The rain pissed down on Paris like it had a grudge against the city. Xavier trudged through the downpour, his massive frame swathed in a raincoat that barely contained his cybernetic bulk. The streets were a mess of puddles and steam, the air thick with the stench of wet concrete and fried circuit boards.
As he lumbered past, a kid gawked up at him, eyes wide as dinner plates. The boy's mom yanked him close, shooting Xavier a look that screamed 'don't eat my child, you metal freak.'
"Fuck off," he growled.
The street was a chaotic mix of old and new. Rickety food carts peddled noodles and vat-grown meat next to kiosks hawking the latest neural implants. Above it all, holographic billboards painted the rainy sky with garish ads and news headlines.
"Breaking: Turf War Escalates in 13th Arrondissement," one headline blared. Xavier snorted. The news was always behind the times.
