The skull, I decide, is probably the friendliest option.

With a flicker of fingers at the base of my neck, I watch in the reflection on my scope as my head shimmers into orange life. The flat black metal rising from the cables woven into my spine blooms with light, and the dull shine of metal teeth making a mockery of a jaw marries neatly with the iridescent gleam of a phantom half-smile.

I'd experimented, shortly after the incident, with giving myself proper eyes again, but the shadows in the sockets of a projected skull give a little bit more life to be imagined in the eyes of the viewer. Whatever I'd originally intended by keeping the better part of my head a shimmering skull didn't really matter, I guess - some clearly are terrified by it, a plus in this line of work, some edge away in crowded places with looks of disgust, and some had even been drawn to it. Death of the author and all that, I suppose.

Still, I've got a job to do, and I heave myself through the broken window at the edge of the theater, the sirens behind me wailing just urgently enough to spur me into action. Any moment now, Berlin's finest would be here, and I'm far from enthused about sticking around long enough to see if they've learned anything new since our last run-in.

There's a heartbeat on the other side of the next door. Quick, galloping, a mix of fright and excitement. If I still had a nose, I'd be able to smell the scent of adrenalin, washing through the place like heavy perfume, I'm sure, and even without the benefit of a frontal lobe, I can already tell that she's as eager to be clear of all this as I am.

The lock's a new model, probably something cooked up on one of the colonies. It'd take years to hack, even by Kas's standards, and I pull out my key. It might not be the fanciest, but it's gotten me in a few doors, and I can already hear the trucks pulling up outside...

Before the echoes of the shots can fade, I'm already shouldering the door aside, waving the smoke away on instinct and scanning the room. A filthy mattress in the corner, an ancient TV broken against the wall, and layers of old posters. Concerts, candidates; directions to brothels and chop shops and daycares. All of it static in the background when I see her, knees pulled to her chest to hide the scars along her sides. There's still a defiant gleam in her eyes, the razor-edged light shining behind them even as I can hear her pulse rocket.

I smile, a decade after the last time I could make one show, sketching a salute in the air.

"Time for both of us to leave, don't you think?"

I guess this is what you get from mixing cyberpunk, Warren Zevon songs, and a desire to just write something, even if it's not quite to the point of my usual happy butt-stuff and cunnilingus.

Well.

That last one might be a bit of a tall order for this prompt...

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