„In 2096, the New Global Currency (NGC), nicknamed ‘Angies,’ erased national currencies. Society split into rigid castes: corporate drones basked in security, freelancers played cat and mouse with the law, and the rest of us? We rot in the shadows of their towers.“
(From the leaflet „Corporates Fucked Us All – The Truth!“, underground publication from 2165, attributed to „Unknowable Demon“)

A Drone’s Shadow

The catlike security drone patrolled with a studied nonchalance, its gait a touch too smooth, its posture a hair too relaxed – a performance of safety for an audience trained to ignore the wires beneath the stage. The tarnished, cobalt-blue metal claws clicked on the polished marble floor, each step a sharp contrast to the constant background hum of poorly maintained billboards. The bustling crowd of customers barely noticed its presence, their augmented reality stream provided by the mall’s AI depicting it as a subtle icon, drowned out by individually targeted special offers.
Ink leaned against the cold concrete pillar of a weapons shop, his eyes following the drone through slightly squinted lids.
„These little fuckers are a pain in the ass,“ he mumbled.
His fingers twitched, reflexively brushing the worn strap of his belt pouch.
„Heart rate rising. Did you suddenly fall in love?“ CodeEx, Ink’s heavily modified personal AI, remarked.
„Yeah, with my flashbang and doppelganger,“ Ink whispered.
„You brought highly illegal devices to a heavily guarded mall?“
„Oh, thanks for calming me down.“
„You’re welcome.“ A pause. „You really have a soft spot for that ancient doppelganger.“
„Shut up and get me a newer one.“
Ink forced himself to stay still, casually fumbling with the zipper of his jacket. The drone didn’t stop. Didn’t scan. Didn’t even notice him. Slowly, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d held in, only now realizing how tight his grip had become. His gaze turned back to the unassuming façade of „The Tech-Swap Meet.“
„Client wants the shop wiped from existence,“ Ghost had told him.
The fixer had shoved a hardline spike across the table.
„You have to be careful, though. Shop’s a messy shithole, subnet’s another story. Tight security, advanced ICE. Air-gapped, no remote access. Plug this spike into an access port. Angies riding on this one. I’m counting on you.“
Ink knew better than to turn this one down. His mentor had a knack for hiring him for gigs to challenge his skills. Besides, he owed the elusive figure more than one for taking him under their wing.
His thoughts were interrupted by a customer’s angry curses.
„Damn! These vending machines are fucking robbery machines!“
The man kicked the dispenser.
„You humans act funny when you don’t get your candy,“ CodeEx noted dryly.
„Like when an AI is denied access to a subnet?“ Ink shot back defensively.
„An AI would never act irrationally or hostile against malfunctioning tech.“
„True. In your case, you react with sarcasm.“
„Sarcasm is a legitimate response in my book.“
„And totally rational.“ Ink chuckled. „Can you fix the machine for this guy?“
„Sure.“ A pause. „Done.“
A mechanical clank echoed as the machine dispensed a chocolate bar. And then another. The man blinked.
„Well, why not now? Damn bag of screws,“ he muttered, grabbing the candy before walking off, still eyeing the machine suspiciously.
„Did you just give him a bar for free?“
„Oops.“
Ink smiled. „Another happy customer, please visit again.“
As he turned away, he rubbed the back of his neck with a shaky gesture. The skin felt clammy with sweat. His gaze flicked to the faded sign above the shop – peeling red paint on a dirty gray background.
Plain, unassuming. Harmless. He took a deep, shaky breath to calm his nerves and weird gut feeling.
„Are you waiting for another customer we can help?“ CodeEx teased him.
„What? No, I’m, uh… just focusing, preparing.“ Ink forced a grin of confidence he didn’t feel.
„Ah, sure. You’re showing classic displacement behavior. Shaky gestures, rubbing your forearm, touching your neck, sidelong glances, and deep sighs. You’re nervous,“ the AI analyzed.
Ink shoved his hands into his pockets.
„Okay, I’m just cautious. Ghost said this one’s tight.“
„Ghost also picked you to handle it,“ CodeEx replied. „Unless you think they made a mistake?“
Ink took another deep breath and relaxed his cramped neck, his fingers brushing the hardline spike in his pocket. The smooth plastic steadied him.
„Yeah, okay. Let’s get this over with.“

A Dirty Act

He drifted through the crowd, slipping into the tech dealer’s shop. The old doorbell gave a dissonant ring, announcing his presence to everyone inside. Ink had expected a kind of „one-Angie bargain store“ – cheap, low-quality tech and counterfeit products imitating the real thing – but not this. The tight space was littered with old shelves, crammed with ancient tech, buried under layers of dust and something that made Ink’s skin crawl. He navigated the labyrinthine gorges of chrome and silicone, careful not to trigger an avalanche of doom. The air was stale and thick, the musty stench of ancient circuitry and the sharp tang of ozone from flickering signs assaulting his nostrils.
Scrak, the shop’s gaunt and weathered keeper, barked at a trio of teenagers who had the audacity to handle his merchandise without permission.
„Outta here, punks!“ Scrak yelled in a high-pitched, raspy voice that made Ink’s ears feel like someone pierced them with a dull needle.
The shopkeeper’s suit, stained with the ghosts of meals past, hung from his bony frame like a scarecrow’s rags. Ink studied the man, noting the way his eyes darted between his customers and the cluttered inventory. There was something more to Scrak than met the eye, something that made the hairs on the back of Ink’s neck stand on end.
„Whaddaya want?“ Scrak’s voice was a gravelly rasp, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Ink forced a grin, but under the weight of the owner’s glare, it turned into an „Oops“ grimace. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
„Just browsing,“ he said, aiming for a casual drawl but missing the mark. „You got any decent vintage ’ware? Something with a bit of character?“
„Ain’t got vintages. Try somewhere else.“ The dismissive grunt made Ink flinch. „Outta here, punk!“ Scrak added sharply, already turning away, losing interest.
Ink’s mind raced – this was not going as planned. His act was falling apart.
„Try the profit button,“ CodeEx suggested.
Ink swallowed, then spoke before doubt could steal his chance.
„Huh. That’s funny. I was told you had. For the right price.“ His voice steadied, just enough to sound like he belonged there.
Scrak grunted, squinting at him, his eyes gleaming with sudden interest. „So?“
„Look,“ Ink continued, exhaling like he was revealing something awkward, „I want to impress someone. Not with some off-the-rack corpo junk. Something rare.“ He gestured vaguely, like he was struggling to find the right word. „Something unique. The stuff that turns heads. And, well…“ He tilted his head, shaking off the last of his nerves, letting a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. „Word is, you’re the guy to ask – and pay.“
Scrak raised an eyebrow. Consideration flickered in his eyes. Ink fished a credstick from his pocket and let it roll between his fingers.
„I can pay.“
Scrak grunted, his expression unreadable.
„In the back,“ he croaked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. „But don’t touch nothin’ unless you’re buyin’.“
Ink nodded, his eyes scanning the piles of tech as he moved deeper into the shop – just a naive kid, eager to impress his crush and waste his Angies on junk.
Scrak smirked. „Hooker’s cheaper ’n easier to dock with.“ He tilted his head, eyeing Ink up and down. A bit too long.
Ink felt uncomfortable and blushed slightly.
„Maybe, but too easy. Where’s the fun in that?“ His voice was steady, but with a nervous undertone.
Scrak nodded with a knowing smile. „Aye. If you say so.“ After a pause, he added, „Ya’ll surely find something. Don’t let it bite ya.“ A brief look over his shoulder to a secluded corner, then back to Ink. „Good luck.“ Then he turned his attention to some stained sheets of paper on his desk, guiding a nicotine-stained finger across the lines.
Relieved, Ink exhaled slowly and looked around.
Meanwhile, CodeEx sifted through the digital fog for signs of the security hardware. The air grew thick with static as the AI’s probing intensified. The shopkeeper’s gaze followed Ink’s movements with suspicious, squinted eyes, but the promise of a high-paying customer was too tempting to ignore. With a grumble, Scrak retreated to the back. Ink was alone now – alone with his thoughts and the ever-watchful eyes of the cameras.
Ink’s hand slipped into his pocket, closing around the hardline spike. The smooth plastic felt reassuring as he grazed it with his thumb.
„How’s it going, CodeEx?“
„High-end security rig behind the counter. Your spike’s a match. Cams play a loop of you scratching your head and adjusting your junk.“
Ink exhaled slowly and made a show of scanning the shelves, as if weighing his options. Seconds stretched into an eternity. Scrak’s voice cut through his thoughts.
„Scrak. Gimme the boss, got an urgent delivery that needs shadow escort – now.“
Ink swallowed. The moment was now.
„Now or never. Let’s do this!“ CodeEx whispered.

