#pk.starter

He was not dead and that in itself was remarkable. There was a freeing albeit collision of thoughts as he descended through the streets. Walking the same paths that he always had and he wouldn’t be fool enough to say they looked different but they felt it. There was a fresh new energy in him, charged and ready to spill. He couldn’t deny that there was also an undying sullenness sinking deep into the circles beneath hollow eyes. Fingers tapped in the code to the building. His hood pulled up and over his newly buzzed head, face largely concealed from the outside world, as a result the little blinking camera couldn’t let him into the building purely on recognition. As he slipped through the main door downstairs and up to his apartment there was a slow sureness in his steps. Until he climbed the stairs three apiece and huffed breathlessly when he finally knocked on Victoriano’s door. “Hey bastard.” His personal choice of greeting when the door finally opened, it was not without affection.

Jet stumbled out of the bar, almost tripping over the cracked curb and into the street. It was still lively at a quarter past two in the Old Downtown, boosters and hookers marketing their wares along the streets. Bums less (or more) fortunate than he curled up in the gutters and ignored the bustle around them, snoring softly. Neon signs and lights blinked and stuttered in the dark alleys, inviting late-night customers. For the third night in a row, Jet was inebriated beyond what was probably wise, the cheap whiskey keeping him warm despite the cool Night City air. Most importantly, it numbed everything. While the spirit flowed through his veins, he forgot about the sleepless nights, the constant worry after Riley, the persistent tingle that forced him to glance over his shoulder every five minutes or less in fear of hostile eyes. He was abruptly jostled to the side as someone darted past him, a red sequined purse in hand. A woman in black heels pursued him minutes later, yelling and cursing and sobbing. No-one stopped to help, and Jet watched numbly as the thief wove through the thin crowd, quickly gaining distance before disappearing around the block.

‘Is this what the world has been reduced to?’ he thought. ‘Chaos and crime reigning supreme.’ It didn’t matter whether you lived in West Hill and worked for the biggest companies in the corporate sector, or slummed it out in the dingiest part of the Old Downtown – corruption and disorder permeated everything. Whatever God had once created the world had long abandoned Night City to the murderers, the thieves, the corrupt, and the cruel. The only way to survive was to keep your head down, ignore the wrong, and scavenge what you could to live. If it could be called that.

He paused in front of another bar, the whiskey buzz already beginning to wear off in the cold. He’d been building up his tolerance frightfully quickly, and it probably should have suggested that he should stop, or at least slow down. Jet dug into his pockets and counted a few coins of change. He sighed and kept on walking. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice that he’d nearly run into someone until they said something.

“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing up. “M’sorry.” He suddenly noticed that they’d dropped something and cursed, kneeling to help pick it up. “Shit, I’m pretty clumsy tonight. S’one of those days, y’know?” His words and pathetic apologies still slurred together.

@hamiltonsdevil

it was silent now.   other than the stuttered crackle of plaster and brickwork shattering.  peppered with bullets not twenty seconds earlier.  it might have left a ringing in his ears, but the noise was tempered toned and honed to drive out certain frequencies and focus on others - to amplify the small shuffle of steps and the click of a trigger trying to pull on an empty, superheated barrel.

his exosuit was -- home from home.  worn black, and slightly faded sand blasted from the deserts of new vegas.  that, and the headset that clicked up a visual - infographics, radar, thermal imaging all delivering a wealth of information that needed to be read, digested and acted upon in seconds.  there was a single channel open.  one that was solely reserved for use by max-tac active units.  and now - oh, yeah... they were active.

“we have seven civilians still in the building - surrounding area is clear and street crew have a two block radius cordon.  at least four on the same floor as the target.”

as the -- psycho.

psycho.  not usually a term that would be normally be acceptable.  but here, there wasn’t really any other word that would suffice.  a hopped up, super augment who’d lost their grip on reality to the point that any manner of -- sanity -- slipped free and violence reigned... and -- rained.  literally - down upon the heads of night city’s civilian population.  the ‘innocent’ ( for all intents and purposes here ).

