17:30 PM | Loft Arrival & Surprise
Falco's waiting outside, visor up. The moment the loft door slides open, Rebecca pops upright from beneath a blanket—nude but wearing my goggles like a raccoon burglar. "Surprise recon!"
I sigh, "Gremlin, this is a procurement meeting."
She just grins, stretching theatrically. "Then consider me morale support."
Falco merely lifts a hand in greeting—Night City's seen weirder.
17:45 PM | Chrome Checklist
Upgrades:
Optics: Kiroshi Gemini Mk‑VSoft‑core Sandevistan: Reflex‑tuned for wheel workBone Dampers: impact‑spreaders for crash survivalSkin: anti‑ballistic weave (mil‑spec)Firmware: ghost‑kernel + DNA lock
Materials cost:₵ 20,000 → deduct from future gigs.
Falco expected an eye implant—walks out with a pit‑crew's dream chassis.
20:00 PM | Post‑Op Chill
Falco heads out to "test‑drive his new reflexes." The door hisses shut—and Rebecca pounces, losing the blanket entirely. "Stress test time," she smirks, jaw servos whirring. We tangle until my agent bleats.
21:40 – Reminder: Meet Fukui at Cherry Blossom Market.
I groan. "Sorry, gremlin—side quest."
She mock‑pouts, cheeks flushed. "Bring me mochi—and maybe replacement sheets."
Neon night beckons; time to decode secrets and dodge koi lanterns.
21:42 PM
The reminder ping is still echoing when I sprint to the Warlock. Cherry Blossom Market's thirty minutes out—Fukui's deadline is twenty.
"Navigation," I bark. "Fastest route."
ETA: 30 min.
"Thirty? Not today." I slam the throttle; the Warlock growls. Streetlights smear.
21:57 PM
I hit a wall of neon brake‑lights. No gaps, no alleys. I curse, swing into a bus lane—parking sensors yell.
"Warlock, back to base. I'll grab a cab."
Acknowledged. No argument; the car peels off. That's how vehicles should behave.
21:59 PM
I tap my Sandevistan. Time dilates. Infinite‑burst leg mods kick—vertical leap over taxi roofs. I ricochet off balconies like a parkour pinball, cloak shimmering. Pedestrians feel only a breeze.
21:59:58 PM
I land behind a cherry tree, two seconds to spare. Fukui waits beneath a koi lantern, flanked by twin bodyguards in matte suits.
I step out of the shadows, dropping stealth. She checks a vintage pocket‑watch and smiles. "Punctual enough."
22:05 PM
She leads me into a shuttered izakaya. A private booth, shōji screens, one nervous waiter delivering sake then fleeing. Guards post outside.
Fukui slides a velvet box across the table. Inside: a pristine neural‑node wrapped in biofoil.
"Dead Arasaka auditor," she says. "Encrypted. Biometrics required to open."
I raise an eyebrow, jack in a micro‑transducer, and—against her widened eyes—slot a cable straight to my neck port. Two seconds of static, a soft tone. I pop out, hand over a clean shard.
"All yours. Auditor kept meticulous ledgers—offshore accounts, blackmail chains. Enjoy."
Fukui blinks. "I expected an hour of tinkering."
"Corporate firmware is my warm‑up."
She laughs, pours more sake. "And your clinic?"
"Private. Crew only—moral gigs, no black‑bag wet work."
She crosses her legs under the table, a playful leer. "Morality is flexible."
I shrug. "So are upgrade schedules—but I still charge materials."
We trade light flirtation and heavier sake until her guards tap the screen: time to close. She stands, surprisingly steady.
"Payment will route by morning. Until then… try not to vanish entirely, V."
02:40 AM
A waiting Excelsior door glides open. Delamain's tone is hushed night‑mode.
"Productive evening, sir?"
"Profitable."
"Shall I engage seat‑warmers—or lap‑dance illumination?"
"Not tonight, buddy."
We glide down Arasaka Avenue when my Kiroshi HUD flashes RED—incoming threat vector. Two seconds later Delamain's interior klaxon joins in.