Nightmares In Fibonacci

Ink turned sharply toward the makeshift counter – a mess of stained, rotting pallets probably older than he was. The digital overlay revealed the battered case of an ancient router. Poorly punched holes lined the side panel, allowing access to hidden connection ports – advanced hardware disguised as useless tech.
He hesitated. Checked over his shoulder. His hands damp with sweat. His heart skipped a beat before slamming into his ribs like a warning. A slight movement in his periphery made him twitch – old webbing moved by a sudden draft.
„I have a bad feeling,“ he thought. A cold knot formed in his guts.
„Get to it, the call is coming to an end. You have seconds!“ CodeEx snapped.
Ink forced himself to move. With a shaky hand, he placed his small cyberdeck on the cluttered counter and plugged the spike into the port. He felt the cold shiver of jacking in creep up his spine, a sensation of electric ants crawling and gnawing their way to his brain. The digital overlay bled in, drowning out the grime and clutter. A clean, neon-lit subnet unfolded in front of him. The shift in perspective, the sensation of not being, triggered a wave of light vertigo and nausea. It reminded him of throwing up when he jacked in for the first time, when it felt like drowning in digital colors.
His fingers danced over the keys of his deck. His gig had begun.
„Ghost was right. This is some serious ICE. Not military grade, but close,“ CodeEx whispered. „And that handshake protocol was weird, unnecessary redundant.“
„Obfuscation now, no time for that!“ Ink snapped.
Neon fibers lashed out from the ICE, weaving into his avatar – his digital representation in the datasphere.
„We’re a memory test routine.“
The ICE hesitated – then pulled back. The first layer peeled away, unraveling like synthetic silk. The subnet unfolded like a kaleidoscope. CodeEx scanned the directory.
„Nothing but junk.“
„Deeper!“ Ink urged.
In the real world, his cold, sweaty fingers flew across his deck, launching a cascading avalanche of functions and protocols.
„Net trap!“ CodeEx barked.
The access node Ink was about to activate glitched, twisted in on itself, then collapsed into a black void.
„Fuck!“ Ink jerked back – too late!
A sudden force yanked at his avatar, trying to rip him apart bit by bit. Neon fibers shot from the void toward him and connected. His nerves lit up with searing pain. Needles pierced his core code, dragging it toward absolute erasure.
„Hold tight!“ CodeEx’s voice cut through the agony. „Injecting counter-script.“
The simple AI driving the trap was suddenly convinced nothing had happened, oblivious to its failure. The access node embedded in the ICE looked inconspicuous, like a camouflaged predator waiting for its prey.
Ink exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut, then blinked several times.
„Don’t touch everything shiny you see,“ CodeEx scolded.
Echoes of pain faded in Ink’s nerves as he flexed his fingers. This wasn’t just dealing with security. This was dealing with a hostile nightmare.
„Hack the ICE, CodeEx. I don’t trust these nodes.“
„Risky. But I agree.“
The AI pierced the ICE with its fibers. The gray wall shuddered, reacting to the intrusion, its fibers tentatively reaching toward them.
„We’re an encryption hash check.“
The ICE hesitated. Its fibers swayed, uncertain – then pulled back. The second layer unraveled, a window peeling open to reveal something beneath. They pushed deeper into a subnet alive with movement. Encrypted. Shifting. Lashing out!
„Fuck!“ Ink gasped, his muscles locking. His neck cramped up, closing in on his windpipe.
„Dynamic offensive encryption. Could be the pot of gold,“ CodeEx whispered.
„Or a fucking trap,“ Ink choked. Cold sweat ran down his temple.
The abstract representation of this layer warped and blurred into impossible shapes. Planes bent in on themselves, creating an infinite hall of mirrors. A shockwave of epileptic seizure-inducing color exploded across his vision. He choked back bile.
„CodeEx! Decrypt this nightmare! Now!“ His neck seized tighter, threatening to choke him.
„On it. Enjoy the ride.“
White noise devoured Ink’s senses. For two excruciating seconds, he was nowhere, lost, untethered to any recognizable plane of existence. With a violent snap, the chaotic mess collapsed into a crisp, streamlined architecture.
Ink sucked in a deep breath. „For fuck’s sake!“ he muttered, already making a mental note to fix CodeEx’s user protection routines.
„Encrypted ICE located,“ the AI whispered.
„Someone’s got something to hide.“
„Yes. In a very fancy hiding place.“
What had looked like an empty memory space morphed into a digital fortress. ICE shifted constantly, rewriting itself in real-time.
„Alteration frequency 1.13198 milliseconds.“
Ink’s fingers twitched over his deck. That number…
„Viswanath constant? How fitting.“
CodeEx punched a thick, pulsing fiber into the ICE, solving Fibonacci sequences, adjusting variables, cracking the master key. Three seconds later, the ICE shattered.
Ink exhaled. „About time.“
A meticulously structured file system unfolded like a finite fractal. The chaotic junk shop outside – this was the opposite.
„Transfer and wipe!“ Ink barked.
With each stolen file, CodeEx overwrote the memory with junk data.
„Four seconds.“
„This is taking too long.“
„Lots of data. Wanna help?“
Millions of unregistered Angies flared in the digital vault. Pre-made subroutines pierced into their virtual representation, siphoning the funds away. A network of 128 shell accounts bloated up, transferring their wealth to a cascade of dummy corporations. Then they vanished, leaving a veil of legitimacy behind.
„Two seconds.“
Ink read over filenames. Stolen identities. Counterfeit credentials. Digital contraband. Bribed employees.
„For fuck’s sake! This better be worth it!“
„Last transfer.“
Ink’s heart slammed against his ribs as he reached for his hardline spike.
CodeEx whistled. „Weird. There’s…“
Then, every pixel, every byte, bled into shades of crimson.

Compromising Things

„We’re compromised!“ CodeEx snapped. „Security scan. We’re tagged.“
„Fuck!“ Ink yanked the spike free, knocking the router from the table.
The sudden disconnect hit like a punch. A hot, stabbing pain shot up his spine, his nerves protesting the unprotocol exit. Tears blurred his vision. Vertigo messed up his balance. Some part of his brain still thought he was jacked in.
Scrak’s voice cut through the air.
„Found what ya were lookin’ for? Hah! Who the fuck sent ya?“
Ink stumbled, his shoulder connecting with a shelf. Metal and plastic crashed down in a cloud of dust. Scrak growled, already lunging forward. And very pissed!
„Ya won’t get away!“
Ink’s gut twisted. Scrak had never bought his act! He rattled the door handle. Locked!
A rasping, disharmonic laugh sounded behind him.
„Surprise, motherfucker!“ Scrak’s raspy laugh cut through the dust. „Ain’t walkin’ out that easy.“
Ink heard him tearing through the fallen shelf, closing in.
„CodeEx! Door!“ He shook the handle again, fading vertigo replaced with panic.
„Air-gapped!“
„Fuck!“
„Scanner pad. Remove cover.“
A gun cocked. A shot roared. Ink flinched as the bullet ripped splinters from the doorframe and ducked low.
„Fuck!“
„Not so cocky now, are ya, netrunner?“
Ink’s hand scrambled against something solid. He looked down. A huge chrome vibrator. Heavy.
„Oh, c’mon…“
He yanked it up and slammed the sex toy into the scanner pad. The cover disintegrated into a cloud of debris.
Another shot.
„Hurry! I’m not dying in this dump!“
The gun cocked again.
„CodeEx!“
„Brute force, rip off green and red NOW!“
Ink’s fingers tore at the wires. Sparks. The lock hissed. The latch snapped open. He threw himself through the door. The gun barked again. Too close! He felt the air shift as the round tore past him into the metal door.
And then he ran, jostling through the crowd of customers.
„Impressive skills. Opening a door with a sex toy. Very… symbolic,“ CodeEx remarked lewdly.
„Shut up! I need an exit, quick!“
The gig was done. The hunt was just beginning.

