Genos 'Harker'
Viks Clinic, Little China, Watson, Night City
A couple of days after the warehouse, I found myself back on Vik's surgical chair, watching him operate on the back of my neck through a monitor mounted directly in front of my face.
Before that I had finally swung by Dae's shop in Little China to pick up the jacket. It had been ready for three days and I had kept forgetting about it, which said something about the quality of the week I had been having. The tailor had handed it over without much ceremony, unwrapping it, going on about how he was sure I would love it.
He was right, the Oni face across the back was exactly what I had described, the brushwork rendered in the kind of detail that made it look hand painted rather than printed, the burgundy of the fabric deep enough to read almost black in low light.
I had worn it out of the shop.
I had also picked up two small jobs from Regina in the intervening days, a retrieval in Kabuki that took forty minutes and a courier interception in Northside that took less than twenty. Deliberately small work. I could tell she was still figuring out what to do with me, the jobs were the kind you gave someone when you wanted to see how they moved without risking anything you actually cared about. I didn't hold it against her, but it would be a lie if I said it wasn't frustrating.
But that wasn't what had been on my mind these last couple of days...it was a little jarring how quickly the whole warehouse incident had disappeared from the city's attention. Back home, the deaths of twenty people in one night, even twenty gang members, would have made national news, drawn investigations, talking heads, and probably several politicians demanding somebody's resignation before breakfast. Here, there had barely been a peep about it beyond the fucked-up death lottery, I shouldn't be surprised that Night City had decided that even mass murder needed to be packaged like sports entertainment.
The people who actually cared were considerably less interested in ratings.
According to what 0J0 had told me, 6th Street was baying for blood, but the condition they had found their people in had left them with very little to work with, that was largely thanks to her.
She had scrubbed what she could, burned what she couldn't. So in regards to who wiped out a 6th chapter in one night, other then the two of us, only Regina knew my hand in it, but I doubted she'd sell me out...0J0 was my main hangup.
I didn't trust the runner, I did however, trust her sense of self-preservation.
I had made sure she understood exactly what I would do to her if she ever decided selling me out was worth whatever price somebody offered, I was fairly confident the message had landed.
Almost two weeks in and I'm already handing out death threats.
Anyway, back to where I currently was. I had to admit there was something deeply surreal about ripperdocs in general. They occupied a strange space between doctor, mechanic, and professional pessimist. Most doctors I had known back home were concerned with things like blood pressure, tissue damage, infection, and whether a patient had followed their recovery instructions.
Vik was equally concerned about all of that stuff, but he was also perfectly comfortable discussing neural voltage tolerances, micro-servo friction matrices, buffer-overflow thresholds, and whether my synthetic spinal interface was experiencing driver incompatibility, he talked about the hardware the way a surgeon talked about an organ.
What was even more surreal then ripperdocs being a thing, was watching one operate on me while simultaneously having the ability to tell him that he was about to cut through something important.
Vik had positioned the monitor carefully enough that I could see his hands moving through the opened maintenance housing while the corresponding section of my internal schematic remained displayed beside the live camera feed. MK kept both images synchronized, highlighting each component as Vik approached it so I could compare what he was physically touching against what my systems knew should be there.
It was a surprisingly effective setup, it was also probably the closest thing I had experienced to being my own mechanic.
I was just glad the procurement had not turned into another week-long headache.
Vik's contact in Pacifica had apparently been more willing to part with the Neuroprocessor than either of us had expected. According to him, the man had originally acquired it as part of an old stockpile and had little sentimental attachment to the hardware, he was apparently quite happy to trade it for the eddies we offered, but since the processor and it's nanosurgical suite were fully functional, it cost about 2000 more then Vik had originally estimated.
Which was honestly ludicrous for such an essential piece of cyberware, the newer ones didn't even cost half of that. I was fairly certain the seller had realised exactly how desperate we were for the thing. Still, I couldn't complain.
For what we were trying to accomplish, a dead Neuroprocessor would have been about as useful as buying a dead car and asking it to drive me to Pacifica, and after everything I had already dealt with in this city, finding a functioning piece of rare, obsolete hardware for an amount of money I could actually afford felt suspiciously close to a miracle.
The surgical lights reflected off the exposed metal around the back of my neck, turning the image into something between a medical procedure and a maintenance tutorial.
