Chapter 7

"Far from failing everything, it’s more like I never even had a shot to begin with."

“…Yeah.”

The next day, after classes ended at the academy, I holo-called Jugra, feeling awkward about it, then hopped into the Delamain that showed up and headed to The Glocker.

Inside, Jugra was busy, tweaking the cyberarm of a guy who looked like from the Tyger Claw, talking to him over her shoulder.

I’d browsed part-time listings on the way, but everything had some kind of catch—age limits, awful hours, crap pay. I couldn’t bring myself to apply anywhere, so I ended up rolling straight to Jugra’s place, feeling defeated.

She was in her usual black tank top and overalls, but also had on a surgical apron, looking every bit the real ripperdoc.

…And the way the other customers kept staring at us like we were some freak show didn’t help my nerves.

With smooth, practiced movements, Jugra finished the install, pocketed the eddies, and waved the guy off before spinning around in her chair to face me.

“Alright, interview time. Name?”

“Uh, y-yeah. David Martinez. Sixteen.”

“Hmm. Two years older than me. That gonna be a problem, taking orders from someone younger?”

“N-no, not at all. I don’t really have any training or qualifications, so… I figure respect goes to the one who does?”

“Fair enough. So, why’d you apply here?”

“Uh, well… everything else sucked, and your place felt reliable. Like, I could trust it.”

Saying it out loud made me cringe a little, but it was true—what else could I say?

Jugra didn’t react much, but her tone softened, like she was half amused.

“Huh. Alright, last question—pay. We’re closed Wednesdays and Saturdays. I’ll work around your school schedule. You want daily or hourly wages?”

“Uh… I’ll leave that to you.”

I had no clue what the going rates even were. Wasn’t sure if this meant I was already hired.

Jugra smirked and dropped the formal tone.

“Hourly it is—better deal for you. I’ll send a Delamain to pick you up. Just holo me first. Clock starts when you’re in clinic gear, ends when you’re out. I’ll rig the gear with a tracker so you don’t have to think about it. That is, if you trust me.”

“…So, interview’s over?”

“Yep. That was just for fun. You passed the second you walked in. No gear today though, so you’ll help with scans and reception.”

“O-oh. Thanks, ma’am.”

“Don’t mention it. There’s a saying in Japan: ‘Debts and duty’—pretty basic. Favors for favors, pay for work. Then you get the foreign crap like ‘eye for an eye,’ but same idea. I pay people who earn it. That’s how I roll.”

“R-right…”

Basically, if you worked hard, she paid fair. Background didn’t matter.

…Yeah. I don’t think I’ll ever outrank Jugra.

She hopped down from her chair and plugged a cable from her arm into the socket on my neck. She smelled faintly of soap—clean, kinda nice. It made me a little self-conscious.

Hope I don’t smell. H4 Building’s full of laborers, and rent’s dirt cheap—hard not to worry.

“Huh. You’re pretty fit, David. Work out?”

“Huh? Oh, nah. Just… where I live, you gotta pick your routes. Stairs are garbage, and some punks ask for tolls. I take shortcuts, climb stuff—guess it adds up.”

“Huh. Well, muscle’s better than a gonk’s guts. In this line of work, stamina’s everything—running to jobs, running from jobs, dodging shootouts. You’ll need it.”

She unplugged the cable, rummaged through a drawer, and tossed me a card.

I caught it—a year-long gym membership. Said Guest Free Pass, so even non-members could use it. Pretty wild.

“Th-this is…?”

“Hn. Some gonk paid me with those when he was short on eddies. I’ll let them know—use it whenever. Can’t jog safe in this city. Stick to Japantown; my name keeps you covered. If something goes down, they’ll bring you to me. Survival rate’s solid.”

“…Been thinking this, but Jugra… you’re really cautious, huh?”

I almost said paranoid, but caught myself.

She gave me a grin I hadn’t seen before—then her face went serious, like she bit down on something bitter.

“My old man got his head blown off by a mugger on a grocery run.”

“…Shit.”

Now that she mentioned it, I’d never seen anything personal in her clinic.

No way a kid built this place on her own.

Which meant—Jugra inherited it.

“Mom vanished after I was born. Was a joytoy, apparently.”

“So… it was just you and your dad here?”

“Yep. He died a few months back. Wakako helped with the paperwork, got me certified. Now I run the place. He used to be top five in the city—med school material, but turned to ripping. Never said why. Clinic did good, though. Now I’m Wakako Okada’s on-call ripper in Japantown.”

“No other family? Nobody to lean on?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Jugra’s gaze darkened. Cold. Guarded. Like she’d sealed herself off from the world.

“Heh. Good joke, David. In this city, the only thing you trust is your own heartbeat. Credit, promises? All crap. Only fools fall for that. Weak people don’t get to choose how they die—especially here. I’m not dying weak. I want to go out old, flipping this city the bird. So I’ll do whatever it takes to survive. But I’m not becoming some joytoy begging for scraps.”

That was her truth—brutal, unfiltered.

And weirdly… I respected it.

“Then why hire me? I’m just a stranger, right?”

She paused. Her head tilted like the answer was there, just stuck somewhere inside.

“Ah… 'cause you’re weak, I guess. If you tried anything, I’d still floor you.”

