Chapter 24

The operation was a success. Despite losing a lot of blood, a severed arm, and a grazed lung, I was recovering quickly. "Recovering" being a relative term—I spent the next couple of days lying on a couch in Viktor's back room. Not a VIP suite, but I felt safe and visitors were allowed. Lucy was one of the first to show up. Finally, we were meeting without the weight of a mission hanging over me.

The first thing I said to her, lying there bandaged, was, "Lucy, I've got some bad news… Just don't freak out, alright?"

"Tell me," she said, visibly tense, as she sat beside me.

"I… I think I've been fired. Not sure you'll want to stick around a guy with an unstable income."

"It's fine. I'll teach you how to snag shards."

We both smirked, but then her expression turned serious. She placed a hand over my heart.

"V, I…" she started and then hesitated.

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm alive. I'm with you."

"Your heart wasn't beating," she murmured, voice trembling slightly. "When we found you… there was so much blood… that bitch carved you to shreds."

"She's dead. I'm alive. We're okay."

I could still see it all perfectly—blood droplets and severed fingers floating in slow motion, her blades tearing into me as my gun reloaded. According to Lucy, I had a close brush with death.

"Did you resuscitate me, or did I make it to Vik in time?"

"Falko shot you up with a stim, right in the heart. I checked which ripper installed your chrome, figured he must be good if you'd chosen him."

"He is," I nodded. "You chose well."

I took her hand, feeling unexpectedly at peace. For once, I didn't have to rush anywhere, run, or make a plan. No schedule, no tasks, except the ones I chose. Time to live in the moment.

"Oh, here," Lucy said, sending me a message. "In case you're curious who tried to kill you."

I opened it. Looked like an intercepted message thread:

'Linda Sherman: small job from A. for twelve-five.

Linda Sherman: take a couple of people as backup.

Miriam Levy: details?

Linda Sherman: target's name is V.

Linda Sherman: I'll send his address and recent photo.

Linda Sherman: you'll meet V and neutralize him.

Linda Sherman: no questions, no witnesses.

Miriam Levy: and who's V?

Linda Sherman: I said no questions.'

"Linda Sherman's just a middleman," I remarked. "Some kind of shady fixer. The order came from Susan Abernathy. Special Ops Director. The boss of my boss… or rather former, I'd say."

"Did you serve her cold coffee or forget the sugar?"

"I microwaved fish. Stole lunch from the communal fridge."

"Real menace, huh?" Lucy shook her head with a grin. "So what now?"

"I'm going to live. Preferably well. Seriously, though… I'm planning to go all out—upgrades, training, rest. No rush. Just take things slow at first. After that, we'll see. Abernathy won't be easy to deal with. And, by the way… we should look for a new place."

"We?" she asked with a small smile.

"Well, my old place was company-owned, and I've been spotted at yours a few times. Safer to get something new. Save on cab fare."

"You're such a romantic, V."

"Damn right. Now lean down here so I can kiss you. I'd sit up, but it feels like my ribs got a dance-off with the devil."

She indulged me, and it was worth every second.

We chatted a bit about business. All of Kurosaki's available funds had been withdrawn, with ten thousand allocated for me. My old accounts were frozen, but I only lost about fourteen grand—the remnant of a twenty I'd set aside for emergency cabs and escape plans. No big deal. The rest of my funds were safe, giving me around eight hundred on hand. Enough to start and then some. No more Jenkins to call me a cowboy.

Later, Jackie dropped by. We agreed I'd crash at his place for a few days until I found an apartment. He brought up another pressing topic.

"Hold up, V. That girl with the colorful hair who brought you in… Lucy. Is she your new girl?"

"Yeah, that's her."

His face showed a mix of amazement and total disbelief.

"Wait, I remember her! She was at that place with the Claws."

"Right, that was her place."

"Impresionante! So how'd you ask her out? Called her and said, 'Hey, I dropped by your place with some goons, think I left my shades. Want to meet up, grab a coffee?'"

"That'd be great, but nah. It happened differently. Our second meet involved the Claws again. I had to zero some bastard… but no secrets between us, I guess. It was Faraday."

"Aaah… So that's what happened to him. You did Santo Domingo a favor. And thanks for the cigars."

"Faraday got in deep with Arasaka, the wrong way. His fate was sealed, but he thought he could make amends by fucking someone over. In classic fashion, he brought Lucy to me in a box… or a fridge… some kind of container, anyway. I let her out and suggested we work together."

"Aha… now it makes sense. Worked together, and things just… progressed from there?"

"Not quite. That same night, we hit the clubs. After I'd taken Faraday out, of course. First kiss right then and there."

"Shit. And here I thought you corpo guys led boring lives."

"Boring. Sometimes you just gotta cut loose."

Vik's bill came to seven grand, which I managed to convince him to let me pay up to nine. Another six grand for a cyberlimb connector in my arm. In a few hours, Vik had turned my stump into a lightweight metallic socket, anchored to the remaining shoulder bone.

"Start with something light or with safety mode," he advised. "A full combat limb will need reinforced bones."

