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Mandy
Moon
- Joined
- Jul 26, 2025
- Location
- United Kingdom
The neon glow of the city's underbelly bled into the perpetual twilight of the narrow street. Mandy leaned against a wall, the cool ferrocrete a familiar anchor against the hum of the city. Rain, a perpetual acid drizzle in this sector, slicked the pavement, reflecting the garish lights of holographic advertisements for corporate luxuries she'd long since abandoned. The air smelled of ozone, stale synth-food, and the metallic tang of something vaguely organic, a cocktail she'd come to associate with the low sectors.
Her enhanced senses were a symphony of data. The distant rumble of a freight flyer, the high-pitched chatter of a street gang arguing over a shard of pure-data, the subtle, rhythmic pulse of a nearby vent system. Her cat's eyes had already adjusted to the gloom, the world a canvas of subtle shades and sharp contrasts. She was a shadow in the shadows, waiting.
The meeting had been set by her fixer, a nervous little data-broker named Jax who specialized in jobs too dirty for even the dirtiest of corporate goons. A Yakuza meet. The thought of it was a bitter pill. She'd spent her life escaping the gilded cage of corporate power, only to find herself dealing with its equally brutal shadow. What could the Yakuza want from her that their own soldiers couldn't handle? She mentally cataloged her own augmentations, the list a silent reassurance. The enhanced bone density, the woven muscle fibers, the orthoskin that made her skin a shield. She was built for a brawl, a one-woman riot. Her bioware was a direct rebuke to the cold, clunky cybernetics of the old world. It was organic, seamless, and, most importantly, not networked. No one could hack her.
A sleek, black aircar, its engine almost silent, descended a few meters down the street. The passenger door hissed open, and a man stepped out. He was tall, dressed in a crisply tailored suit that seemed an anachronism in this grimy setting. He moved with a dancer's grace, but there was an underlying tension, a coiled spring in his posture. This had to be Satoru Shiro.
He stopped in the middle of the street, his back to the light, his face a silhouette. For a moment, they simply existed in the same space, two apex predators sizing each other up. Mandy felt the subtle shift in her body, a heightened awareness that was a byproduct of her synaptic booster. Her perception of time stretched, giving her a microsecond to analyze every movement, every potential threat.
Satoru's gaze seemed to pierce the darkness, and Mandy picked out the glint of his eyes, not entirely human. His left arm, in particular, was a different shade, a polished, seamless replacement that spoke of high-grade cyberware. She could imagine the hidden enhancements, the strength, the speed, the lethal surprise of a retractable weapon. He was a perfect blend of old-world discipline and new-world technology. A truly dangerous man.
Her enhanced senses were a symphony of data. The distant rumble of a freight flyer, the high-pitched chatter of a street gang arguing over a shard of pure-data, the subtle, rhythmic pulse of a nearby vent system. Her cat's eyes had already adjusted to the gloom, the world a canvas of subtle shades and sharp contrasts. She was a shadow in the shadows, waiting.
The meeting had been set by her fixer, a nervous little data-broker named Jax who specialized in jobs too dirty for even the dirtiest of corporate goons. A Yakuza meet. The thought of it was a bitter pill. She'd spent her life escaping the gilded cage of corporate power, only to find herself dealing with its equally brutal shadow. What could the Yakuza want from her that their own soldiers couldn't handle? She mentally cataloged her own augmentations, the list a silent reassurance. The enhanced bone density, the woven muscle fibers, the orthoskin that made her skin a shield. She was built for a brawl, a one-woman riot. Her bioware was a direct rebuke to the cold, clunky cybernetics of the old world. It was organic, seamless, and, most importantly, not networked. No one could hack her.
A sleek, black aircar, its engine almost silent, descended a few meters down the street. The passenger door hissed open, and a man stepped out. He was tall, dressed in a crisply tailored suit that seemed an anachronism in this grimy setting. He moved with a dancer's grace, but there was an underlying tension, a coiled spring in his posture. This had to be Satoru Shiro.
He stopped in the middle of the street, his back to the light, his face a silhouette. For a moment, they simply existed in the same space, two apex predators sizing each other up. Mandy felt the subtle shift in her body, a heightened awareness that was a byproduct of her synaptic booster. Her perception of time stretched, giving her a microsecond to analyze every movement, every potential threat.
Satoru's gaze seemed to pierce the darkness, and Mandy picked out the glint of his eyes, not entirely human. His left arm, in particular, was a different shade, a polished, seamless replacement that spoke of high-grade cyberware. She could imagine the hidden enhancements, the strength, the speed, the lethal surprise of a retractable weapon. He was a perfect blend of old-world discipline and new-world technology. A truly dangerous man.