By 2092, almost half a century after the war, the continent of Africa, South America, and the Middle East lay desolate and exploited, their riches consumed by corporate behemoths. The Nebula Arms Company, Faramind Corps, and Pygmalion-Fringe Space Research are just a few pieces in a dreadfully complex game of control, mass manipulation and exploitation. Forests are felled for resources, ecosystems raped for the benefit of far-off lands, and the planet's riches are plucked out, creating scars that bear witness to a world decaying by its own desires. They secretly fund wars, erect towering metropolises and embedding subtle control mechanisms beneath the surface of government buildings. Total control of information, pairing societal growth and corruption together as nations and governments are used as both showcases of progress and means to an end.

Nestled somewhere inside the largest desert on the planet, Goldenrod City was a microcosm of this global dynamic. It’s midday and the wasteland felt like a furnace. The air itself seemed to wobble and dance with the intensity of the heat. It stretched for well over a thousand miles ahead, temperatures reaching up to 131 degrees. The sky above was an expanse of silvery white and the sand appeared like molten copper under the sun. The absolute silence is only interrupted by the soft whistling of an electric engine powering on.

“It’s on the dash,” Kai said and fastened his two-point seat belt on his crotch. “Ned.”

“Yah,” said Ned, half asleep in his seat, his arms folded across his chest and both his eyes squinting under the blazing rays of sunlight hammering his face.

“It’s on the dash, man,” said Kai and tapped the plastic a few times. “See the dash?” he paused. “Look man, you gotta wake up. I don’t wanna fry in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert so, wake the fuck up,” Kai raised his voice enough to annoy Ned out of napping. “And hit the Batu.” His eyes blinked as he peered at the foil case, his curiosity piqued despite the thumping headache that wanted to split his skull in two.

“The, what?”

“Spinnekopgif Batu,” said Kai while smirking under his helmet. “It’s an import, whadda ya want from me?”

“What's it do?” Ned shaked it gently. The chrome wrapper has a stylized black and red spider printed on it.

“Oh, man, it’s a fucking lightning bolt straight through your cortex,” he said. “The double Cs I linked, you don’t wanna know. And you’re fucking welcome bro.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to know. And before I slot another shit-typed pseudo I want to know what does it do,” said and turned his head to look at him. His face reflected on Kai’s helmet as he watched the man chuckle and nod behind the orange-tinted plastic visor.

“Fuck yes, it’s that good. Now sync, we about to start.” Kai turned around to size up the other cars on their left and right. Each one, including their own, created a line that extended for more than four hundred feet over and above the sand dunes. Each car had massive off-road spiked tires, and the suspension systems were a blend of hydraulic and electromagnetic components that dynamically adjusted to the desert landscape. It was a banned event organized outside the Neural Grid, with racers ranging from corrupt police officers to escaped convicts, ex-racing drivers, androids, and, of course, rich, spoiled corpo suits. With a deep breath, Ned tore the wrapper open, his gloved fingers trembling slightly. The color of the chip was a toxic green, without any words or numbers on it, definitely of illegal origin. A blinking light, indicating an incoming transmission or message, appeared in his virtual interface that overlaid his vision.

>fragmented message<

Unknown

‘What the fuck?’ Said under his breath.

“Schizo, plug or pass, fuckin choose already.”

He shushed him a moment before sliding the chip inside his brain. Every single poorly typed line of this Batu code glitched his sight and senses. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, like a switch being flipped, he felt a surge of sweet warmth rush through him. The hangover that had weighed down his eyelids was suddenly a thing of the past. His vision seemed to sharpen, the colors around him becoming more vibrant, exaggerated. Ned revved the engine like a school kid messing around at the arcades, the sound a low, menacing whoosh that seemed to resonate and bounce around the walls of his cranium.

