22:10 PM | Warlock Garage, V's Loft
Fresh out of the shower, I'm trading combat boots for slippers when the private elevator hums—Rebecca's Excelsior arriving. Delamain's polite baritone filters up the shaft:
"Mr V, guest arrival detected. Awaiting re‑dock clearance and emotional support."
"Dock and roll, Dela," I reply, towel still on my head.
The doors iris open. Rebecca barges through, wild‑haired, panic painted across her freckles. Two Delamain service drones trundle behind, manhandling Pilar onto a gurney—he's limp, skin chalky, fresh staple lines like a discount merch shirt.
"Dumb‑brother special delivery," she blurts. "Over‑clocked his brand‑new Sandy. Went flatline."
Delamain's drone swivels. "Prime instance has flagged this as 'family medical emergency.' Shall I remain for billing comfort?"
I snort. "Tell Prime we'll talk upgrades later—maybe a burnout‑proof neural mesh."
"Affirmative. Also, I mis‑pronounce 'tsundere' as 'sun‑dairy.' My linguistic module apologises."
Rebecca blinks. "Dela, it's tsun‑der‑ay."
"Correction stored. Emotional support remains available." The drone bows and rolls off.
Rebecca squeezes bridge of nose
I mutter, "Invisible trouble—like Shino from Naruto, but with cheaper bugs."
22:15 PM | Triage Shock
One full‑body scan and my guts knot:
OS: Berserk knock‑off, dev mode left on—open ports screaming „pwn me."Sandevistan: heat sink made from recycled toaster coils—core temp 96 °C.Spine: tungsten plates glued to ceramic vertebrae—compression fracture imminent.Heart: bargain‑bin cardiopump wired to a spare USB power rail (2.0, not even 3.1). I snap a holo‑photo of the janky setup and tag it Cyberpunk Darwin Award. Rebecca mutters she'll blackmail him with it once he's breathing.Liver: missing—replaced by a plastic sachet of vitamin water.
"Choom," I mutter, "he's a walking warranty violation."
Rebecca crosses arms, voice small: "He's stupid, but he's my stupid."
"Step one: yank the junk, plug med‑chrome, pray."
22:30 PM | De‑chrome & DNA Sample
I slap Pilar onto the surgical cradle.
De‑chrome sequence:
Kill‑switch his Sandy—core drops from lava to lukewarm coffee.Unbolt berserk chip; it literally crumbles. Who combines a Berserk with a Sandy? That's my gimmick, choom.Slice out six power‑hog mods fighting for 12 V like rats.
The smell: burnt plastic and regret.
Rebecca paces. "Cost?"
"Materials only. Biggest invoice is psych rehab."
She exhales. "Put it on my joytoy tab."
I draw blood; the vein‑finder laser briefly labels his type as "CAF"—apparently caffeine instead of a blood group. "Knew he ran on energy drinks," I sigh.
Rebecca rolls her eyes. "Explains his permanent jitter‑dance." Sequencer spins. "Family plan activated."
While printers prep medical chrome, Rebecca tries humor: "Think he'll appreciate going from Franken‑chrome to Care Bear mode?"
"He'll appreciate breathing."
23:00 PM | Clinic Booking
I patch through to Neuromend Center—the same white‑glove facility that patched up half of MaxTac last quarter. A holo‑nurse named Darcy materializes, irises whirring.
Darcy: "Present condition?"
Me: "Seventy‑two percent systemic degradation, multiple organ surrogates missing, full psych burnout risk."
Darcy: "Recommended: Tier‑1 Reborn Protocol—detox, neural defrag, protein lattice rebuild. Minimum stay: three months."
Invoice breakdown flashes:
₵ 120 k — round‑the‑clock med‑chrome telemetry ward.₵ 50 k — Organics & stem‑mesh cultures.₵ 30 k — Psych & neuro‑cognitive reconditioning.
Total: ₵ 200,000 upfront. Thumbprint—I paid. Rebecca's eyes water; I shrug.
Darcy: "Ambulance ETA 08:00. Patient must arrive in chemical stasis. Early completion rebate up to 15 %."
"Side‑quest bonus accepted," I say. Rebecca snorts despite herself.
00:30 AM | Rebuild Marathon
The clinic morphs into a chrome forge. Servo arms snake overhead; printers lay micron layers of living alloy.
Skeleton & Muscle
Carbon/graphene vertebral rods with flex‑gel shock nodes.Osteofoam marrow matrix seeded with autologous stem cells—restarts hematopoiesis.Syn‑weave musculature v2 with embedded micro‑actuators for passive physio while he sleeps.
Organs & Vitals
HepaClear Mk‑IV liver clone—auto‑detox plus glycogen buffer.Twin NanoKidney filters tethered to electrolyte balancer.MedCore pacemaker with arrhythmia predictor; EMP‑shielded.
Respiratory & Circulatory
Whisper‑quiet O₂ coils, plus hyperbaric nano‑lung sleeve for Badlands dust.Hemoglobin booster nanites scheduled for 30‑day drip.
Neural & Firmware
Full ghost‑kernel flash—zero Arasaka residue.Neurofoam sheath over spinal bus—cuts phantom‑pain latency by 80 %.BioStat watchdog: auto shutdown if core temp > 41 °C.
Quality‑of‑Life Perks
Sub‑derm vitamin reservoir; refill via chew tabs.Holo‑tat vitals display on forearm—so Rebecca can nag remotely.
I interleave healing capsules loaded with growth hormones and peptides. Every hour: checksum, recalibrate, continue. Rebecca wakes once, mumbles "tsundere sister," then snores.
By dawn, seventeen mismatched disasters become eight coherent med‑implants—future‑proof for phased upgrades. Funny thing: with this medical chrome package he'll be a tougher solo than he ever was on combat gear—proof just how abysmal his old load‑out was. The only half‑decent piece he'd owned were his cyber‑hands—great hardware, but the control firmware was Windows‑Vista‑era bloatware laced with spyware. At least Vista didn't rat you out to Microsoft every time you blue‑screened.
07:00 AM | Dawn & Breakfast
Final nano‑suture seals. Pilar's vitals settle into a slow green pulse; chemical‑coma timer set for five days.
I shuffle into the galley and engineer two breakfast burritos—double protein, triple cheese, extra hot sauce. Sizzle and spice rouse Rebecca from the chair; she pads over, hair like a pink storm cloud.
She blinks at the plate. "You cook, too? Overachiever."
"Autodoc says he'll recover faster if the caregiver eats, so—doctor's orders." I hand one over.
She takes a vicious bite, hot sauce dotting her lip. "You're insane, y'know that?" she says around a mouthful—then softer, "But you saved my dumb brother. Thank you, Doc."
I grin. "Eat up—fuel for the next crisis."
Rebecca smirks, jaw servos clicking. "If this jaw cracks a nut instead of a guardrail, I'll call it a win—maybe then I'll catch up to Kiwi. Girl's jaw could shell cashews at 20 paces. Should've installed mine sooner, but hey—never too late for practice."
"Test it on almonds first, choom."
She laughs, then nods toward Pilar. "Two months—he'll be better chrome, better choices."
"Deal."
Ambulance servos load Pilar. Rebecca watches, eyes shining—not tears, exactly, but relief coming off a high cliff. The doors seal; she slumps back, exhaustion finally catching up.
"Get some real sleep," I say.
She curls onto my sofa, already halfway under. "You, too, angel‑doc… and thanks for breakfast."
Night City messages ping unanswered. I face‑plant on the bed, burrito still in hand, muttering to the ceiling, "Pause menu—engaged."