-DIARY LOG 4/10/2051-

Dear Diary,

Getting into Biotechnica’s Gifted Students Research Program wasn’t a surprise, and it wasn’t something to celebrate. It was just another inevitable step on the neatly paved path for me. The program itself is exclusive and one of the best in the city. It has a less than 3% acceptance rate and is filled with genetically enhanced prodigies, corpo heirs, and the occasional outlier with a unique advantage. That last category is where I fit in.

They didn’t pick me because I’m a genius. They picked me because I think like an adult trapped in a child’s body. Because I see patterns in systems before they form, I solve problems I shouldn’t be able to solve. And in a city like Night City, where innovation and exploitation walk hand in hand, that makes me valuable.

I told my parents over dinner. It was one of the rare times I saw them in person, no holocalls, no rushed conversations with their assistants relaying their words, just the three of us sitting at the same table. The rudimentary house AI had carefully curated a nutrient-balanced and efficiently prepared meal.

I told them I had gotten in. My father barely glanced up from his stock reports, nodding before returning to scrolling. My mother acknowledged it the same way she might acknowledge the weather. "It was expected," she said before sipping her drink.

No congratulations. No acknowledgment of effort. No recognition that this was supposed to be a defining moment. I should have expected it. I did expect it. I don’t know why it still stung.

Other kids in my program will go home to proud parents, to celebrations, to framed acceptance letters on their walls. Me? I’ll go home to silence, to another checkmark on the long list of accomplishments that don’t matter to the people who should care.

It’s fine. This is just how things are. I start next week. A future engineered by Biotechnica, another step toward becoming exactly what they expect me to be.

I should feel proud. I tell myself I am.

Until tomorrow,

Ellia

-Log End-

-Night City 2064-

I settle into the sterile biomed chair, the faint odor of disinfectant and metal tang filling my lungs. The overhead lights are painfully white, casting sharp shadows across the polished floor. It’s a stark contrast to the neon-soaked chaos of Night City outside, but that’s how Biotechnica likes it: spotless, controlled, and undeniably corporate.

A soft click signals the start of the calibration process. My new cyberdeck interface hums against the base of my skull, and I resist the urge to shiver at the cold press of metal. Dr. Alric Veran, the ripperdoc assigned to me, taps a series of commands on a floating holo-panel. He’s all precise motions and dispassionate efficiency, a far cry from the black-market docs you might find in Watson or Westbrook. Every inch of him screams official. Corporate.

“You’re receiving premium-grade gear,” he says, voice flat. “Biotech Σ mk4 deck. Your father insisted.”

Insisted. That’s corpo-speak for commanded, no questions asked. I glance at the reflection on a nearby chrome cabinet. I see a young woman with dark hair pulled tight behind her head, eyes slightly narrowed from the bright lights overhead. No matter how clean they scrub these rooms, I can’t shake the feeling that the filth of corporate politics lingers behind all the glimmering surfaces and the fancy biotech branding.

Alric continues, unbothered by my silence. “The Camillo RAM Manager will optimize your processing capacity and resource allocation. Self-ICE is standard for internal security. Wouldn’t want anyone hacking oure latest investment, would we?”

The corner of my mouth twitches. They’re not even subtle about it. Sometimes, I miss the days in that daycare, when I at least had the illusion of freedom. Now I’m strapped into a chair, letting them implant a state-of-the-art cyberdeck because it suits my father’s interests in Biotechnica. Doesn’t matter if it’s the best hardware in Night City. It’s also the perfect leash; Biotechnica can shut it off anytime.

“You’ll feel a mild static as the neural link updates,” Alric mutters, flipping another switch. I nod, and an electric tingle floods the back of my skull. Screens fill my vision in a dizzying rush: vitals, system diagnostics, all sorts of data streaming directly into my optics. I focus on a point on the wall, fighting the wave of nausea that threatens to rise.

