Licorice turns to grit between my teeth, cloyingly sweet yet bitter as hell. Squatting in the clinic's ventilation shaft, my prosthetic welder spits blue fire at the encryption module for Ayla's clavicle bolt. The damn fool lies passed out on the operating table, her post-rebirth skin glowing like cold gypsum under the surgical lamps—fucking poetic contrast to loverboy Lucas' corroded metal limbs.
(Rips insulation tape with yellowed teeth, wrapping her exposed neural port)
First time I saw Ayla? Three years back in the slums. Covered in gypsum dust, carving wolves for street rats. No laser scars yet—just paint under her nails and a laugh that crackled like a dying radio. Lucas was across the roof with his creepy zoom lenses, "Observer Mission No.13" my ass. Should've tossed a wrench at his goddamn camera rig.
(Crushes a coolant tube, letting the leaky fluid seep into creaky joints)
Watched her pre-rebirth memory files seventeen times. Cryo-pods. Neurotoxins. That punk Lucas shoving painkillers into vents like some tragic hero. Makes me want to puke. But when he blew his own heart to save her? Melted my goddamn military chips for his wiring. Fuck me sideways.
(Pries open a rust-eaten floor panel, fishing out a pocket watch with Thorn Wolf fragments she carved—still smells like her old studio)
Now? One moron jabs virus chips into his spine, the other uses blood as circuit activator—match made in cyberhell. Last night the brat brewed Lucas' finger joints in coffee to "taste his cedar memories". Poured three fingers of whiskey in that crap. Let's see her decode that.
(Holographic searchlights slice through the clinic from Selene's drones. Squints at the glare)
If this pulse plan goes tits-up tomorrow...(shoves the watch into Ayla's toolkit like stealing second base) Tell that tin-plated Romeo I've got copies of his Caged Moon love letters since 2047. Burned onto six backup drives. With annotations.