The flickering neon lights of the Mayan district cast long shadows as I made my solitary way back to my apartment. Mayan, a place where the high life of Neon Mirage rubs shoulders with the underbelly, was where I called home. It was a maze of contradictions, full of promise and peril in equal measure.
My apartment, squeezed into an aging building, was a cramped space that felt even more confining in light of my recent job loss. No sooner had I slumped onto my worn-out couch than a digital reminder of my impending crisis pinged on my terminal – rent was due, and my bank account was as barren as the Marlene Voss sense of morality.
Just perfect. Jobless, soon to be homeless, and without a plan. A typical Tuesday in Neon Mirage.
That's when my phone vibrated. It was a message from Danny, a friend from the days when I was less cynical, if you can believe it. "Drinks at The Broken Gear tonight. My treat," he texted. The Broken Gear – a dive bar in West Wing, known for its cheap drinks and cheaper clientele. A fitting place for my current state of affairs.
"Alright, Danny. I'm in," I texted back, the prospect of free booze mildly lifting my spirits.
The Broken Gear was alive with the usual low buzz of desperation and escapism when I walked in. Danny was perched at the bar, his ever-present smile in stark contrast to the bar's dim lighting.
"Ryker, you look like you've been chewed up by the corporate machine and spat out," he joked, handing me a drink that looked like it could double as engine degreaser.
"Thanks, Danny. You always know how to cheer a guy up," I replied dryly, taking a cautious sip.
The clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversations filled the air as Danny and I settled into the rhythm of the night. The Broken Gear was a sanctuary for souls looking to drown their sorrows, and tonight, I was one of them.
"So, how's life treating you, Danny?" I asked, taking another swig of the questionable drink in my hand.
"Can't complain, Ryker. Business is good, life is... well, it's life, you know?" Danny replied, his ever-optimistic tone a sharp contrast to my growing cynicism.
"Yeah, life is a real comedian," I muttered, my gaze wandering across the bar. That's when I spotted her – a woman sitting alone on the other side of the bar. Her eyes glowed a soft blue, a telltale sign of high-end cyberware, something exotic and undoubtedly expensive.
For a brief moment, our eyes met. There was a flicker of something – curiosity, perhaps? But then she looked away, disinterested, lost in her own world.
I turned back to Danny, who was now detailing his latest business venture, something about drone photography. "You're really living the dream, aren't you, Danny?" I said, the irony in my voice thick enough to cut with a knife.
He laughed, oblivious to my sarcasm. "You gotta make your own luck in Neon Mirage, Ryker. Remember that."
I nodded, taking another long drink. Make your own luck – easy for him to say. I glanced again at the woman with the glowing eyes, but she had disappeared into the crowd.
As the hours slipped by, Danny's stories became more animated, and my responses more sardonic. We were a strange pair – the eternal optimist and the jaded cynic, finding common ground in the bottom of a glass.
"Here's to making our own luck," I toasted, raising my glass in a mock salute.
"To luck and to Neon Mirage," Danny replied, clinking his glass against mine.
and... after that I can't remember anything. ANYTHING. Well...
The next thing I remember, the world was a kaleidoscope of neon colors and blurred shapes in Neon Mirage. Ah, the magic of substance abuse – when reality becomes too tedious, just dial up the hallucinations. Danny, ever the enabler, had offered me something to "enhance" my night. "Why not?" I thought. After all, in for a penny, in for a pound of synthetic brain-altering chemicals.
The bar had transformed into a surreal landscape, and I felt like I was floating through it in Neon Mirage. That's when I noticed them – codes in the frame of people. Everything was different, more vivid, almost tangible. People snaked around the patrons of the bar, like lines of code that swirling in the air.
Then I saw her again, the woman with the cyberware eyes. Her code was... peculiar. It was more complex, a chaotic symphony of numbers and letters that defied understanding.
"Why so complicated, mystery lady?" I mumbled to myself, or maybe to her. Hard to tell. My sense of discretion had taken a leave of absence.
As I stumbled towards her, a ridiculous thought crossed my mind. "I can do it.," I declared to no one in particular. "A solo on a mission."
Except, any solo probably didn't sway on his feet and slur his words. And I doubt he saw digital ghosts. Minor details.
I reached the woman, and our eyes locked. Hers were like deep pools of illuminated code, pulling me in.
"Hey," I said, eloquence having deserted me, "your code... it's different."
She looked at me, her expression unreadable. Was that amusement in her eyes? Or pity?
For a fleeting moment, I felt as if I was on the brink of understanding, of unraveling the mysteries that lay within those illuminated depths. But just as quickly, the clarity began to slip away. My mind, overwhelmed by the encounter, started to falter, like a system overloaded by too much input.
The woman's expression, remained etched in my mind as the world around me started to fade. It was as if she knew something I didn't, a secret that was just beyond my grasp.
As the edges of my vision began to darken, the last thing I saw was her face, a serene yet powerful visage against the backdrop of the digital world. And then, with the abruptness of a system crash, everything went black.