“Nuke, that’s fuckin so good.” he said, as the world shifted around Ned. Time seemed to slow as he turned his head to look at Kai. Every movement seemed drawn out, elongated, as if he was watching a film unfold in slow motion. Kai's visor was raised, his lips moving in what looked like garbled howls. Ned strained to hear, but the words came to him as distorted barks of a dog.

“Floooooo…iiitttt…!” Kai's shouting gradually cuts through Ned's daze as he sees him waving his arms and bashing on the dashboard. Confusion swirled through Ned's mind as he tried to make sense of the spectacle before him. Why was Kai barking in slow motion? What was happening? It felt as if time had stretched to its limits, bending and warping his senses. Then, with a sudden slap on the helmet, reality snapped back into focus. “Ned fucking go, goddammit.” Kai's voice reached him, urgent and clear. The vehicles were already tossing sand clouds across the desert landscape, tearing and smashing together. His grip tightened, nostrils flaring as he slammed his foot onto the pedal, the engine roaring to life beneath him. The world outside became a blur of colors and motion as he gave chase, the wind whipping past him in a frenzied rush. “What the fuck was that Ned?” Kai kept yelling at him, holding his seat belt with both hands to keep his body from bumping to the roof of the car.

“It’s that crap, didn’t seem to run at first. Does now.”

“Shoulda kept the pseudo for me you fucking schizo fuck,’ said Kai, now turning his yelling into high-pitched shrieking. “Fuckin basic lines.”

“I don’t give a shit, don’t ever pass me shitty code again, I swear,” screamed Ned, and waved in front of a holographic screen to activate it.

“Braindead, I told you, and you were fucking napping. Suit is gonna get aw—‘

“Shut it. I have to catch Deacon, fuckin synth uses hydro,” said Ned. The buzzing of engines and the sound of metal scratching metal filled the air as the car jumps over the dunes, leaving a trail of sparks and dirt in its wake. “You got the NACs ready?”

“I’m on it,” said Kai and readied the gun on his armpit. He loads three metal spikes, each one two and half feet long that read “NAC” in chrome letters on the side. As their engine growled, they lurched forward when another car passed ahead cutting their line. Kai's fingers tightened on the bolt thrower's grip, and tensed up as he aimed down the sights, aligning his shot. With a sharp click, the gun blasted, hurling a spike that sliced through the dust. It lodged onto the trunk of the rival car, its EMP activating, killing the engine.

“Told you the visor is a must,” Kai said.

“Hey, we only had a rock, stop whining,” answered Ned. The sudden loss of momentum threw it into a violent spin. His heart raced as he swerved to avoid the spinning chunk of steel weighting over two tonnes, its tires digging into the sand before flipping onto its roof in a cloud of dust and debris. Kai's visor glowed as he nodded, he’s already reloading the EMP gun with another NAC bolt. The heads-up display on Ned's windshield tracks the distance to Deacon's beefed-up Mustang Xero, a red blip on the digital map along with the finish line. Goldenrod City's distant skyline appeared far ahead. Deacon's eyes widened as Ned's vehicle closed in. He veered towards another car in a last-ditch attempt to pull ahead, by pushing it in their line of fire. Ned was too focused on catching up with him when shrapnel struck their windshield, and plumes of smoke billowed around them, obscuring the oncoming car. It slammed into them, sending a shudder through the aluminum frame. The protective plates absorbed just enough of the impact to keep them moving. A burst of static crackled through the comms system, startling them both.

“You cocksucking rats got autopilot on?” said the voice on the radio.

“Hey fuckface,” said Kai. “Might wanna check that chip you—“ Ned slaps him in the chest with the back of his hand and shakes his head to stop him from finishing the sentence.

“Come on man,” Ned whispered almost to himself, while looking at Kai. In that fleeting moment, his eyes stole a glimpse of another car hurtling through the air toward them. The violent impact of the two masses hugging took them to the air, twisting everything in a pirouette. The world became a maelstrom of disorienting movement, as both metal and human screeching shred their ear drums. And then, as swiftly as it had begun, the world plunged into darkness. The sounds of crushing parts ceased, leaving only an echoing abyss in its wake. The cacophony was replaced by a haunting silence. In that profound moment of stillness, Ned's consciousness flickered, his mind a haze of confusion and static.

