6. Running in the Dark

6 – Running in the Dark

Lemon got quiet for a while after that, watching him eat as she puffed on her chem-stick. When he finished, and he set the food container and empty drink carton on the carpet beside him, she leaned forward, blowing a bit of smoke off to the side. “I’d say you’re being dramatic or that you’re full of shit, but there’s something about you—an edge, I guess. You’re not going to hurt me, are you? You’re not, like, a joy-killer or something, right?”

Joy-killer? That what they call serial killers down here? Hector cleared his throat and shook his head. “I’m not.” He sort of wished he were some kind of sociopath. The fact was, his feelings were so big and so raw that he had to choose just one or two to focus on, and the easiest was his smoldering anger—his need for revenge.

In a single fluid motion, he rose to his feet, his young, limber joints only protesting slightly, despite what his aura system had done to his body while he slept. He stooped to pick up his trash, then nodded toward the bathroom. “I’ll need a minute.”

“Take your time. I’m going to sleep for a few hours.”

Hector frowned. He didn’t like being bound to a pleasure doll’s schedule. “I’ll go for a walk.”

“What? It’s still dark!”

Hector glanced at the window display, noting the faux starscape and the little blinking clock in the corner: 0553. “I won’t go far.” He wanted to see the neighborhood—get the lay of the land. As Lemon scowled at him, he walked around the couch and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

When he finished, he washed his hands and face in the sink, then peered at himself, grimacing to see his teeth. They were white and mostly straight. One bottom tooth was a little crowded, but he didn’t mind it. Looking at those teeth, gleaming and faintly pearlescent, told him he was in the body of a young man who’d taken care of himself. What desperate situation had forced him to make such a sacrifice?

Maybe he just died.

It might have been an overdose or a cancer—something a medi-corp could fix, but not for free. Clinics and hospitals made a killing off scams like that. They’d refuse service without payment, collect the body after the poor bastard died, fix whatever killed them, and sell the corpus vivum on the market.

“Corpus vivum,” he repeated aloud. He hadn’t used the term at all in this latest “new” life, had he? Was he distancing himself from the royals? He thumped his knuckles against his skull. The answers were in there. He knew something. Ever attentive to his thoughts, his neurodeck updated him on the progress:

//Neural pattern remapping 78.2% complete.//

Lemon tapped on the door. “Are you almost done?”

He slid it open. “Spare toothbrush?”

“Huh? To clean your teeth? Just chew a tab.”

“Tab?”

“Oral tabs,” she replied, waving toward the mirror. “In the medicine cabinet. Behind my broken mirror.”

“Yeah.” He paused, thinking maybe he ought to say more, but closed his mouth. In the cabinet, he found a small tin, like the kind you could buy nic-chews in, labeled Dentibrite. After reading the back, he popped one in his mouth and chewed, keeping his lips pressed closed so the tingling foam wouldn’t spill out. The mint flavor was almost overpowering, rising into his sinuses and making his eyes water. After thirty seconds or so, he swished it around in his mouth and spat into the sink.

Lemon was still standing in the doorway. “I have to pee.”

He nodded, slipping past her. “I’ll be back.”

“You’re really going out? Lunatic! Just…please don’t die, okay? Grando would be so angry…”

“I won’t.” Hector walked back to the couch and pulled on his shoes and sweatshirt. Pausing at the door, he glanced at the bathroom and saw it was still partially open, and Lemon’s pale eyes gleamed as she watched him. He stared at her for a second, then slipped out into the hall. Whatever urge had gripped him, demanding he get out and move, left no room for argument. He figured he was just pent-up and full of restless energy—hormones and memories, anger and frustration. He needed to burn some of it off.

Pulling up his hood, he walked to the stairwell with long, quick strides. He flew down the stairs, jumping full flights, hanging onto the railing to propel himself around the corners. When he kicked the crashbar of the exit door and charged outside, the chill, iron-scented air slapped him in the face like smelling salts. It was blood and spit, sex and battle, in that wind. It carried a thousand secrets and a hundred promises. Hector’s vendetta only let him listen to some.

A train rushed by, sending a curtain of warmer, humid air up over the sidewalk, and Hector laughed, for some reason exhilarated by the sight of the giant alloy serpent ripping through the city. He chased after it, stretching his legs and finding his rhythm. His new skin was a better runner than his original one—not if you considered all the potentia he’d lost, but naturally. It just had longer legs and better lungs. It felt good, like he’d been built for it. He ran for a while, but he kept track of the streets he passed so he could find his way back.