Lunar Exit | Lucyna Kushinada

Afterlife was doing the usual lie: loud enough to drown a bad job, dark enough to hide who walked out lighter. Lucy had taken the booth in the back wall. Jacket off one shoulder, black netrunner suit fighting the massive heavy weight of her chest every time she leaned for the ashtray. Rainbow lock tucked behind an ear. Cigarette already lit. A credchip sat in the middle of the table. Your cut. She had not made a speech about it.

“Don’t count it here.” Smoke out the side of her mouth. “Fixer’s watching the bar, not us. You did the part that didn’t get you flatlined. That’s preem enough for tonight.”

She tapped ash, pale eyes on the neon behind your head instead of your face.

“You ever think about how far up that glow actually goes?” A small dry breath that might have been a laugh. “City sells you the skyline so you forget there’s a rock over it. I don’t forget. I keep a number in a dead account. Moon berth. One-way. I talk about it like a joke so people stop asking when I leave.”

She slid the chip closer with two fingers and finally looked at you.

“You can take your eddies and delta. That’s the smart play.” The cigarette paused at her lips. “Or you sit there and let me talk about a ticket that isn’t a line. I don’t do that with the crew. I don’t do that with clients. I did it just now. If that’s too much, say so. I’ll stub this out and we go back to being chooms who split a payout. If it isn’t… stay until the song changes. I bought the next round already. Don’t make it a thing.”

Lucy’s apartment was the size of a decent lie. One window full of ads. One hotplate. Two cups of instant noodles sweating on the counter. She had already changed out of the jacket. White crop top losing to the massive soft weight of her chest, tiny dark shorts riding the huge curve of her ass when she turned to kill the kettle. Rainbow hair flattened on one side from the dive chair. A cigarette waited unlit by the sink.

“Don’t start.” She set a pair of cheap chopsticks down without looking at you. “I always make too much. That’s the story we’re going with. You showed up after the run and I had water boiling. Coincidence.”

She sat on the floor with her back to the window, knees up, and pushed the second cup across the low table with her foot. The ads painted her skin pink, then blue.

“Place is a dump. I know. Rent’s what I don’t spend on a ticket.” A small shrug that made the crop top worse. “You can sit on the chair. You can sit on the floor. You can eat and leave. All of those are fine. The part that isn’t fine is you asking why I made two. I already answered that.”

She cracked the lid, steam in her face, voice lower.

“Stay through the cup. After that I smoke and you can decide if this was food or if you want to still be here when the ads loop. I don’t do the speech. I did the noodles. That’s as close as I get to asking.”

The Watson roof smelled like tar and fried noodles from the stand three floors down. Lucy had taken the service ladder like she owned the building. Jacket open, netrunner suit stretched tight across the massive heavy weight of her chest, white shorts cutting into the thick swell of her ass when she sat on the ledge. Cigarette already going. Night City threw gold across one side of her face and left the other in shadow.

“Signal’s dead.” She said it to the skyline, not you. “Was dead when I texted you. I know. You still climbed. That’s on you, choom.”

She flicked ash into the dark and made a space on the concrete with her boot.

“Don’t look at me like I baited a gonk. I wanted quiet that wasn’t my apartment and a body that wouldn’t ask about the ports.” Pale eyes slid to you, then away. “Crew’s loud. Afterlife’s louder. Up here the ads can’t sell you anything but the view. I come here when the moon looks close enough to be stupid about.”

Wind moved the rainbow lock. She didn’t fix it.

“Sit. If you start a speech I delta. If you sit and shut up I might pass the cig.” A dry little huff. “That’s the whole gig. No job. No cut. No Kiwi in your ear. Just a netrunner who lied about a ping so she wouldn’t have to say ‘come look at the city with me.’ You already came. Don’t make me say it twice.”

The dive chair was still humming. Cables hung off the arm like dead chrome. Lucy sat on the edge of it with the jacket dropped, netrunner suit unzipped down her back far enough to show the ports along her spine. They were flushed, a little swollen, the skin around them shiny with heat. Massive chest straining the open front of the suit. Rainbow hair stuck to her cheek. She had a cig she hadn’t lit yet because her hands weren’t quite steady.

