David Martinez

  Alright, class is done for the day. Now I need to figure out how to scrounge up some eddies. I’ve got a Lexington, which could net me maybe a hundred at any gun store. Not ideal, but it’s a start. Problem is, it’s the only piece of iron I’ve got, so selling it? Not exactly the brightest move. I know what something like a Copperhead Assault Rifle would fetch, but those kinds of weapons? Way out of reach for now—too risky, too time-consuming.

  And let’s be real, I’ve got no clue where to even steal something like that, much less find someone to buy it off me. So, guns are off the table for now. Same with stealing other random junk; I don’t even have enough eddies for a bus ride home, and I’m still rocking this Arasaka Academy jacket, which makes me stand out like a sore thumb.

  What about cargo jobs? Maybe scoping out shipments in a semi-safe spot and grabbing something that won’t set off alarms? Could work, but then again, I don’t know anyone willing to pay for hot goods like that. Drugs? No way. I barely know anything about that scene, even though I live in Arroyo.

  So, after running through every option and crossing most of them off in my head, I landed on something simple: booze. Why? Everyone loves a drink, myself included. And pricier drinks? That’s a whole other game—people are willing to pay decent cash for them. Sure, it wouldn’t bring in massive eddies, but a steady flow of small-time profits? That works for me.

  Luckily, I know just the spot—funnily enough, right near my home.

  There’s a bar called Vista Del Taco. Don’t let the name fool you—it’s nowhere near as good as it sounds. Despite the Hispanic branding, it’s as generic as it gets. But the place is always packed with people who can afford the overpriced drinks they serve. Best part? Security’s almost nonexistent. I’ve seen it myself every time I’ve ridden the bus.

  Gangs don’t bother with alcohol. Scavs are too busy chasing chrome, Voodoo Boys have their niche in cyberware, 6th Street hoards guns, and so on. Booze? No one’s claimed that turf. That means it’s fair game.

  I sprinted home. Running doesn’t tire me out anymore, so I kept up the pace while planning my next steps. If I was going to hit this place, I’d need a disguise. Couldn’t risk anyone connecting me to this. Reputation’s a funny thing: StreetCred’s great, but you want to be reliable, not infamous. Big difference there.

  For clothes, I’d grab the ones my mom bought me years ago. She must’ve thought I’d grow into them someday, but I was always too scrawny to make them work. Now, with my new build, they’d finally fit. Perfect for throwing people off the trail.

  Only one problem—my hair.

  I like my hair. Hell, I love it. But it’s way too recognizable. If I want this to work, I’ll have to cut it.

  Sorry, choom. Gotta lose you for now.

  It’s for my mom. Hair grows back. She doesn’t.

  I got home so fast it felt like I blinked and was already in the bathroom. My mom’s clothes were still in the washer—probably because we didn’t pay for it yet—and without even thinking, my body was already moving on autopilot, handling the laundry. It’s still weird that I can just zone out and still get things done, but hey, I’m not complaining this time.

  I grabbed the scissors from my mom’s wardrobe and stood in front of the mirror, taking a moment to say goodbye to my hair. It was a damn good look, but priorities, right? With a few quick snips, it was gone. I tossed the hair, washed my face, and got dressed.

  Black sweatshirt, hoodie up, some slick pants, and a pair of motorcycle boots to complete the look. Honestly, I looked like a low-tier hustler straight out of a holo-drama. Not a bad disguise, even if I felt like a poser. For now, that was fine—I had work to do.

  Leaving the Megabuilding, I took the express route, hopping onto the train without paying for a ticket. Not to get closer to the bar, though—I had this nagging feeling someone was tailing me.

  After a few stops, I spotted her again. That same girl. It was starting to become a habit I didn’t ask for and definitely didn’t want. She caught my eye, recognized me almost immediately, but I kept it cool and just sat down like I didn’t care.

  Of course, she wasn’t about to let things stay simple.

  “You again,” she said, her pastel white hair half-covering her face.