A quick test of the new HUD: I blink, scanning the room in bright overlays. Medical charts, oxygen levels, the slight quiver of Alric’s eyelid. The data flows so smoothly, it’s unsettling. For a moment, I’m tempted to marvel at the sheer power of this tech.

But that wonder only lasts a heartbeat.

I remember why I’m here, why I’m even allowed these upgrades. My father’s voice echoes in my head: Make use of it. A thinly veiled command. Fail, and I’m nothing more than wasted resources. Succeed, and I tighten the golden leash around my neck.

“So far, so good,” Alric says, stepping away. “Your father will expect results.”

His words hang in the sanitized air. I give the smallest nod, eyes trained on the mirrored surfaces reflecting my image back at me. In this shining, flawless room, I’m reminded yet again that in Night City, even the cleanest spaces are still dirty with corporate control.

2 hours later

The shuttle ride to Biotechnica HQ ends far too quickly. One moment, I’m watching the neon sprawl of Night City flash by in a dizzy blur through tinted windows. The next, the doors hiss open onto a polished lobby that reeks of cold efficiency. Towering glass walls reflect a sleek future, all curved lines and corporate logos carefully placed to scream innovation without a hint of warmth.

I step onto a floor so immaculate I can see my reflection beneath my feet, the hum of state-of-the-art security systems permeating the air. Other fresh-faced recruits file in around me, each wearing the telltale mix of anticipation and nerves. We’re funneled toward a row of high-tech scanning stations: tall, arched frameworks pulsing with dull blue light. As I draw closer, the faint buzz at the base of my skull heightens, my new cyberdeck syncing automatically with the scanners.

A Corpo Tech Officer waits on the other side, expression neutral. No greeting, no smile, just a curt nod for each candidate. When it’s my turn, I step forward, and the scanner envelops me in an electric haze. The hum intensifies, data flickering across a holo-display overhead. I catch glimpses of my loadout: Biotech Mk4 Cyberdeck, Camillo RAM Manager, Self-ICE. Everything is top-tier, courtesy of my father’s directives.

“Premium-grade. Approved,” the officer states, barely glancing up from the readout. Another nod, and I’m waved through, just like that, my fate decided by a color-coded checklist in a corporate database. A few steps further, and the tension eases from my shoulders, though not by much. The corridor ahead leads deeper into Biotechnica’s domain, where everything is bright lights and polished smiles hiding the sharp edges underneath.

I move along, hyper-aware of every quiet footstep echoing off the glossy walls. The hush in this place is unsettling, broken only by the occasional beep from a passing employee’s badge or the sterile hiss of automated doors. Despite the pristine setting, I can’t forget the feeling of a leash tugging at my neck. This building might look impressive, but it’s still a cage built to keep it’s employees tethered, scanning everyone's every move. And despite the swirl of new faces and cutting-edge tech, I already know how this story goes: follow the rules, serve the corporation, be grateful for the shiny toys, and don’t ask questions.

Approved. It’s such a neat, hollow word. In Night City, there’s no such thing as unconditional acceptance. There’s always a trade-off, always a price. With each step toward the heart of Biotechnica, I feel the invisible threads tighten around me, weaving me deeper into the corporate tapestry. The hallway stretches on, pristine and endless.

A few strides down the hallway, I see a cluster of new hires waiting at another checkpoint. The Corpo Lady overseeing it wears a practiced smirk, the kind that says she’s about to make someone’s life difficult just because she can. I catch sight of a person in the line, fingers drumming restlessly against his forearm as he shifts his weight.

He looks out of place among the polished suits. His stance is casual, a slight tilt to his shoulders that screams “I don’t bend easy.” While everyone else sports at least a slick jacket or suit, he’s wearing a patchwork vest, a little frayed at the edges. Real street-kid energy, all defiance and raw skill, like he knows he’s walking on corpo turf and refuses to pretend otherwise.

When it’s his turn, the Corpo Lady’s sneer deepens. “Name,” she says without looking up from her terminal.

“Rafe,” he replies, chin lifting. “Rafe Santos.”

