“Hey! Pretty girl! Pretty girl! Come try these, just ten creds! Not too spicy for you!” I duck away from the old Chinese woman trying to push a meat skewer into my hands. The sticky tube so drenched in dark sauces that I have to jump backwards to avoid getting splashed when she waves it towards me. I hadn’t really been interested anyway but seeing how much flavouring the stall owner is using has me backing up twice as fast. If the scop needs that amount of sauce to hide its natural flavour, then it has to be some real bargain bin stuff.
The woman gives up as soon as I put a few people between me and the splashing sauces. Her rapid-fire sales pitch continuing without pause and adding itself to the cresting wave of noise that fills the market all around me. On either side of the street, pop-up stalls and trucks have covered up the sides of the storm and looter ravaged storefronts. A few of the more enterprising sellers even taking over the unused spaces, legally or not, to get a better spot to display their wares. Also, more protection from the pickpockets and outright thieves that flock to places like this.
Jason had found that out from experience.
The Moving Market’s had always been a favourite spot for us to visit whenever I was able to sneak out of my dad’s apartment or else get lucky with a nanny who didn’t keep me on a short leash. That Claire, and later Amelia, would sometimes join us had only made exploring the constantly changing collection of wares and sellers all the more exciting.
A memory of the three of us all pleading with a red-faced butcher not to cut off Jason’s thumb for trying to pinch some bacon has me smiling with nostalgia. Looking back, it’s pretty obvious the guy just wanted to scare him straight even if at the time the cleaver had seemed like the scariest thing I’d even seen. I never did get to try any of the real meat he’d been selling though.
The memory helps to dampen the nervousness I’ve been feeling ever since this morning. Every moment since my alarm woke me up spent waiting for a call about the job I’ve agreed to do at some unknown point in the next few days. Anytime from today to the end of the week had been what my buyer for the jewellery, Rosch as she’d introduced herself, had said. Not having a phone number to give her hadn’t gone down too well but she’d been willing to accept a Net address with the promise that I’d get her a number by today. I don’t think either of us had been expecting the storm to last so long.
The last two days of cancelled school and storm wracked streets letting me get away with staying in bed to focus on recovery but leaving me with a burning desire for something besides over flavoured scop or nutrient infused vege-likes. I’ve almost emptied the fridge and the cupboards in the last two days, eating more with each meal than I ever thought possible. Honestly, it’s surprising supes don’t have their own eating contests if this is the sort of thing needing to heal lets you do.
Even now, I can feel my stomach rumbling with a demand for more fuel to patch up the last of my injuries. The bruises and cuts thankfully gone without a scar, and freeing me to return to the shirts and jean shorts I prefer, but leaving me feeling groggy and sore with the weight of too much sleep. I should probably still be resting in bed now actually. The apartment might be out of ‘fresh’ food but there’s still plenty of longer lasting stuff like the locust wafers or synthetic vegemite that my last nanny used to love.
The thought of the crunchy crackers has me swerve unconsciously towards a truck selling balls of deep-fried crickets coated in a red powder that makes my mouth water. The girl behind the counter smiling at me brilliantly as I approach and drawing my eyes to the dimples that pull up her cheeks. It’s with a ducked head of apology that I turn away, blushing furiously as I move deeper into the market. The outer edges are where most of the food stalls are generally set. The people here more willing to leave early when the stream of customers slows down rather than waiting until someone turns up to move off the rest of the stall holders. It’s not like anyone here has a permit to set up after all.
Not that you’d know how temporary this all is from a glance at the main market I’m just entering. The thick crowd of noon shoppers parting for a moment to give me a view over the many rows of gazeboes and trucks with fold out awnings that divide the space. A mix of painted banners and flashing neon signs hung above displays of everything from blocks of jiggling scop to made-to-order gloves that a man with silver studs for eyes is claiming are genuine Kaiju leather.
One glance at the price has me turning away without a second look. My feet having taken me towards the beautifully stitched inky black gloves he was displaying as if I were sleepwalking. This time though, the salesman’s smile doesn’t quite have the same effect and I hurry past with a mental remember for why I’m here. I’m not just on a stroll to relieve the boredom of lying in bed doom scrolling or looking for food that didn’t come out of a lab, I’m here for supplies. Also, because Claire, Lilly and I are all taking advantage of the last day off school to meet for lunch.
