Chapter Twelve

  Fitting the Part

  The cacophony of Helix City pressed in around Riley as she walked, each step taking her further from the Wayfarer's Lounge and deeper into the mechanical heart of the metropolis. A chaotic symphony filled the air—grinding machinery, desperate voices, and the bone-deep rumble of mag-lev tracks that threaded through the city's steel spine. Neon signs fought a losing battle against the perpetual smog, their glow diffusing into sickly halos that painted the rain-slicked streets in restless waves of color.

  She paused at an intersection, adjusting the strap of her worn bag. The fabric was fraying at the edges—another reminder of how far she was from belonging in this chrome and neon world. Chirp hovered at her shoulder, his optic swiveling in precise movements as he mapped their surroundings. The little drone's soft beeps were barely audible above the city's din, but their familiar pattern steadied her racing thoughts. He'd been with her since before Helix City, since the endless sand and rusted metal of the Driftlands. Sometimes she wondered if he was the only one who really knew her anymore.

  "Just us against the world, huh?" she murmured. Chirp's lens contracted slightly—his version of a smile—and he bobbed closer to her shoulder.

  Riley pulled her hood up, letting the fabric cast shadows across her face as she merged into the flow of foot traffic. The air here was different from the Driftlands—no sand, but something worse. Each breath filled her lungs with the acrid taste of industrial progress: recycled air heavy with metal particulates, the bitter tang of coolant, and underneath it all, the faint chemical sweetness of syn-tobacco from the countless workers trying to take the edge off their shifts.

  Her mind buzzed as she replayed the meeting, each detail sharp and cutting. Rio's quiet authority hadn't surprised her—you didn't lead a crew in Helix City without having steel in your spine. But Aura... Riley's jaw clenched at the memory of that predatory smile, those cybernetic eyes scanning her like she was something scraped off a boot. And Phase—the autodoll's chrome-plated presence had sent ice through her veins. There was something deeply wrong about the way they moved, each gesture too precise, too calculated. Like watching a spider decide where to strike.

  "I won't break," she whispered, the words half-promise, half-prayer. Chirp trilled softly, the sound somehow managing to be both concerned and encouraging. Riley reached up absently, her fingers brushing his warm casing. "Thanks, little guy."

  After a few blocks, she spotted a public access terminal tucked into an alcove, its cracked screen flickering beneath the tired glow of an ancient sodium lamp. The light cast everything in jaundiced yellow, making the terminal's graffiti-scarred surface look almost diseased. Riley glanced around, old habits from the Driftlands kicking in—check your corners, watch the shadows, know your exits. Satisfied no one was paying too much attention, she stepped into the alcove.

  The interface was a relic, its haptic sensors so worn that her fingers came away grimy with years of accumulated street dirt. Chirp positioned himself above her shoulder, his sensors sweeping back and forth across the cramped space. She'd programmed that protective behavior into him years ago, after a close call with raiders near the Edge. Now it was just part of who he was.

  "Alright," Riley muttered, navigating through menus that responded with all the speed of cold syrup. "Let's see what we've got." Her fingers moved with the efficiency of someone used to working with outdated tech, compensating for the lag with practiced taps and holds. She keyed in searches for climbing gear, tools, clothing—all the things that would help her look the part. Play the part. Survive the part.

  The first results made her stomach sink. Sleek boutiques with names like "Summit Elite" and "Vertex Prime," their logos all gleaming chrome and pulsing light. Places that catered to corporate climbers who wanted to look edgy on their carefully controlled adventures. Places where someone like her would stick out like a dust storm in a clean room.

  But there, near the bottom: Gutterworks. The logo was simple, utilitarian, promising "practical gear for practical people." The reviews were sparse but genuine, mostly from maintenance workers and others who lived in the city's shadows. Riley felt something loosen in her chest. This was more her speed—a place that understood sometimes you needed gear that worked, not gear that sparkled.

  She scrolled further and found Nova Threads, advertising "tactical wear for the modern professional." The models in their ads wore sleek bodysuits and reinforced jackets, all clean lines and hidden strength. Riley looked down at her hoodie, one of the slightly oversized ones ZigZag had gotten for her. It was comfortable and practical for everyday use. But here? Here she needed to be invisible. Forgettable. Professional.

