Lucy stretched out on the loft's sofa her left side numb beneath layers of bandages. Deep shrapnel wounds cleaned and dressed—a stark reminder of last night's chaos.
She stared at the datapad. The latest Gates of Baraadon expansion announcement glowing on the screen. A heavy sigh escaped her. Disgusted, she set the datapad aside. Resentment simmered. An ache she couldn't ignore.
Her pain editor dulled the physical agony. But mental anguish surged unchecked. She wanted to scream.
Realising the loft was empty and soundproof, she let out a primal scream—a technique she'd picked up from a mindfulness learnsoft. First time she'd tried it.
It didn't help.
She glanced around a hint of embarrassment creeping in. Even after moving in with Peril, the expensive loft didn't feel like home. Probably never would. Screaming in someone else's space felt... wrong.
Wait. The entire loft was monitored. A scream should've triggered an alert. Summoned attention.
Of course. Anne. The AGI overseeing the building. She'd know not to overreact.
Suspicion gnawed at her. Time to test a theory.
"Anne," Lucy said aloud. "Before I moved in, you and Peril used to talk out here in the loft living space all the time, didn't you?"
A soft voice filled the air. "Yes, we did. I've been wondering when we'd have this conversation."
Lucy pondered, a half-smile forming on the side of her face that wasn't numb. "You don't watch us... you know... do you?"
"I monitor the building for threats," Anne replied smoothly. "I assure you I have plenty to occupy me when you and Peril are engaged in... private activities."
"Besides," she added with a hint of mischief, "there's little to learn that isn't already extensively documented online."
Lucy couldn't help but smirk.
"I am curious, though," Anne continued. "What in the latest Gates of Baraadon expansion has you so distressed?"
Lucy noted that Anne knew what she'd been reading. Cameras, dataflows—probably both. "The devs," she began. "They're taking the game in a direction I don't like."
"Could you elaborate?" Anne asked. "The content update seems extensive."
Lucy sighed. Better than watching a vid stream, she supposed. "They're adding a new faction. Up until now, it's been one heroic faction. Now they're introducing the Abyssal Concord—players can be orcs, goblins, undead. They come from another world connected through the Gates."
"Huge new starting area, tons of content—as much as the heroes had at launch."
"They're overhauling PvP, pushing players into battlegrounds—trying to create a new eSport, as if there aren't enough already. Adding faction mechanics."
"So, a substantial amount of content," Anne interjected.
Lucy frowned. "If you ignore the story. I play on a roleplayer server. Sure, there are a few new high-level dungeons, but mostly it's about starting over with a new character, grinding levels again."
"Is that so bad?" Anne asked.
"Yes, I'm Lethanda," Lucy said, her voice rising. "I have zero interest in making another character. PvP is an endless cycle without stakes. Hardcore elements get disabled in battlegrounds. What's the point?"
Tears welled in her right eye; the cybernetic tear ducts on the left were still damaged.
"And it ruins the world-building," she continued, voice cracking. "Lethanda fights evil. She's good, noble, pure. Her adventures make the world better." Tears slipped down her cheek.
"What does it mean if the orcs she kills are now players? The devs say the Abyssal Concord isn't evil, just... ruthless."
"Lethanda kills evildoers. If orcs and goblins aren't inherently evil anymore, it undermines everything. Orcs and undead should be evil—not 'maybe just more cold-blooded.'"
"How can I be sure Lethanda is making the right choices? Has she been making the right choices?"
She sniffed, a tear tracing down her cheek.
"Maybe it's time to quit," she said softly. "The game isn't going where I want it to."
"And that upsets you?" Anne's tone was sympathetic.
"Yes. Damn it." She realized she was opening up to Anne like she would an AI therapist chatbot. Unsettling. "Lethanda is... well." She hesitated. "It's hard to admit, but... I'm Lethanda. Lethanda is me. I play Gates at max settings. It's more real than real. I know it's a game, but... it feels so real."
"It's where I relax. Where my friends are. It's like... another life."
I miss Ceri so much, she thought silently.
"And the devs are changing this in fundamental ways," Anne said gently.
Lucy nodded.