Thanks to a combination of Amelia’s attack on the Host and the storm that only broke last night, we’ve all been enjoying an unexpected holiday. Though, from the pictures Claire’s been sharing and the invites the two keep sending me, it sounds like they’ve been enjoying it a lot more than me. In a way, I want Rosch to call me today just so I don’t have to worry about this anymore. No matter how simple she’d made the job sound, not knowing exactly when she’ll need me is beyond nerve wracking.
Doing my best to push the worries away and ignore the acid rising up my throat, I make my way into the scrum of people filling the recently drained plaza. All of them looking to enjoy the break in the awful weather we’ve been having before the Market is gone. The rain having left the streets filled with puddles and debris now slowly draining into the overfull storm drains. More than a few buildings in the district have also been knocked around or badly damaged. The police, municipal or Corporate, who would normally have been around to stop the Market from setting up so close to the districts centre being pre-occupied by the storm’s fallout instead.
As the smashed in and abandoned storefront behind me can attest, the people of Throne are always quick to pounce on an opportunity. The Market being another good, if somewhat confusing, example of that. I have no idea who organises these seemingly spontaneous gatherings, or why they don’t just get a permit, but I’ve never known one to last less than a day even in areas I really would’ve thought they’d be kicked out of straight away. Although, I can guess that a combination of inside knowledge, Power and bribery is probably involved.
I look away from a pair of smiling beat cops accepting a plastic bag of something I doubt holds the Mexican-Thai fusion food the stall is selling to everyone else. The owner’s son not even pausing in his cooking as his father handles the cost of business. My grumbling stomach almost takes me towards them as the smell of what I think might be actual fish calls to me with the strength of land to a castaway.
This time, I manage to stop myself from getting close enough to be noticed. Continuing deeper into the markets heart while ignoring the stall owners, or often they’re children, trying to get my attention. My eyes still occasionally wandering to the next shiny or interesting looking thing even as I remind myself not to spend any money I don’t need to. The very full cred-stick in my Pocket feeling like a magnet to all the things I’ve always wanted to try but could never previously afford.
Finally though, I come across what I’d been looking for. A small truck plated in dented chrome that’s been buffed to a shine so bright it makes me thankful for the glasses perched high on my face. I still squint and walk a bit further to try and get the sun out of my eyes before approaching the young man leaning up against it. His long green hair revealed to be missing on one side where a metal plate sits flush with his skull. The skin and bone peeled back to allow various data-sticks to be plugged in directly. He doesn’t notice me at first, head tapping back to bang one of the longer sticks against the trucks side in an off-key beat that makes me worry he might snap his neck. His bony shoulders and billowing vest making me hesitate for fear of startling a possible junkie before I steel myself with a reminder that he couldn’t hurt me anyway.
“Uh-hum, excuse me. I’d like to buy these.” I hold up the handful of cred-sticks, chips and the six pack of burner phones I’ve taken off the shelves stuck to his trucks side. The man not stopping his tapping as he flicks his eyes back and forth a few times in silence before actually focusing on me with a frown.
“Girl, are those actual glasses? You know we sell AR specs right here, yeah? Decent price, only a little outta date. I can even jailbreak ‘em for you at just a bump more.”
“No thank you, just these.” The lanky guy gives me a funny look as he sticks his hand into a pouch on his cargo shorts. The many chains and icons looped through his belt jingling like carol bells before he pulls out a Cred-plug and offers me the end. I almost point out that he hasn’t touched the mini-keyboard to enter any prices before realising he’s just done it all wirelessly. Connecting the fast swipes of his eyes to the correct price being shown on screen just in time to realise he’s got some surprisingly low-key Cyber-eyes and saving myself from embarrassment.
Pulling out the cred-stick I’d had Rosch transfer the first part of my payment for the jewellery onto is possibly the most stressful few seconds of my life. My grip on the little thumb drive tight enough I’m a little scared Imight crack as I hold myself taut in preparation for something going wrong. I’ve kept it in my Pocket since the moment I got it and the thought that a thief might snatch it out of my hand now is enough to have me near sick with worry. Thankfully though, nothing happens and soon I’m walking off from the mildly bemused man with a Pocket full of burner phones and the largest amount of money I’ve ever held now shared out across a few dozen untraceable storage devices.
My fear of pick-pockets significantly lessened, I let myself actually consider buying a few of the things I’m walking past. My rumbling stomach making a solid argument that I have space in the budget for a trip to the next aisle over where a German family are selling cured meats. Said meat, if it’s even real, is probably pigeon or rat stuffed inside a digestible plastic film but the rich and spicy smell of the long loops of sausage is still pretty tempting.
