Heitor Armstrong
Y'know, I never really thought much about Vomi when she first showed up. Hell, the whole band was Thiago and Raven’s idea. I wasn’t even part of the original group when it started coming together. Back then, I was mostly waiting to die in the apartment above Blaze's store.
Blaze and I met after I came back from South America. He was downing a cart full of piss beer—still beer, though—and I joined him for a few. I wasn’t much for drinking back then, not like him. Eventually, he asked if I knew anything about tech. I did—enough to get by—so we started working together.
Blaze was already friends with Thiago, and Thiago had been joking around with Raven and Nieme, his long-time chooms. Nieme, being Nieme, made some crack about how they all hated corpos and should form a band to rake in eddies while dunking on them. Raven had a music background, Thiago had done some editing work before, and Nieme—well, Nieme needed something to do besides trash-talking the NCPD, watching BDs, and, y’know, masturbating.
Thiago eventually brought in Blaze, who turned out to be a damn good guitarist, and Blaze roped me in. The only thing left to play was drums, so I figured, why not? Took some lessons and found out it wasn’t all that different from multitasking in the field. The battlefield teaches you to do five things at once or die trying. By everyone else’s standards, I was apparently the reincarnation of whatever legendary drummer came before me.
The first song we tried playing together was Black Dog by Samurai. That was a mess. No tabs, no sheet music, just bits and pieces of a song older than most of the city’s ruins. We spent weeks trying to figure it out before deciding to make our own version. Raven hated it. She didn’t even stick around to finish—went off and wrote her own song from scratch. That’s how we got Bring Her to Life a few weeks later.
After that, it became a rule: everyone writes their own song for the album. Gigs started rolling in, we got a warehouse to rehearse, life was… fine. A blur, really. But I wasn’t feeling it. Sure, it was better than rotting in my room or making bad bets (and losing them all) with Blaze, but I didn’t see myself as someone who could make something.
Thiago kept pushing me, though. Told me one day he’d bring his daughter to see us play. Said it was what kept him going after her mom died. That’s when I realized what this band was to them—it wasn’t just about the music. It was a way to heal, to focus on something other than the pain. I could respect that. Didn’t think it’d work for me, but I gave it a shot anyway.
Tried writing songs. They were all gonk.
Every single one.
Nieme surprised us with something solid. Blaze, too—his song was borderline nonsense but catchy as hell. I finally buckled down to try harder. Around that time, Thiago decided to bring in another member—maybe for backup guitar or a digital piano. That’s when we met Vomi.
She was pale, quiet, with these striking red eyes. Always had a cat with her, too. Vanguard, I think she called him. Strange thing, that cat—too perfect, like it was trained. But it listened to her every word and gesture.
Huh. Curious.
Did I say I didn’t think much about Vomi? Scratch that—I barely registered her presence until we did that gig. She had this knack for making herself indispensable with her laptop, like she was the missing piece we didn’t know we needed. Honestly, it was surprising. I thought we were focused on going all-in with music, but the harsh reality of being perpetually broke meant we couldn’t escape dipping into a life of crime to scrape by. That gig, though, was the first time all of us were needed. Raven took charge, barking orders like a natural leader.
Later that night, we asked Thiago where he’d found Vomi. When he admitted he had to drink a ridiculous amount just to get her attention, we couldn’t stop laughing. Thiago—family man, lightweight, clean-cut—pounding back drinks to impress someone? Even Vomi called him out on it. That night stands out as one of the most genuine moments I’d had in years. Not long after, Vomi was part of everything we did. She even came up with the name for the band:
The Refused.
A good fucking name. I’d never have come up with something like that.
The moment that really clicked for all of us, though, was when she started singing during rehearsals. It was like a neon sign flashing over her head—she needed to be part of this, and not just as our Netrunner. Blaze took the lead, handing her his guitar and walking her through the basics. She barely strummed a few chords before the strings snapped, and her panicked apology had us in stitches.
The next gig was a success—enough to get everyone new gear. We pushed Vomi to pick something for herself, and she eventually caved. Having her as a backup guitarist turned out to be a solid call. She practiced constantly, playing popular rock songs and even obscure ones, nailing them by ear and improvising her own chords. It was impressive, to say the least.
Then came the day she told us she was joining M-Tech for their Netrunning division. Everyone hated the idea. Corpos always change people, no matter what they promise. I started dismantling the small, idealized image I had of her, expecting her to become just another sellout.
But Vomi? She stayed Vomi.