The stale warm air brushed the skin of his cheeks and neck. He is awakened by the slow intermitten chirping of a device in his hands. Taking a deep breath, Ned reached at the back right side of his head, just behind his ear. His fingers traced the contours of the cables that had emerged from his head, and with his eyes still closed, he disconnected two really thin metallic cables that quickly retracted into the device he held. The sound of an electronic door opening reached him from the back. The door slid open smoothly, the ambiance shifted, and for a moment, Ned’s closed eyes twitched, as if disturbed. Then footsteps. A person walked in, navigating the room with practiced familiarity. He stopped, just a few steps away, and activated a holographic screen. The sound of typing, though not mechanical, was oddly comforting.

“Hey sweetie,” said a man’s voice. Ned opened his eyes and discreetly disconnected the video recorder device he was holding from the panel in front of him. The walls carried small grey and metallic plaques, each no larger than a hand's span, bearing names and dates. The lighting was subdued, casting soft, candle-like warm glows upon the plaques. He circled the room to avoid passing near the mourning man, and stepped outside into the larger structure that housed it. Its interior was a labyrinthine hell of a design, with countless floors and rooms that contained the remains of the dead. Each floor is dedicated to a specific theme, a fragment of existence for departed souls. Towering vertical holographic gardens, virtual reality landscapes, every room reflected a unique facet of the lives that have come and gone. As he walked around the long, beige and white hallways, he saw people physically connecting with the panels, plugging their decks into the filing system that held the shared memories of their loved ones. Memories that are carefully chosen to reflect the essence of the relationship and moments that held significance for both the dead and the living. The company of course capitalizes on this allure, offering customized rooms that cater to those who yearn for prolonged communion. For a fee, individuals can inhabit these spaces for hours on end, connecting to the AI-driven simulations that breathe life into these evocations. Intoxicating sensation, an escape from the harshness of the present and a refuge in the embrace of the past. Ned kept walking, passing a weeping young punk girl with messy fire-red hair, sitting on the floor, lost in her tunes. Then, a man in a suit—wearing a long, dark blue overcoat—surrendered to his desires, engaged in an act of self-pleasuring, oblivious to the world outside his virtual trance. Ned quickened his pace, passing many rooms, seeing genuine grieving faces among perverted data junkies and pluggers as he neared the exit door.

The Cranial Integration Decks, CIDs, or simply brain decks, were specialized implants in the form of a small credit card holder, inserted at the back right side of one’s skull. Planted between soft tissue at the day of one’s birth and illegal to remove or tamper with for any reason, inside or out of the Continental Union. They were basically control hubs equipped with GPS that consolidated and kept track of personal information and services. At first glance, the convenience seemed undeniable. The deck functioned like a passkey, serving as an ID, driver's license, personal communication device, and bank account, among other things. They also provided zone permits, allowing citizens to move between different areas of the Union with controlled access, marking the end of carrying physical documents or passports. While the Union package might have been issued at birth for free, the true potential lay in the realm of upgrades and plug-ins. Within hours of its release, Faramind’s Nova Core became a symbol of status and influence—costly add-ons for the mandatory government-issued neural decks, introduced to the market by Faramind Corporation in 2064. These enhancements, ranging from military-grade hardware to exotic software, were only available to anyone willing to spend at the very least 5 digits of CCs or more.