She taps a key on the console, her gaze flicking over his cyberware readout. A faint frown creases her forehead before she scoffs. “You realize that relic of a cyberdeck isn’t up to corporate standards, correct?”

He shoots back a grin. “Relic? This baby’s runnin’ circles ‘round half the chrome junk you suits churn out.” He taps his temple, where the port for his Raven Microcyber Mk1 is embedded beneath his skin. “Been modding it since I was a kid, choom. It’s better than whatever pre-fab crap you’d install in me.”

“Street mods,” she says with a curl of her lip. “Unreliable at best. If you can’t meet Biotechnica’s baseline requirements, we have no reason to let you through.”

One of the senior examiners steps in before the argument heats further. “Let him test. If his gear fries, then he only proves us right.” He waves dismissively. “No skin off our back.”

I watch Rafe’s jaw tighten, and for a second, I think he’s about to mouth off again. Instead, he forces a tense smile. “Real fair. Bet you’d love seein’ me flatline so you can say ‘I told you so.’ Typical corpo move, huh?”

The Corpo Lady’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. She just nods curtly, entering a final note on her device. “Next,” she says, dismissing him with the flick of a hand.

Rafe steps aside, his grin fading. I catch him running a quick systems check on his deck, muttering curses under his breath. Most folks here don’t bother to hide their disdain. They see him as a cocky kid with a rig that doesn’t measure up to corporate shine. But from the look in his eyes, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Sure, it’s not a piece of polished, brand-new chrome, but it’s his. Personalized. It wasn’t handed to him in some sterile Biotechnica lab like mine was.

He notices me watching and tips his head in a nod, half-challenge, half-greeting. “You with the fancy deck, yeah? Don’t let ‘em freeze your soul, corpo girl.”

I roll my eyes a bit, but there’s no malice in it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I hold his gaze for a moment, then glance back at my own top-tier implants. This place might have the best gear, but it comes with strings. Rafe, for all his street talk and battered tech, stands on a sharper edge of freedom than I do. It’s twisted. It’s unfair. And it’s all very Night City.

By the time I reach the test room, the hum of data streams and flickering holo-displays fill the air with a faint crackle of digital energy. High-end netrunning chairs, arranged in neat rows, gleam under the soft neon glow overhead. Each seat is wired to a node that pulses with corporate precision, a Biotechnica logo flashing insistently on every screen.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

I settle into one of the chairs, feeling a gentle click as my neural link engages with the system. My optics flare for a split second, the Biotech Σ Mk4 automatically calibrating to its new environment. The process is so seamless I barely have time to think about the code surging through my mind. Top-tier gear, courtesy of a father who believes in throwing money and influence at everything he wants.

Across the room, I spot Rafe fumbling for a moment with the jack at the back of his neck. His outdated framework clearly fights the state-of-the-art system. For a second, the lights on his rig flicker in protest, and I see him grit his teeth as he forces a manual override.

While I’m gliding through the system interface like water flowing downhill, Rafe’s deck seems determined to swim upstream. It’s clunky and mismatched, but he’s pushing it, coaxing and wrestling with every line of code until it cooperates. There’s a quiet stubbornness in the way he sets his jaw, a defiance that says he’ll make this work on his own terms.

“Alright, listen up,” an examiner announces, striding to the front of the room. He taps a few keys on a sleek control panel, and a massive holo-map appears above us, detailing an intricate network of Biotechnica’s servers. “Your task is simple. Defend these servers against a live intrusion. No second chances. You either hold the line or get burned.”

I can practically taste the tension rising from the candidates. Some glance around nervously, while others radiate confidence like they’ve been waiting for this moment all their lives. I feel my heart rate pick up, but my biomonitor chirps once, then settles me back to a steady rhythm, feeding calming agents directly into my bloodstream. The feeling of having every biological process monitored and adjusted in real-time was oddly comforting, in a creepy sort of way.