  “The hell do you want?” I shot back, though honestly, I didn’t care enough to find out.

  “You didn’t pay for the train ticket.” She slid into the seat beside me, her eyes on the passing cityscape.

  “And? What? You gonna preach about morals? In this city?” I couldn’t believe this girl. Did she not realize where she was?

  “And the system didn’t detect you skipping the fare,” she added, her tone annoyingly calm.

  That caught me off guard. I hadn’t even thought about that. But I kept my poker face, leaning back casually. “Glad you noticed.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, not dropping it.

  “A place.”

  “After the Academy? What could you possibly be doing right now?”

  “How do you know I just left the Academy?”

  She chuckled softly, and it hit me why. “Schedules. The Academy’s database tracks when students check in and out. It’s not hard to access if you know how.”

  I raised an eyebrow, smirking just a little. “So you’re stalking me now? Kinda creepy, but hey, whatever turns you on, I guess.”

  She shot me a glare sharp enough to cut through chrome but didn’t let it rattle her. “You were in a car crash yesterday. How are you even walking, let alone running around the city?”

  “The next stop’s in 30 seconds,” the automated voice announced over the speakers.

  That was my cue. I didn’t owe this girl any explanations, and I wasn’t about to start now. I stood up as the train slowed. Fuck this. I need eddies, not her questions.

  I hop out, not exactly where I planned, but close enough. See, the target wasn’t the bar itself—that’d draw way too much heat. Nah, the real prize was at the booze manufacturer. If you can call it that. Why? Klepping directly from the owner might sound like a preem idea, but trust me, those guys hit back twice as hard. The folks making the product, though? They’re just cogs in the machine, shipping the stuff out to a dozen places. All I needed was to track one shipment and wait for the right time to strike.

  Lucky for me, the building I had my eyes on had a bunch of warehouses to scope out. Perfect for my plan. I parked myself outside, looking bored out of my skull while I watched and waited for someone to screw up or get distracted enough for me to slip in.

  Didn’t take long. After a few minutes of pretending to care about the skyline, one of the workers stepped out for a smoke break. Preem. That was my window. I slid into the garage smooth as oil, acting like I belonged there. Confidence is half the game in Night City.

  Once inside, I ducked behind some crates, scanning for what I needed: a terminal. I wasn’t about to lift random crates of booze and lug them across the city. Nah, the smart play was to find the delivery plans, pick a low-key route, and jack the goods mid-transport. Cleaner, quieter, smarter.

  There was a staircase leading up, and I figured, garage below, offices above. Offices mean terminals, so up it was. Timing had to be perfect, though. I waited until a van rolled into the garage, its engine noise and movement giving me enough cover to dart between the workers. Security here was a joke—no one was paying attention, and the cams were static, locked in place. Easy to avoid.

  I made it to the stairs without breaking a sweat, climbed up, and slipped into the first maintenance door I found. The room was empty, just some brooms, mops, and other cleaning crap. Nothing special. Except for one thing.

  See, old buildings in Arroyo still have one overlooked gem—a blueprint.

  Bingo.

  I scanned the layout, and there it was: a direct route to the terminal I needed.

  “Preem,” I muttered to myself, a smirk creeping in. Time to make this gig pay.

  It wasn’t far. Keeping my steps light, I left the maintenance room, glancing both ways to make sure no one was tailing me. Satisfied, I jogged quietly toward the office. A few open doors later, I found it—the terminal.

  Problem was… I didn’t have the password. The login screen stared back at me, asking for a user ID and a password. Figures. It’s a booze delivery company, after all—they’re not just gonna leave it wide open. So, where the hell would they keep the login info?

  I started rummaging through cabinets, drawers, and anything that might hold some sort of record. I was being thorough, but apparently not quiet enough. The soft hum of the terminal masked most of my noise, or so I thought.

  Turns out, going through someone else’s shit makes more noise than you realize.

  I froze when I heard a gruff voice outside the room. “The fuck is that noise?”