The black market for pirated deck modifications and physical enhancements exploded, offering unregulated versions of not only Nova Cores, but other third-party implants as well. These hand-typed pseudocores may grant different skills or abilities and physical advantages but often carry dangerous side effects, fueling heavy addiction and mental instability. But the single worst side effect, at least for those who embraced the convenience and unregulated advantages of Faramind’s Nova Core system, was the relinquishment of their privacy. A matrix that was always shifting and improving, tracking users at all times, and pinpointing pirates using jailbroken versions, ensuring that every action was monitored by the company. Edward Foss had unmatched skills in infiltrating the deck system and the Nova Cores. He could design and provide customized experiences that were both exhilarating and perilous. With a clientele that craved worlds beyond reality's constraints, Ned sold a range of customized dreams and virtual realms that pluggers could enter while their consciousness was directly connected to the brain deck but completely invisible to the Neural Grid. He was the best at creating all sorts of implants. Military training, martial arts, weapon expertise, language packs. Softs like these made him a Corridor legend, gaining notoriety among megacorporations under the alias ‘Array Breaker’. His success attracted unwanted attention, and he was framed for a series of high-profile hacks and information thefts. Despite maintaining his innocence, he is sentenced for life in a Corridor prison. During his time behind bars, Ned helped Faramind create advanced protection firewalls for their now vulnerable Nova Cores, preventing malicious patches as well as the creation of pseudo from happening ever again. In return Ned's sentence is drastically reduced from life in prison, to 11 months, just the time it took for him to create said firewalls. Faramind Corp extends an offer of clemency in exchange for his expertise and the deal includes a software engineer job in Lumina City upon his release, an offer that he is still considering.

The glass doors slide open with a muted hiss, releasing him into the heart of the Corridor, Chicago. The entire region, colloquially called the ‘Lumina Corridor’ after the war, is a dense conjoined mess of cities that stretches across parts of Illinois, Indiana, Lumina City and Chicago. Hyper-urbanized, industrialized and entirely unchecked corporate dominance. Underground facility soot, smog-filled skies and the formation of ‘The Gutter’, breeds massive heat waves that cursed most of the Corridor with constant sulphuric deluge. His steps are deliberate, each footfall echoing against the damp pavement. The collar of his trench coat is turned up against the acidic rain, shielding his face from the prying eyes of surveillance drones and cameras that flit like fireflies all around him. The buildings appear as towering monoliths filled with holographic billboards that flicker and pulsate, dressing entire city blocks with a tapestry of advertisements, consumer propaganda and Japanese graffiti. Incoming message.

In Wabash right now, Xetho looks packed, I’m already there, he has company and I bet he plugged.

Tank.

Xetho was a sex club that served as both a meeting ground for high-profile corporate negotiations and a stage for the most depraved acts of human intercourse. Those who frequent Xetho are mostly black market operatives, half assed sawbones and plutocrats seeking exotic pseudo or as the data junkies say a ‘sick plug n play orgy’. A crucible of transactions rarely legitimate but mostly clandestine, where information, contraband and burried atrocities exhange a thousand hands amidst of synthwave beats and drinks with names like Data Spike, Nightjob and Chromerod. Security at Xetho is more of a whispered secret than a visible presence. Bouncers in tattered leather jackets, mirrored shades and cybernetic limbs blend with the crowd, ever watching and ready to intervene when the shit hits the fan, which it frequently does. Ned had been a known patron back in the early days of hustling, and with a subtle nod, Benny leaned back, one hand brushing the polished frame as he granted him entry. The long hallway led towards the center of the club. Corroded conduits traversed the ceiling, dim luminescent tubes strobed erratically at the corners of the floor, used condoms upon discarded clothing and walls that bore cryptic neon Kanji street art. Tank was sitting at the corner of the counter, drinking. Her eyes obscured by holo shades that cast a soft sapphire glow. Her dark ebony skin, almost eerily reminiscent of obsidian stone. She wore a sleek, white, blue and orange form-fitting bodysuit that defined her toned, sculpted legs and waist and had long, sinuous dreadlocks descent from her head, a flowing cascade of pure white that almost seems to shimmer in the club's ambient illumination.

