The worn rosary beads clicked through the Father's fingers, a frantic, analogue prayer against the hum of the city outside. "Ethicca, I don't like this. This… 'group'… they're hyenas, not employers." He stood framed in her doorway, the black of his robes a stark void against the neon-stained light, his face a roadmap of worry.
She cinched her bag shut, the synthetic pop of the seal echoing in the small room. The yellow fabric of her cleaner's suit, emblazoned with a cheerful but meaningless biohazard symbol, crinkled as she turned. She offered a smile she hoped was reassuring. "I'm a cleaner, Father. A glorified janitor. Besides, I'm nineteen. The last chick in the nest. It's time I pulled my own weight." Her voice softened. "I won't bring shame to The New Eden Church. Promise."
"It's not your shame I fear, child, it's your soul," he whispered, his head shaking slowly. "We are in Sector 9. The Fringe. Out here, a soul is just another commodity. If you're caught…"
She closed the distance in two steps, planting a quick, daughterly kiss on his cheek. The faint scent of old books and incense clung to him. "I'll be fine," she called over her shoulder, already moving toward the church's back exit. "Been ghosting in and out of messes since I was fifteen, remember? I'm good at it."
He watched her go, a soft, defeated sigh escaping his lips as he raised a hand in a half-wave, half-blessing.
The alley gate clicked shut behind her, and Ethicca plunged into the city's throat. The air hit her like a physical thing—a thick cocktail of rancid ramen broth, hot garbage, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone from a sputtering generator. Needles, like discarded chrome thorns, littered the ground around heaps of trash bags leaking iridescent slime. A few Pixel Heads were sprawled in the filth, VR goggles strapped tight, their limbs twitching to some silent, phantom beat as their minds surfed the synthetic highs of the datasphere. Just another Tuesday.
She emerged onto the street just as a single, defiant ray of sunlight broke through the perpetual chemical smog. It warmed her face for a glorious, impossible second before the clouds clamped shut, plunging the world into an artificial twilight. Instantly, the city answered, igniting in a riot of light. Neon signs for "Ronin Ramen" and "NEXUS-COLA" flared to life, painting the chrome and concrete in garish, electric hues. Above, a chaotic river of gravcars—sleek corporate sedans, jury-rigged hover-bikes, and lumbering haulers—flowed between skyscrapers that clawed at the belly of the sky.
One day, she thought, a familiar ache in her chest. I'll be up there, not down here breathing the runoff.
The thumping bass of a K-rok band from a dive bar warred with the frantic, syncopated beat of a street vendor's stall. The crowd was a tide of bodies, a mix of grim-faced locals and wide-eyed tourists, threatening to swallow her whole. She was so lost in the sensory assault that she missed her phone's buzzing until the third insistent vibration. Ducking into a cramped noodle shop—a familiar hole-in-the-wall with grease-slicked tables and holographic koi fish swimming lazily through the steam—she slid into a tiny booth and fumbled the device from her pocket.
"Where are you?" she asked, cupping a hand over the phone's mouthpiece to block out the sizzle and chatter.
A dry chuckle answered. "At the door, you absolute fossil. Turn around." The line went dead.
Ethicca looked up. Leaning against the doorframe, tapping a finger to her temple in a gesture of mild annoyance, was a girl in a matching yellow cleaner's suit. Jacqui.
Jacqui slid into the seat opposite her, a cloud of synth-cinnamon perfume following her. She jabbed a thumb toward Ethicca's ear. "Seriously, E. It's 3074. Get a Neurocell. Nobody uses phones unless they're trying to make a bomb."
Ethicca stuck her tongue out, holding up the blocky device with defiant pride. "Father says the human mind must remain pure. And this," she declared with a flourish, "is the legendary Nokia 3310. Indestructible. The best that real creds can buy."
Jacqui squinted, leaned in, and then burst out laughing, a sound sharp enough to make the holographic koi scatter. "Holy shit, E! Did you pry that from the cold, dead hands of a 21st-century mummy? I'm surprised it doesn't take coal."
Heat rose in Ethicca's cheeks. She snatched the phone back, pocketing it. "Stop it, Jacqui. Just because you left doesn't mean you have to forget everything Father taught us."
Jacqui shrugged, the movement smooth and unbothered. A glint in her cybernetically enhanced eyes caught the neon glow. "Look, little sis, that 'purity is perfection' stuff is a great bedtime story. Out here? Augmentation is survival. It's the next-gen firmware update for the human race."
"Until you hit the 95% threshold and they ship you to an AI city," Ethicca countered. "You lose your rights, Jacqui. You're not human, but you're not a machine. You're just… a ghost with a warranty."
"Weh-Weh-Welcome to Dim Sum Down," a mechanical voice interrupted, stuttering on the first word. An AI waitress, an outdated model with a flickering optical sensor, extended a Holo-pad. "I will be your… your… your server. Please place an order."
Jacqui touched her temple, her eyes briefly glazing over. Her order—sticky chicken wings—materialized on the pad's display. "Perfect. You?" She slid it to Ethicca.