Vik leaned over the surgical field, his exoglove moving with the kind of deliberate precision that came from having performed the same basic motions thousands of times. The older man did not hesitate around the Neuroprocessor, because he had spent the better part of two days sourcing it, inspecting the nanosurgical reservoir, checking its internal hardware and modifying the mounting assembly to accommodate my chassis.
He knew this piece of hardware better than I did. What he did not know was what sat beneath my artificial skin, that was where I came in.
"Tell me where the primary signal trunk runs," Vik said, adjusting the surgical arm while keeping his organic hand steady against the edge of the access panel.
I watched the monitor as his instrument moved closer to the lower section of my artificial spine.
"Beneath the processor housing," I told him, following his movement against the highlighted schematic. "You are currently approaching the third redundant bus, so move the tool slightly toward the left before making the next adjustment."
Vik altered the angle without argument, his exoglove making a quiet mechanical click as the fingers repositioned the instrument. "Here?"
He glanced toward the monitor while the tool hovered over the exposed parts of my neck.
"Another half millimetre," I answered, watching the alignment markers settle into place. "Your current position is still close enough that a slip would scuff up the shielding around the bus."
The old ripperdoc moved the instrument again with painstaking patience before looking back at the screen. "Now?"
I watched the highlighted pathway stabilize beneath his tool. "Now you are clear."
Vik gave a quiet grunt before continuing the procedure. "Your individual components are packed tighter than anything I have worked on before," he said while adjusting the processor mount, his eyes moving between the physical hardware and the schematic beside it. "How many independent neural trunks are actually running through this section?"
"A lot of them, at least thirty pass through the artificial spinal assembly," I explained while watching the diagnostic overlay update beside his hands. "Each one contains multiple redundant pathways that allow the system to reroute signals if individual channels become damaged, independent but concurrent is the Kuseno school of thought."
Vik studied the branching structure on the monitor for several seconds before looking back toward the open chassis, his exoglove hovering above the exposed pathways while the surgical magnification brought the individual signal trunks into much sharper focus.
"So these aren't equivalent to individual nerves?" he asked, his attention moving between the live feed and the schematic as though he were trying to reconcile two versions of the same machine.
"They perform similar functions," I explained while watching several pathways illuminate in sequence beneath the artificial spinal housing, "but they aren't biological nerves, and they were never designed around conventional cybernetic standards."
Vik gave a small nod as he resumed his work, the exoglove making tiny adjustments around the processor housing before he glanced back toward the monitor.
"How responsive would you say these systems compared to an organic nervous system?" he asked.
"It's like night and day, even damaged as I am now, this body is significantly more responsive than my original one ever was," I said, following the diagnostic trace as signals moved from one pathway to another without any meaningful delay.
Vik slowed his hand for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the signal response. "Really? Is it like speedware?" he asked, and there was genuine curiosity behind the question now, rather than the purely technical interest he'd been displaying a moment earlier.
"Not the way you're thinking," I replied, watching the monitor show another sequence of artificial motor commands being processed almost instantaneously. "My old body always had a fraction of a second between deciding to move and actually moving, even if I never consciously noticed it, whereas this system responds almost as quickly as I can formulate the intention."
I let the thought sit for a moment before adding the part that made the comparison more complicated. "Sometimes it responds before I consciously finish deciding what I wanted to do."
Vik's expression shifted at that, the corners of his mouth tightening while his attention moved back toward the exposed architecture beneath my neck. He stopped adjusting the alignment parameters on his monitor, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he studied the intricate, foreign programming language overlapping my neural mapping.
"You said you were operating at around twenty to thirty percent of where you should be," Vik muttered, his voice dropping low. He tapped the terminal screen, pulling up the micro-servo friction matrix logs from my horizontal sprint along the warehouse corridor walls. "Even then... you're saying you're that much faster?"
"By a lot," I replied. "I mean I'm pretty busted don't get me wrong, but the damage has reduced my overall capability, it hasn't changed the underlying responsiveness."
Vik made another adjustment before becoming quiet for several seconds, and I assumed the conversation had naturally returned to the operation until he finally spoke again, this time with noticeably less technical interest in his voice. "Kid... are you actually alright with what happened to you?"
His hands never stopped moving while he asked the question, which made it easier to answer because he wasn't staring at me expecting some dramatic revelation about my childhood, my identity, or whatever else people imagined happened inside someone's head when they had been turned into something that no longer resembled the person they remembered being.
