Chapter Fifteen

Upgrades

Riley paced the length of Sable's apartment, her boots scuffing against the polished floor in an uneven rhythm that matched her scattered thoughts. The space wasn't large, but its minimalist design made it feel open—clean lines and sharp edges softened only by the faint amber glow of hidden lighting strips and the perpetual neon haze that leaked through the windows. It was a far cry from the cramped hovels she'd called home back in the Driftlands, where every square meter had been crammed with salvage and survival gear.

She couldn't sit still, couldn't let her body match the hollowness in her mind. Her fingers kept drifting to the cracked edge of her goggles, hanging loose around her neck like a broken promise. Every time she touched them, the memory surged back with brutal clarity: the sound of the cold storage door slamming shut, Aura's smug smirk dissolving into darkness, the muffled blare of the alarm as Riley fought to escape. Her jaw tightened until pain bloomed along her temples.

From her place at the kitchen counter, Sable watched her with the kind of patience that suggested she'd seen this dance before. The older mercenary leaned against the black marble edge, a steaming mug of something herbal—real herbs, not synthetic, a luxury that spoke volumes about her success—cradled in her cybernetic hand. The faint whir of servos accompanied each small movement as her metallic fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the ceramic, the sound barely audible beneath the constant thrum of the city outside.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Sable said, her voice carrying the kind of weight that demanded attention without raising its volume. The words cut through Riley's spiral like a blade through smoke.

Riley stopped mid-stride, turning to face her mentor with a sharp motion that sent her cracked goggles swaying. "I can't just—sit here," she snapped, though the frustration in her voice wasn't meant for Sable. "Every time I think about it, I—" The words tangled in her throat, anger and humiliation fighting for dominance until neither could escape.

"You're thinking about Aura," Sable said. It wasn't a question. Her tone had a way of cutting through Riley's defenses like a scalpel, laying everything bare beneath the apartment's soft lighting.

Riley's hands clenched at her sides, her short nails biting into her palms. "Yeah," she admitted finally, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. "She left me to die, Sable. Just—left me there like I was nothing. And now she's out there somewhere, acting like it's fine, like none of it matters."

Sable raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip from her mug. Steam curled around her face like digital ghosts before dissipating into the filtered air. "And why do you think it doesn't matter to her?"

"I don't know." Riley resumed pacing, her steps heavier now, deliberate. Her hands opened and closed in an unconscious rhythm. "Because she's a heartless, self-serving—" She caught herself, biting back the rest of the sentence as her father's words echoed in her mind: Always finish what you start, but know when to hold your tongue.

"Mercenary?" Sable finished, her cybernetic hand clicking softly against the mug's surface as she set it down. The sound was precise, measured, like everything else about her. "Kid, heartless is just another word for 'survived longer than most.'"

Riley scowled, the expression pulling at muscles that still ached from her confrontation with Aura. "That's a shitty way to live."

Sable's lips quirked in a half-smile that held more warning than humor. "Welcome to the job description. It's not in the brochure, but it should be." She tapped her cybernetic fingers against the mug, each metallic click punctuating her words like bullet points. "Survival comes with a limited warranty, but empathy? That's a luxury sold separately."

The words stung worse than Riley's physical injuries, and her first instinct was to argue. But beneath the anger, beneath the shame of having trusted someone who'd discarded her so easily, she knew Sable was right. The thought twisted in her gut like a knife made of ice, mixing with the bitter knowledge that she hadn't seen it coming.

"You've got two options," Sable continued, her tone sharpening to something closer to a blade's edge. "You let this eat at you until you're too bitter or scared to function, or you learn from it and get smarter. Your choice, but choose fast. This city doesn't wait for anyone to catch up."

Riley stopped pacing, her fists clenched at her sides until her knuckles whitened. "I don't want to let it go," she said quietly, the words heavier than she'd intended. They carried the weight of every betrayal, every setback, every moment someone had decided she wasn't worth keeping around.

"I'm not saying you should," Sable replied, her tone softening just enough to catch Riley off guard. "I'm saying don't let it stop you. You're pissed? Good. Use it. But don't let it be the thing that defines you."

For a long moment, Riley didn't respond. She stared at the floor, watching the way the neon from outside painted shifting patterns across its polished surface. Sable was right—about Aura, about the job, about all of it. And as much as Riley hated to admit it, she was tired. Tired of feeling like a victim, tired of relying on outdated tech and salvaged gear, tired of being the one left behind.

Her fingers brushed the cracked goggles again, but the movement was slower this time, more deliberate. She straightened, squaring her shoulders as she turned back toward Sable. "I need to see Dr. Kline," she said, her voice steadier than before.

Sable's smirk returned, sharper now, knowing. "About time. You've been talking about those upgrades for weeks."

"It's not just that," Riley said, gesturing vaguely at herself. The motion encompassed everything from her worn clothes to her salvaged tech to the persistent ache in her chest that had nothing to do with physical pain. "I'm tired of being... this. If I'm going to make it in this world, I need to stop relying on luck and scraps."