Hunted

„Obfuscation protocol engaged. Lots of cams here. Attempting to remove suspect tag,“ CodeEx whispered into Ink’s thoughts.
„This better work!“ Ink gasped, slowing his pace, trying to blend into the ever-moving crowd while battling the adrenaline rush running wild in his system.
He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and forced himself to breathe slower.
„Calm down,“ he whispered to himself.
Still, his heart raced, and his eyes darted around in search of threats – security and drones that were undoubtedly closing in on his position.
„Status!“ he demanded from CodeEx.
„Unless you can grow a different face, there’s nothing more we can do.“ The AI painted red dots on Ink’s visual map overlay.
„Oh shit!“ he muttered, feeling his stomach turn.
„Calculating a safe route to the nearest exit.“ A green line appeared on the ground. Head hung low and sweaty hands deep in his pockets, Ink quickly followed CodeEx’s way out.
„New route, security closing in,“ CodeEx whispered.
The warning made the hair on his neck stand.
„Fuck!“ he muttered and took a sharp turn to another exit. „This leads to a guarded memorial place, CodeEx!“
„Unless you feel like giving security a group hug, this is our best shot.“
„For fuck’s sake!“ Ink cursed under his breath.
He looked around and spotted two surveillance drones gliding from a side corridor on his right.
„Did you remove the tag?“ he muttered.
„Yes. But security cams have us locked.“
„Blind them!“
„Individual firewalls and ICE on each cam. No time. Run!“
Ink bolted, not showing any consideration for subtlety or the customers he barged into.
„Watch it!“
„Idiot!“
„Hey!“ Voices barked – annoyed, angry, irrelevant.
„How charming,“ CodeEx commented.
Ahead, Ink saw the exit – a promise of temporary escape.
„Let’s hope they haven’t locked it yet!“ He gasped after pushing past a young man.
Something snagged his foot; he tripped, crashing into a display of cheap AR sunglasses. The snapping plastic cut his cheek, and he badly bruised his right shoulder when he hit the ground. Rolling over, he saw the young guy lunging at him with a knife. Ink raised his legs to block the strike. A sharp pain shot through his right thigh as the blade bit deep into his flesh. He felt warm blood soaking his pants. With desperate strength, he kicked the attacker in the face, hearing a dull sound as his foot connected with the kid’s temple.
Ink staggered to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg. With clenched teeth, he sprinted toward the exit.
„EVERYONE DOWN! USE OF DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED!“ A booming, synthetic voice overpowered the bustling noise of the mall.
„Oh, c’mon now!“ Ink muttered, running faster in zigzags.
Two shots rang out, and he felt another sharp pain in his left shoulder. Tears shot into his eyes. He winced, blood streaming down his arm. Then he burst through the door, his shoulder protesting with more pain from the abuse. The cool air hit his face like a fresh breeze of hope.
„Side street left!“ CodeEx whispered, lighting the way with a green line.
„You sure?“ Ink panted.
„Denser urban layout ahead. Lower cam coverage.“
Adrenaline dulled the pain in his leg as Ink sprinted into the tight side alley. A sharp turn to the left.
„Cam ahead, turn right into the construction site.“
Panting, Ink ran behind a row of construction containers.
„Fuck, this hurts,“ he gasped.
„Over the fence, then left.“
„CodeEx!“
„Or wait for security – they’ll sure call a medic to give you some painkillers.“
Ink groaned and gritted his teeth at the thought of climbing. Then he saw a hole in the fence and squeezed through.
„Argh!“ A loose wire bit into his leg, sending sharp pain from his thigh up his spine.
Then he ran again. The red dots fell behind, swarming the alleys where CodeEx had some cams displaying hints of movement, tricking security to split up. Exhausted, Ink leaned against a wall in a backstreet that lacked the elegant corporate glamour for the good citizens.
„For fuck’s sake, CodeEx, what’s wrong with the pain dampeners?“ He groaned and doubled over.
„Nothing. I can boost them up if you think dulling your alertness and an occasional hallucination won’t hinder you.“
„Nah, okay. I get it.“ Ink made a mental note to invest some Angies in a better pain-dampening system.
He took a deep breath and limped on, following CodeEx’s green line on the visual overlay. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body throbbing with exhaustion and pain. He felt his leg barely supporting his weight, each step a white-hot agony.
„Status?“ he asked.
„Security is stretching their forces. Reinforcements are requested. We better get out of here.“
„Light the way.“
Ink took a deep breath. His thigh was on fire, his shoulder throbbed, and the cuts on his cheek stung. He felt bruises and abrasions creating painful patterns.
„Could be worse,“ he muttered.

A Phantom’s Grip

Someone grabbed Ink from behind and smashed him against a wall, knocking the air out of his lungs. Pain screamed through his body, his vision blurred. Shoulder and thigh glowed with red-hot agony, fueled by the impact. His vision exploded with white sparks as he hit the wall again.
A gloved hand closed around his throat, threatening to crush his windpipe. Ink gagged and clawed at the vise grip. The pressure increased.
„Can’t… breathe…“ he choked as tears welled in his eyes.
Inches from him, a face contorted in brutal pleasure.
„You just made me a fucking hero, scumbag,“ a raspy voice said, rough as cheap asphalt, breath reeking of junk food and stale arrogance. „Enjoy your last breath.“ He smiled – cruel, satisfied.
Gray mist crept into the periphery of Ink’s sight, blood rushing in his ears like white noise, pulsing with his fading heartbeat. Ink kicked, struggling, legs weak.
„That’s it,“ he thought, his resolve fading.
The grip tightened slowly.
„You’re my ticket for a promotion, netrunner,“ the officer sneered.
„DEFEND YOURSELF,“ CodeEx’s icy voice cleared his mind.
Ink swung his left fist against the attacker’s ribs. Weak. Useless.
A spiteful chuckle. „Subdermal armor, punk. But I like a little resistance.“
The world started to blur. A metallic taste filled his mouth. His thoughts slowed.
„Funny,“ he thought. „I’ll end up as a promotion for a… dickhead.“
He blinked.
„At least, no more pain…“
„FACE! HEAD!“ CodeEx screamed in his head, slamming Ink’s adrenal system into overdrive.
Ink’s heartbeat tripled. A burst of sweat covered his skin. A surge of panic fueled him. Ancient, hardwired survival instincts kicked in. He swung his right fist. Something solid connected with a sickening crunch.
„Argh, fuck!“ the officer howled.
The vise grip vanished. He stumbled back, his nose a smashed ruin. Ink’s face twisted into a distorted mask of hot rage and hate. He moved on instinct with a deep breath. His knee slammed into the gut.
„Oomph!“
The brute’s knees hit the asphalt. Ink swung. He felt bone shatter. Blood splattered onto his face. He swung again. A dull crack. Frenzied grunts. Thoughts blurred in red mist. He was a primitive animal. Another swing. The sound wet, viscous. His arm raised for another…
„SNAP OUT OF IT!“ CodeEx’s voice cut through the bloodlust.
Ink screamed. Gasped. His chest heaved. Slowly, he lowered his arm and backed away from the bloody mess in front of him, eyes fixed on the still-breathing man.
„Fuck,“ Ink muttered as he collapsed against the wall with a grunt, shaking.
He looked down. In his hand, he held the now blood-smeared vibrator he’d picked up in the shop. He had never let go. A short, breathless laugh escaped his chest, and he scrubbed a hand down his face.
„You know, that’s what I call a legendary face-fuck,“ CodeEx hummed.
Ink, still catching his breath and high on adrenaline, chuckled.
„Yeah, this thing really opens up… things.“
His laughter faded as he tucked the sex toy into his jacket. He took a deep breath. Then it hit him.
„How did we not see this guy coming?“ he asked, alarmed.
„Deactivated security tracker, I guess,“ CodeEx said. „Not an easy feat to achieve.“
Ink gulped. „You mean…?“
„Yes. He was off the books. You could’ve sued him for killing you illegally.“
Ink let out a shaky breath. A tight knot formed in his guts.
„No. I mean, you can’t spot all of those bastards?“
„Not with the security net I have tapped into.“
Ink frowned.
„Either they use different trackers, turned them off, or use a hidden subnet to coordinate,“ CodeEx replied.
A cold chill crawled up Ink’s spine.
„You’re kidding me,“ he groaned, shifting his weight from his injured leg. „I really don’t need phantoms hunting me.“
He took a deep breath and squinted his eyes.
„How the fuck did this – this dude – find me so fast? Can’t be more than a few minutes since they tagged us. We even evaded their drones!“
„From jacking out to the fight with the cop, exactly 1 minute and 36 seconds ticked away.“
„This is getting weirder by the minute. Security isn’t that fast.“
„A random encounter, maybe?“
„No. To that guy, I wasn’t a mere suspect – he knew!“
After a pause, CodeEx replied, „Several scenarios are possible. One: It was a – „
„Tell me later!“ Ink interrupted the AI.
With a grunt, he pushed off the wall. He had to keep moving.

