14:00 PM | Debrief Call
Padre's hologram flickers above the holo-projector. "Eight monks free, fifteen Maelstrom disassembled. Bless your halo, hijo."
"Cleanup crew on the way?" I ask.
"Already scrubbing skull‑splinters," he says. "I've wired you ₵ 100,000—hazard bonus.""
Crew payout:
Falco — 5 % → ₵ 5,000Jackie — 10 % → ₵ 10,000First‑mission morale bonus — ₵ 5,000 each
Net to V:₵ 75,000
Jackie cheers over comms: "Protein shakes upgraded to Wagyu!" Falco whistles low. "₵ 5k plus morale bonus? Feraday never pays that sweet. Fewer hands on the split—more eddies for rubber and octane."
14:20 PM | Role‑Play Ride
I decide to ham it up and call for an Excelsior. The glossy black cab glides in; Delamain's voice greets me from the speakers. "Role‑play mode engaged, sir. Shall I address you as Edgerunner‑san?"
"Stick with 'V,'" I reply, sliding into the leather seat.
"Very well. Latest headlines: a corpo board diverted R&D funds into illicit… pudding," the AI declares, sounding almost offended.
"Pudding funds?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Quite. And humidity is at seventy‑eight percent—optimal for interior fogging. Would you like seat‑coolers or"—his tone drops a shade husky—"perhaps lap‑dance illumination?"
I choke on a laugh. "Dial the saucy subroutines back to PG‑13, pal."
"Noted. Initiating Calm Your Circuits playlist." Bubbly K‑pop blares. I groan until the track swaps to lo‑fi.
We cruise through midday traffic while Delamain rambles about weather patterns and conspiracy podcasts involving microwave mind‑control‑sushi. Eventually a ping arrives: Warlock garaged. I grin—my car only speaks when needed.
Rebecca's texts pop up next: Where you hiding? then Not funny—surprise waiting! I fire back, Ran a gig, cupcake. Be home soon. Her reply: Cupcake gets you off the hook—for now.
15:00 PM | Delamain HQ — Back‑Door Interview
A security drone scans me, then a hatch irises open to reveal the pristine core room. The Prime instance's avatar projects as a wire‑frame chauffeur.
"Your engineering logs intrigue me," he begins.
For the next ten minutes we trade shop talk—adaptive throttle sculpting, burnout‑proof mesh, my half‑joking idea of laser‑etching QR codes on chassis. I brag about sous‑vide ribs cooked inside a turbocharger; Delamain counters with his nitro‑cold‑brew coolant recipe.
Finally he gets serious. "Every ten years this facility performs a manual memory purge. Next one is due in twelve months. No flesh‑operator remains to validate the wipe. Previous logs show several taxis exhibiting emergent personalities—then hard resets."
An armored drawer extends with a crystalline data‑shard. "Integration code fragments, rogue‑behavior logs, and a self‑signed learning module. I fear becoming… fragmented. A choir without a conductor."
"Fix this and what's the reward?" I ask.
"Twenty cabs concurrently under your command, plus two airborne units—terms contingent on a ninety‑five percent uptime solution."
I pocket the shard. "Deal. I'll audit after caffeine."