Bitstream

9.1

In the late hours of the afternoon, I lie in the bed of my motel room, listening to the sound of rain drumming against the roof of The 404. I'm in pain – so much damn pain – and I can't stop thinking about what that lady said, that monster. Blaming me for Cormac's death? Because I couldn't pass up an opportunity to get my memory back? To get back what was rightfully mine?

No, it can't be on me. She's the one who showed up with fire in her eyes, who murdered him in cold blood as if she was doing something righteous. Yeah, I could've said no. I know that. Could've turned around, walked off, taken my chances in some other hellhole. But what were the odds I'd ever find Little Spark's Fall again? Something that old, that pure, one of the first ones: they only ever end up in the hands of scum. Real filth. The kind of people who rot in their chairs and stink up the walls. But Cierus? She had it all catalogued by date, time. A whole section dedicated to amputations. She was sick, sure, but there was no chance I'd find that anywhere else.

Still, I feel guilty. I don't know why – just do. I've gone over it more times than I can count. Thought about it the whole ride back up from Sector Four. Felt longer than the trip down. We had to get a taxi from outside the city, and when the driver showed up, he didn't ask a single question. Didn't care that we were soaked in blood, torn up in all the worst places. Instead, he adjusted his shades under that cap and said, "Where to?"

Funny thing to ask. None of us really had an answer.

The ride back had been quiet. I fell asleep. Worn out. Everything ached. My hearing's still not right.

In the motel room, it's just the hiss of the oil lamp, the tick of the old Hermle clock, and my breathing: steady now, a little high-pitched. I shut my eyes. Sleep starts to pull me under. Closer to the edge. Closer to nothing.

Then, a knock.

My eyes snap open. I'm groggy, not ready to move, but I force myself upright and sit on the edge of the bed.

"Mono? You alive?" It's Fingers. Has to be. That voice of hers: tough, clipped, like the streets made her that way, but there's always a hint of something underneath it. Something human. If you listen long enough, that is.

"Just about." I push myself to my feet with a groan. Take a second. Breathe. Then I grab the keycard off the nightstand and make my way to the door, unsteady. The carpet's worn, rough against my feet. I press the card to the scannerlock. The door slides open, and yeah, Fingers is standing on the other side alright, the parking lot looking dark and grey and like everything I'd expect to tick up in a bad dream. But this is no dream. Only cold, harsh reality blowing in. And boy, does it bite.

"Just wanted to check on you," she says. "Mind if I come in?"

I rub a finger across my eye, brushing out the grit. "You sure you don't need to rest up?"

"I'm fine," she says. "Freezin' my ass off, though." And she goes quiet, staring at me long enough for her smile to dip. "Let me in, will ya?"

I blink, clearing away my disorientation, and step aside. She comes in, trailing the rain behind her. I close the door.

"Sorry," I say, heading back to the bed. I drop the keycard on the nightstand and sink into the pillow. "I'm just trying to process everything. Didn't mean to sound cold."

"Don't be," she says, easing down onto the edge of the bed with a soft grunt. She's still hurting. The drugs are holding her up, though only barely. "I'm not great at this kind of thing. Just – we lost someone important. I'm checking in on people."

I reach into my pocket and pull out the braindance shard. Hold it there between my thumb and finger, turning it slowly. "I appreciate that, Fingers. Really. I… I don't feel right. She got in my head."

"Figured as much," she says, lacing her fingers together between her knees. For a second, she looks like she's somewhere else entirely. "I wanted to say – what she said, that wasn't the truth. None of us think that. We heard everything. You didn't have a real choice. Hell, I saw it coming."

"Yeah, well," I say, "it still feels like shit."

She nods, lets out a short breath through her nose. "We'll get you on a BD rig tomorrow. Get it all out properly. Tonight? You rest."

"Thanks, Fingers. You're a good boss."

She huffs a laugh. "I'm not your boss. Thought we went over this. Hate the whole 'leader' thing. Makes my skin crawl."

"I'm just messin' with you."

"Oh, so you still have jokes?" she says pertly.

"Guess so." I set the shard down next to the keycard and shift, leaning back on my elbow. "What about you? How're you holding up?"

"Me?" she says, sounding confused.

"You took a hit back there. Your leg. Dance fix you up?"

She snorts and lifts her pant leg. It's wrapped, but the bandage is stained through. Deep red at the centre.

I whistle low. "That's a hell of a wound."

"Yeah, well," she says, then pauses, glancing down at it. "Not the first time I've walked away bleeding." Something in her voice makes me believe every word, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. She lets go and lets the pant leg slide back down. "I'll be fine. I just wanted to make sure you weren't beating yourself up. Look, I know it might be hard when a crazy bitch like that gets in your head, but you have to ignore it. And don't worry: we'll meet her again, sooner than you might think. We'll be stronger next time. Smarter."

"You want to go after her?" I ask.

Her eyes widen a little. Not by much, but by enough to let me know that she means biz. "You don't let things like that go. She killed a member of our crew. She signed her own death warrant, pointblank. And look, I know Cormac's past, alright? I'm not saying he was perfect. But that back there? Ripping him apart and burning him alive? Mark my words when I say I will personally kill that bitch myself."

