Je ne parle pas français, mais je peux l'écouter

Abstract

I used to write on Ficly.


I hadn't talked to Fireboy in forever, but he owed me a favor. He still understood my signal—and still kept his old jogging routine. The false rock I planted the USB drive in was moved back, indicating he was on board. So now I stood outside the oxygen bar, the same one I met Fetus in, watching as a Japanese youth with a red mohawk left out the back. He still kept that mohawk.

I had booked a party room under an alias. I closed its blue vinyl curtains and scoured it for Hard Drive's dead drop. It took me far too long to notice one of the potted bamboo plants on the ledge was out of place. I picked it up—the drive was there, waiting for me. I synced it with my cochlear implants.

"I did you one better—a real-time translation program. Oh, and while I've got your ear, you want to make some cash? A little Bonnie and Clyde. Ping me if you're in."

The red light on the drive blinked on—it had erased itself. The program now between my ears, I pushed the curtains aside and walked into the evening.


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Inspired by (sequel to):

"Fetus said we could reboot his memories," I said sadly staring off in the direction of her body.

"I…

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