techiehux:

The party was in full swing. Techie wasn’t the type of person to enjoy close-quarter dancing with strangers in a place with music so loud it made even his implants ache, but his dealer set up the meeting spot in this shady nightclub and Techie was already too jittery; he wanted to get his stuff and get the hell out.

Everything went on without a hitch. Techie held the baggy with white powder and a syringe taped under his loose yellow t-shirt, scurrying out of the club before he was discovered. He was sweating bullets, aching for his fix after so long without it. Money was tight, but Techie could afford it if he got on his knees a few times a week.

Two minutes from his tiny apartment, Techie’s bladder complained until he was forced to stop at a gas station for relief. Fuck it, he thinks to himself, near hysterics. He’ll shoot up right here, right now. It’s only a single stall bathroom, anyway. Nobody else can get in. In his rush, Techie leaves the door unlocked and is surprised with the syringe plunged deep into his vein by a tall, muscular woman with short blonde hair.

Shit! 

He slumps back down onto the bed, lips curling downwards. “He’s my twin,” Techie grumbles. “You’ve p-probably confiscated my phone, right? Armitage is m-my emergency contact.”