“One… Two….” “Shit!” “Stop twitching, dumbass. Three…” “Shit! Fuck! That one burned, you asshole.” “Shut up, I told you to stop twitching.” “Then fucking stop – OW!” Deadpanned: “Four. Now hold the fuck still.” He worked at the triggers at the base of her neck, recalibrating the lines that had been configured to her hands, her feet, and to her head. “I still have to do your fingers,” he warned her, wagging his sensor in her face tauntingly. “Don’t make me fuck up and make you mute, dumb, and invalid.” “Just get the shit done, Rector, I gotta get back out there.” The sound of other tools triggering around them was heavy, mingled with the sounds of soft shouts, the stench of oil, burning skin, and fried cords. It was a perfume to Tera, one she’d grown up on, and she couldn’t get enough of it. Well, almost couldn’t. “FUCK!” She took a deep whiff and complained, “That was my fucking skin you just burned to a crisp! You wanna add some A-1 and see how I taste, you shitpile of a mechanic?” “Told you to hold still, whiny ass.” He tossed the sensor to the side and sprayed the injured flesh. It cooled instantly. “Why come you don’t bitch and complain this much when Gearhead does this to you?” She ran her tongue across her upper lip, then blew him a kiss and purred, “I don’t dream about fucking you, old timer. See the enhancers that guy has? I could dream about the pistons he uses.” Wiggling her non-existent brows at him, she suddenly tensed and yelped as a spark struck across her spine. “Fucker,” she ground out. But she felt it. That lubing sensation she got when she’d had a good tune up. She wiggled her fingers, which had begun to stiffen, testing the biomechanic fingers, then flexed her legs and jumped lightly into the air. Her last job had resulted in a caught ankle and a near arrest. She wasn’t all that eager for another chest to chest with the fucking AI rogues.

Rector unlatched the cord from her spine, then tapped his fingers against her perky ass. “Go. Get the fuck out of here. You annoy me and you smell like garbage. Been digging out at the races again?” Tera tugged on the neon indigo tank top, covering her near nonexistent tits, ignoring the few looks of interest that came her way. She didn’t go for the mech jockeys, they were only interested in one thing – and it usually wasn’t their natural plumbing. “Got a few creds out there,” she admitted while she worked up the matching g-string before finally yanking her fuschia shorts up her legs. “I got a pal out that way, he’s trying to help me get some flush going so I can upgrade.” Tapping the ropes of brilliant purple streams that ran from the center of her skull down the right side of her cheek to brush her right shoulder, she explained, “Wanting to get one of those cerebral implants, yeah? I heard they can fucking stream.” This time, when she bounced on her toes, it was in glee. “Imagine, fucking sitting there, waiting for the fucking pluck to happen, and you get to enjoy a little skin city at the same time, yeah?” Rector just shook his head, eyes going skyward. “You dumb ass kids and your upgrades.” He’d gotten an arm, and only an arm, to replace the one he’d lost in the Big War. He didn’t talk about it. She didn’t ask. But he was proud to say he was “at least 80% original meat.” “Hey, you’re just jealous because your eyes are dull dumb brown.” Her own fluttered, the contacts a brilliant turquoise. They were fakes meant to make others believe she’d upgraded even that, but a real techie would know them for what they were. “Thanks for the lube job anyway, boring bones.” She flipped him a USB with the required cred and strutted through the mech shop, eyeing the incoming talent with interest as much for their upgrades as much as for their skin. She even leered at a few in interest.

As she hit the streets, the crowd was sparse, most of them junking in their alley-ways, just trying to get that feel-good feel out of a fresh synaptic spark. She snorted in derision. She’d never done sparks, had no interest in them. Shoulders hunched against the late night chill, she edged along buildings with one shoulder barely skimming the rough brick as she passed. This wasn’t the worst city block, but it wasn’t more than a few grades above the usual theft and murder. Plus, the Moxes and Valentinos had been coming around lately, looking for prey, and she wasn’t up for being on their butcher block. A small double beep from her cell had her tugging it from her pocket swiftly, glancing at the read-out, before tucking it away again. Mick and Double Mick, the McBannon twins. Her bosses. “Another team-up. Get here.” She sneered in aggravation. She liked working alone. No one to fuck things up and get in the way. With a glance along each side of the street, she skated across it swiftly, hitting the corner of 12th onto Sage street. She’d been working with The McTwins for going on three years now, and usually didn’t mind the work – except when they pulled a team-up out of their asses. Mick was the more easy-going of the two, while his brother, who was twice the size and twice the attitude, wore his belligerence like it was a polished veneer to his ugly face and attitude. Of the two, she preferred Double Mick, all the same. At least he was straight. Mick oozed charm, most of it false, and that got under her skin.

