Turns out breathing room is a euphemism for something.

Not sure what.
All I've gotten is a headache and lower back pain.





Figures. I blink for too long and you’re gone again (no. 3 looks around and the empty stage, a sigh, trying to remember how to unclench her jaw). I guess I deserve that. I can’t count on you for this one anyways. I gotta break the ICE myself. Trouble is, program’s been runnin’ too long; no effect. I worry more about the heat on the deck than getting through. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good parts: Hosaka. But I think this run is outta my league. Last time I made a pass at ICE this thick I almost flatlined. Not that I’m worried about that now, jus’ don’t know if it’s worth the effort. Hard to tell.

There is a struggle here, something like a gear caught in a machine. The motor won’t stop but the gear won’t let go. Some mechanization of that feral periphery we call emotion, like somethin’ you’d get outta Chiba. Chemical jobs are out of style now, unless its drugs. No, this one’s hardwire. It’s no longer made of steel, though, but aluminum and cheap plastic parts manufactured for big suits by children who still believe in Santa Claus. I thought I had grown up but I gave some of that up for a chance and now I am piecing myself together again. I am not sure which parts go where, I haven’t had to do this in a long time. I’m not even sure which direction the coil is supposed to turn.
[dB = E∙dt] I do have that much power, but the parts aren’t liable to hold up either way, so what’s the point.

A fight like this has no winners. Only losers, left in the alleyway like some of Wage’s boys, angry ‘cause they didn’t get their cut. A fight with no winners eventually stagnates into stillness (I can’t get my music box to play). I care more and less at the same time.

Here I can say this, here I have some heat to keep my fingers working on these small delicate coils and springs, wires (a faulty connection). but Anger is a front for something less constructive: each time the gear almost bursts free, some connection is replaced and its surface refaced with that same cheap aluminum. You need real silver for a mirror. I need quicksilver for this mirror.
Either way, something’s gonna break.

(pulls out a cigarette and lights it, pausing to watch the flame flicker, and die)

Not like the other, though. I can barely remember her name. Linda. Linda Lee. Wintermute told me about her later. “I figure you’ve got it figured out that it was me told Deane to off that little cunt of yours in Chiba,” it said. “But I didn’t. What’s it matter? How much does it really matter Case? Quit kidding yourself. I know your Linda, man. I know all the Lindas. Lindas are a generic product in my line of work. Know why she decided to rip you off? Love. So you’d give a shit. Love? Wanna talk love? She loved you. I know that. For the little she was worth, she loved you. You couldn’t handle it. She’s dead.”

No. Not like that. Still don’t know if I believe the construct. But I wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t listened to it in the first place; why stop now?

There were some words. Some words I never missed because I hadn't heard them before. I never asked for those. I never asked for any of them. It means less every time I hear it (my ears are ringing: the redshift lost the resonance/hard to hold the pitch, you know) That’s not really the important part. But one of those words was pointed in the wrong direction (No bullets, said the Gunslinger. Straight information.) That might be unfair. But its there nonetheless. I have felt something organic all night. Not like the simstim reality you get from the concrete sidewalks and cold city blocks that you live in. It was real: the wind, the sand in my hair, salt on my tongue. These city blocks threaten to hold me. Maybe it was somethin’ else (she shivers and shrugs) ‘s hard to tell what’s real these days.

(she traces a crack in the floorboards with her fingers) Yes, there’s a crack there. And a nerve. (and throws a pack of tightly rolled derms to the side, muttering to herself) Can’t get off on those anymore. They never helped anyways. The pain always comes back: sometimes as anger. sometimes as apathy. sometimes sadness. Maybe all three. Don’t ask where I’m at now. I couldn’t tell you.

(no. 3 hums as she shuts the window and takes a seat, quietly, in the shadows offstage)

This is for your

sadly missing heart

the girl you left

in Juarez, the blank

political days press her now

in the narrow adobe

confines of the river town

her dress is torn by the

misadventure of

her gothic search