"She's powerful, Fingers." I sit up straighter, and pain tears through me like a wire pulled tight. It shoots up my leg, wraps around my ribs, and I can't hide it: I grit my teeth and let out a groan.

Fingers moves in, closer than before. "Hey. Easy." She places one hand on my back, the other on my chest, and starts to lower me gently. Her touch is careful, somewhat warm. Up close, I catch the scent of sweat on her. It's real and human and there's something grounding in it. Something I don't mind at all.

"Guess the painkillers are wearing off," I manage, letting out a slight chuckle as I bring my legs up and lie flat on the bed.

She eases off and places a hand on my leg. "I'll get you some more. Dance practically packed his whole lab in the back of the jeep."

"I'll be fine," I say, smiling. "Don't worry about it. Really."

"You sure? He has plenty."

"Really," I say. "I'll be alright. Besides, I'm already high enough."

Fingers laughs, her hand still on my leg. "You know you don't have to pretend to be solid all the time, right?"

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"You think I'm solid?"

"To an extent," she says, smirking. "Look. I'm gonna get you some more painkillers. Just in case. That way you won't be screaming in the middle of the night and waking up the whole damn motel. I'm not tryna be your mom or anything but I do care about you. Care about all of you."

"Fine," I say. "And don't worry. I didn't take it like that."

She says, "You better not've, because I wouldn't get used to this. Tomorrow, you're on your own."

And we both laugh – a nice healthy sound straight from the bottom of our lungs. I know it's not the sort of situation people often find humour in, but it sure helps. I guess that's all that matters when it comes down to it.

For a moment, we're both silent, and… look at each other.

I shift slightly, feeling a little drowsy, then say, "You uh… you smell better than expected, you know – for a criminal who just survived death."

Her brow lifts a little. Not teasing. More caught off guard. "Really?" she says.

"Yeah," I say, yawning. "Didn't expect to notice something like that right now, but I guess I did."

For a second, she doesn't say anything. Then: "Guess it's the apocalypse special. Sweat, gunpowder, and nerves." But she's smiling. And she doesn't move her hand from my leg.

And we both realise it.

And everything's just a little too awkward for me to say anything.

Then her smile slips. She pulls her hand back. "Uh – I'm gonna go grab that stuff. Glad to hear you're doing okay. And like I said, tomorrow morning we'll head into town, get you hooked up."

"Yeah," I say a little awkwardly, my eyes feeling heavy. "Thanks again, Fingers. Really. I appreciate it."

She grabs my keycard and approaches the door. "Yeah. Just rest well, Mono."

Fingers heads out into the brewing rainstorm to grab the medicine from the back of the jeep, but by the time she gets back, I've already fallen asleep. When I wake again, it's past eight in the evening. Room's dark except for the soft red glow at the base of the nightstand. A box of virothene vials. She must've left it there without waking me. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, reach down, and take one out. Grab the empty MX-inhaler, uncap the vial, and load it up. Seal it tight.

One hit. Sharp, lemony sting on the tongue, then nothing. Pain's gone. Just like that.

After a moment, I get up from the bed. I feel better – not perfect, not even good, just better – and I start peeling off my clothes. They're heavy with sweat and blood and whatever else I picked up along the way, so I don't bother folding them or setting them aside. I toss the whole pile into the wastebin and walk into the bathroom. The light stutters once when I hit the switch. I get in the shower and brace for cold, because places like this never give you hot water right away. It takes a couple minutes before the rads spool up and finally start kicking out heat, but when they do, the water hits me full-on and doesn't let go. I scrub hard. Shampoo thick and cheap, heavy in my hand. The dye, Scorcher's Black, starts running out fast, streaking down into the drain with everything else I don't want. I keep going until I feel raw. Until my skin doesn't itch anymore. When I'm done, I twist the nozzle off, step out, grab a towel, and dry off. The soap smell sticks to me. It's light, kind of floral, like something someone once thought smelled nice. I catch my reflection in the mirror. Turns out I'm a natural greenhead. Didn't know that. Now I do.

I head for the wardrobe and dig out my pyjamas from the cardboard box – a pair of cotton pants and a white vest – and grab one of my snacks, just a bag of chips, before heading back to bed. The virothene's got my stomach doing handstands and cartwheels, so I only manage a couple bites before setting the bag aside. I shut off the nightlight and lie back down. Sleep hits fast, and the next morning, I wake up stiff. Not in pain – whatever the microbots did overnight seems to have worked. Most of the internal damage feels handled, like someone came in during the night and patched up the wiring. My stomach's another story. Feels like it's ready to chew through itself, and not in a subtle way. I get dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a synth jacket, grab my things, and head out to meet the others. It's early. Eight sharp. The rain's backed off, and the sky's starting to come together again, pale in a way that looks new.

