Lightning flickers overhead. In the brief flash, I take stock: I'm bleeding anew, but not too badly. The cut at my hip is shallow; the bleeding has already slowed, thanks to Roger's clot mesh under my skin doing its job.
My brace is still functional, though a couple of indicator lights on its interface are blinking angrily. I flex my left hand, one finger joint is stuck and twitching, the synthetic skin torn. Won't be doing any delicate work with that hand for a while. But it still can pull a trigger, and that's what counts.
My eyes fall on the car the punks were trying to hotwire. It's an old-model ground car, a boxy sedan with patches of primer gray on its flaking black paint. Probably runs on a converted bio-fuel cell.
They got the door open and the dash panel under the wheel pried off, wires spilling out. The keys are nowhere in sight, likely not their car to begin with. They were this close to getting it started when I showed up.
Well, what can I say? I'm a sucker for convenience.
I take one last drag of the cigarette, then flick the butt aside, ember hissing in a puddle. My ribs protest as I ease myself into the driver's seat. The interior smells of old fast food and engine grease. The upholstery is cracked and a spring pokes my back, but it's better than bleeding in the street.
"Appreciate the ride," I sigh to the unconscious gang as I pull the door shut. None of them reply, of course. I doubt they'll be in any shape to give chase or remember their own names when they wake.
I reach beneath the dash where the panel hangs open. The hotwiring job is half-finished; wires have been yanked free, their insulation stripped. I fumble until I find two that look like they connect ignition.
Twist them together. A spark, a sputter. The engine coughs but doesn't catch. I mutter a curse under my breath and pump the accelerator once. Another twist, and suddenly the car roars to life with a throaty growl. The fuel cell indicator on the dash flickers to full.
"Good girl," I murmur, giving the cracked dashboard a pat. I toss the lighter aside and put the car in gear. Headlights slice through the darkness, illuminating the drenched alley and the dazed punks in a wash of harsh white.
I see the girl shield her eyes, and the big guy flinch away like a cockroach from daylight. I don't stick around to gloat. With a squeal of tires on wet pavement, I pull out onto the street, leaving them and my better judgment behind.
The tires splash onto a main road, water spraying from under the wheels. This district, South Trench, if I recall right is a mess of crumbling asphalt and flickering holo-billboards.
At this hour, it's mostly deserted. Only a few late-night drifters and the occasional autonomous delivery van share the road. Neon signs for shuttered pawn shops and hole-in-the-wall noodle joints bleed color into the downpour.
The stolen car's engine rattles beneath the hood, but it holds steady. I lean back, one hand on the wheel, the other pressed to my side where that knife got me. It stings, but the bleeding's under control.
I merge onto an elevated roadway heading east, leaving South Trench behind. Each street lamp I pass under casts harsh white light into the car, illuminating the blood and grime on my hands.
My knuckles are split from the fight, the synthetic skin torn over one of my cybernetic fingers, exposing a glint of metal tendon. I flex that hand on the steering wheel; it trembles slightly.
Adrenaline crash or just exhaustion either way, I feel the night catching up to me. I grit my teeth and focus on the road ahead, on the destination. Silvio's headquarters isn't exactly next door.
Pizza Plaza, hell of a name for a hideout but that's Silvio's sense of humor, lies on the far side of the river, tucked in a derelict industrial zone the city forgot about decades ago.
As I drive, I flick on the car's radio, mostly to keep myself conscious and drown out the dull roar of pain creeping back into my body. The speakers crackle to life, spitting out static and warbling snippets of music. I twist the knob, searching for something that won't put me to sleep or make me want to shoot the console.
After a few bursts of distorted synth-pop and an overly cheery jingle for a cybernetic dentistry clinic, I land on a talk station. The signal comes through surprisingly clear. A smooth, sardonic male voice is mid-sentence:
["-honestly, Gerald, that's the real question, isn't it? Are there any dogs left in this city? Or did they all pack up and catch the last shuttle to Mars?"]
I arch an eyebrow and take a shallow drag on a new cigarette. The smoke curls in my lungs as I listen, navigating around a rusted-out cargo truck abandoned in the middle of an intersection.
A second voice comes on. Must be Gerald. ["Oh, here we go. The 'dogs are gone' conspiracy again. You know as well as I do, Sam, the city's got bigger problems than a bunch of mutts."]
The host clicks his tongue. ["Bigger problems, sure. We got acid rain, gang wars, food riots, and a mayor who can't decide if he's a CEO or a dictator. But answer me this: you seen a live dog recently?"]
Gerald sounds flustered. ["I... I've seen plenty of dogs. Just... maybe not in person. People got vids, old photos... There's the virtual pet network..."]
Sam chuckles. ["Virtual pets, right. Holographic beagles and AI poodles. That's what we've come to. I'm talking real dogs, flesh and blood. Woof woof. The kind our great-grandparents took on walks in parks that don't exist anymore. You ever hear one barking in an alley at night lately?"]
I find myself smirking at the absurdity, even as I hiss in pain from a jolt the car takes over a pothole. Outside, the city lights have thinned; broken factories and empty lots slide by in the darkness. On the radio, Gerald sputters defensively. ["I mean, the Environmental Recovery Bureau said the canine population didn't adapt well to the climate shifts. It's on record that..."]
Sam's having none of it. ["Official record, sure. The same 'official record' that says the air is safe to breathe without a filter and we both know how that turned out. Maybe the city just isn't big enough for man's best friend anymore. Not unless it has a circuit board and a corporate logo."]
Gerald snorts. ["What exactly are you implying, Sam? That there's some grand canine cover-up? That the Mayor or, I dunno, Avalon Industries is out there rounding up puppies?"]
Sam gives a dry laugh. ["Maybe they are. With the price of real meat these days, you never know what ends up in those fancy protein bars they sell. 'Now with 10% real animal content' ever wonder which animal?"]
I bark a short laugh before I can help it, then immediately regret it as pain flares in my ribs. The show is hitting close to home with its cynical humor. It continues:
Gerald groans. ["That's low, even for you. Look, maybe the strays died off. Maybe people stopped keeping pets because it's another mouth to feed. It's sad, sure, but hardly a conspiracy."]
Sam's voice drops to a theatrically ominous tone. ["All I'm saying is, isn't it funny? They called this place the Concrete Jungle, but there's nothing left that isn't concrete or steel. No birds, no dogs, not even a damn pigeon. Just rats and roaches, and us. Think about it: you really trust those corp-funded biodomes upstate are preserving the last golden retrievers for when the world gets better? Or did old Fido get fed into the grinder like everything else?"]
There's a brief silence. I guide the car off the elevated road, following a ramp that leads me toward the river and the industrial docks. The streetlights here are long dead, leaving only my headlamps and occasional flickers of lightning to cut through the gloom.
Gerald finally speaks, voice low. ["You paint a grim picture, Sam. Real grim."]
Sam sighs. ["Just calling it how I see it. But hey, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe somewhere out there in the Wastes there's a nice little farm where all the puppies went to live and Santa Claus is their caretaker."]
Gerald actually chuckles, a dry rasp. ["Alright, alright. Enough. We have to cut to a break. I bet there is at least one black dog in this city right now."]