Fuck she even made a song. Well, the lyrics and the guitar. Thiago and I did the whole rest, but the point still stands.
Sure, her eyes changed—those black-red things she has now—but the goofy, focused, and oddly brilliant person we met? She never disappeared.
And I don't know how the fuck that's possible.
But looking at her now, standing there in front of me, I don’t see the Vomi I thought I knew. I see something else entirely. Something terrified.
She’s shaking. Her face, though twisted into that sharp, monstrous mask, is full of regret. I’ve seen fear before—hell, I’ve caused it—but this… this is different. It’s like she’s scared of herself.
The Black goo coils around her like it’s alive, twitching and tense. I can’t tell where it ends and she begins. Maybe there is no difference. And yet, I still see her, Vomi, beneath it all. The goofy guitarist who couldn’t play a song without snapping strings, the one who came up with The Refused and made us all believe we could actually make something of ourselves.
My chest aches—or maybe it doesn’t. It’s hard to tell. The cold is creeping in, numbing everything.
Was it always this cold? I can’t feel a thing…
Fuck…
----------------------------------------
Vomi kept staring, motionless. Her hand slowly withdrew from Heitor's chest, trembling as blood dripped from the gaping hole she'd made. Her arm was slick with it, the crimson pooling beneath him. Her mind was… empty. Blank. No—worse than that. It was calculating, detached.
Biomass.
That word lingered in her head. Why was that the first thing she thought?
“Heitor! Are you good? We need to—”
Carmine's voice faltered as he ran into the room. He froze mid-sentence, his gaze locking on the scene. Vomi—no, not Vomi. The thing that had taken her—stood over Heitor’s lifeless body, staring down at him like she didn’t even recognize what she’d done.
And then the monster turned its head toward Carmine.
He couldn’t move. Couldn't even breathe. The carnage surrounding her, the shredded bodies of Black Daggers, was horrifying enough. But Heitor—Heitor was theirs. He was supposed to be untouchable. He gambled that Vomi wouldn't hurt them.
“Carmine! What’s going on?” Blaze’s voice broke through the suffocating silence. He jogged closer, but when Carmine didn’t answer, he pushed past him.
Then he saw.
“Heitor? Oh, fuck!” Blaze ran to the body, dropping to his knees beside him. His hands hovered, shaking, as though touching him might make it real. “What—how did this happen? What the hell is this hole—”
“Blaze.” Carmine’s voice quivered, barely audible. “Step away. From her.”
Blaze’s head snapped up. “What are you—”
“It’s her,” Carmine muttered, his words like shattered glass. “It was the monster. She did this.”
Blaze glanced at the symbiote, its mask unreadable but its posture tense, like a recoiled predator ready to pounce. His gaze fell back to Heitor, limp and cold in his arms. The blood soaked everything—the flood, his hands, even Heitor's dog tags.
Heitor was gone. Dead. Flatlined.
The symbiote’s voice cracked, trying to speak through the chaos of emotions it couldn’t quite control. “We…”
It reached a trembling hand toward Blaze.
SLAP
Blaze batted it away, his face twisted in fury. His Cerberus shotgun was already leveled at Vomi’s head, the barrel steady in his chrome-enhanced arms.
BANG!
The first shot slammed into her, forcing her back a step.
BANG!
The second made her stagger, the shrapnel tearing through her skin.
BANG!
The third struck harder, but the monster barely flinched now, her body beginning to adapt.
Blaze didn’t care. He kept firing, his rage fueling each pull of the trigger, intent on emptying the magazine. Each recoil rattled his frame, but he didn’t stop. Not until Carmine rushed in and grabbed his arm, yanking him back.
“Blaze! Stop! She’s not going down like this!”
Blaze shoved him aside, his shaking hands already reaching to reload. “I’ll kill her! I’ll fucking kill her!”
“Blaze, listen to me!” Carmine yelled, his voice breaking under the weight of desperation. “We need to grab the syringe and delta! Do you want Heitor’s death to mean nothing?!”
Vomi’s body twitched as the shrapnel and bullets began to push out of her wounds, the pain dull but lingering. The holes in her symbiotic flesh closed, leaving only faint marks. She stared at them both, her voice low and trembling.
“The syringe…?” The symbiote’s mask tilted, piecing it together. “What did you do to me?”
Blaze roared, his fury overtaking him. “Take it! Take the goddamn thing! I don’t care!” He leveled the shotgun again, his finger hovering over the trigger. “But I’m not leaving without putting this thing down!”