  A voice that sounded suspiciously like Aura's echoed in her head: "Nice threads rookie. Did you mug a recycler for those?" Riley's fingers curled into fists, then slowly relaxed. She wasn't that person anymore. Couldn't be that person, if she wanted to survive here.

  "Alright," she murmured, sending the locations to Chirp's navigation system. A faint map overlay appeared in her goggles, the recommended path glowing like a neon lifeline through the urban maze. She logged out of the terminal, wiping her hands against her pants and grimacing at the grey smear they left behind.

  "Time to evolve," she muttered, stepping back into the flood of pedestrians. Chirp beeped in agreement, and together they moved deeper into the glowing labyrinth of Helix City, toward whatever version of herself waited on the other side.

  Gutterworks announced itself like a bruise in the city's neon skin. The shop squatted between a defunct repair clinic and a synth-noodle stand, its entrance marked by a sign that sputtered in amber letters: GUTTERWORKS. The sign's broken circuits created an arhythmic buzz that seemed to crawl under Riley's skin. The windows were a palimpsest of old advertisements, some peeling away to reveal older layers beneath, others cycling through animations so dated they looked like stop-motion.

  The chemical cocktail of oils, solvents, and recirculated air hit Riley as soon as she stepped inside. It was a familiar smell—the smell of things being fixed, broken, and repurposed. The narrow aisles formed a maze of shelves packed with equipment, each section illuminated by stuttering fluorescent bulbs that cast everything in a flickering dance of light and shadow.

  Chirp stayed close, his gentle humming almost lost in the ambient noise of ancient climate controls and the subtle movements of other customers. Most kept to themselves, faces hidden behind masks or turned away from casual observation. Riley recognized the behavior—the careful way they moved, the attention to sight lines and exits. These were people who understood the value of anonymity.

  The sheer variety of gear was overwhelming. Some she recognized from her days in the Driftlands—basic tools, climbing equipment, the kind of stuff you needed to survive in the wastes. But mixed in were pieces of tech she'd only heard about: neural interface adapters, gravity manipulators, things that belonged in corporate catalogs rather than this dimly lit shop.

  Doubt gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, familiar and sharp. What was she doing here? Playing at being a professional, when just weeks ago she'd been scavenging tech from dead zones? Aura's mocking laugh seemed to echo off the cluttered shelves.

  "No," Riley thought, squaring her shoulders. "I survived the Driftlands. I can survive this." The thought had steel in it, and she held onto that feeling as she moved deeper into the store.

  Near the back, a wiry man leaned against the counter, his cybernetic hands dancing over a datapad with inhuman precision. Blue optics whirred softly as they adjusted focus, the mechanisms just visible beneath synthetic skin that had seen better days. His name tag read 'Crest' in letters that looked like they'd been carved with a knife, and his expression held the carefully cultivated disinterest of someone who'd seen enough to know when not to look too closely.

  Those glowing optics flicked up as Riley approached, scanning her and Chirp with mechanical efficiency. A slight tremor ran through his right hand—old tech, probably salvaged—but his voice was smooth as synthetic silk. "Looking for something specific, or just browsing?" The question carried no judgment, just professional curiosity wrapped in casual tones.

  "Tools," Riley said, keeping her voice steady despite the way her heart hammered against her ribs. "Gloves, boots, glass cutter. Climbing gear."

  Crest's eyebrow lifted slightly, and his optics re-calibrated with a soft whir. "Got it." He set the datapad aside, the movement accompanied by the subtle whine of servos. "You're not the 'cheap knockoff' type, are you?" The question had an edge to it, like a test.

  "Not when my life depends on it," Riley replied, meeting his cybernetic gaze.

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, genuine this time. "Smart answer." He stepped out from behind the counter, his movements accompanied by the almost subliminal hum of synthetic muscles. "Follow me."

  He led her to a section near the center of the store, where climbing gear hung like high-tech talismans in the flickering light. Crest's cybernetic hand reached up, servos whirring softly as he pulled down a pair of sleek black gloves. "NeoGrip Ascenders, Version 2.1," he said, the blue glow of his optics reflecting off the material. "These aren't your standard grip-and-pray garbage. Micro-suction pads for glass, retractable spikes for concrete and rougher surfaces. Smart fabric adapts to pressure and temperature."

  Riley took the gloves, running her fingers over the material. The fabric seemed to respond to her touch, subtle patterns rippling across its surface like black water. "Neural feedback?" she asked, noticing the thin lines of circuitry woven through the palms.