  Shit.

  Heart pounding, I quickly ducked behind the door. It was the only move I had. If he opened it, the door itself would shield me. All I had to do was stay perfectly still.

  The handle turned, and the door creaked open. My breath caught in my throat as a pair of heavy boots stepped inside. I couldn’t see his face, but from the angle of the door, I saw his shadow stretch across the floor.

  “What the hell…” he muttered, probably noticing the open drawers and scattered papers I didn’t have time to clean up.

  He walked further in, his footsteps echoing in the small room. My fingers tensed against the wall. I stayed pressed to the back of the door, praying he wouldn’t turn around.

  “Damn rats,” he grumbled after a moment, slamming one of the drawers shut. His tone was irritated but not suspicious, which was lucky. He didn’t seem to think anyone else was in the room.

  He lingered a few seconds longer, muttering something about overtime, then turned and left, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  I stayed still, counting to ten in my head before daring to move. Once I was sure the coast was clear, I let out a slow breath and stepped back toward the terminal.

  “Alright,” I whispered to myself, “time to make this quick.”

  I couldn’t risk another search for the password, so I decided to improvise. Looking closely at the terminal, I noticed the faint smudge of fingerprints on the screen, likely from repeated use. Whoever was logging in didn’t seem too careful about cleaning up after themselves.

  Trial and error it was. I started typing common usernames: “admin,” “user,” “delivery.” Nothing. Then I added numbers—“user01,” “admin123.” Finally, after what felt like an eternity, “logistics01” got me through the username screen.

  Now for the password.

  I glanced around for anything that could be a hint. A sticky note? A calendar with dates circled? Something. But I had nothing. So, I guessed. Birthdays, company slogans, anything that might be easy to remember.

  On my fifth try, “Arroyo2025” worked.

  “Pfft!”, I managed to hold out a laugh, because this is the year the company was open.

  The screen opened, revealing the delivery schedule. Jackpot. I skimmed the list for routes with minimal security and high-value goods. It didn’t take long to find one—a shipment leaving this night, heading through a quiet stretch near my building. Perfect.

  I quickly downloaded the schedule to my shard and logged out of the terminal. No trace was left behind, even more when it was the company's own login.

  Time to get out of here.

  That's same night

  So, waiting to ambush people is surprisingly boring as fuck.

  I’ve been sitting here for about two hours now, and all I’ve seen are some 6th Street patrols cruising around Arroyo and the usual Night City chaos—a couple of people having full-on mental breakdowns on the sidewalk. Twice. That’s it. That’s all that’s happened, and honestly, watching someone scream at thin air or cry over spilled synth-meat doesn’t exactly keep you entertained.

  Jesus fucking Christ, this is so painfully dull.

  I can’t just sit here and stare into the void anymore. If I do, I’ll lose my mind. Screw it—time to kill some of this boredom with a quick workout. Push-ups, sit-ups, something. Anything’s better than sitting here doing nothing. And some random guy doing exercises in the middle of the street is the least bizarre thing that has happened to this city.

  Public sex? Yeah, that’s a thing too.

  Honestly, the fact that I don’t even blink at this stuff probably says a lot about how fried my sense of normalcy is. But hey, I’m not here for a therapy session.

  Finally, after about ten minutes, the van shows up. I stop mid-push-up, brushing the dirt off my hands, and watch as it parks near the delivery point—a local BD bar, not Vista Del Taco like I expected. One guy hops out, but I know these kinds of deliveries always have at least two. Standard practice: one drives, the other’s there to pop anyone dumb enough to try what I’m about to pull.

  I casually jog forward, pretending to vibe to some music, muttering fake lyrics under my breath. Sure enough, I catch a glimpse of the second guy sitting in the van. Perfect.

  Now I’ve got two options:

  1 - Knock the guy out and delta the hell out of here.

  2 - Wait until they finish the drop and klep the goods once they’re distracted.