"Then get moving," Sable said simply, picking up her mug again. Steam no longer rose from its surface. "You've got the address."

Riley nodded, grabbing her jacket from where it hung over the back of the couch. As she slid it on, Chirp floated closer, his optic flicking between her and Sable with what almost seemed like concern. The little drone let out a soft, questioning trill that carried more emotion than his simple programming should have allowed.

"I'm fine, Chirp," Riley muttered, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. The familiar weight of the drone's presence helped steady her racing thoughts. "Let's go."

She stepped out into the neon haze of the city, where the perpetual mix of rain and pollution turned every light into a smear of color across the dark canvas of night. Her thoughts were quieter than they had been in days, though the ache of her bruises and cuts still lingered like unwanted memories. The cracked goggles bounced lightly against her chest as she walked, a tangible reminder of why she was heading to Dr. Kline's clinic.

She flagged down an auto-taxi, the vehicle's amber positioning lights cutting through the drizzle as it pulled smoothly to the curb. The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing an interior that smelled of synthetic leather and industrial cleanser. As she settled into the back seat, she transmitted Dr. Kline's clinic address through her old interface.

It was time to stop being someone people could leave behind.

Riley leaned her head against the cool window of the auto taxi, watching as the city passed by in blurred streaks of neon that bled together like watercolors in the rain. Her cracked goggles hung heavy around her neck, a constant reminder of everything she was about to change. Chirp hovered beside her in the cramped interior, his gentle hum filling the silence that threatened to swallow her thoughts.

The city outside seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, a rhythm built from the steady thrum of mag-lev trains and the distant roar of industrial zones that never slept. Towers of glass and steel stretched toward a sky she couldn't see, their surfaces reflecting the chaos below in endless mirrors of light and shadow. It was beautiful, in its way—a dance of technology and desperation that never quite resolved into harmony.

Her father would have hated it. The thought came unbidden, accompanied by a fresh wave of guilt that she pushed aside with practiced determination. He'd always said the city would eat her soul if she let it, but she was beginning to wonder if maybe that was the point. Maybe you had to lose pieces of yourself to become something stronger.

The taxi's automated voice cut through her reverie, its synthetic tones carefully modulated to sound helpful without being intrusive. "Destination approaching. Please prepare to exit."

Riley sat up straighter, adjusting her jacket and brushing off her nerves like dust from her shoulders. It didn't work. The cab slowed to a smooth stop at the curb, and she stepped out into air that tasted of ozone and rain.

Chirp gave a faint beep, hovering protectively at her shoulder as she approached the clinic door. Riley hesitated, taking a moment to steady her breathing. Her father's voice whispered in her head again, an unwelcome ghost: "Cybernetics change people, Riley. Not always for the better." She gritted her teeth, pushing the memory aside before pressing her palm to the panel.

The door slid open with a soft hiss of perfectly maintained hydraulics, revealing an interior that managed to feel both welcoming and clinical at the same time. The reception area was quiet, lit by the same sterile lighting she remembered from her consultation. Polished floors and neutral tones gave it a no-nonsense feel, while subtle touches—a potted plant here, an abstract art piece there—suggested an attention to human comfort. The air carried the faint scent of disinfectant, underlaid with something almost floral.

It was all familiar—except for the figure behind the desk. Instead of Meg's friendly smile and effortless charm, a plastiform android stood in her place. Its smooth, synthetic face was featureless except for two glowing blue optics where eyes might have been, the rest a canvas of pale polymer that caught the light in unsettling ways. Riley stopped mid-step, her chest tightening as she stared at it.

This wasn’t an autodoll like Phase. This was an android, one of the lesser AI machines that had started being produced after the Daedalus Uprising. They weren’t capable of learning or independent thought. They functioned on complex algorithms and personality programs to mimic human behavior.

"Where's Meg?" The question tumbled out before she could catch herself, sharp with surprise and something close to disappointment.

The android's head tilted at a precisely calculated angle, its synthetic voice smooth and measured in a way that only highlighted its artificiality. "Meg has the day off. I am Unit R-22, temporary administrative support. How may I assist you?"

Riley blinked, caught off guard by the casual mention of time off. "Day off?" she muttered, mostly to herself. "Right. Normal people have days off." She forced herself to look at the android again, pushing down her discomfort. "I've got an appointment with Dr. Kline."

"Confirmed," R-22 said instantly, its response lacking the warmth that had always made Meg's greetings feel genuine. "Please proceed to the office."

The android's glowing optics flickered once, then returned to their static, unblinking stare. Riley stood frozen for a moment, uncomfortably aware of how much she'd come to rely on Meg's presence as a buffer against her own anxiety. The android offered nothing—no small talk, no subtle encouragement, just efficient and utterly cold functionality.

She thought of Meg's welcoming smile, the way she always seemed to know when Riley was nervous and would fill the silence with gentle chatter about nothing important. I could use that right now, Riley thought, glancing at Chirp. The little drone let out a soft, questioning trill, and she gave him a faint smile.

