It had been some time since he had free time. He wasn't unused to having free time, he typically had plenty of it in between missions, but this was somewhat different. Normally he spent his free time going over his most recent mission in exhaustive detail, picking apart each and every second to determine where precisely he acted inefficiently or poorly.
He couldn't do that right now, as the Alpha Frame didn't have a black box. He could sort through old memories if he wanted to, they were currently in a large suitcase, rows and rows of memory chips storing mission after mission, engagement after engagement, all 713 of them. He didn't have any way of editing the files to include further notation, so there was little point in doing that either.
That ugly woman who was apparently the 'Night City Auction House Item Value Surveyor' had already been shown the rows of boxes, and Greyson was at work guiding her through each. He didn't care to speak with her at all, her fashion sense was atrocious and toxic purple was an unpleasant hair color for her bloated looking face. She had been very careful to not sneer when she saw the gore covering the deck, especially as she saw his gore painted frame emerge from the captain's quarters.
He had been very careful to not smear her across a few city blocks.
His arm had already been quickly swapped out with Spare's, bringing it back to greater functionality as her restorative nanomatrix got to work getting the old limbs back to full repair. He made sure to order one of those for his new frame. He always had spare frames before now, and the techies handled his repairs for him, something that nifty was now a must-have.
Sure, it wouldn't be instant, but it would be repairs he didn't have to pay for, and limbs he didn't need to order again. All he needed to do was make sure it was mostly in one piece after each fight.
The Woman was with Tits and Armstrong, out getting a new arm installed by doc. He made sure to specify that order already, hardened shielding, reinforced joints, thickened myomer, and an extendable monoblade. Everything she needed to get plastic bottles open in the future, and all the required bits to make sure her arm wouldn't be turned off by a stray EMP.
Tits and Armstrong had shown up earlier, apparently the Fucking Cat had fired Tits, which was about typical. He didn't have a job for her immediately, so bodyguard duty was the best he had at the moment. Not the normal job given to a pregnant meatbag, he'd need to think of something for her, otherwise she'd just be another freeloader.
How long do babies even take to build? It had been almost 5 months since the first time he fucked her.
'Nine months total, Adam.' Uriel absentmindedly answered as he fiddled with Adam's Internal Agent and its alarm program. Adam grunted in mild frustration at the answer. He could've just checked Uriel's half of their brain for the answer, but he didn't feel like putting forth the effort required.
Uriel was working on adjusting the parameters of a distributed alarm program. He didn't have any ways to prevent going to sleep right now, so this was the next best thing. A program that connected his Internal Agent to the surrounding cameras and woke him up if it detected something that tripped the parameters Uriel set up. Right now he was just going over everything to make sure some stray dog or rat didn't wake him up.
Technically these programs already existed, but Adam didn't feel like buying any of them, and Uriel decided to use this opportunity to test himself. The sum total of his 'proper' netrunning knowledge. A custom tripwire program.
Truly, Uriel was a titan of virtuality.
'Shut up Adam, I'm concentrating.' Uriel brushed him off and went back to coding. He broadcast a message in virtuality without needing to look, 'And Lilith! Stop staring and get back to work!'
The Slut-Demon pulled her intensely focused stare from Uriel's currently tiny form and back to her virtual desk. No wait, she only had fake-net-sex instead of actual sex before, so what did that make her? A… pretend slut? A virtual whore? A… living porn mag?
He dismissed the train of thought, deciding that he didn't actually care enough to keep following it, and got back to work.
He couldn't review his most recent fight. He couldn't properly review his past fights. His arm was as repaired as it was going to get for a while. The Woman was getting a new arm. Greyson was handling the auction-creature.
So he decided to perform maintenance.
The power washer swept over the space in front of him, back and forth, guided by his strong grip on the sprayer. The small but efficient CHOOH2 motor hummed as it pumped water up from the nearby sea and pressurized it enough to strip paint off steel. That water was currently being applied to his now cleared-off deck, getting the gore stains and other filth off his ship and pushing it into the ocean.
