"Ugh, fuck it!" I down the entire dose of [Hemoserol]<label1|. []<label2| A whole tube of pills in one go. The small, empty plastic container falls to the floor and rolls away. Standing on the concrete balustrade I stretch out my arms and tilt over forward. I can still feel the air brushing over my face. Its a good hundred meters to the bottom of the streets. In free fall thats a couple of seconds for a full grown Gentank until his face gets smashed on the ground. The drugs are faster fortunately. Everything is numb. No feeling of air on my skin anymore, no taste of concrete mixed with blood, no pain, I feel nothing. Did I hear my skull crack? [[I think I could hear my skull crack...->Page 2]] (click: ?label1)[(replace: ?label2)[//This stuff is the shit!//]]The muscular structure of the body is now elaborated enough to release me from the Genetic Replicator. I slumb down and collapse to my knees. The headache from the [Synaptic Impairment]<label1| is killing me. []<label2| After the memory imprinting process every neuron in the brain is burning with the vicious rage of a sun that has progressed to the state of a super nova. Probably metabolites of the Hemoserol that got replicated as well. Or I'm simply getting too old for this shit. Which can't be, this body is at peak condition and only a couple of seconds old. The Medicare at Plaza Sector 1 is brimming with people. At the outside, a crowd of people has gathered, looking at my smashed body. The [Copbots]<label3| not, they make their way over [[here->Page 3]]. []<label4| (click: ?label1)[(replace: ?label2)[//I feel so fucked up in the head every time this happens.//]] (click: ?label3)[(replace: ?label4)[//Really, it's impossible to tell if its a human or an android that lectures me about all the laws I just broke. You are not supposed to know who or what is in front of you after all. Both are equal as executive force of Neocron's judiciary, the NCPD.//]]Apparently I killed a trader with my little stunt. Unaffiliated. Bad luck buddy. He's not a [Runner]<label1|, I am. []<label2| The other guy won't come out of the GenRep station across the room any second now, I did. He's just dead. I'm not. They fine me. What else can they do? Kill me for manslaughter? Death would only be a nuisance, not a punishment. They can't delete me either, the guy that I just killed was not important enough to go through all the paperwork. The money hits me harder. I tell them some bullshit about partying and getting high and jumping out of the window. Nobody believes this shit but nobody cares either. They just need a confession to be done with it. I'm broke again and shamble off towards one of the other city zones. The corpses have been dissolved. Nothing remains, not even a news headline. Who would care anyway? [[Humans in this city are expendable.->Page 4]] (click: ?label1)[(replace: ?label2)[//Runners, we are the lucky few. The ones that signed up, or got signed up, to have our genetic blueprint stored all over the net. We die and we live again. Rebuild in a matter of seconds. Our mind restored to the moment of death. We are corporate assets, a human resource.//]]"An interesting method of working you have..." says the remitter. "But it served it's purpose. Of course the agreement was different. The fine will not be covered." "Yeah... of course" I grumble. The Café is deserted at this hour. Not that anybody ever sleeps in this city, [business never sleeps.]<label3| []<label4| No, the drinks at this den are just bland. I receive the sparse amount of cash for the scheduled distraction of the cops and the [expenses]<label1|. []<label2| I'm still broke. Made a minus with this one. Why did the fucking guy have to stand around there?! Of course I didn't intend to kill anybody. I'm a professional as corpse whore for fucks sake! My job was just to distract the Copbots in front of the Medicare shop in the high security trading district. No idea why though, the customer didn't tell and that means I don't need to know. I trudge through an ocean of people and a desert of neon light. I could've gone [home]<label5|, but there is nobody there. []<label6| [[There's got to be some money to be made in this city...->Page 5]] (click: ?label1)[(replace: ?label2)[//Basically the drug money, I charge them for the painkillers as capital goods. I'm a cheapskate like that.//]] (click: ?label3)[(replace: ?label4)[//Feel exhausted after 30 hours of work? Crack a StamBooster, crack the stock market, crack some more skulls, crack someone's firewall. Who needs sleep if they can be productive all around the clock? Only those who've got no work. Either because they can afford not to work - or because they can't afford to work.//]] (click: ?label5)[(replace: ?label6)[//I really have no desire to sit around in that dumpster anyway.