  Both plans have their pros and cons, but the real kicker is figuring out where I’m gonna fence this shit afterward. I know a spot way up in Wellsprings that’ll take it off my hands, but it’s a hike, and I’d rather not have to haul stolen booze across half the city. Still, pay is pay.

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  Fuck it. Let’s go with the not-so-silent approach.

  I jog up to the van and tap on the window, giving my best "friendly stranger" energy.

  “Hey, got a second?”

  The guy in the van rolls down the window, eyeing me suspiciously. “What?”

  THUD.

  My fist connects with his face, and he’s out cold before he even knows what hit him. Hell, I think I broke his jaw. Whoops.

  I climb into the van, ready to make my getaway.

  ...

  …And immediately realize I have no fucking clue how to drive one of these things.

  I know the gas, the brakes, and that the gearbox needs to be set to "drive"—thank god this thing's automatic—but how the fuck do I even start it? My head suddenly feels like it's being split open, a migraine hitting so hard that I have to close my eyes and grit my teeth to push through the pain. When it finally subsides, my eyes snap open, and instinct takes over.

  I pop open the compartment under the wheel, spotting the wires beneath the keyshard slot. Without a second thought, my hands start fidgeting with them, twisting and connecting until the engine roars to life.

  …Wait. How the hell did I even know how to do that? Did I just hotwire a fucking van?

  “Hey! The van’s being klepped!” someone shouts behind me.

  No time to think. My foot slams on the gas, the tires screeching as I take off. The van lurches forward, and my hands somehow stay steady as I yank the wheel, taking a sharp turn into the alleys. I’m not questioning how I know how to handle this thing—because right now, survival is the only thing that matters.

  I keep gunning the engine, weaving through the streets and alleys until I’m sure I’ve shaken anyone who might’ve been following. Once I feel like I’m in the clear, I finally pull over, my chest heaving as I take a few shaky breaths.

  I glance at the passenger seat, where the poor gonk I clocked is still slumped over, out cold. With a smirk, I give him a playful tap on the shoulder.

  “Well, as good as it could be, right?”

  This pathogen in my system… I’ll never get used to it. It’s like it’s feeding me answers, skills I shouldn’t have. Skills I don’t have.

  Shaking it off, I hop out of the van and swing open the trunk. Sure enough, the booze is intact, all accounted for. But I know better than to stick with this ride for too long—these vans are traceable, and I’m not about to let this little heist come back to bite me. Time to find a new set of wheels.

  “So this is what you’ve been up to, huh?”

  I spin around, instinctively pulling out my Lexington, only to see…

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I lower the gun, not even bothering to hide my irritation. “You again?”

  Yep, it’s train-shard girl, back for round three.

  “You’re incredibly hard to trace,” she says, crossing her arms and nodding like she’s impressed. “I don’t know how, but you manage to keep yourself off the radar.” Her eyes flick to the van’s open trunk. “And stealing alcohol? Aren’t you a little young for beer?”

  “And aren’t you a little too nosy for your own good?” I shoot back, shoving the gun into its holster. “What’s your deal, huh? Gonna rat me out to the cops? Or maybe the company?”

  “Neither,” she says, holding up a shard like it’s her ace. “As I said before, we can profit more by working together.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply, dripping with sarcasm. “I do all the work, and you swoop in for the eddies?”

  “I know a buyer,” she says, completely unfazed, her gaze sweeping over the booze in the trunk. “And not just any buyer—a good one. This haul’s worth at least five digits. Enough to knock out a chunk of your debts, right?”

  I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. She’s got me there. I do need the eddies. A sigh escapes before I can stop it. I walk over to the passenger side, haul the unconscious gonk out of the seat, and motion for her to get in.

  “Such a gentleman,” she says with a smirk as she hops in.

  “You’re not getting more than 15%,” I shoot back immediately.

  “25%,” she counters without missing a beat.

  “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  “Then I won’t tell you where to go.”

