#runner-dex

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?

he doesn’t ‘jack in’.  much to dex’s disgust.  there’s no plug to mesh his consciousness to the digital realm beyond.  what he does do, is pull the small aluminium box out from under his bed, flip open the lid and slide the HUD out of it’s foam casing.  it’s not the first one he’s had, but it is the most up to date... at least for those who didn’t merge, mesh or run.

he has... enough... in the way of augments.  doesn’t need data screaming through his mind too... leave that to the runners.  leave that to dex.

and he settles in his chair, long legs folded up beneath him and crossed in comfort.  mug of coffee in hand ( which was tricky as the steam misted up the HUD on occasion ).

and he doesn’t expect that dex is offline.  he rarely is...

but there’s a low hum, in his ears from the device, and he has to vocalise commands.  ( it’s very, very basic by comparison to runners hookups, but it does as much as it’s needed to... )

“route; kilo indigo lima lima, port seven five two zero two five seven.   request; closed channel.”

it takes a moment for the connection to kick, a flicker of lines and numbers on the lenses he wore - but finally ended with a curled panther stalking toward the screen and then ‘ripping’ through the viewers vision with a lethal swipe of claws.... fading slowly to black screen... blinking cursor.

message:  hopefully if you have the time to make yourself a new intro, you have time to <vtagi>work<vtag/i><error:voicecommand><13-203:not-recognised>.

a small grin as the words flicker onto the screen in front of his eyes - knows that it would very likely drive the intended recipient up the wall to see lines of error.  and he can’t help the small snort and grin in anticipation.

message: why does that never work for me?  i don’t get the whole verbal tagging thing.  fuck it.  no tagging.

message:  new job.  need some intel.  just the usual.  the mark’s name is ivan nihil.  works for the finance department of genetech.  ten percent standard if you’re up for it?

message: and that last delivery worked out pretty well.  compressed carbon was much stronger than the alloy - lighter too.  let me know if you come across anything else like that.

there’s a pause... cursor blinking slowly and steadily.  a false reflection of a heartbeat.  something that seems almost impatient, urging forward the other side of conversation.  the one that swayed from the purely practical...