“Blaze, you’re losing it!” Carmine shouted, grabbing him again. “What’s the point of dying here like a fucking gonk? We need to get to M-Tech now!”
“M-Tech…” The symbiote’s voice chilled, a realization sinking in. “Even those we protect… they seek to destroy us.”
“DIE!” Blaze screamed, shoving Carmine away as he slammed another shell into the chamber and firing again.
The symbiote's thoughts churned, a storm of emotions and instinct crashing against each other. Attack. Apologize. Protect. End the pain. Their purpose was clear—protect the vessel's chosen and punish those who threatened. But what happens when the protected become the enemy? When their actions lead to death and betrayal?
Confusion clawed at them. Choices piled upon choices, all meaningless in the whirl of indecision. Protect? Punish? Fight? Flee? The world outside was chaos, but inside was worse-a cacophony of confusion, confusion, confusion.
"Fuck this! I'm out!" Carmine's voice broke through, snapping the tension like a gunshot. He snatched the syringe from the ground near Heitor's body, gagging at the sight of the gore. Without another glance, he bolted, leaving Blaze alone in his blind, furious assault.
Above, more Black Daggers were descending the stairs, drawn by the chaos. They paused at the sight of Blaze, unloading round after round into the slowly transforming symbiote. Then they saw the monster.
It wasn't Vomi anymore.
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
The gangsters' hesitation turned to panic as they opened fire, shouting orders, their iron aimed at the growing beast.
Blaze didn't stop. Neither did the symbiote.
Vomi, buried deep within, didn't want to kill. She didn't want to become what they feared.
But they had to.
Carmine ran, the distant sounds of screaming, barking orders, and the wet crunch of breaking bones haunting his every step. He didn't dare look back, his mind a singular focus on survival. Bursting into the car they'd used to get here, he jammed the key in and slammed the gas pedal to the floor.
It wasn't until the city lights blurred past him that he dared look at the syringe in his hand. The black substance within twisted and shifted unnaturally, as though alive. It moved in ways that defied reason, pulsating with an unsettling rhythm, almost... aware.
Carmine shoved the syringe into a bag, gripping the wheel tighter. He prayed the syringe was strong enough to contain whatever nightmare he'd just taken.
“Shit… shit, fuck, God fucking dammit!” Carmine slammed his hands on the wheel, his knuckles white with tension.
Barely a month and a half out of lockup, and this is what he’s thrown into? Corporations, gangs, and now biological monsters? He wasn’t cut out for this. He was a street racer, not some black ops merc. How the hell was he supposed to survive this insanity?
But no matter how much he cursed, the syringe in his bag sat like a ticking bomb in his mind. He needed to deliver it to Graves, now. No second-guessing. No hesitation. Still, questions swirled.
How was he supposed to contact Raven? He didn’t have the secure phone, just his standard agent. And those could be traced, right? The Black Daggers do have tech way beyond anything he could counter. But at this point, what was the point of staying hidden?
The Daggers might figure out that this whole thing was way bigger than some petty beef with The Refused. They might come after him for the syringe, might hunt them all down, might—
“Focus!” Carmine shouted at himself, the sound cracking in the suffocating quiet of the car.
It didn’t help. His mind kept screaming.
It’s a monster! How do you even begin to focus on anything else when there’s a fucking monster in the mix?!
Oh, the M-Tech building. Finally.
Carmine pulled up, his pulse pounding in his ears. Relief was quickly replaced by dread as he muttered, “Please work. Please, please make this serum work.”
----------------------------------------
Graves observed from behind the safety of the bulletproof mirror, arms folded and face unreadable. Beside him stood Carmine, tense and pale, flanked by an entire security team. Guns, thermal scanners, even white phosphorus—M-Tech wasn’t taking any chances with the sample the street racer had delivered. The precautions only amplified the anxiety thrumming in the room.
The lead scientist worked with unsettling urgency, taking the syringe and immediately beginning the process. The entire R&D facility buzzed like a hive of activity, engineers and researchers scrambling to create a "cure" for Vomi.
At first, Carmine watched with morbid fascination. The experiments were brutal, grotesque—a blur of attempts and failures. Whatever serums they concocted, each one seemed worse than the last. He saw one poor test subject collapse into a bubbling mess, another convulse before their body hardened into something unnatural.
He lasted through three tests before he turned away, bile rising in his throat. "Nope," he muttered, stepping out of view. His stomach churned, and the screams echoing from the lab didn’t help.