  "Good eye," Crest said. "Basic pressure and temperature sensing. Helps you know when you've got a solid grip before you trust your weight to it. Won't save you if you do something stupid, but it'll warn you before you do."

  She flexed the material between her fingers, remembering the makeshift climbing wraps she'd used in the Driftlands. Those had been better than nothing, but this... this was like comparing a burning torch to a plasma lamp. "Durability?"

  "They'll outlast most of the competition," Crest said, then added with a knowing smirk, "Unless you're planning to go free-climbing on fusion reactors."

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  "Not this week," Riley muttered, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. Chirp bobbed slightly, his own version of amusement.

  "Smart." Crest moved to a lower shelf, pulling out a pair of boots that seemed to absorb the ambient light. "These work with the same tech. High ankle support, impact dampeners in the soles—good for landing hard or moving fast. The grip patterns sync with the gloves' neural feedback." He set them on a nearby counter, his cybernetic fingers tapping a quick rhythm on the material. "Together, they're a complete system. The kind of setup that makes the difference between a clean getaway and a long fall."

  Riley crouched to examine the boots, noting the subtle seams where the impact technology was integrated into the soles. The material was unlike anything she'd seen in the Driftlands—probably corporate tech that had "fallen off a transport," if she had to guess. But out here, asking those kinds of questions was a good way to close doors you might need open later.

  "What about a glass cutter?" she asked, straightening up.

  Something sparked in Crest's optics—interest, maybe even curiosity. He led her to a locked display case where tools gleamed under targeted lighting. His cybernetic hand moved with fluid precision as he keyed in a code, the case sliding open with a soft hiss. He selected a slim silver tool, its edge gleaming with an almost predatory shine.

  "Nano-Edge Series 5," he said, holding it up so the light caught its cutting surface. "Uses molecular manipulation instead of brute force—cleaner, quieter, and doesn't leave trace evidence. Perfect for reinforced glass and synthplas." He balanced it on his palm, the tool looking deceptively simple. "The cheaper models will get you through a window, sure, but they'll wake up half the block doing it. This?" He gestured with his cybernetic hand. "This is for professionals."

  Riley took the cutter, surprised by its weight—or rather, its lack of it. The grip seemed to mold to her hand, tiny sensors adjusting to her hold. "Response time?"

  "Instant," Crest replied. "No warm-up, no cool-down. Point, cut, move. You're either in this business to do it right, or you're in it to get caught." His optics fixed on her, the blue glow steady. "Which are you?"

  She met his gaze, her fingers tightening slightly on the tool. "I'm in it to survive."

  A knowing smile crossed his face as he collected the items and headed back to the counter. "In Helix City? Same thing." His cybernetic hands moved efficiently as he processed the transaction. "Word of advice?" he added as she handed over her cred stick. "The tech helps, but it's not magic. Trust your instincts first, gear second."

  Riley nodded, watching as her account balance dropped precipitously. The number hurt, but not as much as failing would. "Thanks," she said, gathering her purchases.

  "Don't thank me yet," Crest replied, his voice dropping slightly. "Just remember—this city eats the unprepared. Make sure you're not on the menu."

  Riley stepped back into the street, the weight of her new gear both reassuring and daunting. One stop down, one to go. She glanced at Chirp, who hovered faithfully at her shoulder. "Nova Threads next," she murmured, more to herself than to him. But he beeped encouragingly anyway, his presence a constant in a city of variables.

  The neon signs seemed brighter now, their glow reflecting off the countless surfaces of Helix City like fractured diamonds. Or maybe, Riley thought, she was just starting to see them differently—less as gaudy distractions and more as the city's own language, writing stories in light across its mechanical face.

  Nova Threads was everything Gutterworks wasn't—sleek, polished, aggressively modern. The shop's facade gleamed with brushed metal and plasti-glass, its logo floating in crisp holographic detail: NOVA THREADS. Display windows showcased mannequins in tactical wear that somehow managed to look both deadly and fashionable, their surfaces treated with light-absorbing materials that seemed to drink in the neon glow.

  Riley's reflection in the windows made her wince. Her attire—practical and worn—looked like a relic next to the cutting-edge designs. For a moment, Aura's sneering face flashed in her mind: "Playing dress-up won't make you one of us, sandrat."

