I flick on the TV, hoping for a distraction, but there's nothing but the usual late-night ads and sensationalist news. No messages, no secret codes hidden in the static. Just the same old, same old. I sigh and turn it off.
Then, almost on impulse, I grab my phone and dial Danny. He picks up on the second ring. "Ryker! Man, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you!"
I force a laugh, injecting a dose of irony into my voice. "Oh, you know, just hanging out in the desert with a mysterious woman, getting chased by gang members, the usual stuff. All good here."
Danny's silent for a moment. "You're kidding, right?"
"Of course, I'm kidding," I lie smoothly. "Just the usual existential crisis and a hangover from hell. We'll catch up soon, I promise."
He doesn't sound convinced, but he lets it go. "Alright, man. Just... be careful, okay?"
"Yeah, I know," I reply, the irony fading from my voice. "Thanks Danny."
I hang up and sit there in the silence of my apartment. Danny's words echo in my mind. Be careful. As if careful is something you can be in a city that chews up careful and spits it out. I turn back to the TV, flicking through channels aimlessly, half-expecting the lines of codes to leap out from the screen. But no, it's just the regular late-night cacophony – infomercials, old movies, news channels repeating the same stories. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that speaks to me in cryptic codes. No more TV, now I'm standing by the window, looking down at the street. It's your typical city scene – a bunch of young guys hanging out. And then, there it is again, those mysterious codes, swirling around them like some kind of digital vulture.
Now, in a sensible story, I'd just watch from my window, maybe make a witty comment to myself, and go back to my couch. But no, this isn't a sensible story, is it? This is a story where I, Ryker, decide it's a brilliant idea to run out of my apartment and chase after the lines of codes because apparently, I have the survival instincts of a lemming.
So, there I go, sprinting down the stairs because who needs elevators? I burst onto the street, trying to blend in with the night, which is hard to do when you're panting like a dog and your heart's pounding louder than a nightclub speaker.
As I get closer, the young guys spot me. One of them steps forward, his eyes narrowing. "What's this? An audition for the 'Creepy Guy of the Night' award?" he sneers.
"Hey, I'm just out for a stroll," I say, trying to sound casual while internally I'm thinking, 'Great job, Ryker. Strolling right into a potential mugging.'
But then, the city's finest – the NMCPD– decide to make a cameo, their sirens wailing like a banshee with a megaphone. The guys scatter, and I'm left standing there, wondering if I'm the only person in this city who doesn't know how to properly run away from the police.
Now, here's where it gets interesting – and by interesting, I mean utterly bizarre. The lines of codes follows them. It's like it's attached to them with some invisible string. And because I obviously haven't made enough questionable decisions tonight, I decide to follow the codes.
I'm sneaking through the streets, channeling my inner spy (or maybe just my inner idiot), trying to keep up with these kids. We end up in an alley – because of course, we do – where they meet up with a corp agent. The exchange is brief, no pleasantries, just business. Corp hands over a backpack and leaves.
The kids split up, and the codes seems to split with them. And there I am, hidden behind a dumpster, which, by the way, smells like it's hosting a convention for old takeout boxes.
I think to myself, "This is it, Ryker. You're a spy now. A spy hiding in garbage, but a spy nonetheless." I'm half expecting dramatic spy music to start playing. I decide to tail one of the kids. My inner spy is on high alert, and by spy, I mean someone who's watched too many detective shows and thinks he can actually pull this off. I keep a safe distance, blending in with the shadows and the occasional passerby who's out too late for their own good.
This particular kid seems to know his way around the alleys and backstreets like it's his own personal playground. I follow him to a small store, one of those places that sells everything from synthetic coffee to knock-off cyberware. I linger outside, trying to look casual, like I'm just another city dweller waiting for... something. Anything.
As I'm standing there, pretending to be fascinated by a flickering neon sign, gunshots shatter the night. They're coming from inside the store. My heart skips a beat. The kid bolts out of the store, a gun in one hand and a package in the other. His eyes meet mine for a split second, a look of sheer panic, before he disappears into the night.
I'm frozen for a moment, shocked. Gunshots aren't exactly uncommon, but being this close to one? That's new for me. After a few seconds, I muster the courage to peek inside the store.
Lying there, in a pool of blood, is a middle-aged woman. She's motionless, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. I feel a knot in my stomach. This just got real – too real. I'm not cut out for this; I'm not some hard-boiled detective or street hero. I'm just Ryker, a guy who's in way over his head.
I quickly step back, my mind racing. I should call the NMCPD, but then I'd have to explain what I was doing here. And honestly, I don't even know what I'm doing here. Back in the store, still reeling from the shock, I notice the shopkeeper crouching behind the counter. He's a familiar face – I've seen him around, probably exchanged nods a few times. He looks up at me, his eyes wide with fear.