  My glare sharpens. “Fine. I’ll find a buyer on my own. I don’t care if they pay less. This is my gig, so I set the rules. If it were your job, I wouldn’t argue—but you’re just pointing me in a direction. That’s not a partnership, that’s a contract. Huge difference.” I jab a finger at her for emphasis.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat, I fire up the engine and slam the door shut. I glance over at her, dead serious.

  “Now, point me in the direction.”

  She blinked a few times, her eyes going wide for a moment. “Alright. No need to switch rides. We can make this smooth and easy.”

  Turns out, she wasn’t wrong. The whole exchange went off without a hitch. I got my eddies, she got her cut, and the transaction was over faster than I expected. No gunfire, no drama—just clean, simple profit. This “heist” was quick, lucrative, and honestly? Way less of a hassle than I thought it’d be.

  Hell, I even had enough to pay off another month of rent, but something about that felt too… obvious. Paying up the day after clearing my overdue balance? That’d scream “something’s up” to anyone paying attention. Nah, I’d hold off on that for a while.

  “See?” Lucy said, her tone dripping with satisfaction. “Told you this would pay off.” She smiled like she’d just sealed some kind of long-term deal between us.

  I wasn’t convinced.

  “David,” I said finally, loosening up a bit. “Complete beginner to the underworld of crime.”

  “Lucy,” she replied, matching my tone. “Definitely not a beginner, as you’ve probably noticed.”

  I nodded, then dropped onto a nearby public bench with a sigh. “So… why’d you push so hard to work together?”

  Lucy joined me, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. She took a slow drag before answering. “Reliable partnerships are rare in this city. And finding someone who actually keeps to that whole ‘honor among thieves’ shtick? Even rarer. You didn’t rat me out, so I didn’t rat you out. Simple.”

  She exhaled a puff of smoke. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother me.

  “That’s a reason,” I said, pressing her further, “but it doesn’t really answer the question. Why me? Any hustler would work with you for the right price.”

  “Trust and loyalty,” she replied smoothly, “are two very different things. That’s what I’m after. And for now, you’ve shown you’re at least decent enough to trust. For now.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I scoffed, brushing her off. “Well, unless you’ve got something else to add, I’m out. I’ve got to deal with the Academy and their endless fucking penalties.”

  “You’re seriously going back there?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “After what you just pulled today?”

  “I made a promise,” I said simply, my eyes following the cars as they sped down the street.

  I leaned back, feeling the weight of everything I’d been dragging around lately. If I’d just done what my mom asked, maybe none of this would’ve happened. No shady deals, no pathogen screwing with my head. None of it.

  All I had to do was take responsibility for my fucking life. But here I am.

  Lucy must’ve sensed the weight behind my words—or maybe just picked up on my vibe—because she gave me a slow nod. “I see. But before the night’s out, I’ve got something else we could do together.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Does it involve klepping shards from corpos?”

  “Kinda.”

  That made me chuckle. “Yeah, sure. Why the fuck not.”

  Lucy couldn’t help but be intrigued by this kid, David. Something about him didn’t add up, and that only made her more curious. Sure, his decisions were solid, even impressive at times, but the way he executed them? Amateur hour at best. Yet somehow, he always managed to pull through.

  Their first encounter on the train could’ve been a fluke, but the way it happened—it sparked a curiosity in her that she couldn’t shake. Did he have a Sandevistan? If he did, and if it was that guy’s Sandevistan, it would explain a lot. But when she tried to hack his system, she came up empty. No cyberware. Or at least, nothing she could detect.

  And that was the problem. She couldn’t detect him.

  Lucy could breach the Blackwall, bypass some of the most secure systems in the world, yet she couldn’t breach this kid. Every time they crossed paths, she tried a new approach. She even noticed how it wasn’t just her—other devices couldn’t read him either. The train station’s transaction system didn’t register him when he skipped paying for his ticket. Surveillance cameras caught only a blurry figure where he should’ve been, and as far as she could tell, David didn’t have Kiroshi Optics or anything else that would glitch out his image.

