-Diary Log 3/20/2062-

I met a guy last week. An edgerunner. Didn’t catch his real name—he went by Kite. Said he was between gigs, trying to score something big. We sat at the same ramen stall, and he just started talking, like he needed someone to hear him. Told me about his last job, a botched convoy hit in Pacifica, how he barely crawled out with his chrome intact. He laughed like it didn’t matter, like Night City hadn’t already decided his fate.

Out of curiosity, I looked him up today. I found a single line buried in the news feeds—Kite, cyberpsycho, neutralized by NCPD in Watson. No grand send-off, no legacy, just another nameless body dumped in the gutter. I don’t know why it stuck with me. Maybe because he was the first person in a long time who talked to me without wanting something. Maybe because he had plans, dreams, and in the end, it didn’t mean a damn thing.

Seven days. That’s all it took for Night City to erase him.

-Ellia

-Log end-

-Night City- -Private Netrunner Sub-Node-

The name Kiwi triggered a swirl of images and half-forgotten lore from a vanished world: Kiwi, the netrunner from Maine’s crew, and Lucy’s mentor, the one whose motto was simple but unyielding: never trust a soul in Night City.

I must have stood still for too long because the Kiwi’s avatar turned. I saw a stylized face, blank but for faint slits where eyes might be. Her posture stilled. She tilted her head.

“Are you okay?” The voice was crisp, cool, distinctly female. There was a slight hiss, as if masked by an audio filter.

I realized I’d been staring, locked in place, posture rigid and arms taut at my sides. Her question brought me back to the present. I forced my avatar’s limbs to relax, let them assume the pre-programmed idle stance. “Oh—uh—sorry,” I replied quickly. “I got lost in the code and my deck glitched.” A lie, but plausible enough.

She made a small gesture of understanding. “Better watch it. This place can fry your deck if you push it too hard, or if you let the locals get too curious.” Her voice was casual but had an undercurrent of mild concern. “You sure you’re all right?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. All good.” I forced my avatar to produce a slight wave. “Guess I just recognized your handle from somewhere—maybe a rumor.” I tried to keep my tone light.

The faint luminous shape of Kiwi’s face tilted again. “Hmm. Not sure where you’d have heard it. I keep a low profile.” A moment’s hesitation. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

My heart hammered. “No, no, must be an error. Sorry to bother you.”

She said nothing for a moment, letting the silence weigh between us. Then, with a graceful pivot, she turned back to the display of scripts. “Suit yourself.”

I seized the moment to vanish before she probed further. I forced my deck to open a local sub-menu, conjuring a quick “Logout” door. “Gotta run,” I mumbled. “Take care.”

Without waiting for a reply, I launched out of the hub. A swirl of neon code enveloped me as the environment collapsed into a black funnel. Moments later, I was back in the real world, blinking away the VR haze in the solitude of my apartment. My heart still hammered as I stared at the battered 2030 laptop perched on a side table.

I swallowed, opening the ancient 2030 laptop’s archaic OS. The battered screen flickered to life, lines of text scanning across in a dusty hue and I go through my database

Alias/Handle: Kiwi

Appearance: Kiwi is a tall, slender woman draped in a flowing red jacket. The most striking thing about her is the red mask that conceals the lower half of her face—hiding the fact that her jaw is completely missing. She has a sharp, feline gaze and a short, pale blonde bob.

History & Reputation:

– Kiwi was part of Maine’s mercenary crew well before the main events of Edgerunners.

– Stands out for her distant demeanor and self-reliant philosophy—“never trust a soul in Night City.”

– Despite her aloof stance, Kiwi and Lucy share an intimate if subtle bond. Lucy’s netrunning skill eventually surpasses Kiwi’s in crucial missions.

– Kiwi has orchestrated or contributed to important ambushes. For instance, involvement in the Jimmy Kurosaki job, a turning point in multiple timelines. Possibly assisted in data heists for Maine’s crew.

– Known to have once attempted a breach of Tanaka’s ICE but failed after Maine's cyberpsycho attack, prompting Lucy to step in—this moment changed Lucy’s path in Maine’s crew.

Role as a Netrunner:

– Kiwi’s talents lean toward infiltration and intelligence gathering. She’s adept at setting up ambushes, data interceptions, and bridging specialized equipment.

– Skilled but overshadowed by Lucy in raw infiltration. Kiwi’s approach: methodical, cautious. She rarely invests personal feelings in a job, aligning with her motto of universal distrust.

I stared at these words, a knot forming in my stomach. The difference between knowledge gleaned from that show and the brutal reality I inhabited gnawed at me. Kiwi was dead in that storyline. And yet, here in 2064, the netrunner was still alive.

