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A long morning over

Doshii Jun

Perpetual player
Retired Staff
It was a brighter day than the last. The sun glowed with a dark orange haze as it sat halfway up the sky. Aircars, transports and starships darted through the ugly patches of smog as they headed for whatever destination required of them. The starscrapers of Funky City flashed with tinted windows and black frames as the vehicles passed -- sometimes orderly, sometimes not.

Explosions could, every so often, be heard in the distance.

In a mid-level condominium building that branched off of a starscraper, right in the thick of a cloud of stale, polluted air, no such explosions could be heard. Residents had paid for fairly expensive sound buffers to reduce the level of audible outdoor noise to near zero. But the tenants didn't have enough money collectively to replace the aging and overworked air filtration system, so the manager had been kind enough to take some of the money stowed away in an upkeep account and install small wall filters in each unit.

Unbeknownst to many, the manager was a cheapskate bastard who worked for the Blacks. The units had been stolen, and the labor was provided by captured Reds. Not that the tenants could do anything about it.

Airbike racer Yoko Kaname, "Rio," could. Or she thought she could ... she really, really wanted to. The noisy thing had broken down during the night. Piece of shit that it was, Yoko faulted it entirely. Nevermind she'd left it running on high for days. Constantly. Without a new filter cartridge.

"Haww ... hawwwwwwwrrrrrrr ..." Yoko stretched mightily and took a breath -- then coughed. The wall monitor said the air was at 8 percent toxicity, which translated into letting the pizza burn badly. She waved a hand in front of her face and slipped out of bed.

"Mrrrr," something said from the bed. Yoko turned her head some to see what had made the noise. It was a Nepleslian lieutenant, one who'd come to the Replicant last night on his off hours and was cute (and rich) enough to sleep with. He'd been okay; Yoko got off once, which was enough to get her to sleep. He didn't earn a morning massage, though.

"Oi," she said. "Wake up, brass." She called all officers that. Yoko didn't know his name anyway.

"Mmmmph," he responded, curling deeper into the sheets.

Yoko sighed. She hated doing this. Well, kind of. She hated the fact she had to do it more than the act itself. Stepping lightly to the lieutenant's side of the bed, she smiled at him. He cracked one eye open and smiled back. "Morning," the lieutenant said.

"IT'S 10 A.M.!" Yoko shouted."YOUR TIME WAS UP AN HOUR AGO!"

The lieutenant backed up in bed. His eyes were wide.

"YOU WANT THE BLACKS ON YOUR ASS, BRASS BOY?"

"No, of cour -- "

"THEN GET THE FUCK OUT!"

The lieutenant scrambled out of bed as Yoko walked up to him, face twisted into a rather nasty looking snarl. "I've got customers from here to eternity, you lazy fucker!" She sweeped a leg under him as he fumbled with his pants. "I swallow for you, and this is how you thank me?" She kicked him in the thigh as he grabbed his other items. His sidearm was downstairs. "You're lucky I don't have you burned!" The lieutenant reached for his glasses in vain. Yoko gave him another kick as he slipped the glasses on crookedly, then went to the door. "FIVE SECONDS, ASSHOLE!"

The lieutenant stumbled out the door. Yoko closed it behind him and locked it. She smiled to herself and then snickered. Brass were always tense when the Blacks were mentioned. The war wasn't getting much better for them. But it was all money to her.

Yoko coughed again as she went to the shower. The climate control panel continued to read 8 percent, which meant the building-wide filtration system was having a good day. She flicked on the hot water and yanked out her orchid-scented shampoo and conditioner. Even after a nasty day in the air, she could still come home smelling like flowers. A friend made it for her after a good referral to a clean whorehouse.

After a seven-minute shower, Yoko stepped out and towelled off. The water stopped behind her as she went to her storage area. Sighing, she put on the small padded bra she had before taking up her bodysuit. It was skin tight, of course, but not because she wanted to show anything off. It had to look like real skin -- no one knew she was a half-breed, and if she wanted to keep pulling in the KS, she needed to look like a real Yamataian. The body suit, which made her normally dark skin a very milky color. What was more annoying, however, was the mask.

The mask kept her identity a secret. It was for the Blacks, really. She didn't fear anyone, even them, but she'd hedged her bets against them ever since running to Ronnie, and she wasn't going to stop now. Yoko took four "hardpoints" from their drawer. The hardpoints were thin, malable polymer plates with a light, flexible adhesive on both sides. She put them high on her cheeks, her forehead and her chin. She then removed the thin, fleshy mask and pressed her face into it. The mask attached to the hardpoints and settled onto her skin. It always felt dirty.