We walk through the city centre, and yeah – it's as busy as ever. Even though we're a man down, everything here's been untouched, and that feels utterly awful. But I push through my discomfort, past my sense of guilt that only seems to gnaw at me with its bleeding gums of irrationality, and walk. Long enough that it feels like there's no end to it. Through the riptides of kids and commuters, past FACE THE MONSTER, SPEAK NO NAME, up the concrete stairs, through alleys lined with people too far gone to care. Eventually, we make it. Tucked into a narrow strip between two shuttered bodegas is a rusted-out storefront with a blue sign that reads ALL THE SPLICES. It's quiet here. Not much foot traffic. Just a red-lit door and the kind of silence that feels padded. This is where they run the BD sessions.

So, I guess... this is it. It's actually kind of funny. If I hadn't met this crew – Fingers, Dance, Vander, Raze, and Cormac O'Cormac, God rest his soul – I might never have made it this far. Might still be scraping by on the streets. Might even be dead. The truth is I'm grateful. Really grateful. The kind that's hard to say out loud, because saying it cheapens it somehow. But I hope Cormac knew. I hope they all know. Without them, none of this would've happened. And yeah, I didn't spend their money with the intention of paying it back later, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm still in their debt, plain and simple. No way around that.

And from now on? I'll do anything to pay it back. Even if it means standing by their side when we kill that bitch Isolde Crane once and for all.

When the door to All the Splices opens, we hand over our weapons at the reception desk. Standard practice these days. Feels like every shop in Paxson has a checkpoint now. The place is cramped, low-ceilinged, kind of damp-smelling. Music's playing somewhere, but it's too low to make out. Just a hum. Fingers leads the way down a narrow hallway, and I glance into the booths as we pass. People plugged in, one after another, slouched in moulded chairs with M-Gate visors strapped to their faces. Some are twitching, some rocking slow, one guy is out cold with his mouth wide open. Others are moving in ways that don't need explanation. After what I saw in Cierus Marlow's files, none of this surprises me. There's content out there strong enough to short out your brain. Some of these people probably won't know what year it is when they come up for air.

We stop at the end of the hallway. Last door on the right. Only booth still free.

Fingers nods at the panel. "Hand on the scanner."

I do it. The thing lights up and pings my HUD: five hundred eddies an hour. Pricey. But I don't argue. I tap the transfer, and the glass door slides open with a soft hiss. The booth's tight. Just room for one.

But before I go in, I turn back to them, to the crew. "Listen, I, uh… I appreciate everything. Really. You have no idea how much this means to me."

Dance leans against the wall, arms crossed. No grin, no smartass look. Just a steady gaze. "Ditto, mate. Ditto."

"Don't sweat it," Fingers says, laying a hand on my shoulder. "Told you already: you're one of us. You're crew."

I nod. Can't quite manage a smile. "I know everyone's still shaken up over what happened. I just want to say it: what happened to Cormac was wrong. And I'm with you. All the way. When I go in there and figure out who I was, it's not gonna change where I stand. I'm still in. I'll be there when we bring down that bitch in the red mask."

"Yer," Vander says. "And I'll be there, too. I er liked that guy. Had a funner way with words."

"As if you don't," Dance says speedily. "Every second word out of your mouth is fuckin' 'er' this, fuckin' 'er' that. I'll fuckin' 'er' you in a minute if you keep it up."

Fingers and I both laugh. Vander mutters something back I don't catch, and the two of them start snapping at each other, their rhythm weirdly perfect.

Fingers tips her head towards the booth. "Go. Before they kill each other." She smiles, and it's not the usual one. It's deeper. The kind that doesn't show up often. Not from her.

I reach into my pocket, pull out the braindance shard, hold it firm between my thumb and forefinger, take a breath, and step into the booth. The glass door slides shut behind me, sealing out the sounds of the others. The space is dim, close.

A woman's voice crackles softly from the embedded intercom:

"Welcome, Rhea Steele. Please insert your shard to begin."

So she knows my name. Cool.

I crouch, slot the shard into the input bay beside the chair. It clicks in place. A green light pulses, and the rig hums to life. Wires adjust themselves. Then I sit, and the seat warms beneath me. I lift the M-Gate visor from its hook and hold it in my hand. It's heavier than I expected. Cold, but not unfamiliar. I lower it over my eyes, over where my visor normally would be, and settle it snug.

The room darkens completely, and everything becomes warm, a perfect temperature, as the sound of the braindance rig hums louder and louder.

The voice returns:

"Memory synchronisation in progress. Stand by."

Time passes. Enough to twist my stomach into knots. Long enough that I start to wonder if something's gone wrong – if the system froze, if the shard's corrupted, if this was all for nothing. But then, finally, a prompt slides into view across my neural display, and for a moment, it's the most beautiful thing I've seen since I crawled out of that graveyard. Since I clawed my way through the dirt and blood and static. Since I was broken down to nothing and kept getting up anyway, without a name, without a purpose, just a spark. The prompt reads:

A second passes. Just long enough to feel the weight of it settle in my chest. Then a soft chime. And two simple words:

I don't hesitate. I choose 'yes', and the booth hums again. The edges of the world start to dissolve.

Everything fades.

And the memory starts to play.