It's with a heavy heart, and angry stomach, that I force myself to turn away. Going against the flow of the crowd as I head to my next destination so as to avoid two guys trying to sell a trucks load of definitely stolen monitors and brand-new looking PC towers. The younger of them seeming right at the edge of strung out and getting increasingly aggressive in his attempts to get people’s attention. Already, I can see a group of four burly and chromed-up men in suits headed towards the pair. While I don’t think anyone knows who organises these markets, everyone knows not to mess with their profits by causing trouble. A lesson those two are about to find out when they lose their truck along with, most likely, a few teeth.
I hurry away and soon hear the young man’s desperate shouting come to a sudden stop. A good number of the people around me laughing as I glance back to see the Market’s security throwing the two guys into the back of their own truck before locking the doors. One of them climbing up into the cab to start vacating the space while others clear a path for it to leave.
I don’t spare them another glance as I approach one of the largest stalls. A pavilion formed from four or five smaller tents all joining together to get a better spot to show off their clothes. There’d been other clothes stalls of course, most of them selling knock off or unknown brands but more than one offering second hand clothing at a price so reasonable I have to assume they didn’t pay for it.
It's not new clothes I’m after though, at least not entirely, and so this collection of still hopeful artists had been my real reason for coming to this Market. The clothes that fill the racks and pop-up shelves around me all being handmade and generally unique to any of those around them. I look around at what’s on offer as I search for someone who can do what I need. A glance over a table covered in ‘New-Net chic’ hot pants having me dismiss their designer at once. Regardless of how good the electric-blue studs look down the outer thigh; the stitch work is amateurish at best.
I do a full lap of the multicoloured pavilion before approaching an east African woman dressed surprisingly plainly in an off-white turtleneck and skinny jeans. The simpleness only making her dreadlocks more striking where they reach past her waist and are braided with faintly tinkling stained-glass charms. The delicate looking icons reflecting the noon light across the well-made collection of jackets all around her.
“Hello, do you do repairs? I have a damaged jacket that needs some work done?”
“Hmm, I do whatever work interests me yah? Show me ya’ jacket and I’ll see if it scratches the itch.” The shining white of the tall woman’s teeth has me leaning back as the memory of closing jaws flashes before my eyes. The request getting through my head a few seconds later and having me fumble with the zip to my empty backpack. The only thing I actually carry outside my Pocket nowadays is my phone after all. I start to reconsider that as I work to make sure that I can access my Pocket from within the backpack without letting anyone first see it's empty. Finally pulling the torn, ripped, stretched and friction-burned bit of clothing free after an awkwardly long pause.
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“Yah. It’s got a lotta damage I see…” The woman takes the jacket from me with a careful hand. Turning it around as her eyes flick back and forth between the worst of the damage. The bite-shaped hole on the collar and the broken zip. The long inspection leaving me to fidget awkwardly and glance at some of her creations nearby.
“It’s fixable but it’s gonna need a patch along with a whole new zip and I don’t have anything exactly like this. It’s too plain yah? You give me an address and half the payment, I have my nephew drop it off in a week or so. That good?”
“The zips fine to be different, uhh. Actually, it needs to be non-reflective and non-magnetic metals and… is there any way it can be done today?” The lady sucks her teeth noisily at my question, looking down at me from her greater height as she holds out the jacket again.
“…I can do it but it’ll cost more. Lot more. If I be fixing your jacket, I’m not selling mine yah?”
“Then… a week is fine. I’ll give you my number and address. How much is it?” She gives me a number that seems far too high and we eventually settle for only slightly more. I am, as it turns out, a terrible negotiator and she’d figured out quickly that I don’t trust anyone else here to work on my jacket.
Buying a few of Diana’s, the designer had given me her Net address and a work number to stay in touch, creations had been the only thing stopping her from just refusing to do the work at all. I’d already been planning on purchasing a few backups and other concealing clothes anyway so it doesn’t feel too bad to part with even more of my hard stolen creds. Of course, I’d been planning to buy those from the ‘second-hand’ stalls which are considerably cheaper than here.
After being swindled, I make sure to put some creds onto each of my new burner phones and send everyone who needs it the number for the one I’ll be using. Adding the contacts for Jason and the fence whose name I now know feels a little odd. Even if I’m unlikely to call them, when counting the ‘heart and Rosch, I now have almost as many numbers as Pocket as I do in my civilian self. The memory of that woman’s dead fish smile having me shiver as I send off the short text with the code phrase that we’d agreed on for her to know it’s me.
