I watched Strike sifting through metal, tossing pieces aside. I couldn't tell if he was discarding the bad ones or the good.
"Better be good metal this time," I said calmly. "Next time, I won't be here for tech."
I didn't mean it. Strike wasn't someone I'd ever hurt. If he were dead, I'd have to let another neurosurgeon work on my brain—and there was no one else I trusted to that.
He turned, a gold chip gleaming between his fingers.
"Gold parts?" I asked, curious.
"High-grade stuff, X. High grade," he said, a smile spreading across his face. He lived for this—like some kind of mad scientist.
"Where'd you get it?" I pushed.
"It's my plug, X. And I ain't giving out names," he replied, tone sharpening.
"Alright," I said. "But if this brings heat—the kind I don't need—then I won't be back for parts. Simple as that."
He didn't answer. Just glared. I only said it to squeeze the plug's name out of him—not because I was actually afraid of anyone coming after me.
"Come on, now, X," he finally conceded. He walked over, picked up a syringe, and drew some sleep serum into it. "All set," he said. "Fully upgraded."
The scary part was not remembering. I didn't feel the prick. I didn't remember fading out. I didn't even remember the last thirty minutes—when Strike had opened my skull and swapped out the old chip.
"You owe me big for this one, X," he grumbled.
I opened my eyes slowly, then stood. "No," I said. "This one was to make up for the fucked-up part you gave me last time. That was more of a downgrade than an upgrade."
On my way out, he shouted, "You're an asshole, X! You owe me!"
I didn't look back.
Outside, the black market pulsed. Kids, women, men—some waiting, some laid out with open skulls and blinking tech. It was the only time you could really see how long it took to crack a skull, replace the metal, and wire everything back up.
I glanced left. Then right. Then at my bike. It wasn't parked far from the exit—I liked to keep it close, just in case shit popped off. You never knew when VexSec might storm through this place.
I climbed on, slipped on my helmet, keyed the ignition, and started the engine. The sound was candy to my ears.
It wasn't just a bike. It was my bike. A Vortex 2049, pre-my-time. It had belonged to my grandpa, then my dad, and now it was mine.
Penn City Customs did the work. Stripped it down, rebuilt it mean. Matte gunmetal shell, low and quiet, tuned for speed and city heat. Analog dash, no AI. Twin pipes, blacked-out. No chrome—just scars and stories.
The seat still had that old tear on the right. They offered to fix it. I told them not to.
This wasn't a showroom piece. This was memory on wheels. Family built on fuel and grit.
And when it started up, it didn't purr. It growled.
Cruising through the streets of Penn, I glanced up at the trains slicing through the sky. Beyond that, the sky was blue. The sky glitches and cracks. I didn't know why, but it had been doing that ever since I was a kid. VexSec patrols walked the streets, not far from dealers slinging Fade or Drift. At almost every stoplight, a junkie begged for credits, or a drunk leaned against the pole. Skyscrapers stabbed the sky. Giant screens blasted news feeds. Every glass tower bore the logo of our corporate overlords: VC – Vector Corp.
After a short ride, I pulled up to Marker's Den. Even from the curb, I could hear the buzz of tattoo guns. The air smelled of ink and metal.
I pushed through the glass doors. The place was packed—artists hunched over ink work, men waiting in silence. But for a full house, it was dead quiet.
Then I saw why.
Dmitri was working on a half-naked girl, tattooing dangerously close to her cunt. No wonder the place felt tense. Every eye was locked on them.
I turned around and stepped back outside. Lit a cigarette. Waited. Five minutes passed, then ten. Eventually, I walked down the street for some spicy chicken noodles. Seemed better than standing there like a creep.
By the time I got back, thirty-five minutes had passed. I was lighting another cigarette when the shop door opened.
The girl stepped out. Dmitri followed, all wild gestures and shameless swagger—flirting, kissing, talking. Russian through and through. The man couldn't speak without throwing his entire body into it.
"So, the enigmatic X returns," he said, chest puffed like a man who'd never known hunger. Shirt half untucked. Hairy chest like a damn bear. Dirty beard. Gold tooth gleaming.
"How long has it been, my friend?"
"Not that long," I said, exhaling smoke. It was the only thing keeping me calm through this whole tired-ass conversation.
"So what is it you want, X? I thought you were done with this life."
"I'm looking for my sister."
"Bad terms?"
"Something like that."
"So why should I tell you where she is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "She clearly doesn't want to see you."
"She's my sister, Dmitri. For God's sake."
"You know she's made a lot of enemies in Penn. It's not just the Glazers. VC wants her. So does The Reliance."
The Reliance—Penn's so-called government. A cabal of old bastards calling themselves the founding fathers. The gold chip in my brain? That's their tech. Designed by Vector Corp, for them, and them alone.
"That's exactly why you should tell me," I said. "So I get to her before they do."
He paused.
"I need you to do something for me," he said finally, "in exchange for her location."
Of course he did. What did I expect?
"What do you want me to do?" I asked, cutting straight to it. I didn't have time for games.
Dmitri said one of his truck shipments got stolen. "Stolen by who?" I asked.
"Kira," he replied.
I knew Kira.
And when he was involved, it almost always meant it was big.
"A shipment of what, exactly?" I pushed, my curiosity piqued.
"Nothing big," he said, trying to play it off. But I wasn't stupid enough to think it was something small. Kira wasn't stealing anything "not big."
"Come on, Dmitri, you know Kira's not gonna just hand that shipment over," I pressed. He kept shifting, stuck between telling me and holding back.
Then he finally blurted, "I give you twenty percent, and your sister. Just get the truck to me." He didn't have a choice; he knew everyone else was too afraid to go after Kira, even if Kira was the one taking from them.
I took one last drag from my cigarette, then flicked the butt to the ground.
"Deal," I said.
Twenty percent of whatever the hell it was. But one thing I knew: Kira wasn't touching anything less than eight digits.
I was in a tunnel, and I'd just stepped into the honeypot.