It took a few back alleys and a quick bustle across the night clubs for her to reach her destination. Two quick raps, pause, two more, pause and then a triple rap and a small window appeared. “What,” the voice asked on the other side, barely a crack enough to allow a glint of light to blind her. “Double time,” she told him and the window shut. A few seconds later, a small door cracked open to her right. She slid a finger into the crevice that was invisible unless you knew where to look for it, and nudged her way around the door, barely allowing it to open a quarter of the way. The room was dark, always was. She hated that. Grimacing, wishing she honestly, truthfully had bionic eyes, she reached a hand out for the concrete wall to help make her way toward the only other door in the room. Once there, she tapped it twice to gesture her presence. She crossed her arms and waited impatiently as the door finally pushed itself open. “Bout time,” a voice growled at her. Double Mick sat at his dirt-stained desk in his usual wife-beater of stained off-white tone, chest hairs curling like a forest above the scooped neck. He smelled like motor oil, sweat, body stench, and alcohol. Her nose curled in contempt and she resigned herself to the impending nausea his body smell would bring. “You said team-up,” she led the conversation. He didn’t look at her, but remained staring at the ledger in his hands, reading the financial print-outs as they flew across the screen. She drew in a short, sharp breath and instantly regretted it. Minutes passed without a comment, until she ventured again, “Team-up?”

He grunted in answer, fingers tapping away at them when ledger, dragging the screen upward from time to time. She blew out a breath of aggravation and dropped her hip on the corner of his desk, reaching over to tug at the papers resting under his elbow, glancing the pages over, knowing it will annoy him. Sure enough, he reached over to snag the papers out of her hand, glaring at her. “Siddown and shaddup.” She flopped back in the chair with a moody, extended sigh and began to work over her fingers, toying with the rotators in her knuckles so they clicked annoyingly. At first Double Mick cast her sour looks but after three minutes of her clicking and ticking, he roared, “Fucking pain in my ass! Here!” A USB was shoved across the table. “Fucking look it over and shut up, for once in your miserable bionic life!”

“Awwwww sweet talker,” she purred and slid the USB into the slot hidden behind her ear. Her eyes blurred as they rushed side to side while information slid through the computer connected to her brain. Jagger, 27, mental history, rap sheet, it all flowed through her system until she could have written a chapter about the guy. Black hair, green eyes – originals, limited upgrades, and… “Are you fucking nuts?” She yanked the USB out and hissed in pain. “He’s a Punker. You know how I feel about those idiots. His idea of bionics includes oil and gears.” Her thin lips curled with open disgust. “I’m out.” Double Mick fixed her with his dark eyes, his paunch bouncing as he jerked from his seat to lean aggressively over his desk, looming over her. The bastard was fat, yes, but beneath those thick pounds were ropes of muscle hidden on his 6″2 frame. “You wanna say that again, girly?” The brogue in his voice enhanced dangerously. His stench wafted around him, causing her to retreat in her chair. “Look, he’s a-” “I KNOW WHAT HE IS,” Mick bellowed. “You think that’s an excuse? I’ll tell you what’s an excuse. My shithead brother letting you get away with free upgrades, sliding them under the table where you think I don’t notice. So you got two options here. Pay that tab you been building up by stealing from me, or you work if off by agreeing to the team up. We clear?”

Shit. SHIT! How did he know about the upgrades? She struggled not to gape at him while her mind raced for some excuse that wouldn’t come. Shit! “Well… uh …”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Double Mick retorted and settled his thick ass back into the creaking chair. “You got two hours to get your ass down to the races, be looking for him.” His blunt finger wagged at her to leave. Her lips tugged into a sour scowl as she retreated, an idea already forming up. Sure, she could show up, but if the putz decided he didn’t want to team with her … That scowl was fading as Double Mick bellowed, “Don’t even think of trying to make him walk, either, you get? I got him by the short and curlies just as much as you, bitch.”

She could hear the smug behind Double Mick’s scowl. Yeah, he meant business this time. Fuck…