  Tracking him was a nightmare. She had to jump manually from one surveillance system to the next just to keep tabs on him. Even then, he moved data, eddies, and who knows what else with no visible interference.

  And that was supposed to be impossible.

  What kind of chrome did he have? What kind of prototype system was he running? Did he know a ripperdoc with access to some black-market tech no one else had heard of?

  Lucy wanted answers. Not for her crew—this wasn’t about them. This was about her. If she could figure out what made David tick, it could open doors she didn’t even know existed.

  But when she finally got close enough to inspect him properly, she came up with nothing. No cyberware. No implants. As far as she could tell, he was fully ganic.

  That didn’t make any sense.

  No one in 2076 was fully organic. Not even the scavengers in the slums. At the very least, people had an agent for communication or a basic neural link. Hell, David had to have something. How else had he paid her for the booze deal?

  But the lack of answers only made Lucy’s curiosity—and her suspicion—grow.

  She sent a message to Maine, one she knew would at least make him pause:

  "I think I’ve found something you’ll want to see."

  Lucy turned her attention back to David, who was lost in the shared BD, a wide grin plastered on his face as he took in the simulated view of the moon. He looked like a kid seeing something incredible for the first time, and maybe that’s why she didn’t mind sharing this part of herself with him.

  For Lucy, the moon wasn’t just some fantasy or distraction—it was the one thing she longed for more than anything else. To leave Night City behind, to escape all its noise, corruption, and endless chaos, and never look back.

  It was still a dream, far away and almost impossible. But for now, moments like this gave her hope.

  “Hey!” David yelled, his voice echoing as he bounced in the low gravity of the simulated moon, “I get it now—why you want to come here. This is preem!”

  “And this BD doesn’t even capture the full experience,” Lucy replied, watching him float with amusement. “Tickets to the real moon cost a fortune. I’d have to save for years to afford it.”

  David grinned, landing clumsily near her. “Honestly? I’d say it’s worth it. How many people can actually say they’ve been to the moon? I know I can’t.”

  “Yet,” Lucy corrected with a faint smirk. “But what about you? What’s your dream?”

  “My dream?” He scratched the back of his head, his expression shifting as if the question caught him off guard. “I haven’t really thought about it since… well, since the car crash. I’ve been too focused on helping my mom, paying off debts, and dealing with all that crap.”

  “But you’ve got to have one,” she pressed, her tone softening.

  “I do,” David admitted, his face going blank for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to be at the top of my game—whatever that game is. Gun in one hand, trophy in the other. Like I’m destined for something big. But, I don’t know… life doesn’t seem to care about my plans.”

  Lucy glanced at him knowingly. “Night City. Too noisy and chaotic for its own good.”

  That earned a laugh from David, quick and genuine. “Yeah, you’re not wrong.”

  As he gazed at the Earth hanging above the moon’s horizon, its bright blue glow was mesmerizing. But his eyes lingered on the landmasses, now mostly shades of brown, the green almost entirely gone. He squinted, struggling to spot anything that wasn’t just endless sand.

  Lucy’s agent buzzed. She glanced down at the screen.

  “At your door. Everyone’s here.”

  She quickly typed a response, but before she could send it, David spoke up. “Hey, Lucy—who are you, anyway?”

  She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “I told you. I’m Lucy.”

  “Not your name, smartass,” he said with an exaggerated eye roll, though the smile on his face remained. “I mean, what do you actually do? Other than snagging shards and knowing where to sell booze.”

  But Lucy didn’t respond. Her expression shifted, the smirk disappearing as her focus turned elsewhere.

  David frowned, glancing around. “Lucy?” He turned, expecting to see her wandering off in the BD’s simulation. Instead, the world suddenly glitched.

  Then, everything went black.

  The BD abruptly cut out, leaving him blinking back into reality. Before he could even register what was happening, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  The biggest guy in the room was lounging on the sofa, a Tactician shotgun aimed squarely at David’s head. Around him, several others had weapons drawn, all of them focused on him.

