Cali’s nimble fingers moved with expert precision, the needle and thread dancing in her hands as she carefully stitched up my skin. Years of growing up on a farm had given her plenty of practice stitching up her brothers long before she could even ride a bike. Her natural talent and dexterity, honed by years of hard work, also made her a formidable smith.
The night stretched on as Cali tended to my wounds. We slipped into a comfortable conversation. But deep down, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
As she finished patching me up, I couldn’t help but admire her. Despite the grease and dirt smudged on her face and clothes, she exuded a raw beauty that was both wholesome and devilish.
In her early thirties, with ocean blue eyes and a warm smile, Cali radiated genuine kindness.
She’d told me once how they’d all come down from Montana together—her, her father, and her brothers—back when the shop buzzed with voices and the clatter of tools. Back then, it wasn’t just repairs; they’d tinker, upgrade, and enhance anything that ran on wheels—or wires. The boys, though, had a restless streak, like stray cats who couldn’t stand staying penned in. Charlie took off west, chasing stardom in Hollywood, while, Jim hopped a train to Chicago, chasing fortunes in the scrapyards, where discarded cyberware and rusted augments were salvaged, hacked, and sold to the desperate and the daring.
Now they were scattered across America, chasing dreams in a booming, chaotic world. She’d been left to pick up the slack, and it showed—her hands, rough and calloused from years of hard work, always had traces of oil and nano-grease clinging stubbornly beneath her nails, no matter how much she scrubbed. There was a metaphor in there somewhere—something about the city sinking into your skin, leaving its mark—but I was too tired and too hungry to care.
The shop was quieter now, emptier, but she kept it running. The hum of modded equipment and the glow of work lamps cast a familiar warmth over the space. Enhancements were her specialty—cybernetic upgrades, neural interface calibrations, patched-up old Systems she claimed could run better than the newer ones if you knew where to look. She said she preferred working alone these days—calmer, less chaos. Fewer voices meant fewer arguments, and she could focus. At least, that’s how she put it.
But I’d catch that flicker of nostalgia in her eyes sometimes, the way her gaze lingered on an old, half-broken coffee can of bolts the boys used to argue over. Like she missed the noise more than she’d ever let on.
I think she would’ve walked away long ago if it weren’t for the ghosts keeping her company. Maybe that’s why we got along so well—both of us clinging to something that refused to fade, like oil stains that never quite washed out.
When she was finished, I leaned back. “Thanks for the patch-up, Doc. Got any spare brains lying around?”
She rolled her eyes but smiled weakly. “You are obviously in want of one.”
I closed my eyes, the weariness finally taking over.
“We’ll figure this out,” she said, her voice steady. “We always do.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “We always do.”
I cleaned up in her bathroom, and she lent me some clothes her older brother had left behind. I stared into the cracked mirror, my reflection barely recognizable. Pale, gray skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, faintly glowing circuits pulsing beneath the surface like veins of dying light. My left eye burned a faint green, a cybernetic implant flickering with every strained connection. The trench coat hung heavy on my shoulders, soaked through, and stained with the grime of too many fights.
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I ran a hand down my face, feeling the cold, synthetic texture where skin used to be. The System hummed faintly, keeping me stitched together, but just barely. Whatever I was now, it wasn’t alive. Not really. I ran a full System Diagnostic and Status Check.
SYSTEM STATUS: UNCERTAIN (CRITICAL ERRORS DETECTED)
User: Jack Callaghan
Designation: Hunter-Class Hybrid (Undead/Enhanced)
System Integrity: 12% (Severe degradation detected—primary systems functioning at reduced capacity.)
System Rank/Version: Unranked, Version Classified, Code Name: Project Methuselah
Warning: Unauthorized alterations detected. Recall order voided—System classified as obsolete.
CORE VITALS
* Vitality: 0% — Fatality Detected — Error, recalibrating
* Vitality: Calibrating… calibrating… estimated 70% (Post-mortem state detected: No active blood flow, necrotic tissue stabilized by Infernum energy. Decomposition mitigated but ongoing. System attempting diagnosis… incomplete data. Diagnostic analysis failed.)
* Resilience: Unknown—insufficient data.
* Fatigue: Unknown (Biological energy consumption reduced. Mechanical supports compensating for all motor functions.)
* Humanity: 11% — Critical Failure Imminent (Cybernetic enhancements: 41%. Corruption: 48%. Warning: Humanity level approaching irreversible threshold.)
GLITCHES / ERRORS
* Ghost File Detected: Sarah.
* Presence persists in neural interface. File integrity stable. Interaction frequency elevated.
* Unauthorized Task Log Entries: “Find Sarah” repeated 46 times.
* Timestamp inconsistencies noted—entry pre-dates System activation.
* Critical Error:
* Primary neural interface partially fused with Infernum circuit. Signal instability detected.
* Behavioral impact unknown.
TASK LOG
1. Hunt Target: Rift Entity (Low-Class Demon). Status: Failed.
* Reason: Client safety compromised. Contract breeched. No payment shall be made.
The System didn’t know what to make of me. Hell, neither did I. Undead, alive—somewhere in between. Every time it pinged, it spat out contradictions: Unknown. Insufficient Data. It was trying, recalibrating, struggling to define what I’d become.
I flexed my fingers, the faint green glow of the circuits beneath my skin sparking in protest. The System wasn’t built for this—whatever this was. Neither was I.
When I stepped out, Cali gave me a quick once-over, her keen eyes taking in the faint glow in my chest. She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.
“It’ll have to do,” she said.
She offered to let me take my car home, but I couldn’t afford the repairs, and my pride wouldn’t let me accept the favor. When she suggested giving me a lift in her truck, I reluctantly agreed.
As we headed to my place, I let out a defeated sigh. “I’ll pay you back for all you do for me, Cali, I promise.”
She waved off my words, her eyes fixed on the road. “You were a hero, Jack. You helped a lot of people. The world might have forgotten, but I haven’t. You gotta let people help you once in a while.”
Her words hit harder than any punch. You were a hero. Were being the key word. I managed a small smile and whispered, “You must’ve been kissed by an angel, Cali.”
She glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said, chuckling. “Just thinking out loud.”
Rain pounded the truck’s roof, the wipers slashing like blades against tiny bullets. Each mile we covered, the past clawed at me, but Cali’s presence kept me grounded. She was something special, that girl. She was a beacon in the darkness.
As the miles stretched out beneath the steady hum of the engine, an old, familiar ache resurfaced - a memory with the rawness of grief and the weight of regret. Part of me clung to that pain, almost welcoming its bitter taste. I took a deep breath, allowing myself to be swallowed by the past for just a moment. In that fleeting darkness, her image appeared before me: golden hair splayed out on the cold concrete, a stark contrast against the brutal splash of red that surrounded her.
People loved to say ignorance is bliss, but that was a load of crap. It wasn’t the worries you braced for that gutted you—it was the sucker punches you never saw coming. They also liked to tell me her death wasn’t my fault, that there was nothing I could’ve done. People said a lot of things.
If I had just taken the day off...