-Diary Log 3/15/2054-

Today was one of those rare, unexpectedly fun days in the city of neon lights. I managed to hack a program in a way that turned a swarm of drones into a makeshift light show—imagine a dance party with sparks flying and circuits jiving. Clover couldn’t help but crack a smile at the spectacle. For a moment, I felt like I was the DJ of the digital realm, remixing chaos into a beat. It was a brief escape, a small action that helped me forget the hell that was night city.

See you tomorrow,

Ellia

-Log End-

-Night City 2064-

I plunged headlong into the urban warzone, the weight of Night City pressing against me like an iron shroud. Rain hammered the cracked concrete, each drop a searing reminder of the relentless fury of this battleground. The streets were transformed into a twisted maze of neon-splattered debris and shattered glass, where every corner promised a new threat. I raced forward, every muscle tensed and every sense acutely aware, my cyberdeck pulsing at my side like a lifeline.

Armored drones, sleek and predatory, emerged from the dark recesses of ruined alleys. Their red optics scanned the chaos with cold, calculated precision. I could hear the whir of servos and the soft hum of their internal engines as they advanced, a relentless tide of mechanized death. I barked out a command without thinking—“Lock target”—and my fingers flew over the deck. Instantly, a surge of virulent code, my CONTAGION, erupted from the interface. I watched as it streamed across my HUD in vivid, pulsating colors before lancing into a charging drone.

The drone convulsed violently as its internal circuits were overwhelmed. Sparks danced across its metal skin, and a guttural, mechanical groan filled the air as its joints locked in spasmodic malfunction. It shuddered, then collapsed in a heap of twisted alloy, its red glow dimming into oblivion. But there was no time to celebrate. From the haze of destruction, a new threat materialized—a squadron of agile drones, each more nimble than the last, converging on my position with deadly intent.

I pivoted sharply, the slick pavement offering little grip as rounds sizzled overhead. In the midst of the chaos, my mind became a blur of code and combat. I initiated SUICIDE, a quickhack of last resort designed to turn enemy weapons against themselves. I watched with grim satisfaction as one drone, caught in the grasp of my command, redirected its own armament in a self-destructive volley. Metallic carcasses shattered, sending jagged fragments ricocheting across the street like lethal shrapnel.

Every heartbeat was a battle cry in the symphony of war. The cacophony was overwhelming—a relentless barrage of explosions, the crackle of disintegrating circuits, and the distant wail of sirens merging with the shriek of rain. I dodged to the left as a stray bullet seared past, its heat incinerating a nearby wall and leaving a trail of molten slag. The taste of burnt ozone filled my mouth, mingling with the adrenaline that coursed through my veins.

Amid the maelstrom, a sniper’s bullet cut through the air with pinpoint precision. It grazed my shoulder, unleashing a white-hot pain that surged like wildfire through my nervous system. I gritted my teeth, forcing my body into overdrive as my HUD flashed frantic alerts. My vision tunneled, but I fought to keep every sense sharp. I pressed further commands into my deck, a desperate cocktail of overrides and countermeasures that spanned both physical and digital battlegrounds.

The enemy wasn’t giving up. Waves of drones pivoted and re-formed as they adapted to my every tactic. I hurled another volley of quickhacks—this time an experimental blend designed to overload their systems. The air shimmered with the intensity of the assault; digital sparks exploded as my code clashed with enemy firewalls. In the split-second flicker of my augmented vision, I saw the drones’ internal systems glitching, their screens of red and green cascading like dying embers.

Then, as if summoned by sheer necessity, I extended my monowire. I watched it snake out in a thin, razor-like line toward a drone that had flanked my left. With a swift, fluid motion, I slashed through its exposed circuitry. The wire hummed as it cut through metal and data alike, severing connections and sending the drone spiraling out of control in a burst of sparks. That quiet hiss of destruction was a small victory amid the chaos.

Not wasting a beat, I activated my smart gun. My HUD lit up with a precise targeting grid as the weapon, linked seamlessly via my smart link, locked onto an advancing enemy unit. The heavy, armored unit loomed large, its bulky frame advancing methodically despite the surrounding turmoil. With a controlled squeeze, I released a volley of tracking rounds. Guided by real-time data, the bullets curved through the rain, honing in on their target until they struck true—shattering its outer plating and sending it reeling backward.