  Chirp nudged her shoulder gently, his optic adjusting to project a soft, encouraging glow. Riley smiled despite herself. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Can't stand out here forever." She squared her shoulders and pushed through the door.

  The transition from street to store was jarring. The chaos of Helix City fell away, replaced by climate-controlled air that carried the subtle scent of synthetic fabric and ozone. The floor was polished to mirror shine, and ambient lighting shifted in response to movement, creating an almost liquid effect as she walked.

  "Welcome to Nova Threads!"

  The voice was bright and sharp as crystal, belonging to a petite woman with hair and eyes genetically modified to match the shop's aesthetic—both shifting through subtle gradients of pink. Her name tag read 'Sarah,' and her black vest was cut with such precision it looked painted on.

  But there was something else about her—something in the way she moved, the too-perfect alignment of her smile. Riley's eyes narrowed slightly. Not an autodoll like Phase, but definitely enhanced. A partial convertion, probably. The kind of modifications that cost more than Riley had ever seen in her life.

  "Looking for something specific?" Sarah asked, her smile never wavering.

  Riley shifted her weight, suddenly very aware of the new gear in her bag. "Need something flexible. Durable. For... movement."

  Understanding flickered across Sarah's face, her enhanced eyes doing a quick scan of Riley's frame. "Ah, I see. Professional wear?" The question was careful, wrapped in layers of plausible deniability. "Follow me. I think we have exactly what you need."

  She led Riley toward the back of the store, where the lighting dimmed to showcase a collection of tactical wear that seemed to absorb light. Sarah's hand—organic, but with subtle dermal enhancements that caught the light—reached out to pull a bodysuit from the rack.

  "Our latest line," she said, professional enthusiasm bleeding through her corporate polish. "Hybrid weave with adaptive properties. The fabric responds to body temperature and movement, providing support where needed while maintaining full range of motion." Her fingers traced the geometric patterns that flowed across the material. "These aren't just designs—they're thermal regulation channels. Keeps you cool under pressure, warm when you need it."

  Riley reached out hesitantly, surprised by the material's responsiveness. It felt alive under her fingers, like something between fabric and liquid metal. "The fit?"

  "Smart fabric," Sarah replied, her enhanced eyes cycling through scanning modes. "It'll conform to your measurements precisely. More importantly," she lowered her voice slightly, the corporate veneer cracking just enough to show something more genuine beneath, "it's designed for people who need to move without being seen. Or heard."

  Riley looked up sharply, but Sarah's expression had already reset to professional neutrality. "The fitting rooms are this way," she said, her voice back to its crystalline brightness. "Take your time."

  The fitting room was a tech showcase in itself—smart mirrors that adjusted to different lighting conditions, atmospheric controls that could simulate various environments. Riley stood for a moment, still in her old gear, studying her reflection. The girl who looked back at her seemed caught between worlds—too rough for the chrome and neon, too changed to go back to the sand and rust.

  "Well," she murmured to herself, "can't stay in between forever." Chirp beeped softly in agreement.

  She stripped off her old clothes, the familiar fabric falling away like a shed skin. The bodysuit slid on with an almost predatory eagerness, the material seeming to seek out every contour of her body. For a moment, it felt alien, constraining—then the smart fabric activated, adjusting to her form with microscopic precision. The sensation shifted from restrictive to reassuring, like armor that had chosen her.

  When she looked in the mirror again, her breath caught. The person staring back at her wasn't the scavenger from the Driftlands anymore. The matte black material seemed to absorb light, the geometric patterns flowing across its surface like liquid circuitry. It made her movements look deliberate, dangerous—professional. The fabric enhanced her lean muscle without being ostentatious, suggesting capability rather than advertising it.

  "This is who I need to be," she thought, turning to check the suit's range of motion. Every movement was fluid, unrestrained. The material didn't so much stretch as it anticipated, adapting to each shift and twist before she completed it. She dropped into a crouch, then rose smoothly—no binding, no resistance. Perfect for climbing, for running, for surviving.

  When she emerged from the fitting room, Sarah's enhanced eyes did another scan, this time with unmistakable approval. "The fit is perfect," she said, and for once the corporate polish in her voice seemed genuine. "Would you like to see our selection of—"

  "Just this," Riley interrupted, already reaching for her cred stick. She couldn't afford anything else, this was going to eat the last of her savings.

