A/N: I'm a born and bred Montrealer. Grew up in the Anglo ghettos on the South Shore, so all this...it's in my blood and bones. And if anyone's interested,this is the best game in the last five years, easy. And dammit, Megan should be a Montrealer!
My phone rang.
I ignored it. It was David, odds were. He was always calling. The Goddamn phone was always ringing. I snuffed out my smoke a little harder than necessary. Another sip of Maker's Mark, and I picked up the silver tray full of honest-to-God poutine. I picked up a taste for it years ago on a trip to Montreal with Megan. She made me taste the city. Latke and bagels in St. Urbain. Steamed hotdogs from La Belle Province in NDG. It was Christmas. We were standing in line, and they handed out liquor to anyone old enough to grow facial hair. It was odd. Like being in Europe again. She sipped at a screwdriver, and I regarded my gin and tonic like a foreign animal. My watch told me it was December 24th, 2026. 1116 local. Liquor in the morning. I heard cursing in French, people wanting to make it to Mass.
I smirked, and Megan kissed me lightly on the lips.
"I went to school across the bridge, Concordia University. I used to come here all the time, just because it was close. Going to class, studying genetic models with a toute garnie in one hand.I must have seemed like trash."
She blushed. I smiled. Her friends were waiting out by their cars, smoking. They all smoked.
"A steamed hot dog with everything on it. Onions, mustard, relish, sauerkraut..."
I nodded. I didn't get it- the steamed hot dogs with more condiments than meat always baffled me, so I got a poutine. It steamed as we stepped outside, while she ate about four hot dogs as we sat in the car before heading over to Saint Mary's...
I shook it off. That was eight, nine months ago. Something as simple as a whiff of cheese curds and gravy jarred it loose. I noticed about then that my hand had indented the fork, warping the metal as I grabbed it. I stuffed the mess of fries, cheese and gravy into my mouth and hurled the fork across the room. It quivered as it embedded itself into the wall. Six months, I've had my own place. Maybe more. I still haven't unpacked. It still feels temporary. Like the lack of feeling in my arms and legs, it all feels temporary.
I went to physio today. They want to make sure I'm up to par, make me do idiotic, simple tasks. It doesn't matter. I lit up in the hall, striking the match off my shoulder. I saw another man...he was short his left arm and leg. Older, in his fifties. He shook his head at me as he wheeled up in his chair.
"You're more can than man, son. What happened to you?"
"Attack on Sarif Industries."
"My Lord, son. You chose this?" he murmured, gesturing at the interfaces, the cabled steel, reflexive alloys. I shook my head. I saw the Navy Cross, a Bronze Star on his hospital clothes.
"Where did you serve, sir?" I asked politely. Old cop manners.
"Doesn't matter, son. You just...you just get better, y'hear?" he said, rolling past me. I nodded. My shield had been turned in long ago. Ever since that incident...well, even after that, I hadn't been the same. Drank too much. Smoked too much. Now? Well, I have metal lungs, easy to clean. New heart. New this, new that. Vices no longer meant anything. The greasy mess in the silver tin. I sighed, walked to the kitchen, grabbed a new fork...I was running low. I dug in again, looked across the Detroit skyline.
I would make them pay.