In the streetcleaner cockpit she gets a lot of incurious stares–by 0400, the waking few are already deep in internal monologue. Nairobi ignores them. She’s not interested in humanoid waste.

One dig in the streetcleaner’s filter trap yields two bookcases’ worth of quasilegal tech: decks and smartguns, goggles and blades. And fingers. A lot of exotically-modified fingers. Most of it cleans up just fine.

Nairobi never tries the goods herself; supplying the pale and slender corporate raiders makes her feel important enough. She’s a crucial part of the ecosystem. The street, after all, finds its own users for things.