"Threat detected," the AI announces, almost proud. "No need to worry, sir—you are fully protected."
"Open the window; I've got this."
"Yes, sir."
Sandevistan spools. One Malorian round—silver flash—and the cyberpsycho collapses mid‑swing, sparks guttering out.
"Situational hazard neutralised," Delamain reports.
"Life's cheap in this city."
Delamain's avatar tilts its cap. "Define 'cheap,' sir?"
"Depends which district you're burying bodies in."
"Fascinating. Shall I log this philosophical query for future small talk?"
"Sure—file under 'Night City existentialism.' And log this motto as well: 'By all means, marry. If you find a good wife, you will be happy. If not, you will become a philosopher.' Guess which one I am, Delamain?"
"A philosopher, sir?" the AI replies without missing a beat.
I let out a rough laugh. "Damn— you know me too well." The chuckle fades as fast as it came; truth stings. I still miss my wife… and my two little rabbits.
Neon blurs past again. The clock clicks 03:00 as the cab drops me at the loft.
03:15 AM
Silence inside—Rebecca must have actually gone home. Miracle #2.
I sink into bed. The shard's data scrolls in my HUD queue, but consciousness finally hits pause.
Curiosity wins. I launch a full diagnostic—the first since reincarnation.
Main Cyberware
Hybrid Triple‑Core Neural Suite ― Cyberdeck / Sandevistan / Berserk all-in‑one (custom 'God Mode' kernel)Better KerenzikovOptical Camo ― cooldown 0 s (modded))Infinite‑Jump Angel Legs ― stamina‑free burst + parkour boostersArm Cycle System → live‑swap Gorilla Arms / Projectile Launcher / Monowire / Mantis Blades with Arasaka ninja skin lightsaber version (label reads MILITARY CUSTOM ARMS — Codename "GOD HANDS")Expanded Slots ― supports triple the normal implant capDermal Weave MK‑VI, ballistic IV (godlike resilience)Skeleton: graphene‑reinforced osteofoam (100 % integrity, auto‑repair nanites)Nanite Reservoir: 34 % (replenished via regular food intake)Cyberpsychosis Safeguard: 0 % risk — always stable
Firmware Privilege: ROOT (rewrite at will)
I run a stealth‑spoof routine: down‑clock outward signatures so the gear scans as "high‑tier military" company "Militech" instead of "Smasher‑bait god kit." The OS obliges—mil‑spec labels, serial numbers.
"At least a nuke still won't scratch me," I mutter, "but I'm almost out of nanites. Maybe I should eat more.
Nothing left to optimise tonight, but the masquerade patch should keep curious scanners at bay.
03:50 AM
Sofa. Cross‑legged. Eyes shut. First breath tastes like machine oil.
I try to slip into the old mindfulness routine of meditating—pre‑chrome, pre‑Night City. Instead of calm I hit a steel box in my mind, walls humming with processor noise. For a moment I think I've lost the spark forever.
Then—a ripple. Warmth rises from my sternum, threading through carbon ribs. A pulse of something not electrical. Tears sting; spirit, long‑neglected, saying hello.
"Thank you," I whisper, palm over synthetic chest plating.
I linger in the quiet. At first it feels like my head is stuck deep in mud—spirit boxed by carbon rails. Then a memory surfaces: God Hands. If hardware can transcend limits, so can the soul.
I push inward. A spark of fire blooms atop my crown—fierce heat, then a cooling breeze as if a vent opens. Joy wells up, bright and weightless. I'm not this body, not this mind. I'm the spirit.
Time dilates; completeness seeps into every synthetic fiber. A vow forms: live present, heal this wounded world.
07:10 AM
Hydrate. One squeeze‑pack of electrolyte water.
Now the weight of the day finally folds me. I slump sideways, half on sofa, half on floor. Dreams hover but never land. Still, it's the closest to peace I've felt since reboot.