From where he stood, Carmine clenched his fists. “Whatever you’re doing,” he whispered to no one in particular, “it better be worth it.”
“You say that like we have much of a choice,” Graves said, his arms unfolding as he rested his hands on his hips. “Mister Miranda will want to see you.”
“Mister who?”
“That would be me.”
A voice from behind Graves cut through the air, smooth and self-assured. Antonio Miranda stepped forward—a sharply dressed man with calculating eyes. “Antonio Miranda, CEO, owner, and co-creator of M-Tech. Not to be confused with Militech.” He extended a hand toward Carmine with a polite smile.
Carmine didn’t take it.
“Heh,” Miranda chuckled softly, retracting his hand. “People used to be polite.”
“People usually don’t turn into that—” Carmine pointed toward the test room. A bloodcurdling scream punctuated his words, echoing through the lab. “—or whatever the hell you’re doing to those people in there.”
“Speaking of,” Miranda said, turning casually to the observation window, “how’s it going? Any progress? Good news, perhaps?”
“Nothing viable yet,” Graves admitted. “The samples cause rapid cellular degeneration upon contact. But if we—”
Miranda raised a hand, silencing him. “If it needs to be destroyed entirely, then so be it. We can’t afford to let this get more public than it already is.” He shook his head, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “KanedaCorp is sniffing around, and if Arasaka decides to take an interest, we’ll have a damn circus in San Francisco. For all we know, the media’s already caught wind of this mess.”
“I understand,” Graves replied, his tone subdued. He stepped closer, lowering his voice for Miranda’s ears alone. “But if you want a safer option—if you want to extract and pacify the symbiote—it is possible. Risky, but possible.”
Miranda’s expression hardened as he considered the suggestion.
“The monster’s name is symbiote?” Carmine asked with a bitter laugh, breaking the tension. “Yeah, that tracks. Real fitting.”
Carmine pondered if they even could save Vomi. They just said that the samples they tried kill all the cells on the body. That means Vomi would die, and considering the short time window before the symbiote is here, he doubted it would be effective to neutralize without killing it in the process.
“As humorous as your commentary is, dear guest…” Miranda raised a hand, signaling one of the guards. The gesture was subtle, but the guard understood the unspoken command immediately.
“What are you—”
BANG!
The sound of the gunshot echoed through the sterile lab, and Carmine slumped to the floor.
“No loose ends,” Miranda said flatly, handing the pistol back to the guard without a second thought. He dusted his hands as if the act itself was a minor inconvenience. “Use his body for testing. If the serum fails, incinerate it. If it succeeds, proceed with further trials.”
“As you wish, sir,” Graves said, his voice cold and distant.
He glanced down at Carmine’s lifeless body, a pang of unease flashing briefly in his eyes before it was buried under the weight of his corporate pragmatism. This was how things worked. There was never going to be a scenario where Carmine walked away alive.
The scientists wasted no time, carting the body off to their testing chambers. Graves stood frozen for a moment, watching the scene unfold. His foot tapped the floor, betraying his growing impatience and anxiety as the process began.
----------------------------------------
“Nani?!” Kaneda exclaimed, his voice sharp with disbelief.
The chaos in San Francisco was escalating rapidly. From the highest corporate offices to the streets where the homeless gathered, everyone now had a clear view of the symbiote—of Vomi.
The only thing keeping this catastrophe from dominating every screen worldwide was San Francisco's notoriously poor external connections. News leaving the city took hours, sometimes longer, to filter out. But within those confines, every single person with ties to the project—investors, entrepreneurs, and government officials—was now watching the chaos unfold in real-time. Their expressions likely mirrored his: a mixture of shock, disbelief, and growing dread.
For Kaneda, this was worse than a PR nightmare. It was career suicide. His ambitious project was already being twisted into a potential weapon, despite his original intentions. Now, with footage of the symbiote—of Vomi—ripping apart gang members and harming even her so-called allies, the narrative was spiraling completely out of control.
"This is ruining me," Kaneda muttered as he entered the elevator, lost in thought.
His mind raced for solutions. He could spin this, try to pin the blame on someone else—Arasaka, perhaps. They were a believable target, with their history of corporate warfare and morally bankrupt ventures. The common gonk would believe it. Arasaka was still working overtime to repair their reputation, framing themselves as the benevolent architects of the future, educating "the next generation of corporate leaders." Anyone with half a brain knew it was nonsense. Arasaka cared only about their bottom line and Saburo Arasaka's grand, ego-driven vision.
