The sensation of running across the rooftop in broad daylight was invigorating, a symphony of cybernetic limbs and the cityscape merging into a kinetic dance. Boz's expert repairs had elevated my legs to new heights of responsiveness, the upgraded firmware adding an extra layer of efficiency and precision to their movements.
A gratifying relief accompanied the cessation of my headache since the perplexing flashback—or whatever descriptor befitted that visionary experience. It occurred to me that, somehow, Noah was communicating through this shared Soul connection. This revelation held the implication that I still possessed his Soul, despite the unsettling glitch in the receptacle. The prospect of spending a fortune on a new one was daunting, but the inexplicable connection to Noah, glimpsing segments of his life, added a surreal layer to the already bewildering situation. The situation teetered on the edge of insanity, and while one part of me wished it had never happened, yet another urged me to delve deeper.
Braking abruptly, I stood atop the rooftop, gazing down at the street below. The realization struck me with force—was this curiosity genuinely mine, or was Noah manipulating my thoughts and emotions? A disconcerting notion of being a puppet, steered by a corrupted Soul, lingered in my mind. I shook my head in an attempt to dispel these troubling thoughts, but they clung tenaciously.
Looking down at the street, the sparse pedestrian activity unfolded below. The usual assembly of languid junkies sprawled in a disheveled manner, a stark contrast to the rest of the populace diligently navigating through their routines. The world we inhabited was undeniably bizarre.
My gaze drifted to a neighboring building, its facade adorned with a recent, pristine advertising board extolling the virtues of Heaven and, indirectly, Mainframe. The conspicuous cleanliness of the billboard clashed sharply with the dilapidated structure behind it, creating an eerie visual dissonance.
Collecting myself, I pressed forward, resuming my journey toward NeoDuck Cafe.
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After 15 minutes of nimble rooftop navigation, I descended into Avant Street. This particular section of the city carried an air of cleanliness, vitality, and, at least in the daytime, a semblance of safety. In the midst of Avant Street, one could momentarily escape the prevailing gloom that shrouded ToxCity.
Descending the facade with practiced finesse, I hopped from ledge to balcony in a seamless, delicate dance.
My destination, the alley flanking NeoDuck Cafe was obstructed by a cluster of youths, identifiable by their badges as Melrose Employees. Melrose maintained a distribution center in proximity, distanced from the actual farms where underpaid laborers toiled in fields and hydroponic facilities.
The persistence of manual labor in an era dominated by AI and robotics struck me as a paradox. The anticipated utopia, foreseen by previous generations, was but a mirage. The explanation, though not immediately apparent, was straightforward: human life retained a considerably lower cost compared to machines. This reality, starkly different from the paradise visions of the past, manifested itself as a nightmarish existence. The absence of flying cars was but one facet of this stark deviation. The machines had not supplanted manual labor, and the population found itself ensnared in a quasi-slavery system, burdened by loans and machinery rents, much to the benefit of the influential quartet.
Seeking to avoid drawing attention, I opted to grab a quick coffee, anticipating that the group of youthful employees would disperse in due course. Prudence dictated avoiding unnecessary risks, and the last thing I needed was for them to witness my retrieval of the memory stick—assuming it still lingered there.
A wry chuckle escaped me as I contemplated the certainty with which I accepted the reality of the recent flashback. The notion that it was a mere glitched receptacle never crossed my mind. The smile, however, abruptly vanished, replaced by a moment of unsettling introspection. Was I truly in control, or had Noah's influence subtly manipulated my actions? Shaking my head once again, as if physically dispelling such intrusive thoughts, I dismissed the notion. I knew my own mind; I had agency in my actions. If I chose to do so, I could turn away and return home.
"I am in control," I declared audibly as I entered the cafe.
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Swiftly seated, I ordered a straightforward coffee, promptly served by the waitress from her carafe. The establishment, despite the hour nearing 14:00, exuded a subdued atmosphere. Those who typically lunched here had either departed or were on the cusp of leaving.