"Yeah," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "I miss her too."

Taking a deep breath that did little to settle her nerves, she turned and headed for the door that led to the back rooms. Her boots clicked softly against the floor, each step carrying her closer to a decision she wasn't entirely sure she was ready to make. As she reached for the handle, she paused, fingers brushing against the edge of her goggles one last time. Just keep moving, she told herself. And then she pushed the door open.

The back rooms of Dr. Kline's clinic maintained the same understated professionalism as the front, though the lighting was softer here, meant to ease anxiety rather than inspire confidence. Riley stepped into the hallway and instinctively slowed her pace. Her fingers curled into fists inside her jacket pockets as she approached the slightly ajar door of Dr. Kline's office, her heart hammering against her ribs with enough force that she wondered if the doctor's sensors would pick it up before she even entered.

She took a breath, steadying herself, then nudged the door open gently.

Dr. Kline looked up from her desk, and Riley's anxiety eased fractionally at the sight of her. The doctor's sharp eyes softened immediately when they landed on Riley, though they missed nothing—cataloging every bruise, every sign of tension, every detail that might be relevant to what was coming. The warm light of her office lamp caught the slight streaks of gray in her short, cropped hair, and her smile was as inviting as ever, carrying none of the artificial precision that made the android's attempts at friendliness so unsettling.

She gestured to the chair across from her desk, leaning back slightly as she closed a holo-display with a practiced swipe of her hand. The movement was smooth, natural—technology integrated so seamlessly into her workflow that it seemed like an extension of her will rather than a tool.

"Riley," Dr. Kline greeted, her tone carrying a warmth that felt earned rather than programmed. "Come in, take a seat. It's good to see you."

"Yeah, you too," Riley said, her voice quieter than she intended as she eased into the chair. She let her bag drop to the floor beside her, her hands clasping tightly in her lap to hide their slight tremor.

Dr. Kline tilted her head slightly, studying Riley with the kind of attention that made her both grateful and uncomfortable. "You've had a rough few days," she said gently, the observation carrying no judgment. "How are you holding up?"

Riley hesitated, weighing her answer. "I've been better," she admitted finally, her gaze dropping briefly to her hands. "But I'm... managing."

Dr. Kline nodded, her expression understanding but not pitying. "I'm glad you came in. It sounds like you've decided to move forward with the upgrades?"

"Yeah," Riley said quickly, though the word felt heavy on her tongue. Her hands tightened in her lap, knuckles whitening. "I need the dataport installed for the neurolink. I've got the N-77 already." The words came out in a rush, as if saying them faster would make them easier to commit to.

Dr. Kline leaned forward slightly, folding her hands on the desk. The gesture was casual, but it created a sense of intimacy, of focused attention. "You seem nervous," she said, her voice calm but direct. "What's on your mind?"

Riley's jaw tightened, tension radiating through her neck and shoulders. She hated how easily Dr. Kline could see through her carefully constructed barriers. "It's just..." She paused, struggling to find the right words. "I wasn't exactly raised to think this stuff was a good idea."

"Your father?" Dr. Kline guessed, her tone gentle but knowing.

Riley nodded, a short, sharp motion. "He used to say cybernetics made people less human. That it was better to work with what you've got than to rely on..." She trailed off, her hands gesturing vaguely in the air, encompassing everything from her cracked goggles to the sleek medical equipment that surrounded them.

"'Shortcuts,'" Dr. Kline finished for her, her expression softening further. "I've heard that argument before. More times than I can count, actually."

"It's not like I believe it," Riley said quickly, though the tension in her voice betrayed her uncertainty. "It's just... hard to shake, you know?"

Dr. Kline leaned back in her chair, her gaze thoughtful as she considered Riley's words. "I understand. But let me ask you this: do you think someone who wears glasses is less human than someone who doesn't?"

The question caught Riley off guard, her brow furrowing. "No. Of course not."

"And yet, they're relying on something external to improve their vision," Dr. Kline pointed out, her tone carrying the patient wisdom of someone who'd had this conversation many times before. "What I do here isn't so different. The goal isn't to replace what makes you human—it's to give you the tools to thrive in a world that doesn't always play fair."

Riley shifted in her chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her. The comparison was simple but effective, chipping away at the edifice of doubt her father had built. "He always said augments were different. That they changed how people think, not just how they interact with the world."

"Change isn't always loss," Dr. Kline said, leaning forward again. Her eyes held Riley's with steady conviction. "Your father wasn't entirely wrong—cybernetics do change people. But so does education. So does experience. So does trauma." She gestured to Riley's cracked goggles. "I’m sure you know that better than most"

The words hit harder than Riley expected, drawing a sharp inhale. She reached up unconsciously, fingers brushing against the goggles.

"The world is changing, Riley," Dr. Kline continued, her voice softening. "We can either change with it, or we can get left behind. The choice to augment isn't about becoming less human—it's about adapting to survive. Just like your ancestors did when they first picked up tools or learned to control fire."

