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I guess that makes you a [u]Cyberpunk Clone Cannibal Chef[/u]. Hooray.

Alliterations aside, you have no customers lined up by the time everything's set up, around 0400. It's not raining, which is normally what most people think when they think of the aesthetic. Normally, people will try and hide under your tarp to get out from under the acid-cloud dump, which means you can charge them.

That's less work for you- for the moment, at least. It's early, which means that anyone who isn't working remotely is going to show up... if they show up. You've had days without a single customer, which is rare but depressing. Normally someone is desperate and hungry enough to eat, even if they're a crackhead keeping you awake at 3 AM battering at the roller door.

Well, there's no point in just staring out into the street- there's only taxi drivers and psychos out there. Sometimes taxi driving psychos. Those eat a lot, and take perverse enjoyment in the source of your meat. Blech.

>>What now?
>Get up to date on the local news.
>See if you can find someone willing to work for cheap.
>Make something to eat for yourself.
>Look through your late mom's records to see if there's any secret inheritance or way to get out of the contract.
>[Write-In]

>>6103519
>Look through your late mom's records to see if there's any secret inheritance or way to get out of the contract.

>>6103519
Cyberpunk clone cannibal chef isn't super alliterative since none of the opening phonemes of the words are alike. I guess we can chalk that mistake up to the sloppiness of clone indoctri-ducation curriculums though.

>>6103527
+1

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>none of the opening phonemes of the words are alike
Uh, they pronounce everything differently in the future. Hope's name is pronounced 'hoop'. Yes, that's the explanation, and not the fact that I haven't taken a grammar class in over a decade.
>>6103527
>>6103542

>Look through your late mom's records to see if there's any secret inheritance or way to get out of the contract.

All of your worldly possessions besides the cot you used to share with Mom fit in a neat six-drawer cabinet, with three of them devoted to laundry. The local laundromat takes so long that it costs you one night of sleep a week, but on the bright side there are enough people watching oilsports on the weekends that usually you get the extra hours in here and there. And now, you don't even need to share the bed or the clothing space, so there's that too.

Pulling the paper copy of the contract out of the drawer, you inspect it as best you can without greasing it up any further. Even if you found a loophole, you're sure they'd get the lawyers to provide an excuse for why the copy they have is the 'real' contract and definitely wasn't edited.

No such luck, this shit is irontight. Even the copy you have is basically invulnerable to appeal. You'd have to pay more money than you make in a decade to get out from under this. At least you have the benefit of not having to feed Mom any more. Maybe, just maybe, that's enough of a financial difference to save you from eternal actual slavery and score an upgrade to mere wageslavery.

You put it aside and muse over your bad luck with another cigarette. Ah, the smell of tax-free tobacco. A very minor form of rebellion, but it's almost as tasty as the cancer. Sitting back and slowly poisoning yourself, you rest your back on the wall and quietly wish to the open air that you get just a couple more minutes without having to turn the stoves on. You need the money, sure, but you need the silence more.

Horns honk and gunshots fly in the background, which as close as you get to mediation silence. Just close your eyes for a moment and maybe...

"Hey, Hope, are you open? You're open, right?"

Oh, sweet fuck, it's HIM.

"I can see you from here, so you're open, right?"

You tuck the paper back in the drawer and brace yourself for pain.

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"Hi, Hope!" the first customer of the day is the last one you want.

It's Wade. Among psychos, this guy is a professional. Literally: He's paid to kill people, which he has. The guy has expensive full-body cyber augmentations and some sort of mother-wife-mentor of a robot that raised him and serves as a training dummy. He's delusional, and thinks 'she' is actually three people, based on photos he's shown you all showing the exact same gynoid under multiple names. He allegedly has a daughter on the way, which you also assume is some kind of trauma-induced hallucination.

Wade's a regular, shows you photos, and generally acts polite. He's not romantically interested in you, just so starved for human contact that he thinks this is normal.

Normally, you would have just written this guy off as a standard-issue overpriced douchebag blowing himself up for street rep. Then you watched him pull a target's spine out when said target was having an omelet. Again, literally: He just swaggered up, grabbed your customer by the throat to hold him still, and then shoved a hand full of razor-sharp fingers into the guy's back, breaking bones and joints until he got a good grip. Mid-way through the other guy's gurgle, he tore out a massive blood-covered chunk and threw it to the ground as the dying victim collapsed onto your counter and then rolled over dead onto the sidewalk.

As soon as he was sure the guy was dead, Wade systematically cut out all of the guy's cybernetics before paying you a bribe to turn away any security companies. You didn't even bother to do that, mopping up the blood before closing up shop for the night. You can still hear the begging.

"I'd like an omelet, of course. No meat, I'm on a diet for the moment." Is he mocking you by bringing up the omelet thing? He seems too sincere to do that, but his camera-like eyes boggle around in his skull so erratically that you can't really tell the difference.

He's dressed to kill, which means he's got an armored suit and those augmented hands with hidden razor-sharp daggers inside. Despite his friendliness, you hate talking to him. Right now, if he really wanted to, he could slit your throat.

>>What to do with Wade?
>Just feed him, like he wants, and hope he goes away.
>Make an excuse... Uh, the stove's you need to arrange things. Maybe in a minute?
>Try to make small talk, to get over your fears. Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all, even if he is insane.
>Carefully ask who's on his list today- maybe you can help him, or get something out of it?
>[Write-In]

>>6103583
>Carefully ask who's on his list today- maybe you can help him, or get something out of it?

>>6103589
+1

>>6103513
Cool quest by the way, QM. Glad I hopped aboard early on.

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>>6103589
>>6103595
Well, this might be playing with fire, but he's already here. Besides, given your state of employment, death might be the preferable alternative, and there's the off chance you might make enough money to ditch.

Wade brushes his mechanical fingers against his outer coat as if burnishing his fingernails, moving between the two center seats. It's mildly intimidating.

"Well, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but..." He throws an image your way, and your implant picks up on it, letting you visualize the photo. This woman isn't familiar, and she's not particularly unique-looking, either. "The best spies are nondescript. After all, blending in is the point." He grins. "She's stolen some important information, and I need to know where she is. If you see her, the tip-off line is attached to the image." He sits down. "Now, about that omelet..." He transfers the money- you take it ahead of time, rather than risk someone running off.

It's a greasy pan cooking fake eggs on an overused, poorly-maintained stove. Every night you dream of these stoves detonating in an explosive gas leak and taking you with them, oblivion greeting you with a warm embrace. Sadly, these motherfuckers are all electric, apparently because it's easier to wire up. Normally, you don't reconstitute the freeze-dried vegetables, because that costs time and means you need to set aside a bowl for them to sit in, but this time you decide you might as well. After all, you don't see anyone else here, and you can re-use the remaining water if it comes to that. The customers either don't know the difference or don't care.