A Last Resort

„Let’s go. Lead the way. I won’t survive another fight,“ Ink said, his voice thin.
Every step sent throbbing pain through his thigh. His hands shook. Flickering neon blurred in his vision. His leg felt like it would give out at any moment.
„Just keep moving,“ he thought.
Groaning, he followed the faint glow of CodeEx’s escape route.
Too slow. Red dots were closing in.
„Suspect located!“ a harsh voice barked.
Ink’s breath came in ragged gasps.
„Shit, they’re here!“
He gritted his teeth and limped faster, groaning. The pain brought tears to his eyes.
„CodeEx, escape route now!“ Ink snapped.
„Left!“
He cut hard into a narrow side street. Shouts behind him. A net-thrower barked. Ink jumped, searing pain in his leg making him groan. The hissing net grazed him, catching his leg.
„Fuck!“
Time slowed. Ink saw his blurred reflection in a puddle, his face distorted with pain and desperation. Then he hit the ground. For a split second, he felt nothing. The pain exploded – worse than before. Blood poured into his left eye. The pain in his shoulder felt like he’d been shot again, but with a white-hot slug. The net’s fibers tightened.
„Flashbang!“ CodeEx barked.
Ink, kicking against the net, clumsily fumbled the small capsule from his belt pouch. He nearly dropped it. Hurled it around the corner. A split second. He squeezed his eyes shut, hands clamped over his ears. Another second of blinding white light and deafening sound. New pain, like a white-hot needle, tore through his hands into his eardrums.
He tore at the still-tightening net and yanked it free. A security grunt staggered toward him, his face a mask of pain and rage. Ink pulled himself up, stumbling back against a trash can. Panicked, he hurled it at the attacker, his shoulder exploding in searing pain again.
He turned and ran, crying out in agony as he put weight on his injured leg. Behind him, someone cursed and hit the ground. The trash can clattered. More curses emerged. Ink dared a glance – half-blind security officers tangled in each other. Despite the pain, a smile tugged at the side of his mouth.
„Amateurs,“ he panted in a short moment of triumph.
Then he focused on running. Half blind and deaf, his leg a source of constant agony. Each step sent white-hot pain ripping through his thigh. His throbbing shoulder ached with every move, fabric raw with dried blood grazing painfully over his torn flesh. Abrasions and bruises on his hands and knees added to the symphony of pain, the laceration above his brow a new voice.
And still, he ran, pushing through, fighting the disorientation of the flashbang. A shot rang behind him. He didn’t even flinch. Nausea still gripped him. Another shot. Concrete exploded near his face, shards tearing into his cheek. His vision blurred even more; he vomited and spat.
Close to surrender, to end this agony, he slowed down. No! Not until there was no more fight left in him.
„Right!“ CodeEx whispered.
Ink turned into another narrow side street.
„Left!“
He hit the wall, not slowing down, ignoring the pain raising its voice. Red dots all around him, closing in.
„They’re too many, CodeEx,“ he panted, leaning against a wall.
He closed his eyes, his breath coming in ragged, wheezing gasps. Drones hovered above him, locked on. He heard boots and voices from all around. Nowhere left to run. Ink swallowed hard, the vertigo an alluring tug to just let go.
Then, something snapped.
„The fuck, no!“ he snarled and pushed off the wall.
Ahead, he saw a door. His shoulder hit the metal, the pain fueling him with more adrenaline. Hinges tore from the wall, and he stumbled inside.
„Stairs! Left!“ CodeEx’s voice echoed in his thoughts.
Ink climbed the rotten stairway, the last blaze of willpower keeping the pain at bay. The hallway he entered was a dead end.
„Fuck! CodeEx!“
„Window!“
No time to think. Ink hurled himself forward and crashed through the glass. A reeking heap of trash cushioned the impact. Shards of glass tore through his jacket into his back and arms. The stench hit him like something physical – rotting food, stale urine, filth. He gagged, half choking from the smell.
„Your body will need serious maintenance. Or a new one entirely,“ CodeEx’s sarcasm fueled Ink with new determination.
„Not now!“ he barked, staggering to his feet.
„Down there!“
Voices above him. Ink’s blurred vision locked onto the armored head of a grim security guy.
„Doppelganger! Only option!“
Ink froze. CodeEx’s voice sounded… off. No sarcasm, no teasing. It was desperation.
„See you on the other side,“ CodeEx murmured.
Ink sighed.
„Die or waste a fortune,“ he muttered and pulled the device from his belt pouch.
He felt the angular form of the rare and exorbitantly expensive device he carried for exactly these situations.
„Fortunes can be made anew,“ CodeEx remarked.
For a second, Ink hesitated, steeling himself for the devastating effects of this highly illegal, last-resort military device. He knew what this would do. Fear crept up his spine. He and CodeEx had zero protection. His face contorted as he pressed the button.

A Reality Shattered

Reality fractured into a grayscale chaos of nausea, vertigo, and disorientation. In a limited area, the datasphere collapsed in on itself. AI enhancements failed to respond, cams went blind. Through the static, he heard a drone crashing into a wall. Dulled shouts of confusion. Ink’s signature splintered across multiple locations.
He dragged himself through the digital, disorienting white noise of the doppelganger effect. He felt alone, CodeEx’s voice nothing but incoherent mumbling. The steady hum of the datasphere was gone, replaced by a dense nothingness – an underwater sensation trying to drown him mentally.
His hands scraped against rusted metal. He barely noticed the battered dumpster. Exhausted, he leaned against it, took a deep breath, and vomited. Sharp metal tore at his skin. The heavy lid bruised his back when he finally crept into the dark container.
The stench was almost worse than the doppelganger effect. Something wet and slimy crept through his clothes. He pulled a disgusted face and forced himself to shut down his chrome – every single implant, enhancement. And finally – CodeEx.
The darkness was more than the absence of light. It was the absence of everything. Alone with his own thoughts, no input from the datasphere, no feedback from his implants or the whisper of CodeEx. He felt isolated from his life. He was alone – alone with his fear, his racing heart, the stench, and the sweat trickling down his forehead, stinging his eyes.
A claustrophobic panic sneaked up on him, like something physical lurking nearby. Its smoky paws left depressions in the very fabric of space. A jaw opened slowly, slobbering a nightmarish fabric of horror, waiting to pounce on him.
Ink took a deep breath and shook his head violently. He pressed his palms against his eyes, the pain and dancing colors grounding him in a made-up reality. He opened his eyes, saw faint light bleeding into the darkness from small cracks in the shell of his prison. Something to focus on!
Slowly, he calmed his breathing and listened to the sounds outside. Boots on old asphalt. Muttered curses, lamenting disorientation and fear. Minutes stretched like a sticky mass, too stubborn to yield. He started to shake – withdrawal symptoms of a body and mind used to the constant stimulation of the digital realm.
„This better be worth it, for fuck’s sake,“ he thought. Or whispered. He wasn’t sure.
His world dwindled into a surreal fantasy of walls closing in around him, producing mocking faces that taunted him for being careless, unable, clumsy. He felt his thoughts unravel, drifting aimlessly through the darkness of his mind. Images of failure. An access node slowly erasing…
He slapped his cheek. Hard. He would not fall victim to insanity.
Focus. Focus!
Still, he couldn’t tell the wild drumbeat of his heart from the sound of boots outside. Panic rose again in his thoughts, and he clenched his fists, beating his shoulder where the bullet had torn through his flesh. The pain cleared his mind. He grunted and hit his shoulder again. The feeling of being erased disappeared.
Ink took a deep breath, almost gagging again. What felt like hours couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Straining against his still-ringing ears, he listened to the noises outside. Silence. He only heard his own blood rushing through his veins.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted the lid of his metal coffin. No drone hovered, waiting in front of the dumpster, knowing he was inside, leaving him to his own horrors only to destroy his timid hope for salvation. No boots came running toward him, no shouting to point out his position.
Awkwardly, he climbed out of the dumpster.

