Chapter 2

Out of nowhere, my old man kicked the bucket.

Cause of death? A store robbery. His head got blown clean off like a pomegranate—instant death. Happened while he was out grabbing groceries. Some young punks from the Tiger Claws and the drifters of Sixth Street went on a rampage.

…Ugh. This damn city. I don’t even wanna go outside.

Guess it was either his depression accelerating till his mind and body gave out, or getting offed like this. But still… I wanted him to live. To keep living.

He always said he’d already taught me everything I needed to know, but damn it, I still wanted to learn more—like the tricks for spinal cord procedures.

After seeing his body off at the mortuary, time started moving weird for me. Fast, like it was on double speed, but also agonizingly slow, like the world was lagging. A whole month would vanish in the blink of an eye, yet a single day felt like it’d never end.

"Hmm… Your shoulder implant’s digging into the nerve. Wanna remove it or replace it?"

"The hell kinda question is that?! Replace it, you little shit! I’m wasting my precious time here!"

"Oh, yeah? Then go see Finn instead. Cheap-ass gonks like you ain’t worth my time."

I wrapped monowire around the screaming idiot on the operating table, choked him out, then hooked my fingers into the port on his neck and dragged him.

Dumbass really had the nerve to strut into another gang’s turf looking like that. Judging by his implant model, he was a Valentino bottom-feeder—probably ran here after the Tiger Claws roughed him up.

I pushed past the waiting room, shoved open the heavy front door, and tossed him outside.

Sure enough, some low-level Tiger Claws goon—probably searching for this idiot—bowed his head at me before dragging the moron away.

"…Tch. Wasted my damn time."

I flicked away the bolt I’d removed during the inspection and headed back inside, scanning the waiting room.

And there he was—a big, familiar guy with an easygoing grin, sitting right where the next patient should be.

…No way. Never thought I’d actually run into him.

Jackie Welles. Right there.

"Hey there, little Miss. My turn already?"

"Uh… yeah. You’re up next. Get in the operating room."

"Sure thing."

He hauled his massive frame up, clutching his stomach, face pale. A flash from my past life hit me—

…Nah. The Konpeki Plaza job’s years away. Gotta be something else.

Since he could still talk and walk, it wasn’t life-threatening, but definitely serious. In this city, you either go to a back-alley ripperdoc like me or some corpo-run hospital. No in-between.

Jackie eased onto the operating table, wincing as he leaned back—probably hurt around the lower back.

"So, implant work? Or you here about that gut?"

"Heh. Sharp as ever. Took a bullet—just a lil’ slip-up."

"Huh. Surprised you made it here."

"This gut’s bulletproof, Little Miss. They don’t call me tough for nothin’."

"Gonna hit you with a light anesthetic. Stay quiet while I dig it out."

I grabbed the medgun from the side table, lifted his shirt, and pfft—right into his stomach.

Switched the room to sterile mode, sprayed my left hand with disinfectant. My fingers split apart, revealing the ultra-precise micro-arms that make a ripperdoc worth their chrome.

Pulled up the scan on my Kiroshi optic, zeroing in on the bullet.

"…Hmph. Lucky you. Missed all the major blood vessels. Any other two-bit ripper would’ve had you bleeding out, but… you came to the right place."

Fired up the Sandevistan, used the micro-arm to grip the bullet’s base, and yanked it out before the blood could spurt. Dropped it onto a silver tray, wiped the area clean with gauze, then stitched him up with monofilament wire. Sealed the wound with a quick cauterization—no chance for infection.

Tossed the gauze into the trash.

…Still, this Jackie’s younger than I remember. Protagonist’s around 30 at the start, right? So he’s 27 now—just past his prime, maybe.

The moment the gauze hit the trash, the world snapped back to normal.

"Whoa! Damn, that’s clean! Like magic!"

"Don’t push yourself—wound’s fresh. And a word of advice: I can tell you work out, but if you’re gonna be a merc, invest in armor. Unless you like eating lead and kissing concrete."

He scratched the shaved side of his undercut, avoiding my gaze. Maybe this got him thinking.

Packed up my tools while keeping the small talk going. Knowing Jackie, he’d bolt the second I let him go and rip his stitches wide open.

"Agh… but, y’know, that kinda obvious gear’s just…"

"Lame?"

"Yeah, right? Gotta look sharp, compadre! Hah, guess you’re still too young, Little Miss."

