Rikki Six Tory Lane [cracked] -

"What about you?"

The girl held up a data-slate. It was cracked, but the glow on its screen painted her face in ghostly blue. On it, a file was open. A single photograph: Rikki, age ten, standing next to a man in a fusion-core jumpsuit. Her father. And behind him, a street sign warped by heat: TORY LANE. rikki six tory lane

"You'll die too."

"Rikki Six – Confirmed KIA. Debts cleared. Street status: Legend. Survivor: Tory Lane – New identity pending. Mother’s ghost: extracted and uploaded to secure server. Location: unknown. Message from the deceased: 'The seventh one was for you, kid.'" "What about you

"Inside," Rikki said, grabbing the girl's arm. "Now." A single photograph: Rikki, age ten, standing next

Tonight, Tory Lane was quieter than usual. The gutter punks had cleared out, and the air smelled of ozone and rust—the telltale perfume of a corporate sweep. Rikki perched on the fire escape of a condemned syn-flesh parlor, her boots dangling over the abyss. Her left arm, a patchwork of carbon-fiber and salvaged myomer, whined softly as she adjusted her grip on a railgun pistol. She called the arm "Lucky." It was a lie, but it was her lie.

"That’s a street," Rikki said, her voice flat. But her heart—the one organic piece left—hammered against her ribs.