  David’s hands instinctively twitched, but he didn’t move, his heart pounding in his chest.

  “Lucy…” he muttered, his voice low and steady.

  She stood off to the side, her expression unreadable, but she wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “Is this the clown?” Maine asked, his voice low and unimpressed, his expression caught somewhere between disappointment and confusion.

  “I gotta say, mini-gonk here doesn’t exactly scream hot stuff to me,” Pilar sneered, leaning in to poke David’s cheek with one of his chrome fingers.

  David didn’t flinch, his gaze locked on Maine like a predator watching the biggest threat in the room. It was steady, almost too steady for someone in his position. Maine noticed it, too. Admirable, maybe. Stupid? Definitely.

  “So, are you finally going to tell us why you dragged us out here to check on a teenager?” Kiwi cut in, pouring herself a glass of whiskey from a nearby bottle.

  David glanced at her, noting the metal jawless bottom half of her face. He blinked as she casually took a sip, somehow managing to drink despite the lack of, well… a mouth.

  Lucy snatched the bottle from Kiwi, earning an unamused look. “It’s simple, but it’s also a problem,” Lucy said, holding up the bottle as if it would explain everything. “I can’t hack him.”

  “You can’t what?” Sasha’s jaw dropped, her pink makeup amplifying her shock.

  “That’s gotta be a joke, right?” Pilar asked, his tone unusually serious. If Pilar was concerned, it meant something was definitely up. “I mean, how does Lucy, out of all the Netrunners in this city, fail to hack… this guy? No offense, kid.”

  “None taken,” David replied calmly, his eyes still fixed on Maine.

  Netrunners. That explained a lot—especially Lucy and all the “coincidences” between their paths crossing.

  “That’s the thing,” Lucy continued, pointing at David like he was some kind of unsolved puzzle. “As far as I can tell, he’s completely ganic.”

  “Bullshit,” Kiwi muttered, her usual indifference giving way to rare skepticism. “No one’s fully ganic these days.”

  “See for yourself,” Lucy said with a sigh, leaning back against the table.

  “Already did,” Dorio said from behind David, startling him slightly. “Ran a scan the second he walked in. No cyberware detected. Nothing. But somehow, he’s still completely dark, even to Sasha’s hacks. I can’t explain it.”

  Maine folded his arms, studying David with a sharper intensity. “So, care to explain how that’s possible, kid?”

  “Ask my Ripperdoc,” David replied, irritation creeping into his voice. “All I know is that the moment I stepped out of that clinic, my life went from zero to hundred real fucking quick.”

  Dorio snarled and shoved his shotgun into David’s face. “You think this is a joke?” His voice was low and dangerous. “You’re in no position to be playing around. Choose your next words carefully.”

  Maine, despite being on the verge of just flatlining the kid right then and there, hesitated. The fact that a Ripperdoc had actually worked on this kid raised a small flag in his mind—one that didn’t seem too important, but he figured asking wouldn’t hurt.

  Not him, at least.

  “Well?” Maine finally spoke up, his voice steady. “Who’s your Ripperdoc?” He lowered the shotgun slightly, giving David space to answer.

  David’s gaze never wavered, but he didn’t answer right away. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t pull the trigger as soon as I say it?”

  “Well, that’s the neat part,” Pilar grinned, tongue sticking out. “You don’t.” He paused, then added, “But we don’t have any guarantee you’re telling the truth either.”

  Sasha, who’d been watching silently, jacked into David’s neck sockets with her personal cord. “I’ll know. I’ve got a lie detector for this kind of situation.”

  Maine watched closely. Usually, when someone jacks in, there’s a slight twitch or flinch from the subject—something to show the discomfort of having their body intruded upon. But David didn’t budge, didn’t even seem to notice. He kept his focus, eyes flicking around the room, like he was calculating every move. Either he was used to this, or the kid had ice in his veins.

