"Stop talking in riddles," Beulla's voice cracked, fatigue seeping through her practised calm.

Her hand unconsciously moved to the credstick in her pocket, the doc's raised eyes clicked through calibration sequences, irises contracting.

He lifted a surgical tool, letting it catch the light. "That chip?" A pause as he wiped blood from its edge. "Yorishika Towers special, beta version, the kind of tech that makes ethics committees resign en masse."

He set the tool down with deliberate care.

"Doesn't just interface with the host… it commandeers, gets an order?" The doc's chrome fingers tapped a rhythm on the operating table.

"Executes it even if the host is dead, Illegal under every Yapan law, but corps..." His shoulder servos whirred with a shrug. "Corps write their own rules."

"The towers..." Beulla started, but couldn't finish.

"Blown sky-high." The doc's voice softened, an unusual modulation in his vocal. "Heard this little beauty was why."

Beulla's fingers curled into fists, knuckles white.

The memories came unbidden, smoke thick enough to chew, screams that still echoed in her dreams, her parents' faces…

"Sis?" Zatrice's voice, weak but present.

She turned, grateful for the distraction. "I'm here."

The doc's joints whispered against each other as he reached for his desk. "Chip's activation's going to wake old ghosts, already stirred up the Jackals, won't be long before others come sniffing."

Metal fingers extracted a black and gold card, edges worn smooth with age. "Know a guy, Alistair, Protection specialist with a conscience, if you can believe that still exists."

He flicked the card toward her, it landed between them, catching the medical lights.

"He's expensive, but he's strong. And right now?" The doc's eyes whirred through another calibration. "You need help."

"Where..." Zatrice tried to lift his head, servos in his neck grinding, "where am I?"

"Hell's waiting room," the doc muttered, then louder: "My clinic…though 'clinic' might be generous after your performance."

Beulla leaned over her brother, studying his new purple eyes as they struggled to focus. "How're you feeling?"

"Like I swallowed a bike," Zatrice groaned. "Everything's... heavy."

The doc began packing his tools, each one disappearing into compartments hidden beneath his dermal plating.

The soft clicks of securing latches punctuated the silence, "Payment starts first of the month, two thousand leuros." He paused, considering, "Consider it charity, I Know you're gonna scrape bottom-fed protein paste these days."

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"The medicine?" Beulla asked, her hand finding Zatrice's.

"Alistair stocks it, premium grade, none of that synthetic knock-off shit that'll fry his new circuits." The doc's face plates shifted in what might have been a smile. "Take care of him."

Zatrice pushed himself up on trembling arms. "Thanks, doc. For everything."

A chrome-toothed smile caught the light. "Keep breathing, kid. It's the most revolutionary act left these days."

They made their way out of the operating room, Zatrice leaning heavily on Beulla.

But stopped short at the sight of the carnage beyond, bodies sprawled like broken mannequins, blood tracing circuit patterns between floor panels.

"Was that..." His new eyes widened, pupils contracting to pinpoints. "Did I...?"

Beulla couldn't meet his gaze. The silence stretched between them like razor wire.

The street welcomed them with its usual hostile embrace, Neon advertisements reflected off puddles of something too dark to be water.

Beulla raised her hand to passing taxis, but each veered away, threat assessment algorithms marking them as trouble.

"We're screwed," she whispered, the tears she'd been holding back finally breaking free. "Completely, utterly screwed."

"Hey." Zatrice pulled her close, his new arm whirring softly as it adjusted to the pressure. "We are not sister, there is nothing to be afraid of beulla.'"

She stiffened at the talk wiping her tears, but he was already moving, limping back inside.

searching the bodies, movements slow but efficient, his hand emerged with a set of keys.

“Got ya”

A quick press of the fob brought an answering chirp from a sleek motorcycle a top-end, probably more stolen parts than original.

"Found our ride." A ghost of his old smile played across his face.

"No." Beulla shook her head, but her protest lacked conviction. "We can't..."

"Rather wait for their friends?" Zatrice was already straddling the bike, his new cybernetics adjusting to the machine's interface, "your call, sis, but I'm counting at least three shadows down that alley that weren't there a minute ago."

Beulla glanced where he indicated, the darkness seemed to shift, edges too sharp to be natural. "Fine. But we're dumping it the first chance we get."

She climbed on behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, The engine came alive with a subsonic purr, anti-grav units lifting them inches off the cracked pavement.

They shot into the neon-stained night, leaving behind a wake of carnage.

The wind whipped at their faces as Zatrice wove between towers of glass and steel, Beulla's phone buzzed against her ribs, its neural interface painting caller details across her face.

"Not now," she muttered, but the call persisted, finally, she subvocalized the accept command. "Yeah?"

A voice, digitally scrambled: "Got another high-roller Premium guy, double your usual."

Zatrice's enhanced hearing picked up the conversation, his hands tightened on the handlebars. "Who is it?"

"Can't talk now," Beulla said into the feed, trying to keep her voice steady, "kind of in the middle of something."

"Clock's ticking. Yes or no?"

Zatrice banked the bike hard around a corner, nearly clipping a street vendor's stall. "Beulla, What client?"

She killed the call. "I’ll be there in an hour, okay? I've got some problems."

"That's the work that got us the house, isn't it?" The bike's engine whined as he accelerated. "The reason you go dressed like a whore"

"You don't get to lecture me about choices," Beulla snapped. "Not when I'm the one keeping us fed."

Zatrice's new purple eyes reflected in the rearview display, their glow intensifying. "By doing what exactly?"

"Dosen’t matter," she said, the practised lie falling flat between them, "that's all you need to know."

“Can you once tell me, i am not the young 6 years old kid anymore beulla,” zatrice snapped,” What if you do something dangerous for me, and you die….you think I’ll forgive myself?”