Ripperdoc
- Eddies
- 36,734
@Queenie
Nowear
10:30 AM
10:30 AM
The cab sped off with purpose, chasing after a pedestrian burdened with either a dream or just too many groceries to carry the rest of the way home.
Anders slid his cell phone back into his pocket. He had all the standard implants for hands-free communication—necessary in Night City. But every so often, he liked the feel of a physical phone, a secure alternative to his usual methods of contact and payment. It gave him a sense of anonymity.
His gaze flickered through the bustling streets, where naked neon fought to colour the world despite the morning light, bathing everything in electric hues of pink, green, and blue. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling street food, underscored by the faint ozone tang of the city's endless circuitry. His steps were steady, though the years in his bones made their presence known with every movement.
The city thrummed around him—a symphony of human and machine. Drones hummed overhead. The distant pulse of nightclub bass bled into the morning. Laughter, arguments, and the occasional siren wove through the urban din. A glint of chrome caught his eye—a cybernetic arm flashing in the light, just one of countless augmentations that defined life here, including his own.
Vendors lined the sidewalks, hawking everything from bootleg cyberware to dubious street food. Children played in the shadows of monolithic skyscrapers; their eyes wide with the wonder of it all. Anders felt the familiar pang of nostalgia for a simpler time, but he knew better. That world was long gone—buried under layers of progress and decay.
The Nowear tattoo parlour loomed ahead, its neighbouring signs flickering with stubborn defiance. The thought of the needle against his skin, the artist's steady hand, unsettled him despite his own profession. But it was ritual—one of the few moments of stillness in the relentless churn of Night City. A quiet devotion in a godless world.
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He announced himself as he entered, a deliberately casual cough signalling his arrival to the proprietress.
He respected Queenie. She was nothing like him. Where he thrived in the sterile, colourless joy of extreme order and efficiency—a hallmark of his homeland's national psyche—Queenie seemingly embraced spontaneity with an effortless, almost defiant grace. Her Italian sensibilities favoured rebellion, something he was still adjusting to.
But he enjoyed her all the same. She was like a daughter to him, though he'd never say as much. Seeing her so free, so wild, so alive brought him a quiet pleasure. At the same time, it made him feel old—like time was leaking from some unseen puncture in his soul, one breath at a time.
He spoke out in his croaky voice, not yet warmed in the morning air.
"Ciao, piccolina mia."