Time itself seemed to fracture. Every millisecond stretched into an eternity as I fought to maintain control amidst the chaos. The relentless hum of enemy weapons, the near-tangible pressure of the onslaught, and the searing pain from my injured shoulder melded into a singular, overwhelming focus: survival. I sprinted between collapsed vehicles and shattered storefronts, my boots slipping on rain-slick concrete as I sought cover behind a rusted-out bus. Behind me, a new threat emerged—a heavily armored unit, its massive form dwarfing the smaller drones, advancing with cold, methodical determination.

I ducked low, heart pounding, and keyed in a final override. My fingers trembled as I initiated a rapid-fire sequence of commands designed to scramble its targeting systems. I saw the heavy unit falter, its optics flickering erratically as it was forced into a temporary shutdown of its offensive capabilities. Yet, the respite was fleeting. Amid the chaos, a tracer round—its luminescence cold and unyielding—found its mark deep in my chest.

I felt the heat and force of the impact as my vision wavered, colors bleeding into darkness. Pain exploded in my lungs, and I staggered, my arms flailing in a vain bid to stave off the inevitable. Desperation clawed at my mind as I fumbled for one last command—a final override, a desperate plea to defy the odds. My cyberdeck interface flashed wildly as the code tumbled into place, but the cumulative strain of the assault was too much.

And then… darkness.

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I awoke to a sterile, white light and a pervasive, clinical hum—a world utterly different from the seething chaos I had just endured. My eyes fluttered open to reveal a netrunning rig, its interfaces and cables meticulously arranged, a stark contrast to the rain-soaked, debris-littered battleground I’d just left behind. The echoes of gunfire and digital carnage had vanished, replaced by a calm that was almost unsettling.

I rasped, still catching my breath.

Samantha’s voice came through soft and steady, layered with both relief and quiet pride. "Ellia, you pushed thirty two minutes—new personal record," she said, the warmth in her tone cutting through the clinical silence.

A tired smile tugged at my lips as I reached for the controls, my fingers twitching with the residual rush of combat. Before I could even begin to relaunch the simulation, Samantha's voice intervened gently yet firmly. "Take a break, Ellia. We need you fresh. We'll be back on the clock in ten minutes."

I paused, letting the lingering adrenaline settle. The instinct to dive back into the fray warred with the understanding that I needed a moment to catch my breath. Slowly, I powered down the rapid-fire protocols, the rig’s status lights resuming their measured, rhythmic blink.

"Alright," I murmured, the word heavy with both resignation and relief. I leaned back, closing my eyes and letting the soft hum of the system soothe the echoes of the digital battlefield still reverberating in my mind.

In the quiet that followed, the memory of the chaotic combat—every burst of bullets, every flash of code—faded into a distant, adrenaline-soaked dream. Around me, the rig’s lights pulsed steadily, a constant reminder that though the simulation had ended, the real work was just beginning.

I could not let myself be caught of guard again. I sent a simple ping toward the coffee machine across the room. The response was immediate—a crisp acknowledgment confirming that my new RAM speeds were far beyond what I’d experienced. A slight grin crept over my face as I marveled at how responsive everything felt, before I felt my face fall again. Biotechnica owned every augment within me. Biotechnica practically owns me at this point.

I cycled through my upgraded interface, casually toggling the new Self-ICE protocols and Black Ice while checking the stability of my cyberdeck. The improvements were subtle yet undeniable; every command felt smoother, and every response quicker. I could almost taste the promise of potential as I ran through quick diagnostics, each test reaffirming that the enhancements were working in perfect harmony.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I look down at the Tsunami Kappa on my hip. It was a smart weapon that Tsunami Defense Systems had just recently put in circulation with their market partners, and I had no idea how my father got a hold of one, but I wasn’t complaining.

I raise the Kappa hands with my hands off the trigger to test my new smart link by locking onto a tiny target on a poster on the wall. The overlay appeared without hesitation—a precise grid that tracked the targets as I moved the gun around as if it were part of my own vision. It was an effortless dance between my eyes and the natural and almost intuitive digital overlay.

Samantha’s voice returned, gentle and encouraging. "Ellia, let’s go, I hear the biotechnica has an important sales meeting today, and we need to prevent nosy netrunners from trying to listen in; I need you in peak condition."

I signed and started removing the wires connected to my head.

