Note: The novel is a pure cyberpunk theme of high technology and low life. It is a world of street violence, power chaos, and moral gray. The protagonist's swearing and rudeness are labels of street identity and survival skills. I will try to write as little as possible.
Philo, a frontline mercenary of the Bronx Terrorist Mobile Team.
There are no high-end prosthetics, no military medals, and even the wages are as low as the fake Coke in the vending machine on the street corner.
"Dudu——
Call the third group of violent terrorist mobile teams
Gathering in the Color Building, please reply when you receive it."
A standardized alarm sounded in her ears, and the captain's voice came clearly from the communication device, pulling her back to reality from her half-dream.
The moment he opened his eyes, the time information was blankly hitting the center of his field of vision, and it also had a filthy strange hunting effect. It was really disgusting. The previous owner of this pair of prosthetic glasses was definitely a loser.
"Copy that." Philo cleared her throat. The first thing she learned when she came here was the professional manner.
She stared at the ceiling, wondering why she wanted to get into this line of work because of her connections, and commute to get off work with a group of cyber psychopaths all day long.
Intention: Trouble is caused by oneself, money comes from trouble, there must always be someone to do things that others cannot accomplish