Walking through the streets alongside her father is certainly a treat compared to being on her own. It’s not a surprise; he’s got heavy modifications and displays them proudly. Leather jacket open to reveal chiseled steel, and gigantic arms that whisper an implicit threat. The crowds split as though he were Moses, like his chrome was a testament to the divine.

  Alex finds that shit hilarious, and does no small amount of teasing at home, much to his chagrin. Would they fear him if they knew how much of a teddy he was? Probably, he’s called Alhayig for a reason, but it’s an entertaining thought to imagine him struggling through the mass of humanity just as she does.

  His pace is sedated, so that she doesn’t have to push herself. He’s got a bunch of kindness quirks like that; small actions designed to make her life easier.

  It’s sweet.

  Alex likes to hum little tunes during their father-daughter time. She doubts he can hear her over the hustle and bustle, considering he hasn’t touched sensory enhancement yet. That’s the trade off with having so much chrome, now his sanity doesn’t have enough bandwidth to handle more, and the gang is very particular about the health of their Demons.

  Now he has to wait, like her. Must be frustrating, sure he’s been through an intense course of modifications but it’s all so…human. His only truly esoteric modification being his four eyes, and that’s just to give him a greater field of view. Nothing truly horrifying.

  Those are rare, even with the Bastion. They have a tendency to reach the end of their lives drowning in insanity, so she’s glad her father isn’t one of them. He deserves so much more than to just be a tool to use and discard.

  Eventually they reach their destination, a quaint mechanic shop by the name of Yasana’s Broken Wheels. Not the most flattering of names, but that’s kind of the point.

  Sayyid walks into the shop’s garage with Alex close behind. He follows the sound of welding to find Yasana welding new metal into a car that looks truly mangled. Apparently mechanics were used for something other than repairs, tire changes, and general software checkups, but that was long before her time.

  Gidou’s got a few models of gas cars, which she always found cute. He has a fanatical love for the antique, swearing that someday he’ll get his hands on a twenty first century Bruiser. She searched up what those were, and the image of her gidou driving a humvee through the city's streets is highly amusing.

  Baba crosses his arms and waits for Yasana to finish with her segment, he’s probably pinged her already but the woman isn’t the type to leave something unfinished. A bold move, if it were anyone other than her and Baba.

  Those two have a kind of understanding, not…really based on mutual respect, but something similar.

  Yasana gets up from her welding and takes off her mask, revealing a…ginger. Yeah her parents must have really liked the exotic if that’s the name they picked.

  She puts her hands on her hips and huffs, turning to her father. “Finally decided to show your ugly mug Alhayig?”

  “In the context of how you just said it, it would just be Hayig,” Sayyid says with an amused smile.

  “Oi, I’m not looking for a lesson in arabic. You left your ride here for way longer than I’d normally allow, if you weren’t a big scary Demon I might have had it towed.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he snorts. “But I appreciate the gesture, had a lot of contracts this week. The gang’s been busy.”

  “That business with The House?” Yasana ventures.

  “Yeah.”

  “If it weren’t so good for business I might find it sad that the two big boys are throwing mud at each other,” Yasana says. “As it is, ya’ll shooting up each other's cars puts plenty of creds in my pockets.”

  “It hasn’t gotten to the point of full blown war, and hopefully never will. So where's my keys?” Sayyid says

  “One second,” she walks over to a small office and Alex notices her rummaging through a box as she curses a storm.

  Eventually she holds up a pair of keys triumphantly and makes her way back, tossing them to baba.

  She looks at Alex and hums. “Sorry kid, didn’t say hello did I? Well now I am, hello.”

  “Hey Yasana, you’re making it a habit to forget I exist.”

  “What! Bullshit!”

  “I’ve been pinging you for days, and you haven’t answered once!”

  “I’ve been busy,” Yasana grumbles.

  “And I’m hurt.”

  “And I’m dad,” Sayyid nods to himself.

  Yasana and Alex just gave that man a disgusted look, the mechanic woman even gagging for added effect.

  Sayyid looks supremely uncaring of their judgement.