But then again, wasn’t that what people thought of KanedaCorp too? His company’s reputation wasn’t spotless, even with the front row filled with successful and “safe experiments”. If anyone dug deeper, they’d find the same underlying greed, no matter how much he tried to distance himself from it. This disaster could push him into the same category as Saburo—a tyrant clinging to power at any cost.
Kaneda entered his office, his footsteps echoing in the expansive space. The screens on the walls showed local news on loop: footage of the massacre at the Black Daggers gym, the terrifying visage of Vomi as the symbiote consumed her, and the horrifying moment she attacked her bandmates. Every detail was being dissected by talking heads and analysts, with speculative headlines scrolling below:
"Possible virus outbreak. Is it going to be contained?"
"Monstrous Incident Linked to local Corporations.”
"Corporate Experiment or Urban Legend?"
He leaned against his desk, rubbing his temples. The possibilities of salvaging this mess were shrinking with every passing second. There was only one person he could think of to call before considering more drastic, albeit efficient, measures.
Kaneda didn’t want his company to become another Arasaka from fifty years ago.
"Fuck it. I don't have other options," Kaneda muttered, reluctantly pulling out his agent.
The familiar buzz of a call echoed in his office. The other end took its time, but eventually, the line connected.
“Kaneda,” came the woman’s voice. It was smooth, condescending, and laced with amusement. “Have you seen the news?”
“I need your help. Onegai,” Kaneda pleaded immediately, the display on his agent showing her image—though she kept the video angled to reveal only her lips and the faint silhouette of her face.
“Hmm?” She twirled a strand of hair between her fingers, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. “And why would Ascendant Innovations even consider helping KanedaCorp? What’s in it for us? As far as I know, we aren’t the symbiote’s target.”
She spoke like an insufferable socialite, savoring every second of Kaneda’s discomfort. It was true, and she enjoyed twisting the knife—Ascendant had nothing to do with the current mess. If they stayed out of it, they could swoop in later and profit from KanedaCorp's downfall, acquiring assets for ennies on the Eurodollar. Cybernetics and bioware were vastly different markets with little overlap. Why dirty their hands when someone else was already bleeding?
“Liu Jinxiu,” Kaneda said, voice tight, “this isn’t the time for games.”
“Games?” she replied, her tone mockingly innocent. “I’m merely asking a question. You’re the one on your knees calling me, Kaneda. What could possibly be so dire?”
Kaneda gritted his teeth. Jinxiu had always been a shark, circling blood in the water. The CEO of Ascendant Innovations, she thrived on chaos, especially if it wasn’t hers. Still, he had no choice.
“The symbiote is out of control,” he began, swallowing his pride. “It’s adapting faster than our containment protocols. And as far as I know, M-Tech is weaponizing the bioware, although it is is failing.”
“Failing spectacularly,” she interjected with a sly chuckle. “You’ve made quite the mess. Why don’t you call Militech? Or Biotechnica? They’re better at dealing with… organic disasters.”
Kaneda clenched his fists, forcing calm into his tone. “This might be their field, Jinxiu, but I don't want this to reach them. But you? You have the expertise. You have the resources.”
“And you’re desperate enough to come begging,” she said, tilting her head. “How flattering.”
“Just name your price.” Kaneda's voice was sharp, cutting through her mockery.
There was a pause, and then she smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile, “Very well, Kaneda. I’ll help you clean up this little disaster of yours. But when this is over…”
She leaned closer to the screen, her lips curling into a smirk. “Ascendant takes full control of your bioware division. Every patent. Every file. Every ounce of research.”
Kaneda's stomach twisted. That division was his lifeline, his legacy—but he was cornered. Without her, the symbiote would destroy more than just his company.
Damned if he did, damned if he didn't.
“…Deal,” he said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Good boy.” Jinxiu ended the call abruptly, leaving Kaneda staring at the blank screen.
Kaneda exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what he'd just done. He didn’t trust Jinxiu—not in the slightest—but for now, she was his only hope. A slim, precarious hope.
But hope alone wouldn’t be enough. No, there needed to be contingencies. Safety measures. Ones he wasn’t proud of but would use if he had to.
Kaneda left his office, heading straight to the elevator. He swiped his card and selected the lowest level, a floor hidden beneath the last, buried far beneath the main building.