The media called their first collaboration the Viral Raid. The single largest data leak since 2062’s Great Net collapse, a cyberattack that wiped out two thirds of the global public debt setting off a chain reaction of outrage that lead to the investigation of NeuroCred, the now global interbank network. That data leak suggested that NeuroCred had been engaging in egregious surveillance on a global scale, violating privacy rights on a massive level. After the job, they spent days tangled in code and each other. Ned approaches and takes the sit next to her, while shifting his gaze behind the counter, where the bartender awaits, a massive figure in the dimly lit recesses of the bar.

“He is here, a few tables back. He is packing, his friends are packing,” Tank whispered. “Probably slotted yours. Even if we could just brick em, what makes you think that he won't use the chip.”

“He won't,” calmly said Ned and lifted his hand to order a drink. The bartender looked like a mangled fusion of man and machine. Implants connected to a small port embedded at the base of his skull and bore a customized deck that pulsed a soft neon blue light. The same eerie light, reminiscent of circuitry etched into flesh, flowed to the rest of his body.

“Ya look like shit, oughta get some potent,” said the bartender and reached for a big metal cup with his mechanical arm.

“Just a glass of clean, Duckie,” said Ned while taking out a tiny black plastic wrapper from his pocket. Duckie tilted his head slightly, as if processing an unexpected bug in his software for a split second, but then quickly filled a glass of water in front of them. Ned removed the plastic wrap and dropped a small shiny black pill inside the glass.

“Fuck, doin’ the patch here? Damn, I don’t think you fully grasp what we’re about to do, Ned. I know it’s my fault and all, but please tell me you actually have anything resembling a plan,” said Tank. Leaning back against the counter, both elbows propped on its surface, she crossed her legs, one foot twitching rapidly in a nervous tic. Ned stirred the pill by shaking the glass a few times, then swallowed it.

“Don’t bug me. Told you, got a plan.”

“Heard that before. Know what would be really zynk? Nyx not running 3.3 no more.”

“He is. He has it. Out of everyone, Nyx would be the one still typing with my own,” Ned said, and hunched forward to light a cigarette.

“Well okay then. So what is the plan?”

“It’s simple really, I get my keygen back, and will be out before they sync, trust me.”

“That’s the plan?” She looked at him, raising an eyebrow hook. “That a fuckin wish not a plan, ya genius,” she shaked her head, her leg still twitching.

“I’m leaving. Sick of Chicago and all these morons. Fuck em. Think I’m gonna take the job, stay with Arya,” He turned and looked at her. “I need my keygen back babe, please. I can’t have Nyx using it to fuck up my biz for me. And sure as hell can’t step aside and let his pseudo trace back. I need this. And listen—‘ he paused to puff, “if it makes you feel better, this is your fuck up,” said Ned and looked her dead straight in the eyes. Cigarette hanging from his lips. Tank quickly tries to get down from her chair.

“Okay, do it yourself then.”

“Now hey, I’m kiddin girl, what is wrong with you?” laughed Ned and tapped her on the shoulder, sitting her back to the chair, careful not to draw too much attention. Duckie looks at them. “Are you serious, can’t even take a joke?” Tank seemed tired of this conversation. She took off her shades and started rubbing her eyes with one hand.

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“Knock it off okay, you went offline for a year, I thought you worked for Yamaguchi now.”

“Yamaguchi? Where did you get that? Besides, everyone is out after tonight.”

“Where did ‘you’ get that?”

“Sync with me, it’s simple. You’re gonna tell him you have something new, aight? Typed something new and you’re sellin. I’m gonna wait in Hell, you bring him there and I’ll just ask the man to drop my patch,” the cigarette still in his mouth.

“To drop the patch, right,” she curled her lip. “Or, since it’s your crack and I know you ain’t coding without a killswitch, how about you just brick the thing and be done with it?’ asked Tank with her eyes closed and an open palm gesture, trying to figure out a plan that doesn’t involve talking to Nyx or getting shot by his watchdogs.

“Have you lost it man? Don’t wanna fry his bone marrow, fucking Liston we’ll never get off my back,” Ned straightened his back and got up. He quickly put out the cigarette, combed his hair with his fingers, and lifted his dropped collar a tiny bit. “Still run 3.3? Any pseudo loaded?”

