Arriving at last to my humble abode, I collapsed onto the bed, every fiber of my being aching, and my mind utterly drained. What a truly bizarre day it had been.
My mind wrestled with a relentless inquiry. I initiated a brisk diagnostic for my Receptacle, only to receive the same disheartening result: it was empty. Perplexity piqued my curiosity, and I subjected it to the diagnostic procedure three more times, each with identical findings—an empty vessel, primed and ready to receive a new Soul.
I distinctly recalled the moment when that strange ID had filled the Receptacle, an indelible memory that now stood in stark contrast to the empty status my Receptacle was presenting. A sense of disquiet settled in as the situation confounded my understanding.
Disoriented and seeking solace in slumber, I resolved to put these mysteries aside for the moment. Tomorrow, a visit to Boz, my trusted NeuroDoc, was in order. Hopefully, he could rectify the malfunctions in my cybernetic legs and assist me in resolving the enigma surrounding the perplexing Soul.
A piercing headache lanced through my mind, a nagging reminder of the day's tumultuous events. Despite the distress, I succumbed to the soothing call of sleep, which enveloped me with its welcoming embrace.
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Time was a dwindling resource, and I had to act swiftly. I pivoted, my fingers expertly unplugging the memory stick. It was a primitive and antiquated method of data transfer, but desperate circumstances demanded it. Storing the sensitive information in my internal space would be akin to painting a target on my back.
With the monitor now in slumber, I charted a determined course out of the office. But just as I was about to make my exit, an unexpected figure emerged. It was Liam—my lab partner, my trusted colleague, my dear friend.
"You can't proceed with this, Noah. It's a reckless course that will spell trouble for both of us," he insisted.
"Liam, I've been left with no alternatives. The significance of this discovery, the moral compass compromised by MainFrame's actions, it's unforgivable—"
"But, Noah, your evidence is far from conclusive. It's built on a foundation of vague information, at best," Liam asserted.
His rebuttal carried a measure of validity, a thread of undeniable truth. But what MainFrame was perpetrating against the very essence of human existence called for exposure. It was a truth that had to be laid bare for all to see, a revelation that humanity desperately craved.
I gently but resolutely nudged Liam aside, resuming my exit from the office. His voice called out, entreating me to halt. I glanced back at him; worry lines creased his forehead, mirroring the concern I too bore. Nonetheless, I continued on my course.
Liam Foster, my dear friend, forgive me.
As I stepped into the elevator, I pressed the button for the lobby. My gaze lingered for a fleeting moment on the MainFrame logo etched into the metal above the floor indicator, emblematic of an organization that had unknowingly entrapped me for the last eighteen years.
Eighteen years, a lifetime, a commitment to a cause that I believed was righteous. Unwittingly, for eighteen years, I had been complicit in MainFrame's covert operations.
The elevator arrived at the lobby, its doors opening to reveal four security guards, poised with weapons trained upon me. The situation had escalated to a perilous juncture.
"Wait..." I implored, my words hanging heavy in the tense silence.
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"What the hell was that?"
My voice reverberated through the room as I jolted upright on the bed, my hand instinctively reaching for my throbbing head. Was it a dream? Or perhaps a fleeting glimpse into Noah's memories?
I cast my gaze out the window, where the sun labored to pierce the perpetual haze that enshrouded this city. I checked the time; it read 9.49, signaling I had slumbered for nearly six hours.
That dream, or perhaps a recollection of Noah's past, continued to gnaw at my mind. Did he work for MainFrame? Were those fragmented images mere figments of my imagination or the haunting recollections of an actual event? I felt my sanity teetering on the edge.
In search of some semblance of normalcy, I rose swiftly from the bed, my muscles protesting the sudden movement. I navigated to the refrigerator, the soft hum of its cooling unit a welcome distraction. Retrieving a cold bottle of water, I drained it in a few long swallows.
With the refreshing chill coursing through my system, I scrutinized my legs. They bore the marks of yesterday's ordeal, still marred by burns and damage. Repairing them was paramount. There was only one person to call -Boz.
My heads-up display sprung to life, projecting Boz's image onto my vision. He was an older man, likely in his fifties, bearing the distinguishing hallmark of a NeuroDoc - a cybernetic implant that replaced the entire upper portion of his face. His metal skull boasted five optical sensors, two diminutive ones on each side, and a central, larger unit that perpetually shifted as he spoke.
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NeuroDocs, an evolution of the medical profession, were the healers of our age. In an era where humanity fused with machinery, these practitioners were more akin to engineers. They had relinquished much of their humanity in favor of mechanical appendages that enabled them to perform a wide array of repairs, ranging from simple prosthetics and mechanical implants to intricate brain enhancements and software alterations.
Typically, NeuroDocs were licensed professionals, but ToxCity harbored its share of unregistered practitioners. They patched together individuals for a few credits, with results that varied significantly. These renegade NeuroDocs also dabbled in the trade of human body parts, engaging in both legal and black-market transactions. The shadowy realm of Neon Underground often served as their market of choice.
"Boz, I need some repairs," I began. "My legs sustained extensive damage during a job yesterday. Are you at your shop?"
"Alright, sure. Come by now, and I'll see to you immediately," he responded, his cybernetic optics shifting as he spoke.
"On my way," I acknowledged, terminating the call.