I let my feet guide me through the crowd as I stare worriedly at the screen for a few seconds. Flicking open the mail app to check if she’s contacted me or not in the last few minutes. Now that she’s got a number at least, I can just wait to feel the buzz instead of being scared I’d miss something. Instead, I can start worrying about messing up what she wants me to do and losing my only foot in the door to the sort of contacts I’ll need to break Jason out. Not to mention make enough money before the end of the year.
However, even knowing that all I’m actually doing is swapping old worries for new, just the feeling of progress has me breathing a little easier as I close out the app. Looking up just in time to avoid crashing into the back of a tall mediterranean man standing at the edge of a forming crowd. My feet having brought me back towards the cordon of food trucks that surround the Markets exits. Specifically, to the edge of an enthusiastic crowd watching a promotional event for some up-and-coming gladiator.
The young man with a body like sculpted bronze cutting pockets into flatbread that his brother throws into the air as quickly as he can make them. The older of the pair in full leonine regalia as he slashes through steaming dough with a mono blade while boasting of his accomplishments. The third actuator arm attached to his pauldron catching them from the air before stuffing each with a mix of melting cheese curds and sharp garlic. Behind the two, an older man and woman are exchanging creds for stamp marks while pointing out a sign detailing the date of events and an upcoming tournament.
My stomach rumbles.
-------
A few minutes later I’m walking away from the stall with three stamps on my palm and a single cheese filled flatbread in hand. My stomach still demanding more as I chew through the remains of the cheesy garlic goodness that I’ve just finished stuffing into my mouth. The stamps had turned out to be QR codes that the gladiator’s parents had said would link to a personal page. They’d also been needed to let the young Murmillo know who to throw the flatbreads too. And which hand.
Buying and then catching three at once had gotten me a round of applause from the crowd as well as broad smile and a flirty wink, along with an extra-helping of cheese curds, from the hopeful champion. The memory of his parents shouting at him to not get distracted putting a smile on my face as I leave the Market behind and head towards the café we’d chosen for lunch. I’d been fine to get something here but Claire had insisted we go somewhere less ‘rough’.
Walking along the waterlogged streets as I take a bite of my third flatbread, I have to wonder if there’s anywhere in the district that’s not looking a little rough right now. The packed in apartment buildings that turn the streets into gulleys all showing at least some damage from the three-day storm. Or the sporadic outbreaks of looters who took advantage of it. With most having plastic sheets stretched across windows, or even the entire fa?ade, and some with damage to the roof that looks like it will be harder to fix.
One particularly unlucky building has even taken a direct hit from a car that’s been picked up by a twister and tossed into its side. A diagonal line of destruction drawn across its front and letting me see into the waterlogged ruins of the apartments inside. The damage must extend beyond what I can see because the stairwell to enter has been blocked off with yellow tape and a sign with the word ‘condemned’ written in over a dozen languages.
Although, that hasn’t stopped the clinic on the ground floor from continuing business. My feet coming to a stop as I bite into the last of my cheesy bread while reading the adds being stuck to the window. The clear plastic having survived the storm with only a few scratches that a clerk is repairing as I watch. The perfectly symmetrical man using a handheld printer to fill in the holes and directly fuse a new set of adds onto the layer above them. A bucket next to him holding the slagged remains of those he’s just finished carving off.
“Millie!” I startle out of my inspection at the sound of Claire’s voice. Turning to see her rushing towards me from further down the street. One hand holding the tote bag at her side as she waves frantically at me with a twitch trying to pull up the corners of her frozen face. The somewhat old-fashioned sweater and skirt combo of pink and cream having her stand out from the more modern clothes of the people around us.
I don’t pay too much attention to that though as I struggle to breathe through the bread stuck in my throat. Raising a hand to let Claire know I’ve seen her as I thump my chest to try and swallow the last bite of my pre-lunch snack. Blinking tears from my eyes as I feel Claire’s small hand start thumping me on the back as she apologises.
“Sor-ry. I should’ve known you’d be in a world of your own. I get just the same way whenever I start thinking about new ‘ware.” I wave her off as I finally get the bread down enough to breathe and am able to stand back up. Face more than a little red from the brief suffocation and the thought of choking to death after all the bullshit I’ve already lived through. Or, almost worse, Claire needing to call me an ambulance and being revealed as a Supe that way.