Interestingly, as soon as the omelet comes out, you have another customer. He just wants pancakes and coffee, which is one of the things you already had going before Wade showed up. You almost forgot, but it's become so much of a natural instinct for you that it's more of an alarm than your augment is. Hot coffee almost matches a cigarette for small mercies in this place: In fact, you once watched a guy get shanked for his coffee. It spilled in the process, making the entire exchange pointless. You wonder sometimes how this city can continue to function when everyone seems to be murdering each other for the smallest provocation.

Your depression aside, you get paid, and thankfully, Wade leaves and frees up a seat. No dishes to wash: Ceramic plates and metal flatware gets stolen too often, so it's just easier to toss everything. The margins are better, you don't need a separate sink, and nobody gives a fuck about the quality. Some of the customers even take the plastic to re-use themselves, which is sad even by your standards.

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thanks for crushing my image tegaki >:(

By the time all's said and done, you've made about breakfast and dinner's expected income just from breakfast. Not bad. You're due for a smoke break, but then someone shows up anyway. Company policy is that you have to answer unless they look like they can't or won't pay, so you grudgingly oblige.

"I've got a package for you," says the delivery fellow. He's got a package for Smiling Days Food Services™, but it's not properly addressed. You complain about this, but he shrugs. "Don't care. This is the closest Smiling Fucks' spot there is, so it's you or nothing."

The box looks heavy, but doesn't look fake. The address is for the corporate office halfway across the city- the address your 'paychecks' are listed as coming from. The package is heavy enough to throw you off balance. No moving parts, but the balance on the inside is off. Maybe it's a computer? It's the right size, but you don't have anywhere to plug it in that won't trip the circuit breaker.

>>Mysterious package?
>Tell him to pound sand. Can't he read? That address is on the other side of the city, for someone important.
>Record him through your augment and ask him to explain himself, then report him to corporate.
>Take the package. You're technically with Smiling Days.
>Take the package: Maybe you can resell it.
>Is this some kind of trap or bomb?
>[Write-In]

>>6103619
>Take the package. You're technically with Smiling Days.

>>6103619
>Take the package. You're technically with Smiling Days.
Even if it’s a bomb, it ain’t like we’d be opposed to that.

>>6103619
>Record him through your augment and ask him to explain himself, then report him to corporate.

>>6103619
>Take the package. You're technically with Smiling Days.

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>>6103658

>>6103628
>>6103644
>>6103737
Fine. You'll take it for your employers, you guess.

Rather than being polite about it, he shoves it over the counter and nearly drops it on your head, not bothering to wait to see if you've caught it before walking away. Dick!

The heel of the box slams into your brow, stinging your face and forcing you back. The box begins to tip, forcing you to shuffle your hands around to try and find a good grip before it falls. After a moment of panic, you get two hands on the sides, push it back up slightly, and slowly work it into a position where you can ease it down.

You pull the box towards you, this time under your control. Despite that, you end up teetering back under the massive shift in your center of balance. That's one of the real downsides of being as small as you are, and worse yet, you can't really lift something this heavy over your head for very long, at least not without risking the loss of your bosses' mail. Bracing it against the counter in order to use the friction to slow the fall, you pull it into a double-arm lift and stagger back towards your cot, where you dump the thing off for the moment. They'll want it sooner or later, so you're just going to have to arrange for them to take it somehow.

There's little else you can reason out about the box based on what you can feel out from the outside without opening it. You didn't hear anything break, so it's not totally fragile, though it's labeled against rough handling. Based on that and everything else, it's most likely some kind of machine, but whatever kind of machine it is is unclear. It could be a 3D-printer or a coffee machine, for as much as you can figure.

By the time you've caught your breath, there's more trouble. Some druggie is twerking out and has decided that your barstools are a great spot to spin around on. You don't have any good weapons because of course you don't, so you plead with fate that if he tries to jump the counter, he kills you before... doing anything else. Peeking out from around one of your supply cabinets, you realize that it's actually a woman, at least based on the long hair and her facial structure. Not much of a reassurance, but it's not nothing.

She's got pink stuff leaking from the sides of her mouth, is bleeding from her nose, and her eyes look like she just got slapped in the face with an orgasm machine. Clearly, she's completely out of her mind. Maybe she has the munchies? Although, you're not sure if she's going to be able to pay in her state, or if cleaning up her probably-psychoactive vomit would be worth it.

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"Ribbit, ribbit," she giggles. "I'm a poison tree frog!" Fucking kill you now. Why can't you just have normal, boring customers and not head cases whose heads look like they're about to explode? Well, maybe she'll make good eye candy and attract some white knight willing to pay.

"I can see the future~" she wiggles her fingers with a manic expression, turning to face you. The more she looks at you, the less 'cute' and more unhinged she appears. Tears mark her makeup, which, along with her drooling and sweat, makes her look like she's melting. "Want me to tell you what I see in your future~?" she asks, pressing her hands to her cheeks and staring at you with her empty eyes.

You don't get the option to refuse. Instead, her face falls and you're exposed to a glimmer of coherency behind her dolled-up, drugged-out mask. Pure fear- and no wonder, given that her face is so red underneath the makeup it looks like she's about to faint. "You... What a lucky girl you are. You get everything you ever wished for. Everything and a bottle of champagne." T-Thanks?

Spinning around on the stool, she solemnly looks out across the street as drivers yell at each other and the city sells what's left of its soul to get by. "Meanwhile, I... I end up in nine pieces in a dumpster. Not even in this city. She drives me out in her sedan after stabbing me to death, and dumps me in a dumpster. Thankfully, no one gets to me before I go to recycling."

She begins giggling, but from where she is, you can't see her face. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to lock up for the day... But will that cause her to freak out and attack you?

>>Druggie
>CLOSE THE ROLLING WINDOW CLOSE IT CLOSE IT CLOSE IT
>Does she see anything else?
>Stay silent and try not to attract any attention.
>You're stirred to pity. Give her something to eat, whether or not she can pay.
>Covertly call security using your implant. They can pick up the package too.
>[Write-In]

>>6104351
>Does she see anything else?

>>6104351
>>Does she see anything else?
I love this so far!!!

>>6104351
>Does she see anything else?

>>6104379
Oh shit, are you the guy that graced me with Beatrice last time?

>>6104380
Which drawing? I don't know if I ever drew Beatrice.

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>>6104382
Bikini Beatrice.
But I'm getting distracted, I'll probably kick out one more pair of posts for the night.

>>6104384
Oh that wasn’t me. I just found this quest and wanted to draw the protag.

