Johnny's in a bad way, still comatose. Internal backup's as fucked as the rest of him. I told him the new Flash version had a problem with unlocked players but he didn't check the drivers for adware. All that for a Leatherman bifurcated forearm — with needlenose pliers. What for, nobody knows.

The hospital waiting room that I stand in has gone to shit. Most people don’t bother coming, just head to the chemist and neck some autopills, fix them right up. Hardly anyone has to go in any more; just buy the NHS-brand pills or restore from backup. The NHS finally turned into a profit machine, turning in funds to a government that’s haemorraging money.

Back on the street, hacking away on a Treo, sliding spiderware through the driver. Trying to do a friend a favour. An Agent Projector bluetooths an animated paperclip to overlay the screen, a tinny voice asking if I understood that I was violating thirteen patents and that if I continued it would inform the Protected Code Association. I bluejack it back from headware, genetic algorithms reprogramming it to offer advice on cracking proprietary crapware as petty revenge for interrupting me.

Welcome to the Future.