Riley sat back, her fingers unclenching slightly. The words didn't erase the knot in her stomach, but they made it easier to breathe. They gave shape to something she'd felt but couldn't articulate: that maybe resistance to change wasn't the virtue her father had claimed it was.

Dr. Kline's gaze flicked briefly to the cracked goggles, her brow furrowing slightly. "Speaking of tools," she said, her tone shifting to something more practical, "what happened to those?"

Riley glanced down at the goggles, brushing her thumb against the cracked lens. The damage felt symbolic now, a physical representation of everything that had brought her to this point. "Let's just say they didn't survive the last job."

"Hmm," Dr. Kline said, standing and moving to a sleek console embedded in the wall. "If I'm being honest, you're better off without them. They were holding you back—like trying to compete in a motorcycle race with a hobby horse."

Riley frowned, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her voice. "They've been useful."

"Maybe once," Dr. Kline said, her voice kind but firm as her fingers danced across the console's surface. A holographic display materialized in the center of the room, showing detailed schematics of various ocular implants. "But they're outdated, and they clearly can't handle what you're up against." She gestured to the rotating displays, each showing different models with varying levels of enhancement. "I've got several options that would suit you much better. Take a look."

Riley stood slowly, approaching the holograms with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. The images rotated smoothly in the air, accompanied by scrolling specifications and technical details that made her head spin. Some models were clearly high-end, their designs sleek and aggressive, while others emphasized subtlety and functionality over flash.

Her eyes stopped on a modest entry labeled "FocusCore Mirrors V2." Unlike the more elaborate models, its design was clean and understated, with a description that emphasized practicality over extravagance: enhanced visual clarity, basic retinal interface, zoom functionality, low-light adaptation, and full spectrum capability.

"What about this one?" she asked, pointing to the display.

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Dr. Kline stepped closer, nodding approvingly. "Good choice. The FocusCore series is solid—no frills, but reliable. Perfect for someone just starting out." She manipulated the hologram, expanding the technical specifications. "It's got all the basics you'd need: improved visual acuity, basic night vision, and a clean interface for your neurolink. Plus, it's designed to be upgraded later if you want to add more features."

Riley studied the specs, trying to ignore the way her pulse quickened at the thought of actual implants replacing her goggles. The technical readouts scrolled past: neural response times measured in milliseconds, light sensitivity ranges that put her old goggles to shame, power efficiency ratings that promised years between maintenance. "How much?"

Dr. Kline smiled faintly, her fingers dancing through the hologram to bring up the pricing interface. "Normally twelve hundred credits. But for you? Nine hundred. First-timer's discount." She paused, watching Riley's reaction carefully. "That includes the neural integration and calibration."

Riley winced, the number weighing heavily in her mind. It wasn't like she had a wealth of credits to spare, especially after buying the dataport. But as her fingers brushed the cracked goggles again, tracing the spiderweb of fractures, the decision became clearer. She couldn't keep relying on outdated gear, not if she wanted to survive in Helix City's unforgiving ecosystem.

"Alright," she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt. "Let's do it."

Dr. Kline's smile widened slightly, a glimmer of approval in her eyes. "Good call," she said, powering down the holograms with a gesture that seemed almost ceremonial. "I'll start prepping the Auto-Doc. Take a minute to breathe—I'll come get you when everything's ready."

Riley nodded, her chest tightening again as Dr. Kline stepped out of the office. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the blank space where the holograms had been. Her hand drifted to her goggles one last time, and a strange wave of nostalgia washed over her. These goggles had been with her since the Driftlands, salvaged from an old welding rig and painstakingly repaired over countless nights. They weren't just tools—they were a piece of her history, a reminder of where she'd started.

But maybe that was the problem.

She forced herself to stand, pacing the small office as her thoughts churned. Through the half-open door, she could hear the metallic hum of the Auto-Doc coming online, its distinctive whir setting her nerves on edge. Chirp hovered quietly beside her, his steady presence a small comfort, but it did little to quell the rising tension in her chest.

She'd agreed to this. She'd told herself it was the right move—the smart move—but now, listening to the Auto-Doc's mechanical preparations, the doubts she'd been suppressing clawed their way back to the surface. The spider-like machine with its articulated arms and sterile chrome finish represented everything her father had warned her about: the merging of flesh and technology, the surrender of natural humanity to artificial enhancement.

His voice echoed faintly in her mind, clearer now than it had been in years: "Rely on yourself, Riley. Not some machine. Not someone else's crutch. The moment you start depending on tech to make you better, you've already lost part of what makes you human."

"Shut up," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible above the Auto-Doc's hum. She pressed her palms against her thighs, forcing her legs to stop trembling. The motion helped anchor her, but the knot in her stomach refused to loosen.