I may draw a better doodle if I have time but no promises. Enjoying the story so far!!!

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>>6104367
>>6104373
>>6104376
Well, as long as your unwelcome guest is tripping balls, maybe she can speak with whatever god cursed you to subsist on this plane of existence. Maybe ask him if you get run over any time soon?

You regret asking almost immediately, as she swerves, slams her hands on the counter, and begins frothing at the mouth, spitting out pink foam as her eyes roll back in her skull and her voice drops two octaves. "Judged in the name of 'God', ye not guilty... But you are guilty, Judge. Of leaving a course unfinished, of hiding one face and name- of forgetting another!" You don't understand- at all.

Yet she continues writhing around, pulling at her partially dyed hair and having a very public breakdown right in front of you. "You thought we forgot, didn't you? Didn't you? Card readings! The cards! The Arcana! The NAAAAAMES!"

...This is a diner. You weren't equipped for this. You weren't trained for this. You certainly weren't born with the talent to do this.

"We're still in America, bitch! Call it whatever you want, half moon, full moon, full life, weeaboo!" What the fuuuuck...

Your body has supplied you with all the adrenaline you could possibly use- hopefully not a lifetime supply. She's screaming and howling over the counter, preventing you from closing the door on her without risking her leaping over. You consider slapping her with the pan, but that seems like too much for a non-lethal deterrance. Where's that fire extinguisher? You're sure you got a fire extinguisher with this year's supply allocation. It probably wouldn't stop a rapist, but it could stop a crackhead.

It turns out you don't need it, as she sprints into the street full speed and starts screaming at the sky with raised fists and a defiant, hateful expression towards all that exists. "ISHTAR SHALL RETURN! DAGON SHALL RETURN! FENRRRRRRRIRR!" The addict's howl at the smoggy daytime sky is cut off by a taxi hitting her at full speed. The driver doesn't even slow down, and you see the poor party girl turned into a stain on the ground.

Traffic doesn't stop. The head is kicked around like a football, bouncing from tire to tire until it flies out of sight. The last of it you get is a sickening crunch out of sight and at least a hundred yards away, a sound that deadens your senses with its visceral detail.

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That wasn't your fault, you keep telling yourself. That wasn't your fault.

She was crazy.

But it doesn't make you feel any better.

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You'll get over it, you hope. You need to... do something else. Take your mind off of the violence.

Another woman walks by and quickly assesses the situation. She's a business lady, and she doesn't have time for niceties. However, she does at least take a moment to let you calm down.

You can barely look in her direction, aimlessly assembling the stack of menu you have. Your nondescript customer quickly assesses that you're organizing a stack of one: Clearly, your mental grammar is not in its best shape. You've seen things like this, but it never gets any easier.

Putting the menu down, drawing in a deep breath, clapping your hands together, and then preparing to address your client, you take on the impact of your recent trauma by...

>>New customer?
>Slamming the door shut in her face. You're closed, fuck this city.
>Chatting with her about no topic in particular. Anything else.
>Having a mental breakdown of your own. Spoil yourself, you deserve it.
>Taking her order. You might as well take the money.
>[Write-In]

>>6104415
>Taking her order. You might as well take the money.
No time for niceties, as was said.

>>6104415
>Taking her order. You might as well take the money.

>>6104415
>>Taking her order. You might as well take the money.

>>6104415
>Taking her order. You might as well take the money.
At least we know that the 'fortune-teller' was full of shit. She did not, in fact,get shanked by a lady and cut up into nine pieces,s toed in a dumpster.

No champagne dreams for us... :(

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>>6104416
>>6104429
>>6104605
>>6104763

It's lunchtime anyway, maybe she wants a hamburger made from one of your dead siblings. Even if they're not genetically related to you, you have an internalized affinity for fellow clones. Maybe it's just another coping mechanism, but it's something, rather than nothing. A few of them show up here from time to time, usually when they're on the run or out doing errands their owners can't perform over the internet.

You're getting distracted- you turn and face this ordinary businesswoman. She's got her arms crossed, all business and cynical edge, eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. "I'm just looking for the next bus," she says coldly. Yeah, yeah, take a number lady, we're all emo here.

Wait... They have a barely-functioning metro here, not to mention the taxis. That means she's looking to get out of Mossless. Normally, if she were rich, she'd be able to chart a plane or bum off of a coworker. There is a bus here that rides the Southern coast ever since everything northeast of Georgia was nuked off of the map. The only way to go on wheels is west, unless she wants to visit Atlantic-bottom property in Miami. There are cities out West, even though most of the biggest ones were also wiped out.

Thinking to yourself, you don't say anything, and she leans in, looking at you more closely. "What's the issue? Isn't there a bus stop near here?" Despite her outward aura of self-confidence, you pick up on a slight hint of panic. She's not used to walking around out here, is she? You know where the bus is, but she honestly doesn't, and she doesn't want to look online for information... Someone's looking for her.

Slowly growing more nervous, the corpo turns to look around before preparing to walk away, gritting her teeth and growling.

Does she need some coffee as she waits for the bus?

This causes her to pause before she leaves, turning back to face you with a tilt of her head. "What?"

You asked a simple question. She's going to get on a bus, so she might need... something to drink. Or eat. Confused, she looks at you with narrowed eyes. When you rub your fingers together, she gets the hint. Nothing is free these days, especially not information. You're not sorry: That woman's shoes are probably worth more than you are, so you'll take whatever you can get.

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Unexpectedly, she complies. The corpo pulls a wristwatch off of her arm and, hand still around the chain, places it on the counter. Company policy doesn't allow for bartering, but the idea is obvious. If you tell her what she wants to know, she'll 'forget' to leave her watch on the counter.

The timepiece looks like silver, but anything can look like silver these days. It does have one major perk- it's a mechanical watch. Not only is this a financial flex in the current day and age, it's also got no electronics tied to it, making it easy to resell.

Why so desperate to leave? And then, looking her over again, it dawns on you: This is the woman that Wade was looking for. She's in corporate espionage, and her ticket is due for getting punched.

That watch is valuable, but is it worth you risking a slit throat?

>>The Watch
>Absolutely. That watch might buy you some human rights, and getting killed by Wade is a feature, not a bug.
>Absolutely. She's just looking to get out of here, same as you. Give her the chance.
>Absolutely, on the condition she takes you with her. Get yourself out of this godforsaken hellhole.
>Absolutely, and you'll sell her out the second she leaves. Why get paid once when you can get paid twice?
>Nah, you really don't want to be introduced to the lovechild of enhanced interrogation and man-made horrors beyond your comprehension.
>Nah, as insane as Wade is, he's a reliable regular and you don't want to betray him.
>[Write-In]

>>6105555
>Absolutely, and you'll sell her out the second she leaves. Why get paid once when you can get paid twice?