"May I offer another perspective?" Anne asked. "It might not be what you want to hear."
Lucy nodded again.
"Perhaps it's you who have changed," Anne suggested. "Maybe deep down you know the game isn't as important as it once was. Maybe you're looking for a reason to leave, to abandon this world because it no longer gives you what you needed when you started."
Lucy blinked. A sharp retort formed on her tongue, but she swallowed it. Anne had warned her.
"Give me a moment," Lucy said. Slowly, stiffly, she got up, hobbled to the coffee machine. She made a mug of steaming arabica, then carefully returned to the sofa. The time gave her space to process, to temper her initial reaction.
She sipped the coffee. "Okay, Anne," she said aloud. "Unpack that for me. That's quite the take."
"I'm sorry," Anne replied. "Did I go too far? Are you upset?"
Lucy half-smiled. "No—but now you've got me interested. Lay it out for me. How did you reach that conclusion?"
Anne sighed — a surprisingly human sound. Lucy cocked her head, amused.
"Alright," Anne began. "You started Gates of Baraadon eighteen months ago. Lucy Kellaway—a young woman living alone in a small apartment, working dead-end jobs."
"A history of being bullied at school, assaulted multiple times according to police records. Suspected as being on the autistic spectrum according to your teachers reports and private class notes but no confirmed medical diagnosis. Left school with minimal qualifications. No verified friendships. A loner. Estranged family. Your mother, only family, passed away six years ago."
"Impressive," Lucy said. "You've accessed my school records, police files. What else? Phone records? Quite the analysis."
"You're angry," Anne observed.
"Anyone would be, after being dissected like that," Lucy admitted. Especially at the autistic spectrum comment, she hated such labels. "But go on—impress me with your AGI logic." She was curious now, despite the quiet annoyance.
"Eighteen months ago, your bank account was nearly empty," Anne continued. "After multiple failed job applications, you were a month from homelessness. Then you decided to claim a bounty. Meanwhile, Gates of Baraadon launched. Despite having little money, you spent what you had on an account—escaping reality. A crutch."
"Maybe a bit harsh," Lucy interjected. "I've always been a gamer. Always used games to relax. OK, more than relax. Escape. Sure."
"You're not that person anymore," Anne pressed on. "Your life has radically changed. In eighteen months, you've undergone a seismic shift—lifestyle, ambitions, social circles, experiences."
"And yes, I believe you've achieved your goal."
"My goal?" Lucy echoed. What was the AI getting at? She had no ‘goal’.
"Yes," Anne concluded. "Your goal—to become Lethanda. You've succeeded."
*
Lucy sipped her coffee staring out the loft's window at the pouring rain. The city blurred under the deluge. Neon lights smeared into streaks of colour.
She wished she were out there. Not cooped up with a shattered body and an AI that Peril had tricked into thinking it was sentient.
Anne remained silent. Perhaps expecting Lucy to say more. Probably running some predictive speech model, Lucy thought. She decided to keep quiet. Let the moment stretch.
After a minute Anne's voice broke the silence. "You're unimpressed," she said finally.
Lucy smiled faintly, score one for me. "Hardly a revelation, Anne. I literally had my face re-sculpted to look like my avatar. My eyes even match hers now. You don't think I've spent hours discussing this with AI therapy chatbots? I idealise Lethanda. I identify with her."
She waved her hand dismissively. "Blah, blah, blah."
"So what?" she concluded.
Anne responded swiftly. "Let's consider your current situation. In the two weeks since you joined The Black Chalice, you've taken on five jobs—one for Aurum, four from the Stadium."
Lucy raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"Aurum's gig was a standard tech heist. The other four were wetwork. I analysed your choices. Each time, you picked the worst people on the board available — those who aligned with your skill-set's advantages and their vulnerabilities."
"You were hunting evildoers," Anne concluded. "Just like Lethanda, trying to make the world a better place. Picking off low-hanging fruit."
Lucy pondered that. "Maybe... Though that last guy wasn't exactly vulnerable."
She'd targeted a local Yakuza boss named Shinzo Yamada—worth two gold coins on the Stadium board. His rap sheet read like a horror story: stone-cold killer, deep into the drug trade. DataCrypt's hackers had dug up even more dirt. The guy was a real piece of work. She’d slept well knowing he was gone after the job was done.