//]]Jobs have been sparse lately. No assignments these days. Not the first night I have fallen, but once you fall from grace here you are [shit out of luck]<label5|. No delivery jobs for me anymore. Only for trustworthy employees. []<label6| But I guess dead eyes simply see no future. If there was at least some money to be made as a Tank with oldfashioned prostitution... but no, these days psionics are all the rage in Pepper Park. As muscled hulk you are currently not en vogue as service provider in the red light district. Nobody appreciates a good old [fist-up-the-arse]<label1| anymore. []<label2| Selling my body as a meatbag is the only thing that there is these days. Today I am a little diversion, like the Plaza incident; tomorrow I could be a purchased assassination target if someone needs to boost his reputation in the corporate war. Or some sicko has a new idea for a [video series]<label3| on the net. []<label4| Nothing of these sorts for today. I could check out the [[Blood Pit->Page 6]]. Or I could go [[elsewhere->Page 7]]. (click: ?label1)[(replace: ?label2)[//Not even Goreman from the City Admin calls anymore. Man, he loved his baseball bat.//]] (click: ?label3)[(replace: ?label4)[//Not that you would receive any royalties from such a gig, no. Only the one time salary of course, while they rake in the distro value.//]] (click: ?label5)[(replace: ?label6)[ //Ever since the Recycle Tool broke, hunting vermin stopped being cost effective either. The bullets cost more then what they pay for the dozen. Chasing rats with the knife just doesn't pay off.//]]There is always a buck to make with betting on cage fights if you are lucky. Or with the fighting. Here happens both. A group of [Mercs]<label1| are in the city, and they are tearing the place up. The usual thugs here don't stand a chance against the trained soldiers. What do they do here? []<label2| There is another Gentank in the ring, a woman, around 2 meters in hight, fighting against a smaller dude. Some Private Eye or other Runner. She just lifted him over her head and slammed him down on her knee. Totally broke his back in two. Looked painfull. And messy. Frikkin' mercs. I bet her spine and bones are reinforced with all kinds of implanted, military-grade hardware and shit. But there are no rules that would forbid that. Everything goes, only bare hands in the ring. But there is no reason to enter the fight if you know you'll lose, wasted money. No reason in betting either. The winners are predictable and the win margin suck. As of tonight there is nothing left for me to do here. Guess I stop by the [[Jail House->Page 7]]. (click: ?label1)[(replace: ?label2)[//Probably letting of some steam after a job. I wonder if they still take recruits. A bunk in the Military Base is certainly an upgrade in accommodation. I can handle a Grenade Launcher too. Point the shooty bits at the target and pull the trigger.//]]I've made it to the far stretch of the Outzone. The air smells after radiation form the Wastelands. The atmospheric shield is weaker out here. But its still the least unpleasant stench in this place. 'Jail House' - A former incarceration facility, back then when there was use for something like that. Now it's run by some muggers. At least they've got strippers now. And pretty much everything else you need out here, even a med-bay. Its like its own little [enclave]<label1| at the fringe of the city. []<label2| It's my last straw for tonight. Doing charity. I hate it. Saw an advert earlier. Some organization is looking for helpers to distribute meds at the local bum asylum or something. I walk over to the doc and shove the flyer in his face. There is no money in this gig. Only good karma. [["Fuck my life." I sigh and walk on.->Page 8]] (click: ?label1)[(replace: ?label2)[//Really, it's a refuge for every outcast, no matter who's your employer. There are anarchis running scams and around the next corner sit black-level BioTech engineers, dealing with ambulant surgery and implanting.//]]I'm immensely tired. Not exhausted from the walking. Just weary. Weary and grumpy. I start to get hungry. I don't remember the last body that really got to feel any hunger. I sit in the subway cabin and go circle after circle. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to be. [What do I live for if I can't die anyway?]<label3| []<label4| Eventually I get out of the subway, no idea which stop until I leave the station. Via Rosso. High rising, high pricing apartment towers everywhere. Clean streets, fancy shops. Ocean view. The sun is about to set. Somewhere around here is a sushi bar. Or at least I think so. I plot a course to the next food vendor in the NavRay as a new message pops up in the corner of my eye. "Now where are the fucking CityCom terminals?!" I still haven't eaten and more bad news are likely on the way. I sync up on one of the public stations and retrieve my [mails]<label1|. []<label2| 'The NCPD has an eye on you!' reads the mail. Strange for a letter of citation, seems fishy. A contact wants me to meet up with a special agent outside of the NCPD headquarter. It's just around the corner. Anyway, better than nothing, right? After all, what do I have to lose? My life?! So I set off to hunt my fortune once more. Business as usual. Some days I wish I could die for good, just to escape this hell. -END OF FILE- (click: ?label1)[(replace: ?label2)[//They stuffed a navigation system and biometric sensors in my head, feeding me information to the Retinal Projected Operation System. But no fucking mail client! Awesome, just awesome.//]] (click: ?label3)[(replace: ?label4)[//Or why am I trying to earn money for that matter? To make my life just a little bit less misrable?//]] # NEOCRON 2780 Pondering immortality in a dystopian cyberpunk world. ###[[START A PRODUCTIVE DAY!->Page 1]]