he loves.  and hates this job.  it’s something he lives for.  something he believes in.  and yeah, the system might be flawed and fucked up ten ways from sunday - but it was the best they had.  the best anyone had.  you want protection from the corps - you gotta pay for it - in more than one way.  sell yourself, your morals, your soul.  lucky enough to hire your own militia?  doubtful - so this was it.  they - were it.  the last line of defence for a defenceless populace.  just men and women who still... believed... somehow, that in the chaos and the mess of places like this, that there was still some... good... some way, perhaps... that things could be turned around.  those that were ready to put their lives on the line - and fight for them - and for that belief.

he does.  believe. that things can be... better.  that people can be... better.  if they’re just given the chance.  and maybe a little helping hand along the way.  not just a job - but a duty - a self-commitment to things other than greed and hate and harm.  opposing things which flooded wretchedly through these streets - corruption rife... that’s the part he hates... watching them - people - succumb.  through fear or even a simple need to survive - slipping into the shadows and not knowing how to pull themselves out.  worse... the ones who dragged them in there in the first place.

however... right now - that last line of defence - amounted to just four.  

it’s an unknown quantity.  an un-chipped augment, with no intel, no record of what tech might be stacked up in flesh body.  and while he might not agree with the whole - ‘chipping people like dogs’ thing - it sure as hell would have helped in a situation like this.

“use of live ammunition has been sanctioned as per city code: DS366427.  shoot to disable if possible.  to kill only if necessary. ---watch your backs... watch each others backs. ---hannah, tristan - take the side entrance. ---marx - you and me - will be going in the front door.”

  Don’t say I’ve failed you too.

  Just carried on searching, helping those that cried out to him and in the process got progressively more and more lost. Cobalt eyes ablaze with worry as he patched up a young man who’d been caught in the fray, no serious injuries thus far, one woman that’d need a visit to the body bank to replace a few fingers. In this day and age the technology existed, medtech was advanced enough that he could block the nerves then and there without surgical intervention. He was kneeling still beside the young man with a few cuts, bruises and burns, dressing and cleaning the wounds. Hiding the grimace that nearly strained that weary face, his leg was still causing him grief, exasperated after all this running around.

He glanced at the time. Quite late, Finn thought to himself. It was times like these when Finn really admired the beauty of a quiet night. Of course, the bustle of a city was beautiful in itself, but when crowds filtered out into only a handful of people leisurely walking the streets, there was something to be appreciated about that aesthetic.

Click. 

Finn examined the photo for only a moment, continuing to walk and take pictures as he did so.

A sudden noise appeared behind him, and, startled as he was, Finn turned around, the flash accidentally going off on his camera.

“...I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you is all. I didn’t mean to take a picture.” He apologized, taking a step back.

the surgeon had kept him updated. reassured.   that the antibiotics were beginning to work, that the severity of infection and likelihood of dex... not... pulling through, were diminishing by the day.  regaining a little strength, conscious more than not.  that recovery was underway.

and it’s odd... the sense of relief that came with the words. because as an engineer of loss, a manufacturer of death, a reaper of his own making, then perhaps, he shouldn’t be so opposed to it happening to another.  but he was.  he was opposed to it happening to this, specific, other.

though for all of those reassurances, the solo was still an individual of the present, of proof.  and although he’d been to the small apartment only once before, ( and then, uninvited, wondering to this day whether the runner, in his state of delirium, would even remember that he’d been there at all ), feet did not falter as he made his way back.

so then, is this what worry is? is this concern? is this what you do for... friends?

preferring to see with his own eyes that dex... dionysis... was truly well ( or as well as could be anticipated, given those discoveries ).

the hallways of the building look as he remembers.  not a place he imagined the skilled runner to reside ( something that could possibly be rectified... ) - peeling paint, chipped plaster, a coldness in the walls spotted with damp and black in some places.  continuing with no challenge until he reached the door...

...perhaps dex was resting.  or sleeping. perhaps he should have just sent a message ( but the potential for there to be no reply wasn’t something he was willing to risk... again ). perhaps - many things. but actions were prominent, and he’s opening the door a crack - if only to gain a glimpse to self-reassure that the surgeon was as good as his word ( and so far, he has no reason to doubt that ) - pushing wider to try to see into the small space... an invasion of that privacy once more, but he’d been there, and the chastisements could mount up.  as long as dex was okay...

though the glimpse... is of something --------- else?

  “Good morni—”