Writing bespoke code for the purposes of targeting specific networks, or ‘slow hacking’ for short, was a distinctly different challenge to creating quickhacks. For one, the programmer didn’t have to strive towards the goal of universal compatibility.

The lack of such a trade-off came with plenty of benefits. An increase in install speed as the root kit gained access to the system was one such benefit. A virus that could unpack itself within seconds, erase all traces of itself, and proceed through the inner bowels of the network without anyone the wiser, staying hidden forever if need be, only to be activated through the fulfillment of some specific condition.

Lucy had spent hours with David, working together, putting together a virus that could potentially give them access to Arasaka’s intermediate network. Not the deep stuff, not whatever nightmarish experimental tech they were likely working on, or their Old Net operations. That level of access, that level of ICE… that would require a lot more work.

A lot more time.

And when your foe was Arasaka, you couldn’t bank on having all the time in the world. You got in and out as soon as possible, and thanked your lucky stars if you managed to get out at all in one piece.

With what David already knew about Arasaka’s ICE, and the data that he could provide, courtesy of his in with the Joint Task Force, Lucy had been reasonably certain that they could cook something up between both their skills. Something rather devious.

“Oh,” David pointed at a line in Lucy’s code. “I see what you’re trying to do now. That’s really clever. But it’s slow. Let me see if I can’t clean it up.”

Then he would proceed to… delete everything and start over from memory, only loosely copying her design and methodology, but doing so in an entirely different language. If she took her eyes away from his handheld cyberdeck’s display for even a single second, she would lose the progress in understanding everything, something that demanded her fullest attention at all times.

Then, despite her best efforts, she blinked.

And all that code, written only a step in legibility above literal ones and zeros, would turn into schizoid ramblings and an ocean of special symbols that somehow worked together to produce something coherent—though she would have to take David’s word for it.

They tested the virus out against a slew of diagnostic tools of their own making. They could only vaguely simulate the conditions present within the Arasaka network. The real thing would be different. Of course.

Some would argue that there was little wisdom in measuring a virus against self-made diagnostic tools. After all, the making of the virus had those measurements in mind to begin with. But it was better than nothing.

The program passed with flying colors.

And they moved on. From Arasaka, to the city network, this time.

The city’s infrastructure was simultaneously ironclad and paper-thin. Many noobie Netrunners had only gotten into the discipline because they just couldn’t afford food, so they would hack vending machines and auto-stores to feed themselves. The ones that faced homelessness sought to learn how to crack into their landlord’s ICE so that they could mark their rent as ‘paid’ in perpetuity. For those who rented directly from NightCorp, whose ICE was notoriously tough to crack, these Netrunners would just resort to petty theft to raise the cash that they needed.

Then there was her goofy gonk of a boyfriend, who had used his programming skills to do work for other desperate Netrunners caught in these positions of desperation. He had clearly always seen himself above such petty misdemeanors. When it came to crime, he always did have a habit of aiming high.

Even just petty theft would balloon into grand larceny. She still couldn’t forget the night he had repeatedly ridden the NCART in his colorful outfit, continuously picksocketing everyone in reach over and over again until his antics had made the evening news.

Also thanks to David, they were cooking with a lot more than just gas when it came to the city network. His contact in Arasaka, this V, had given him access to the city’s surveillance cameras. Though it was somewhat risky to insert anything through D’s private access, just working on cloaking the program and erasing that trace wasn’t an impossible challenge.

But it was a challenge.

David took only a single break, to receive a call from Falco, who had informed him that the Caliburn was ready for pick-up in Pacifica, before they dove back into the work with a vengeance.

Lucy had made the mistake of opening her mouth at a certain point, spitballing a general idea for what principles the virus should follow.

David kept prompting her to continue until all of a sudden, he exclaimed, “Holy shit. Alright. I know what to do now.”

Then he started schizo-coding once more, and summarily lost Lucy.

Once they were done, David beheld his work and grinned joyfully. He’d cut his hair at some point during the day, and it made him look a lot… older. More severe, when he wasn’t smiling. But when he did, when he expressed his joy and excitement freely, you remembered that underneath all of that chrome and bio-augmentation was a teenager still figuring out his place in the world. “Shit, Lucy. Your instinct is crazy good.”

Lucy put her hands over the back of her head and leaned over the desk. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Patronize you?”

Lucy sat up to look at David. “You’re the one that’s crazy good, here.”

