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A Rainy October Day at the Nite-Libsyn
The rain over Paris wasn't falling; it was attacking. A horizontal, wind-whipped barrage that turned the Seine into a churning, ink-black beast and made the city's neon signs bleed into the wet asphalt. For most, it was a night to huddle inside, jack into the matrix, and forget the world. For Sued, it was just another Tuesday.
Her T-Max purred like a contented panther between her legs, its electric heart silent, the petrol auxiliary unit a low, steady thrum. The 150-horsepower engine, a forbidden upgrade courtesy of a back-alley mechanic in Clichy-sous-Bois, was currently leashed, its power reserved for when the Parisian sprawl demanded a swift, decisive exit. The rain sheeted off the custom hydro-dip camo finish and beaded on the hard-shell transport boxes bolted to either side—waterproof, lockable, and currently holding two kilos of premium Moroccan hashish, vacuum-sealed and undetectable.
She guided the scooter off the slick street and onto the pedestrian path leading to the Bibliothèque François Mitterand. The four towering glass L-shaped towers, illuminated from within, looked less like open books and more like data-servers for some forgotten god, their light a cold, sterile contrast to the organic chaos of the storm. Her destination wasn't the library, but what lay in its shadow.
The *Nite-Libsyn* was moored in its usual spot, a jewel of warmth in the drenched darkness. It was a converted, wide-beamed barge, its deck transformed into a multi-level open-air lounge. A retractable transparent canopy held the worst of the weather at bay, but the sound of the rain drumming a complex rhythm on it was part of the ambiance. Soft, glowing orbs—warm white and amber—hung from the skeletal branches of carefully maintained birch trees planted in massive deck planters. The air around it smelled of wet earth, flowering jasmine, and, faintly, of ozone and hot circuitry.
Sued parked the T-Max under a nearby tree, its biometric lock engaging with a soft chirp. She pulled her synth-leather jacket tighter, the hood doing little against the determined wind, and jogged across the pedestrian bridge, the Seine roaring below. She nodded at the hulking troll security standing by the gangplank, a subtle scanner built into his cybernetic eye glinting. He knew her. Everyone who mattered did.
"Evening, Gaston. Nasty one," she said in French, her voice cutting through the storm's howl.
"Suits the city's mood, *p'tite*," he rumbled back, waving her through. "Libsyn's in a chatty one tonight."
She stepped onto the deck, and the world outside ceased to exist. The storm became a muted symphony. The gentle, resonant tones of a neo-jazz trio filtered through hidden speakers, weaving with the soft clatter of data-tiles and the murmur of conversation. People huddled in cushioned nooks, some reading from old paper books, their pages glowing in the soft light, others with their eyes closed, direct neural interfaces feeding them data-streams from the barge's server farm. The smell of freshly ground coffee and *pain au chocolat* was a welcome assault.
Sued made her way to her usual spot—a corner booth with a view of the river and the entrance. She shrugged off her dripping jacket and slid in, her fingers instinctively tracing the grain of the real wood table. A small, recessed terminal glowed to life.
A soft, androgynous voice, calm and impossibly clear, emanated from a discreet speaker. "Welcome back. The ambient temperature is 19 degrees Celsius. Your usual beverage is being prepared."
Sued smiled. "Hi, it's me, Sued."
"Acknowledged, Sued. Your presence is logged. There is one new message for you from a 'Reno'. Marked as low priority."
"Archive it," she muttered. Reno was a tourist from Denver she'd done some legwork for last month—picking up a "souvenir" from a dubious antiquities dealer in Le Marais. The guy was nice but paid in weak nuyen. Her real money was in the boxes on her scooter, waiting for a message from her crew.
She sipped the *café au lait* that a silent drone delivered to her table, the warmth seeping into her bones. This was her sanctuary. Here, she wasn't just a girl from the Banlieue job-hopping between courier gigs and data-entry. She was just Sued. A patron. A thinker. Someone the AI knew by name.
Her commlink buzzed, a priority flash from her fixer, Ludo. **::Meet. Le Bateau. 20 mins. Client is jumpy.::**
*Le Bateau* was their code for the *Nite-Libsyn*. A meet here was unusual. This was neutral ground, a place of quiet deals and intellectual property, not the rough-and-tumble of shadowrunning. Something was off.