"Then we'll reinforce them," I said.

Planning to spend the next few months on a strict regimen. No special enhancements, no work stress. Just meds, workouts, and rest. Curious to see how it'll affect my tolerance for chrome.

That evening, after a final diagnostic, Vik discharged me to Jackie's place. I met his mom there, too.

The missing arm didn't bother me much, not yet. Maybe it was the meds, or maybe my body hadn't grasped the weight of the loss. No phantom pain, but I still tried to do things with my left hand out of habit—hold doors, scratch, stretch my fingers. Every time I failed, it felt indescribably empty. I couldn't wait to get the chrome just to stop feeling that void.

For the rest of the night, I just watched TV and ate chips with a weird chemical aftertaste. Incredible. I hadn't done anything so pointlessly relaxing in ages. I filled Jackie in on my last few weeks as a corpo. Not everything, of course, and without the darkest details, but in broad strokes—fighting off assassins, storming factories, meeting Lucy, and finally parting ways with Arasaka.

"You'll thank yourself for leaving those pendejos."

"I'm already grateful. Just thought I'd leave a little quieter and a bit less sliced up."

"Vik could've rebuilt your arm, probably would've taken ages, but it'd work like new. Or like the old one," Jackie grinned, popping a beer. "But you went chrome."

"Wouldn't you get one? Cyberarms are cyberpunk classics. Johnny Silverhand. Morgan Blackhand."

"That's ancient history. Viejas leyendas. Nowadays, rippers can give you slick prosthetics without slapping on robot claws. Those things are for brokies, crazies, or serious military. And I don't see you in fatigues, so…" he winked "Options are limited, cabrón."

"So, you're telling me I'm nuts now? What the hell, might as well join Maelstrom, but I don't dig their music. We going to pick out a new arm tomorrow?"

"You sure you're not rushing it?"

"Gotta get used to it little by little. Victor said even the strongest arms come with safe modes, so I can get one now, just keep the strength capped till my bones get used to it. Let's hit the shop tomorrow. Time to punk up with some chrome."

The next day, I let Victor know I'd be in touch while I was at the shop. He didn't keep many combat-grade cyberlimbs on hand, and ordering by catalog, video, or even braindance didn't appeal to me. Better to see them firsthand, get demos at a major showroom, and listen to the smooth-talking sales reps.

"Just don't let them juice you up, V," Victor warned. "They'll pump you full of quick-acting stimulants. Any chrome will feel like a perfect fit. But within a couple of hours or days, you'll be itching to tear it out."

Got it. I already knew these places employed salespeople, not idealistic doctors.

We took a cab. I hadn't bought a new car yet, and Jackie preferred his motorcycle. Lucy sent me some fake ID under the name Vince Perry. Who knows if he's a real person or just a total fake, but his accounts were now holding my Arasaka money. It was time to spend some of it.

We arrived at a big showroom not far from the corporate plaza. Went during the day to reduce the chances of running into my lovely colleagues, who were all office-bound these days.

A wiry, fidgety salesman in a lavender jacket glided over to greet us, sizing up his new visitors with a cool stare over a warm smile. He probably pegged us as gangsters or mercs thanks to Jackie's presence.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Looking for a strong and sturdy hand? We have a fantastic selection. On purchases over ten thousand, we'll throw in gold plating, chrome finishes, and custom designs on the house. What would you like to see? Realskin or, shall we say, the classics?"

I took my time, eyeing the displays and demo models. Screens all around us showed grinning supermodels swinging around prosthetics of every style. Though, "prosthetics" doesn't quite fit for things that outclassed most human limbs.

The showroom specialized in arms. No "Mr. Studs" here. Just a few legs, with rows upon rows of hands reaching upward on display stands. As if dozens of cyborgs were entombed beneath, stretching out in desperation.

"Describe what kind of functionality you're after, Mr. Perry."

"Hmm… Balance between strength, agility, and precision. Something good for bladed weapons. Katanas, for example."

"Ooo! Interesting request!" The sales rep brightened at the specifics.

"Look at you, a master swordsman, huh?" Jackie smirked.

"Yeah, took a trial kendo lesson a couple months back."

Meanwhile, the salesman summoned two assistants, who got busy gathering suitable samples, pulling some from displays, some from storage. The salesman led us to a well-lit table where he began his demo.

"QianT 35t "Touch,"" he introduced, picking out a tri-color golden arm with two spikes at the elbow. "Enhanced motor functions. Microcomputer with motion memory. Certified compatibility with learning chips…"

"Vic, you here?" I asked. "Thoughts?"

"Wouldn't recommend it. Hyper-stimulation leads to muscle spasms, and it has a dark history. Accidents during braindances. Lawsuits have been going on for years."

Good to know. Looks like he's starting off with the trouble stock. Hoping he's dealing with a sucker.

"Pass," I cut off the sales rep. "Next one."

The next few models got rejected too. Victor wasn't a fan of any with advanced motion memory.

"A microprocessor in your moves makes you way too predictable. It's fine for a regular civvie wanting to hold their own in a bar fight, but after a few basic lessons, you'll be tapped out of new tricks."

