“Just sit down there.” Lemon pointed to an overstuffed, cream-colored couch strewn with colorful pillows and some clothes. She hurried ahead of him and grabbed up a pink sweater, a throw blanket, and a random sock. “There, sit.”
Hector did as instructed, slowly lowering himself to the cushion. He sank in and found it comfortable as it molded itself to his body’s contours. His stomach rumbled.
“Hah! Looks like we just made it. Eat your bugs while I get us some bowls.” Lemon set one of the bags on the coffee table and carried the other toward the kitchen. Hector reached into his pocket to retrieve the yellow tube.
He looked at the label again, frowning. Aura conditioner, huh? He ripped the tab off and squeezed the contents into his mouth—banana flavor. His body was starving, and the sickly sweet taste did nothing to dissuade him. He crushed the tube in his fist and gulped it down. While he waited for the nanites to get into his system, he looked around the apartment.
Lemon was about three meters away, pouring noodles into big paper bowls on the little kitchenette counter. To her left was a doorway that revealed a small bathroom, and further to the left was an alcove containing a built-in double bed. Other than that, it was just the main room, and it was cluttered.
Lemon had two plastic wardrobes near her bed alcove, but her clothes were everywhere—hanging from strings that ran from wall to wall, piled on plastic storage bins, and, of course, all over the floor. Art covered every wall, the kind you painted yourself or framed because a loved one gave it to you. One exception to that rule told Hector that a projector was behind the couch. He looked over his shoulder and saw the little device attached to a small data deck. Nodding to himself, he turned back to the coffee table, and his stomach rumbled again.
His detective work proved unnecessary when Lemon walked over and flicked her fingers at the empty wall. A perfect-looking window appeared, revealing a view into a peaceful garden with a gurgling fountain. “I like to pretend that’s my garden. Been playing with it for months, adding different plants, changing the shape of the wall back there…” She trailed off as she set his bowl of steaming noodles on the coffee table, then went back to the counter for hers.
Hector looked at the imaginary view for a few seconds, then the scent of the food drew his eyes to the steaming bowl. His mouth filled with saliva, and he started eating without thinking. Muscle memory took over, and he used the chopsticks to slurp down his ramen like a man who’d been denied food for months. Lemon sat down beside him, then froze, watching his mechanical, efficient movements. “Are you, like, even tasting that?”
He stopped, suddenly aware of himself; he looked at her, noodles hanging from his lips. She had a point. Hector closed his eyes and let his awareness expand to his taste buds, savoring the spicy, tangy saltiness of the food in his mouth. Slowly, he began to chew again, biting off the noodles and concentrating on their texture and the way they circulated in his mouth, each molecule of nourishment sending brief signals to the dopamine receptors in his brain.
He swallowed, memorizing the sensation of the food descending into his stomach. Then he opened his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the steam from his bowl waft into his nose. After that, he focused his gaze on Lemon and smiled briefly. “Thanks.”
“I guess you’re just hungry, huh?”
He nodded. His new skin was famished; the nanites had drained his reserves, repairing his tissues. Now they were dying off, and he needed fluids to flush them as well. “Beer?”
“Oh! That’s right!” Lemon jumped up and walked over to her little fridge. When she came back with a blue can in each hand, she said, “I’ll give you the bed, don’t worry. You’re too tall to sleep on this couch.”
Hector took the can—G-Code Light—and popped the tab. As the carbonation hissed, he shook his head. “Floor.”
Lemon frowned, opening her beer. “What do you mean? You’ll sleep on the floor?” She frowned, peering around the cluttered, dark gray carpeting.
Hector nodded toward the wall where her fake window was displayed. The space along the baseboard was just about right, if his eyes were any sort of judge. “There.” He tilted the can to his mouth and chugged down half the beer. It was watery and too carbonated, but it felt good on his dry, thirsty throat. He set the can down and got back to work on his ramen. Between bites, he ate an egg roll and, in just a couple of minutes, his food was gone. He picked up his beer and leaned back.
For the first time, he realized Lemon was eating, too, and he watched her take a bite of noodles, slurp them into her mouth, and chew slowly. She turned to regard him, arching one of her pale eyebrows. After she swallowed, she asked, “Are you going to be okay?”
He considered the question. Did she mean his health? His aura pathways? At that thought, his aura system decided he was wondering about his status and pulsed him an update:
//Aura pathways partially cleared; overload damage no longer critical.//
It’s working, he thought, glancing at the empty tube of aura conditioner. When Lemon shifted, he felt the tension building as she waited for his response. He looked at her and nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, good. Grando kind of made me feel like I’d be in trouble if—well, you know.” She turned, picked up the remainder of an egg roll, and slipped it between her lips, chewing noisily. When she swallowed, she looked at him again. “I know you don’t like to talk. I’m sorry I keep starting up conversations, but everything I know about royals and skins and neurodecks—it’s all from what I’ve seen on the net. You know, serials—especially the old ones. They don’t make much other than dramas down here anymore. I think it’s just cheaper.”
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“Down here?”
“You know, in the warrens, the city sprawls. I don’t know what’s on the Luna net, let alone Earth’s. The catalogs cost too much.”
Hector knew what she meant by catalogs. You could buy solid-state copies of parts of the other planetary nets—snapshots of a given day or week. Other than that, the data delay was too significant to connect. Not between Earth and Luna, though… He shook his head, not wanting to slip down a rabbit hole.
“Want another beer?”
Hector nodded. “Need to flush the bugs.”
“Right, oh, um, you saw the toilet, yeah?”