Interlude — Dogtown Dealing
13:10 PM | Kurt Hansen's Suite, Stadium Plaza
The rooftop office smells of gun oil and incense. Kurt Hansen—self‑crowned tyrant of Dogtown—lounges in a dented chrome throne, tapping ash onto polished marble.
Across from him sits Fukui Minamoto, legs crossed, silk dress immaculate despite the city's grime.
Kurt steeples his chrome‑tipped fingers. "All right, Fukui. I took the heat for your late husband's missing cargo—did you bring my shard in return?"
She slides a lacquered case across the table. "Cracked and copied, exactly as requested."
Kurt's eyes gleam. "My netrunners swore it was unpickable. Still keeping the best connections in Night City, I see."
"Lucky I didn't need the Voodoo Boys," she says, swirling the sake cup. "Brigitte sniffed opportunity like a hound scenting blood—opened at ten million, grudgingly bargained down to eight. In the end I skipped them entirely and found… an alternative artist."
Kurt's brow lifts. "You unlocked it without Brigitte? What did it cost you?""
"A lady never tells," Fukui answers, tilting her head coyly. "So, Mister Hansen—how much is that worth, minus the small favor of taking Arasaka's heat for you?"
He studies the shard, truly impressed. "My ledger said six million for a clean decrypt."
"I'll take four," she purrs. "Consider it a loyalty discount for a considerate partner who always helps a widow in distress."
Holographic ledgers flare. He transfers ₵ 4,000,000 to Fukui's account. "Payment rendered. With an intel net like yours you could be a proper fixer."
"Not interested," Fukui says. "I played unofficial fixer for my husband long enough. Politics upset my stomach."
"Shame. I could use a clean conduit." He rises. "My boys will escort you out of Dogtown."
He nods to his bodyguard, Viper. "And one more thing." Kurt gestures to a crate stamped with military hazard glyphs. "Gold‑plated prototypes on the outside—fried circuitry inside. My hackers hard‑bricked every board. To Arasaka scanners it screams treasure, but it's worthless scrap. Consider it repayment for the ripper‑dock gear I never received—and a perfect false lead to send the suits chasing ghosts." He laughs softly.
Fukui arches a brow. "So considerate, Hansen."
He grins. "Always."
Viper motions her toward the elevator.
Kurt watches them leave, muttering, "Time for other business," as the doors hiss shut and glowing shard data scroll before him.
13:20 PM | Elevator Descent — Fukui's Reflection
The lift hums downward, glass walls revealing Dogtown's fractured skyline. Fukui tucks a stray hair behind her ear, eyes fixed on the incoming balance that slowly fading away.—four million eddies mmm she nods inside of her.
Songbird was amazing — and expensive — but she vanished into the President's shadow months ago, unreachable. "Too grand for little old me," Fukui murmurs.
She thinks of the young ripper‑doc again who cracked the auditor shard in under three seconds. Pretty face, gentler than this rotten city deserves. If only I were fifty years younger… Her reflection smiles—she looks thirty, but behind the gene‑peel she knows there's a seventy‑year‑old frame kept spry by top‑of‑the‑line longevity chrome, good for another two centuries if maintenance holds.
He shines like a child behind god‑tier chrome. I want to protect that light—and, yes, make eddies I'll never use—hehe, she laughs like it's an addiction.
The crate of bricked military cyberware waits in a loading bay below. After they serve their purpose of drawing a false lead… hand over the lot and watch him try to unbrick the impossible—then tease him if he can't.
The doors open; Viper guides her toward the armored car. Fukui's stride is poised, plans already branching in her mind.
If things go well, she thinks, I'll offer him my network. Let the angel with God Hands rise as Night City's next top fixer.
13:35 PM | Encrypted Ping to V
Back in the loft, V's HUD flickers: ENCRYPTED MESSAGE — F.MINAMOTO.
Reward dropped! Don't spend it all in one place. A laughing kitsune emoji follows.
Ledger confirms ₵ 2,000,000 routed to Chrome‑Angels escrow.
V smirks and taps a reply: Two million? That's only half a Delamain lap‑dance package. I'll try not to blow it on seat‑warmers.