While awaiting the gradual exodus of patrons, my gaze swept the room, and, as if orchestrated by my vision—or perhaps even by Noah—a subtle glow manifested in my field of view, accentuating one of the newcomers. The luminous focus honed in on a small metallic implant beneath his left ear.
The duo that had just entered proved to be an odd pairing. One, imposing and tall, sported a pristine suit constructed from fine fabric, though it struggled to conceal his robust arms and chest, the cloth distorting to reveal multiple implants. His neck, a metallic expanse up to his chin, denoted a level of affluence uncommon in ToxCity. Both his eyes gleamed entirely chrome, and his bald head bore numerous connections affixed to his skin that lent him an intimidating air.
In stark contrast, his companion was diminutive and slender, a complete antithesis. Wearing thin round sunglasses that covered his eyes, he donned a runner's suit akin to mine and other Couriers. Despite the fabric outlining his body and unlike most Couriers, however, there were no visible body implants, except for the conspicuous box beneath his ear—precisely the one highlighted by the glowing aura.
Once more, the glow flickered in my vision, pulsating around the implant before gradually fading out.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
What was the intended message from Noah? Determined to decipher the enigma, I utilized my digital zoom to capture a photo, swiftly connecting to the online realm for a search.
Within moments, I unraveled the mystery.
The Neo Future BP-Neuro 4 - a recently released AI-assisted hacking device. The man was a NeuroSlicer.
Before delving further, allow me to elucidate the nature of NeuroSlicers in this cybernetically augmented world. In a society heavily reliant on cybernetic enhancements, even the brain didn't escape augmentation. Most individuals operated AI-assisted software for everyday tasks, disease management, and, more commonly, to access the DarkNet. The relics of the past, such as mobile phones, were rendered obsolete, with everything now transpiring internally—network connections, communication, and information retrieval—all orchestrated via brain augmentation and implants.
Yet, this progress brought vulnerability. The brain could be hacked.
NeuroSlicers emerged as the mercenary hackers-for-hire, equipped with modifications essential for their trade. Akin to Couriers, they operated with enhancements to perform their tasks. The path, however, was unidirectional. To compete in this landscape, most of their brain had to yield to cybernetic tools, enabling them to combat AI-driven securities.
The ordeal resembled waging a multifront war simultaneously in a series of multidimensional battles at an impossibly accelerated pace, a speed beyond human capacity. Recoding software on the fly, countering thousands of attacks, all while attempting to breach the target's defenses—it demanded exceptional skill from the individual behind the cybernetic enhancements. A demanding endeavor, it required not only enhanced brains but skill to withstand the deluge of information. It was a task not every enhanced person was cut out for.
The demand for NeuroSlicers remained high, and although many preferred the independence of contract work, the big four corporations maintained internal teams and were in perpetual recruitment.
The toll exacted by hacking and choosing the path of a NeuroSlicer mirrored my own, in that prolonged exposure to such activities proved unsustainable. Each hack heightened the risk of mental degradation, leading to insanity or brain death. This precarious outcome drove many to opt for independent contracts, gaining agency in deciding when to barter fragments of their lives for coveted credits.
Working in groups alleviated the strain, with some of the most renowned teams attacking as a cohesive unit, distributing the tasks and mitigating the toll on individual minds.
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The duo settled at a table and ordered coffee, their motives obscured beneath the veneer of casual conversation. Noah, or some remnant of his consciousness, directed my attention to the metallic implant beneath the smaller one left ear. The question lingered: why did Noah wish me to take note of that implant, revealing the person as a NeuroSlicer?
Subtly inspecting them, I found no indications that they were in the employ of MainFrame. The corporation's NeuroSlicer teams wore uniforms, their identities hidden behind masks, akin to their security counterparts, rarely venturing beyond their confined domains. But these two seemed more at home in conversation than covert operations. Engrossed in dialogue, they appeared innocuous. However, the mere presence of a hacker among them prompted caution. I chose to wait until they departed before venturing into the backstreet, opting to order some food to maintain an appearance of normalcy.