David shrugged. “I don’t think I’d have been able to do this nearly as well on my own. Sometimes, I feel like… I cover up for my lack of knack with pure fundamentals, you know? I know how to make things light-weight and fast. But you know how to make the most out of fewer resources.”

Fewer resources, as in: a decidedly human level of understanding of programming language.

But Lucy understood David’s point, then. His work was impressive. It scored perfectly in every metric except for one: creativity. He was good, but if he didn’t have that brain of his, that could instantly translate his every idea into code and vice versa, he’d just be… average.

At hacking, that was. Breaching systems and figuring out ways to destroy them. He was a lot more naturally talented at practical applications of coding: mechanical software, algorithms, builds that were more productive than destructive. She had told him this before, that he was a better builder than a destroyer.

But he’d get there in time. He’d have to. With a brain like his, there really was no slowing him down once he got the hang of something.

And in a way, he had already overcome that weakness of his, when it came to hacking. He had created a weapon of destruction, that overpowered Sword of his—his way of circumventing his minor weakness.

He wasn’t perfect, but it was only a matter of time until he was. And that… was a sobering thought.

Lucy shook off her funk and decided to do as David was doing: admiring the completed work.

The ‘Saka virus was the nuclear option, really, in case David had been pressed into a corner. In case he was experiencing a critical lack of good intelligence and data. He could utilize that program in a pinch, and even whatever playing field he was in.

Or, he could use that option in tandem with an all-out offensive as D. But that was truly the worst case scenario.

Ideally, he’d just never have to use this program at all.

But the CCTV virus…

That one wasn’t just a one-and-done virus. It was a tumor. It would hide itself away deep within the camera network, slowly replacing pieces of that network with itself, until the network was more virus than benign code.

And then, whenever D so desired it, he could corrupt every camera that pointed towards him. Or he could force the cameras to project digitally altered images of people.

Essentially changing everyone in the city to look like D whenever he desired it.

And the best part was, that virus would only become active when a camera attached to the network detected that it was looking at D. That condition didn’t require any further intrusion into the Net.

That meant that, once the trace of the virus’ initial injection—through David’s credentials—was thoroughly erased, then there would be no digital evidence left to suggest that David was the attack vector.

“It’s good stuff,” Lucy said. “I just kinda hate that you took my idea and executed on it a hundred times better than I possibly could.” She cracked a grin to show that she was joking.

“If it makes you feel any better, I did leave your name inside.”

“Real funny.”

He pressed a button on his cyberdeck, and the program played on a simulated environment.

Then all of a sudden, jagged lettering showing the word ‘Lunacy’ in a mish-mash of capitalization and fonts, revealed itself. “For flair,” David said.

Lucy felt a deep sense of disappointment that this was the man that she couldn’t help but love. “You’re an idiot.”

“I thought I was a corpo cunt.”

“Delete this,” Lucy said.

David sighed. “Yeah, figured I was flying too close to the sun with that one.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose. “It’s just… fucking tacky, David. Look at it. Have some standards.”

He groaned. “Chill. I’ll axe it—“ His eyes started glowing gold just then. “From Rogue.”

He picked up the call. Lucy activated her cyberdeck and poked at David’s neural net politely, asking to be let in.

He let her in almost instantly.

Rogue: —things been for you?

D: I’ve been alright. You?

Rogue: Not too shabby myself. Still sorting through all of my winnings from the Green Farm raid. Forgot to thank you for that, actually.

D: Glad to hear you’re doing good.

Rogue: As much as I’d like to catch up at some point, this isn’t really a pleasure call. To no one’s surprise, there have been a few rats concerning your case.

D: Like Faraday.

Rogue: For example. As well as plenty of others.

D: Shit. How do you mean? Who are they?

Rogue: Small fry. Dead now. I went ahead and did a bit of enforcing about that gag-order I set up some days ago.

D: You helped me out. Thank you.

Rogue: I’d say ‘don’t mention it’, but do, actually.

D: Alright, then I will: why are you riding for me?

Rogue: When a giant wave is on its way to destroy your town, you don’t build a house with stronger foundations. You buy a boat.

D: Explain.

Rogue: I’ll make it simple. Whether or not you manage to pull off your king routine, these are the facts: the city’s now infested with yet another group of psychos armed to their teeth. We can either ignore the situation and let it resolve itself in the coming chaos, or we can take control. Guide the chaos. Cut ourselves a slice of this city, and minimize the damage while maximizing our gains.

