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Taking Action
I jack out. Data streams trickle away like dying brooks, and slowly the chip reroutes my sensory nerves. My optics fade back, and I’m met with the gloom of my apartment. I rub my temples, squeeze shut my eyes for a moment before opening them. Jacking out always gives me a headache; ever since this damn implant, it’s been getting worse.
It’s not much of a sight. Beers lie scattered across the floor, gathering dust. My old terminal’s shoved in a corner—useless now except for clerical bullshit. With my implant I can jack in anywhere, access and edit my files directly on the Interweb. It’s got all my old case files, though, so I haven’t canned it. Not yet, anyway.
A message blinks bright olive on the machine, alien in the gloom. I punch the button.
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