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-Rafe’s Workshop- -3 days later-

I walked into the workshop and immediately spotted Rafe bent over a cluttered workbench, tinkering with a fist-sized circuit component that gleamed under the flickering neon overhead. The cramped interior of his makeshift workspace in Heywood reeked of scorched metal, engine oil, and take-out leftovers. Drones in various states of assembly lined every shelf, while half a dozen circuit boards lay scattered across the floor.

He glanced up as my footsteps neared, a wry, unreadable grin spreading across his face. “Took you long enough,” he said.

I crossed my arms, surveying the chaos of tangled cables and half-burnt wiring. “I’d say your decor’s gotten worse, but that would imply there was a standard here to start with.”

“Hey,” he retorted, only half-offended. “It’s a system. Organized chaos.” With a flick, he activated a spot on the circuit board and held it out with triumphant flair. “Anyway, check this out: brand-new schematic for your deck. It even includes a custom heatsink for that fancy Biotech Σ you’re packing these days.”

I studied the metal attachment, noting the spiderweb of tiny gold and silver conduits etched across its surface. “Looks like a bunch of micro-lattice vents on top of a standard HPC conductor?”

Rafe’s eyes lit up as he flipped the piece over to reveal an exposed circuit board. “Yeah, that’s the gist. It’s a specialized mod that’ll funnel heat away from your deck’s cores—perfect for overclocking or rapid-fire quickhacks.”

I raised a brow. “And you think any random tech can attach it?”

“Not just any,” he replied. “You need a ripperdoc who knows this kind of street mod. Also, see these four pins?” He tapped them gently. “They have to link directly with your deck’s sensor array. If the doc solders them wrong, you risk frying your precious corpoware.”

I grimaced. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Don’t you know a reliable doc?”

He shrugged. “Don’t you have, like, some rich Biotechnica ripper on speed dial?”

I let out a dry laugh. “Sure, I’ll just stroll into a corporate clinic and politely ask them to install unapproved street mods onto unreleased hardware. I’m sure they’d love that.”

Rafe snorted and set down the piece. “Good point. I do know a decent ripper in Little China, over in Watson. And he’s cheap, too.”

I rolled my eyes. “Believe it or not, ‘cheap’ isn’t exactly my deciding factor.”

He explained, “Yeah, well, it’s Vik. His real name’s Viktor, but everyone calls him Vik. The guy’s good—and he doesn’t charge an arm and a leg for basic enhancements. Even advanced stuff, if you know him well enough.”

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

My mind flickered through half-remembered references. “Viktor… as in Viktor Vektor?”

Rafe eyed me carefully. “Uh, yeah? You know him?”

“That’s not important,” I quickly dismissed, waving a hand. “But I’ve been meaning to meet him actually. Let’s go see what he can do.”

Rafe nodded, relief softening his features. “Great. I actually need to drop by too—I missed a couple of checkups, and Vik’s been on my case.”

A slow grin tugged at my lips as I said, “So, we’re heading to Watson. And how do we get there? Don’t tell me your rust bucket out front is finally back in working order.”

He placed a hand on his heart, feigning offense. “Look, my ride may not be the prettiest, but it runs—most days.”

I shot him a withering look. “Right. You can ride with me on the AV.”

His protest died on his lips. Fiddling with a broken drone shell, he mumbled, “Fine. If you insist.”

----------------------------------------

I boarded my Biotechnica AV just outside the workshop, the door sliding shut with a subdued hiss. Inside, the cabin enveloped us in an almost oppressively smooth interior of synthetic leather and tinted windows, with two droids standing by. I sank into one of the plush seats while Rafe lingered awkwardly, taking it all in.

As the craft lifted from the ground with an effortless hum, I peered out the window. Heywood’s chaotic streets unfurled below: block after block of chipped concrete, graffiti-splashed walls, and even the occasional flash of muzzle fire from a gang shootout near the Santo Domingo border. Rafe stared out too, his eyes tracking the silhouette of battered tenements, tents, and cardboard shacks huddled together under the gleam of monorails. In the distance, the polished skyscrapers of the City Center rose like monoliths, a stark divide between the haves and have-nots.

After a long silence, I finally broke it. “You okay?”

Rafe waved his hand dismissively. “Shh. Let a man fantasize.”

“Fantasize about what, exactly?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.

He snorted softly. “About being in the big leagues—like those legends who get their own AV, traveling high above the rabble. Just soaking in the view, you know? This must be how big-time mercs or well-known edgerunners see the city—small and far away. It’s kind of… motivating.”

I let his words settle before asking, “When you left Biotechnica Tower after the test, you said you’d try becoming a merc. How’s that going?”

His cheeks flushed. “You know… a gig here, a gig there. Nothing major.”

A quick mental command on my part had my kiroshi optics pull up Rafe’s partial records—public data and some snippets from Biotechnica’s logs. I saw a handful of minor tasks: deliveries and petty fetch jobs. Smirking, I said, “By ‘gigs,’ you mean running packages around for random no-name fixers?”