The door opened fully, and Dr. Kline stepped back in, wiping her hands on a clean towel. Her expression was calm but focused, carrying the kind of quiet confidence that came from years of experience. "Ready?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

Riley's mouth was dry, but she nodded, forcing herself to stand. Her legs felt heavier than they should have, like she was walking through quicksand, but she managed to follow Dr. Kline into the operation suite. The Auto-Doc dominated the center of the room, its folded arms looking more ominous up close. The chair-like base was reclined slightly, its surface smooth and inviting—a deliberate contrast to the intimidating machinery positioned above it.

"You don't have to do this if you're not ready," Dr. Kline said gently, turning to face her. Her sharp eyes softened as she studied Riley's expression. "I can tell this isn't easy for you."

Riley swallowed hard, her throat tight. "It's not," she admitted, and for once she didn't try to hide the tremor in her voice. "But I'm tired of... of not being enough."

The words hung in the air, more vulnerable than she'd intended. Riley's fingers brushed against her cracked goggles, a familiar gesture of uncertainty that felt different now, weighted with finality. She thought about all the times she'd been left behind, discarded, underestimated. The upgrades weren't just about technology—they were about proving something. To Aura. To herself. To the memory of her father.

Dr. Kline's expression softened, lines of understanding creasing around her eyes. With practiced grace, she stepped closer to the Auto-Doc's control panel, her fingers dancing across its surface. "The hardware doesn't make you human or inhuman, Riley. It just gives you choices. What matters is what you do with them."

The machine hummed to life, its articulated arms unfolding with liquid precision. Each movement was carefully calculated, a dance of servos and hydraulics that spoke of engineering pushed to its absolute limits. Riley watched, mesmerized despite her fear, as diagnostic lights flickered across its surface like digital constellations.

"The dataport installation comes first," Dr. Kline explained, her voice taking on a steadying rhythm. "It's the foundation everything else builds on. The nerve blockers will keep you comfortable, but I need you conscious for the initial calibration." She paused, studying Riley's face. "Are you ready?"

Riley swallowed hard against the dryness in her throat. The Auto-Doc loomed above her like a mechanical predator, its arms poised with surgical intent. But beneath her fear, a different emotion was taking root—determination. She thought of Flint’s smirk as he spoke of selling her off, of Aura's mocking smirk, of every moment she'd been dismissed as just another Driftlands refugee playing at being professional.

"Yeah," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Do it."

Dr. Kline nodded as she began the procedure sequence. "Lie back and try to relax. The more tension you hold, the harder it is for the system to calibrate properly."

Riley climbed onto the chair and forced herself to recline, the gel cushion conforming to her body with unsettling precision. The material was neither warm nor cold, existing in some engineered middle ground that should have been comfortable but only heightened her awareness of what was about to happen. Above her, the machine's arms shifted into position, tools rotating into view with mechanical efficiency.

A slight pressure against her neck preceded the warm rush of nerve blockers entering her system. The sensation spread like liquid static, dulling her awareness of everything except the steady thrum of her own heartbeat. Her fingers loosened their death grip on the armrests as the medication took hold.

"Neural dampeners engaging," Dr. Kline announced, her voice seeming to come from somewhere far away. "You'll feel some pressure as the Auto-Doc begins the incision process. Try to keep your head still."

Riley wanted to nod but caught herself, forcing her muscles to relax instead. The machine whirred above her, its arms descending with precise, measured movements. She felt the first touch at the base of her skull—cool metal against skin, followed by a strange tugging sensation that made her stomach lurch.

"Breathe," Dr. Kline reminded her softly. "The Auto-Doc is creating the primary channel for the dataport. Your nervous system might try to resist—that's normal. Just let it happen."

A new sensation bloomed in Riley's head, like ice spreading through her brain. She gasped, her vision blurring briefly as the machine worked. It wasn't pain exactly—the nerve blockers saw to that—but something more fundamental, as if her brain was being introduced to an entirely new way of processing reality.

"Neural mesh deploying," Dr. Kline narrated, her attention split between multiple holographic readouts floating above her console. "The nanofilaments are establishing their initial connections. Your readings are strong—better than average, actually. Your neural plasticity is impressive."

Riley tried to focus on Dr. Kline's words, using them as an anchor against the strange sensations coursing through her. Each new connection felt like a key turning in a lock she hadn't known existed, opening doors in her mind that had always been there but never accessible.

The Auto-Doc's movements became more delicate, its tools working at a microscopic level to weave technology and biology together. Riley's fingers twitched involuntarily as new neural pathways came online, her brain attempting to map these foreign additions to its existing architecture.

"Almost done with the primary installation," Dr. Kline said, her voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "The integration is clean—no rejection markers, no inflammation. How are you holding up?"

"It's..." Riley struggled to find words that could capture the experience. "Different. Like my brain is learning a new language."

Dr. Kline smiled, visible in Riley's peripheral vision. "That's exactly what's happening. The dataport isn't just a piece of hardware—it's a translator between your organic neural processes and digital systems. Right now, your brain is learning to speak in binary."