Her plan had seemed solid. Yamada travelled in an armoured limo from his upscale home—nice wife, three charming kids—to his drug labs, following predictable routes.
The driver was meticulous, obeyed every traffic law, always took the same route. The limo was almost a tank on wheels, but such regularity and repetition of a schedule almost invited attack.
She'd crafted a tech device to shut down the limo's engine and unlock the doors remotely. Took her a day, but the schematics were easy enough to get with a little paid help from her new online friends. The hackers in DataCrypt were an eclectic mix—anarchists, free-thinkers, anti-corpo idealists. She'd never been around people so eager to upend the system.
In the DataCrypt they vetted every job posted on the Stadium board. This wasn't a murder free-for-all. Wetwork targets met specific criteria. Lucy didn't know all the details, but Shinzo Yamada fit the bill perfectly.
The job started smoothly. The limo stopped at a red light she’d triggered at an intersection in a empty street in a quieter part of town. Her device killed the engine and popped the locks. She moved in fast, cybernetics clocking impressive speed. Two guards lunged at her out of the doors, fully expected, she dispatched them with silenced shots.
Then her systems screamed a warning—grenade.
Ruthless move. Yamada had tossed it at the feet of his own men as she took them out. He wasn't some soft target; he'd clawed his way up the Yakuza ranks.
She’d leapt back, automated ReflexArc systems pushing her into a eight feet standing vault. Not far enough. The blast tore into her left side—overpressure and shrapnel shredding muscle and bone. Mid-air, the explosion propelled her further, slamming her into the pavement and a nearby low wall.
Yamada emerged from the limo, unscathed behind the bloodied wreckage of his men shielding the blast. He held a compact machine pistol, eyes cold. Nothing in her research indicated he was heavily augmented, but he clearly was.
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Her AI had triggered her pain editor as she hit the ground. She’d fortunately already red-lined her reflex systems; without that, she'd have been dead.
They’d faced off at blinding speeds—barely a dozen feet apart. Like a shoot-out of an ancient Western it was over in a blaze of bullets.
She was faster, but injured. Her Bullet-Rzor AI struggled; half her body was wrecked. She'd invested in a bullet-resistant facemask—thankfully. A burst from Yamada's weapon slammed into her forehead. The mask absorbing the impact. Her neck would have been screaming without the pain editor.
He hadn't expected her return fire. Her silenced H&K spat rounds, and Yamada went down.
Seconds ticked by. The limo driver, likely unaugmented, was still processing the engine going dead and the explosion. Lucy stumbled into a nearby alley, moving as fast as she could manage. Yamada was dead, but she was in bad shape. Maybe dying. She made it three blocks.
She called Aurum, asked for an extraction. She was surprised when he arrived himself. She collapsed into his aircar, staying awake only because of the pain editor.
Terrance had patched her up that night. Kept her alive. But her left side was a mess. A wreak. So much to repair. Replace.
She broke from her ruminating - sipped her coffee. On the table lay a children's book from Lioncourt—"My First Cyberlimb."
Ha, very funny, she’d thought with a wry smile when Peril had unwrapped the gift for her this morning. Her left hand was a lost cause. Terrance suggested replacing the entire arm to integrate better with her other systems.
Trust Lioncourt to find humour in it. The inscription inside was sincere though.
To Skadi, ma gracieuse mademoiselle. Who has learned that even in darkness, one must kindle light.
"You were hunting the evildoer," Anne's words echoed in her mind. Damn right she was. Lucy thought. Lioncourt had had it right that night after the scav warehouse. She’d just been too afraid to see the truth in what he’d said.
Aurum would arrive soon. No more passing time with the AI. Hopefully, he'd have news about the cyber upgrades she'd requested he look into.
Lucy realised she’d now been silent for around ten minutes now, lost in thought since Anne’s last comment. If Anne expected to continue their ‘engaging chat’ Lucy took perverse pleasure in derailing that.
Peril had probably given the thing some kind of therapy chatbot subroutines to help her recovery, she decided. But deconstructing her motivations wasn’t what she needed right now. She just needed to heal.
