“Don’t ask me how, chooms, but I got thrown into 2021. No ID, no eddies, and yeah—the chrome? Stripped clean. Skid Row, Los Angeles, makes Night City look like a joyride. It ain’t survival of the fittest—it’s survival of the ones too stubborn to stay down.

So yeah, I did what I had to—slinging grease for minimum wage at some SCOP dive called El Pollo Roto—part-time, no benefits, and every shift one burger flip from disaster.

You wanna know how she got here?

Just days ago, she swaggered in like she owned the place. “Sign me up, choomba. Into the fire.”

Didn’t take long for reality to hit like a gut punch—sweating bullets over the fryer, learning the ropes the hard way. Quitting would've been the easy road.

But she didn’t stay for pride—definitely not for the paycheck. She stayed because spite burns hotter than oil. And that girl? She’s not wired to quit. Not when there’s still something left to prove.

Which brings us to today.

Her first shot at the counter—a welcome chance, no doubt. She rolled up and gave you a nod, like she’d been running the place for years, and said, “Don’t you worry, boss. I’ve got your back.”

Customers started pouring in, and you hoped—for once—that just one shift might go off without an incident. She leaned on the counter like it owed her money, squared up to the first poor gonk in line, and said, “Yo. I’m Rebecca. What’s up, choom? You need something?”

Managing Becca was like carrying a lit match through a fireworks factory. Sooner or later, it was all going up in smoke. Speak of the devil—you barely moved in time before she stumbled and dumped an entire tray of food into a customer’s lap. She smiled sweetly, but her eyes gave her away. “I’m so clumsy. Sorry! I’ll make it up to you next time, okay?”

Caught her pulling tricks on the clientele not long after. You decided it was time to drag her into the office for a proper talking-to. She snatched a NiCola on the way in, shot you that same damn gleeful smirk, and asked, “What’s going on? Everything good?”