ɢᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ, ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄɪᴛʏ !!! ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴡᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ, 4-6 am on a winter morning
...This is closest he will come to tasting the soft down of virtual snow melting into busted chrome and feverish skin slick with grime of today's melting point. CLOUDY, WITH A FORECAST OF HEAVY SNOW !! It's a slew of anarchic grit and corporate slog backlit with the corporate monoliths built taller than the weather, shining LED RGB and we're the fucking school of fish they feed pixels of tonight's virtual snow. It's pretty, he thinks, if there wasn't the glaring fact of man - made, eddie backed, corporate sanctioned gods waiting on its pound of flesh's amusement; it's 4AM on a winter morning, but there hasn't been snow in Night City in a long time.
" Met you on a night like this, " southern boy soused in charm of a by-gone era, but he was tonight's main fucking act, the jostling of diehard audience screaming back at him with as much as he had given; all of him, always, martyrdom gnashing canines into the metal of the microphone / CAN YOU FEEL IT? Johnny doesn't sweat any more, not when every nerve's been shot and spliced with Arasaka tech stringing him up like a soldier come a reckoning, tin man, heart of iron branded up with ownership of the very company you die for.
Something special blooms up on that stage which has him gasping down polluted NC air, inhaling CHOO2 and whatever sick pack of smokes he has on hand like he needs a hit, that kind of rush he's felt when he's on his knees; rare wooden floor, the soft plush of a rug from some exotic animal only these fucking corporates could ever have their hands on and he's on his knees by her knees, crawling crawling crawling .... Wake up, says the hand, all silver chrome stilling on the gold chrome of her jaw; polarizing attraction made of the same stuff they've lost. His finger in the wound of her.
NEURAL CHIP NOW LOADING:// where'd your voice go, angel? He'd ask one night, the shadow of her husband casting a heavy shadow in the closet of her room, tucked away like the religious dogma.
" Quieter out here with you, " he finally speaks, trailing the silver arm and hand down the length of @sanctamater's shoulder then down her arm to pluck the cigarette from between her fingers so he could breath in the smoke; the only 'ganic thing he had left coated with nicotine, smeared with her lipstick. The LED lights outline the shape of her nicely, and the fluttering virtual snowfall makes her look like a damned siren. He'll smile in spite of the thoughts that spooled into the mic, Johnny Silverhand leaning into the Militech COO with an obscene smile, smoke spilling with each word,
" Fuckin' devil's out and it starts snowin'. Hah. "