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4 Hours Later

Eventually, I signed off and left Biotechnica’s sterile corridors behind, stepping out into the cool evening. The neon glow of Night City’s towering billboards and the distant hum of traffic reminded me that despite the polished facade of corporate efficiency, life continued its own unpredictable rhythm. I made my way to my modest apartment—a small haven I’d long called home—where the familiar blend of worn furniture and flickering digital art greeted me like an old friend.

Inside, the solitude offered a reprieve. I sank into my favorite armchair, the ambient neon filtering through the window and painting the room in soft, shifting hues. My thoughts wandered back to the simulation. I remembered the raw power of my old cyberdeck, how overclocking it had once granted me a surge of strength that was almost addictive—until it broke under the strain. That broken relic now seemed like a symbol of the gap between corporate-grade equipment and the unbridled innovation of street mods.

Could I, I wondered, retrofit my cyberdeck with the kind of street mods that had saved countless edgerunners on the rougher side of Night City? The idea nagged at me—an impulsive thought fueled by both nostalgia and defiance. My fingers hovered over the interface as I pulled up schematics and performance logs. The upgrades from Biotechnica were undeniably precise, but they lacked the raw, gritty resilience of street tech, the kind that could be custom-tuned to endure anything.

Then, I thought of Rafe, with his patched-together but fiercely reliable setup. His street mods on his deck allowed him to finish a corporate netrunning exam despite his deck being years outdated.

I hesitated only a moment before my resolve took over. Leaning forward, I tapped out a message on my comm interface. The text was brief, a casual query tinged with curiosity: "Hey, Rafe. Got a minute? I want to talk about your street mods"

With a swift press of the send button, I initiated the connection and got a call shortly afterward. The call came through with a rough, unexpected edge. I could hear a pause—a slight intake of breath—before a gruff voice broke through.

"Hello Rafe."

“Hello, who is this,” Rafe’s tone was cautious, laced with genuine curiosity.

"It’s Ellia. We met at the Biotechnica netrunning exam a while back," I replied, trying to keep my tone even despite the sudden rush of nerves. "I wanted to talk about street mods."

There was a brief silence on the other end, filled only by the low hum of background noise that sounded like a busy, dimly lit workshop. Then, Rafe’s voice returned, softer now, but still carrying an edge of incredulity. "You? A Biotechnica girl hitting up a street modder? What’s going on?" He then reduced his voice to a murmur, “Well at least I know who I labeled as Corpo Bitch in my contacts now”

I felt my eye twitch as I cleared my throat. "I’m not exactly thrilled with my corporate gear anymore," I explained, “I would like to take a look at your mods”

Rafe let out a low chuckle, a sound that was equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Well, I gotta say, this is a first. You reaching out to me? I never thought a corpo kid would be asking about street mods. But… if you’re serious, then I’m listening."

"I’m serious," I insisted, “I want to see what you could do for my deck.”

There was a pause, and then Rafe’s said. "Alright, Corpo Bitch. I’m in. Just don’t think this makes you one of us overnight. But I’ll help you get closer to what you’re looking for. We can meet at my place, I have a workshop where the real mods get done. I can show you what I can do, and we’ll figure out how to mod that corpoware you got. I’ll send you my address. Is tonight good?"

I felt my eye twitch again as I responded. “Tonight is fine.” I needed to remain calm. Rafe was my only non-corporate contact.

I called up the Biotechnica flight department. The line clicked, and a clipped, professional voice answered.

"Biotechnica Flight Department, this is Callahan speaking. How may I assist you, Ms. McCallister?"

I cleared my throat. "I need an escort AV for tonight."

There was a brief pause on the line before Callahan replied, "Certainly, Ms. McCallister. We have AVs available. Would you like Android security detail for your flight?"

I hesitated for a heartbeat—my instinct was to decline, to rely on the regular protocol. But after the kidnapping, I couldn’t risk anything. “Sure, I’ll take the security.”

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2 Hours Laters

I stepped off the AV, my polished corporate boots clashing sharply with the cracked pavement of the Heywood lot. The sleek vehicle behind me hummed softly in standby mode, its Biotechnica insignia faintly glowing in the dim light of Night City’s polluted haze. Flanking me were two combat androids, moving in perfect sync—silent, imposing, their smooth synthetic plating gleaming under the flickering neon of a rusted-out streetlamp.