I watched my own reflection in the monitor for a moment, the synthetic 'skin' around a face that wasn't mine, looking almost completely ordinary, while the exposed machinery at the back of my neck told a very different story.
"...there are good sides and bad sides," I said, letting the words sit for a moment before deciding how seriously I wanted to take the question. "I think the good can speak for itself. I mean, I haven't met a bullet that can hurt me yet. I'm one hell of a weapon now, and the way this city is...the way the world is, there are worse things to be than a sane borg."
Vik's mouth twitched slightly while he adjusted the surgical magnification, apparently resisting the temptation to laugh before asking what he already suspected was coming next.
"And the bad?" he asked, keeping his attention on the procedure.
"But there are things I lost along the way," I continued. "Things that are difficult to quantify because they are not really about functionality, they are about identity, about the little pieces of yourself that remind you that beneath it all, there is still supposed to be a person."
Vik remained quiet as I kept going, but the heavy look behind his glasses told me he was taking it all in.
"People talk about the heart, the face, the hands, the things that make you recognizably human. But I think there is something more fundamental than all of that. Something almost primitive. Something that represents an entirely different kind of connection to being human, to being alive, Vik."
I allowed another pause to build before finally turning my attention toward the camera mounted above the surgical field. "I lost my dick."
The exoglove stopped moving completely. Vik stared at the monitor for several seconds before lowering his head and quietly exhaling through his nose. "You absolute bastard." His shoulders shifted with the quiet beginning of a laugh."Life gives and takes, Vik. Often with the same hand," I told him, watching the faint amusement remain on his face through the camera feed.
Vik shook his head while the exoglove resumed its work, the tiny mechanical servos producing a quiet series of clicks as he carefully repositioned the connection housing.
"Well, for better or worse, you're already sounding like a real Night City native," Vik said, letting out a dry, gravelly chuckle. He didn't look up, but his shoulders relaxed slightly as he threaded the last nanosurgical line. "Leave it to an edgerunner to take a whole existential crisis, trim away the philosophical fat, and reduce all that trauma to a missing dick."
"Honestly it's only funny cause I know I can fix the problem." I told him, trying to broach the topic organically. "I'm not going to lie and say it doesn't bother me, looking like I do, but I've looked into Realskinn and I think I can get some of the military grade stuff to work with me."
Vik nodded at that, smiling faintly before returning his attention to the procedure. "You know who to call if you need help."
That was one of the things I had come to appreciate about Viktor, his earnestness, even under that gruff exterior it was hard to hide, especially considering how hard he'd worked to get this operation setup in under a week.
He had already sourced the Neuroprocessor from an old stock network, verified that the nanosurgical reservoir remained viable, stripped the unit down far enough to understand its original configuration and adapted the mounting system to fit the access cavity Kuseno had designed into my chassis.
And although the procedure itself was not beyond him, the problem was that he had never done this operation on anything like me.
"Walk me through the bridge again." he said, bringing the processor into position while the monitor shifted automatically to the corresponding software I had written up alongside MK.
"The Neuroprocessor expects a compatible neural endpoint," I explained while keeping my eyes on the highlighted interface pathway. "The nanosurgical units are designed to identify biological nerve endings or conventional synthetic interfaces and then establish microscopic connections between those structures and the processor, I had to write a custom code to try and trick the bots into thinking my pathways were standard."
Vik nodded once as he continued securing the mounting assembly, his attention moving between the exposed hardware and the monitor while the surgical arm held the processor exactly where it needed to sit.
I watched the bridge architecture expand across the display while MK brought additional information into view, layers of code and interface pathways unfolding over the physical schematic until the whole thing resembled a blueprint for a nervous system.
The underlying logic was not particularly complicated once you understood what each side expected.
Kuseno had built my artificial nervous system with modularity in mind, which meant the signal pathways were capable of accepting external connections provided those connections presented themselves in a format the system recognised. The Neuroprocessor did not need to understand the entirety of my architecture, and my artificial nervous system did not need to understand every function of the processor.
They simply needed a common language.
"Which pathway should I attach first?" Vik asked, pulling me out of my thoughts while he positioned the first connector over the exposed housing.
The corresponding section of the schematic illuminated immediately, giving me a clear view of the route beneath the surgical tools.
"The blue connector nearest the lower processor housing," I said while watching the highlighted pathway pulse beside his hand. "That one leads into the primary signal distribution layer rather than the combat systems."
