[center][img]https://sketchbook.tsukimori.co/wp-content/uploads/Toyoi-Yuuta-Japan-dailylife-03.gif[/img][/center] [hr] [center]JUNE 15th 2099 - 27 C - 15 MPH - 1:00 PM[/center] [center] [i]VIRAL CONTAMINATION IN MYCO VATS FORCES RECALL OF ALL HONGYANG PRODUCTS - SOMALIAN PIRATES SPOTTED NORTH - PLATINE-TAKAHASHI HEIR ANNOUNCES DIVORCE[/i][/center] [hr] [i]Chew Law Cafe , Canton Canal[/i] [b]The[/b] evening clouds wept over New Malacca, yet, the neon fire kept burning in the sea. At least, that’s how Marcus sees it. Pearl of the orient. Jewel of the South China Sea. Hah. The only jewel of the sea he ever saw was one at the bottom of a ceramic mug. Speaking of which………. “ Kopi Kosong. Susu soy ” Marcus speaks in a clipped voice to the robotic waiter - an old 2030 model that’s more of a tourist attraction now rather than something functional. Its old hydraulic joints shift and clack as the holo-screen glued to the front of its chassis reads out his order before grinding on to the next table on its treaded tires. Chew Law Cafe is in a paradoxical state of being packed and empty at the same time, customers filtering in and out at a dizzying rate. It reminds Marcus of a factory line, automated, precise, efficient. The sad truth for most in New Malacca is that to live here is to be on the move constantly. Marcus sighs, shakes his head and looks outside the kopitiam while mindlessly rifling through his afternoon paper. There are two things that Marcus believed were a part of Hibiscus Lanel. First was the nosy hawkers that got in your way and second was the rain. The latter was on the forefront today as the sky thundered above. It rattled on the corrugated tin roofs that were a staple of the district and poured down the gutters onto the syncrete walkways, pooling into puddles. All of it flowed down towards the central river that snaked its way through New Malacca. The main headline almost made Marcus puke. The 70th anniversary of New Malacca isn't something to celebrate about, no matter how much Mayor Yokgan touts it around like a political bat. New Malacca isn't rising above its bloody past. It’s sunken already and anyone who tells themselves otherwise in Marcus’s mind is a fool. He flips over to the next page. Corpo adverts. Independent journalism hidden behind mountains and mountains of useless drivel. He’s lucky that his order arrives fast enough to distract him and even luckier that the kopitiam has a refill policy. 5 hours pass in a tumble of odd passerbys, more cups of kopi and crossword puzzles. He looks at the clock when the sun streams onto his table top. 6:30 PM. It’s only a fifteen minute walk anyway. Marcus folds the paper two times into a bundle and tucks it underneath the crook of his elbow. He sets out on a stroll on the east side of the Canton Canal. The sunset turned the Canton Canal from its blue countenance into a river of rust, its oily glimmer rippling over the surf. It has darkened into the color of brick, eddies of red swirling as if something lived underneath the great wreck, with gnashing jaws, waiting to grab him by the neck. Marcus takes his time walking. Life is meant to be savored, not rushed into a pit of needles and gunfire. All the while, he stares at the set of coordinates stuck within the bottom right hand corner of his cyber-optic along with a single name. Suraiboshen. Silver Ocean. The distance doesn’t matter. 1 kilometer, 200 meters, 10 feet. Only one number matters. 500,000. He crosses over an old bridge, past a young tourist couple who were politely haggling passersby to take a photo. He walks past a labyrinthian alley of drooling AR addicts with a pile of burnt out sim-chips on their side. Past a lazing gang of motorboat racers lounging on their rides. Past the thick heavy fume of incense and myrrh from street shrines that were plastered to the sides of old buildings. His joints creak and crack. His lungs feel like they’re on the verge of popping like over-inflated balloons. The metal glued to his flesh repulses him, even after all these years. His mind tries to focus on the destination but his body pulls him back with doubt. His left hand, flesh and blood, not the plastic fake on his right, tightens, nails biting into his palm. He can do it. He still has to. New Malacca will have to die first if he doesn’t. It’s only when he crosses over 34th Mcgonagall Street and turns the corner of a conga line of antsy hover rickshaw drivers does Suraiboshen finally come into