The Auto-Doc's arms began to withdraw, their work complete but their absence leaving Riley with a profound sense of change. She could feel the dataport now, not as an intrusion but as a presence, like a new sense she'd never known she was missing.

"Take a moment," Dr. Kline advised, stepping closer to check the installation site. "Let your system adjust before we move on to the ocular implants."

Riley closed her eyes, focusing on the subtle differences in how her thoughts moved now. It wasn't dramatic—no sudden rush of superhuman ability or loss of humanity that her father had warned about. Instead, it felt like expansion, like her mind had been given new rooms to explore.

"Ready for the next phase?" Dr. Kline asked after a few minutes, her tone professional but gentle. "The ocular procedure is more intensive—you'll need to be fully under for it."

Riley opened her eyes, meeting Dr. Kline's gaze. The fear was still there, but it had transformed into something else—anticipation, maybe even excitement. She thought of her cracked goggles, of all they represented: survival, adaptation, making do with what she had. But she wasn't just surviving anymore. She was choosing to evolve.

"I'm ready," she said, her voice steady despite the lingering effects of the nerve blockers. "Do it."

Dr. Kline nodded, adjusting the Auto-Doc's settings with practiced efficiency. "The anesthesia will take effect quickly. When you wake up, you'll see the world differently—literally." She paused, her expression softening. "Any last questions?"

Riley started to shake her head, then stopped as a thought surfaced. "The goggles," she said, fingers brushing their cracked surface where they still hung around her neck. "Can I keep them?"

Something like understanding flickered across Dr. Kline's face. "Of course. Some things are worth holding onto, even if we've outgrown them." She turned to the anesthesia controls. "Count backward from ten for me."

"Ten..." Riley felt a new warmth spreading through her veins, different from the nerve blockers. "Nine..." The Auto-Doc's arms seemed to blur above her, their chrome surfaces catching light in ways that made them look almost organic. "Eight..." Her thoughts began to drift, memories of the Driftlands mixing with recent images of Helix City. "Sev..."

Darkness rushed in like a tide, carrying her consciousness away before she could finish the count.

The return to awareness was gradual, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing Riley noticed was clarity—pure, sharp clarity that made everything before seem like looking through fog. The overhead lights didn't hurt her eyes; instead, they separated into distinct spectrums that her brain somehow understood perfectly. She could see the subtle frequency variations in the illumination, the microscopic dust motes floating in the air, each one perfectly defined.

"Easy," Dr. Kline's voice came from her right, steady and calming. "Give your brain time to process all the new input. The FocusCore system is calibrating to your neural patterns."

Riley blinked, marveling at how each movement felt deliberate and precise. Text scrolled at the edges of her vision—diagnostic information, she realized, as her new optical systems came fully online. The resolution was incredible, every detail crisp and immediate in a way her old goggles could never have managed.

"Try focusing on something distant," Dr. Kline suggested, gesturing toward a chart on the far wall. "Your zoom function should engage automatically."

Riley shifted her attention to the chart, and her vision smoothly magnified the image. There was no mechanical whir, no delay—just instant, perfect focus that made the smallest text perfectly legible. "That's..." she started, then stopped, searching for words that could capture the experience.

"Different?" Dr. Kline supplied with a knowing smile. She moved to check Riley's vitals on a nearby monitor. "The neural integration allows for much more natural control than external systems. Your brain is learning to treat these new capabilities as if they were natural functions."

Riley turned her head slowly, taking in the room with her enhanced vision. Colors seemed richer, more nuanced, and she could detect subtle variations in temperature through a mild thermal overlay. Everything had depth and detail she'd never imagined possible. She spotted Chirp hovering nearby, and automatically, her new systems began displaying diagnostic information about the drone—power levels, operational status, even the subtle electromagnetic field generated by his systems.

"The interface is already adapting to your preferences," Dr. Kline noted, watching as Riley explored her new capabilities. "It's identifying what you focus on and adjusting the information display accordingly. The more you use it, the more intuitive it will become."

Carefully, Riley pushed herself to a sitting position. The movement triggered a brief cascade of status updates in her peripheral vision, her implants monitoring her balance and spatial orientation. There was no dizziness, no disorientation—just smooth, calculated adjustment as her systems compensated for the position change.

"Try switching to night vision," Dr. Kline suggested, dimming the room's lights with a gesture. The darkness rushed in, but it wasn't really darkness anymore—everything shifted to sharp, greenish tones, every detail still perfectly visible. "The FocusCore system automatically adjusts to light levels, but you can manually override it if you prefer."

Riley focused on a mental command, and her vision smoothly transitioned back to normal spectrum, then through various enhancement modes. Each shift felt natural, like flexing a muscle she'd always had but never known how to use. "It's so responsive," she murmured, still exploring the capabilities. "Nothing like the lag in my old goggles."

"That's the neural integration," Dr. Kline explained, bringing the lights back up. "The system isn't just receiving commands from your brain—it's anticipating them, learning your preferences and patterns." She paused, studying Riley's reactions. "Ready to try the dataport?"