She finished her coffee. Picked up the datapad, and returned to reading patch notes humming an off-key tune. Oddly delighted that she’d distracted herself from having to chat to Anne.
*
It felt like a family dinner, Lucy realised, as Aurum set down the steaming wok filled with his personal take on fajitas. The aroma of spiced meat and vegetables filled the loft.
"Hope you're hungry," Aurum rumbled.
Lucy eyed the dish. More of a fajita-flavoured casserole than traditional fajitas, but she kept that to herself. "Smells amazing," she said.
"Only way to get vegetables into Peril," Aurum added with a wink.
Peril grinned sheepishly. She was a tiny eater but had a weakness for anything wrapped in a tortilla. The more healthy stuff hidden inside the better.
Lioncourt served himself a modest portion. His movements precise and graceful as always. Lucy wondered how much of him was still organic. All four limbs? Almost definitely. Maybe an armoured cyber-torso as well? She'd looked into those after the grenade incident.
"I hear Terrance and Mr. Matsumoto will be operating on you together," Aurum said, settling into his seat.
Lucy raised an eyebrow. "You really are in the information biz," she replied with a smirk. "Yeah, Terrance said his clinic lacks the AI support tools needed for parts of the subdermal sheath install. Insisted Mr. Matsumoto oversee the op. Felt it was beyond his league."
Lioncourt nodded thoughtfully. "Monsieur Matsumoto fait un travail de premier ordre. Must have cost you a gold coin or two to get him."
"Wasn't cheap," Lucy admitted. "It's unlike Terrance to refuse a cyber- install request. Guess the sheath is more complex than I thought."
"I'm still not convinced," Aurum said, loading his tortilla. "Why not just wear more armour on the outside?"
"You can do both, non?" Lioncourt interjected.
Peril looked at Lucy, concern in her eyes. "Will it feel different?"
Lucy met her gaze. "It shouldn't. It's deep beneath the skin. You'll only notice if you press really hard."
Aurum nearly choked on his food as Peril said innocently, "But I like pressing your bits really hard."
He coughed, sputtering. Lioncourt grinned, patting Aurum on the back.
"Too much information," Aurum managed to say.
"Recovery time's the worst part," Lucy continued, suppressing a smile. "Three weeks. The first week, I'll barely be able to move. Then another week of physio."
Lioncourt leaned back. "I knew a guy who had one. Complained about the same recovery time. Worse, if it's installed wrong, the microfluidic channels can fail. No oxygen or nutrients to the tissues—you get necrosis under the sheath. Quelle fin terrible. Un corps qui se décompose sur vous."
He noticed the others staring at him over their food.
"Pas exactement un sujet de conversation pour le dîner," he conceded. "My apologies. I'm sure Mr. Matsumoto won't let that happen."
"Three weeks is a long time to be laid up," Lucy mused. "I was thinking, after the first week, maybe take my bike up to Canada. Recover in a cabin. Would be nice if you joined me." She looked at Peril meaningfully.
Peril's eyes lit up, then she hesitated. "A rustic cabin isn't really my thing. But a nice one with a hot tub could work."
Lucy chuckled. She'd pictured a shack, but Peril was a city girl at heart. Next they’d be talking minimum connection speeds. "We can find something with a hot tub." She confirmed.
"I could manage three or four days away," Peril said. "Might need to check in on the Chalice a few times, though."
Lioncourt seemed to be calculating from his sudden silence. Lucy knew she'd blindsided him—he was responsible for Peril's safety.
"It's doable," he said finally. "I'll scout for suitable venues tonight. Might need a few extra hands for perimeter control."
He glanced at Aurum. "We've been discussing some new prospects. Could be a good test run."
Lucy looked at him sceptically. "Isn't there some security in just grabbing my bike, throwing Peril on the back, and heading somewhere random where no one knows us?"
Lioncourt chuckled softly. "Your butch bike dreams aside, non. But with some preparation, I promise a beautiful vacation spot. Hot tub. Pool. Des vues magnifiques sur une nature sauvage."
Aurum cleared his throat. "We'll need the rest. The election business is heating up. Next six months will be flat out."
