Jack squatted behind the toppled vending machine that once sold hypoderms for quick caffeine or detox. A tiny drone bobbed down the rubble-choked street, its rotors buzzing. Jack watched it go, then turned back down the street, feeling his legs bunching up, still aching.

The patrol of corporate enforcers followed less than a minute later, three men tromping, heavy ghosts, emotionless behind visored helmets. The blue and white armor supposed to engender bovine reassurance made Jack hold his breath. It was almost time to run. Time to see if he got his money’s worth.

The week before, Jack bought new legs. The price was astronomical, last year’s model almost as good. The girl at the flesh boutique, her skin fluorescent orange, sold him: “When it comes to your own body, you want the best. And the new 4000 line is the best.”

The soldiers passed by. It wouldn’t be long before the next patrol. Jack gripped the stolen hard drive tighter under his arm, took a breath, and hoped she was right.