I’m on an aimless walking tour of Night City. Somehow I’ve ended up in the Japantown neighbourhood’s Arasaka-financed streets, where animated billboards for ‘Sweet Clean Speed’ and pornographic braindances climb the flanks of utilitarian skyscrapers, blotting out the stars with a rainbow of neon. I pass a ramen shop, a hot dog stand, and a man selling spice, piles of garbage tucked beneath the offramp behind him. A mob of Christians gather at a nearby intersection, screaming “Blasphemers!” at the cops.
A voice makes booming proclamations in Japanese from loudspeakers overhead, flying cars crisscross the invisible roads between buildings. The sky glows with light pollution, but the moon is full and clear. It’s a beautiful night.
I just left Judy Alvarez’s place. My friend’s been through a lot lately. Someone close to her has been victim to a string of horrors. We had a big heart-to-heart, undermined by the presence of arm-knife crosshairs fixed on her forehead
