"I told you it wasn't me. It just wasn't. I blacked out. Then I woke up."

The detective's fly-lens eyecaps swiveled around to size up your expression through what must've been 40 different perception OS. Then he burst out laughing.

He only spoke after he got ahold of himself, incredulous at your gall to present such an outrageous story.

"Do you know how many times a day I hear those exact words? You might be good at punching up low-lifes on the street, but clearly nobody was hiring you for your storytelling ability. Now let me cut to the ch--"

"Sir? Mr. Callbrook sir?"

A small female technician scuttled up behind the many-eyed man and tapped him on the shoulder repeatedly, prompting a groan and an admittedly fascinating display of 80+ sensors simultaneously sliding back and forth, as of a sort of technologically-perverted eye roll. They mumbled a few sentences back and forth thar you couldn't decipher, before the detective slammed his arm down onto the control panel of the console at which they were gathered. The various screens displayed complex technological diagrams, and graphs which were steadily starting to peak all at the same time.

It was time to get a closer look.

The measly handcuffs weren't built to withstand even simple electromagnetism. The implants in your fists and forearms afforded you for a variety of offensive and utilitarian functions, not the least of which was the ability to crush just about anything between them like a tin can in a hydraulic press.

The detective and his technician only jumped back when they heard the loud CRAAAAK sound of the handcuffs being demolished. Before any pleas could be made, you were already taking their place at the console, casting them both aside with force that slammed them both against the back wall of the room.

The graphs and diagrams were of your own body. Your chip sockets to be precise. And there was something seriously wrong with one of them. Not only was the slot with the AI program's chip locked up and closed of, but the chip itself was shattered and fragmented within it's casing. Worse yet, some parts were still...

Active?

I wrote this as I was falling asleep so sorry if it sucks lol

Banging could only faintly be heard by the cleaner outside the sewer line, who had his music blasting loudly -- in classic janitorial fashion. Chie backed away slowly from the metal door, sealed shut by an external switchpad.

A cheerful cartoon fish mascot walked it's way across Chie's field of vision.

"Looks like someone has turned off their auto-renew subscription to Lexatech's Oxy-Static Cybergill Service!"

The fish starts to cry, wailing and waving its arms and legs around the same way a baby would when throwing a fit.

"Shit."

"Your free trial to the Lexatech Oxy-Static Cybergill Service will end in 1 minute."

"Oh shit shit shit shit shit shi--"

"Would you like to renew your subscription?"

The submerged edgerunner couldn't find himself clicking on "YES" fast enough, unable to use voice commands in the sludge he found himself surrounded by.

"That's great! Only a few more detai--"

The responses couldn't come fast enough. Chie wasn't even sure if palms could get sweaty underwater, but if they could, his hands were beyond qualified. The fish started to sing and dance as he entered in his info, having recovered from its fit as soon as he started renewing his subscription.

"Coverage ID, nope. Policy number, definitely nope. City Security Number?! What the fuck?!"

But it was aready too late. Just as a breath of 100% artificial air flooded his lungs, he realized that he had been conned.

"Well, at least I can still breathe."

It was all he could say as he watched the string of charges added to his checking account pile up in his visuals panel. Hundreds of dollars just ticking by.

Now a he had to do was get out of this damn sewer line!

Here's my snippet for prompt 1! Didn't include much of the scenario but this is him in the process of recruiting for the gang.

In a shitty studio apartment-turned-workshop, a metallic, flesh-painted finger waves inches from your face. He sits on the couch marred by countless cigarette burns, you stand facing him from across the coffee table. Behind you is a large, intimidating man eyeing the lounger with an expression hard to read. Visible was the rust creeping out from under the plates covering the finger's squeaky joints as the one on the couch continues to blabber on.

"-- You're kidding! Gotta be fucking kidding -- no way in hell. I don't fuck with none of that shit choom. I'm straight and last time I checked, you don't have the dough to buy me out anyhow."

Swarthy and tall, with hands not of the rough and gnarled variety typical of a seasoned workman, but rather the bandaged and scarred palms of a novice. But the work you saw displayed along the arms of his friend was enough to convince you otherwise.

Himo could be described as the typical "hired muscle," though "hired metal" might be more apt. The heavy-set Easterner currently breathing down your neck caught your eye on account of his biceps and forearms: larger than any you've seen before. Of course, what he hid under his sleeves was far more than mere muscle.

A system of vacuum and heating chambers integrated into his arms and respiratory system. Taking in air through new holes for what essentially functioned as a second set of lungs, and directing the resulting carbon dioxide into the heated tanks, these things meant that every punch was a pressurized blast of heat and chrome straight out of hell.

That was the only reason why you were putting up with this kid's mouth. You knew what he was capable of, and you knew that going to the source would beat recruiting whatever meatsack you found on the street with his work attached. Contrary to the saying, violence was often the answer in this line of work, and what better asset to have than a custom, on-demand way to enact it?

"Look pal, I'm not opposed to striking some kind of deal or arrangement here. But if you're going to work with us, then you need to roll with u--"

"Now who the fuck said I'd be working with you, or 'rolling with you'? You is of no use to me. My services are preem, and everybody's gunning for a spot. Who's to say I won't just fix up a few more muscle-men like my boy Himo here, and start my own crew? Huh?"

The lenses in his eyes zoomed in on your face, orange glow showing through the center hole. He was smirking. Cocky son of a bitch. That blood vessel in your temple probably would've been showing if you hadn't replaced most of your head with metal enhancements. Still, your patience was running thin.

You got real close, and your voice got real low.

"What you don't seem to consider is what happens when you and your posse of metalheads run into a problem you can't just punch in the fucking face."

"I'm the one who fixes all that. That's my 'use to you' Mister Hotshot Ripper. When the pigs come knocking, you can blast them all you want but the moment someone hooks a little bug to your car or calls up MaxTac when your merry little band of bandits start getting too comfortable busting heads, you're gone."

Your finger digs deep beneath his heavy jacket, layers of clothes hiding his bare, vulnerable body. You could probably feel the indentations of his ribs if if weren't for all the loose fabric in the way. You poke his chest, hard. Himo's gaze was burning a hole through the back of your head, but it didn't matter. This was about showing who was boss. Setting the tone.

The kid's own tone changed too. Smirk nowhere to be found, a brow was raised in what looked like guarded curiosity. Guarding what?

"I see."

Those beady orange lights shifted to the floor, titanium bearings within his sockets noisy shifting to accommodate the change in vision and rotation of the eyeballs. His breathing slowed. He said nothing for a moment, but just as his head began to rise, you were already halfway out the door, Himo following suit.

"Just fucking call me if you're interested. You aren't the only person I'm meeting with today, just in case you thought you were special. My time is worth more than an ignorant little brat in a glass house. Don't expect a welcome party if we decide to take your ass."