David rubbed his forehead.

D: I see your point.

Rogue: What did you expect, kid? That they’d just follow you blindly from now on?

D: I expected I’d have more time, honestly.

Rogue: Well, you don’t. Reyes is working on Faraday, but from what I hear, he’s having some trouble. Faraday’s boys were always a lot tougher than el Capitan’s.

D: Shit.

Rogue: Yeah. That’s it from me. Also, I’m guessing your equipment’s still mostly stuck in TJ. If you want me to set you up with someone that could help smuggle your stuff over, just let me know.

D: Thank you. We’ll have to find some time to talk in person. Hash everything out.

Stolen from NovelBin, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Rogue: Can’t wait for that. See ya around, then.

The call ended. David gave Lucy a regretful look. “Think I’ll have to take care of biz in person.”

Lucy frowned. “Make sure it’s only Faraday, alright?”

David winced. But Lucy felt like it needed to be said at this point. Lucy didn’t mind the killing. She just minded David’s mental state.

For him to have imagined that Lucy would tell her to do something as stupid as murder a guy whose entire group had been slaughtered to almost nothing? To risk his life chasing after someone that had already lost?

David had always been a hothead. Lucy liked that about him… somewhat.

Now, she feared that it might draw a price from him that he would hate to pay.

“If possible,” David said, “Then… yeah. I’ll stop after he’s dead.”

000

In the deep bowels of a subbasement garage, Varian met with a Militech mutt on his last legs. His pinstripe maroon suit looked burned, his white hair was a mess, and he looked physically exhausted to boot.

Varian and his boys were inside their Hellhound, while Faraday was leaned up against a pillar, unable to even support his own weight. “I need protection, Varian. They’re after me! They’ve killed all of my men. I can no longer work in the field.”

Then what use was he?

He had lost his importance long before today. He lost it on the day of the Green Farm raid. He had lost it on that day because that was when the ‘Afterlife’ and all those other degenerate edgerunners had all collectively decided that they didn’t need megacorp eurobucks anymore.

“Can you make it worth my while?” Varian asked.

“Information. On D’s crew. Names.”

“And images?” Varian asked.

“I need your word. I need your word that you will transport me safely over Night City borders, to someplace sane. I need your word that I’ll be protected. Your word.”

Varian fantasized about dumping his cooling corpse in the Badlands after their business was completed, but he dashed those thoughts away a moment later. Biz was biz, after all. And a reputation for honesty was worth its weight in gold.

These were the moments that his father had taught him would determine his reputation. In the moments when no one was looking, when he could get away with dishonesty, but had chosen not to.

“Fine, Faraday. You have my word. Now start talking.”

“I’ve known about D for months since he joined up with a crew that’s regularly under my employ,” Faraday began. “The leader, back then, was a man known as Maine Williams. I never got D’s name. Never thought he was too important back then. Maine told me he was a new recruit. He claimed that he utilized a powerful Sandevistan, one that had originally been meant for him.”

Maine Williams, then. “Cut the bullshit and give me the names of the others.”

Faraday opened his mouth.

And then his head exploded.

Shit!

His driver immediately reacted, pulling out of the parking spot, only to see a man wearing an EMT jacket and a skull-mask on the far side of the garage, near the upward ramp.

In his hand, Varian could make out a matte black burya.

In his other hand, a metallic bat.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

The radio in the car turned on out of nowhere. “Go after my chooms,” came a low, guttural growl from the radio. “I’ll kill your entire fucking family. Then I’ll torture you until I lose interest. Got it… Varian Freeman?”

SHIT. SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.

Everyone inside the Hellhound were utterly still. His driver was frozen in terror, unable to bring himself to so much as touch the gas pedal.

D, the most infamous terrorist in Night City, was right there.

And he had a gun. One wrong move, and he could kill everyone inside.

The lights in the garage turned off for a fraction of a second, sending raw, bonechilling terror deep into Varian’s mind. The fear caused him near-physical pain.

And when the lights turned on, D was gone.

Varian looked around frantically. Where had he gone, where was—

“He’s gone, boss,” his driver said, looking down at the Hellhound’s radar screen, indicating that no one was around.

D had disappeared.

“Should I drive?”

“No,” Varian said. He needed time to think.

Time to calm down.