"Pfft. Says the guy who nearly bled out in an alley. In this city, losers don’t get to choose how they die. Besides, invisible armor’s in these days. Titanium abs for pro boxers, bulletproof liners—plenty of hidden options."

"Hah… you know this city better than I do, kid. But, uh… any patient discounts?"

Pulled up a tab showing ballistic undershirts, shoving him back down when he tried to sit up. Prices ranged from triple to quadruple digits.

…But three years from now, at Konpeki Plaza? That’s MaxTac’s turret fire. Cheap gear’ll shred like wet paper. Maybe internal implants would be smarter.

But if Jackie’s all about pride and gains…

"There’s also retrofit options—carbon-weave lining, steel-plated ‘armadillo’ mesh. My personal recommendation? The armadillo. Hell, I even make and sell ’em myself."

"Seriously? How much we talkin’?"

"Tank-top style liner—SS to 5XL, flat 5,000 eddies. Steel-plated ‘Armadillo’ weave, extra thick around the gut and back. Stops up to Nova rounds. Anything bigger? Yeah, you’re still dead, but it might downgrade ‘fatal’ to ‘critical.’"

"Gah—pricey. But if it means less ripper visits… Damn, kinda want it now."

Jackie waffled, scratching his head. Solo merc life probably left him perpetually broke. In some parts of town, 100 eddies could buy you a used car, but here in the city? Five digits was the norm.

5,000 eddies was cheap-gun territory—steep for underwear, dirt-cheap for armor.

"Hmm. Wallet as thin as your fashion sense? Can you even pay for today? No tabs here. Skills like mine don’t come cheap."

"Yeesh… How much?"

"500 eddies. Pocket change for work this clean. No implants tweaked, no extras."

"…Guess I’m visitin’ Mama Welles this week. Here."

He fished out crumpled bills, thumbed through them, and handed them over. One, two, three… Yep, covered. Would’ve preferred digital, but hey—Jackie.

"Anyway, if you’re gunnin’ for major-league merc, clean up your act. I might look like a delicate flower, but even Tiger Claws call me ‘Jefa’ when they need patching up. If you’re dressin’ like shit to fool people, fine. But if it’s just stupidity? Time to rethink."

"Oof. Yeah… Hard to charm chicas lookin’ like Swiss cheese."

"Pfft."

"Hey! That was a snort! I’ll have you know—"

"Hah! Name’s Jagra Kagura. Friends call me Jag. You?"

"Jackie Welles. Jack to my chooms."

We shook—his grip swallowing mine whole—and swapped contacts. Hope he leans on me. Would suck if he wrote me off as some kid.

Thirty minutes of small talk and advice later, I sent him off, color back in his face.

Timing worked out. Sorry, Vik—guess I’m the nosy ripper now.

Maybe, just maybe, I can keep him alive past Konpeki. Past the Relic. Past—

…Wait. If Jackie lives, does that mean he becomes Johnny’s backup dancer? Adam Smasher’s next chew toy?

Ugh. Like some back-alley ripper brat could rewrite fate.

Then again… if Jackie hadn’t flatlined, V never gets the Relic. Survive Konpeki, and does he end up with Silverhand’s engram?

No, no—the Relic only activated ‘cause V took a bullet to the brainstem.

But if shit goes south… could they drag his half-dead ass to me for extraction?

"…Guess I’m Arasaka fishing now."

Not that a corp that size leaks intel to gutter trash. I’d need a Rogue or Panam-type loose cannon.

Then it hit me: David Martinez. Cyberpunk Edgerunners’ golden boy. Team him with V, and even Smasher becomes scrap.

But timeline-wise? Right now, he’s still a good little Arasaka Academy rat. No Lucy, no trauma, no edge.

Planting seeds is all I can do.

"Eh. Worry later. Next patient."

I called in the waiting Tiger Claws grunt, dug lead out of his thigh, and pumped him for gossip.

Small fires to them, but to me? Data points.

One name kept surfacing: Faraday. Santo Domingo fixer, cozy with Militech, playing new angles.

With Padre spreading jobs to Sixth Street lately, fixer wars were brewing.

—Faraday?

Oh. That three-Kiroshi-eyed corpo wannabe. The guy who sold out David and Lucy to Arasaka.

David’s death was Smasher’s doing, but Faraday lit the fuse. And why? Because Lucy kept icing ‘Saka netrunners.

Irony’s a bitch.

So… stop that, and David lives?

Which means my next move is—