I pondered the implausibility of their presence on account of the memory stick. Why would they be here for me? I had committed no wrongdoing, and the likelihood of them coincidentally pursuing the same memory stick at precisely the same moment defied reason.
Seeking to allay suspicions, I planned to focus on my meal, attempting to divert attention from their presence. To my surprise, their stay proved brief. Before my food arrived, they finished their drinks and left, their departure accompanied by jovial banter.
A sigh of relief escaped me; they appeared uninterested in my affairs. Paranoia, it seemed, had briefly taken the reins.
My order arrived—fried eggs, bacon, and toast—likely synthetic, courtesy of Melrose. Real bacon had become a distant memory, yet the taste proved eerily authentic.
As I settled the bill and departed the cafe, I surveyed the street, detecting no anomalies. With a measure of reassurance, I proceeded towards the backstreet.
The scene mirrored Noah's flashback.
"It was real," I muttered, my steps leading me to the alley's end, where the junction box stood. Cautiously, I inspected it, ensuring no prying eyes watched. The cover, not perfectly straight, aligned precisely with the corner from the vision. In a city defined by decay, the box's damaged state might not raise eyebrows, but its placement stirred a rapid heartbeat.
Prying the cover open, I stood in astonishment. The memory stick remained, echoing the vision's exactitude. Reality dawned, confirming the authenticity of the flashback.
With hesitant fingers, I gently seized the memory stick. Though antiquated, contemporary machines could still access it via a simple adapter.
"You gonna turn around slowly and raise your hands," a voice commanded from behind.
Turning, I faced the bulky man from the cafe, brandishing a gun. The NeuroSlicer stood a few feet behind him.
They had lingered. How did they anticipate my arrival? Why were they tailing me?
Questions swirled, but my predicament allowed no time for answers.
"Drop whatever you found on the floor and back up against the wall," the bulky man urged, his gaze flitting nervously towards the alley entrance, making sure no one would interfere.
My grip on the memory stick tightened. Yet, as I did, my vision glitched, control wrested from my grasp. Warning signs on my heads-up display signaled a hack—an imminent defeat. Mechanically, my body crouched, depositing the memory stick on the ground.
"Good boy," the bulky man sneered.
I resisted, launching counterattacks with internal security software. But it proved futile; against a NeuroSlicer, an average person stood no chance. As my hand reached the floor, my fingers refused to release.
Turning, the bulky man queried the NeuroSlicer, perplexed by my resistance :
"What's going on?"
"I don't know, I have control, but it's refusing the command," the NeuroSlicer replied.
"What do you mean, it's refusing the command?"
"Shut up!" he barked.
The NeuroSlicer, now in apparent distress, clutched his head, grimacing under a phantom agony.
"Shut up! SHUT UP!!" he repeated.
Simultaneously, a pounding headache gripped me, vision flickering between blackness and consciousness. My fingers retained their firm grip on the memory stick with unwavering determination, but I commanded nothing.
Amidst the chaos, the armed man, bewildered by his partner's plight, aimed the gun at me.
"Enough time wasted, we gonna do this my way, nothing personal, dude."
Summoning all my strength, I managed to lift my head slightly, meeting his gaze as he loomed over me, gun barrel less than 10 centimeters from my face. Yet, I remained immobile.
"Stop your hacking and give me what you found," he demanded.
"I'm not hacking," I insisted.
"Bullshit!" he shouted, glancing at the writhing NeuroSlicer. "I got no--"
Before he could conclude, panic flashed across his face.
"What the," he muttered. "What are you doing!"
The unfolding events eluded my comprehension, and as the headache surged, my vision faded. The last image imprinted was blood dripping from my nose onto the grimy concrete as consciousness slipped away.