“Yeah.” His bladder wasn’t quite full, so he stayed put. Meanwhile, Lemon went to the fridge and pulled out another beer.
As she handed it to him, she asked, “So what’s your deal, anyway? Why were you at Grando’s? How come you beat the snot out of his goons?”
Hector snorted, ripping the tab off the beer. “Long story.”
“I’ve got the time—” Ironically, the buzzer on her door sounded, interrupting her. “Just a minute.”
He watched her stand, unfolding from the couch like a cat, and padding over the carpet to the door. While she spoke to someone in murmured tones, he took the opportunity to query his aura system for a status:
//Status:
Level: 1
Archetype: --
Aura Pool: 5/5
Aura Potentia: 3
Attributes:
Strength: 8
Speed: 9
Vitality: 8
Perception: 11
Corpus Vivum Improvements:
--
Abilities and Boosts:
Strength Boost: + Aura
End Report.//
He hadn’t had time to think about it before, but now that he saw his strength boost, he mentally queried the system again, this time asking why it spent his skin’s meager pool of potentia on it.
//Strength Boost Rationale: Corpus vivum limitations… no chosen archetype… based on previous iteration, temporary strength-based archetype chosen… Strength Boost pathways found and implemented… temporary archetype removed. Awaiting input…//
Previous iteration, huh? I guess it tracks. Hector couldn’t deny that his previous existence had been heavily combat-oriented. Born with a red aura, did I have a choice?
Some would argue that he’d relied on his strength from a young age. So he couldn’t blame the AI governing his aura system for choosing that pathway for his first ability. As he stared at the blinking message, contemplating his next “input,” Lemon’s voice rose, and he caught some of the previously hushed conversation taking place through her partially opened door.
“…told you I’d have it in a day or two.”
Probably the rent. Hector tuned her out and instructed his system to begin the archetype selection process.
//Archetype Selection Protocol Initiated
Available Paths:
- The Brawler – strength refined through repetition, impact, and endurance—direct combatant.
2. The Conduit – currents joined, strength exchanged—supporter, unifier, sustainer.
3. The Watcher – perception sharpened, awareness expanded—hunter, marksman, scout.
4. The Bulwark – vitality anchored, resilience layered—protector, defender, unyielding wall.
Notes: Further refinement will occur as paths are chosen and aura potentia is invested. Archetypes may merge, evolve, or be abandoned.
Awaiting Input…//
Hector stared at the display for several seconds, an eyebrow quirking upward the only outward signal of his surprise. Got cleverer since the last time I started from zero, haven’t you? He didn’t expect an answer from his aura system, so he wasn’t disappointed when it didn’t respond. The thing about aura systems was that they were creative AIs, meaning there was randomness built into their personalities. No two were alike, and some were decidedly better than others. Moreover, they could learn, improve, and strengthen the pathways that led to increasingly creative outputs.
Hector’s aura system had been through a hell of a lot—he’d been rough on skins, but he’d gained a mountain of aura potentia over his career, and his aura system had been with him the entire way. The truth was, Grando Scrim had been right to think his neurodeck was valuable, but it was more because of Hector’s aura system than anything else.
When he’d first gotten the system—just a damn kid—and he’d picked an archetype, he’d had two options: Fighter and Runner. He was pleased to see that despite the setback of being betrayed, killed, and left to rot for two centuries, he wasn’t exactly starting from absolute zero again. Looking at his options, he decided he’d probably go with Brawler for a while. He’d build up his skin a bit and then see if anything new opened up. If not, he could switch to something like Watcher—the combination should open some alternative paths down the line.
He was just about to let his aura system know what he wanted to do when the murmured voice of Lemon’s visitor grew louder, intruding on his thoughts, “…right fuckin’ now, or I’ll take it out of your flesh!”
Hector stood up, stepped behind Lemon, grabbed the edge of her door, and pulled it wide. He glared over her shoulder at the man standing outside. He was short, wore a colorful synthetic shirt with sharks and surfboards printed all over it, and sported a pair of gold-framed specs with digital displays flickering with crimson lights. His skin was greasy, he needed a shave, and he wasn’t a handsome man, but he looked sturdy, thick, and well-fed—the kind of guy whose idea of exercise involved a protein shake and forty-five minutes with a barbell.
“The hell do you want?” the man asked, his greasy forehead creasing in agitation.
Lemon turned and blanched when she looked into Hector’s eyes. He put a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her to the side so he could stand more squarely in the doorway. “How much?”
The landlord—Hector assumed—frowned as he stared. “Thirty-two hundred. You got it for her?”
Hector’s scowl deepened, and he turned, peering into the tiny, one-room apartment. “For this?”
“Hey!” Lemon folded her arms over her chest, lips pursed together.
“It’s a fair price for the location,” the landlord replied.
Hector sucked his teeth briefly, then shook his head. “Two weeks.”
The man stepped closer, jutting his thick chest out. “She’s already a week late!”
Hector felt the familiar heat of his temper, but he managed to wrangle it in, only growling slightly as he forced more words out of his clenched jaw. “You want to get paid, or do you want a cracked skull?”
His new skin was thin but tall, and he stared down his nose at the landlord. He knew from experience with other new skins that something transferred with a person’s neural imprint—their engram—something that lived in the eyes. The old Hector, Hector Finalis, was in there, and the landlord caught a glimpse of him. He took a step back, his mouth working open and closed several times before he stammered, “I-is that a threat?”
“Two weeks,” Hector repeated, and then he closed the door.