Sounded logical—but it didn’t feel honest.

That flustered look from earlier... it stuck with me. Somewhere deep down, she trusted me. Not fully, maybe not even consciously—but it was there.

Jugra shook her head, like rebooting her mood, then climbed back onto her chair.

“Anyway, you’re hired. I’ll get your uniform made. For now, just call patients in. Rule’s simple: whoever’s sitting closest to the OR goes next. That’s it. Carrying tech comes later. Shelves over there? Treat those like sterile tools. No dirty hands, no exceptions. Not even mine.”

“What if someone gross shows up?”

“Not my problem. There’s a pay-bathhouse nearby. I sterilize these chairs for a reason.”

Fair enough. I nodded as she pointed to the waiting area.

On the left was a drinks fridge and a dusty TV. No chairs. I turned right.

A bunch of Tyger Claw types sat stiffly, nursing injuries.

…Back at Doc’s, guys like these would be throwing punches over who’s next. Here? Dead quiet.

“Uh, next patient? Operating room’s ready.”

“Aight. …Take care of the boss, kid.”

“Huh? Oh—yeah.”

The boss? Maybe someone my mom saved once? She was EMS—could’ve crossed paths with a ganger or two.

After sending the guy in, I went back to watching Jugra.

Every move, every word. If I was gonna be her assistant, I had to learn fast.

…Jugra noticed me staring. Her gaze flicked like I was a threat. Or maybe just annoying.

“Tch. Bullet’s deep. Lucky you’re a Tyger Claw—anywhere else, you’d be dead. …There. Out and stitched. Stay off your feet unless you want me charging for a redo. Now get lost.”

“New chrome today? Got decent stock. …That one? Bold pick. Cash or credit? …Cash. Smart. Hold on.”

“…The brat? New assistant. Business is booming—cut me some slack. Huh? ‘Cause he’s a guy? You think your noodle arms could stop me? Only one who could is Adam Smasher, so shut it.”

“David. Next. …Man, not moving feels nice. Good hire. Should’ve done this months ago.”

Her skills were insane.

But what really shocked me? She didn’t cut corners on anesthesia. Real meds. Professional gear.

At Doc’s, patients screamed like they were dying. Bit down on rags, passed out mid-operation.

Jugra? People blinked and it was over.

Cyberware took time, but bullet pulls and stitching? She was lightning-fast. Efficient. Clean.

Her left eye glowed red during ops—some kind of implant, maybe.

By 7 PM, the rush slowed.

Jugra explained it was normal—nearby red-light district meant most clients came early. No one wanted to miss their night out.

She offered to “introduce” me somewhere.

I passed.

Last night’s BD was still burning in my brain—some black-market horror show Doc slipped in.

Started like a raunchy joyride, ended with a guy melting his brain mid-act.

That whole “JK Edgerunners” series? Just real footage of cyberpsychos losing it. Like watching your future die on screen.

I almost puked.

“Oh, hey Jugra. Can I ask a favor?”

“Hn?”

“You good with tech? I need my school device updated.”

“…Device? Update? …Wait. Oh. OH. A year ago—the Tower mess. Shit, that’s already—? Damn. Slipped my mind.”

“Jugra?”

She spun her chair, muttering while rubbing her temples.

Maybe this was a dumb idea. She was a ripperdoc, not a computer tech. I hesitated pulling out the device.

But then she reached out, serious.

“Gimme. I’ll handle it. I’m better than any back-alley techie. I sell black-market iron, David. Mods are easy. Hand. It. Over.”

“Uh, here. It’s for Green Room classes—brain-dive simulations. Was gonna ask my usual guy, but you’re probably better.”

“Huh. …This is fifth-gen trash. Let me check—yeah, memory’s fried. Doesn’t even hit baseline signal. It’ll crash like a modded game on endless load. Not worth it. Needs a full rebuild. …Wait—ah.”

She tossed me another unit.

“Use this.”

Just like that, the clunky yellow device I’d grown weirdly attached to was gone—replaced by a rugged, helmet-shaped rig now resting in my hands.

I flipped it over. The MILITECH logo stood out, bold and sharp. Heavier than the Arasaka models Katsuo and the others used, but clearly top-tier.

“Th-this is…?”

“Militech’s best neural dive rig. Black-market surplus. Found it, stripped it for parts, never used it. It’s yours now. Oh—Arasaka Academy? Better scrub that logo.”

Jugra pressed a button like it was nothing.

A wall panel slid down, sealing the waiting room as a closing announcement chimed.

“Come on.”

She led me through a side door—into something that looked like a high-end chop shop on steroids.

Shelves stacked with tech. Guns ranging from obscure prototypes to big-name brands. Daemon chips crammed into cases like pincushions.

One corner looked like a techie’s dream. She grabbed my old device, dropped it on the bench, and turned back with a grin.

“I’ll mod it your way. Just tell me what you want—I’ll make it happen.”

That line almost knocked the air out of me.

Who even talks like that? No back-alley ripper’s got that kind of swagger.

Something lit up in my chest as we cracked open the Militech rig like kids tearing into a new toy.

…

I got home late. Mom tore into me—until she saw the device.

She let out a sigh.

I told her I landed a ripperdoc gig. Said it was an advance.

The face she made?

Impossible to describe.