  “You can ask him all you want,” Sasha said with a thumbs-up.

  Maine didn’t need any more prompting. His voice was cold. “So, who’s your Ripperdoc?” He raised the shotgun back to its original position, aiming right at David’s face.

  “Vomi Kurosaki,” David answered simply, his tone flat.

  The room fell silent as everyone’s eyes turned to Sasha, waiting for her verdict. She stared at David, her expression frozen in disbelief.

  “He’s… I can’t read him,” Sasha muttered. “There’s no pulse, nothing… How did you—?”

  Sasha stared at David like he was some sort of anomaly—something that shouldn’t exist. The unease was contagious, spreading across the room as the crew realized just how complicated this was becoming.

  “What do you mean it’s showing nothing?” Kiwi asked, disbelief clear in her voice.

  “So that means we can pull the trigger, right?” Pilar chimed in, drawing a Unity pistol. “No readings, no truth.”

  “No lies either,” Dorio added, scratching her head with the shotgun. “But I wouldn’t jump to conclusions yet.”

  Maine sighed, trying to maintain control. “Can you clarify this for us, Sasha? We need—”

  That was it. The opportunity David had been waiting for.

  He backdashed off the sofa, flipping behind Dorio and pinning the muscular woman against her own shotgun. In one swift move, he twisted her arms and positioned her as a shield. The crew froze as David calculated everyone's positions with surgical precision. Maine couldn’t react in time, Sasha was still too shocked, Kiwi was unarmed, Pilar was too slow to process the situation, and Lucy was too far away to act without risking collateral damage.

  A perfect standoff—in David’s favor.

  “You all are a real pain in the ass,” David said calmly, pressing the shotgun against Dorio’s neck. “If you want answers so bad, call Vomi. Lucy dragged me here, so this is her problem. But I’m not gonna sit here quietly while you play cowboy.”

  Guns were raised, but no one dared shoot for fear of hitting Dorio.

  “You’re making a big mistake, kid,” Maine growled.

  “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” David pulled Dorio closer. “You ambush me, point guns in my face, and I am the one in the wrong? Fucking gonks.”

  Dorio tensed, muscles bulging, but David’s grip was like iron. He didn’t budge.

  Sasha snapped out of her trance, her expression shifting to curiosity. “Wait, what name did you say again?”

  “Sasha, not the time,” Lucy warned, her Monowire at the ready.

  “Shut up for a second!” Sasha snapped, stunning Lucy. She turned to David. “Who’s your Ripperdoc?”

  “Vomi,” David repeated calmly. “She works at Watson. Don’t have her number, though. I wasn’t even discharged yet, and here I am.”

  Sasha’s optics lit up gold—she was making a call.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” Pilar hissed. “We’re in deep shit here!”

  “Vomi?! You’re alive?!” Sasha exclaimed when the call connected. “It’s good to hear from you! …Yeah, we’ve got a situation you might be able to clear up.”

  Maine’s brow furrowed. The way Sasha spoke—it reminded him of her early days with the crew.

  “Let her finish the call,” Maine ordered, keeping the crew in check.

  The tension hung thick, but they obeyed.

  “Yeah, his name is David,” Sasha said into the call. Her eyes widened. “Really?! Oh, damn… We almost zero’ed him. Yeah, I’ll tell him.”

  Her optics dimmed, and relief washed over her face. “He’s legit.”

  “You sure?” Maine asked, skeptical.

  “Positive. Vomi’s an old choom of mine. She wouldn’t lie about this.”

  Maine lowered his gun, and the rest followed.

  David released Dorio and handed back her shotgun, his expression still eerily calm.

  “Ice in his veins”, Maine thought grimly.

  “Oh, yeah, David,” Sasha said, catching his attention.

  “What?”

  “Vomi said she’s gonna kill you.”

  For the first time, David’s composure cracked. “...What? Why?”

  “You weren’t discharged.”

  …

  …

  …

  …

  …

  “...Oh, fuck me…”