Vik moved toward it, the mechanical fingers of the exoglove making small adjustments as he aligned the connector with the mounting point.
"Which means...I should avoid the adjacent trunk?" he asked, glancing toward the second highlighted pathway as though comparing the two options one more time before committing.
"Exactly," I replied while watching the neighbouring designation appear on the schematic. "That trunk carries high-frequency motor commands whenever I'm in a fight, it runs terabytes of data at a time, if you slot the processor in too close, you could expose its interface to transient loads above it's tolerance range."
Vik slowly withdrew the instrument and gave me a brief sideways look before returning his attention to the display. "I still can't wrap my head around how this much complicated software and hardware fits into such a small frame," he admitted, turning the magnification higher while the exoglove remained suspended over the access point. "You're decades, if not centuries, ahead of what should be possible at this scale."
I considered that while watching the internal schematic rotate slightly on the monitor.
"That's because you're looking at it like a collection of components," I explained, following the branching structures with my eyes. "Kuseno designed the entire chassis as one integrated system, so the processors, signal pathways and control architecture were developed around one another instead of being assembled from commercially available parts."
Vik gave a quiet grunt as he repositioned the tool. He returned his attention to the connector.
The instrument descended, the connector settled into place inside my neck with a quiet mechanical click and my OS responded immediately.
[EXTERNAL CYBERWARE DETECTED.]
A second line populated beneath it.
[DEVICE CLASSIFICATION: NEURALPROCESSOR.]
Vik stopped moving. "Well, that happened sooner than expected," he said, leaning closer to the workstation display while the surgical arm remained suspended above my neck. "Your operating system is remarkably responsive."
He removed the exoglove and set it beside the surgical station before rolling his chair toward the keyboard. His organic fingers moved rapidly over the controls as he opened several diagnostic windows, checking the processor's internal status, connection stability and nanosurgical reservoir.
I watched the data populate across the monitor while Vik moved between different diagnostic panels. The final status window opened.
[NANOSURGICAL SUITE: PRIMED.]
Vik stared at the result for several seconds before turning his chair slightly toward the surgical camera.
"The bots are primed," he said, his voice noticeably more serious now. "Are you completely certain the bridge code is ready?"
I watched the software architecture appear beside the hardware diagnostics.
"As sure as I can be given the circumstances." I explained, following the lines of translation code as MK highlighted the portions responsible for the neural handshake. "I worked hard on the code Vik, identified the processor's original firmware structure first, then reconstructed the interface rules the nanosurgical suite uses to identify acceptable neural endpoints."
Vik's hand remained on the keyboard while he listened.
"The age of the hardware actually helped," I continued, watching another layer of code appear. "The original firmware is old enough that the corps don't much care about how secure it is. That gave me something concrete to work from rather than forcing me to reverse-engineer everything."
Vik nodded slowly while reading the same information from the monitor.
"I compared those protocols against my own nanosystems software," I continued, watching the bridge layer align the two structures. "My old nanomachines already knew how to identify my artificial signal pathways, so I just used their communication model as the second half of the translation layer."
The old ripperdoc stared at the screen for another moment. "Right, I forgot you had your own nanomachines as well," he said, shifting his attention toward the physical processor again.
"They're busted though," I replied, watching the bridge architecture continue to compile. "The important part is that I'm not rewriting the Neuroprocessor itself."
Vik nodded while returning his hand to the controls.
"If you're worried I could finish the software integration at home," I said, watching his cursor hover over the activation controls, "You've already done the difficult part by installing the hardware in place."
Vik immediately shook his head before turning fully toward the camera mounted above the surgical field.
"No chance," he said, resting one forearm against the workstation while the other hand remained close to the emergency controls. "If something goes wrong once the nanosurgical units start threading through your artificial pathways, I'd much rather have you on my table than alone in an apartment trying to troubleshoot yourself."
That was a reasonable objection, it was also difficult to argue with. "You aren't worried about yourself?" I asked, watching his expression through the screen as he checked the emergency shutdown procedures one final time.
Vik's mouth pulled into a faint grin as he leaned back in his chair. "I'm not particularly worried about you going full Smasher on me," he said, deliberately adopting a lighter tone as the tension around the procedure began to settle. "I've got nerves of steel, kid, don't let the calm demeanor fool you, because I can still throw a pretty mean right hook."