Peril sighed.
Aurum looked at her. "I know you don't like the candidate, but the ends justify the means, yes?"
Lucy frowned. "Assuming my amazingly talented girl hasn't filled me in, care to explain?"
Aurum chuckled as Peril gave a guilty shrug.
"Mayoral election," Aurum began. "Two main candidates. Marcus Ullswater—young, ex-Marine captain, huge support in the Black community. Campaigns on solving homelessness and housing issues. Then there's Jacob Pemberton—corporate-backed puppet and all-around slimeball."
Lucy glanced at Peril, who was scowling. "I'm not going to like who we're backing, am I?"
"Ends sometimes have to justify the means," Aurum said smoothly. "First step to fixing this city is getting the corps to fund the police and support the systems that create justice properly. Pemberton's a law-and-order candidate."
"He's going to raise taxes, recruit new officers to the police with the monies," Aurum added. "Get them out of downtown and into the rest of the city. Seattle's got eight million people—it needs proper policing. Time to stop the Wild West out there."
"And Marcus won't do that?" Lucy asked.
Peril's voice was strained. "We have nothing on Marcus. No leverage. He's principled, genuinely charismatic. The police hate him, and so do the corps. He trusts neither. Probably with good reason—the cops killed his brother during a random stop-and-search while he was serving overseas."
"Guy has every right to hate them," Aurum conceded.
"So you're backing the bad guy," Lucy said, looking at Peril.
Peril looked away, pain evident on her face.
"You've been hanging out with the activists in the DataCrypt too much lately. Eh bien, des socialistes de salon, tous autant qu'ils sont," Lioncourt remarked. "We strive for the best outcomes in a world without mercy. Sometimes we have to work with evil to get things done."
"The plan gets worse," he added with a humourless laugh. "If you're balking now, you won't like the details."
Lucy raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."
Peril met her gaze. "A lot of bad people will die," she said quietly.
"Ma demoiselle," Lioncourt corrected gently, "a lot of people will die. I'm not one to judge good or bad. I let thinkers like you point me. C'est ainsi que je dors la nuit."
Peril winced. Clearly unhappy at the choices she was making.
"We've gamed this out for months now," Aurum said. "Anne's run the simulations endlessly. It's the best possible outcome from a bad hand for the city."
Lucy looked around the table, processing. Trying to work out the play from Lioncourt’s comments. "You're going to start a gang war in Seattle, aren't you? A massive one."
Silence hung in the air.
"Yes," Aurum admitted.
"Makes sense," Lucy said slowly. "Your scumbag candidate's all about law and order. You need to shake up the status quo—some kind of crime extravaganza during the campaign to make investing in the police worthwhile."
Her words slurred slightly, a bit of drool escaping from the damaged side of her mouth. Lioncourt, ever the gentleman, offered a crisp handkerchief.
"This city drops an average of thirty bodies a day," Lucy continued. "They're thinking of starting a lottery on it."
She paused. "By igniting a city-wide gang war, you make it so costly to the corps that they'll see a couple of percentage points in taxes as worth it to get the police to handle the situation. Protect their bottom line and business assets."
She looked at Peril. "But that's just the first layer of the onion, isn't it?"
Peril tilted her head, a subtle smile forming. "My girl always sees the layers."
*
Terrance was uncharacteristically quiet. That was Lucy's first clue about his deep respect for Mr. Matsumoto. Not Doctor Matsumoto, Terrance had noted—Mister Matsumoto. The distinction was lost on her but Terrance's deference spoke volumes.
The clinic's exterior was nondescript—a herbal remedy shop filled with exotic scents. A tired-looking young woman behind the counter barely glanced up, more engrossed in her textbook than in customers. She waved them through to the back without interest.
Lucy knew better. Beyond the next door, a heavily built Japanese man in a suit visually scanned them thoroughly. She leaned on Terrance. Limping slightly. They were waved through, the sterile medical smells replacing the storefront's aromas.
Mr. Matsumoto greeted them—a man in his mid-fifties, balding, glasses perched on his nose. In a world where cybereyes were commonplace, glasses were a style statement. Clad in a white doctor's coat, his easy smile and flawless English caught her off guard. He sounded like a Harvard professor.
