The neon on her back reflects on the water left on the street. She moves over the puddles left by the rain, never leaving her mark, never leaving any traces. I open de car dor on my side, while the car opens the door for her.
The vodka smell still clings to me. I didn´t drink much. She won't let me. Narinha was always watchful. Vigilance apps, blinking just behind her beautiful eyes. She moved her glass around, never really touching it. We left when the smoke was so thick I could probably swim on it to leave the bar.
My permits expired yesterday. The fusion with the Cape Town company went even southern. I got shot, twice, still a few meters from the bar door. Not much damage, really, a few of the hundreds of flechettes crossed through my executive bodysuit, but barely scratched my skin. The neurotoxin wasn't enough to kill me, the nanos on my body kicked in and repaired it quickly, while drugging me, all this during my spinning descent to the ground shooting back.
Time is a commodity. We trade on it, we eat it, we shit it. I´m still in the bar, lamenting. Is all holos and smoke in a neon dream of past mistakes. I received a call from Sylvia. New documents, with a face that don´t match my own, an encrypted flight ticket to this face, a gun mesh for my old soon-to-be-bleeding hands.
His own executive bodysuit absorbs the hammer rounds, while he staggers. There is a flicker on Narinha and I shoot on her direction. They are a couple. I urge Narinha to get into the car. No word was given, just emotions on an electronic medium that somehow is read by her in mid-flight from the second assailant.
We are all jumping and shooting and praying, lighting up the streets with hammer bullets, flechette rounds and soon, holo light.
She worms in on the passenger seat while I move father from the car. The other ballerinas clad in black, block my passage. The car is dead, I can't ask for any favors. An alarm blinks on my left eye, a timer of sorts. I´m cooking. The sleek, black hovervan is pointing a microwave canon on my direction.
I call. Bets are off, lead is in. The old gun almost rips her whispery arms, while the powder booms. One of the dances is caught off-guard, the shot does nothing, just gives more of her time to me, surprise buying in from pellets on her back. The first, the one who shot me, only blinks, but that is enough. And they know it.
Half fried, half clawing on the ground, the hammer gun pops more bullets, this time on the cannon. I hear a loud ping, with something imploding in me while the timer goes off. Just in time.
They are back on their feet and I´m almost discharged. They have to know, and the girl goes to Narinha, now realizing she can be a threat, holo or not. Antiques can be bothersome when they explode behind you.
We are back on the pissing match. His flechette smg and my bulk hammer gun. Another timer caught my attention, between the horde of numbers on my eyes. The mesh is almost done.
"Come on! Spin me around like an old record! You look like a lot of fun!" I scream between bleeding, clenching teeth. My eyes on the woman, who jumps inside the car. Narinha screams in terror. The guy, with rainbow lipstick and bulk arms, jumps again. The adrenaline keeps me talking while I try to figure how to not fuck this up. "Come on! I want some! If I could trace your private number, baby..." I left it hanging on, while I spin right round, right round like a record, just a little bit closer. When he noticed my shouts are not from my mouth but on his head, I was too close already, with the meshed hacking gun on a hand and the hammer on the other. Too close indeed. It goes bang and no suit could support it. He crashes.
Narinha flicks and shocks and cries loudly. The car bounces wildly. She must know her partner is dead, but she also knows what the holo means to me. "No time to revenge! Leave and I won't kill you". She knows I´m lying, but I had to try before jumping in. A boot knife almost cuts into my windpipe the instant I went into the mess. Time is flowing. The hovervan is landing. fuckfuckfuck is the name of the new game. Nothing sexy when we wrapped around the other but must have been love since we get ourselves out by the back of the car glass frame, with small pieces of it lighting up with rain and neon lights.
I reach for the smeared flechette gun, unfireable if I hadn't a hacking pistol. We are embraced and I shoot her through my soon-to be-not-my-face-anymore-anyway. If it hurts? Only when I tried to laugh maniacally while I chased the non execs at the hovervan. Their end was near when they noticed I picked the pace after leaving the last dance on the wet asphalt. They were right.
Tired, bleeding, smelling of cheap vodka. The holo on my daughter supports me while we get into the car again. Just like any friday night in Recife downtown. I drive on the back seat, while my face is being rebuilt. Not sure how we really got back home, all got in confused thoughts and images and sounds and smells, after a certain amount on drugs drowns me in.
I woke up with the awful heat and the smell of urine and oranges. Sour, sweet, home.
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