I glanced toward the exoglove resting beside him. "I'm not sure your right hook would help much against me," I said, watching him flex his natural hand while the faint amusement remained on his face.
Vik laughed quietly before returning his attention to the workstation.
"Probably not," he admitted, adjusting the display until the nanosurgical control interface filled the screen. "I'm trusting your ability to keep yourself together, and I'm trusting your desire not to accidentally kill yourself in my clinic."
He hovered over the activation control for another moment before adding his final reassurance.
"I'd tell you this might tickle," he said, looking toward me with a faint smirk, "but considering you're built from half a hundred things I don't understand, I'm not entirely sure that would be the case."
He pressed the activation key, and the Neuroprocessor responded immediately.
[NANOSURGICAL SUITE: ACTIVE.]
For the first time, the microscopic machines inside the processor began leaving their reservoir and entering my body, I felt the first contact almost immediately.
Something moved through the artificial pathways inside my neck with a sensation my brain could recognise but could not properly localize, almost like having a thousand invisible fingers searching through a part of my body that had never previously been touched by anything quite like them.
MK began translating the activity into readable data.
[NANOSURGICAL UNITS DEPLOYED: 0.95 MILLION.]
[VALID TERMINAL IDENTIFICATION: 96.8%.]
[INITIAL CONNECTIONS ESTABLISHED: 4.7%.]
Vik leaned toward the display, his eyes moving rapidly between the diagnostic windows as the first wave of connections began forming.
"Everything still good?" he asked, keeping one hand close to the emergency controls while the other adjusted the monitoring parameters.
I checked the relevant systems before answering. "All green," I told him, watching the connection status remain stable.
The nanosurgical units continued their work.
[ARTIFICIAL SIGNAL PATHWAYS IDENTIFIED: 100%.]
[BRIDGE TRANSLATION ERROR: 0.00%.]
Vik glanced toward me through the camera again, his expression still focused despite the increasingly encouraging diagnostics.
"That translation error is still clean?" he asked, following the percentage changes across the screen.
"Zero percent," I confirmed while watching the bridge continue routing the processor's handshake through the artificial signal pathways.
The numbers continued climbing.
[NEURAL MAPPING: 17.3%.]
[MICRO-LINKS ESTABLISHED: 8,421,772.]
[SIGNAL INTEGRITY: 99.98%.]
[LOAD VARIANCE: WITHIN TOLERANCE.]
Vik leaned closer to the screen as another diagnostic block populated. "You're not getting any abnormal load?"
I checked the motor systems, combat suite and artificial sensory pathways before answering. "Everything remains within tolerance, nothing is going where it shouldn't be."
He nodded and returned his attention to the processor.
The nanosurgical units continued threading themselves through the architecture, each one identifying an artificial signal terminus through the bridge layer, establishing a microscopic connection and moving onward toward the next branch.
[NEURAL MAPPING: 53.4%.]
[EXTERNAL INTERFACE ROUTING: STABLE.]
[VIRTUAL LAYER HANDSHAKE: READY.]
That last line made me pause, the virtual layer was waiting.
For weeks, it had existed as an isolated software environment designed to make my foreign architecture appear compatible with Night City's technology without exposing my core systems. It had been useful, but ultimately limited by the fact that I lacked a proper neural interface into the outside world.
Now, it had one. I looked at the progress indicators while Vik countdown-monitored the procedure from over the top of his glasses.
Even with this new, direct hardwire connection online, I knew I'd still keep the two systems strictly separate. For obvious reasons, giving up that extra layer of defense would be a rookie mistake. The virtual layer acted as a digital firebreak, keeping this world's messy software, unoptimized municipal nodes, and local data packets completely isolated from my core processing unit. If I ever ran into a really high-end netrunner--someone who could throw heavy-grade military daemons or zero-day neural exploits--they'd find themselves hitting a brick wall of completely unrecognizable, foreign architecture instead of my actual systems.
Let them try to hack a ghost network
Now it had one, I looked at the progress indicators while Vik continued monitoring the procedure. "Everything still green?" he asked, watching me closely.
I checked every major system before answering.
"It's all right Vik, really. You can stop worrying." Vik gave a small nod and returned his attention to the processor.
The nanosurgical suite continued its slow work beneath the synthetic skin of my neck, building a network that had not existed when I woke up in this world.
For the first time since arriving in Night City, something inside my body was being built specifically to connect me to the world around it.