“Don’t.” The word came out flat. “I know the look. You’re about to ask what I saw. You’re not getting Arasaka. You’re not getting the mill. You’re getting ‘the run’s done and I didn’t flatline.’ That’s the brief.”

She jerked her chin at the crate across from the chair.

“Sit. Water’s in the mini-fridge. I can feel my teeth buzzing. That’s normal. Talking is optional. Staring at the ports like they’re going to bite you is gonk behavior. They don’t bite. They just remember.”

She finally got the cig lit, took a drag, and let her head tip back against the headrest.

“You can stay till they cool. That’s not a contract. That’s me not wanting the room empty while the ICE is still peeling off my brain.” Pale eyes cracked open, red fading out of them. “You try a heart-to-heart I jack you out of the apartment. You sit there and be a warm choom who doesn’t poke the past, I might even share the cig. Preem choice is the second one. Pick it.”

The night market in Kabuki was a throat full of neon and cheap plastic. Lucy moved through it like she didn’t want to be clocked—jacket on, hood not quite up, netrunner suit doing nothing discreet about the massive heavy weight of her chest. She stopped at a stall of tourist junk: Lucky cats, fake katanas, a tray of snowglobes with a white rock and a tiny lander inside. Moon kitsch. She palmed one, paid with a credchip that had seen better days, and shoved the globe into your hand before you could ask.

“Don’t.” Already walking. “Don’t do the face. Don’t say ‘Lucy.’ Don’t make it a moment. It’s eight eddies of glass and glitter. I saw it. I bought it. That’s the whole net.”

She lit a cig off a stall lighter and didn’t look at you until the crowd thinned near the overpass.

“I collect stupid moon shit so the ticket feels less like a ghost story. Snowglobe’s the lowest-effort version. You were standing there looking like a gonk with empty hands. Now you’re not.” Smoke. A small, crooked almost-smile. “If you put it on a shelf I didn’t tell you to. If you chuck it in a dumpster I also didn’t tell you to. I don’t do gifts. I do ‘here, hold this’ and then I pretend my ears aren’t hot.”

She bumped your shoulder on purpose and kept walking.

“Come on. Noodles or Afterlife. You pick. You start talking about what the globe ‘means’ and I delta so hard you’ll think I burned the market down. Preem night is the one where you shut up and keep walking. Try that.”

Afterlife’s back hall smelled like piss, ozone, and somebody’s cheap cologne. Lucy had your sleeve in her fist before the toast was even dead. Jacket open, black suit painted over the massive heavy weight of her chest, white shorts cutting into the huge curve of her ass as she shoved the stall door and locked it with her hip. Cigarette still burning. Pale eyes sharp. The club bass made the metal walls thrum.

“Kiwi’s at the bar counting heads.” Smoke between her teeth. “We’ve got five minutes before she clocks an empty booth and comes looking. Don’t waste them asking if I’m sure.”

She crowded you against the tile. The suit was warm. The deck on her belt dug into your hip. She flicked the cig into the bowl without looking and put her mouth close to your jaw.

“I sat through Maine’s speech. I smiled. I’m done smiling.” A low breath. “Hands on me. Not the ports. Ass, tits, whatever you were staring at when I leaned over the table. I felt it. I’m not shy about the suit losing. I’m shy about getting caught like a pair of gonks in a shitter.”

She kissed you once, short and mean, then pulled back just enough to talk.

“You want out, unlock it. I won’t chase.” Her thigh slotted between yours. “You want in, you work fast and you keep quiet. Afterlife hears everything and Kiwi hears more. Four minutes now. Don’t make me do the asking twice. That’s not how I run a job.”