“It’s, ughh, okay. I was just-.” I stop myself before I can tell Claire that I was thinking about how I just learned on Monday that Psychos are apparently real and several times more terrifying than the school’s crappy PSAs had made out. The thought that someone could walk into the clinic opposite me with enough creds and walk out as a ticking time bomb not something she can help me swallow with a few pats on the back. That the pressure of this upcoming job combined with the big ‘sale’ signs being fused into the window is making me consider going in anyway has only further confused the issue.
‘Surely there must be safeguards in check that I just don’t know about, right? Or maybe it’s more than just too much chrome? Those PSAs really were fucking useless.’
“Oh? You saw the Net post about a sale too? Ooooo, let’s get matching eyes! We can surprise Lilly for flaking on us.”
“Ah, n- well, maybe. I didn’t see this online though, it’s just on the way from the market.”
“Hmmm? Get anything nice?” I shift my attention away from the clinic and the thoughts it provokes at the feel of Claire threading her fingers through mine. Letting myself be pulled away from the road just in time to avoid getting splashed by a passing car that’s about to find the street blocked off by the Market.
I’m just about to start talking about my new jackets when I see Claire’s pulled up my triple stamped hand to twitch-grin down at me from over my splayed palm. Blue eyes twinkling as the whir of servos signals the raising of a single eyebrow. A blush painting my cheeks and cutting off my reply as I realise that I probably should’ve bought something that didn’t leave so much evidence. The smell of cheese and garlic still clinging to my breath also making it clear I’ve already eaten right before we were about to have lunch.
“They were, uhm, pretty small?” Claire just snorts a laugh in reply as she drops her face back into its standard configuration. Releasing one of my hands as she pulls me after her to across the road.
“Millie, if you don’t like French food just say something. You know Lilly will eat anything and I’m not that fussy, am I? Now come on, this place said they had a limited stock and I want to get in before anyone else.”
I don’t get a chance to defend myself. Having to hurry to keep up as I jump across the small lake on the roads other side. My shorter height making it difficult without giving away that I can put a lot more strength into my legs than I should be able to. The grip Claire keeps on my hand doesn’t help but I’m too worried over snapping her fingers to try and slip out of it.
“Wait, Lilly flaked? She’s not coming?”
“Check the chat, she decided beating some guy up was more important than us. Can you believe her!”
“What?”
Claire doesn’t give me any time to pull out my phone to try and add some context to that before pulling me up the clinic’s steps and to a door which slides open automatically. A wave of sterile air making me sniff as the harsh scent of anti-septic burns at my nose and dries out my throat.
An affectation to make customers feel the place is professional enough to perform both quick mall-style procedures as well as the lengthier surgeries that any place wanting to make serious money will offer. With the healthcare available to even Throne’s poorest citizens, there’s little chance of a mundane infection getting a foothold even without using a clean room but the hospital smell is what people expect so everywhere does it.
Of course, people still have to want to look after themselves to avoid anything going wrong when chipping in some new ‘ware and only the best, most personalised, pieces don’t require check-ups. A lack of care for the ports connecting flesh to steel can cause all sorts of problems.
‘Like Samantha.’
I shake my head with a grimace to push away the memory of the psycho’s inflamed eyes. Looking around with mild interest as Claire pulls me over towards a display of show pieces, QR codes stuck to the side of the glass casings. My friend rummages around in her tote bag for her phone so she can start scanning them to get info on the specs and availability.
“Ooo, look Millie. These Cyber-eyes have got full AR and 20/15 vision. You’d need to get Net access separately but- Oh, they’re stuck in ‘Tiger mode’.” I spare a glance for the box Claires frowning down at as she scrolls through more info on her phone. The pair of slit orange eyes inside staring back at me in a way I find deeply uncomfortable. Seeing a pair of eyes outside the socket just feels wrong even if it is obvious they’re mechanical thanks to the wires at their back.
“Hmm, what do you think about trying out a ‘big cat’ look?”
“I think I have enough problems at school already a- wait a minute, aren’t we here for you?”
Claire doesn’t answer beyond a sniff and a wave of her hand before she drags me along to look at the rest of the cyber-eyes on display. Most of them either far too expensive or having something notably wrong with them. The most egregious being a pair that occasionally play ads for other products the company makes directly into your vision. The attached info noting it wasn’t supposed to do it while driving but that by purchasing them you were accepting any risk for if they did. A few though, are perfectly fine.
