Neon Archive

Sera climbed the fire-escape lattice like she climbed the city's rhythm—slow and deliberate, finding each point that would hold. Below, the Kasai Quarter unfurled in ribbons of neon and steam: noodle shutters belching fragrant clouds, holo-ads flickering promises in too many tongues, an elevated tram sliding along the viaduct like a silvery spine. Rain had stained the concrete the color of old coins; the air carried a metallic tang and the constant hiss of cooling fans. She kept one hand on her jacket collar; microfibers in the weave warmed when humidity rose and the cheap overlays on her neck prickled with the city's signals.

On her shoulder, Tock clicked and whirred—two patched servos, lenses fogged with a past life. He was pigeon-sized and noisy when pleased. "Tock," Sera said, more to steady herself than to order him. He answered in a staccato of servos that meant nothing to anyone else but to her sounded like a laugh. In his cargo well lay three memory wafers wrapped in wax and a small packet of sesame buns that steamed against her gloved wrist.

She'd been running for years. The job left traces—calluses at the base of her thumbs, a pale scar at the temple where a cheap ocular misfired, and a way of reading faces that could be mistaken for indifference. She wasn't indifferent. She kept warmth in small places: leaving the back door of the block open for the stray cats, tucking a spare patch into a helper's belt, humming the same faulty rhythm when she threaded wires. Deliveries paid and kept her small and mostly invisible.

The wafers were not toys. They smelled of metal and sealant and looked like onionskin under the streetlight—thin layers of someone's laugh, someone's grief. Clients bought them as if they were rare fruit; some to remember, some to forget. Sera delivered both and never asked questions. That was part of a courier's contract: discretion as currency.

From the rooftop she could see the corp towers at the city's lip, their facades stitched with adverts that pulsed like breathing lungs. Vrida Dynamics' logo—an abstract eye—stared down as if assessing every life below. Sera let that stare wash over her without looking away for too long. She had reasons to avoid longer gazes: a string of old questions that tugged like a fishing line when left unattended. Neva, she thought once and tried to let it go. Names had weight here; some sank, some floated. She kept hers folded in the pocket beneath her ribs.

The ladder rattled under her boots. A voice called from the street, warm and familiar. "Sera! You bring Atom his piece?" Hana's stall emitted steam and the smell of frying garlic. "He's been humming your lullaby all morning. Claims it calmed his stomach."

Sera smiled, the movement a small light. She checked Tock, checked the wax seals, and unhooked the strap. The city's current carried her down—one delivery at a time—and for now the world made sense in parcels.