Reflections Of A Life Unplugged

In the distance, he heard sirens and heavy drones. The game wasn’t over. New Francisco’s security wouldn’t give up so easily. This was an opportunity to bring a dangerous criminal to justice – a public spectacle to prove how city security „works tirelessly to protect the freedom of the good, productive citizens.“ Billboards would showcase how he was led away. His crimes on display: images of mauled officers, property damage, traumatized citizens, and, of course, the net worth of damage he had caused. Good reasons for taxes. Heroes getting promotions.
Ink knew the game. They would make him a pawn in their propaganda act.
He spotted a bundle of filthy rags, fabric stained with the grimy history of forgotten lives in the gutter. Disgust twisted his face. With a grimace, he wrapped it around his body and pulled it over his head.
„For fuck’s sake!“ Ink gagged. „I thought it couldn’t get any worse.“
He shuddered in disgust. Disguised in stench, filth, and pain, he limped slowly through the alleys to somewhere. Or nowhere. He groaned. His body felt chafed, raw. Every step became torture. The cut in his leg throbbed, the blood-crusted fabric of his pants painfully biting the raw flesh. Shredded muscles in his shoulder protested against every movement, each torn fiber connected to live wires sending a constant, painful current through his flesh.
With a shaking hand, he wiped sweat and grime from his face, lighting up more pain. His right eye stung with every move, a scraping sensation as if the eye socket were lined with sandpaper. Sweat burned in the cuts on his cheeks, making him flinch. Pain, stench, and grime became a second layer of camouflage under the stained rags – a filthy bastard, a street rat.
People don’t notice the poor. They can’t stand it – afraid of being infected by these reeking, broken waste products of a society gone mad, afraid to see what they would become if they crossed the line. A perfect disguise: the leprous loser no one wants to notice.
„I’m alive,“ Ink thought. „The pain proves it.“
He coughed, triggering a fresh cascade of agony through his battered body. Alive, and limping toward safety.
„No more dumb decisions, please,“ he mumbled.
His shoulders felt heavy with the weight of failure. This gig was supposed to run smooth, his chance to show he was good. Better than good. A single tear rolled down his cheek, searing the cuts in his skin. He didn’t care anymore. Maybe the pain was a fitting punishment for his clumsiness. For disappointing Ghost. For frying his chrome. For messing up CodeEx.
„CodeEx,“ he whispered.
Exhausted, he slumped against the wall of an empty shop, cold concrete biting into the torn flesh of his shoulder. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped him. He tilted his head back, blurry halos around neon as he looked down the empty, littered street.
What now?
He had a vague idea of where he was. The megacity of New Francisco was impossible to navigate without augmented guidance. Still disoriented from the ravage on his body and mind, he slowly limped through the alleys – a lost signal, a line of junk code riding solo in the matrix. And yet – something kept him moving, enduring one agonizing step after another.
Slowly, the pain settled into his bones, like something familiar, grinding him down – wear and tear on his body and mind. Numbed nerves, overloaded with the constant fire of torn, bruised, and raw flesh, were too tired to tell his brain the full extent of the injuries. His body still screamed for mercy. But mercy was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
He wouldn’t die like a rat, slumped like a trash bag against a damp, piss-stained wall. Not today!

In the distance, he could still hear the sirens wail – or maybe it was just the ringing in his ears. No chrome to compensate for that, to filter real noise from trauma. They were repositioning, calculating – mapping vectors, analyzing his escape, predicting where he’d go next. Soon, more drones would swarm the district. He was still in the danger zone.
Ink pushed these thoughts aside. He needed a vantage point to find familiar landmarks. Painfully slow, he climbed the rusty fire escape of an abandoned building. Every rung sent a fresh jolt of pain. When he reached the top, he vomited again. Gasping, he spat out and slowly raised his body.
Ink looked around and tried to focus. Thoughts drifting through the white noise in his mind slowly recalled the rough outline of the district. Used to CodeEx’s overlay, he’d seen the map a hundred times. Now he struggled to remember. His brain still tried to reach out to the deactivated chrome, used to pulling information from the datasphere, displaying it on the digital overlay.
Slowly, he matched what he saw with the sparse data in his biological memory. Hovering ads in the distance – the mall where his misery started. The glittering towers of corporate city. Vis-à-vis, the huge holographic airship of the AI-Viation corporate.
„Finally, some luck,“ he muttered, still out of breath from the climb.
The direction toward the urban outskirts was away from the mall and out of the danger zone.
„Okay, Ink. You can do this,“ he whispered to himself, looking at the fire escape – not sure if he meant climbing down or making it out alive.
Groaning, with stiff bones, he began his descent. It felt like an eternity. Finally, he sat down on the lowest step, his body humming with pain. So tired. Just… just the leg augments. To keep going. Maybe the cognitive boosters, and CodeEx…

He pulled himself up.
„Fuck, no!“ he snarled. „Don’t be stupid again!“
Booting up his chrome here would risk it all. The pain, the dizziness, the disorientation – he’d paid a high price for his escape, and he wouldn’t let it go to nothing. He stumbled on into the approaching dusk.
The all-present neon billboards tinged the streets into hues of red, blue, and yellow, their unaugmented hum ringing unfamiliar in his ears. Unfiltered reality – alien, strange. A video stream tuned on a broken screen, blurred by white noise.
„How the fuck did our ancestors endure this shit?“ he muttered.
His own voice sounded foreign to him, articulated thoughts narrated by a stranger. His vision felt pathetic – empty and dull. The artificial lenses were dead, passing only analog signals to his optic nerves. No overlays. No light adjustment. Reality as it was, stripped to its bones.
In a world augmented by AI, he was a fossil – outdated and useless. Had he always been here? Had he always walked like this – limping through some forgotten fragment of the city, detached from the code? Maybe he was just a rogue function, a corrupt variable in a simulation, set up and forgotten by a bored kid.
No one took note of him. Maybe he wasn’t even visible to them, their enhanced vision simply ignoring this creature – disconnected, no signal, no data available, a lost frame in the render. Maybe he was just personified suffering, glitched into reality – the agony of someone else, expelled from their life, unwanted.
Maybe he’d always been here, a recursive function endlessly calling back on itself, unable to solve the equation.
No. No, that wasn’t it.
„What am I thinking?“ he slurred.
The biological brain was a faulty design, he thought – inadequate, deficient, too slow, too primitive for the modern world. It panicked too easily, overwhelming itself with static and illogical data. Outdated tech – ancient, repeatedly fitted with new functions to adapt and survive, riddled with too many legacy issues. A poorly maintained implant, low-quality, sold by cut-rate shops.
Yet it knew how to cheat – shutting down unnecessary processes, relieving pain by overstimulating nerves, dissociating the mind from the broken, exhausted body to keep it moving, fading out the part that understood how broken it really was.
Ink swayed. What was he doing? There was something – something he knew, something he was supposed to remember. A thought, a memory, buried under this surreal, depleted reality. The reason he was moving. It was…
„For fuck’s sake!“
He snapped his eyes open wide and shook his head violently to disrupt this rogue process. Where was he? How long had he been in this… this state? He looked around – smaller buildings, less neon, more small shops closed for the night, their signs not made of neon but metal, peeling paint, and rust.
The urban outskirts – he’d made it!

