Diary Log 12/12/2046–
Dear Diary,
I still remember that one bright afternoon when Clover, with her unyielding energy, tried again to pull me into her world. While all the other kids ran around, she approached me with a shy, determined smile and a handful of colored pencils, asking if I’d like to join her in drawing on the big white wall outside. I, burdened by thoughts too heavy for this child’s body, simply shook my head and muttered something about being busy, retreating into the quiet corner of my own thoughts as usual.
Clover didn’t give up. Every day that week, she would find me alone, gently insisting that I come play or just share a moment of laughter with her. I kept my distance, my responses clipped and distant—always the outsider, always wrapped in an invisible shield of cynicism. But Clover, with her endless curiosity and unfiltered kindness, kept trying. She left little notes and doodles, softly urging me to join in her games of pretend and to see that there was more to life than cold calculations and corporate strategies.
Today, as we sat together during snack time, Clover finally broke through. With a quiet sincerity, she reached over and took my hand, saying, “You don’t have to act like a big girl all the time,you should play with me today!” Something in her small, honest gesture melted the walls I’d built around myself. In that fleeting, precious moment, I allowed a genuine smile to crack through, and for a brief while, I let myself be drawn into her world of simple, pure joy.
That’s all for today,
Ellia
-Log end–
The next day, Alexa DuPont called me into her office again. Her message was brief: “Come at once.” So I took the elevator to the 70th floor, nursing a budding headache from too many late nights. The corridor outside her domain was quiet except for the faint hiss of the ventilation system. I knocked, and her door slid open with a pneumatic sigh.
She stood near her desk, glowering at a holographic display showing a rotating 3D model of our building’s security layout. Tall and regal in a sharply tailored suit, she looked every bit the seasoned director who’d climbed the corporate ladder by stepping over anyone slower.
“Sit,” Alexa said curtly. I obeyed despite the ache of my shoulder. “There’s talk in the boardrooms about a potential security meltdown. Word is, someone on your team nearly caught a thief in the act—then lost him.”
My jaw clenched. “ We forced him out. He couldn’t finish stealing data.”
“That’s not the board’s perspective.” She tapped a stylus against the desk. “They see an infiltration that’s gone public, with you front and center. Now they’re pressuring me to contain this. So explain, clearly, how we stand.”
I took a measured breath. “We identified the culprit as Grant Flowers, though that might be an alias. We suspect he’s aligned with a bigger group because forging my credentials and tampering with security feeds suggests extensive resources. He escaped, but we have partial data from the console. Toby’s working on cracking it for more leads.”
Alexa’s lips pursed. “And your father, how does he figure into this? He’s not exactly patient with security slip-ups.”
“I haven’t given him a full briefing,” I admitted, carefully. “He’s aware we found an infiltrator, not the details.”
She studied me for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she folded her arms, shifting her weight. “Fine. Keep investigating quietly. But do not escalate to the board or your father unless absolutely necessary. I want this handled, and then I want it buried. If the board sniffs out a fiasco, heads will roll—and not just the saboteur’s.”
“Understood,” I said through tight lips. I rose from the chair, turned to leave, then paused. “Is there anything else?”
Alexa exhaled, some of her tension draining. “Just be careful, Ellia. People who sabotage from within usually have no qualms hurting anyone in their path.” Her expression softened momentarily.
“You said this infiltration was tied to a man named Grant Flowers,” Alexa continued, lowering her voice. “We’ve just received a medical examiner’s report. The real Grant Flowers has been dead for over two weeks, but we never got the report until now.”
My throat went dry. “Dead for two weeks? Then who—?”
“An imposter,” Alexa said flatly. “We suspect an edge runner a high-level infiltration netrunner, skilled enough to fool even our HR logs. He went by the nickname ‘Changeling,’ or so the data suggests. That means our intruder wasn’t some rookie.” She exhaled, eyes narrowing. “He slipped past ID scanners and mimicked a dead man’s biometrics.”
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A chill settled over me. “So the man I nearly caught in the act—he wasn’t even the real Grant Flowers. He’s just… occupying his identity. That explains why his ice was so strong.”
“The profile we have on him says that he goes through a physical surgery before every job in order to steal someone identity.” She glanced at me, her tone clipped. “We’ll keep this under wraps, but I want you to track him down. Once we find him, I’ll sent a squad to eliminate him.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ll coordinate with Toby and Samantha, see if we can uncover more about him and track his location.”
“Do it fast,” Alexa murmured, stepping aside so I could leave. “And Ellia—watch your back.”
I forced a nod, my pulse racing as I headed back to my floor. A stolen identity. A dead finance guy. An edgerunner who walked the halls in broad daylight. The sense of danger pressed in heavier than ever.
