Agnus Dei
- Eddies
- 728
Catriona contemplated the kebab.
In contemporary cultural history, she had learned much about the nature of doner meat (lending credence to the theory that her degree would have been worthless had she obtained it). In early 21st-century western Europe, it had apparently been a staple meal of the weekend drunk carved from an upright rotating, glistening spit of questionable meat. It was a joke that society had been in on, cracking wise about eating the slow greyhounds or one-footed pigeons not smart enough to evade capture, although the truth was never too far behind. This was probably why the people of that past ate them slathered in wilted salad and drowning in chilli sauce while three sheets to the wind.
She held the pita bread aloft, her own personal Yorick. Was the donor kebab the only food that came out the other end of their modern society improved? Real meat was for the high-powered corpos; everything else was synthetic, openly so. Rover and Lassie were safe, at least here.
"You going to eat it or eye fuck it?" PCS snapped, bouncing on the balls of her feet to expel some of the pre-fight energy. She was a short-tempered creature on the best of days, and this was very evidently not one of those days.
"Hm?" Catriona lowered the kebab, her focus on the fidgeting street fighter behind it, who played the part of her mercurial frenemy, and whose fist-dented face had a sheen not dissimilar to the rotating synthlamb behind them at the stall. "Girl, you look peaky. Are you feeling okay?"
They stood in a sprawling network of alleyways on the outskirts of Watson's industrial area. It was the kind of place where life found a way to survive, mainly by being out of the way. Scabby little neon food stalls and junk vendors lined against the walls, the conflict of a melting pot of music clashing into a wall of noise that made the place seem more cramped than it was (quite the feat). A small space had been laid out, where two chromed-up organ donors were smashing lumps out of each other for petty cash, encircled by an enraptured crowd seeking to sate base desires in the forms of violence and gambling. Ah, the joys of unsanctioned street fights. Catriona once believed that she was above this sort of thing, now, the woman was simply pretending.
"Got new chrome," she grunted, firing off a few rapid-fire punches into the ether (although perilously close to the kebab). "Brain package. Faster reflexes. Still adjusting."
"I thought Esky had banned you until you paid off the gorilla arms."
"Didn't fuckin' go to Esky."
There was a pause as Catriona gingerly picked up a long strand of sauce-covered 'meat' and dangled it in the air to cool off for a moment. "Christ, you didn't go to one of Badger's butchers, did you?"
"Nah, fuckin' gonk last week gave me the name of a guy. Said he'd hook me up on the cheap," PCS responded, her expression growing angrier (and somehow sweatier) the longer she contemplated the meat. "Are you gonna fuckin' eat it or what?"
"And you gave me shit for letting strange men play with my body," Catriona replied before finally indulging in the synthetic doner, lowering the long section of shaved 'meat' into her open mouth. It was hard to tell whether it was good, as the capsaicin in the sauce slapped her tongue so hard it forgot how to taste anything except for heat. "Who's the guy?" Devine asked through the mouthful. "I assume you've still got your kidneys."
"Burke Hare."
She almost choked. Maybe she didn't still have her kidneys.
"...what, like Burke and Hare?"
"Do I look like I fuckin' know what that means?! Fuck! Don't know why I let you tag along. You're throwin' me off my fuckin' game," PCS fumed, turning her back to Catriona and resuming her ritual shadowboxing in preparation for the fight. She was up next against some bionic, bald fortress of a man whose idea of getting amped up was headbutting a concrete wall behind him. Very sane, very normal. Made PCS look like a well-mannered lady by comparison.
In contemporary cultural history, she had learned much about the nature of doner meat (lending credence to the theory that her degree would have been worthless had she obtained it). In early 21st-century western Europe, it had apparently been a staple meal of the weekend drunk carved from an upright rotating, glistening spit of questionable meat. It was a joke that society had been in on, cracking wise about eating the slow greyhounds or one-footed pigeons not smart enough to evade capture, although the truth was never too far behind. This was probably why the people of that past ate them slathered in wilted salad and drowning in chilli sauce while three sheets to the wind.
She held the pita bread aloft, her own personal Yorick. Was the donor kebab the only food that came out the other end of their modern society improved? Real meat was for the high-powered corpos; everything else was synthetic, openly so. Rover and Lassie were safe, at least here.
"You going to eat it or eye fuck it?" PCS snapped, bouncing on the balls of her feet to expel some of the pre-fight energy. She was a short-tempered creature on the best of days, and this was very evidently not one of those days.
"Hm?" Catriona lowered the kebab, her focus on the fidgeting street fighter behind it, who played the part of her mercurial frenemy, and whose fist-dented face had a sheen not dissimilar to the rotating synthlamb behind them at the stall. "Girl, you look peaky. Are you feeling okay?"
They stood in a sprawling network of alleyways on the outskirts of Watson's industrial area. It was the kind of place where life found a way to survive, mainly by being out of the way. Scabby little neon food stalls and junk vendors lined against the walls, the conflict of a melting pot of music clashing into a wall of noise that made the place seem more cramped than it was (quite the feat). A small space had been laid out, where two chromed-up organ donors were smashing lumps out of each other for petty cash, encircled by an enraptured crowd seeking to sate base desires in the forms of violence and gambling. Ah, the joys of unsanctioned street fights. Catriona once believed that she was above this sort of thing, now, the woman was simply pretending.
"Got new chrome," she grunted, firing off a few rapid-fire punches into the ether (although perilously close to the kebab). "Brain package. Faster reflexes. Still adjusting."
"I thought Esky had banned you until you paid off the gorilla arms."
"Didn't fuckin' go to Esky."
There was a pause as Catriona gingerly picked up a long strand of sauce-covered 'meat' and dangled it in the air to cool off for a moment. "Christ, you didn't go to one of Badger's butchers, did you?"
"Nah, fuckin' gonk last week gave me the name of a guy. Said he'd hook me up on the cheap," PCS responded, her expression growing angrier (and somehow sweatier) the longer she contemplated the meat. "Are you gonna fuckin' eat it or what?"
"And you gave me shit for letting strange men play with my body," Catriona replied before finally indulging in the synthetic doner, lowering the long section of shaved 'meat' into her open mouth. It was hard to tell whether it was good, as the capsaicin in the sauce slapped her tongue so hard it forgot how to taste anything except for heat. "Who's the guy?" Devine asked through the mouthful. "I assume you've still got your kidneys."
"Burke Hare."
She almost choked. Maybe she didn't still have her kidneys.
"...what, like Burke and Hare?"
"Do I look like I fuckin' know what that means?! Fuck! Don't know why I let you tag along. You're throwin' me off my fuckin' game," PCS fumed, turning her back to Catriona and resuming her ritual shadowboxing in preparation for the fight. She was up next against some bionic, bald fortress of a man whose idea of getting amped up was headbutting a concrete wall behind him. Very sane, very normal. Made PCS look like a well-mannered lady by comparison.