view. Situated near the borders between the Canton Canal and Hibiscus Lane, it’s awfully quaint for its popularity. For one, it’s not plastered with enough holo-adverts to make him puke nor is it like the multi-story high rises of the tradeplex. The restaurant settles for being a relic of a past with its squat temple-like facade and terraced bamboo eaves. Paper lanterns dangle on the corners as a wind blows through the area. It’s bold in its unassuming nature. Marcus respects that. A single rope bridge connects it from the side of the canal to a set of sliding lattice doors with Japanese iconography. Two men, with sloping shoulders and tower like frames, are waiting side by side to each other at the front of the entrance as he walks closer to them. Each of them have clean-shaven heads, save for the top-knot sprouting from the back,a web of circuitry and metallic sutures lining the sides of their skull. Their hands rest on a blocky handgun that looks more like bricks of metal. Both of them wear clean-pressed dark suits with polarized shades that fail to hide their red optics. " Are we just going to stand here? " Marcus holds out his hands to the side, nodding at them. " Or are you going to search me?" The left guard holsters his heavy-calibre sidearm and pulls out a oblong device that screeches intermittently every so once in a while as it passes along each and every corner of his body. He pauses, checking the instrument. His eyes glow meanwhile, a minute long conversation taking place in the span of seconds inside his head. He then nods, " You're clear to go through. Don't go in waving your heat around and you'll be fine." " Surprised you're letting me keep my weapon." Marcus says sarcastically. " Seems like a high-class joint like this should practice more stricter security standards." " Our [i]employer[/i] believes that our client should have adequate insurance." Big and Large to the right gruffly sighs in annoyance. " To a reasonable extent, of course. If you had any explosives or packed something much larger than that dinky little thing...." His voice trails off as he lets out a snort of amusement. "Besides, you're not much to write home about, old man." " What my partner means to say, sir,...." The left guard softly speaks in a more diplomatic tone. "...is that Suraiboshen operates with the open-carry firearm laws of New Malacca. We trust that you understand the consequences if you discharge your weapon in this place. Many guests are fond of this place." He emphasizes the last word. “ That being said, please wait in the hallway. You will be called by our employer once the others have arrived.” Others? Marcus did his best to not show his surprise and merely raised an eyebrow. “ I thought this was going to be a solo job.” “ Our employer never specified otherwise.” There was a sharkish smirk on the guard’s face that was quickly replaced by a stoic mask of professionalism. Marcus wondered how they entertained themselves if their job was to stand around and look intimidating all day. All right. He’s willing to play along. Marcus enters into the building and the door shuts with a soft click behind him. A lacquered wood hall greets him with long benches on either side. Two people have arrived already, sitting a fair distance from each other. One is as small as him, dressed slick in a stylish long coat that is adorned with heavy metal buckles. Marcus immediately doesn’t like him. The toothpick in his mouth doesn’t do him any favors. The other is still, spine straight like a sign post, with their legs locked at a 90 degree angle. The hijab covers her features so that only her face is revealed. Her dimpled grin is offset by the black rims around her twitching eyes. He makes note of the curved scabbard behind her back, barely visible underneath her polyester cloak. How did they allow [i]that[/i]in? Marcus ignores the piercing stares he gets. Let them judge. He understands that in terms of appearances, he’s practically endangered as it gets. 30 is the new 90 in the age of Paradigm organics and other bioware startups. One telomere therapy is all you need to turn back the clock. He sits down, brushes the dust off his pants and rolls his shoulders, taking in a deep breathe. He just needed to do one job. Even if it meant working with other people, one job. 500,000 asyuan. The door at the end of the hallway was the key to his future and he'd be stupid to let as something as trivial as teamwork get in the way of that.