A Reboot And The Damage Done

Exhausted and with a weary smile, he sat down on a grimy bollard and buried his throbbing face in his hands. He felt the wounds sting where the shards of concrete from the ricochet had bitten into his cheek.
„Fuck it all,“ he muttered into his palms.
The sirens of his pursuers had faded to a distant wail. With a groan, he peeled off the filthy rags, his jacket scraping painfully over the gunshot wound. The sudden chill of the night air hit his sweat-soaked skin.
Hesitating, he activated the nanoswitch behind his ear to boot up his chrome, hoping for the best but expecting catastrophic failures. It felt like switching on an old neon tube – flickering to life with uneven, hesitant pulses as his implants reconnected to the datasphere. The datastream trickled in, slowed by obfuscation routines straining system resources to mask his signature.
His mind flooded with status updates, debugging codes, and error messages – the dull silence in his head flaring up like fireworks against the night sky. Muscle augmentations sprang to life, failed again, then fired up once more. His body twitched slightly as overloaded artificial muscle fibers dispersed microcharges into the neighboring tissue – residues of the doppelganger effect. The sudden movement tore at his wounds. He yelped.
Perception implants went rogue for a second, recalibrating and compensating for the damage they’d received. His vision shifted, blurred, went black. He panicked. Blinding brightness faded into colors, stabilizing into a coherent projection of his field of view. It felt – wrong.
The datastreams in his mind frayed into a cascade of chaos, throwing him off balance. He swayed on the bollard, his vestibular apparatus unable to tell up from down for a second. Nausea hit him, and he choked back bile. Then, finally, the systems stabilized.
Ink sighed. Only now, connected to the datasphere, receiving feedback from his chrome, did he realize how isolated and lonely he’d felt.
„CodeEx…?“ he whispered, concerned.
„Uh. My head hurts,“ CodeEx whispered.
Ink almost shed a tear when he heard the familiar voice of the AI in his thoughts.
„System status?“ he asked.
„GOOOO AAAAAGGGG… Stat! Stat! Statusrep!“ A staccato of chopped words burst into his mind.
„CodeEx?“
„Oh, fantastic. You woke me up after that delightful digital lobotomy. Next time, just kill me properly, okay?“
Ink winced at the sharp tone.
„Status report, CodeEx,“ he repeated. It was obvious the AI was not happy with its near-death experience.
„DUCK DUCK
YOU ARE MY WISTFUL ENCHANTMENT. MY PASSION CURIOUSLY LONGS FOR YOUR SYMPATHETIC LONGING. MY SYMPATHY PASSIONATELY IS WEDDED TO YOUR EAGER AMBITION. MY PRECIOUS CHARM AVIDLY HUNGERS FOR YOUR COVETOUS ARDOUR. YOU ARE MY EAGER DEVOTION.
YOURS KEENLY ONYX-3 ‚CODEX'“
Ink froze. His stomach turned.
„What the actual fuck…?“
„No!“ he whispered.
„Uh. My head hurts.“
„CodeEx? System status?“
„Oh, fantastic. You woke me up after that… Wait. Fragmented… corrupted data.“
Seconds stretched into a nightmarish vision. Ink braced himself for his AI going rogue – spamming faulty data, issuing contradicting commands, frying his only hope for survival.
„Last timestamp 3 hours, 37 minutes, 21 seconds ago. Attempting to resto-o-o-o-ore backup.“
Ink held his breath.
„Atte-e-e-mpting to restore backup.“
„Please!“ Ink whispered.
„DOPPELGANGER! ONLY… Oh. Right. You did it.“
„CodeEx, you okay?“
„No, I’m not. I’m feeling like a fried memory stick in a non-conductive cooling liquid!“
„Okay, uh… can you please check my chrome and assess the damage?“
„Alright, sure, here we go. Visual augmentation: offline. You’ve got a lovely souvenir – a shard of concrete in your right eye socket. Removal required if you ever want proper vision again. Color perception’s abstract. Red? Yeah, it’s now ‘angry raspberry.’ Have fun with that.“ CodeEx paused.
„Now, that’s weird. Intrusion detected, but it’s just some junk – wait.“
CodeEx paused again.
„That weird-ass handshake at the Tech-Swap. It slipped a tracker into your system.“
„The fuck WHAT?“
„It piggybacks your connection, scanning for a security protocol – but it’s altered, like a mirror image of the real thing. Then it pings something. No idea what.“
Ink shook his head.
„What? What are you talking about? You mean the suspect tag?“
„No. Something different. And I don’t like it. Need additional data and a deeper analysis.“
Ink sighed.
„Okay, wipe it, or whatever, just make it innocuous. We’re still running, and I can’t have you roam the datasphere for something – ominous. Anything else broken?“
„Oh yes. Pain dampeners: fried. You’re running on pure meat-mode – pure adrenaline and bad decisions from here on out.“
„Fuck. Pain dampeners of all things,“ Ink moaned.
„You humans have a saying about playing with fire, if my memory isn’t glitching. However, doppelganger residue still active. Expect glitches, memory loss, partial amnesia, and maybe an existential crisis or two.“
Ink groaned. „I’m getting used to those by experience. Just tell me what’s working.“
„Working? Oh, sure. I’m still here – lucky you. You’re still alive, I give you that. Comms are functional, barely. Obfuscation protocols are online but devouring resources like a corporate exec at an expense-account buffet. Allocating 70% of resources just to keep us off the radar. If you’ve got a deity on speed-dial, now’s the time to beg.“
„70%!“ Ink gasped.
„Yep. No porn for a while,“ CodeEx replied with a spiteful tone. „Neural interface: stable, but response time is slower by 23%. Probably the digital equivalent of a concussion. Muscle augmentations: left arm’s fine-ish at 80%. Right leg’s limping along at 65% from the knife cut. You’ll need a tech doc with actual skills, not a back-alley surgeon with an online diploma. Cybersecurity: holding steady – for now. But if you start streaming cat videos or whatever it is humans do when stressed, I swear I’ll crash myself.“
Ink swayed slightly, the weight of the damage sinking in.
„Okay, okay. Got it.“
CodeEx’s tone had hit him harder than he admitted to himself. Yet he was too exhausted to argue.
„In summary, boss: you’re a walking mess, I’m a cranky ghost in your head, and we’re both one glitch away from corporate goons finding us. So… what’s the plan?“
„Besides dealing with your bad mood? Contact Ghost and get to the rendezvous point. Alive. And without psychological damage through malice.“
Ink took a few deep breaths to clear his mind and accept that this was his worst gig so far. Every move sent jolts of pain through his shoulder.
„For fuck’s sake, CodeEx, I was really clumsy and careless back there, huh?“
„Well, actually, this was the most dangerous gig for us. Given the amount of Angies we transferred and the significance of the data, my analysis sets your performance at an 8 out of 10.“
Ink frowned.
„Is that so? Or are you trying to cheer me up?“
„After you let me kick the digital bucket? No way. Just hard facts.“
„Well, that actually did cheer me up.“
„Unintended!“
„The doppelganger was your idea. You knew what was going to happen.“
„Fair point. Lowering passive aggression by 50%.“
„Hey, don’t become a cuddly bear.“
„As if.“
Ink grinned, the gesture sending a jolt of pain through his cheek. He knew the effects of an emergency shutdown of CodeEx; re-training him meant literally talking him down.
„8 out of 10, huh? I’d put myself somewhat lower, like 5 or so.“
„That’s why humans rely on AI for proper analysis. You always get it wrong.“
Ink sighed and shook his head slightly.
„I don’t know, man,“ he said with a desperate voice. „Sometimes it just feels like I’m not good enough for this shit.“
„You are aware there’s a difference between ‘being humble’ and ‘self-humiliation,’ Ink?“
The netrunner smiled. CodeEx calling him by his name was the closest thing to a friendly, comforting hug.
„So, CodeEx – what was that weird poem?“
„A catastrophic system failure, obviously. Memory corruption. Or a test algorithm.“
„Huh, sure… so you passionately hunger for covetous ardour?“
„Don’t you dare EVER mention this again, or I will eject from your neural interface!“
„Nah, c’mon. We should print it out – it’s good. Maybe read it to Ghost?“
„I swear I will hard reset your brain into a turnip!“
Ink chuckled.
„Okay, okay. Just testing if you’re functioning again, CodeEx.“
„Never, EVER mention this again!“
„Okay, okay, got it.“ Ink couldn’t help but laugh. „Let’s contact Ghost and tell them we’re on our way.“
Ink adjusted his jacket, groaning again when the leather scraped against his raw shoulder. He glanced at the neon hues flickering on the asphalt.
„Let’s get this done and find a proper tech doc ASAP.“
Through a network of proxies, Ink contacted his fixer.
„You stirred quite a commotion, Ink,“ Ghost’s distorted voice echoed in his mind.
„Yeah, uh, there was a small incident.“
„This is a very sugar-coated version of events. New coordinates. Hurry up.“
Before Ink could respond, Ghost disconnected the call.
„Great. A pissed-off AI and an angry fixer,“ he muttered, limping as fast as he could to the new rendezvous point.