This was where the gift awaited him. A "gift" from a corporate ally—one that no longer existed, swallowed by mergers or destroyed by their own hubris before Kaneda had a chance to even reciprocate. Though labeled as a token of goodwill, the item felt more like an omen. Its very presence implied that someday, Kaneda would need it.
And that day seemed dangerously close.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a sterile, dimly lit hallway guarded by thick steel doors and a pair of heavily armed guards. One of them raised an eyebrow at the sight of Kaneda.
“Sir?” the guard asked, straightening to attention. “Never seen you down here before. Are we greenlighting a new project, or… is this about Ouroboros?”
Kaneda barely acknowledged the question, stepping into the hallway with purposeful strides. “Call my assistant. I want him down here immediately,” he ordered, his tone clipped, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
The guard exchanged a nervous glance with his partner. “Uh… sure. Good talk,” he muttered as Kaneda disappeared down the hall, leaving an uneasy silence in his wake.
Behind the final door, the gift awaited. Whether it would save his company or doom it further, only time would tell.
----------------------------------------
It was 8 a.m., and the world felt like it had flipped on its head.
Raven, Cinthia, Nieme, Thiago, Katie, Frank, and the entire SFPD were glued to the news broadcast. Some froze mid-bite, their breakfasts forgotten, while others sat in stunned silence, unable to process the chaos unfolding on the screen.
The footage showed the monster—a hulking, nightmarish figure—leaping straight at the broadcast camera. The feed abruptly cut to static before switching back to the visibly shaken news anchors. Their attempts to downplay the situation were futile, their voices betraying their fear.
San Francisco had a monster.
And now, the entire city knew it.
Raven had given up on patience. She called everyone—Heitor, Blaze, Carmine—but none of them answered.
Katie clung to Thiago’s shirt, her small hands trembling as she tugged desperately, her fear written all over her face. Cinthia stood frozen, her hands covering her mouth, trying and failing to mask her shock and dread. Frank remained silent, his expression stone-cold and hardened, though it was clear this was far beyond anything he had anticipated.
And then there was Nieme. He glanced at the screen, then at the ground. Unlike the others, he seemed oddly composed—eerily calm in the face of the chaos playing out in front of them.
Raven slammed the phone down on the table, her hands shaking.
“What the fuck is going on?” she muttered, her voice cracking with frustration and fear. “Why won’t they answer?”
“They’re probably…” Cinthia started but trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“They’re fine,” Thiago said, though his voice lacked conviction. He knelt to comfort Katie, stroking her hair as she buried her face in his chest. “They’re probably just caught up in the mess out there. They’ll call back.”
Nieme finally spoke, his tone unnervingly measured. “This… isn’t just some gang war or corpo deal gone bad. Maybe they—”
“Don’t,” Raven snapped, glaring at him. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
Nieme raised his hands in a defensive gesture but didn’t back down. “I’m just saying. Because if the wrong people get involved…”
“They’re already involved!” Frank barked, his voice cutting through the tension. “Look at the fucking screen! Every corpo and gang in the city is going to jump on this. And if that thing is Vomi, then we’re all fucked unless we move fast.”
“Move fast? To do what?” Cinthia asked, her voice rising in panic. “What are we even supposed to do? She’s that thing… that monster… and is tearing through San Francisco like it’s nothing!”
Raven slammed her fists on the table. “Enough! We’re not going to sit here and panic like a bunch of gonks. We’re going to find her.”
“And then what?” Frank said, crossing his arms. “If it’s her—if she’s turned into that thing—what do you think you’re gonna do? Hug it out?”
Raven stared at him, her jaw clenched. “I don’t know, Frank. But I’ll be damned if I sit here and do nothing while the city burns and my choom might need us.”
Nieme stood up. “She’s right. If there’s even a chance it’s Vomi, we need to find her. We owe her that much.”
Frank sighed, rubbing his temples. “Nieme. This is suicide.”
“Look, we settled things, but that doesn't mean we are son and father.”
Frank sighed. Of course he'd take the stupidest decision.
Thiago looked down at Katie, who was still trembling in his arms. “You all go,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay here and watch Katie. She doesn’t need to see any more of this.”
Raven nodded. “Thank you, Thiago.”
Cinthia hesitated but eventually stepped forward, her hands still shaking. “Okay… okay, I’m in. But we better have a plan, because if we just walk out there without one, we’re dead. Like dead dead."
“I might have an idea.”, Nieme said, again, his odd calmness shining, and it seemed to rub on everyone else, “Frank, can I sue your Netrunning gear?”
“What for?”
“I need to make a call.”