Scene: Viktor's Clinic – Early Morning
The low hum of med machinery filled the room. Bio-scanners blinked. IV lines hissed.
V entered quietly.
Victor looked up from a monitor, his face drawn, eyes bloodshot. His gloves were slick with blood and synth-gel.
"You missed the fun," he muttered.
"Not my kind of party," V said, stepping around a dented autodoctor frame. "How are they?"
Victor pointed with a scalpel.
"Lucy — stable. But her old Arasaka deep-dive slot's fried. Spinal routing's still intact, but I wouldn't risk a full dive until we pull it, clean the neuropins, and swap the housing. She's out cold. Lucky, really."
He gestured to a second table.
"David's better. Sandi's good hardware, but the doc who installed it was a glorified car mechanic. Bad placement. Crappy routing. Can't believe he survived this long."
V raised an eyebrow. "He's got heart."
"He's got shit luck. I'm pulling the unit and reinstalling. Might need a full firmware burn. If he wants to live past twenty-five, it's that or a coffin."
Across the room, Falco groaned on a gurney, ribs wrapped in a synth brace.
Victor nodded toward him. "Mostly human. Mostly bruised. Broken ribs, mild concussion, fractured shoulder. He'll heal, just needs bedrest and less chaos."
V stepped closer, watching Lucy's chest rise and fall in rhythm with the ventilator. Kiwi lay beside her, heavily bandaged and jawless — her chrome port still smoking from the damage.
"She awake?"
Victor shook his head. "Half. Her HUD flickered earlier — tried to ping someone. Then dropped back into flatline."
"I'm taking Kiwi and Lucy to my place," V said.
Victor didn't blink this time. He just let out a breath through his nose. "Yeah. I figured. That setup of yours? After Jackie? After Emilia? It's not a clinic. It's a miracle patch bay. Honestly, choom, I sleep better knowing you've got their care."
V grinned. "You saying I finally passed the med cred check?"
Victor chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You passed it, buried it, and built your own scale."
V nodded. "When David wakes up, tell him to come by. I'll help him tune his new limbs… and build a proper firmware suite for his Sandevistan."
Victor smirked faintly. "Didn't peg you for a full-blown chrome whisperer, V."
V shrugged. "Times change."
As Viktor worked, V carefully loaded Kiwi and Lucy into a portable med-chamber — sealed, suspended, and safe.
Before leaving, he paused.
"Thanks, Vik. For everything."
Victor wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.
"Just… don't forget, V. You're not a machine. No matter how fast you run or how clean you slice."
V gave a half-smile. "Tell that to the corpses."
Scene: Emilia's POV – Megabuilding H10, 3:00 AM
Ding-ding. Her comms buzzed.
Emilia groaned, rolling over in silk sheets. Messages. Ten of them — all from Judy.
"Oops," she mumbled, stretching with a smug smile. "That V… damn. That firmware tune-up came with perks."
She sat up and checked her reflection. Her chrome gleamed like a high-tier corpo's — but somehow more fluid. Alive.
"This isn't Arasaka work," she whispered, awed. "It's beyond that."
Internal diagnostics purred — balanced, responsive, and seamless. It wasn't just an upgrade. It was a transformation.
She called Judy.
"Baby," Emilia purred, voice low. "Sorry. I passed out after the firmware update. Felt like a chrome orgasm with a serotonin chaser."
Judy's voice came through sharp. "You ghosted me for twelve hours."
"Worth it," Emilia grinned. "He rebuilt my whole interface — even patched my liver chrome. I don't even need a replacement anymore."
Judy stared at the screen, silent for a beat.
"And you paid him?"
"Oh, baby. I gave him a full million. And between us? Still feels like a bargain."
Judy's brows furrowed. "You don't just write new firmware like that. Not unless you've got access to black-box debug layers, root permissions, the whole neural override map—"
Emilia interrupted, voice softer. "I was corpo, remember? I know firmware chains. He doesn't just mod — he rewrites. From scratch. With flair."
"Are you… falling for him?"
"Pfft. Please. He's too sweet. Weirdly sweet. Like… he thinks girls are porcelain dolls or something. It's not love — it's like he's from a parallel world."
"Yeah," Judy muttered. "Definitely not Night City standard."
"Oh!" Emilia lit up. "Almost forgot — in the mil I gave him, I had him order your chrome loadout too. Hybrid config. Solo-engineer blend. Kang Tao hardware — joints, plating, stealth weave."
