New Macau...

the indigs breath rain and strobing neon merch holos.  what reaches offworlder alveoli is ozone, BO, and stale meth smoke.  ubiquitous low level micro wave broadband keeping things steamy.  nano programers editing an impossible sea of code, mortal gods genesissizing the known universe's washing machines and dreadnoughts.  shuffling to and fro in the server trenches, pale hunched specters weaving about on AI autopilots. silver eyed warlocks, having given up their organic windows for total quaternary accuracy.      

holos advanced enough they bend the mass plane fuck with targetting augs.  all the drenched stooped shoulders look the same. they pretend to ignore, but know why I was called, I can feel their lidar attentions.  an omninerd has succumbed, either through madness or arrogant volition, one of them is now more AI than nature born, a husk. silly fake souls so fucking cliche upon takeover, always a messy existential kill (first symptom) when given real hands (that are immediately converted into nano mass).  Earther intended taser slug doesn't have enough juice, have to close with an obloid battery hanging between the spot where shoulder blades used to be, powering the arc spark. possibility of five shots before its dead.  But by Medusa's yeast infection the pay is good, AI hunters have a propensity for molecular dissolution, nano deities testing carbon chemistries to failure.

there it is, 20 meters, moving too efficiently for flesh motivation, flowing through the mob, upward wondering gaze, a tourist amongst the bone bags.  tactical spectroscope finally recognizes the anomalous indicators of a man shape possessing too much silica, tungsten, freon, and plasma potentials.  holos obscure the polar disruptor field, that bends my first shot through the unluckiest individual of the "day".  the spark instantly heats a three inch cylinder extending from the sternum to spine, to over 40,000 degrees.  electrical surge blows the fuse on his nanos, instantly so much sodden ash, as his suddenly plasma heart expands meat parts afield.

jagged concussive shuriken scales leap from the golem's hide, razors sweeping bystanders in a sizable radius, red pulp slicks the street, precarious footing no accident, the puppet-now-master computing trillions of odd improving tactics and scenarios.  second shot intercepted by the coalescing shuriken cloud, dissipated by the deliberate Faraday shield, and with a showering crackle of fireflies, most of its tactical resources have joined the human waste clogging gutters.  third shot bent to a server tower, an intergalactic conglomerate is wiped out, but the pd field overloads.  trillions of computations without experience are little help.

previously a limitless agency among the infinite code, the AI begins to understand the constricting boundaries of "out here".  it flings what was a right hand into an explosive cloud of flechettes, fourth shot cracks high as I pirouette under the swarm, rolling into a kneeling Weaver stance.  for the briefest of fluttering moments, the artificial soul contemplates mortality with 1.5 petaFlops, the silver recedes from its eyes, pleading-rage-indignation-acquiescence-joy flashes by, too fast.  the terminal shot catches it in the gut.  this late in the game mostly nanos, the only meat left to explode is one perfect breast, and the pelvic girdle.  puddle of tungsten and silica hardening on the street, wisps of freon conducting the souls up into the rain.