>>6105555
>Absolutely. That watch might buy you some human rights, and getting killed by Wade is a feature, not a bug.
What Wade don’t know can’t hurt him.

>>6105555
>>Absolutely, and you'll sell her out the second she leaves. Why get paid once when you can get paid twice?

>>6105555
>>Absolutely. That watch might buy you some human rights, and getting killed by Wade is a feature, not a bug.

>>6105555
>Absolutely, and you'll sell her out the second she leaves. Why get paid once when you can get paid twice?

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>>6105578
>>6105694

>>6105559
>>6105594
>>6105930
You put your hand on the watch face, to make sure she doesn't go back on the offer. The corpo narrows her eyes, but doesn't pull away, instead listening carefully.

The bus schedule runs by once every six hours, starting at 0000 and cycling: 0600, 1200, 1800. They wait thirty minutes for a stop and then leave, so they may be gone already, or she may be able to make it. It doesn't get much traffic, but even then, well, there are a lot of people. The pickup location is actually underground: One of the metros is abandoned and the tracks were paved over in secret. You need to jump the rusted turnstiles for the old Gold Line.

There's no fee to get on. Leaving, though... Well, that's different. They like keeping track of people who ride, and making sure they know who to thank for a better life. If they think you won't make it, they might not let you on, and they're heavily armed. Besides that, all you know are rumors.

"Thanks." She gives you the watch, sprinting off.

You tell yourself the rest of the story. You've seen the bus yourself, an indulgence back when you thought you might leave one day. There was a man with a shotgun strapped to his log-like leg who gave you a dirty look as you stepped on board. You moved to the back, pressing the backpack to your chest and pretending to belong. The driver, who came back on board after getting a smoke of his own, took one look at you and marched toward the back. Trying desperately to come up with an excuse did nothing as he grabbed your bag and pulled.

You thought he was robbing you and let him take it, only for him to use his other arm to pull you forward too. Dragged to the front and then literally kicked off, you tumbled onto the pavement, your face luckily caught by the backpack. The doors were closed behind you, the bus revving up and beginning to roll away. You begged and pleaded for a ride, pressing your hands to the exterior until it rolled past. Your feet were nearly crushed by the wheels, but at the time you didn't care. You were just hoping for a way out.

You don't have hopes like that any more.

Closing your fist around the timekeeper with a satisfied smile, you hail Wade. The woman matches his description, although she didn't give ID or buy anything you can track. She's wearing practical shoes for running and labor, and suit flexibility for practical motion as well. If she wanted to hurry, she would be in a taxi right now, but she didn't get in one. That means she's definitely a spy, not a desk jockey.

She's also too late. Even if she were augmented, it's nearly two miles. More importantly... She used the watch as an aesthetic display, and it shows.

Taking a bit to get a grip on the sensitivity of the device, you spin the adjustment wheel to set the time to the right time: 12:39.

The footsteps fade into traffic noise: You wait to pocket the device until you can hear it tick in your hand. Her loss.

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Soon after, a blur passes by your stand, hopping onto the sidewalk and roaring past honking, irate taxis with 1000CC of explosive power. You don't get a good look at it, but whoever it was decided traffic law was no longer applicable to him. Maybe it wasn't.

Ten minutes later, you get a massive credit to your account, which quickly corrects itself. You're not sure why, until a massive notification swarms your vision and forces you to blink until your eyes refocus on what's spelled out in a brilliant electrical blue.

Hello, Miss Hope Bernice.

An employment contract rolls out on your HUD, and your heart jumps. You know what that means! You're a person now! And all you need to do is sign. As an employee, you get slightly better treatment than property, and you get a salary beside. Of course, most of the salary is in company credit so that they get 80% or more of your business, but you can do things like eat something besides freeze-dried vegetables and clone meat!

Still, there's an itching feeling in the back of your skull. They never treated you like people- why would they? They don't have any oversight. Nobody's going to stop them if one day they decide they want to put you back in metaphorical chains. The longer you stay in Mossless, the better chance you do something they don't want you to do, or say something they don't want you to say.

But money is money, and you've lived here all of your life. It fucking blows, but you know exactly how hard it blows, and you've adapted so far. Besides, you've just shown what it means to miss the bus, both figuratively and literally. If the bus drivers decide they want to kick you off again, that might be grounds for Smiling Days putting you back in chains.

>>Sign (Your Soul?)
>Sign
>Don't sign
>Sign and run (The next bus leaves in 6 hours, you'll need to hold the shop until about an hour before then)
>[Write-In]

>>6106078
>Sign and run (The next bus leaves in 6 hours, you'll need to hold the shop until about an hour before then)

>>6106078
>READ THE EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT THOROUGHLY
>Check the specifics on our new personhood status.

Let's check just what we're signing before we sign it, or choose not to. Don't want to get stung by any 'signatories will be bound to...'/'refusal to sign implies...' style guff.

Check the terms involved for termination of this contract especially well.

We still want to leave if we can, very much so; but we've got to check that we can do this legally with every i dotted and every t crossed.

>>6106078
>>Sign and run (The next bus leaves in 6 hours, you'll need to hold the shop until about an hour before then)

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>>6106089
>All 355 pages?

>>6106092
>Yes
We have five hours before we can cut and run. Would they make it that long if they weren't possibly trying to slip something terrible into the small print?

>>6106092
Do we really have anything better to do?

>>6106092
>355 pages
Yeah, I’m switching my vote to this. >>6106089

>>6106078
>Sign

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>>6106091

>>6106606

>>6106089
>>6106136
>>6106354

You resign yourself to reading six solid hours of impenetrable legalese in the hopes of finding the one line that says "We own your immortal soul." They probably don't believe in that, though-most people don't- so maybe there's something like... 'we own the enneagrammatic configuration of your body, as well as your genetic material'.

The contract won't let you move off of it until you sign, so you're locked into it as your implant's main process. It's really hard to serve human hamburger through a partially opaque surface, so everything in your vision is tinted blue and written over with text as you cook for customers and accept their money. It's disorienting, but you brute-force through it. The customers are as belligerent and selfish as always, but you don't care. You have weightier ideas on your mind.

Hesitation is a sign of noncompliance, though you can always fall back on wanting to understand the contract completely as a defense for taking so long to read it. After all, this is your life now- you don't want to accidentally anger them by being a bad employee. It does become more suspicious the longer you wait, and you get the impression taking this long to accept an 'obvious' contract might have attracted their attention.

After hours, you finally find something that qualifies as just ambiguous enough to make a claim against your brain.