  “Get the fuck outta here, I ain’t suffering your stupid ass jokes,” Yasana says.

  Sayyid chuckles and walks off to the parking area where a bunch of cars sit either waiting for repairs or for their owner. Alex follows and waves animatedly at Yasana, who reciprocates with a small wave of her own.

  Sayyid holds up the keys and presses a button on the magnetic wonder; a horn blares just a couple of meters to the right and they both head over. Eventually they spot the Dinra, a four seater muscle car with a big front end and a bunch of spotlights on its top.

  It’s got a black base with Egyptian iconography painted in red on its sides. It’s a little strange that her father owns a four wheeler, he’s a biker after all. He’s explained to her that this is his work whip; blast proof armor and bullet proof glass providing much better protection than a motorcycle ever could.

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  Whatever damaged this shit must’ve been insane. Sayyid doesn’t like to tell her, worried that she’ll have a heart attack or some lame shit.

  She opens the door and takes a seat inside the highly modified vehicle, with her father doing the same on the other side. He presses the button to start the car and it makes a ding in response, the car's interface lighting up in front of Sayyid with a small screen between him and her that he can use as a GPS.

  Diagnostics are solid of course, Yasana does good work as always.

  “You enjoy the walk?” her father says.

  “Yup!” Alex chirps, “I feel like I might actually be getting better, I’m only half dead!”

  Sayyid gives her a wide smile and pushes down on the accelerator.

  -

  Alex grumbles at her cards.

  She’s got two pairs, one of them being a seven, so it’s not the worst hand in the world. But the other three don’t exactly need stellar luck to beat her. She looks at the three cards placed on the table, debating if she should fold. She could still get a three of a kind, which would be good enough that she’d be confident, and there’s no shot at a straight.

  A flush might be in the cards, which is worrying, but that’s the game. Gotta take some risks to make it fun, besides they aren’t playing with big money on the line. Alex grouches and puts a twenty five forward to increase the pot.

  “Damn skinny, from the look on your face I assumed you’d fold. You that confident in the rest of us having shit luck eh?” Omar smirks, a wiry boy with hair dyed red and metal shark teeth.

  Alex scoffs at the boy. “You’re just as much of a skeleton as me, shrimp dick.”

  “Yeah but mine’s an aesthetic choice, it’s different.”

  “Sure,” Ikram snorts.

  “Fuck you beef for brains,”

  “Guys,” Ronan rolls his eyes of magenta. “Can we get back to the game? I don’t got all day.”

  “Sure thing mama’s boy.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, I find it kind of endearing actually,” Alex says.

  Omar snorts and elbows Ronan’s ribs. “Watch out, our resident cripple’s making moves, tap that and you’ll be part of the bone club.”

  “Firstly, gross. Secondly, it’s a genetic disorder, dipshit. So I’d only have to worry about passing it on to my kids. Thirdly, Ronan isn’t interested.”

  Ronan raises a brow. “Says who?”

  “I have a good read on that shit,” Alex nods. “And you’re a straightforward cunt, if you were actually wanting to date you would have just said so.”

  “You’re getting predictable Ronan,” Ikram chuckles.

  “It’s called being consistent, and it’s a virtue.”

  “Sure,” Ikram says as he reaches for a chip and matches Alex’s wager.

  The other two do the same, with Omar making a bit of a show of it. Ronan burns a card and places a new one on the table, and Alex’s eyes light up as another seven graces her eyes.

  Ikram checks, but Alex decides to be a little bold and adds a hundred to the pot. Omar whistles, calculating his next move before he folds and hands his cards over to Ronan. Ronan just smirks and accepts before matching.

  Their eyes turn to Ikram as he seems to contemplate his hand and looks down at his chips. He’s got a good portion, so there’s no real need for him to risk himself if his cards are shit. He grunts and folds.

  Now it’s just her and the dealer.

  Ronan burns a card, then places the last next to the others. It’s an ace, so it’s useless for her, but she’s not worried. The only hand these cards could give that would beat her is a flush, and she doubts Ronan is that lucky.