“Come oooon, Millie. Just, think about it?” I purse my lips as I look down at the pair of entirely normal looking cyber-eyes. Not quite a decade out of date and at a price I could, just barely, afford even without my recent windfall. The uncomfortable feeling of seeing eyes without an eyelid has long since been left behind me after the last half hour of comparing peepers. Although, it does still feel a little odd knowing I could swipe a cred-stick and be looking out of a new set of eyes within the hour. Most of that time not even for the eyes themselves but rather the initial removal and implantation process. I know of some socket setups that even let people pop-and-play as easily as swapping clothes. Not that there’s much reason to do so beyond fashion.
For my own part, it’s a major temptation. I’d turned down the AR glasses earlier because I’d rather go straight to something like this. The straight upgrade also letting me ditch the glasses a few months early. Unfortunately, Supes wanting new ‘ware need facilities a little more specialised than this barely a step above a mall-kiosk style clinic.
“Alright, alright I’ll think about it. Come on though, let’s look at some stuff for you before it really doesdisappear.” I gesture to the rest of the floorspace which now has a small crowd checking out the display cases. The eyes we’d first looked at having already been bought by a young mum looking to get her son an early Christmas present. The ecstatic expression on the kid’s face as the two had been led through to a private room making me smile despite his terrible fashion sense. Yellow cat eyes with bleached blonde tips are never going to work.
Claire gives up with a sigh as she lets me lead her towards the selections for tech-hair and various skin related products. I thought I’d seen something over here that looked like a better version of her own faceplate earlier. Even if she never mentions it, not being able to make any natural expressions can’t be fun.
“Hello there. You girls wouldn’t happen to both be interested in our Silyeok-Stan line of Cyber-Optics, would you?” The same symmetrical clerk from earlier interrupts us before we can get away from the eyes trying to follow me across the room. The pair we’d been looking at having a glitch where they occasionally follow the last thing you’d been looking at if you’re not paying attention. All in all, and at that price, it feels like a worthwhile trade-off for a full suite of basic features.
“Yes! The QR says you’ve got a few others of this model, right?” The clerk’s smile at Claire’s question lets me know that we’re not going to be moving on from the eyes after all. Soon he’s coming back with three more sets of the same Silyeok-Stan optics and a plastic booklet detailing all the upsells he’s about to try and earn his commission on.
“Please, young ladies, feel free to look through these at your leisure. Would you like to hear about our warranty options and member’s bonuses?”
“Alright.” I volunteer to keep the clerk’s attention with a repressed sigh of long sufferance as Claire pulls out a cord from her bag to check the eyes herself. Knowing that keeping the man nearby will be useful for when she inevitably has questions that can’t be answered by whatever auto-diagnostic app she’s got. Plus, even if I’m not going to get these chipped here, picking them up for later might be worth it.
The next few minutes rapidly erodes my interest and tolerance both. The man’s rich tenor and pleasing looks, that I’ve already seen work well on other customers, only making me more annoyed as he tells me how for a small up-fee I could come back for check-ups that might resolve the lazy eye glitch. Of course, if it was that easy then they’d have already done it and these surplus rejects wouldn’t be here at such a slash-down price.
“You really do have a good eye though, miss. These Stan’s are some of the most dependable models Silyeok has produced in this price range. Even if we can’t resolve the small issue that’s letting us hand them to you at an even better one, I am confident in saying you won’t find any more. Oh no, these are-”
“Come on, we’re going.” Claire’s sudden death grip on my arm almost sees me pulled from my feet after an instinctive moment of tenseness makes me paranoid I’ll let slip how strong I am. Glancing between her grim expression and the clerk’s confused blinking as I let her draw me rapidly towards the exit.
“What, why? They had a great deal. Aren’t we getting matching eyes?”
“One of the sets he bought out already had a bunch of presets. Ones with names.” Claire shivers with a sniffle as she whispers the last bit. Her free hand reaching up to run along the base of her faceplate. I feel my own face getting hot as I glance over my shoulder to where the clerk is watching us leave with a blank look. Only matching my glower for a moment before he tucks away the eyes Claire had just been looking at with a sigh. The smile returning as he turns to the next person to approach him with one of the other boxes in hand.
Second hand ‘ware isn’t always a bad thing. There’re even a few places that specialise in it and go to great lengths to make sure you know where you’re getting it from. Although, even the charity operations have had their scandals. After all, there’s no real way to know if a pre-owned set of cyber-eyes were sold on after an upgrade or were bought under the table from a pack of vultures who ripped them out of someone’s face.