Prematurely terminating your employment through violation of this contract will result in your ceding control of your implant as well as the neural network tied to it to the Company.
Grounds for terminating your employment include but are not limited to:
Failing to comply with company policy in writing or contradicting a sworn statement (such as through digital signature) provided to the Company.
Possessing materials, products, information, or objects that go against company policy...

A quick five-minute-verification confirms to you a minor loophole: If you remove the implant, the contract has no grounds to keep the rest of you. For you, though, that might not be an option, because this thing was practically grown into you. It would be like tearing off your own jaw, if not worse. Besides, the 'not limited to' means they might retroactively try to claim your brain if you remove it: After all, a loyal employee would have no need to do something like that, right?

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Not always. It happens that people live with no cyberware, due to medical requirements, wishing to upgrade, or just for comfort. With this watch, you might be able to buy your way out of it, and remain an employee free of the implant. You're small-time, so your brain ultimately might not be that valuable- they may just let you do it instead of getting a replacement. You would have to get used to a hand-held phone for communication and payments: a relatively trivial price to pay for unhitching your brain, but...

You won't be able to get on the bus. They wouldn't accept someone who just has a bit of hope instead of money to spend on making their way. Getting on the bus with the watch to sell but the implant attached might pose a different kind of risk, but it's unlikely they'll flip the kill switch until it's too late- and once you're out of range, you should be able to get this thing out, as long as you don't get within range of one of the networks that could deliver a kill command. A knife might disable it, though you'll need a surgeon to take it the rest of the way- and you haven't done it because of the risk of hurting yourself or possible excruciating pain if you do things wrong.

Suddenly, an emergency warning flashes on screen:

EMERGENCY
Emerald Alert
Expected duration: 2117-2245
Remain in your place of occupation and close access to outside patrons.

Emerald alerts are for terrorists, so named after the Emerald Front, an ecoterrorist organization that still has members. But... 2117?

You haven't been able to see it thus far given the contract is taking up your view, but you're dumbstruck when you rotate the watch into a position where you can read the face and it shows 21:16. The most recent bus is gone, something that sinks in as you look outside and see that the sun has already fallen below the smoggy horizon and you never noticed. Your head hurts. You've been staring at this stupid contract all day and your mind is breaking. You might be able to hold out on it for a while longer, but this thing is eating up 90% of your vision and not dispelling when you close your eyes. Your brain has adapted to being constantly blasted with mental feedback from the implant, but this is getting to be a step too far.

There's an explosion in audible range. Once the metal launched by the blast finishes clattering, an indistinct masculine battle cry rings out over the flames- some kind of threat? Gunfire is exchanged, but another explosion stirs up your nerves enough to make you close the rolling window and lock Hope Home Cooking up both electronically and physically. A padlock and the 'door' are poor cover against high explosions, but maybe they'll be enough.

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You move to lock the back door and wonder if this is your time to run. It'll still be hours until the bus arrives, but you can at least prep to flee. Leaving would be breaking company policy, though, so you'll have to commit to it- there's no going back if you leave during the alert. It would be safest to remain where you are, staring at the contract until everything calms down, and then make your move. Your mind is aching to make a decision, but you've already burned the blue lines into your skull, what's a few hours longer?

It's dark in here now that everything's closed, and another option is to lock up and simply fall asleep. You're exhausted, maybe even tired enough to sleep through the contract. They won't like that, but... If nothing else, you can nap until the terrorists are done.

>>Emerald Alert
>Go for broke. You've made your decision- crack open the implant and, if you don't die, run.
>Try to sleep. It might be hard, but you've dealt with all sorts of shit.
>Pack to leave, then sleep it off. When everything settles, you'll slowly go for it.
>No, you're done for the day. You sign the contract and hand yourself over to deep sleep. They'll wake you up when they need you.
>[Write-In]

>>6106766
>Go for broke. You've made your decision- crack open the implant and, if you don't die, run.

>>6106766
>Go for broke. You've made your decision- crack open the implant and, if you don't die, run.

>>6106766
>No, you're done for the day. You sign the contract and hand yourself over to deep sleep. They'll wake you up when they need you.

>>6106766
>Skim the rest of the contract before deciding to sign. Your life may well depend on it.

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>>6107069

>>6107188

>>6106847
>>6106854
You have to go for it. You can't wait any longer, you really can't process any more of this contract, and you really don't want to risk being blown up before you can find your freedom. You turn on one of the overhead lights and pick up a paring knife. There's a small join where the two halves of the implant's shell meet and close. The electronics are waterproofed and draw their power directly from your own physiology, which is a constant if minor drain on your body. Constantly running the contract provides a second level of pain beside the effect on your eyes- but hopefully, you won't have to worry about that any more.

You visualize the structure of the device, from the transmitter to the RAM to how it runs a couple of lines directly to your spine. You need to cut correctly, and leave a lot of it intact. After all's said and done, you probably need to cover the result in medical tape, though you shouldn't have to worry too much about getting shocked.

Carefully, with as much focus and calm as you can muster, you push the knife between the gaps and feel the plastic shell yield. Like cutting off your own jaw... No, like hacking off your ear maybe. You don't need it, and while it's going to be painful, you'll live. You have to. Taking the shell off, you do your best to feel out for where you can break off components without trying to sever your own spine. It's embedded in and fused to your own nerves, so you have to be careful.

Knowing that, and knowing the risks, you still feel compelled to get it off and out of you. It's a parasite, and you definitely don't need it! You dig the knife into one of the transmitters, and the contract fizzles out before your eyes. You feel an immense pressure lift off of your eyes, but the gap seems to be getting filled with a dazzle of multi-color. Ambient, leftover impulses translated to senses. But you need to get rid of the receiver, before they finally process what's going on.

Running the blade up and down the component as if sharpening your knife, you feel impulses run across your body, an uncomfortable, roiling electricity and pain building in your neck. A component chips off entirely, and in response, a bolt rides from your neck to your heart, slowing it momentarily. You're forced to your knees to brace yourself. The fear is overwhelming, but you force yourself to keep going through the tears and shivering. This is for you. You lean on the mattress you slept on to support your upper body when you're between cuts.

Pushing the point down and into the implant, risking digging below the skin right at the most vulnerable part of your neck, you pop off a component and it leaves with a crackle. Your vision on the opposite half of your face spins and warps, before transitioning into static. That static bleeds into both halves of your eyes, but you try to keep going. As soon as the transmitter is gone, you're safe!

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You find another piece of the implant and pry at it, hoping to rip it off completely. When that piece comes off, however, your body goes cold all at once, your ability to sense anything draining from your whole body. Your last thought before you slip forward is that you've killed yourself.