  Alex places down her only five hundred.

  Ronan doesn’t seem fazed, doing the same. The two of them stare fiercely into one another's eyes, and both flip their cards. Alex breaks out into a smile as she sees all he’s got is a pair of aces.

  “Hah! Get fucked boyo.”

  “Yeah yeah, take your chips. We’ve still got time for a few more rounds.”

  Alex gleefully does so, gathering them all up and adding them into her pile. She likes organizing the chips when she gets them, it feels satisfying.

  Ikram hands Alex the big blind token as Omar shuffles the cards. Alex puts down ten and waits for the cards to be distributed.

  It goes like this for a few more games, Alex doesn’t know how to shuffle for shit so they always skip her turn. She just can’t ever seem to get it right. It's weird. As the game goes on Alex loses a few rounds but overall she’s made a cool fifty creds, enough to get a few drinks.

  “Alright, I’ve gotta bounce. Ma’ needs me for some dumb shit. Try not to do anything stupid” Ronan says.

  “No promises,” Ikram says.

  “What he said,” Alex adds.

  Ronan looks exasperated at them, then turns his gaze to Omar who just shrugs.

  “They’re the dumbfucks, I’m just along for the ride.”

  Ronan rolls his eyes before walking away from the table, exiting the quaint bar they’ve used as their spot to hang. Alex looks at the deck, contemplating playing another round but decides against it.

  No need to test Lady luck.

  “So, drinks?” Alex says to her two ganger friends.

  “Fuck no,” Omar gags. “Shits nasty. Besides, do you even know how many calories are in a pint?”

  “Pussy,” Ikram snorts.

  “So you’re down for a few rounds?”

  “Yeah, this idiot can be our sober chaperone.”

  Omar rolls his eyes, “Cute.”

  -

  Sterile.

  That’s the only word she can think of if you asked her to describe Maverick’s clinic. Like…like a surgical knife, gone through the process of whatever clinic’s do to get germs to fuck right off, sealed in a container only used when it is needed.

  Practical necessity encapsulates the philosophy of this place, and Alex is pretty sure that’s why they’ve pulled ahead of the competition. Some say it’s because of how heavily The Anubis Road sponsors these halls, Alex is partial to the belief that The Road snatched them up once it saw their usefulness.

  Does it matter in the end which is true? It doesn’t to the patients at least, they’re just here to receive excellent care alongside crippling debt. Only corpo’s have health insurance, everyone else has to scrounge what they’ve got.

  Alex gets the luxury of a choice.

  Her condition isn’t lethal, though it will shorten her lifespan. So she chooses not to see the Maestros, chooses not to have them recite what she already knows. Save’s money so baba doesn’t have to take as many contracts, and that’s more than enough reason for her. Not everyone gets that choice though. Sometimes shit happens, whether preventable or not, and suddenly you’re in desperate need of a Maestro or…you die. Her mother is one of those cases.

  Alex has been told repeatedly that cancer research is ever so slowly getting better. That rather than just advancements in diagnostics there’s actual progress, but for too many it’ll be too late. It’s not fair that stepping through the door is always so hard, she’s not the one who’s suffering.

  Pepper deserves to see her daughter, deserves all her family standing beside her.

  Tita squeezes on Alex’s shoulder as the girl stares at the doorway. Alex nods, taking one last centering breath before she authenticates her identity. The door slides open to reveal a quaint room of old pictures and sparse decorations. It’s big for one person, Baba spends almost all the money he makes off contracts to keep Pepper alive.

  The woman in question is watching a show, or was watching a show, now she’s staring at Alex with such a wide smile that it hurts to look at. She’s so thin, much thinner than even Alex. There’s a health monitor tracking all her many vitals alongside a non-rebreather feeding her oxygen.

  Tita gives a knowing smile to Pepper and walks out of the room, leaving the two of them in the presence of their own company.

  “Well come on,” rasps the woman, teeth gleaming in the soft fluorescence bathing the room. “Don’t keep me waiting, mama needs her hugs.”

  Index:

  Alhayig: The Berserker (more accurately, a person of rage)