Rafe’s rig finally syncs, and I catch a triumphant glint in his eye. He notices me looking and flashes a grin that doesn’t hide the strain. “Street tech ain’t givin’ up yet,” he mutters to no one in particular.

“Commencing simulation,” the examiner states, and a wave of digital static washes over my HUD. I feel a surge of adrenaline, though it’s quickly tempered by Biotechnica’s carefully engineered controls. The test begins.

In that moment, I can’t help thinking that while my path has been smoothed by corporate backing, Rafe is forging his own, hacking through every obstacle. I wonder which one of us really has the upper hand. Then the system floods my vision with glowing command prompts, and the battle for Biotechnica’s servers begins.

The data stream hits me like a cold wave, and suddenly I’m immersed in a shifting digital landscape that looks nothing like the pristine room around me. Arrays of glowing code lines arc across a black void, each line pulsing like veins feeding life into the virtual environment. This is Biotechnica’s server framework, meticulously engineered to be resilient against the city’s most notorious netrunners. My HUD flickers with fresh alerts, bringing up icons labeled ICE, daemons, and watcher programs that wander the network like guard dogs.

Standard ICE is the first layer, flickering in my peripheral vision. It’s the basic firewall: scanning packets, checking credentials, and auto-booting anything that doesn’t match the authorized signature. Most netrunners would brute force or slip past with a well-coded bypass, but we’re on defense, so I focus on reinforcing access permissions and flagging suspicious data clusters. If anything tries to force its way in, the ICE will swarm it, creating glitches and error loops that slow the attack.

The real threat is the black ICE that lurks deeper in the system, waiting for a confirmed hostile intruder. A few pulses of code from my end, and I can see each black ICE instance ping on my overlay like sharks cruising the depths. They’re lethal constructs designed to do more than kick you from the net. Black ICE can fry a runner’s synapses, sometimes leaving them braindead in the real world. Biotechnica spares no expense, so these are top-of-the-line Reapers, coded to hijack the neural link of anyone they detect. They loiter in the gloom between server clusters, ready to pounce the moment an unauthorized presence slips by the weaker defenses.

Just as I finish scanning, the intrusion begins. A snaking line of corrupted code worms its way along the edges of my vision, trying to stay below the threshold of detection. I throw up a quick barrier, a system-level override designed to flush out suspicious packets, and watch the corrupted data surge with renewed purpose. That means there’s a daemon behind it, a specialized AI script that adapts to your defenses in real time. Sure enough, a new icon appears on my HUD: a shifting, snarling construct that changes shape each time I try to lock onto it.

I tap into the Camillo RAM Manager, offloading some of the defensive subroutines to keep them running smoothly. My deck hums, pumping data at dizzying speeds. Over on the side, I catch glimpses of Rafe’s feed. He’s wrestling with a hound-class daemon that’s gnawing at his thread lines. The old Raven Microcyber Mk1 struggles to keep pace, but Rafe’s skill shows through. He tosses out a series of well-timed quickhacks, each one manually typed rather than pre-coded. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s definitely not corpo-approved protocol, but it works. Little by little, he’s driving the daemon back.

Meanwhile, I feel the weight of Biotechnica’s resources behind me. My Self-ICE automatically generates pulse scripts that knock out lesser infiltration attempts. The black ICE constructs circle like sharks, waiting for the right moment to strike. For a heartbeat, I wonder how it must feel for Rafe to battle with raw grit while I have a full deck of corporate tools at my disposal. Then the corrupted data spikes again, shifting the entire network into a frenzy of color and static. No time to hesitate. I dive deeper, merging with the system to repel the intrusion, a perfect cog in the Biotechnica machine. This might be a test, but it feels real enough to leave scars if I slip up. And in Night City, scars aren’t easily forgotten.

I finish my run before anyone else, and the system’s virtual environment dissolves around me. The other candidates are still locked into their netrunning chairs, eyes unfocused as they fend off the last waves of hostile data. The hush of the real world settles over me, punctuated by the faint hiss of ventilators and the electric hum of Biotechnica’s servers.