Riley's hand instinctively went to the base of her skull, fingers brushing the smooth surface of the port. It felt warm to the touch, alive in a way she hadn't expected. "What do I need to do?"

Dr. Kline retrieved the N-77 neurolink from its sterile case, the device gleaming under the examination lights. "Your brain's already primed for the connection. When I insert this, you'll feel the nanofilaments establish their links. It might be intense—try to stay relaxed and let the system calibrate."

Riley nodded, turning slightly to give Dr. Kline better access to the port. The moment the neurolink made contact, she felt it—a rush of connection that made her gasp. It wasn't pain, but it was overwhelming: data streams initializing, systems handshaking, her consciousness expanding into digital pathways she'd never known existed.

Colors bloomed in her vision, code cascading through her awareness as the neurolink integrated with her optical systems. She could feel the network around her now, sense the pulse of wireless signals and data streams that permeated the clinic. Chirp's presence became more than visual—she could feel his systems linking with hers, establishing connections that went beyond their old proximity protocols.

"Easy," Dr. Kline's voice cut through the digital noise. "Don't try to process everything at once. Let your brain adapt naturally."

Riley closed her eyes, but it didn't stop the flow of information. The darkness behind her eyelids filled with scrolling data, status updates, system diagnostics. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time, like standing at the edge of an endless digital abyss.

"Focus on something simple," Dr. Kline advised. "Try accessing your drone’s basic telemetry."

Riley reached out with her thoughts, and suddenly she could feel everything about her drone companion—power levels, system status, even the subtle variations in his movements. The connection felt intimate, immediate, nothing like the clunky interface she'd used before.

"How does it feel?" Dr. Kline asked softly, monitoring the integration process on her displays.

"Like..." Riley opened her eyes, searching for words that could capture the experience. "Like I've been deaf my whole life, and suddenly I can hear music." She turned to look at Chirp, and the drone responded to her thoughts before she could vocalize them, adjusting his hover height and running a quick diagnostic sweep that she felt as much as saw.

"The integration looks perfect," Dr. Kline said, studying the readouts. "Your neural plasticity is exceptional—you're adapting faster than most first-timers." She paused, her expression growing more serious. "But remember: just because you can process all this data doesn't mean you should try to handle everything at once. It's easy to get overwhelmed."

As if to prove her point, Riley's attention caught on the environmental feeds her new systems were generating. Suddenly she was aware of every temperature variance in the room, electromagnetic signatures from the medical equipment, subtle air pressure changes from the ventilation system, ambient light measurements updating in real-time. The cascade of sensory information made her head spin, and she quickly pulled back, focusing on Chirp's familiar presence instead.

"Yeah," she managed, blinking rapidly. "I'm starting to get that."

Dr. Kline smiled knowingly. "Let's turn off some of these auxiliary feeds. You can activate them selectively when you need them, but there's no reason to process all of that data constantly." She walked Riley through the mental commands to filter and prioritize different types of input. "Think of it like working out. You need to build up your mental stamina gradually. Push too hard too fast, and you'll give yourself the digital equivalent of a migraine." She gestured to a small case on the counter. "Which is why I'm giving you these."

Riley's new vision automatically zoomed and enhanced, identifying the contents: neural dampeners, designed to help regulate the flow of digital information. The technical specifications scrolled past in her peripheral vision, and she had to consciously stop herself from falling into another data spiral.

"Take them if things get too intense," Dr. Kline advised. "They'll help you maintain boundaries between your organic processes and digital inputs until you develop those barriers naturally." She paused, her eyes focusing intently on Riley. "Speaking of boundaries—how are you feeling about the changes? Not just physically, but emotionally?"

The question caught Riley off guard. She'd been so caught up in exploring her new capabilities that she hadn't really processed the deeper implications. Her hand went to her neck, where her old goggles still hung, and the contrast suddenly hit her: these weren't just tools she was wearing anymore. These changes were part of her now, integrated into her very being.

"It's..." she started, then stopped, reorganizing her thoughts. "Back in the Driftlands, my dad used to say that depending on tech made you less human. That every upgrade was like trading away a piece of your soul." She looked down at her hands, which now displayed subtle diagnostic overlays when she focused on them. "But this doesn't feel like losing anything. It feels like..."

"Evolution?" Dr. Kline suggested quietly.

Riley nodded slowly. "Yeah. Like I'm still me, just... more." She thought about Aura, about being trapped in that cold storage room, about all the times her limitations had nearly cost her everything. "Maybe being human isn't about staying the same. Maybe it's about choosing how we change."

Dr. Kline's expression softened with approval. "Most people take a lot longer to reach that understanding." She moved to her console, pulling up a series of diagnostic protocols. "Ready to run through some calibration exercises? The sooner we fine-tune everything, the sooner you can start really exploring what these systems can do."