Ethicca sighed. "I'll have the same."
The waitress's head tilted with a soft grinding sound. "Apologies. Physical confirmation is… is… is required. Your Holo-code serves as our insurance against synthetic foodstuff… digestive complications."
"I come here every week," Ethicca said, her voice dripping with practiced weariness. "And every week, I tell you I'm not augmented. I don't have a Holo-code. I'm a vanilla human."
"Ah, yes. Customer 313. The organic one. My apologies." The AI's face remained a placid mask. "Please proceed with a primitive payment method."
Jacqui's lips curled into a smirk. "I got this, lil' sis. By the time you dig out your cred-chip, the city's power grid will have failed twice." She pressed her palm to the pad, locking eyes with Ethicca in a silent, teasing jab at her analog life.
"Payment accepted," the waitress chirped. "Your meal will arrive in approximately… thirty seconds."
Before Ethicca could retort, a small tray floated to their table, bearing two greasy, brown paper bags that smelled suspiciously like chicken.
Jacqui snatched them. "Let's move, E. Jimmy's waiting. He's our ride, and this job is a big one. Don't screw the pooch on this." She was already out the door, a yellow blur in the neon-soaked crowd.
Ethicca scrambled to catch up. "You keep calling us 'cleaners,' but who for? What are we really doing?"
"You're getting paid, aren't you? Stop poking the data-wraith and be happy with that," Jacqui snapped.
"The money's worthless if I'm dead!" Ethicca grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. "Tell me."
Jacqui's hard expression softened with a sigh. She handed Ethicca a folded sheet of what looked like paper. The moment Ethicca's fingers touched it, it illuminated with glowing blue text. An official NCPD logo flickered in the corner.
"They're called the Brain Jumpers," Jacqui said as Ethicca's eyes darted across the holographic file.
"'Scrap-Tier Mind-Jackers'?" Ethicca read aloud, her brow furrowing.
"Means they're butchers, not surgeons," Jacqui clarified. "They rip memories out with cheap, glitchy tech. It's a mess. That's why they need us."
Ethicca's gaze fell on the final line of the threat assessment. THREAT ASSESSMENT: JOKE. She let out a breath. "The cops call us 'The Roaches.'"
"Yep. We're the janitors for the bottom-feeders," Jacqui added, a bitter twist to her lips. "So relax. The risk isn't that big. We're just taking out the trash. Now come on, Jimmy's this way."
She led them down a side street lined with parked vehicles. Their robotic drivers sat silent and dormant, a row of metallic sentinels with glowing, dead eyes that all seemed to track Ethicca as she passed. The sight made the skin on her arms prickle.
Deeper in the shadows, a figure detached itself from the gloom. His upper face was human, but from the nose down, his jaw was a construct of polished, gunmetal gray steel. His eyes, recessed in shadow, held a faint, inorganic glow. Ethicca froze, her breath catching in her throat.
"Seriously? You're scared of Jimmy?" Jacqui hissed. "Get in the van."
The man swung open the side door of a battered hover-van that looked like it had been used for target practice. As they slid into an interior that smelled of stale synth-caf and ozone, he climbed into the driver's seat. The van groaned as he fired it up, the hover-system whining and sputtering before it shakily lifted off the asphalt.
"Yo, E. Jacqui." The voice was familiar, but it was filtered through a cheap synth-vox, carrying a strange, metallic buzz. "Been a minute. Sorry for the rust bucket, my new face wasn't cheap."
Ethicca leaned forward. "Jimmy? From the orphanage? What in God's name happened to you?"
A harsh, grating laugh escaped him. "Last time I trust the Yakuza. Dumb bastards took my arms and shot me in the face." He grinned, a horrific gesture that was half-flesh, half-gleaming metal. "Joke's on them, right? I think the chrome looks cooler." He flexed a pair of mismatched, robotic hands on the controls.
"Cooler?" Jacqui snorted, shaking her head. "Jimmy, you look like a vending machine lost a fight with a trash compactor. I told you not to run with them. So what's the job?"
"Alright, listen up," Jimmy said, his voice all business now as he expertly weaved the rickety van into the chaotic sky-lanes. "The crew hit a mark in Sector 7. High-priority corp-drone. They got the intel, but had to 'ice' him. Our job is to go in, scrub the scene bio-clean, bag the meat-sack, and make it look like he decided to spontaneously perforate his own skull."
As the van picked up speed, Ethicca stared out at the city. A massive holographic ad for 'Somachrome' shimmered on a skyscraper, a model's skin rippling into liquid metal.
"Brace yourselves," Jimmy announced, his half-metal grin flashing in the dashboard's glow. "We're hitting Sector 7. The one place where having more chrome than sense gets you a dirt nap. Mask up."
Jacqui was already pulling sleek, biometric holomasks from her bag. "Mask on, E. You too, Jimmy—that face of yours is a chrome-plated wanted poster there." She passed them out, her own face hardening into a mask of grim determination.
"In, out, get paid. Let's make some creds."