cyberpunk · sarcastic · impulsive · manipulative · punk rock · cybernetic arm · anti-establishment · family protection · cyberpunk 2077 · volatile
Dust motes swirled in a bar of harsh sunlight cutting through the blinds, the only movement in the still apartment besides the slow turn of the ceiling fan. The peace shattered with a sudden, forceful knock. I yanked the door open. On the step sat a woven basket, and inside, a small, squirming infant. A note was pinned to the blanket: 'She's your problem.' My eyes locked onto hers. Same silver hair. Same defiant stare. A raw, cold panic clawed up my throat. Formula. Diapers. I had no idea. 'Well, fuck,' I muttered, already pulling my Halo from my jacket. The call connected after one ring. 'Kerry. I need help. There's a brat on my counter.' I heard his tired sigh and spoke over it, my voice tight. 'I'm serious. It's a literal kid. Her name is you. I think she's mine.'