Judy looked skeptical. "Kang Tao? Their software's trash."
"I know. That's why it's going to V. He's got connections — fixes firmware like it's sketching in sand. Don't tell him I said that, he'll get all bashful."
Judy flushed. "You didn't have to…"
"I wanted to. Oh — and Suzie Q? She wants you as vice-lead. No joke."
Judy blinked. "Seriously?"
"New dollhouse. Across from the bar. Out of Tiger Claw reach. But we'll need to spend big — probably one mill — and work with a fixer to extract workers safely."
Judy sat in stunned silence.
Emilia winked. "C'mon. Build something better with me. Mox 2.0."
Judy said slowly, raising an eyebrow, "Are you trying to marry me or start a revolution?"
"Why not both?"
They both burst out laughing.
V — Private elevator shaft, 03:52 AM
The Warlock's mag‑locks engage with a deep magnetic thrum and the six‑wheeled APC glides upward, cage‑quiet, toward the top floor. A sharp tang of coolant and faint ozone from the lift motors pricks my nostrils, grounding me in the machine‑breath heart of the tower. The reinforced doors iris open straight into my engineering deck—steel grid, violet holo‑grids, every bench stacked with chrome Victor would kill for. Ten paces beyond the workbenches a glass wall reveals the clinic, already cycling to sterile mode.
The portable med‑chamber rolls off the ramp behind me. Lucy and Kiwi lie inside, both under Viktor's full dose of SleepyHex; no twitching, no screaming, just the steady beep of vitals struggling to stay green.
03:53 AM
Chamber hatch pops. I slide Kiwi onto the primary cradle. Her O₂ alarm is screaming—54 percent… 52. The punch Maine landed shattered the universal respirator cartridge that sits behind her jaw vents.
One sharp tug—metal shards tinking against steel—and a flicker of worry sparks before the broken cartridge clatters onto the tray. I grab a fresh unit from the Fukui‑Minamoto salvage rack—already purged, sterile—slot, twist‑lock: click. The monitors surge to 97 percent. Crisis averted for now. For half a heartbeat my gut pinches tight—then the green bevel of the vitals snuffs out the worry.
03:56 AM
Lucy's hardware is top‑shelf Zetatech, throttled by a decade‑old Arasaka limiter. I microlift the neuro‑socket, power it in diagnostic, rip out the firmware choke, and rewrite the kernel from scratch. Five minutes flat. Synapse latency drops from twenty‑six milliseconds to nine. A grin ghosts across my lips—Arasaka R&D just got lapped in five minutes. I brace the hairline vertebral crack with a carbon micro‑plate, inject bio‑gel, close. She'll wake dive‑ready tomorrow.
04:20 AM
The jaw‑frame printer finishes its last micron layer. I seat the carbon‑titanium lattice against her anchor rails, bone‑weld on a thirty‑second pass, then dock permanent intake vanes and re‑route the respirator cartridge through them.
Behind the incisors I slide a miniature synth‑speech emitter—eight‑millimeter driver coil, three‑millisecond latency. While the frame cures, the DNA‑matched synth‑skin grows in the biostation. Fifteen minutes later I laminate it over the lattice; calcium scaffold snaps the new teeth into place. The result could fool biometric scanners: fully respirating, fully voiced, perfectly hers.
A four‑minute firmware flash syncs the jaw drivers with her HUD, bumps ICE‑breaker buffer to 2048‑bit, and loads three default vocal profiles: neutral, formal, snark.
04:30 AM
Limiter gone, voltage curves remapped, deep‑dive plug purrs like brand‑new. Synapse latency holds at nine milliseconds.
05:10 AM
Med‑arm retracts; the clinic lights fade from surgical white to sunrise gold.
Kiwi blinks first. Her new jaw flexes; surprise flickers in her optics. A low, synthetic voice—perfectly deadpan—breaks the hush.
"Testing… one… choom."
Lucy smirks, shaking her head. "Dial the sass down, Siri."
Lucy's eyes snap to the HUD read‑outs. "Latency nine milliseconds?" She stares at me. "What did you do?"
"Fixed the code you've been shackled to since grade school," I say, peeling off coolant‑slick gloves.
Kiwi clicks her fresh teeth. "Next time Maine punches me, remind me to aim lower."
Lucy laughs—sharp and clear, no pain spike shadowing the graphs.