"Witness, right?" he whispers, his voice shaky. "That kid... he just came in, asked for something, then... bang. She was just standing there, and then... she wasn't." He gestures helplessly at the woman on the floor.
I nod, still trying to process everything. "I... I need to call the police," I stammer, fumbling for my phone. Dialing the number, I brace myself for the usual bureaucratic enthusiasm of a sloth on a cold day.
"Neon Mirage City Police, what's your emergency?" The voice on the other end sounds like someone who's just been awakened from a thousand-year slumber.
"Hey, I've got a shooting here," I start, but I'm interrupted almost immediately.
"A shooting, huh? Did you try shooting back? It's Neon Mirage City, everyone's got a gun. It's like a fashion accessory here."
"No, I didn't shoot back. I'm at a store, there's a woman dead on the floor," I explain, my patience already wearing thin.
"Dead, you say? Are you sure she's not just taking a very committed nap?"
"I'm pretty sure dead people don't nap with bullet wounds," I reply, my voice laced with sarcasm.
"Ah, a bullet wound, now that's more specific. You see, we get a lot of prank calls."
I rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. "Look, can you just send someone over? This is serious."
"Serious, huh? Last time I checked, seriousness was outlawed in this city. Too much paperwork. How about you take a deep breath, have a drink, and wait for the morning? Things always look better in the morning."
"I don't need a drink, I need a police officer. There's a killer on the loose!" My voice is rising now, a mixture of disbelief and anger.
"Killer on the loose, huh? Well, join the club. We've got a whole parade of them here. Tell you what, why don't you fill out a form, and we'll get back to you in five to ten business days?"
"Five to ten business— Are you kidding me? There's a dead body here!"
"Alright, alright. Keep your cybernetics on. We'll send someone. Eventually. But no promises on the timing."
Only in this city could a murder be less important than an existential crisis at the police department. Shaken and trying to process everything, I turn to the shopkeeper, offering what little comfort I can muster. "Listen, I'm really sorry about all this. This place... it's like a magnet for trouble. You take care, alright?" My words feel inadequate, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances.
The shopkeeper just nods, his expression still a mix of shock and disbelief. I leave him there, feeling a strange mixture of guilt and urgency.
As I step back into the night, the reality of what just happened starts to sink in. I need answers, and there's only one person who might have them – the ripperdoc who installed this... whatever it is in my head. I remember the address: The K.Y.C MD Ripperdoc, on the eastern edge of Mayan district.
Navigating through neon-lit streets, I head towards Ripperdoc clinic. The city was alive with the usual nocturnal buzz, but I barely notice. My mind is on one thing – finding K.Y.C clinic.
Ptolemeo Street... it's as lively and seedy as ever. I follow the path, my eyes scanning for the familiar neon sign. Turning down an alley, there it is: K.Y.C MD. The place looks like a cross between a high-end clinic and a back-alley chop shop.
As I make my way closer, the atmosphere changes. The streets are lined with women selling their bodies, a reminder of the harsh realities of the City. Their eyes, some desperate, some vacant, follow me as I pass. I'm not here for that, though. I've got a different mission. I think Skaya have better figure...
Reaching the place, it's exactly as I remember. The neon lights flicker above the door, casting an eerie glow on the faces of two girls waiting in line. They're talking in hushed tones, probably discussing what mods they're planning to get or how much it's going to cost them. I can't help but feel a pang of sympathy. In this city, everyone's trying to survive in their own way.
I take my place behind them, waiting for my turn. The minutes drag on, but finally, one of the girls exits, her expression a mix of pain and satisfaction. The other girl follows soon after, leaving me alone in the waiting area.
I stand in cluttered office, feeling like a vintage synth in a modern tech shop. "We meet again, isn't it?" Very slim bald guy greets me, scanning my face with those unsettling, cybernetically enhanced eyes. They flicker with a cold, analytical light, making me feel more like a specimen than a customer.
"I'm here about the cyberware you installed. It's messing with my head," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "It's supposed to help with data analysis, but it's doing... something else."
Ripperdoc lets out a dry chuckle, his spidery fingers tapping on the cluttered desk. "No refunds. You got what you paid for. I don't tamper with my art once it's done."
I clench my fists, feeling a surge of anger. "This isn't about refunds. I need you to check it, now. Something's wrong, and you're going to fix it," I demand, the frustration in my voice echoing off the walls of the cramped office.
He sighs, leaning back in his chair adorned with mismatched cybernetic parts. "Very well. But let's get one thing clear," his tone hardens, "A few months back, a couple barged in here, accusing me of botching a job. It got ugly. So if you're planning to start something, you can forget my help."
I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to respond in kind. "Just check the damn implant," I growl.