  Sarah's smile never wavered. "Of course." She began processing the transaction, her augmented fingers dancing across the haptic interface. "You know," she added, her voice dropping to just above a whisper, "I used to work corporate security. This suit? It's not just about looking the part. It's about becoming invisible in plain sight. Understanding that kind of value... that's what separates the professionals from the dead."

  Riley met her gaze, seeing past the pink enhancements to something harder, more familiar. "Thanks," she said quietly, taking her receipt.

  Sarah's smile shifted into something more genuine, just for a moment. "Good hunting."

  The walk back to Sable's apartment was a blur of neon and shadow, the city's eternal twilight broken by occasional flashes of real darkness. Riley's new purchases felt like anchors, grounding her to this new reality she was choosing. Or maybe, she thought, the reality that had chosen her.

  The apartment door recognized her biometrics, sliding open with a soft hiss. The familiar smell of gun oil and synthetic coffee washed over her—Sable's personal perfume. The older merc sat at the kitchen table, a steaming mug in her cybernetic hand, its chrome fingers reflecting the dim light like liquid metal.

  "Well?" Sable asked, her augmented eyes scanning Riley's new outfit with professional assessment. "How'd it go?"

  Riley set her bag down, the gear inside clinking softly. "It went—"

  "Show me," Sable interrupted, setting her mug down with a decisive click.

  Riley pulled out the climbing gear first—the gloves and boots drawing a slight nod of approval. The glass cutter earned a raised eyebrow. But when she finished unpacking, Sable's expression hardened.

  "No weapon?"

  The words fell like stones in still water. Riley felt her stomach sink. "I... didn't think—"

  "Exactly," Sable cut her off, standing with fluid grace. "You didn't think." She moved to the black plasteel door that Riley had always wondered about, keying in a code with quick, precise movements. "Rule one of survival: never rely on others to keep you breathing."

  The door slid open, revealing an armory that made Riley's breath catch. Racks of weaponry lined the walls, each piece maintained with obsessive care. The smell of gun oil was stronger here, mixing with the metallic scent of ammunition.

  Sable moved through her collection with practiced efficiency, selecting a sleek 9mm pistol and a compact shoulder holster. She added a utility harness to the pile before turning back to Riley. "Here," she said, holding out the gear. "You can borrow these. But when you get back, we're getting you your own."

  Riley took the equipment carefully, the weight of the pistol unfamiliar but somehow right. "Thanks," she said quietly.

  "Don't thank me," Sable replied, watching as Riley began adjusting the harness over her new bodysuit. "Just don't make me regret it." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You do know how to use that, right?"

  Riley hesitated just a fraction too long.

  "Driftlands," Sable muttered, like it was both an explanation and a curse. "Sit down. Lesson time."

  For the next hour, Sable drilled her on proper handling, maintenance, and most importantly, judgment. Her instructions were precise, delivered with the kind of intensity that spoke of lessons learned in blood.

  "Remember," she said as Riley practiced drawing from the holster, "this isn't about looking tough. It's about staying alive. You draw only if you're ready to shoot, and you shoot only if you're ready to kill. Anything else is just asking to die."

  Finally, satisfied that Riley wouldn't immediately shoot herself or give away her position, Sable stepped back. "When you get back, we'll hit the range. Get you properly trained." She paused, studying Riley with an unreadable expression. "You clean up nice, kid. Almost look like you belong."

  Riley checked her reflection in the window—the tactical suit, the holster, the utility harness. The gear from Gutterworks packed efficiently in a new bag. Chirp hovering faithfully at her shoulder. She barely recognized herself, and maybe that was the point.

  "Ready?" Sable asked, though it wasn't really a question.

  Riley nodded, tightening the last strap on her harness. "Ready."

  "Then go. And Riley?" Sable's voice held an edge she hadn't heard before. "Come back alive. I hate wasting good gear on corpses."

  The words could have been harsh, but Riley heard the concern beneath them. She nodded once, then stepped out into the neon-painted night, Chirp at her side. The city stretched before her like a maze of light and shadow, full of promises and threats.

  She wasn't a Driftlands scavenger anymore. She wasn't quite a professional either. But for now, she looked the part. And in Helix City, sometimes that was enough to keep you breathing until you became what you pretended to be.