For the next hour, Riley worked through a series of increasingly complex tests. She learned to modulate her visual inputs, switching seamlessly between different enhancement modes. The neural interface became more intuitive with each exercise, responding to her intentions almost before she fully formed them. She discovered she could tag and track multiple objects simultaneously, maintaining awareness of their positions even when they weren't in her direct line of sight.

The most striking revelation came when Dr. Kline introduced her to the tactical overlay system. Suddenly Riley could see potential paths highlighted through complex spaces, threat assessments automatically calculating for any movement in her field of view, and structural weak points identified in real-time. IT was similar to what Chirp had always provided through her goggles, but this was faster. It was like having a sixth sense dedicated entirely to survival.

"This is incredible," Riley breathed, watching as her systems mapped every possible exit route from the clinic. Each path came with its own risk assessment and estimated success rate, the calculations updating continuously based on changing variables. "With this, what happened in the cold storage..."

"Would have played out very differently," Dr. Kline finished, nodding. "But remember—these systems are tools, not crutches. They enhance your natural abilities, but they don't replace the need for skill and judgment."

Riley thought about that as she practiced interfacing with Chirp through their new direct connection. The drone's responses were instantaneous now, his movements perfectly synchronized with her intentions. But she could still feel the value of their old way of working together—the trust and understanding they'd built over countless jobs.

"It's like..." she paused, watching Chirp execute a complex series of maneuvers based on nothing more than her thoughts, "like having a new language to speak in. But still appreciating the old ones."

"Exactly." Dr. Kline moved to stand beside her, watching the drone's fluid movements. "The tech doesn't erase who you were. It builds on your existing foundation." She tapped her own temple, where the subtle gleam of augmented hardware caught the light. "The best upgrades don't try to make you something else—they help you become more fully yourself."

"Speaking of upgrades," Dr. Kline continued, turning back to her console, "you should consider getting A.I.D. software once you're comfortable with the basics. The N-77 works fine on its own, but an Assisted Intelligence Driver can help manage your data streams more efficiently. Makes everything smoother, more intuitive."

Riley raised an eyebrow. "Another upgrade already?"

"Not right away," Dr. Kline smiled. "Give yourself time to adjust to what you have first. But keep it in mind. The software doesn't just manage data—it learns your preferences, anticipates your needs. Makes the whole system feel more natural."

As the words settled over her, Riley felt something shift inside her mind—not the hardware this time, but her perspective. She reached up and carefully removed the cracked goggles from around her neck, holding them in her hands. They felt lighter now, more like a memory than a tool. Each scratch and repair told a story of survival, of making do with what she had. But she didn't need them anymore.

"Keep them," Dr. Kline said softly, reading her expression. "Not because you need them, but because they're part of your story. Sometimes it's good to remember where we started."

Riley nodded, carefully tucking the goggles into her bag. Through her new eyes, she could see every detail of their worn surface, every repair she'd ever made. But for the first time, they didn't feel like a lifeline—just a reminder of how far she'd come.

"The integration cycle is complete," Dr. Kline announced, checking one final set of readings. "Everything's operating within optimal parameters. You're clear to go, though I want you back in forty-eight hours for a follow-up scan." She paused, her expression growing serious. "And Riley? Take it slow at first. Give yourself time to adjust before you try anything too ambitious."

"Right," Riley said, standing carefully. Her new systems automatically compensated for the movement, providing perfect balance and spatial awareness. Even the ambient light seemed different now—richer, more detailed, full of information she was only beginning to learn how to process. "No heroics for at least a day or two."

Dr. Kline's knowing smile suggested she didn't entirely believe that promise. "Here," she said, handing over a small bottle of neural dampeners. "Just in case. And remember—you can call me any time if something doesn't feel right."

Riley took the bottle, her enhanced vision automatically cataloging its contents. "Thanks," she said, meaning it for more than just the dampeners. "For everything."

She stepped out of the clinic into a world that felt both familiar and entirely new. The city's eternal neon haze parsed into distinct wavelengths in her vision, each light source tagged with data about its spectrum and intensity. Shadows held no secrets anymore—her low-light enhancement revealed every detail. Above, her tactical systems automatically tracked the paths of passing vehicles, calculating trajectories and potential intersections.

Chirp hovered beside her, their connection now a constant, comfortable presence in her digital awareness. She could feel his systems interfacing with hers, sharing data about their environment in real-time. Together, they stood at the threshold of something new—no longer just operator and drone, but a seamlessly integrated team.

The weight of the old goggles in her bag reminded her of her father's warnings about losing humanity to technology. But as she looked out at Helix City through her augmented eyes, processing layers of information that would have overwhelmed her just hours ago, she understood something he never had: Humanity wasn't a fixed point to be preserved. It was a journey of constant adaptation, of choosing how to evolve.

She wasn't less human for embracing these changes. She was exactly what she'd chosen to become.

"Come on, Chirp," she said, both vocally and through their neural link. "Let's see what we can really do."

As they moved into the flow of the city's eternal twilight, Riley felt the last echoes of doubt fall away. She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was ready to thrive.