Rafe’s expression twisted. “How the hell do you know that?”

I offered a half-shrug. “It’s not exactly hidden. Your profile’s wide open, and you’ve posted on every bottom-tier job board in Night City. No offense, but that’s not how you land the big leagues.”

He slumped in his seat. “I’m not getting calls from the major fixers, obviously. They contact you first once you prove yourself.”

“Couldn’t you just—message them? Show some initiative?” I prodded.

He shot me a sour look. “It’s not that simple. Especially if you’re nobody. The fixers with real power don’t have time for cold calls—they want a reason to approach you.”

I studied him, noticing the frustration that undercut his usual bravado, and a twinge of sympathy stirred within me. “I know some big fixers. Dino Dinovic in City Center, for instance. But Dino’s mostly into dangerous gigs—major corp infiltrations or high-stakes hijacks. I remember my father hiring him for some internal espionage once. Not sure you’d want that.”

Rafe let out a long sigh. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t have the rep for that sort of job—not yet, anyway.”

I pursed my lips. “Well, if you need smaller tasks—maybe some netrunning subcontracts—I might be able to hook you up.”

He chuckled lightly. “I appreciate it, but I’d prefer to catch the eye of a real bigshot. Dex, or maybe Faraday.”

I burst into genuine laughter. “Those two? Faraday’s so deep in Militech you might as well sign with a corp, and Dex… well, let’s just say not everyone who works with him walks away alive.”

Rafe’s ears reddened, irritation flashing across his face. “You sure talk like you know these people personally.”

I simply shook my head with a knowing smile. “Call it a hunch.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the AV’s autopilot chimed, announcing our arrival in Watson. The craft glided onto a half-broken rooftop pad, thrusters kicking up trash and the stench of old takeout as the door hissed open.

I led the way out, followed by two Biotechnica droids in corporate black, their optics scanning the narrow alley stretching from the rooftop’s staircase to the street. Rafe swallowed and hopped out, his eyes darting around as if expecting a trap at any moment. He looked out of place next to the sleek, expressionless droids and my crisp jacket. “This is it, I guess. Little China, alley near Vik’s. Not the best area, but it does the job.”

As we descended the steps, a wild-eyed man slumped against a corner, ranting in a singsong voice: “These soulless men that run the corporations are not just human, but immortal! They gained their powers from aliens in Alpha Centauri… open your eyes, people! The blue eyed aliens watch us all. It’s in the radiowaves!”

Rafe snickered and elbowed me lightly. “I think he’s talking about you.”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s not entirely wrong.”

Rafe nearly tripped over a loose brick and spun around, staring at me. “What in the… what do you mean by that?”

I arched an eyebrow and kept walking. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, you can’t just drop a bomb like that and keep walking!” he called after me.

We turned a corner, passing a shuttered Chinese restaurant with chipped, flickering neon above the door. Farther ahead, a broad sign reading “Little China Dumpings” remained dark—probably closed for the night. This was the area where Misty’s Esoterica would eventually set up shop.

I paused to glance at a half-hidden metal gate beside the restaurant. Beyond it, a dimly lit alley cast long shadows on the crumbling pavement from a single, flickering light. “He sets up shop down here, behind a half-broken gate? Doesn’t exactly scream ‘professional doc.’”

Rafe shrugged. “Viktor hates fancy front signage. He’s a back-alley doc with real skill—how he likes it. Anyway, how’d you hear of him?”

“Biotechnica tried to recruit him at some point,” I replied carefully, offering only a half-truth. “He said no.”

Rafe snorted. “Must not be money-motivated then. Guess he’s just stubborn.”

I signaled the droids to remain at the alley entrance. They beeped once, scanning the perimeter before taking up watchful positions. Rafe rolled his eyes but seemed relieved. “Not exactly subtle, your goons.”

I ignored the jab. “Let’s just get this done.”

Inside the clinic, the smell of disinfectant and stale coffee hit me immediately. A row of battered waiting chairs lined one side, and the overhead fluorescent light buzzed incessantly. A robust older man—sporting noticeable cybernetics—looked up from a desk cluttered with worn medical textchips.

“Hey, Vik,” Rafe greeted him with a raised hand. “Long time no see.”

Viktor turned, eyebrows knitting together. “You again, huh? You missed your last two checkups.” His voice carried that exasperated yet fond tone of a reluctant father figure.

Rafe coughed awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well, been… busy.”

Vik’s gaze shifted to me. “And who’s your friend?”

“I’m Ellia,” I said, stepping forward. “I need a mod attached to my cyberdeck—something Rafe built.” I handed over the small case containing the module.

Vik examined it with calloused fingers. “This is decent craftsmanship. Looks custom. Should keep your deck cooler under load.”

I nodded. “I’d like to get it installed—unofficially. If that’s all right with you.”