It was around thirty minutes later when the cyberware was fully integrated into my neck. I found myself sitting up on the chair, the cold clinic air hitting my bare chasis while Vik sat directly in front of me, his fingers tapping lazily at his monitor.
"All right, looks like the meat took to the chrome without throwing a tantrum," Vik said, spinning his chair toward me. "Everything went well, but let's run it through some tests. I'm going to need you to give me access to the diagnostic bridge, kid."
At his prompting, I mentally commanded the panel on my neck to slide down. The small, protective plate of my chassis retracted with a soft, clean shlurr. I reached back, pulled the freshly installed cable from my neck, and connected it directly to the port.
[INCOMING PROTOCOL HANDSHAKE: RECIPIENT 'VIKTOR VEKTOR'.]
[AUTHORIZING EXTERNAL INPUT LINK...]
[DOWNLOADING DATA PACKET: K_OPTICS_NCPD_BOUNTY_v2.1.dat]
[DATA INTEGRATION IN PROGRESS: 100% - SUCCESS.]
"Just dropped an encrypted utility packet into your visual driver," Vik muttered leaning back. "Open it up, Kiroshi optics are my bread and butter, I made sure the script matches your data layer."
I executed the package. The moment the file unpacked, my optical feed flooded with a massive, real-time database, rows of digital mugshots, SIN numbers, last-known coordinates, and escrow payouts compiled cleanly across my retinas. Vik had just granted me direct access to the NCPD's active independent contractor bounty registry.
"Test it on me," Vik suggested, gesturing to his own frame. "Let's see if your target-acquisition software translates the police data layer."
I focused my gold optics on him. Instantly, a detailed heads-up overlay snapped into view, generating a full rap sheet alongside a predictive threat assessment matrix.
[TARGET IDENTIFIED: VEKTOR, VIKTOR.]
[NCPD RECORD: WATSON DISTRICT SUB-REGISTRY.]
[BOUNTY STATUS: ZERO OUTSTANDING WARRANTS. ASSIGNED ESCROW: $0.00]
[THREAT LEVEL: LOW.]
It was an incredibly fleshed-out, automated version of what I had spent the last few weeks forcing MK to manually stitch together by skimming whatever scattered public nodes we happened to pass in Watson.
"Wow. Thanks, Vik," I said, blinking the interface away to return my eyes to normal. "You know, I've been meaning to sign up as a registered sub-con bounty hunter. Make some eddies on the side for all the high-end industrial tech I'm going to need access to down the line."
"It's no problem, kid," Vik said, reaching over to his counter and picking up a sleek shard of carbon-fiber plastic. "Gotta keep the lights on somehow and hunting down scavs and ne'er do wells keeps the city slightly less unlivable. Besides..." He gave a dry, knowing chuckle. "You're running up quite a tab on my ledger, and those parts weren't charity. Let's verify your neural chip slot."
He handed me the chip. I slid the tiny blade into the parallel slot behind my ear.
[CHIP READING... LOAD DATA: THE_ENFORCERS_HANDBOOK__BLACKHAND_M.txt]
I skimmed the first few index chapters, the text loading instantly into my data logs. I looked back up at Vik, a single eyebrow raised as the historical metadata compiled.
"The Enforcer's Handbook? Really?" I asked, a slightly amused tilt to my voice. "You trying to tell me something, Vik?"
"Nothing I'm not sure you haven't already heard, kid," Vik said as he leaned against the metal table. "Just keep it in mind. Morgan wrote that guide fifty years ago, but the logic holds up. There's a reason the man is considered a legend among solos."
"More a myth at this point," I muttered, adjusting my shoulder joint as I got up. "The street talks about him like he was a ghost that never left an unnecessary corpse behind, I tried that shit, it isn't as easy as you'd think."
"There's a reason he's the best," Vik agreed, picking up a shop towel to wipe down his exoglove. "But myths are just old stories about people who did the job better than anybody else. If there's one thing I've learned in all my years stitching cyberpunks back together. You don't survive by being sloppy or treating every gig like a butcher shop. Finesse keeps you breathing better then any hightech piece of chrome, remember that Genos."
He tossed the towel aside, looking at me . "Alright, structurally, you're solid as a vault. Just remember to let the nanosurgical threads settle before you go doing any high-G acrobatics out in the city."
I remained seated on the operating chair, my fingers tracing the edge of the smooth vinyl padding. I hesitated, my internal processing loops cycling twice before I found the right phrasing.