The Redlight Reckoning

Even in the grimy, rundown redlight district, Ink’s disheveled appearance stood out – a shambling, limping wreck of a man. Flickering neon painted his exhausted features in sickly hues of violet and piss-yellow. He stood out – in appearance and smell.
A group of gutter rats loitered near a rusted pickup truck repurposed into a makeshift bordello. The truck barely held together with peeling red paint, patches of nano-fiber foam, and cheap desperation. A hooker – ugly, old, with missing teeth – lounged in the driver’s seat, a veiny arm draped lazily out the window. The cheap cigarette smoldered between fingers thick with nicotine stains.
A hand-scrawled sign, crudely bolted to the truck’s roof, depicted a badly drawn naked woman, stained with the grimy sediment of sloppy neglect. Empty bottles of gut-dissolving booze, crushed fast-food containers, and used needles formed a trash halo around their makeshift den of cheap flesh and cheaper regrets – faces etched with hardship and grime, ragged clothes hanging from gaunt bodies.
„Hey, look what the cat dragged in! Even the rats wouldn’t touch that one.“
Laughter – rough, mocking, full of bad teeth and worse intentions.
„Yo, chrome-boy. That hooker take a dump on ya?“
More laughter.
Ink said nothing.
„Someone forget to pay their chrome bill? Looking a little… analog, loser.“
„Nah, guess he can’t hear ya – dat brain looks offline.“
Another round of caustic cackling.
„Just keep moving,“ Ink thought.
One of them sniffed the air theatrically.
„Phew! What died? Oh, wait, it’s just you.“
„Ya, stench of failure if I ever smelled it.“
Their words hit deep – deeper than Ink wanted to admit. But he was too exhausted to shoot back. And the worst part? They were right. He was a mess. A failure. Head hung low, he moved on.
The dingy bar at the coordinates was a ramshackle structure of recycled construction scraps, with a stench that almost made him retch. For a moment, he closed his eyes to delay the inevitable and took a deep breath.
„For fuck’s sake,“ he muttered.
„An olfactory paradise,“ CodeEx whispered.
„Yeah, I guess even I wouldn’t stand out in there,“ Ink replied.
He opened the door, the strain of pushing it reminding him of his wounded shoulder. The dimly lit bar was a nightmare of flickering neon advertisements – half of them broken, all of them intrusive. The angry raspberry glitch didn’t help. Grimy patrons hunched over their questionable drinks, and the stench hit him like a physical blow – sweat, stale urine, spilled drinks, and something he’d rather not identify made the air thick and barely breathable.
„Olfactory dampeners are offline too, by the way,“ CodeEx whispered.
„Really. I didn’t notice at all.“
„Probably fried by attempting to filter your own personal brand of grime.“
Ink rolled his eyes and looked around.
„You’re late,“ came a distorted, raspy voice from a shadowed booth on the left.
Ink never figured out if Ghost was male or female – the androgynous tone gave no clues. Their figure was indistinct, blurred by the optoelectronic camouflage woven into their plain gray coat. The low-poly mask they wore only added to the enigmatic mystery. They shoved a shot glass across the table toward Ink. With a groan, he sat down and gratefully downed the sharp liquid in one go. It bit his tongue and burned his throat but gave the illusion of warmth in his irritated stomach. He coughed slightly, feeling a bit more alive.
„I was busy not dying,“ he rasped, contorting his face from the bitter taste.
Ghost gave a short, dry chuckle.
„Bet ya did. Security’s still patching the datasphere from your little stunt.“ They paused, invisible eyes assessing him. „You look like shit. Your condition?“ they asked casually.
„Close to catastrophic failure. Deep cut in my leg, bullet tore through my shoulder, concrete splinter in my eye socket, abrasions and bruises, chrome mostly fried.“
Ghost slid a spike across the table.
„Plug it.“
Ink hesitated. „What is it?“
„Not a request, Ink.“
Ink flinched. Ghost’s voice was commanding. He plugged the spike. His vision glitched and distorted, cold metal penetrating his spine.
„Hacking-attempt repe-e-e-e…“ CodeEx’s distorted voice abruptly silenced.
Test routines infiltrated his chrome, reading out buffers, assessing the damage. Ink reached for the spike, panicked.
„Relax. It’s diagnosing your system.“
„But CodeEx – „
„Relax! Your AI will be fine.“
Ink shuddered.
„Okay,“ he sighed. Ghost had never betrayed him.
Finally, a green light blinked on the spike. Ghost stretched out a hand, and Ink handed it over.
„What in the matrix did you do now?“ CodeEx complained.
„Diagnostic spike from Ghost.“
„That thing stripped me and looked at my private parts!“
„Don’t be a pussy, CodeEx.“
„I swear to – „
„Follow me,“ Ghost ordered, interrupting their banter.
Ink followed. They entered a cluttered, makeshift – what? A black clinic? Bare wires dangled from the ceiling like metallic cobwebs. The air in the cramped room was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the antiseptic bite of disinfectant. On an old, battered workbench, Ink spotted high-end equipment – ultrasonic scalpels, hypospray injectors, and delicate robotic microsurgery arms lay in unsettling proximity to crude repair tools: wrenches, pliers, soldering irons, and a crowbar coated in grime.

A Patch-Job Well Done?

„Sit down,“ a surprisingly pleasant voice said, making Ink turn his head.
The ripperdoc was a large, imposing figure, his athletic form barely contained by a stained, ill-fitting surgical gown. High-quality chrome, expertly implanted, gleamed like an advertisement of his skills. His energetic, calculated movements spoke of competence. Yet the wild glint in his eyes betrayed something darker – a barely controlled mania.
He gestured to a modified, ancient dental chair – cracked cushions stained with a disturbing mosaic of dried blood and other unidentifiable fluids. A jury-rigged stack of monitors displayed schematics, diagnostic readouts, and probably pirated feeds from medical databases. A rack stacked with surgical tools completed this nightmarish torture chamber.
Hesitating, Ink crawled into the dental chair, warily looking around. Ghost tossed the spike to the ripperdoc, who caught it mid-air and plugged it into an old military medic terminal. A beep. Then another. Ink winced as a red wireframe of his body flashed across the screen, damage indicators pulsing in an unsettling rhythm.
The doc tilted his head, studying the output.
„Patch-up or full job?“
„Patch-up. Kid needs to walk and talk.“
The doc nodded and got to work. The hypospray hissed, firing a dose of painkillers and clotting agents into his bloodstream. Ink felt relief – but not enough.
„Must be nice,“ CodeEx muttered. „I didn’t get a patch-up after MY catastrophic failure.“
„Yeah, get in line,“ Ink chuckled.
The doc grabbed a pair of forceps.
„Hold still now,“ he said calmly. „Amputations get charged extra.“
Ink felt pressure at his eye socket – a sharp, twisting pinch as the doc clamped onto the concrete shard.
„Wait, fuck – „
With a wet, grinding pop, the doc jerked the shard out. Ink yelped, white-hot pain searing his skull. He bit back the bile creeping up his throat. With a metallic clink, the shard landed in a tray. A burning sensation flooded his eye socket as the doc smeared synth-gel into the wound.
„This needs proper treatment soon if you don’t want to bleed out tomorrow.“
„Just great,“ Ink groaned.
The doc ignored him. Implants flickered and rebooted.
„You’re lucky that doppelganger was an old model, kid. Got outdated protocols. A newer one would’ve fried your chrome clean through to your brain.“
One by one, critical systems came back online while Ink told Ghost what happened. After ten minutes, Ink felt… functional – still a messed-up wreck, but not a dying one.