His thoughts were a loop of ‘fuck this’, playing over and over again. And try as he fucking might, he couldn’t bring himself to rebut that loop in any meaningful way.

Glory? Position? Acclaim?

What did any of that mean if he was fucking dead?

Maine Williams. No face. Just a name. That name weighed on him like a fucking curse.

What the fuck was he supposed to do, now? Hold out on Stout?

And what about his boys? What if they went yapping just for brownie points? He couldn’t count on them to have common sense. They didn’t do their own thinking: they had been trained specifically not to do so. Loyalty to Militech above all.

And Militech required this name.

And if it came to it, it would require Varian’s sacrifice.

No, not sacrifice. No way. Militech would never throw him and his family to the wolves like that.

D was all bluster. He couldn’t realistically back that threat up. Going after Varian’s family? As far as threats went, that one was rather fucking ridiculous.

“Go to Stout,” Varian muttered. The Hellhound peeled away, and Varian came to a decision right then.

‘Fuck this’ is right. I’m ditching this bullshit on Stout before getting the fuck out.

There was no amount of money that could get him to continue riding the ass of a mass murderer and a terrorist that knew his fucking name.

000

One of the nifty upgrades that Pilar’s contact had provided my mom’s jacket, was also smart-thread that could change the jacket’s color scheme on command. I darkened both it and the tech mask to all-black as I made my way to Pacifica for the first time in my life.

It was upon Falco’s recommendation. The Murkmobile was apparently done being repaired, and I’d rather get it back sooner rather than later, for when I started kicking off my other work in earnest. It didn’t have much in the way of trunk space, but it was the fastest car in the market, and I was the fastest driver in Night City, when I had the mind to be.

This piece-of-shit Tyger Claw Yaiba that I was riding—boosted from a gangster bar in Japantown—reminded me of the fact that I had left my regular Yaiba in Tijuana. I had driven home on the Aerondight with Lucy.

Rather than getting it back, it would probably just be faster and wiser to get a new one from Reyes. One with all the normal fixings as well: my bike had been in need of maintenance for quite some time, anyway. Might help to just start afresh.

It was almost seven PM now. After I had finished up on working with Lucy, I had wasted no time following up on Reyes’ lead on Faraday. Unfortunately, I hadn’t gotten there in time for him to not expose Maine’s connection with me.

That was regrettable, but ultimately, I couldn’t see how the entire Afterlife community could keep that one a secret for any reasonable length of time.

As I drove, I called Maine.

D: Good news and bad news.

Maine: Bad news.

D: Bad news is, Militech knows you by name. Faraday blabbed.

Maine: Shit. Fuckin’ hell. I bet Militech’s got a whole profile on me, too, from all the edgerunnin’ I did. It won’t take them a second to confirm who I am.

Shit.

Maine: What’s the good news?

D: Faraday is dead.

Maine: That’s just news.

D: I’ll take what I can get. I flatlined him before he could blurt out any other names. You think the others might be made soon?

Maine: I’m… a special case. The suits should have a profile on me cuz I used to work for ‘em. Way back when.

D: No shit! What did you do?

Maine: I was a NUSA Spec-Op. Basically Militech huscle. With extra steps. Dorio, though… the suits might end up digging up photos around the Net with me and her in the frame. I’d consider her cover blown, too. The others…

He sighed.

Maine: Yeah, this some bullshit. But it’s only made me more sure in my decision. I’m joining GSS.

I closed my eyes for a moment and sighed. I slowed down the bike so I wouldn’t crash as I drove. When I opened them again, I made a quick turn into Rancho Coronado, on my way to The Glen. Apparently, I could get into Pacifica through there, going through Coastview first.

D: I don’t know what that means, Maine.

Maine: Means I’m in charge of training your people. They got edds, cyberware and equipment. They got everything except one thing: actual skill.

D: But why? Maine, I’m… grateful, and I hate to ask this, but… what’s in it for you?

Maine: I owe you. For everything.

A debt? That didn’t make any sense at all.

Or was it just gratitude?

D: I owe you more than you owe me.

Maine: That just ain’t the truth, D.

D: Listen—

Maine: No, you listen. We can argue all night long about this, but instead, I’ll just ask you one question: do you trust me?

I had to.

Well, I used to have to. And he had never betrayed that trust of mine. Not even once.

D: I do.

He had given me no reason to doubt that at this point.

Well, except for the fact that he was a known chrome junkie.

D: To an extent. Your chrome.

