The Message

 I want to meet in person.

 Usually, that is where my relationships end.

You know how it goes. You meet someone online, hit it off, pop into a private session, have mindblowing sex, exchange contacts, then do it all over again. Except that's never enough. No matter how good things are, they always want "the real thing". And I'm tired. Tired of explaining what a paraplegic is, why I can't feel anything below the waist, why - despite all the wonders of modern medical technology - I'm still in this dumb analog wheelchair. I'm tired of them dropping off my radar, deleting their personas, vanishing back into the digital aether. They get to opt out, and I'm left right where I started? No. Fuck that. Better I cut them off first.

This isn't a relationship, though. This is Edge. Not just a razorgirl, the razorgirl. Rumor has it she's behind every high-profile hit of the last decade. Rumor has it her cyber bits are prototype milspec, and her bio is full-on clean-room genemods. Rumor has it...

More importantly, this is a job. Which I need.

I sigh and read the full message again.