Twenty minutes later, Ludo slid into the booth opposite her. He was a wiry man with a face like a worried ferret, his fingers constantly twitching as if manipulating invisible data. He didn't order anything.
"Sued. You're dry," he said, his eyes darting around.
"Perk of having a roof," she replied dryly. "What's the frag is so important it can't wait? And why here?"
"Client insisted. Wants to be somewhere public but quiet. Somewhere with... reputational stakes." Ludo leaned in. "It's a simple data snatch. From the Library."
Sued's eyes flicked towards the illuminated towers. "You're joking. Their host is a black IC fortress. You'd need a team of deckers and a small army."
"Not the main host. A subsidiary research server. Low security. The client provided a pre-slotted data chip with the exploit. You just need to get to a public terminal in the 'History of Urban Planning' wing, slot it, wait sixty seconds, and retrieve it. Five thousand nuyen."
It was too much money for something that sounded so simple. A trap. It had to be. But five thousand nuyen was three months of rent. It was upgrades for the T-Max. It was breathing room.
"Who's the client?"
"Anonymous. Pays in certified cred. Half now, half on delivery." Ludo slid a credstick and a small, black data chip across the table. "The chip is one-time use, encrypted. It'll do the work."
Sued palmed them both, the credstick feeling unnaturally heavy. "Fine."
As Ludo scurried away, she felt a familiar weariness creeping in. It was past midnight, her natural peak, but the stress was a drain. She needed to be sharp. She turned back to the terminal.
"Libsyn, any active noise-cancellation nooks free?"
"One is available, Sued. Would you like me to initiate a seven-hour 'Somnus' cycle? Your biometrics indicate elevated cortisol."
"Just… one hour. Deep focus. No music. Just the rain."
"Activating."
A subtle, almost inaudible hum enveloped her booth. The external sounds—the jazz, the chatter, the rain on the canopy—faded into a soft, uniform whisper. It was like being submerged in warm, silent water. She closed her eyes, letting the artificial serenity of the *Nite-Libsyn* wash over her, pushing back the fatigue and the gnawing paranoia about the job. For one precious hour, the storm, the deal, the hashish in her boxes—it all melted away. There was only the calm, the quiet, and the gentle, remembering presence of the AI. It was the only thing in this hard city that ever asked for nothing in return.
Another Rainy October Day at the Nite-Libsyn
The October wind howled up the Seine, whipping rain against the glass canopy of the Nite-Libsyn. The usually serene open-air lounge was transformed into a glowing, storm-battered sanctuary. The gentle jazz fusion blended with the rhythmic percussion of the downpour, and the warm, task-lit spaces felt even cozier against the grey chaos outside.
Sued loved nights like this. The bad weather weeded out the casual tourists, leaving the place to the regulars, the nocturnals, her people. Her sleek, black hybrid T-Max scooter, now parked under a makeshift lean-to near the pedestrian bridge, was a testament to her hustle. What started as a used commuter scooter was now a 150hp silent beast, its upgraded electric motor providing instant torque for darting through Parisian traffic, its spacious transport boxes carrying everything from legal documents for clients to carefully sealed packages of her other, less-legal merchandise.
She shook the rain from her leather jacket and strode towards her usual terminal, a sleek screen nestled between two living walls of lush greenery. The familiar interface glowed to life.
"Hi, it's me Sued," she typed, her fingers dancing across the keyboard.
The AI responded instantly, its text appearing as if written by an old friend. "Hello Sued. A wild night to be out. Your last query was about the solubility of CBD in ethanol. I have found more precise data. Also, you have two uncollected packages waiting at the front desk."
She smiled. This was why she loved this place. It was more than just cheap food and a warm spot to charge her scooter and her soul. It was a hub. The AI remembered her curiosities and her chores. She'd met Klaus, a German graphic designer, here last week. He'd just wired her 50 euros to pick up and ship a limited-run art book from a tiny gallery in Le Marais—a job that would take her 30 minutes on the T-Max.
After grabbing a hot chocolate and checking the packages (one was Klaus's book, the other a batch of rare Japanese seeds for another client), she settled back at the terminal. The storm raged on, but inside the Nite-Libsyn, Sued was perfectly at home—connected, working, and sheltered in her own little world of light and data, the powerful heart of the AI beating silently in the background, remembering her, helping her crew, and making the rainy Parisian night feel just a little bit smaller.