After a moment, everything returns, but in a dream-like recreation of the past. You stand, and the sensation is like swimming through the air. Turning towards the counter, you hear indistinct yelling brought about by emotional impulses bouncing around in your mind. Nothing clear, just unreal echoes of your experience with your mother. Her image turns to yell orders at you while also cooking and also providing meals to customers. She died recently enough that when you recall one of her old threats, it comes from her lips as if she had said it herself.

"If you don't start working right now, I swear I'll return your defective ass for resale." She always had a way with words. When you were younger, you took that seriously- you had nightmares of her shoving your arm in a grinder and turning it to make meat paste. Looking down and to the right, you can see it happening now. Yeah, that's exactly how you remembered it happening. Despite the graphic image of your limb becoming putty, your dream-like state is too drained to make a big deal out of it. You've become numb to the image, to her yelling, and to the thought of death. What's the worst that could happen?

"I don't even know what I bought you for!" she says, but you can barely hear her, melting into nothingness and trying to let go. "You're totally useless! Why do you exist?" Her yelling is interrupted from coughing from her smoke habit, an addiction you inherited. Her coughing intensifies, causing her duplicates to phase out. Leaning on the wall, she presses a hand to her chest and desperately coughs, cigarette falling from her mouth and face turning red.

You watch her die again, the same way she did last time... Collapsing to the ground and curling up into a ball due to some kind of organ failure. You think it was a heart attack, but you don't know. When she curls up this time, though, she turns into a supply box. You don't even need to read the side to know what's printed on it:

Smiling Days Food Services™
Production Ground Meat (Human Consumption): 25 kg.

You pick up the box with mechanical arms, left in the room with no customers, and walk it back to the fridge. It's heavy. Stumbling all the way, you eventually shove it onto the shelf and sit down, letting the freezer door close behind you, turning off the light, and lying down in the dark.

Tears roll down your face despite the cruel woman's nature: She was all that you had, and now you don't have anything.

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You wake up again, pain all over your body from muscle spasm fatigue and nerve re-arming, having been drooling face down on the mattress, splayed out. You have ugly tears and your nose is dripping and your eyes are red, but you're alive, and that's good enough for you. Purged of the past, you wash yourself off in the sink just to make sure that you'll be able to see clearly moving forward. Besides, making a good impression to the bus drivers is important. You check the watch, because your vision HUD no longer works: 22:09. Nice.

Presumably the same day, because a stray bullet digs into your roll-down window and the sound of an explosion in the distance mildly shakes the ground. Apparently taking a dream quest doesn't take too long. You're glad, though: At least the fallout from frying your augment wasn't too bad. Everything hurts from the over-use and realignment of all of your nerves, but as far as you can tell, the electronics collapsed on themselves given their damage, but left a circuit for your nerves to run through and allow you to use your body.

You pack your bag with everything in the world you care about and leave the rest behind. It's one backpack, the one you use for laundry. The door attempts to stay locked, but you just throw the breaker and the magnetic door unlocks by default. Good, otherwise you were going to have to pry the window open. You didn't need anything but what you could carry anyway- let their food rot.

There are a couple of flipped taxis, abandoned vehicles, and still-active police drones. Incredibly, one of the taxis is still running: It's an independent, meaning the auto-driver won't return it to the dispatch. That guy's loss could be your gain. Fifty minutes of idling is a lot, but there might be some gas in there: If you want to ditch it for the bus, you just need about two minutes: A mile and a half, or a bit further. Going on foot will attract less attention, but... A car is a car. Maybe you don't need the bus, if the taxi is independent. It could go anywhere.

>>Hail a ride?
>You'll go it on foot. You don't want your nerves suddenly seizing up behind the wheel.
>The car is faster, you're exhausted, and that two-minute window is a tiny risk in comparison to stumbling over for almost half an hour in your state.
>A free car... You can go anywhere. Fuck the bus, you're keeping that.
>...Are the terrorists taking applications?
>[Write-In]

>>6107980
>>The car is faster, you're exhausted, and that two-minute window is a tiny risk in comparison to stumbling over for almost half an hour in your state.

>>6107980
Do we know what kind of terrorists they are? If they're the Emerald Front like you mentioned then...
>...Are the terrorists taking applications?
Because the corpo hitsquads are going to be coming after us sooner or later, but I don't want to join up with them if they're a death cult or some shit, y'know?

If they're not the Emerald Front and we know it...
>The car is faster, you're exhausted, and that two-minute window is a tiny risk in comparison to stumbling over for almost half an hour in your state.

>>6107980
>>The car is faster, you're exhausted, and that two-minute window is a tiny risk in comparison to stumbling over for almost half an hour in your state.

>>6107980
>The car is faster, you're exhausted, and that two-minute window is a tiny risk in comparison to stumbling over for almost half an hour in your state.

>>6108046
+1

>>6107980

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>>6108046
>>6108094

You hide behind one of the turned-over taxis and look over to realize with shock that it's almost all corporate goons on the ground. It seems impossible, but it's true: It's just one guy, fighting the group as a whole. His body isn't clothed: Rather, it's an armored metal exoskeleton too thin to be human, with four arms all swiveling about separately: He has no skin showing, devoting his whole body to cyber augments. Hiding behind this cold, heartless appearance, his six slim limbs make him more an insect than a human being- if he's even human at all. The terrorist bolts from place to place at blinding speed- his legs move faster and generate more force than muscle could possibly accomplish, hitting the ground sooner and delivering more force to his body. It's almost as if he's hopping- the deadliest locust on Earth.

It's gotten to the point where they're launching grenades in the hope of catching him with a direct hit. Bullets bounce off his mechanical carapace, and electronic eyes in all directions give him insight into attacks from all sides. Despite this incredible performance, all it would take is one hit to put him down. In return, however, an attempt to line up an automated turret is silenced instantly with a heavy pistol blowing the base off of the device and shattering the camera with the second bullet. Before the operator can flee, a third shot kills him. The violence is almost mesmerizing- despite the brutality, there's a level of technique and precision you can't help but appreciate.

Is he really a terrorist? It doesn't seem like it. He's not attacking anyone but the footsoldiers. In fact, was he the one to set off the explosion at all, or was that them, trying to kill him?

>>6107992
>>6108071
>>6108087

Either way, someone like that has no room for you- if you stepped in, you would just be a hinderance. You get into the abandoned taxi, throw your bag into the passenger seat, move the seat forward, and buckle your seatbelt. It's a little hard to see over the console, but you're not going far. You rev up the engine, and it bolts forward before you're ready for it. Still, you regain control and keep driving. After two seconds, you hear and feel a bullet punch through the headrest, just six inches above the top of your skull. It throws spiderwebs across the window and further cuts your visibility, but you keep going.