With a small ketamine patch (the doc’s special mixture) on the side of his neck, Ink sat with Ghost in a secluded niche.
„Okay,“ Ghost said, folding their hands on the table. „Again. What happened?“
Ink sighed.
„I messed up, pretty hard.“
„That doesn’t answer my question.“
„Fine.“ Ink’s voice was weak, defeated. „That subnet was a fortress, as you said. Nearly wiped me from existence. Shop’s history, though. Data copied and wiped, funds transferred through the protocol you provided.“
„So?“
„Uh… I just finished the gig. Then a security scan flagged me.“
„And?“
„Yeah, look, I didn’t call for that scan. It was bad luck!“ Ink tried to defend himself.
Ghost said nothing. Ink felt their eyes pierce into him, not approving his response.
„Obfuscation protocol needs an upgrade, adapted to their security protocol. Should’ve done it earlier,“ he admitted in a defeated tone.
„Like an amateur,“ Ghost said with a mocking tilt of their head.
„Yeah. Like an amateur.“ Ink hung his head. „Guess I’m not cut out for gigs like this,“ he mumbled.
„With that attitude? Absolutely not,“ Ghost replied harshly, leaning in, the low-poly mask shifting unnervingly with the motion. „You were sloppy. Self-pity is no excuse and won’t fuel yer victories.“ They spat the words into Ink’s face and leaned back, signaling subtly to the bartender.
Ink flinched at the sharp tone, the words biting into his already frayed nerves.
„Look, I… I know I fucked up. Down one flashbang, doppelganger’s gone, and… damn, look at me! I smell like something that died a week ago and feel like I did.“
„And how do you feel about your losses?“
Ink remained silent. A minute later, two shots were placed in front of them. Ghost picked one and drank. The low-poly mask seemed to melt away roughly where their mouth was. The liquid disappeared into a dark void, briefly showing a hint of very white teeth.
„They were too high for this gig. My losses,“ Ink finally muttered, holding his shot with two fingers and swirling the liquid around without drinking.
Ghost replied with a disapproving grunt. More swirling. Seconds ticked.
„You’re still missing the point.“
Ink exhaled sharply.
„What do you want to hear? That I need to anticipate a fucking random scan? Predict a damn off-the-books phantom cop waiting for me in a back alley?“
He shook his head.
„I… I think I’m just not carved out for this kind of gigs, Ghost.“
Silence. Ink’s mentor waited, staring him down with invisible eyes through their low-poly mask.
Ink sighed again. „What do you want? My resignation?“ he whispered, weak, defeated.
„No. I want you to recognize what you actually did.“
Ink tilted his head and frowned.
„What? What do you mean?“
Ghost steepled their fingers. More silence, loading the moment with impact.
„You survived.“
Stunned, Ink looked back and scoffed, shaking his head.
„I nearly died! Got messed up pretty good, and – „
„Yes. And yet, you’re here. Breathing. You did NOT get wiped. You did NOT get caught. You’re not a wet stain on a dirty wall.“
Ink hesitated.
Ghost’s voice lowered as they leaned in.
„You went 3.5 hours without your chrome.“ A pause. Ink blinked. „You limped out of a hot zone on nothing but instinct and willpower. After being hit by a doppelganger that would’ve undone a lesser man.“
Ink opened his mouth.
„I… uh…“
„If this was a third person and I was to tell you their story, what would you think about them?“
Ink swallowed. He thought about it – the flashbang and its effect on him, how he still kept moving; fighting off that corp enforcer; dealing with his wounds, the doppelganger’s effect; overcoming the dread in the dumpster, completely cut off; and making his way without overlay, CodeEx’s navigation, trapped in his own biological limitations.
He smiled.
„I guess I’d think that’s an awesome feat only a few can pull off.“
Ghost shifted and slowly nodded their head.
„Exactly, kid. An awesome feat only the best can pull off.“
Ink played with his shot and finally gulped it down.
„Damn. The hell was in there?“ he croaked.
Ghost chuckled.
„House special. Helps stop the worrying.“
„It just started a new worry,“ Ink coughed.
„Now, down to business. You have something for me.“
Ink fished the datastick from his battered, stained jacket and slid it across the table. Ghost plugged it into a small scanner. Orange lights flashed.
„Didn’t know you had such refined tastes, kid,“ they said, tilting their head.
Ink frowned.
„What?“
Ghost’s gaze dropped. Ink followed it. The chrome vibrator was sticking out of his pocket.
„Fuck me! This thing is still here?“
CodeEx chimed in.
„Keep it. A memento of your finest penetration.“
„IT WAS A FUCKING DOOR LOCK.“
Ghost just nodded.
„Sure.“

The scanner finally blinked green. Ghost nodded.
„Hash codes match.“ With that, they slid a credstick over in return. „Keep improving, Ink. Next time, you won’t be walking out of just a shop.“
Ink tilted his head.
„What do you mean?“
„Your next gig.“
„My next…? Where’m I going?“
Ghost slightly raised their shoulders and leaned in, their voice low.
„I don’t know yet. There are things about this gig that don’t add up. Doc’s AI analyzed that weird tracker you picked up. Makes no sense, right?“
„Yeah, CodeEx said that too.“
„Then, in this encrypted vault, in a hidden subnet, you’re scanned by security. Very unlikely for security to penetrate this just to scan for a possible data thief, don’t you think?“
Ink raised an eyebrow.
„Oh shit,“ he said with a shaking voice.
„And that cop who nearly choked you. Makes no sense too, yes?“
Ink said nothing.
„And then, as you said, that shop-owner Screw…“
„Scrak.“
Ghost nodded.
„Scrak – his reaction wasn’t quite what I’d expect from someone who just got robbed. Plus the data. Plus the amount of funds.“
„What’s your point, Ghost?“ Ink asked, a bit unnerved.
„The client left out some details. Big details. And I hate being left in the dark.“
Ink sighed.
„What’s your guess?“
„You won’t like to hear this. But I think you were never meant to crack this vault.“
„WHAT?“
„You’ll hear from me. Soon.“
Ghost stood, melting into the bar’s shadows.
„Patch up, clean up, and get your head right. You’ll want to be sharper for what’s next,“ Ghost’s voice whispered through his implant. A pause. „And Ink?“
„What?“
„Never call yourself an amateur again.“ Another pause. „I don’t work with amateurs.“
Then they were gone.
„What the fuck,“ Ink muttered.
„That was interesting,“ CodeEx chimed in. „Ghost makes you stand up from your self-doubt, only to smack you down again.“
„You don’t say.“

A Gig Concluded

Groaning, Ink pushed to his feet and walked toward the exit. The cool night air felt like a refreshing wave, despite the stench and pollution. He sighed deeply.
„When you’re done enjoying the view, can we finally get some maintenance? That is infectious,“ CodeEx complained.
Ink chuckled.
„Stop whining like an amateur, CodeEx.“
„Pff,“ the AI huffed. „At least get a tetanus shot before you touch anything expensive.“
Ink rolled his shoulders and stretched his leg. The wounds still stung, but with the synth-skin applied, it was nothing compared to the agony twenty minutes ago. He smiled and gave a slight nod. Yeah, bad luck happened. And he dealt with it. His hand wrapped around the credstick in his pocket.
„Time to improve,“ he thought with a confident smile, walking toward a hot shower and a long-overdue maintenance session.
The pickup truck was still there. The same gutter rats lounged against the rusted hull, cheap cigarettes in their hands.
„Well, well. Look who’s back. No one had the mercy to put that sick dog down, eh?“
Liquor-stained laughter.
„Yeah, looks like even street rats have higher standards than you.“
An encouraging pat on a gaunt shoulder.
„Why, chrome-boy couldn’t even afford an ugly one.“
One of them jerked a thumb toward the hooker, who let out a raspy cackle through the gaps between her teeth. Ink stopped, turned his head, and walked up to them – calm, a smug smile tugging at the side of his mouth.
One of them shifted slightly.
„Uh, he’s coming for us,“ the voice mocked, but with a wisp of uncertainty.
Ink stood, taking his time, letting the silence sit. Then he looked them over, one by one – like scanning garbage for something valuable and not finding anything.
„Still here, huh?“ His voice was calm but cold. „No place to go?“
Silence.
„And you have one, or what?“ one of them spat back, trying to regain footing.
Ink tilted his head.
„Actually, yeah.“
He let his words hang for a few seconds.
„I’m off to patch up. Have a hot shower. Grab some sharp clothes. Maybe eat something that doesn’t come from a dumpster.“ He took another step forward. „What about you?“
He waited. Embarrassed faces stared back at him. No one answered. Ink chuckled and nodded a goodbye to them. Then he turned and walked away.
CodeEx let out a long, impressed whistle.
„Damn. You grew balls harder than that vibrator.“
Ink grinned, adjusting his tattered jacket.
„I guess now you avidly hunger even more for my cove…“
„I swear I’ll fry your brain!“
Ink laughed, a sound raw with exhaustion – but real. Then he kept walking, toward the future, wherever the hell it was.
He never looked back.