Same time, same place, same city. Fuck. At least it pays, right?

Hauling myself through the window and cursing as the broken glass scrapes, I ease out onto the catwalk. I have to admit it's not a bad place for it, as far as it goes - doves fluttering away, the groaning whine of vehicles overhead; hell, the advert screens even muster up a little thematic little chiaroscuro despite the daylight. Just two flights up the roof, enough time for the drones to gather moisture, and hit the button just as the clients make their way into the alley. Easy.

Freelancing may not be as stable as working for one of the big corps, but at least I don't have to wear the suit anymore. I can still picture it, the garish smart cloth screaming out into the world in neon pink: Atmospherixxx - you live in the future, why not have the vibes for it?

Trudging up the last steps, I let the drones go, plastic bladders already beginning to fill with no-doubt toxic moisture as they whirr aloft. Indicators flash up through my vision, blinked away just as soon as they register. Ads for enhancements, status notifications, the (no) dinner plans. The usual, really.

"Fuck!"

I scowl as I clamber onto the rooftop, eyes meeting yours and a distinct shade of pink slipping across my cheeks when I realize that was aloud. Frustration at having to share a job subsides as I take in the late-model Kendai controller cast next to a discarded can, the little flock of microstats buzzing about your head tinged with the unmistakable folds of vanta. The professional side of me is already musing about deconflicting flight paths, sending you a link to mesh the platforms, my secondhand water boys chugging along beneath the gossamer umbrellas of your swarm.

Client wanted the full package, I guess. Wedding, porn shoot, just a lark... who knows, really? They don't say, we don't ask - we just provide the dark, rainy escape for a few hours. Two hours from now, if my timing is right.

Settling down with my back against the busted transmitter on the rooftop, I cast a glance at you again. It's been back-to-back work the past couple months, and it's not often you see someone else in this line of work, let alone one who shows up this early to a gig. Maybe there's a story there, my subconscious prods, and before my better judgment can get in the way, I lean over. Gesturing at the city, glimmering even in daylight, I crack a dry grin.

"So, come here often?"

Pretty obvious what show I just finished bawling my eyes out to binge-watching, but my love of the genre has been there for a decade and change now. Providing all the moody steam of late night ramen, the blackness that makes the neon pop, and the right drizzle is always a chore, though, really. Why would the hardworking ambiance providers of the future cityscape not blow some steam off in a rooftop assignation, and perhaps an illicit romance of their own?

Honestly, I just had fun writing something that pokes fun at the conventions of a genre while still fitting neatly within it.

As usual, I'm not wedded to this idea, more just throwing some whimsy to the winds. Please feel free to reach out with any idea that might strike your fancy, and there's plenty more where this came from in my post history.

Cheers, and thanks for reading!