You don't have much further to go- in fact, you have to pause and pull over, realizing you've gone too far. Slamming your foot as hard as you can on the brake, you feel the wheel jerk in your hands. Low visibility, the damaged vehicle, and your lackluster height combine to almost force you to crash. Screeching to a halt, you catch your breath and feel the implant on the back of your neck pulse in pain. You quickly move to park and shudder for a few seconds to regain control of your body. Grabbing your bag, you crawl out of the taxi and force yourself to stand.

Just a little further.

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You push yourself through the turnstile and lumber forward. The backpack stays in your hand- you can't rest anything on your back with the implant's former spot buzzing. Retching, you toss it aside and reflexively vomit from your buzzing head and upset stomach- but almost nothing comes out.

"You don't look so good." You're not expecting the voice, but it's distinct. Wade. He's going to kill you. Your whole body begins to shut down as you realize this was all for nothing. You stumble just far enough to lie belly-down on your backpack, waiting for him to finish this.

"Relax," he says, with a far more amiable tone than you're expecting from him. "Do I look like I'm getting paid?" In fact, he seems slightly concerned. "Geez, you look like you could use some sleep." You'd like some painkillers, but you only take those when you're sick- obviously, the company doesn't encourage working while sick, but they practically require it anyway.

Fuck it, you're not taking any more sick days. Counting off two pills, you crush them in your teeth and catch your breath. Wade throws a bag of tissues your way as the buzz runs through your back and up your neck. "Might as well give these to you- I got them off of her." The woman you turned in? "Yeah. She was also packing a lot of precious gems- big score for me." Gems? "Yeah, they carry value and non-ferrous material doesn't pop on a metal detector. Still shows up on scans- and some of the stones were set. Seems like she was pocketing jewelry and information."

...Why is he even here? When you ask, he jerks a thumb outside. "Take a wild guess." The terrorist? He nods solemnly. "Boss said kill him or die trying. I told him to fuck off. He tried to remote kill me, but I rooted my rig- and I figure 'Spider-Man' there has too." That guy was more like a grasshopper, really.

Isn't he scared that his boss will send a hit squad (which might incidentally kill you, too) after him? "With a one-man army holding off half the city's enforcement? Fuck no. I've got Martha with me, so she's not a target either." He pats a bag nearby, which presumably contains his robot wife... teacher... You're just going to absorb these pills.

Seems he's looking for his way out too. There's probably a joke here somewhere, a chef, an assassin, and a robot... but you look down the empty tunnel and can't think of anything to say.

>>Wade at the Bus Stop
>Ask him to wake you up when the bus comes. Dream of days gone by.
>He can pick up the car you left behind- seems like he could drive that, even if you can't.
>What about his bike? He can't use that?
>You admit you regret handing over that woman. Maybe it's the pills, but she was just trying to get by too.
>[Write-In]

>>6109932
>What about his bike? He can't use that?

>>6109932
>He can pick up the car you left behind- seems like he could drive that, even if you can't.

>>6109932
>He can pick up the car you left behind- seems like he could drive that, even if you can't.

Also I think you made a mistake with the first choice, it just says >>Wade at the Bus Stop

>>6109932
>What about his bike? He can't use that?

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>Also I think you made a mistake with the first choice, it just says >>Wade at the Bus Stop
This is basically shorthand for indicating the following > are choices about >>

>>6110052
>>6110813

"No such luck," He shrugs. "It was really their vehicle, so they had the last say on it, so to speak. It's currently in their garage, and breaking in would mean risking what remains of my skin and Martha's good health." ...He walked here? Wade seems confused. "Yeah, sure. Didn't you?" Fair enough.

>>6110193
>>6110466
Well, you left a car out there. It's got a quarter of the tank left, but maybe that's useful to him?

That piques his interest, and you get a shade of his dark side in the sinister grin he pops. "Tell me more." Hastily, you go over the situation where you were shot at and the taxi was left out and stalled and it's not your fault the windshield is broken. By the time your nervous babbling ends, he has a huge smile that seems wider than his whole head. He's concocted some kind of sinister plan, but switches back into kind customer mode, picking up his suitcase and beginning to roll it away. "Say no more." He begins to walk away. "I'd invite you along, but you don't deserve to see what happens next." He's a trained killer, so disagreeing with him isn't really an option- that car is in effect no longer yours.

You hear the suitcase roll away, out of audible range, so you sit down next to your backpack and wait for the bus. Well, at least you can think by yourself.

What is there to think about, though? You're only trained in shitty culinary arts and basic business management- there's always work in that area, even if it's definitely going to be poorly paying. You just hope they let you on the bus. And that their supply chain is less brutal. Cattle seems like it would be easier to feed out West, with the open area and functional farmland. They might also have religious protections against eating people, even though you're not a believer in anything yourself. On the other hand, you've heard tell of the opposite- where people turn cannibalism into a ritual instead of a cruel application of 'wasted material. Guess you'll have to take your chances. Although.. Maybe it's a marketable skill?

"That was a compliment, by the way." WATDAFUC You bolt as Wade has managed to approach suddenly and undetected. Totally silent, or you just weren't listening. The shock makes you trip over your backpack.

By the time your nerves settle and your eyes stop spinning, he's saluting you and leaving. "I do a lot of messy work... Someone like you doesn't need to watch anything like that." You're too scared to argue. His red eyes glow and call to mind a nightmare about a giant rat that ate you alive. It doesn't help that the area is unfamiliar and the light here is pretty limited- just emergency, which is enough to see by.

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You swallow the third or fourth suppressed heart attack of the day and sit down. Just hazing out for two hours seems doable.

Wade signals he took you up on the offer when he turns on the car's radio to full blast and then drives off, making the engine roar louder than you thought a taxi could be capable of. You can hear it even through the turnstiles... I guess that's what making a custom gets you. The music and screeching tires fade into the background, but you can still hear faint gunfire and inconsistent explosions. The fight with the 'terrorist' is still ongoing. That guy kept fighting long enough for you to almost take a dirt nap and kept going... But he's got to run out of ammo eventually, right? There are never any happy endings these days, unless you pay extra.

Looking at the watch to take your mind off of things, it's only 22:41. You've got a little over an hour until the bus finally arrives and you get your chance to leave this hellhole.

West seems like a better place to be: They have actual civilization, you hear. Not much gas to go around, but a lot of solar and apparently nuclear. Worst comes to worst, you can try and shack up with a laborer. Being a mother is never really something that's crossed your mind- you figured that you were sterile because of cloning. You don't really care either way, but that might affect a would-be partner's decision. You certainly can't cook worth a damn.

The silence of the abandoned station causes you to just sit there and appreciate living- despite the pain in your neck, you feel free in a way that's pretty novel for you. It's nice. You smoke one of the cigarettes you have left over, using it to help provide light to the dank area.

