Shorts smartworld

The Slumlord

Where Detective Jon Bakker is recruited by one of the City's powerbrokers to locate the mysterious Slumlord... But aren't they just a myth?

[Monday | 13 August 2266]

My back fucking hurt and my neck wasn’t much better. Her Eminence set me up in a hotel, or more accurately, a glorified cell with paint peeling from the walls and ceiling, the bed and floor caked with stains. I didn’t need the OfficEye’s blue light filter to determine where those stains came from. It’s so good of YutopiCorp to shell out for the nice hotel rooms.

I needed coffee. Thankfully, caffeine is one of the few organic drugs that the City hadn’t banned. After making my way into the kitchen, the coffee was less enticing than I’d hoped. The jar looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in more than a year, and the coffee was that fucking instant shit. There was also a decomposing rat buried inside it. Lovely.

I heard a knock at the door, which distracted me from deciding fuck it, and going for the coffee, regardless. “Nice digs,” the woman said as she walked in. She was the slum technician that Her Eminence told me about.

The technician was rather attractive. For someone who’s barely human, that is. Her body had been modified with all types of cybernetic enhancements. Both her arms were bionic, and from what I could tell through her pants, so were her legs. I wasn’t about to ask this stranger to remove her shirt, but if she happened to, I bet most of her torso, if not all of it, was also cybernetic. The mass of hair flowing from the top of her head was purely synthetic, each crystalline strand reflecting the light back at me. On top of that, it looked like she illegally had her genes spliced. Either that, or she’s far older than the thirty she looks, given the City banned splicing sixty-six years ago. But here she was, proudly displaying feline ears and teeth.

“Jonny Bakker, I assume?”

“Just ‘Jon,’” I corrected.

She still called me ‘Jonny,’ presumably to get into my head. Still, it’s no worse than the name she goes by: ‘Mittens,’ can you fucking believe that?

Mittens extended her claws in my direction. I asked her if they’re cybernetic or genomic enhancements. “Anaesthetic,” she told me. The last thing I remember was her slashing at me.

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