With the mask on, Yoko looked Yamataian enough. Being a half-breed had its advantages. All she had to do was stay away from glue remover, which had yet to be tossed in her face.

Yoko smiled demurely in the mirror. "A pair of ears, and I'd look like one of those Neko things," she said. She put her hands together as if she had a sword. "In the name of the Emperor! ... I will tail-fuck you!" Yoko couldn't grin very well with the mask, but she laughed manically anyway. Spinning happily on her heels, she went to her closet in the bar and pulled out the usual attire -- form-fitting leather pants, thin blouse, a full-length riding coat, and her self-sealing helmet. It had two black wings painted on each side.

Dressed, Yoko walked over to the rear-left wall of her condo and tapped a button on the side. A large portion of the wall began to rise up like a gate, revealing a small docking pad with her airbike -- a YZF-R40, a stock version of her racing bike. She threw a leg over, the breathing unit in her helmet already on. Once linked to its computer, Yoko engaged the lift, locked it, and rushed off toward work for the day.

She was 10 minutes late. "Here we go," she said, smiling and kicking the throttle higher.
 
"Fuck!" Yoko shoved on the left bar, twirling below a slow air transport. She hadn't seen it before, so she'd figured it wouldn't press on through the toll booth crossing her zone of traffic. Wrong. Gently she pulled back up on the bars, leveling herself on the East lightway heading out of Funky City. She had a few exits to go, so she accessed the local bookie's port to see what bets he had going.

"Aw fuck no!" Down eight points below the Roc for the first round. "I can't make anything off that ..." The Slav sector always bet heavy on Yoko, as she was the only rider not affiliated with the Blacks to grace their little shithole of a track, named the Gemini Straits. That, and she raced well there. "A record of 10-3 on that track and he puts me down eight?" Yoko accessed the comlink the bookie kept on him.

"Who's this?" he responded.

"Who do you think it is, you scheming shit?"

"Hoh -- Yoko-baby! How've been?"

"What are the Blacks pressuing you for, Wen?"

The bookie paused for a second. "Yoko-baby, what are you talking about?"

"I'm eight points down, Wen! I can't make any money that!" Yoko pushed to the right, ducking a local air transport. "Can't you give me a little better odds?"

"Yoko, baby, it's the Roc! He's hot right now."

"I own him, Wen. You know I do."

" ... " The bookie seemed to consider his options. Yoko left the major lightway and rolled on toward the Gemini Straits. "Increase my cut to five percent and I'll do what I can, Yoko-baby."

Yoko grit her teeth. The Blacks were hitting him up again, she had a feeling. "I'd better be at four points down by the time I get there." She disconnected and peeled left, lazily twirling toward her assigned dock below the starting gates. Gene was waiting for her, tapping his foot in the darkened shelter. \

"Dammit, Yo," he said as she landed. "You've got three minutes to dress up."

The girl cracked a big smile. "Gene, honey." She gave him a peck on the cheek. "Three minutes is enough time for a cold one, right?" Yoko smirked.

"Get dressed," Gene muttered. He loved Yoko like a daughter, but she was very good at pushing buttons. Too good.

Yoko went to the portable locker and removed her overclothes. She donned her anti-grav racing suit, slipped on the thin-fingered gloves, put on her boots in a hurry and hopped onto her racing bike, a modified version of her own bike. The locker closed shut and locked on its own.

"The Roc's going to take you out in the first Twin," Gene said as he brought Yoko her racing helmet, colored red and white in halves like her suit. "I talked to their water guy. Watch his lift prop carefully."

Yoko nodded, stuffing her helmet on. "Is it a spike? Or is he gonna lose a prop?"

"Don't know, Yo," Gene said. He put a hand on her shoulder and brought his face in front of her helmet. "Be damn careful; they're not happy with you winning at the Gold Agusta a week ago. They had to axe a Valentine for it."

"Gene, honey." Yoko leaned into racing position as the bike came to life with a single touch of the starter button. Gene always warmed the bike before she arrived. "They can't kill the Miko. You know that."

He tapped her helmet. "Watch yourself," he mouthed again as Yoko's helmet finished sealing. As he stepped away, she twisted the left throttle and rose up to the starting gate, smiling a little at the cheering fans in the stands.
 
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