Page 162 of Neon Flux

“You have a choice. Even now.” DITA’s voice was gentle. “Your programming—your biology and experiences—influence your choices, but they don’t determine them absolutely. That’s what makes you human, Eon. Not the electricity in your veins, but what you choose to do with it.”

My pinky twitched as another wave hit. “What if I make the wrong choice?”

“There’s no wrong choice,” DITA answered. “Only consequences. Some you can calculate, others you cannot.”

“Then calculate this for me: what happens if I take the Vector?”

DITA remained silent for several seconds. “Your physical symptoms will abate and your Flux will stabilize—temporarily. And something in you—something I cannot quantify—will retreat further from whatever it is that truly frightens you.”

“Which is?”

Another pause. “That’s beyond my ability to calculate.”

The electricity beneath my skin built to a painful crescendo. I thought of Cy’s face as I’d left—blood streaming from his broken nose, confusion and something like recognition in his eyes. He’d seen me—really seen me. Not the sex worker, the junkie, or the cyberrunner. Me. The part of myself I’d buried long ago, hidden behind different masks. And he’d wanted more.

That terrified me.

Almost as much as how much I wanted him too. How much I wanted to be vulnerable with him, even knowing it would only lead to pain. Nothing good in this world lasted. Not in this city, not in this system. Everything was broken down to its most basic pieces and sold back to you at a price no one could afford.

Just one hit. Enough to smooth the edges. Enough to make the electricity in my blood sing in harmony, not discord. So I could think clearly.

My pinky twitched involuntarily, reaching for the drawer. For the VaPurr. For oblivion.

“Your Flux chip activity indicates increasing instability,” DITA warned. “Without intervention, you risk damaging surrounding electronics and potentially your central nervous system. I can call Dev. He can—”

Sparks shot from my hands, and the lights in my apartment surged, then died completely. Emergency power kicked in, casting everything in a faint red glow. In that crimson light, I looked like I was covered in blood.

My hands shook as I yanked open the drawer, fingers scraping frantically along the underside until they caught on the smooth cylinder of the VaPurr taped beneath. The fluorescent green liquid inside pulsed with its own heartbeat, calling to me.

“E, this course of action will set back your recovery significantly,” DITA said, her voice softer now. “Cy has access to the detox, you should—”

“Mute.” The command silenced her instantly. I couldn’t face her algorithmic concern—not when every cell in my body was screaming for relief. Not when the thought of asking him for help again felt unbearable.

I raised the VaPurr to my lips. One hit. Just to stabilize. Just to think clearly.

The synthetic strawberry flavor hit my tongue first, followed by the acrid chemical burn as it seared down into my lungs. I held my breath, counting silently. One…two…three.

The effect was instantaneous. The discordant electricity in my veins smoothed into a perfect hum. The shaking in my hands stilled. The raw edges of my awareness sharpened into crystal clarity. Everything that had felt overwhelming moments before now appeared as a series of solvable problems.

I exhaled a plume of vapor, shimmering with violet-white sparks—my Flux responding to the chemical catalyst.

I grabbed the broken holoprojector and let my power surge unrestrained, rewriting the hardware—new circuits where none had existed, new connections forming as solder flowed at my command.

My mother’s smiling face reappeared.

As my fingers hovered over the device, something else flickered through my enhanced consciousness: my mother’s face. Not the smiling projection from years ago, but how she looked now—one side slack, eyes uneven, struggling to form words. What would she think of her daughter now?Demonio.

I dismissed the thought, the Vector sweeping it away. Before, cut so deep, I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. Now, it was merely data.

“DITA, unmute.”

“I’m here, Eon.” Her voice sounded more robotic than ever before.

“Contact Taos.”

“Connecting.”

As the call connected, something stirred beneath the synthetic calm of the drug—a white-hot anger searing through the chemical clarity. Anger at POM, for the system that kept people like my mother dependent, hoarding solutions just to protect their profits. Anger at myself, for every moment of cowardice. And anger at Cy, for showing me a glimpse of something I couldn’t have, couldn’t trust, couldn’t afford to need.