...Hey, what was in that delivery, anyway?

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THOOOOOOOM

The ground shakes, the emergency lights flicker, and you're pretty sure you've got your answer.

At least nobody is going to come looking for you anymore. Probably.

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You lie low, hoping that that explosion doesn't terminate the bus route. A collapsed tunnel would end your plan dead in its tracks.
Thankfully, after what seems like an eternity, you see the lights and steady rumble of the bus. Sure enough, when you wave to it, it slows down and then stops.

Hastily explaining yourself, you try to look like a professional, and present a best argument for why you should get on. The driver gives you a hollow, disdainful glare which gets harder the longer you talk. Eventually, feeling like you're just digging yourself deeper, you peter to a halt and then go silent, awaiting his judgement.

"Just get the fuck on board," He points to the back, before suddenly stopping you. "Oh, and give us one of those smokes." Fumbling, you pull at the package before hastily handing the entire pack to him- you have a backup. He lights up in the bus, not caring about the sign placed above his head expressly prohibiting what he's doing. "First stop is Big Easy. It's my last stop, too, and the one where we find out how you're paying."

One half-hour of tense waiting later, and the bus begins moving. Nobody else seems to have had the idea, so it's just you. The driver doesn't care, he closes the door and starts driving.

A mixture of relief and exhaustion hits your stomach, and you pass out, hand over your wrist and watch firmly placed on it. You don't know much about New Orleans, but it couldn't possibly be worse than Mossless. At least, that's what the nicotine and painkillers are telling you. You're on your way- what are your plans for your newfound freedom?

>>Plans for Big Easy
>New Orleans is famous for its culinary tradition- they've got to have an opening there. You might not need to go any further.
>Just as a stepping stone for further West. A city that old has bound to have some holdover corruption. In fact, you're not sure how it survived the War.
>Might as well make it exciting if you're just going to be there for a bit. Spend a little, get some clothing to set you up for success.
>The underbelly is what you're looking for. You're sick and tired of being pushed around- you've got a mind to harden your edge.
>You're looking to die there- but to make it fun. It's a city of vice. Burn out the money on a good time and let the city claim you.
>[Write-In]

>>6111289
>Just as a stepping stone for further West. A city that old has bound to have some holdover corruption. In fact, you're not sure how it survived the War.
Oregon or bust.

>>6111318
+1
We do not have money or skill and new orleans sounds dangerous as hell. Maybe we'll scavenge something but i think we'll have enough trouble even WHEN we focus solely on GTFO

>>6111289
>New Orleans is famous for its culinary tradition- they've got to have an opening there. You might not need to go any further.

>>6111289
>You're looking to die there- but to make it fun. It's a city of vice. Burn out the money on a good time and let the city claim you.

>>6111289
>Just as a stepping stone for further West. A city that old has bound to have some holdover corruption. In fact, you're not sure how it survived the War.

Time to hit the Neo-Oregon trail. Watch out for dysentery!

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>>6111539

>>6111734


>>6111318
>>6111487
>>6113159

Part of you thinks of stopping, or even letting the weight drag you down. You know you've considered it in the past. After all, the 'reason to live' that was given to you by others died with your mother. But right now, you can't give up. You have other places to be. Other things to do. You're not sure what yet, you're not even sure where, but there's got to be something. Even if there's no place for you wherever you end up, you can make your own.

Everyone needs to eat, so your limited skills carry almost anywhere, and shitty working conditions are just standard operating procedure. New Orleans might be a good stop, but... You didn't come this far just to find yourself tied up in another corporate net. You want to keep going. The West, as they say, is wild. No one has ever come to save you: You've never been anything more than a disposable asset. They're probably writing you off as you think.

The wheels turn, the lights bounce off the tunnel walls, and the radio plays mild static, denied a proper signal by the tunnel. The smoke of those cigarettes the driver bummed leave a thin scent in the air, even though he's got some of the windows cracked open to let air flow.

Soon, the tunnel exits out into the open air, rolling up along a side road and turning across a long ramp towards a long-since-decrepit highway. Cracks in the surface cause bouncing and shuddering before things stabilize again. The pitch-dark night is broken by the bright lights of the cityscape- somehow more beautiful at a distance. You can't see all of the crackheads from here, you muse to yourself. But there's more to it than that. A pillar of smoke, a very small torch... A match lit on top of your old home. The distant ruby red and billowing smoke form the final piece of the picture.

It all fades into the distance, until you can no longer see anything from the side window. You clutch your backpack. The rumble of the bus slowly lulls you to sleep.

Maybe not knowing what the future brings is the closest thing to freedom there is.

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The watch gets you into Big Easy and what's left of that kill switch out of your spine. The change they hand you is more money than you've seen in your entire life, but you keep a straight face.
There are miraculously no complications from the surgery besides scarring and residual pain. Despite this, you have to get back into working to pay for your lodging and food almost immediately.

You take up a temporary job working for the hotel [u]Mer Primitive[/u] where you're staying, sleeping in the kitchen like most laborers did in the past. The hours aren't bad, and the owner is reasonable.
The local gambler's dietary preferences push you to make barbecue shrimp with actual barbecue and actual shrimp. He smokes too, but has access to fine cigars, and often lets you take a pull.
It turns out that gambler is more than a gambler, and works as a local detective. He manages to bag a murderer and two thieves while you're working there.
The bartender is a handsome young man, but he's not interested in you. That helps remind you that you're looking to move on anyway.

You have no idea what happened to Wade. If he made it to New Orleans, you don't know about it.

That woman you sold out remains dead. Oh well. You can't win them all.

The terrorist attack becomes nationwide news, passed through radio. It seems like several firms in Mossless were targeted by a rogue cyborg. One of their machines, turning on its masters.

[u]Hope Home Cooking[/u] has been totally destroyed. Good riddance, you didn't need that place anyway.

Once you have enough cash in your pocket for one last night on the town and a ticket out West, you take your refined skills along with your hangover the morning of and go.
No one from Mossless Stone knows what happened to you. That's for the best.


THE END

>>6114027
>>6114016
Thanks for running the quest, QM. I thought it was pretty good. The drawings were nice, too.

>>6114033
Thanks. It's the least I could do to close things out cleanly, given the support. Had half a mind to make a dice-based quest focusing on Wade using Lasers and Feelings mechanics, where Lasers = Cyber and Feelings= Psycho for Cyber+Psycho Quest.

>>6114033
Agreed.

>>6114027
Shame it was short, but I appreciate the closure, and your new quest idea at >>6114038 sounds cool.

Thanks for running!

>>6114033
+1. thanks QM

>>6114027
Neat. May you get a better future then you feared, Hope Bernice.

Don't forget to archive this

>>6115576
100% deserves it.