Hmm… Kinda get how it works. Unfortunately, my memories from the future didn't cover this kind of chrome. Sandevistan, Kerenzikov, decks—sure, got that. Arms and legs? Zilch. Nada. Damn, it's a shame Rebecca's brother took a round to the face; he definitely knew his stuff when it came to combat cyberlimbs. Whatever. Viktor's an expert, too, and he knows a hell of a lot more about what this tech does to your health.

"And what about that one?" I pointed at a black-and-silver arm, kinda reminding me of the Saito model used by one of the Claws we used to roughhouse with Maine.

This one, though, looked factory-made, not cobbled together.

"Dynalar-Kendachi," the seller explained. "Joint project. It's an older model, but it still sells. Only, no microprocessor. For about the same money…"

"Let me see it."

The seller hid his annoyance behind a smile as he took the black-and-silver arm from its clear plastic case.

"Good explosive power, fine motor skills, nine sensitivity modes," he said, going into his sales pitch. "It's a piece, as you can see, more in the Japanese style. That's why I didn't show it right away."

The seller connected the arm to a cable, and the black fingers came to life, looking like some kind of mechanical spider. The cyberlimb ran through a few basic moves, then started to show off with something more advanced. The fingers danced like they were playing an invisible piano.

"What do you think, Vik?"

"Definitely more interesting. Didn't become a classic, but it's got its fans. Works great with blades. Decent for shooting, but don't try boxing with it. There are way better arms for that. If you get it, set it to maximum safety mode right away, or that thing could break your bones with one good squeeze. You'll need a triaxial frame to handle it."

While Vik was talking, the black fingers finished their little dance, tensed up, and released triangular blades. Chrome manicure, motherfuckers. The blades were straight, pretty short, under an inch, but in a quick swipe, you could slash someone's throat open.

Then the blades retracted, the fingers bent, mimicking a tiger-claw kung fu move. But the prosthetic hid something even deadlier. A short, thick needle popped out from the bottom of the palm, with three grooves along its sides—a stiletto.

"There's a special capsule inside," the seller explained. "You can fill it with any chemical substance you want to use for self-defense."

Self-defense? Diplomatic way of putting it. That needle's a damn poison injector. Can't see it getting used much in "self-defense" scenarios. More like in "fuck you up" situations.

"Armas de basura," Jackie sneered. "I wouldn't take it in a million years."

"I'll take it."

Wells sighed heavily, then added, "Fine. It suits you—just like those ugly-ass red shades. Where are they, by the way? Hope they stayed in the old apartment."

"Nope," I smirked, counting out twenty-seven grand eddies for the arm. "Lucy tossed 'em off a dam on our first date."

"Gracias a Dios! I'll buy her a drink next time I see her."

The seller kept rambling on about warranties, spare part issues, newer models, but I wasn't budging. This arm was just right for me. Not bulky or intimidating, just elegant, perfectly functional, and packing deadly surprises. Ideal.

Armas de basura, as Jackie put it. Scumbag's weapon. Well, I'm no knight in shining armor anyway. As long as it works.

They hooked up the arm for me in maximum safety mode so I wouldn't accidentally wreck my bones, which were still fragile after Miriam's blades. A few clicks, connection, loading, and…

The feeling was indescribable. Took all my self-control not to grin like a five-year-old with a new toy. From the memories of my first life, this felt like a real miracle. I had an arm again. It moved, obeyed my brain, and the wildest part was, those black synthetic fingers weren't numb. I could feel things through them. The signals were different, weird, but hell, they were there!

A combat arm that barely felt pain. I could even turn off pain signals completely. Then I could put it under a metal press and sip lemonade on the side.

I left the shop as satisfied as a devil seducing a nun. Kept touching everything with my new hand. No blades or needles yet. Just figuring out the basic functions.

Back at Jackie's place, I shut myself in a room and walked up to the wall, punching it a few times. No pain. I felt the impact, but it was kinda pleasant. So I punched with all I had. Didn't think max safety mode would have issues with that. But then sharp pain shot through my shoulder and chest. That punch was too much for my bones.

"Сука, блядь!" I shouted in my first language, so loud any Scav would've taken me for one of their own.

The pain subsided slowly. The biomonitor didn't show anything dangerous. Just need to be more careful. Right then, Lucy called.

"You find a place?" I asked after we said hi.

"I checked out a couple options, but that's not why I'm calling. I'm with Becca right now. You wanna swing by? No need to hide from us anymore."

"I do," I replied. "Just gonna down some painkillers and head over. Send me the address."

When we hung up, I let Jackie know I'd be gone for the night and started getting ready. Not that I had much of a wardrobe. Today's look was called, "Vik didn't mind, and it fits."

Right before heading out, I happened to glance at the wall where I'd been practicing. The wallpaper was torn, concrete showing faint knuckle marks. Damn. Not deep, but you can't do that with a regular hand. Guess I'm a bit of a Ferrus Manus now. A little bit, for now—more to come.