A second ping: Behave, pretty doctor. There's plenty more where that came from—provided you keep unbricking miracles. A winking sakura petal icon dissolves on‑screen.
V leans back, pockets humming with possibilities. "Well, gremlin will love the digits," he mutters, already picturing Kiwi's cashew‑crusher jaw servos revving at the zeroes.
He fires another encrypted line: If you've got more puzzles to unbrick, I'm your guy—keeps the conscience clean when it's just corpos out‑scheming corpos, right?
Fukui's reply pings back in elegant kanji: Oh, dear V—you're very clever when you're busy convincing yourself. Expect another delivery soon. A smirking kitsune winks out.
The prospect of a proper Chrome Angels HQ flickers across his HUD budget tool. Base funding, investments… opportunities everywhere. But first: sleep.
Interlude — Hanako's Reflection
Hanako Arasaka's Teahouse, Westbrook Heights
The mansion crowns a hill of sculpted pines, all sliding shōji doors and quiet koi ponds. Hanako Arasaka sits alone in a tatami alcove, porcelain perfect: ink‑black hair pinned high, kimono silk pooling like moonlight. Beneath the courtyard gravel, a suikinkutsu sings—a buried water harp whose tinkling droplets contrast the distant drone of traffic. Beauty chilled by absolute poise.
A discreet door opens. Oda, crisp in a charcoal suit, kneels and places a kiri‑wood tray beside her. On it rests a data‑shard and a single wilted sakura petal—a silent nod to impermanence.
"Your requested briefing, Hanako‑sama."
She accepts with a nod; Oda retreats to the threshold, silent as tatami shadows.
Shard Contents — Minamoto Fallout
Lines of text scroll across Hanako's chem‑glass screen:
Subject: Minamoto Estate — Posthumous Seizure Disputes
Division: Arasaka Medical High Command
Pressure Points: Widow Fukui Minamoto, Dogtown middleman Kurt Hansen
Cargo: Vaulted prototype cyberware (encryption‑sealed)
Hanako's lips tighten. Brother, you always were dramatic. Ordering Adam Smasher to cast Dr. Minamoto from the tower as a power play—now every bloodhound in Medical Division claws at the widow's estate.
She scrolls. Fukui has off‑loaded part of the vault to Hansen in exchange for Dogtown protection. A side note: "Rumour of outside ripper‑doc capable of decrypting sealed tech."
Hanako exhales, the breath white in the chilly room. A line of Bashō flits through her mind: "Even in Kyoto… I long for Kyoto." Homesickness tastes like matcha left too long. Fukui was never weak; Minamoto rose as much on her brilliance as on his own talent. Quietly, Hanako has used her own influence to keep the most predatory Arasaka executives from cornering the widow outright—an invisible hand halting knives in the dark.
Private Thought
Yorinobu's name flashes in an encrypted footnote. Fukui's last message: "A fish rots from the head." Hanako's smile is brittle. Ten years of advanced medical R&D—lost because her brother refuses to play by rules, preferring to break the board.
Engineering estimates say it would take a decade and a fortune to decrypt the sealed prototypes—cheaper to start from zero. Still, Fukui walks away richer, and Arasaka is poorer for Yorinobu's vanity.
Saburo cancels yet another visit from Tokyo. She lifts and removes the still‑warm matcha set laid in anticipation, pouring the green tea into a basin rather than let it cool—symbolic waste for a wasted appointment. Political tremors at home. Hanako wonders if her father realises how deeply the rot runs.
She rises, sliding open the shōji. Night City's neon stains the sky. A chill gust lifts cherry petals from the courtyard.
If Arasaka is to endure, she thinks, the head must purge its own poisons before they reach the heart—for a body without a brain stumbles, but a brain without a beating heart is already dead. Fukui was right: restoration will demand work, and perhaps sacrifice.
Far off, a taiko rehearsal rumbles from Japantown—deep drums indistinguishable from corporate artillery to Hanako's ear.