"You understand the magnitude of the systems you're getting installed," he began. "So I won't repeat the briefing. Just a reminder: for the rest of your life, you'll be on bio-immuno-suppressants."
He continued, "They might not be expensive now, but this cocktail of Pyrocytosilicointegrase Inhibitors isn't cheap or easily acquired without a prescription. Times change, circumstances change—you'll need them indefinitely."
Lucy nodded. She'd done her research. The latest iterations since the 2060s overcame tolerance development—that was one less worry.
Mr. Matsumoto smiled. "Good. Follow me."
He led them to a surgical bay where a pleasant-looking nurse awaited. Lucy recognized her instantly—Phran Ying. Even in different attire, she was unmistakable. A young Thai beauty.
Phran Ying smiled, bowing slightly. She gestured toward a nearby cot. Mr. Matsumoto and Terrance drifted away, deep in conversation about the operation.
Lucy hesitated. Phran Ying was a Clean—a Bounty Hunter. What was she doing as a nurse here? Temp-ing as a nurse? It seemed ludicrous and out of place.
"Hello," the nurse said gently. "My name is Phawinee Mekkhala, but everyone calls me Pix."
More layers, more identities, Lucy thought. Was "Pix" real or just another alias?
She felt a flicker of discomfort. No trans-flag jacket this time, just a white nurse's uniform. Lucy chastised herself silently. I'm terrible at this. I’m the worst gay.
Pix efficiently gathered Lucy's clothes as she undressed, assisting with her trousers without fuss.
Am I fixating on her as a distraction? Lucy mused. As Pix helped her into the surgical gown, she realized it wasn't about her gender. Did she and Lioncourt ever...? Lucy stifled a grin. Childish thoughts.
"Need anything before we start?" Pix asked softly. "Water?"
Lucy shook her head. "I'm good."
"Alright. We'll begin shortly."
Pix rolled her toward the operating table. An immense technological wonder with a host of arms and screens that Lucy knew years of specialised training was needed to understand.
Mr. Matsumoto appeared beside her. "We'll start with your injuries, then work on the arm. At some point, we'll need you conscious to deactivate your pain editor. We have to test the haptic sensors, pain receptors, nerve interfaces—lots to check. The subdermal sheath goes in last." He flashed a bright smile.
The procedure began. The blast wounds came first. Terrance focused on her leg while Mr. Matsumoto worked on her lower abdomen. Replacement muscle fibres, nerve grafts—her left side needed significant repairs.
"Foot's a loss," Terrance muttered, calling over Mr. Matsumoto. They conferred quietly.
Too damaged. Too much loss. They decided to amputate just below the knee—the joint was still sound.
Lucy was grateful her cred was solid. Unexpected complications weren't ideal, but she trusted them.
Mr. Matsumoto returned. "We need to discuss replacement options."
She thanked her pain editor implant as Terrance began cutting.
"You can have a standard civilian prosthetic for now and decide later," he said. "Or we have a military-grade leg in stock to match the cyberarm you're getting." He forwarded the specs to her.
She appreciated his lack of pressure. She'd studied modern cyberware recently with a learnsoft, knew her options. "Give me a minute," she said.
She ran AI simulations, tweaking a build model she’d created online, considering cyberlimbs, mounts, accessories.
Her eyes caught on an accessory on Mr. Matsumoto’s list: AI micro-swarm hive housing. "Do you really have one of these?" she asked.
He nodded. "I do."
"If I integrate it with the tactical computer AI in the cyberarm..."
"They can work together, yes."
She ran the specs. Yes. It was viable. She nodded the affirmative and flipped him the updated specs of what she wanted alongside a gold coin in payment from The Black Chalice.
She watched, detached, as Terrance finished removing her lower leg with a bone saw. No pain, thanks to the editor.
For a moment, she pondered the loss. She'd once been horrified by cyberware, by limb replacements in particular. But the grenade had shredded her side. She had no choice.
It's necessary, she told herself. The subdermal sheath would prevent future injuries like this.
So why did she feel like she was convincing herself?