Truelife Cyberpunk

I just saw the most cyberpunk human being I have ever seen.

Not some movie cyberpunk. Not leather-pants nightclub cyberpunk. Actual street-level, late-capital infrastructure cyberpunk.

He was homeless, or close enough that the distinction belonged to a grant proposal. He wore a motorcycle visor like some scavenged heads-up display, a black spandex skullcap sealed tight beneath it. Under it, a tight spandex skullcap. Big headphones clamped over that, with a headband in bright municipal blue.

Black long-sleeved shirt. Red iconography on the chest, vivid and meaningless in the way logos become religious after the company dies. Tan compression sleeves on both elbows. A military sling pouch strapped across him like low-rent tactical webbing. Knee-length running tights. Burnt-umber hard-shell knee pads. Tevas.

Knee-length running tights. Burnt-umber hard-shell knee pads. Teva sandals. A black ballistic nylon duffel backpack.

He looked like he had been generated by a logistics algorithm trained on disaster relief, parkour, and failed start-ups.