With nothing left to do, I idle, letting my new Biotech Mk4 drift across nearby frequencies with some custom code that I made. Most channels are tight and encrypted, but a single thread, faint and not guarded very well, flutters just at the edge of my awareness. Caution flickers in my mind. If I push too far, they’ll pick up on me. But the curiosity is too strong.

I nudge the deck’s intrusion protocols forward. A thin layer of custom stealth ice helps me blend in with the background noise. The connection opens, a rush of static followed by two voices speaking in casual, almost bored tones. They’re examiners. It’s obvious by the clipped, no-nonsense way they speak, the same way they ordered us to sync into the test a few minutes ago.

“Eric’s locked in for top,” one of them says. “Check the board. His old man’s footin’ half the bill for next quarter’s upgrades.”

A soft grunt of acknowledgment. “Got it. Anyone else a problem?”

I hold my breath as one of them rattles off a sequence of keystrokes. I imagine a holo-display popping up, showing names, ranks, affiliations. “We’re good… except for that street kid. Rafe Santos. He’s bumping his numbers up more than expected.”

“Background?”

“Zip. Came in on a basic scholarship, no big corp sponsor, no family name to back him. Just some cobbled-together Raven deck.”

They make a sound that passes for a laugh. “Great. Another self-taught hero. If he threatens Eric’s slot, we’ll adjust the daemons.”

A moment of silence. I feel a spike of panic when a faint pulse of data sweeps across the channel, like a scanning tendril probing for unauthorized ears. I ease off, reigning in the flow of information, forcing myself to be a ghost in the static.

They continue, oblivious. “Not risking another meltdown like last time. Keep an eye on him.”

“Sure. He’s got zero connections, so it’s no skin off us.”

Their conversation drops off into mundane chatter, voices too low to make out. I pull out of the feed, blood pounding in my veins. My head spins with the reality of it, how they can so casually decide a person’s fate with a few words and a shrug. Rafe, who’s probably oblivious, will never see it coming. His own skill makes him a threat, and in a place like Biotechnica, that’s reason enough to sabotage him.

I blink back into the real world, trying to steady my breath. No alarms blare, no one’s face turns in my direction. The only sign of my eavesdropping is the tightness in my chest and the uneasy weight of my new cyberdeck. Everyone else remains immersed in the simulation, or quietly awaiting the final scores. I don’t know whether to feel relief that I wasn’t caught or frustration that I’m caught in a system that’s rigged from the start.

The test will end soon. And I already know the results were decided before anyone jacked in.

I pull out of the feed, blinking under the garish light of Biotechnica’s testing room. A few other candidates stir, detaching from their netrunning chairs. Most seem too drained to talk, but a small group of corpo kids, led by Eric, stands near the exit, posture as polished as their top-shelf gear.

Rafe unjacks last and he curses under his breath, fiddling with a loose cable. The burn marks on his neck show exactly how rough his run must have been, yet he still looks confident, like he has nothing to prove.

As if on cue, the simulation timer beeps overhead, signaling the end of the test. Candidates blink awake, detaching neural jacks and rubbing sore temples. Before long, a hush blankets the room as a holo-screen flickers to life, listing final rankings. My gaze jumps to the top. Eric is there, big bold letters in that corporate gold. My own name hovers close by, thanks to my father’s backing and this high-end deck.

I scan further down, searching for Rafe’s placement, certain he must have scored near the upper tier. But his name never appears. A perplexed frown crosses his face, and he rushes to the projected leaderboard, eyes raking over it as if he simply missed it. Yet it is not there.

A few passing recruits sneer, all too happy to see “some street kid” knocked out. They file toward the exit, already talking about next-stage interviews, scholarships, or parental connections. Rafe lingers by the list, jaw tight. He mutters something under his breath, and for a moment, his fists clench as if he might punch the holo-screen. Then he exhales sharply and pivots away.