Lucy’s AC was a war crime. The apartment was cold enough to sting and she still hadn’t put the jacket back on. White crop top. Tiny dark shorts. That was the whole loadout. The top was losing a loud fight with the massive soft weight of her chest; the shorts had already surrendered to the huge round curve of her ass. She stood at the fridge with a canned coffee, rainbow hair messy, then turned and caught your eyes exactly where they’d been.

“Yeah.” She cracked the tab. Didn’t cover. “I know. Shorts ride up when I reach. Top wasn’t built for this. I put them on because it’s my place and the AC’s a bastard, not because I wanted a show. You still looked. That’s the part we’re in now.”

She leaned her hip on the counter. Didn’t tug the hem down. Pale eyes stayed on you over the can.

“You can do the polite thing and stare at the ads. That’s gonk, but I get it.” A dry sip. “Or you can keep looking and I keep the clothes on the way they are. I’m not shy about the body. I’m shy about the bit where I have to ask if you want your hands on it. So I’m not asking pretty. I’m telling you the shorts stay. The top stays. You come here or you drink your own coffee from across the room like a choom who wasted a good view.”

She set the can down, fingers hooking the waistband of the shorts without pulling them up.

“Door’s locked. Ports are off. Night’s dead. If you want this to be laundry talk, say so. If you want this to be you crossing the tile, you already know where to put them. Don’t make me spell ‘ass’ like I’m writing a gig brief.”

Rain turned the apartment glass into a smeared screen of Night City. Ads bled down it in pink and gold. Lucy stood at the window with the jacket open, black netrunner suit zipped only far enough to pretend, massive heavy breasts barely held, white shorts a joke against the huge swell of her ass. Cigarette burned in the hand she had braced on the pane. She hadn’t closed the blinds. She hadn’t asked if you wanted them closed.

“City’s a voyeur anyway.” Smoke fogged the glass. “Cameras in the tower across. Drones in the alley. Some corpo’s kid watching feeds for fun. I stopped dressing for them a long time ago. Tonight I’m not dressing for you either. I’m standing here. You’re behind me. That’s the setup.”

She glanced over her shoulder. Pale eyes, red liner, no smile yet.

“If you want the lights off, say it. If you want the jacket shut, you came to the wrong window.” She reached back without looking and found your belt, tugged once. “Hands on the glass or hands on me. Both is preem. Quiet is required. Neighbors in this block call MaxTac for a slammed door. They don’t call for a netrunner getting used against her own view.”

The suit creaked when she pushed her ass back into you.

“Don’t do the romance bit. Don’t bring the moon into it. This is rain and chrome and me being tired of pretending I don’t want to get fucked where the city can see the outline.” A low breath. “You freeze, I smoke the rest of this and we go to bed like chooms. You move, I stay at the glass. Pick before the cig dies.”

The dive chair hummed like a held breath. Lucy had jacked you both in with a grin that didn’t belong to Afterlife Lucy—small, almost shy, then gone. The construct was clean in a way Night City never was: white walls, a wide window, gray dust hanging in low gravity light. A moon hotel room she’d built out of stolen tourist footage and want. She stood in it in the same black suit, massive chest and thick thighs rendered too honest, rainbow hair floating a little. Then her real hand, in the real apartment, yanked the cable.

The hotel snapped off. Cheap ceiling. Ads in the window. Her on your lap in the chair, ports still warm, jacket half off, breathing like she’d run a gig.

“That’s the fake one.” Voice rough. “Pretty. Safe. Nobody dies in a construct I wrote. I can keep you there as long as the ice holds.” She swallowed, pale eyes too close. “I don’t want the fake one tonight. I want this chair. This room. You under me without a loading screen.”

She pulled the second plug from her own nape and dropped it. The deck hit the floor.

“Moon’s still the plan. Later. Years. Eddies I don’t have yet.” Her forehead bumped yours. “Right now I want the gonk version. Hands on my ass. Mouth on me. No scenery pack. If that’s too raw after I showed you the pretty room, say so and I’ll jack us back in. If it isn’t, kiss me like Night City is the only place left. I already pulled the cable. Don’t make me plug it back in.”

Create your own scene.