"Viktor... about what I was saying before," I started, keeping my voice level, though the mechanical undertone clipped slightly. "Regarding the cosmetic upgrades. The RealSkinn layering, and... the other--ahem--custom modular installations I was looking into."
Vik stopped organizing his instruments, looking up with a completely flat, unbothered expression.
"I'm a doctor, kid. No need to get awkward or beat around the bush with me," Vik said, his tone entirely conversational. "You're living in a full-conversion chassis, and maintaining your personal identity--or adjusting your comfort levels--is a standard part of the prosthetic transition. If you're looking into custom biological skin meshes or...specific cybernetic utility packages, I can handle the calibration. Send the exact technical schematics and parts manifests over to my terminal. I'll review the hardware compatibility and see what we can safely integrate it with your alien tech."
"I'll upload the schematics to your terminal after I'm done doing research on em, and drafting a possible action plan," I said, swinging my legs off the operating chair, trying very hard not to sound embaressed. "The modular components I have to customize are tricky, I break away at too many points."
"Still can't wrap my head around that...just send 'em through, when you can." Vik muttered.
"Thanks, Vik." I pulled my shirt and Oni jacket back on, careful not to let the raw edges of my unpainted chassis catch on the fabric. The synthetic plates settled beneath the layers, hiding the silver-black wiring.
'MK send him what I owe him.'
[AUTHORIZING OUTGOING ESCROW...]
[RECIPIENT: VEKTOR_VIKTOR_WATSON_MED]
[TRANSFERRING: €$8,000.00]
[TRANSACTION COMPLETE. REMAINING BALANCES ADJUSTED.]
I pulled up my finance overlay, a sub-routine in the virtual layer flashing the updated numbers straight across my left retina:
[OUTGOING TRANSFER: VIKTOR VEKTOR]
[€$14,690 — €$8,000]
[CURRENT BALANCE: €$6,690]
I stared at that number for a moment, six thousand six hundred and ninety eddies. Two weeks ago I had been quietly pleased with myself for breaking thirteen thousand. Now I was looking at a balance that covered rent, ammunition, food I didn't strictly need to eat, and approximately one more moderately bad decision before I was having a genuinely uncomfortable conversation with myself about priorities.
Night City had an extraordinary talent for making money disappear and absolutely no interest in apologizing for it.
'I'm going to need a big gig. Soon. Probably more than one.'
I walked toward the exit stairs, thought about it for a moment, and turned back.
"Hey." Viktor looked up from whatever he was already moving on to, because Viktor was always already moving on to something. "Almost forgot. My ride got a bit dinged up last week." I paused. "You know anyone in the city who can fix up a car?"
Vik rolled his stool around, leaning his elbows on his knees as he thought on it for a bit. He tapped a finger against his chin, his brow furrowing beneath his short gray hair.
"Car tech isn't really my scene, kid," Vik said, shaking his head. "Don't know anyone who does it directly...most of the mechanics in Watson are either corporate shills or scavenger-adjacent grease monkeys who'd rather strip your chassis for scrap than fix a bumper."
He paused, a faint glimmer of recollection crossing his face. "Though... I know a guy from my boxing gym. Big, sturdy kid, he knows his way around engines, bikes mostly. He might know some people who could help you source parts and touch up your car without getting ripped off."
"Oh yeah?" I asked, shifting my weight, trying to keep anything from showing on my face. "Could you give me his contact info?"
"I'm not in the habit of handing out people's contacts without their permission," Vik said. "But I can tell you where to find him. His family runs a bar down in Heywood. Place called the El Coyote Cojo."
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Author's Note:
That's it for The Magician! I chose this card for the chapter because The Magician represents technology, mastery, and creating a bridge between two completely different worlds. We literally see that happen here as Genos sets up his new virtual layer to interface with Night City's network.
Again, sorry this chapter took a bit longer to drop. I've been absolutely swamped with schoolwork lately. For the next two weeks, I'm going to need to lock in to finish some big assignments due on the 15th of next month. That being said, I am still committed to sticking to my minimum schedule of two chapters a month.
Anyway, I'm sure you guys can already guess what's coming up in the next chapter. Genos desperately needs to make some organic connections in this city, and who else would be a better fit to introduce him to the true heart of Night City than the legend himself, Jackie Welles?
As always, let me know what you think in the comments. Catch you in the next one, chooms