[i][b]—— Earth-F67X: North Capital City, Chinatown[/b][/i]

Mateo dropped into his bottom bunk, a stained and thin yellow foam mattress glued on a metal frame welded to the inside of a black MercSadé knockoff conversion van parked somewhere in the New New York Chinatown arcology. Cozy, he felt, as he wiggled his toes and tranced to the neon red afterimages of the phosphorescent interdigital contour lines on his Vertx armored toe socks, bottom plated in Mg-Al alloy Kikko-style hexes and the only attire he needed or wanted on his body on this sweltering swamp ass night if it became critical to madlad down the trash-strewn alley without needing to b-line for a t-boost at the charity clinic. His socks were brand new and brand name, the only thing like that he owned. Van-mate gone for the next hour, Mateo took advantage and plugged the USB into his bootleg nEXtFlesh mastoid interface for a high fidelity direct-connect to the web. He had scrounged and saved a year for this, well, and for the socks. He was excited to meet his virtual therapist.

Occipital interrupt established, the neon red blurs on a black canvas morphed into an afternoon in a field somewhere, a hill of gold grass gently declining into a perfect celadon lake. Warm sunlight and a gentle breeze soothed his skin and he felt the urge to strip naked and go for a swim, but an androgynous voice interrupted:

[i]"Welcome Mateo Ruiz-Malavé to inCite Personalized Therapy, E-tier. What would you like to talk about today?"[/i]

A look around revealed he was completely alone, not exactly the level of interaction he wanted. 

[i]"Can I, uh, talk to a person?"[/i]

[i]"A human representative is available for A-tier plans and above. Would you be interested in upgrading or do you wish to settle for a human facsimile via avatar and continue your A.I. interaction?"[/i]

[i]"Uh, avatar I guess. A bro I can relate to and not feel threatened by, but still be real with. Can't afford A-tier."[/i]

A line of heat traced his face, he felt it despite the interference of the uplink. A scan. He blinked. Down by the lake a guy who looked similar to himself was sitting next to a fishing pole, line sunk in the water, bob motionless. Dank graffiti gray-and-gold hoodie, darkwash bootcut jeans, buzzcut, tossing back a cold one. Maybe in his early 30s. Hispanic. Meteo walked down and the man turned to him and said, [i]"What's up, Cuz? Sit down, have a drink, and hit me with what's been up in life." [/i]

[i]"Heh, you really do look like my cousin. Nice sleeve, bro. Quite the history. Galitae? HKT? Ampbacks? Drip for her, root for them, and damn they better win the cup this year; am I right?"[/i] 

They bumped fists, the A.I. nodded, that slight upward chin tilt, and went back to contemplating his line. That's when Mateo noticed that there was only one arm on the guy. An amputee. Not even bothering with a prosthetic. Now that was confidence. He knew he'd definitely go with a prosthesis, at the very least to switch-hit while jacking it. Anyway, that wasn't what he was here for, he was here for answers, and there was only one way to get those. Mateo began talking:

[i]"I think maybe I should stop. Yeah, I have a list. Two bodies of sweet revenge deep. But, I don't know. I didn't feel it as much the second time. If I do it again it might just be the motions, and then what, I've become some sort of psycho? A cold-blooded killer? Is that what I want out of this?" [/i]

[i]"You mean you killed someone?"[/i] the A.I. queried. 

[i]"The advert said this is confidential. No data sharing or reporting." [/i]

[i]"Absolutely, Cuz. Just between us. But, uh, what was it like? Your first time."[/i]

Mateo paused and thought about it. Images visceral in his mind splayed before him, crisp and lifelike as rerendered by the occipital enhancement of inCite's memory recall module. His dad was at the top of his list, the bastard who let the Corporate Holy See bamboozle him into making his child an eternal preteen fuckboy in exchange for food vouchers, but Mateo worried that would be too personal. That there'd be too much rage. So he started from the bottom. The Vatican doctor he barely knew, that bitch who improperly installed the GnHR-blocker in his hypothalamus so that it could never be removed without irreparable damage.