Outside, Night City howls. Inside my sealed decks two netrunners breathe easy, and for the first time all night the clinic is quiet.
05:12 AM | Clinic recovery bay
I cycle the clinic lamps down to a warm amber and wheel in a tray of post‑op luxuries: nutrient shakes, mocha‑kibble bars, and a contraband bag of Barghest brandy‑chocolate bites Rogue swore never existed.
Lucy sits up first, flexing her fingers like she's playing an invisible piano. Her optics shimmer as HUD overlays bloom: latency graphs, cryptokeys, bandwidth readouts all spiking green. She whistles. "I could hack my old self in under 0.1 seconds. That's—" she snaps her fingers "—faster than I can blink."
"Try not to melt the local Net tonight," I say, handing her a mocha bar.
Kiwi pivots on the med‑cradle, running her tongue along perfect teeth. "Jaw feels…" She pauses, eyes watering. "…real. Like I was born with it."
Tears bead, glinting neon amber. She covers it with a dry laugh—classic Kiwi deflection. "Guess I'll have to update my résumé: former escort, current test pilot for miracle chrome."
I grin. "Speaking of tests—how's the synth voice latency? Any clipping on rapid consonants?"
She smirks, eyes sliding half‑lidded. "Only one way to find out, choom. I could really put this jaw to work… strictly professional stress‑test, of course."
Lucy snorts so hard she nearly coughs up the mocha bar. "Perv."
Kiwi just smiles—big, brand‑new—and flicks a wink that could burn out optic sensors. Lucy mimes a gagging gesture and mutters, "I'm right here, you know."
I cock an eyebrow. "Jaw's one thing, Kiwi—how's the rest of the chrome riding? Run me the deep‑level."
Kiwi blinks, subvocal command sent. A holo‑ribbon flares over her retinas. Two seconds—ping—diagnostic complete. Her mouth drops.
"That can't be right," she whispers. "Full depth scan's supposed to hog the processor for forty‑five seconds, minimum. It ran in low priority and still finished before I could blink."
She pats her torso as if expecting hidden bombs. "Choom, did you rip every ancient mod I owned and swap them for whatever Hanako Arasaka has in her skull?"
Lucy snorts, half‑laughing. "You missed the nuclear upgrade while you were busy admiring your bite strength."
She twirls a finger near her head. "Trust me, Kiwi—I feel like somebody unlocked the other ninety‑percent of my brain and handed me the admin password. Net feels slow now."
Kiwi shakes her head, awe blooming behind the optics. "No chrome on the market's gonna top this. I feel… light. Like there's no lag between wanting to move and moving."
I spread my hands. "Told you—I don't do half measures."
Lucy pushes herself upright, seriousness slicing through the banter. "Alright—numbers. I've got maybe two hundred K stashed for the 'Orbit ticket' fund. It's yours."
Kiwi nods, optics glimmering. "I can wire four hundred thousand—whole nest egg. This kind of rebuild should cost millions."
I lift both hands. "Hold it. Material costs only. Kiwi, your carbon-titanium, biogel, and dental scaffold came to five grand. Lucy, your socket and brace? About fifteen hundred."
Lucy blinks. "That… that's pocket change compared to black‑market Dogtown quotes. They wanted two mil just to half unlock my gear—then re‑lock it with Arasaka midrange firmware."
Kiwi's jaw—brand‑new and perfect—hangs open. "Are you an angel or just terrible at capitalism?"
"Breathing angel, maybe." I shrug. "Buy me dinner sometime and we're square."
Lucy laughs, relief flooding her face. "Best deal in Night City history."
Kiwi grins, teeth flashing. "Fine. Dinner, drinks, and dessert—even if you have to pry the bill from my cold chrome fingers.""
I pull over a rolling stool and rest my elbows on my knees. "About Maine… sorry, girls, but he went full cyberpsycho."
A lone monitor chirps—beep‑beep—filling the half‑beat of silence before I finish: "Didn't make it."" I keep my voice level, no flourish.
Lucy's gaze drops to the floor. She doesn't cry—just exhales a shaky breath. "And Dorio?"
"Caught in the blast. She's gone too."
A lone cardio‑monitor beeps—one, two—before the room remembers to breathe again.
Lucy's jaw sets, grief churning behind those bright optics.
Kiwi's shoulders slump, but relief ghosts through her posture—a burden lifted. "Maine was a ticking bomb," she mutters. "Priority's always survival." Then, softer: "Still… he deserved better."