Wide spray for the broad section, wide spray but closer to the nozzle for the second pass, stream spray for the non-flat segments of the deck, and another pass on everything to make sure it was clean. It took up time and got his deck cleared off. It wasn't like anyone else could do it, from the last time he had been at the cougar's bar it seemed like proper power-washing was a thing of the fucking past.
…Ah, that's right, he needed to tell the Cougar he'd be leaving Night City. He'd do that once he got his new frame in. She'd probably be useful to bring along, unless she decided to stay in this shithole city for whatever reason. Regardless, he'd get her help in spreading word that he was hiring, that should bring in applicants enough from the suicidal meatbags that fill every crack of Night City.
Then he'd just need to wait on those papers to come in and then he could…
He stopped his power washing for a moment. Just staring at the deck of the ship and listening to the various sounds around him. The hum of the motor, the lapping of the waves, the cars and traffic of the city, all of it.
Planning to plan to plan more…
He reached down and turned off the motor. When was the last time he wasn't fucking planning all the time? Needing to handle all this future bullshit ever since Uriel showed up.
He had made it out, he was alive well after the Old Man was dead, after the Cheerleader and his Whaletits girlfriend had fucked off, after Arasaka got attacked for the third goddamn time in six months.
He was well and truly fed up with planning all the fucking time. He was going to get entertainment. Unfortunately, murder was out with his current frame being so weak, so he needed to find something else. Fucking Tits was also out with his current frame not having a dick (note to self, fuck Tits as soon as his new frame comes in). Going below deck was a waste of time with that toad-weasel inspecting all his junk still down there, so not that.
He looked around in consideration, nothing immediately jumped out at him.
He walked into the captains quarters, currently serving as the rec room it seemed like. The exploded computers and radios had been thrown out and quickly replaced by the brats, and they were inside lounging about and watching flatvid cable. Digital cable, not hardline cable.
The brat's eyes immediately jumped over to him as he entered, hand twitching for his gun before relaxing as he recognized him. "Yo Smasher, you done with the power-washer?" He asked.
Adam simply grunted in reply, walking behind Blueberry and the Brat to look at what they were watching. Newest episode of 'Watson Whore' apparently, whatever that was. He reached down and grabbed the remote, ignoring the protests of Blueberry and Girl to look through the channel listing.
Almost Human, Tin Man, Beyond the Blackwall, Ancient Aliens, NCIS Night City, Late Night with Steve Stevie, Bushido X : Fade to Black, Corporate Wars : The Musical, Chip In, Attuned In, Saburo Arasaka : A Giant's Life, Blastdance, Night after Night with Ziggy Q, Bushido, Info Flash, Mass Media, Black Hawk of the Dead…
Finally he decided to pick one that he was vaguely familiar with.
"NBC : NUSA 2077 Starline 15 Series Live coverage?" The girl slowly read off the title in a questioning manner. He grunted and simply waited for the channel to load in.
Soon enough, the voice of two announcers began to play over footage of various cars racing along various stretches of roadways and around obstacles.
"...but not as thirst-quenching or as energy-giving as the special blends you can buy at Dunkin' Bucks, North America's number one choice for their morning coffee."
"That's right Dale, getting back to the race now it seems like the lead that BosWash representative Latreus Hamilton maintains is being shortened by the second. Coming up behind him only a quarter of a mile back is Appalachian representative Dylan Witticker in that customized Quandra-66 of his. This is still another quarter mile ahead of the next closest driver, Dixie Coast representative Layla Hopkins and the others dragging behind."
"Well you know what I always say Chuck, it's not about the sprint it's about the marathon, and this Starline has only just begun. They still have almost another 2000 miles before they cross the finish line in the 15th state, and it's anyone's game before then. Still if you ask me, I'd be betting on Latreus to win again this year, it's hard to beat a man who went a step beyond driving and actually became his car to win."
"Well if anyone could do it, it would be Dylan. The rookie has had a phenomenal start to his career, and his distinctive 'Elven' fashion has earned him no shortage of promotions."
"Hah! Well you know what they say Chuck, in Appalachia they go to church twice a week, once for Jesus and once for Elvis."
"That's absolutely right, almost as right as the great taste of…"
Adam leaned back against the wall as he watched the race unfold.
He could plan later. He wanted entertainment right now.