2pm, time to wake up. Your trideo set comes on with your alarm and the first thing you see is that smug elven face you see every day. Johnny Razor, looks slick as all hell and to get to where he is in television you need to be slick.
Frag, you’ve only just woken up and you’re already feeling jaded. You stand up, climbing out of the military style cot you call a bed, sleeping on something softer feels… wrong, you’re covered in blood, dried on crisp flakes of the stuff peel off. It’s nothing new, just another bill to pay to keep yourself going. At least this time your back isn’t hurting, since Doc Cod set you up with that new spine and reflexes your back hasn’t hurt at all… well apart from the odd twinge, bah, probably nothing.
You have a shower to wash last night’s work off, the water is cold. You’ll should really pay some of those bills omae, maybe when work comes a bit more freely. As you pass your broken mirror, the remains of a real trippy BTL you notice some drekstain must have hit you good and hard, your tusk is chipped. This is going be a real fragging good day.
Walking back into the main room, you fold your bed up and open up the fridge, it’s funny looking at those empty shelves, no cash to feed yourself but plenty of cred to buy that latest software update for your cybereyes. Your stomach cries out, hunger, pain, you answer it by grabbing a bottle of Hurlug, your last bottle too man. Drek, this is going to be a good day.
You drop on the sofa, it bends in towards you, and you’re already heavy set, being an ork does that drek to you, but all that chrome doesn’t help. The projection of Johnny Razor walks around behind you, still running his dandelion eating mouth about some drek that happened last night down at the docks. Frag, someone had a surveillance drone up there and no one spotted it. You scamper for your commlink, it’s not a fancy model but it gets the job done. You’re expecting to see a hundred missed calls from your team but no. It’s going off, your ‘link is buzzing away quietly.
You don’t know the number, but you answer it anyway, it’s a blacked out figure, talking with a heavily modded voice. He saw your handiwork, and is impressed. He wants to offer you a job, move you up from the small fry you’ve been running with so far. Frag off, he just said he’s dealing with the ‘accident’, and just as he said it the trideo of your late night activities cuts out, Johnny’s voice carries on, apologising and saying the footage was an elaborate hoax. When the trideo comes back on there’s some shady looking dwarf being dragged out of his apartment for illegally editing police footage.
You’re free to go, you have a job lined up for tonight. You laugh again whilst grabbing your katana. “Just another day in Seattle.”