[i]"My dad beat mom a lot, so I guess you could say I didn't have qualms about killing a woman who did me dirty. It took a long time to track down who she really was, the Corporate See has a habit of moving those types around a lot. But they are great record-keepers. So I got in touch with a hacker who helped me find some bootleg ice breakers. Don't know where he found it, but one was counterintelligence tier. I only use it when necessary, but it adapts really well. Posed as an altar boy, snuck into the admin office, hooked in, and blasted the CHS firewalls. Found the bitch who done it. She lived close, up in Dutchess. Single. A nun who failed at being the good type of doctor, if that even exists."[/i]

[i]	"Anyhoo … nuns these days don't always live in convents. This one lived in some lowsec gatecomm by her lonesome. Pathetic. No mods, at least none that helped in a fight. Me either, at the time. It was late October-ish, so I posed as a trick-or-treater, a real killer with a real machete and fake costume hockey mask and convenience store jumpsuit. You know who. Chit-chatted the guard at the entrance to the gatecomm, said I was cute, no idea I was there to near-field break their security cams. That done, I found my target, waited until clear, rang her bell, slit her throat, kicked her back across her threshold, and let the screen door slam shut as she slammed to the ground with her hands on her throat. I was fucking terrified. Instant cold sweat, chills, the works. Looked around, nobody in sight. So I ran. Climbed the wall, escaped the gatecomm, and sat in the woods for an hour trying to catch my breath."[/i]

[i]	"Kinda a blur after that, but the ten minutes before I can tell you every little detail. What she was wearing, what kind of candy she put in my jack-o-lantern … how fucked up is it that as I sat in the woods I woofed down that shit like a fucking animal?"[/i]

The A.I. must've taken his pause as a request for response. With all that rambling, he'd gotten a bite on his rod. Not sure what kind of fish, maybe a trout. It was green and orange with black stripes. With one good hand, the A.I. reeled it in. It thrashed in a rusty metal bucket between them, not so noisy as to ruin the mood. Part of Mateo expected some sort of canned response or condemnation. He got what he could pay for, after all. Instead, the A.I. set a hand on his shoulder and looked at him, dead in the eyes, set his rod to the aside, and said, 

[i]	"A man's gotta eat."[/i]

They shared a weird serious moment, then the A.I. cracked a smile. Spontaneously, they both cracked up, laughed like a duo of fools. It felt good, really good. Not just to get some history off his chest, but to find some reason to laugh about what happened. After they settled, Mateo reclined on the grass and looked up at the sky. Relaxed. All sorts of clouds in all sorts of shapes. Then he heard the A.I. say,

[i]	"A man's also gotta feel there's justice in life. If society doesn't give it to him, if society makes it unattainable within its frameworks, well, that pushes him to act out or give up. Always better to act, otherwise you're not a man. Not a person. Just broken. Justice has evolved, in theory; it use to be retributive, then proportionate, then rehabilitative. Of course, for guys like us, we know it is always about who can buy it. Still, the theory holds. We want to feel we've gotten a fair shake. We want to feel we've given a fair shake. So, tell me, Cuz, how do you feel about the justice you gave your first victim?"[/i]

About to respond, but the A.I. interjected with an upheld hand and told Mateo, [i]"Next session. Think about it."[/i]

A low long tone, the world went dark, and Mateo was hit with bold gold holographic sans-serif: [i]We hope you were satisfied with your inCite personalized therapy session. Your account has been debited for 28 compute cycles.[/i] Unplugged, but deep in that interstitial choroidal haze, he almost threw up when a hand grabbed his dick and gave it a rough jerk.

[i]"Ar-Em, fall asleep watching porn?"[/i] his van-mate mocked, [i]"you reek of sweat. This whole place does."[/i]

[i]"That's your fucking crusty-ass socks, Kostas, you unwashed shit. How you can pull them on when they're hard as concrete, I don't want to know. And keep your hands to yourself unless you want to lose them,"[/i] Mateo shot back. They were both assholes, which was why they tolerated one another. Kostas was wannabe Yakuza wrapped up in black nylon with an acute case of hydrophobia so bad that Mateo actually celebrated the day he went noseblind. CyBax Eu Pom in Pine Barrens was no substitute for a solid dip in the Hudson, Mateo's preference. [i]"And before you shoot off, tonight is too hot for clothes. This may be your van, but I pay my rent."[/i]

[i]"In fast-ramen,"[/i] yawned Kostas, who pulled himself into the upper bunk and tossed a stiff sock down at Mateo.

[i]"Doesn't even matter!"[/i]