in women. Every controller's toast." The tech whistled at the readout. "And with Wang hardware in you… Hope they're paying you stupid well."
Zeno snorted, collapsing onto the van's hard gurney as he mentally calculated the repair bill.
The AugTek crew delivered him to Wang Labs like a defective appliance. Corporate techs eyed the budget repair team with barely concealed disdain, insisting on inspecting every port before accepting custody. A Wang engineer scanned Zeno's access codes, then shoved him into a med-pod for full system diagnostics.
For hours, machines whirred around him:
neural spiders rethreading fried pathways, nanite swarms recoating myelin sheaths and laser soldering Wang's proprietary circuits.
When the pod finally hissed open, a tablet was thrust into Zeno's hands? There was a waiver absolving Wang of all liability. He thumbprinted it without reading, then got on his wobbly legs.
At reception, a holographic girl with dead eyes and a candy-coated voice chirped:
"Mr. Voss, Mr. Wang requests your presence for breakfast at Bayview Restaurant in two hours."
Zeno rubbed his neck wearily.
"Which one?"
"Mr. Jack Wang."
"Right." Zeno nodded.
He stepped through the lab's sliding glass doors into the predawn gloom, shaking a real tobacco cigarette from its pack. Most had switched to electronic decades ago, especially after lung replacements became routine. Zeno paid exorbitant sums to one of the few remaining vendors keeping the old tradition alive.
Exhaling acrid smoke, he fished out his phone. The screen remained stubbornly dark, it seemed the EMP pulse that fried his implants had apparently killed external devices too. He'd have to wait until getting home to check if the tracker survived. Stubbing the cigarette in a lab-side receptacle, he began the hour-long walk to the waterfront.
By the time Zeno reached Bayview in Helios Heights, the Neo-Sparta's scrubbed-clean district of Wang BioTech's retro-classical buildings with their tasteful faux-antique moldings, the sun had risen, staining smog-choked air peach-orange. No glassware plague victims haunted these streets; the wealthy here never dealt with knockoff Anpassen serum or its side effects.
A genetically perfected hostess greeted him with honeyed tones, verifying his appointment before leading him to Jack Wang's table.
"A bit early for breakfast, no?" Zeno slumped into the chair, trying to find a comfortable position. The damned thing was clearly designed for some stiff-backed oligarch, not an actual human being.
Jack Wang looked perfectly at ease in his tailored wool suit – probably real fabric, too. The man held Wang BioTech's reins in one hand and the city council in his pocket.
"Perfect timing," Wang sipped from a delicate espresso cup. "You're becoming expensive, Voss. Why the hell is this the third implant servicing this year? Makes for shitty product marketing."
Zeno shrugged.
"No need to advertise it. Besides, that prehistoric scrap metal you 'generously' installed is obsolete anyway. Give me your latest trinkets, and I'll be your best damn ad in the city."
Wang's grimace had nothing to do with the coffee, which was impeccable.
"You're not worth that much. Even our older lines outclass Veira & Kór's plastic garbage that cracks within months." The jab at product quality clearly stung. "Transmission issues?"
Zeno shook his head.
"When's the next job due? You did find her. Noah's content to wait until she 'ripens' and comes to him. I don't have that luxury. I need her goddamn DNA before Veira gets her hands on it."
"Wouldn't it be easier to deliver her in pieces?" Zeno drummed his fingers on the linen tablecloth.
"Pieces are useless – that's first. Second, we can't rely on my dear brother's genius if his pet project gets scrapped."
"I can send the tracker data. Fetch her yourself."
Zeno wanted no part in this. Selling intel or retrieving corporate thieves was one thing, that paid well. But when your de facto employer, who holds the kill-switch to your life support, demands uncompensated favors? That was different.
"We pay for our comfort. Be a dear and maintain it. You've got two weeks."
"That's not what you pay me for." Zeno tapped the table again. "As I recall, you gave me an ultimatum: deliver her alive, or lose the 'Legacy Series' subscription." He punctuated it with Wang BioTech's own marketing slogan.
Jack Wang set his napkin aside.
"Am I negotiating with you right now, Voss?"
Zeno shook his head.
"You're dismissed."
"Not even breakfast?"
Wang arched an unamused brow.
"Did we sleep together?"
"Can't say we have."
"Neither can I. So buy your own damn meal. Consider the repairs my… generosity."