Maine: No more installs, D. You don’t gotta worry about that. I’m happy with my current loadout.

D: Then… yeah. I trust you. You wanna live and die for my interests, then… that’s your choice. But I have to make one thing clear, Maine: my interests take priority. Always.

Maine: I know the score.

D: Then—

Maine: And I’m doing this because I believe in those interests. That is, if you haven’t been lying to me.

I snorted.

D: Then I guess it’s my turn to ask you if you trust me.

Maine: …you’re too soft to pull a betrayal like that.

I chuckled.

D: I can’t believe anyone would call me soft at this point.

Maine: You said it best yourself. It’s what makes you special: your big-ass heart. But it makes you soft, too. And that’s fine. I like soft. I can trust soft.

D: Glad to hear it. I’ll head on over to TJ when I have the time. Tell the others to stay put in the meantime. If your cover is blown, that might mean the others, too. And that might also mean Lucy.

Maine: She’s the least likely to be made out of all of us, D. Lucy damn-near never hung out. Outside of gigs, that is. You’re the only reason she started turning up to parties and crap.

I sighed.

D: Pretty soon, we might all start having to mask up.

Maine: Hah! That’s fuckin’ hilarious. What would we call ourselves? The Sugar Skull Gang? When’s the rap album coming out? Is your first song gonna be ‘Gangoon’s Delight’?

D: Maine, what the fuck are you talking about?

Maine: Kids don’t know the fucking classics. That’s a damn shame. Whatever. Call me if something comes up. Peace.

Maine hung up.

Finally. Onwards, to Pacifica.

000

Pacifica was a true fucking shithole of the highest caliber.

And I came from Arroyo, so that was really saying something.

The moment I crossed through to Coastview, I had seen about a million signs warning me to turn around, that the NCPD couldn’t protect me in here (like I had ever been able to rely on those fuckers for protection in the first place).

Those signs eventually gave way to pro-BARGHEST propaganda. Apparently, they were the de-facto cop force in this district, and their logo was an admittedly pretty sick graffiti-style graphic of a wolf or a dog or something similar.

The streets were almost deserted. The only people that hung around out in the open were big beefy Animal types, glaring daggers at a group of people a block away—black, probably of Haitian descent, and all armed to the teeth with weapons. I spotted quite a bit of cranial cyberware as well that marked them as Netrunners.

Voodoo Boys. Interesting.

I felt like one of those zoologists looking at a rare species of some type. The city was chock-filled with Tyger Claws, and the Valentinos and Sixth Street were equally populous. The Animals were more a belief system than an actual gang: anyone that was a roidhead that stuck to muscle over chrome was technically Animal-adjacent by that metric alone. Once enough of them congregated, anyone would count them as being Animals and nothing else. Even if they didn’t participate in the wider structure.

The Voodoo Boys never veered outside Pacifica, not in any significant numbers.

I didn’t know much about them, other than that they had, in the past, been absolute fucking psychos of the highest order. Fifty years ago, that was. Back then, they were essentially what the Maelstrom were now, but less modded out, and more organized around their Caribbean heritage. Lunatics killing and torturing university students for kicks, all the while selling them drugs.

As the island of Hispaniola had continued to succumb to climate disasters, Night City had seen a surge in Haitian climate immigrants, who took exception to the bastardization of their own culture.

Those lunatics ended up receiving the same treatment that they had given to others, and the new Voodoo Boys became less concerned with random acts of violence, and more with money.

At least, that’s how they taught the history of it in school. From my own research, I learned that things… weren’t really that simple at all.

What we knew as Voodoo Boys were just a collection of disparate factions, all tied together by their shared heritage. They had factions, apparently.

The ones that worked more closely with BARGHEST were the ones that were safer for outsiders to do business with. If I had any concerns, I just had to get in touch with the local constable, and they would sort me out.

As for this impending gang clash…

I sped up my bike, ripping past them with ease. I heard gunshots a moment afterwards, but ignored those too. In seconds, I was out of the fray, and back in this derelict jungle of what would have been luxury condos and villas, now infested with squatting gangsters, and people trying to eke out a living in the single most hostile part of Night City.

It occurred to me then that, if I wanted to make this city a better place, Pacifica did deserve some attention. Though, given how entrenched the Voodoo Boys were with the local population, peace-talks and diplomacy seemed like a more realistic way to resolve the district’s ‘Combat Zone’ designation, than a dedicated massacre.