An examiner in a pristine suit strides to the front, delivering a perfunctory message about “Those who did not qualify can reapply next cycle” and “Thank you for your interest in Biotechnica.” The words ring hollow, a corporate courtesy masking what everyone in the room knows is a rigged system. Rafe storms out without a word, tension rippling through his shoulders.

I stand a few paces away, silent. Part of me wants to speak up, to say this was all a farce, but I can practically hear my father’s voice in my head: Do not poke a sleeping giant, Ellia. Especially not one wearing a Biotechnica badge.

When I finally step into the hallway, I spot Eric and a few corporate recruits talking about their next moves. None of them spare a second thought for Rafe. I slip past them, uneasy guilt pooling in my stomach.

Night City hums at the edge of the Biotechnica campus, where the neon glow of endless billboards pierces the dusk. I follow the signs toward the metro station, cutting through a web of foot traffic and flickering advertisements. The city never sleeps, never takes a moment to breathe. This is the rhythm of life here: churn people in, spit them out.

By the time I reach the station, I see Rafe standing by the entrance, hunched under a cracked streetlamp that flickers in time with the giant ad screens above. He runs a hand over the neural port at his temple, where that battered Raven deck rests unseen beneath the skin.

“Still breathing after that corp test, I see,” he mutters as I approach. His words roll off his tongue in that street-slick drawl unique to Night City. “Figured they’d have you locked in some VIP lounge, sipping synth-wine with the other rich kids.”

An odd knot twists in my chest. Part of me knows I should not be talking to him. Another part, maybe the part that remembers a more honest world, compels me forward. “Synthehol isn’t really my style,” I say quietly. “Besides, I like the fresh air.”

He snorts. “Fresh? Right, guess that filter in your corpoware keeps out the stench.” He turns, giving me a skeptical look. “You lose a bet, or something?”

Heat threatens my cheeks. I cannot blame him for doubting me. “No bet,” I manage. “Just saw you leave, figured you could use someone to talk to.”

Rafe’s lips press together. “Serious?”

I shrug, the weight of my father’s position and this top-tier gear pressing against my every impulse. “Look, I know you got screwed back there. I heard enough to know it wasn’t fair.”

He tenses at that. I do not go into the details, mentioning how they rigged it would only make him angrier. Instead, I pull up my holo interface, tapping out a quick data share. His optics flicker as he receives my contact.

“You are a corpo,” he says, his tone guarded. “Why give a damn about me?”

My breath hitches. I do not have a good answer, only a fleeting sense that if I do nothing, it makes me complicit. “Because… maybe there is a way we both come out of this better,” I say, voice barely audible above the hum of passing traffic. “Maybe you will want to try again, or maybe you will do something else, I do not know. But if you ever need a second set of eyes on something, call me.”

For a second, he looks like he wants to snap back at me. Then he just nods, slow and wary. “Alright, choom. No promises, though.”

“That is fair,” I reply. “But… it is there if you need it.”

He exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Probably better off going merc. At least out there, people do not pretend it is fair. They just pay up front.” His eyes linger on me for a moment, flicking over the faint glow of my optics. “Guess I will see you around. Or not.”

He merges into the station crowd, the neon lights painting his silhouette in shifting colors. A pang of sadness nags at me as I watch him go. Part of me wants to chase him down, shout that he deserves better, but I already sense how fruitless that would be. Night City’s not built for fairness.

I turn away and glance at a towering billboard overhead, cycling through ads for the latest cyberware enhancements. The city throbs with possibility and betrayal in equal measure. My father’s influence shields me from the worst of it, but it also binds me to a system that picks winners and losers before the game even starts.

I slip my hands into my pockets, stepping aside to avoid a cluster of tourists gawking at the city lights. Maybe someday Rafe and I will cross paths again. If that day comes, I hope I am ready to do more than just offer hollow sympathy. But for tonight, all I have is this small gesture, a whisper of empathy in a world that drowns such kindness without a second thought.