Better than sitting on that damn cliff, watching for something. And I don't know what that something is.
Settling into a crouch beside the building, he turned the audio gain on his helmet up until the bustling slums were just beneath deafening and fixed his eyes on his motion tracker. He could hear countless conversations crashing into one another, the crunch of dirt under feet, and a lot of strange whirring that may have been the prosthetics.
Despite the risk he was taking, he was calm. He lived with risk for the last decade, this was no different. He just had to do what he always did: manage the risk.
Time continued creeping by as he waited in the shadow of the engineering project gone wrong. It had been five hours since he'd woken up. Unless he landed just after dusk, morning would be coming soon. He'd have to retreat back to the hillside if he wasn't able to make contact with someone before then.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a half-dozen- no make that eight indicators on his motion tracker detached from the mass and began moving in his direction. There were seven in a tight group, one lagging behind.
Good. That might make for a good target.
He flattened himself against the side of the structure as the group neared. They were talking. Loudly. From the higher pitch and clearer tones, they definitely sounded young.
A few seconds later, the first two passed between the buildings, barely three meters from him.
Kids. Couldn't have been older than 15.
The others came and went until the one lagging behind was the only one who hadn't made their way onto the field.
It sounded like their feet were dragging in the dirt.
He shifted closer to the edge of the building. If he was going to get away clean, he had to do this right. Otherwise he'd have the entire slum on his ass.
The last kid emerged from between the shanties. Smaller than the rest, younger. His head was down, shaggy hair falling forward over his face. His shoes looked old and worn, and his clothes were several sizes too big.
There wasn't time to worry about the 'why's.
His hands shot out, one grabbed an arm, the other clamped over the lower-half of his face.
The kid's eyes went wide and he tried to pull away but, before he could mount any effort, the young boy was hoisted off his feet.
Sorry kid. And with that, he was sprinting back the way he'd come, boy writhing in his arm.
He crossed through the illuminated section of the field just as fast as he had the first time around. A glance back told him the others hadn't noticed their friend going missing. They were kicking their homemade ball around, chasing each other, trying to take it from whoever had it.
Then he was back out of the light, running along the wall, back to the path he'd taken down. He slowed as he put distance between himself and the slums. Yes, he'd just kidnapped the young boy, but he wasn't going to hurt him. And he didn't want to cause any more stress or discomfort than he already had.
Even as he climbed the slope, his temporary prisoner was still writhing, trying to kick or punch him with everything he had.
"Stop that", he whispered. "You're only gonna hurt yourself."
It didn't help. Not that he was surprised it didn't help.
Once he was at the top of the hill, he retreated back under the freeway overpass. Only then did he set the kid against one of the freeway's supports, careful to keep his hand clamped over the boy's mouth.
"First thing's first", he said, kneeling in front of the small boy, "no matter what happens, you get to go back down there in 10 minutes. I just want to ask a few questions. Nod if you understand."
The kid's eyes were the size of dinner plates, fixed on his visor.
"My name is James Fourier. My friends call me James. I'm gonna take my hand away from your mouth but, if you try to scream, I'll have to cover it again, alright?"
The kid, he couldn't have been any older than 12 or 13, shifted his head in, what he assumed, was the rough approximation of a nod.
"Good", James said in, what he hoped was, a reassuring tone. He slowly pulled his hand away from the boy's mouth and, to his surprise, he didn't scream. "What's your name?"
His hostage's eyes were still wide and his young, narrow face set in a grimace.
But before James could repeat the question, his mouth pulled open.
"Mark", a tiny voice replied.
"Mark", he repeated with a nod. "Sorry about that. It's nice to meet you. I know you're scared and that's fine. Like I said, no matter what, I'll let you go after I ask a few questions."
"W- what are you? Some kinda borg?"
James blinked. So 'borg' was a common term, at least around here. "Are those big guys down in your home borgs?"
He glanced to the right, past James, toward the slums. "Yeah, those guys are some of 6th Street's big guns. That's what Hank tells me. Some old stuff from way back in the military. Are you in the military?"
I guess I can see the family resemblance…
"Sorry, I can't answer that." He jerked his head back toward the city. "What city is that?"
Mark frowned. "What city- it's Night City." The way he said that made it sound like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like he couldn't believe someone would be asking that.
Night City? He'd never heard of anywhere called 'Night City'. Judging by that response, asking 'what plant is this' probably wouldn't go over well. Maybe… when this is? I'll know how long I've been out and might give me a good idea of how far I've moved.
"I was-" offline? Would 'out' be considered 'offline' for a borg? "Offline for a while. Trying to get my bearings. What's the date?"
"Well… today was burgers. Helen makes burgers the last Friday of every month so… it's Friday."
Friday? James's eyes wandered back to his mission clock. 24/11/2557. Was it bad he didn't know what day of the week that was?
"What's the month?" he asked.
Mark's brow furrowed. "I don't- uh- October? Maybe?"