Why not both?

…Later, probably.

Finally, I reached it. A chop shop near the beach, where I spotted a bunch of greasy mechanics fuck around a huge truck—a modified Hellhound with the Barghest insignia on the side.

I parked my Mizuchi near the driveway and walked up to them. They were Haitians, one and all, and they all reached for their weapons as I approached them. “Falco sent me,” I called out to them.

One guy ran out of the shop and quickly rattled off something in Creole. “Put down the fucking weapons, you stupid motherfuckers! He’ll kill you all!” Then he ran up to me. The guy was shirtless, even at night, and all he wore were swimming trunks, and a linear frame exoskeleton on his upper body. He had enormous dreadlocs on his head, all tied up in a bun that gave him the appearance of a pineapple, and wore shades. Even at night. “Yo! You here for the Caliburn?” He asked me in English. He tilted his head, indicating for me to follow him in. “My God, choomba, you know how little I expected that thing to ever roll back into my shop after that guy, that Murk Man hired me to supe up his ride? I’m living in a simulation, fuck’s sake.” He laughed.

I followed him into the inside of the garage, where I saw her: the Murkmobile, black as the night. I scanned the man and saw that his name was Alphonse. He leaned against the car, putting his elbow on the roof. “What do you think?”

“Does the CrystalCoat still work?”

“Fuck yeah, it does,” he laughed. “You know, corrupting that focker so that it only displayed black was focking hard. That’s what the man wanted. And you somehow figured out a way to fix that shit. You gave it back its resale value. That’s impressive, choomba. You thinking of selling it?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I just want it back. How much do I owe you?”

He blew out slowly, shaking his head. “I have half a mind to give it to you for free—you continued that bastard’s legacy. You picked up his mantle. You became Murk Man. That guy’s a fucking hero here in Pacifique.”

I nodded. “That’s interesting to hear. I knew nothing about the man when I took his ride. Only that he was dying.”

“Heh. I saw the XBD… D,” he nodded at me. “It’s a shame about the Murk Man, it really is, but he died for a good reason. He died so that you could inherit his mission. Murk Man.”

“Don’t call me that,” I shook my head.

“Heheh,” Alphonse chuckled. “You gotta honor his name, D, or it disappears. And you took his ride, so you should at least do that much.”

I was under absolutely no obligation to go around calling myself such a stupid name.

“What exactly was he up to, around here?” I asked. “Who did Murk Man go after?”

“That stupid motherfocker would go after anyone, really. Animals. Voodoo Boys. Everyone. Sometimes, he would leave Pacifica and fuck with the Tyger Claws. Or the Nomads. He was crazy. He wanted to fight everyone.”

Then he ended up fucking dying.

“Crazy story,” I said. “But hey, I’m kind of in a hurry. Just let me pay you so that I can delta.”

Alphonse nodded. “I wish I didn’t have to charge you, choomba, but this is a business, and Caliburn CrystalCoat don’t come cheap.”

“I understand—just let me pay you.” Goddammit.

“Eighty thousand.”

That’s… “That doesn’t sound right at all. These are on the market for a hundred and sixty.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t just the CrystalCoat, was it? Your boy told me the story, and it checked out with how wrecked the car was. It ate a rocket-launcher to the face. All the mods had to go and get replaced. The only reason this thing isn’t a piece of shit is because the base frame is a focking tank. All the good mods, all that special handling, it had to be replaced. Eighty thousand is a good price, choomba. It’s cost.”

“Uhuh.”

I debated on Breaching into his Localnet so that I could rummage through his messages and correspondences, to see if he wasn’t just bullshitting me.

But that would require caring to such an extent. And I didn’t.

At his point, money was no longer an object for me at all. There was only the principle of the matter, and even that felt like a weak justification to continue haggling while the city was actively after me—even if I was dressed in all black.

I paid the man, shook his hand, and was on my way out, leaving the Mizuchi behind as his ‘tip’.

Nanny materialized next to me on the passenger’s seat. [Nothing is out of the ordinary, system-wise. He didn’t plant any trackers or bugs, either. We’re safe.]

I brushed against the leather of the steering wheel, and grinned. I was finally back in the Murkmobile, a car that I had spent subjective months trapped inside. I couldn’t imagine why I didn’t feel utterly exhausted by even the idea of getting inside of this thing again.

All I felt was familiarity and comfort. I was right where I was supposed to be.

Finally.