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The following morning, my phone lit up with Clover’s characteristic burst of energy—a message that made even the gray light seem a bit brighter. “Guess what? I’m officially on the Biotechnica Plant Revival Team! Let’s celebrate!” It was the kind of text that filled the screen with promise and possibility, a reminder that for Clover, every day was an adventure waiting to unfold.
Clover, ever the irrepressible optimist, wore her joy like a badge. She believed in the future Biotechnica promised—a future where even the city’s concrete could be softened by a touch of green. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy at how easily she embraced that vision. While my thoughts were weighed down by complexities and hard truths, Clover’s unfiltered hope made her shine in a way I sometimes found both comforting and maddening.
That evening, I met her at a cozy sushi place nestled among the glittering high-rises. Fake koi fish swam in a neon-lit pond by the entrance. Clover gave me a quick hug, practically bouncing on her toes in excitement.
“I can’t believe it!” she gushed, leading me to a corner booth. “Biotechnica’s letting me work on reviving extinct plants and maybe even reforesting segments of the desert outside Night City. Isn’t that amazing?”
I slid into the seat across from her, forcing a smile. “Congrats. It’s definitely… big.”
She beamed as she scanned the menu on her holo-display. “You’re not as thrilled as I expected.” She gave me a playful nudge. “Everything okay?”
My thoughts flickered to Changeling and the infiltration fiasco. “Work’s just complicated,” I said gently. “But I’m happy for you, Clover. This is exactly what you wanted.”
She nodded, bright-eyed. “And you know, it’s all thanks to my parents pulling a few strings. But that’s how things are here, right? We use what we’ve got to help the world. Once we figure out the gene-sequencing for these extinct species, we could turn parts of Night City green again. No more smog-choked skies—imagine it!”
I tried to match her enthusiasm. “That’d be nice. A city that isn’t just neon and concrete. I hope you get there.”
Clover leaned forward, her expression earnest. “We will. Biotechnica sees the potential. And, well, you’re the best example of how corp life can be pretty good if you know what you’re doing. You’ve got a stable job, your father’s clout—”
“Yeah,” I cut in, softly. “Not all it’s cracked up to be sometimes.”
She tilted her head, innocence shining in her eyes. “But you still have more freedom than most folks in Night City, right? That has to count for something.”
I debated how to answer. Clover’s worldview was so different from mine. She’d never been dragged into the brutal side of corporate intrigues. To her, Biotechnica was a benevolent parent, a provider of opportunities. I couldn’t bring myself to tarnish her excitement, so I just said, “Sure. Freedom. It’s… complicated.”
For a moment, an awkward silence hovered. Then Clover broke it with a warm laugh. “Complicated means you’re important. That’s how I see it. Come on, let’s just enjoy tonight. Tell me about your next career steps.”
She listened intently as I mumbled something about cybersecurity expansions, leaving out the infiltration crisis. I let her chatter fill the booth, a wave of enthusiastic chatter about planting seeds in test labs and “making history by resurrecting the past.” Despite my wariness, I felt a quiet relief. The world might be rotten at times, but at least Clover believed in a better tomorrow. Sometimes, that was enough to keep me going.
We finished dinner with sake and a round of mochi. Clover insisted on taking a selfie, all smiles and victory signs. Then she hugged me goodnight, hopped into her own private AV, and soared off into the glowing skyline. I stood on the curb, watching the street-level crowds surge between neon-lit storefronts.
My mind drifted back to the infiltration. Changeling—an edgerunner who’d stolen a dead man’s face. Where was he now? Was he even done? The jammed tension in my neck hadn’t subsided. I checked my phone, tapping for a Delamain taxi. The AI chauffeur system rarely took more than a few minutes.
While I waited at the designated pickup zone, I let my gaze wander across Night City’s towering architecture. The neon signs flickered, hawking quick-fix implants and questionable nightlife. A group of corporate suits bustled past, ignoring me as they argued about stock margins. Another throng of tourists snapped photos of the city’s garish billboards. Just a typical Night City evening. Until a dark van pulled up to the curb.
I frowned. It wasn’t Delamain’s sleek white taxi—the van was matte black, and its windows were tinted well beyond regulation. Alarm bells went off in my head as I glanced at my phone, but there was no notification from Delamain. My pulse quickened as I began to turn to run away.
Suddenly, a sudden surge rippled through my neural interface. Without warning, my HUD blinked red. I felt it before I saw it—a digital assault invading my system. In an instant, a cold, efficient quickhack hit me, targeting my personal ICE. My protective firewalls collapsed into a cascade of fragmented code, leaving my mind momentarily open and vulnerable.
The next thing I knew, a sharp, virtual shock pulsed through my synapses like an electric jolt. I felt my thoughts scatter as a system collapse took hold, and the world went black—knocked out cold in a fraction of a second as if a digital guillotine had severed my connection to reality.