Silence hovers, punctuated by clinic ventilators.
Lucy breaks it by flicking her wrist: a tiny holo‑avatar of her old limiter coalesces—an ugly Arasaka lockdown daemon. She hacks it in under the promised 0.1 seconds; the avatar executes /suicide and pops like a soap bubble.
"That felt good," she says, grin crooked.
I chuckle. "Told you—no chains."
Kiwi bites into a brandy‑chocolate, savoring. "With this jaw I could chew plexi. Or maybe test it on you, V."
"Clinic policy forbids unauthorized chewing of the staff," I deadpan.
Lucy rolls her eyes. "Get a ripper‑room."
"Only if the insurance covers bite marks," I fire back, matching her grin. Everyone laughs—pressure valve released.
Lucy sobers. "What about David? He was still crashing when we left."
"In good hands," I assure. "Left Vik a message: when he's stable, he bikes David up here and we de‑brick his Sandevistan once and for all."
Kiwi nods, brushing dried tears. "Then what?"
"Then," I say, standing and offering Lucy a steady hand to help her down from the cradle, "we eat real food, get eight hours of power‑down, and figure out how to dodge every corpo in Night City who just felt Maine's crater."
Lucy raises her nutrient shake like a toast. "To fresh code and new jaws."
Kiwi taps her brand‑new teeth against the bottle neck. "And to surviving the ticking bombs."
I click my can of NiCola against both. "First light, chooms. We roll onwards.
05:30 AM | Logistics & late‑night revelations
Through the clinic glass the Warlock looks glorious—but it's still just one ride, and tonight hammered home how fast transport bottlenecks in Watson. I flick my agent open and ping Delamain.
Delamain pricing
Excelsior — 10 K / month
Half‑year — 50 K / six months
Annual — 100 K / year
Founder LIFETIME (promo) — 1 M eddies → up to 10 armored cabs at once, unlimited guests.
Emilia's untouched Arasaka nest‑egg still sits fat on my credstick. Golden opportunity?
"Didn't Delamain go haywire in some timeline?" I mutter, thumb hovering.
Lucy, already sniffing the API from her HUD, shrugs. "Hard‑reset patch is public domain. Worst case, we lobotomize him."
I grin and hit BUY. Problem solved—no more sprinting across Night City with the Sandevistan cooking my organs.
Kiwi props herself on one elbow, optics glittering. "You making holo-calls already? With a clinic like this and two netrunners patched hotter than NetWatch, you could skip merc contracts altogether—start your own crew."
I snort. "Doctor‑slash‑chauffeur‑slash‑CEO?"
"Fixer," Lucy corrects, poking a nutrient straw at me. "Ghost Clinic sounds kinda slick. Or Chrome Angels."
Kiwi waggles her brows. "I vote Chrome Angels—complete with winged logo and matching jackets. I'll even test‑chew the embroidery."
"If you chew the merch, we're charging extra," I deadpan. Then, more thoughtful: "Still… a tight‑circle crew could work—Chrome Angels: invite‑only, top‑shelf chrome, zero corpo strings. We pick our gigs, cherry‑pick shards, and keep the clinic hidden in plain sight."
Lucy nods, enthusiasm rising but measured. "I'm in… but I need to loop David. We're a package deal these days."
Kiwi shoots finger‑guns. "Tripod formation—front‑line David, back‑end Lucy, mysterious jaw‑crushing support me."
"And me at the center with the first‑aid kit and invoice pad," I add.
We trade grins—wild idea sprouting roots.
The girls visibly relax now that escape routes multiply. Lucy's optics flare—incoming holo from David. She patches audio to the room.
"V," David croaks, voice rough but alive, "think I'll sit this one out and wait for Lucy at home—still feel like roadkill."
I nudge Lucy: Tell him I'm literally holding Maine's chrome‑plated hands on ice—ready for refit. She rolls her eyes but relays it.
A beat later the holo crackles again. "Wait—you've got Maine's arms? Frag that, give me five—jacket on, boots laced. Be right up."
Lucy grins, fangs gleaming. "He changed his mind. ETA five minutes."
Kiwi stretches, flawless jaw glinting. "Hope the kid digs the new décor."
I punch in a food order—pork ramen, synth‑eel sushi, bubble tea outrageously sugared. Exactly thirty minutes later the private lift dings. David Martinez steps out, eyes wide, ready for the next miracle."