His eyes flicked from the module to my crisp attire. “You come from the corporate side of Night City?”

“Biotechnica,” I replied evenly.

A wry smile crossed his face. “I’ll assume you’re not here to offer me some fancy contract. Alright, I can help. But first, I gotta make sure your pal here isn’t rotting from the inside. Rafe, on the chair. Now.”

I said nothing, watching as Vik led Rafe into a side alcove lined with scanning equipment. I couldn’t help but be amused as the younger netrunner endured a stern lecture about maintenance schedules, safe deck usage, and the cost of ignoring subtle warning signs.

“Kid, keep adding mods to your relic hardware like this, and you’ll end up frying your synapses,” Vik warned, scanning Rafe’s neural port. “Next time, come in before you blow out half your deck. Got it?”

“Got it,” Rafe mumbled, his face flushed.

Suppressing a smirk, I watched their dynamic—Rafe always tried to play it tough, yet here he was, practically chastised like a child.

Eventually, Vik shooed Rafe away and beckoned me to the main medchair, rummaging for a micro-solder kit. “All right, your turn. Let’s see that fancy deck.”

I lowered myself into the chair, letting calm settle over me. “Go for it, doc.”

I felt Vik unlock the hidden neural port behind my ear, carefully prying open the protective plating on my new Biotech Σ deck. A faint hiss of escaping coolant signaled that the system was active, ready to be enhanced. Vik’s brow furrowed in concentration as he attached the module pin by pin, aligning them perfectly with the deck’s sensor array. Occasionally, he used a micro-laser to fuse the connections.

A slight sting at my temple made me inhale sharply. Vik paused and injected a local anesthetic to dull the bite. After a few more delicate connections, he closed the panel with a decisive click.

“All done,” he announced, stepping back. “Now, let’s see if it boots without a meltdown.”

I toggled the deck’s overclock, feeling an internal hum vibrate along my neural pathways. The usual warmth at the back of my skull flared, then steadied into a pleasing equilibrium. A grin spread across my face. “Feels stable.”

Vik nodded approvingly. “You’ve got some advanced hardware in there, Ellia. You’d better handle it carefully.”

I offered a small shrug. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He settled onto a nearby stool, eyeing both Rafe—still perched on a crate—and me, stretching my neck from the medchair. “You two remind me of Jackie and his new friend. Jackie brought in some Arasaka Academy girl the other day—both wide-eyed and bickering. Different backgrounds, just like you two.”

Rafe perked up. “Jackie? Mama Welle’s kid?”

Vik sighed. “Another dreamer, but with the personality to back it up. Might cause a stir one day—if he doesn’t get himself flatlined first.”

I chewed on my lip as old memories stirred at the mention of Jackie. An Arasaka teen—that might be V. I tried to hide my reaction, but Vik’s glance suggested he noticed.

Just then, my comm beeped with a priority message: my father. “Ellia, I have a new assignment for you.” The message was crisp, terse—no time for pleasantries.

I sighed inwardly and acknowledged the call with a mental press. The text scrolled across my vision. Forcing a polite expression, I said, “I have to get back. Work calls.”

Rafe hopped off the crate. “Already? You sure you’re good to travel so soon?”

I gave a quick nod, stretching my arms. The new mod in my deck imbued me with a sense of steady power, yet it also reminded me how entangled I was in corporate demands. “I’ll manage.”

Turning to Vik, I offered a rare, genuine half-smile. “Thanks for the help, doc. This was exactly what I needed.”

He smiled faintly. “Stay safe. And if your deck starts smoking, come back before it fries your brain.”

I eyed Rafe. “Want a ride back? Or shall I call you a Delamain?”

He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Delamain’s fine, I guess…” Lowering his voice, he muttered, “Fucking corpos and their eddies.”

I nodded and stepped toward the door. Rafe trailed behind, looking oddly uncertain. As we reached the clinic exit, slipping past the last flicker of overhead neon, I called back, “Later, Vik.” The doc just waved, his eyes already returning to some battered piece of hardware.

Outside, my droids still manned their positions at the alley entrance, scanning passersby with mechanical disinterest. Pushing open the gate, I felt the night air of the city rush in—a heady mix of engine fumes, street vendors’ spices, and the faint tang of recent rain. My father’s summons echoed in my mind. I turned to Rafe with calm finality. “I’ll have a Delamain pick you up in two. Good luck with your checkups next time—I’ll see you during game night.”

He blinked, about to protest, then shrugged. “Sure. Thanks.”

Without another word, I strode off, my droids falling into step behind me, each mechanical footfall echoing on the wet pavement. A silent, threadbare glow from a distant streetlamp lit the far end of the alley, guiding me out. I tapped my comm to hail the AV, and my father’s message scrolled again in my peripheral vision—urgent and impersonal.