Click. Snap. Hiss. That's the sound of a lighter. Fizzle. Spark. Gasp. That's the sound of a cigarette. Bang, bang, bang. That's the sound of a gun. And that, far off in the distance, is the sound of sirens.
	I puff on my cigarette. Moral and social consequences be damned, I'll smoke away this tobacco regardless. It wasn't hard to get ahold of, just import it from some far-off country like Armenia or somethin' like that and enjoy the tar residue coating my lungs. Maybe it was illegal, but Hell if I was going to stop an addiction and get the shakes.
	'Sides, I was more worried about the useless dope in front of me, all bloodied across the pavement, squelching and squealing. Yeah, there sirens sounding off in the background and yeah, it looked like trouble to anyone else. Danger, danger, you're in for a Hellstorm. Nah, though, this was me doing my job. Rebels got their comeupance, and this one had it comin'.
	This was an honest to God confrontation with some scum that I'd scrapped off my foot onto the pavement. Well, more accurately I had shot him in the stomach and he was bleeding profusely and crying out for his mama, like that going to him any good. No, it wasn't mister scummy.
	Ever since the instatement of Oracle, these rebels were going in full force. They recruited them from every which way. The Virtual Reality Network or VRN. Everybody was on VRN these days. Oracle made it possible. Just plug yourself in and you were ready to take it all in. This sucker thought it was immoral, just with all the rest of the guerrilla force. An army of misfits. They said it was like some seemingly ancient war a hundred years ago called 'Nam, except reversed or something. I don't know. I just hunt these suckers down for a living.
	All across the Global Hegemony's territory through the former good ol' US of A, I was killing these Mores. We called 'em Mores. They had MORals. They wanted MORE. They needed MORE freedom. Needed MORE au natural. They followed some fool named MORigan. Oh, and they were some damned MORons.
	This MORE was facing his last moments. He wasn't going to get a new body. He wasn't going to relive. He'd just be uploaded to ORACLE for safe keeping to make decisions, to live freely and in peace. Well, if he'd been implanted, but from the looks of it and the scars across his cranium, he'd had the circuitry and hard drive surgically removed. Primitive practices by low-tech, low-functioning and very lowly people who were inexperienced Mores. it's a miracle he wasn't permanently brain-damaged by the surgery.
	So, he'd suffer permadeath. A fate not unknown to everyone who played some of the more "hardcore" video games over VRN. I had no interest in that stuff, just chatting with some folks on there. What was the point of killing virtual people (no matter how realistic) when I could just off some Mores? Sounds pretty sick, even sadistic, but it's the truth.
	He didn't get to suffer a fate worse than death, fortunately for him. No mind prison, just darkness and nothingness. He wouldn't even know it. He'd be dead. So, I kicked him in the leg, trying to get his attention. Snapped my fingers a little, waved it in front of his head.
	Gurgle. Hiss. Squelch. Gluck.
	No, this guy was a goner. He'd be dead before they even got there and the local Colorado Mercs would call him post-humously a rebel threat and throw his body in an incinerator. Off with another useless human being who wanted to stop the progression of humanity.
	The sirens get louder and louder. I wait a few minutes, letting my cigarette fall from my mouth, not even taking the time flick it. My shoes scrape against the ashen paper.
	Footsteps. Clunky boots hit asphalt.
	"You shouldn't touch that shit."
	"Why?" I inquire, a bad taste in my mouth. Not the cigarette, just scorn and resentment.
	"It's illegal," said my fellow Mercenary.
	"Fuck you," I said as I spit at his shoes.
	Not comment. Just a head shaking to and fro. I wish I could punch him in the mouth.