Rafe was already there, leaning against the workshop doorway with his arms crossed and a sly smirk playing on his lips—though I caught a hint of fear shimmering in his eyes. His patched-together vest, covered in faded gang tags and repair welds, was a testament to the streets he called home. He let out a slow whistle as he pushed off the wall and walked toward me, giving an exaggerated nod in the direction of the AV.

“Damn, chica,” he drawled, shaking his head while trying to hide his fear. “Didn’t realize Biotechnica’s entry-level corpos came with a personal AV and a pair of tin cans for backup. That job post lyin’ or is corpo life just that sweet for you?”

I met his gaze evenly, a flicker of amusement in my expression. “The entry-level title’s just for show. Unless you’re the next Cunningham or Bartmoss, you need Corpo connections to get in. Even then, it’s a fight to keep your seat.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, his grin unfazed. “Tch. Figures. Always some corpo bullshit keepin’ the rest of us on the ground while you lot ride high in the sky.” He tilted his head, eyes flicking to the androids. “Speakin’ of, you mind if I tinker with one of these chromeheads? Always wanted to crack corpo security droid software, see what makes ‘em tick.”

I deadpanned, “No, they are Biotechnica property.”

“Yeah, yeah, didn’t think so,” he snorted, then turned on his heel and motioned me inside. “C’mon then, let’s get to work before your droids scare off the neighbors.”

I just shrugged and stepped into the run-down house.

Inside, Rafe's workshop was a controlled mess—half-disassembled cyberdecks, prototype neural implants, and stacks of modded chips littered the workbenches. The air carried the distinct scent of soldered metal and coolant—a mix of innovation and survival.

I pulled a slim datapad from my coat and slid it across the nearest counter. “Before we start, I need you to sign this.”

Rafe picked up the datapad, glancing over the contract. His lips pursed as he skimmed the legal jargon until his eyes landed on a particular clause. He let out a low whistle and looked up, eyebrows raised.

“So lemme get this straight,” he said, tapping the screen. “The fancy-ass deck in your head is some proto shit that ain’t even hit the market yet. And if I so much as sneeze out a byte of data about it…” He paused, glancing at me with his usual smirk faltering slightly. “I get flatlined?”

I nodded. “You’d be eliminated. Standard corporate policy.”

He let out a slow exhale, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit, chica. You bring a guy the real high-risk work, huh?” He clicked his tongue, then—without hesitation—scrawled his signature across the datapad. “Alright, I’m in. Always down to see new tech.”

Not long after, Rafe was deep into dissecting the Biotech Mk4 schematics. I watched as his brows furrowed over the internal architecture, the occasional mutter escaping his lips.

“This thing’s insane,” he finally said, turning to me with almost begrudging admiration. “Like, top-tier corpo voodoo. Power output’s wild, but your cooling setup’s weak as shit. They’re limitin’ the raw speed on purpose—prolly to keep corpo kids like you from cookin’ your brains.”

I folded my arms and asked, “Can you fix it?”

Rafe scoffed. “Fix it? Choom, I can make this thing sing. Gimme a week, I’ll throw in a custom heatsink, let you overclock without burnin’ out your synapses.”

“Do it,” I replied.

As Rafe unplugged the cable from his head, preparing to design the modifications, I noticed a tiny spark—a flicker of light dancing along one of the neural links trailing from his rig.

I frowned. “Your deck’s throwing off sparks.”

He blinked and groaned, flicking the malfunctioning connection. “Yeah, yeah, she’s a temperamental bitch, what can I say?”

I leaned against the counter, tapping my fingers idly. “I can get you a better deck.”

Rafe froze mid-motion and turned to face me fully, skepticism and curiosity warring in his eyes. “First of all, I refuse to replace my baby. Secondly, ain’t no way you’re offerin’ me a fresh deck outta the kindness of your heart,” he said slowly. “Why would a corpo be handin’ out free chrome to a street kid like me?”

I shrugged. “Most models in the civilian market are pocket change anyways.”

He stared at me for a long moment before shaking his head with a chuckle, rubbing his hand over his face. “Damn, chica… sometimes I forget just how deep that corpo eddies go.”

I smirked slightly as I transferred the creds to his account for both the mods and the deck. When Rafe glanced at the numbers on his HUD, his cocky demeanor faltered just a bit.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, exhaling sharply. “I think I just realized how in over my head I am.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Took you long enough. I want the schematics for the upgrade in a week, and you need to buy yourself a better deck—I don’t want that deck of yours to cook your brain before your job is done.”