“Willie bag, Jackknife and a custom dynamic CQB mod,” said Tank, and finished her drink.

“Who typed it?” Ned smirked, turning to look at her.

“I did,” she smiled a perfect white set of teeth and leaned forward looking down.

“You copying my softs? You do realise we’re fucking after this right?”

“Why? You back in the biz?” asked Tank and bit her lip.

Ned nudged her, put both his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, looked around him for a second, then he couldn't help but cast a quick, furtive glance toward Nyx's cubicle.

“Nah, there’s no biz anymore. Now listen, I needed you to load every single soft you have on the deck then—“

“What? Why?”

“Just listen to me for a second. Plug everything you have and shred the last two hours from your deck. Then wait 20 minutes before you speak to him. After I’m done, wait on the parking lot with the engine running,” he said and bumped her on the shoulder. Ned discreetly disengaged and charted a course through the hallways of the Xetho, opening a couple of doors and getting down a few levels where a second establishment was hidden. Hell. Some are calling it ‘Xetho Two’, data junkies roaming the streets of the Corridor call it the ‘house of pain’. But in reality it is just the restroom of the club that kept on expanding as more people kept coming in to install software, hack bodies and do drugs both virtual and physical. The restroom corridors are akin to entering a sprawling maze, with just as many naked bodies dancing around, hitting each other or fucking, as the main area of the club. And at first glance it appears as exactly the same. The only difference is the louder music, softer lighting and the sawbones, performing two minute long surgeries, implanting hardware on open skulls, removing limbs and upgrading themselves and customers with cybernetic gear. Ned recognized versions of his own exploits and chips among their surgical tools as well as the surgeons themselves. Former clients of sorts.

“Eddie boy, you shouldn’t be here,” said one of them. The voice was dry and crackles. He was sitting on a circular metal stool with one hand extended and sliced open from wrist to the elbow pit, and the other holding a pair of tweezers, stabbed directly into the nevres of his open wound. His face is obscured by long, messy salt and pepper hair. “Almost a year since you run. Wanted man, now that’s gotta be exciting. Heard your place got swarmed, so that means you have no pseudo, no decks, no rig to code. And that means you’re here to compensate. Am I right Mr. Foss?”

“Afraid so,” said Ned and lit a cigarette. “No carving, just a firmware update and my Faramind keygen back.”

“Faramind huh? You pack a Nova Core? Now that’s not gonna be cheap you know, implant version 3.1?”

“3.3,” he said while taking his trench coat off, folding it and placing it on a medical recliner. “And never said I’m paying for it.”

“I see.” He removed a very thin metallic cord-like yarn from the wound using his tweezers. He started pulling it out, spraying droplets of blood on his clothes and the floor. He was a very slim, tall man, looking old and weak. He looked up towards Ned. The sclera of his eyes were jet-black, and his pupils shimmered with a sickened crimson hue. “You’re a very provident man, Ned. I always respected that you know. What is it? A killswitch?”

“Not exactly.”

“Come on, what is it?”

“First do me a solid, and run the update for me. Be quick.” Ned eased himself onto the cold, leather-like surface of the recliner, took in a large breath full of smoke, then exhaled it back out. “Please, Rigger. I don’t have much time.”

“No you don’t Mr. Foss,” said Rigger and got up. He was wearing a sleeveless black leather jacket, but no shirt or tank top under it. The metal endoskeleton glimmered in between his naked nevres and muscles of his arm. Blood rushed down from the exposed laceration, splattering the nearby equipment and pooling on the metal floor as he starts gathering his needed equipment. “Every single shark bleeding the Corridor dry out there knows by now. 11 months? That’s a bargain you know, I myself would take that. Then again, having both sides collapsing on my head sounds pretty fucking scary. You need me to be quick, and I need to know why I won’t get paid for jailbreaking your brand new deck.” The words struck a nerve, and Ned snapped. With a sudden, explosive motion, he seized Rigger by the shoulder, twisting his learther jacket with his grip.