Boz also resided in Red Fusion and served as my primary NeuroDoc. Nearly every augmentation I'd made to my body had passed through his expert hands. He had even reprogrammed my original leg overdrive, allowing for greater speed than the factory settings permitted. Fortunately, his shop was a stone's throw from my current location, simplifying the journey.
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In under ten minutes, I reached Bozanza, as the enormous sign on its façade loudly proclaimed to anyone nearby. I pushed the creaking door open and stepped inside.
Boz's shop was a disorganized amalgamation of mechanical and technological components, a chaotic realm only he could navigate effectively. The dimly lit room spanned roughly 10 meters by 10 meters, crammed from floor to ceiling with metallic limbs, artificial spines, and an assortment of other mechanical wonders. Snaking cables and wires sprawled across the floor and dangled ominously from above. At the back of the room sat his counter, radiating the only source of light. I made my way towards it.
"Hey Bozman, thanks for seeing me so quickly," I greeted him.
"Of course, always there for you, my favorite paying customer," he replied with an oversized grin.
I didn't harbor illusions about our relationship. The truth was, Boz and I weren't friends. Despite having known the man for over two years, it was evident that greed outweighed camaraderie in his character. However, ever since I took on the role of a Courier, Boz had been my go-to NeuroDoc, and he was exceptionally skilled at his trade.
I presented my damaged legs and arms to him, each still bearing the marks of last night's harrowing escapade.
"Well, well, well, this ain't pretty. The legs' motors are fried, beyond repair too," he began, taking a drag from his cigarette as he assessed the situation.
Moving closer, his optics zoomed in and out, most likely scanning the extent of the damage.
"I need to hook you up to be absolutely sure, but it doesn't look good my friend," he added.
I nodded and proceeded behind the counter. Positioned at the back of the room was a NeuroDoc chair, reminiscent of a dentist's contraption, albeit more sinister. Cables hung ominously above it, adorned with an assortment of intimidating apparatus. Mechanical arms extended from both sides, like some grotesque, oversized metal insect lying on its back.
I reclined in the chair.
"Gonna run a quick diag', alright? Let's see what we're dealing with," Boz explained.
He connected the chair to my neural interface at the base of my skull, and an intricate holographic keyboard materialized before him, following his gestures as he typed away.
"Hmmm," he muttered, his gaze darting between the keyboard and my body. "Yeah, we're going to have to replace most of the motors, and the radiators are completely fried. You went over the limit, hu?"
I nodded in confirmation.
"Okay, this is going to take a good two hours or so to fix mate, and it ain't cheap," he said, a mischievous grin starting to stretch across his face.
"I figured," I responded. "How much are we talking here Boz?"
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a brief silence hanging in the air before he responded, "With the minor arm repairs and your chest fix included, I'll do it for 8,000 credits, just for you my friend."
The sum seemed substantial, but I was aware of the dire condition of my legs. Boz, though profit-driven, was both competent and relatively honest - at least by ToxCity standards.
"Do it," I agreed, authorizing the wireless transfer of the funds to him. "But before you get to work, could you help me inspect my Receptacle?"
"Receptacle?" he inquired, appearing perplexed. "There's not much I can do about that. It's MainFrame proprietary, and if anything's gone wrong, you'll need to contact those greedy folks."
Boz's disdain for MainFrame's avarice was not lost on me, but he spoke the truth. Any repairs to a Courier's Receptacle had to be performed by MainFrame engineers, a cost that bordered on astronomical.
"I just want you to run a quick diagnostic - nothing more," I clarified.
He nodded and commenced tapping on the keyboard.
"Oh, damn," he suddenly exclaimed. "Your Receptacle is fried. Deep-fried."
"What do you mean?" I inquired, my anxiety growing.
"Well, it's in a bizarre state. It registers as empty, yet the RAM is full, and its storage is locked," Boz explained, furrowing his brow. He paused for a moment and began typing feverishly. "It's as if something else has taken control. It's not allowing any data to be written to it. The system is locked, and it even seems to have booted out MainFrame's OS!"
I was shocked. The Receptacle relied on MainFrame OS for everything, from downloads and maintenance to uploads. It operated on an independent system, separate from the Courier.
"What do you mean the OS has been booted out?" I questioned.
"Something's gone seriously wrong," Boz replied, shaking his head. "None of the commands are working, except for basic diag'. I've been pinging the OS, but there's been no response. Even the diagnostic results are suspect, they're like text instead of actual data."
Boz swiveled his head towards me, his optics zooming in until they were just centimeters from my face.
"Did you get your head smashed in or somethin'?" he inquired.
"No," I replied. "Not that I'm aware of."
He scratched his chin, moving behind me to inspect my scalp.
"It's likely that you got hit pretty bad," he began. "I think you'll need to replace it."
"Replace it?" I exclaimed.
"Yeah, your Receptacle is dead - beyond repair. It's offline."
Receptacles were on loan to Couriers, akin to a Deciton for workers. The installation cost was exorbitant, and damaging one beyond repair would incur a colossal expense. Couriers had to purchase the damaged unit at full price and then enter into a new loan agreement for a replacement.
"Are you sure?" I asked, clinging to a glimmer of hope.
"Yep," he confirmed.
"Thanks, Boz. Let's proceed with the other repairs, and I'll address the Receptacle later," I decided.
He nodded, and I reclined in the chair, my vision fading as Boz began the process of shutting down my internal systems for the repairs.