“You’re jailbreaking it?” he asked in a burst of anger, shouting, fingers digged into the fabric. “You’re breaking it? You ungrateful, thankless old sack of shit," he pushed him. The old man stumbled backward, his jacket slipped from his grasp, and he inadvertently collided with a young woman getting a tattoo. “Jesus, I coded the keygen and gave it to you, you motherfucker.”

“The fuck is your problem schizo?” said the girl. Ned looked at her, then Rigger.

“Problem is I’ve been typing my fingers off for a bunch of pluto suits in a prison cell for the last eleven months and I get out to find some hack job, psycho cunt trying to sell me back my life’s work,” Their eyes locked for a fleeting instant. His jaw chattered. Rigger calmly straightened his jacket and lifted his bloody hands with open palms towards Ned. His fingers were slick with sweat and slicker still with the dark crimson that oozed from the jagged incision on his wrist. For a moment, he recalled a past incident they shared, involving a sodomized, disemboweled customer, one of Liston’s whores screaming at the top of her lungs and a malfunctioning ‘Total Pleasure’ pseudo he coded.

“Now you owe me, Mr. Foss. But something tells me you won’t be sticking around after tonight. You can have the keygen, chip is all yours.” Rigger started walking backwards. “Tank, does she know?’ Ned nodded and flicked the ashes of his cigarette. Bitter realization crept into Rigger’s face as he placed a tiny, cyan and gold, plastic chip on the pub table next to the keygen device. He inhaled deeply, his jaw tighened ever so slightly, then turned around and left. With beads of sweat forming on his furrowed brow, Ned’s eyes remained fixed on the chip left behind by Rigger, as well as the rest of his hardware. Time compressed into a frenetic pulse within the depths of Xetho's hell. In the corner of his vision, Ned detected the impending convergence of security guards and Nyx’s bouncers, some passing through the main door, some walking down the stairs, but all directed squarely at him. He instinctively reached for his brain deck, his fingers deftly locating the cords that extended from his neural implant and started connecting them. The device lit up, and the tiny black and green screen presented several options for him to select. He slotted the chip into his custom-designed Type 3 brain deck patching and cracking multitool—a keygen, an almost impossible device to find, let alone operate.

#use

#use

execute{b[ネック]++; for(int x =0; x

//intネックv2.9

//intネックv3.9

//intファーレーデックv3

//return v3.2

//return v3.3 【<】

Time slowed to a crawl. A nexus of soft tissues, neurons, flesh, software, and data coalesced within the recesses of his mind. Amidst the dissonance of latex bodysuits dancing, sex, smoke, extremely loud music, and the looming fight, he waited quietly, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, as loading bars began to fill up in front of his corneas. An electrifying clash of thoughts, memories, and information poured in. They were chaotic. Undisciplined. Random. But after a few seconds, they started connecting like puzzle pieces. Estimates appeared and disappeared in a void, future scenarios crumbled and faded away, but everything usable remained. As his senses exploded, he embraced pure inspiration. And just like ripples of water in a small container, they expanded, reached out, and reverberated back to him. He opened his eyes.

“That’s him,” one of the bouncers shouted as he closed in on the medical recliner. Every other cyber-bouncer walked toward him, pushing aside people as a colorful light show rained down upon them and the repetitive bass hum hit a crescendo. He leaned back, intertwining his fingers behind his head, yielding to the approaching men. His angular features betrayed no hint of resistance as a thin tendril of smoke spiraled upward, rising from the ember of his cigarette. Ned discreetly slotted the chip. They started crackling their knuckles. A truly hulking, massive man walked up to him. With his tattooed, cyber-enhanced, almost gorilla-like arm, he reached out and grasped the side of the recliner, rotating it with such force that it defied its intended shape. The metal shrieked a bit, but the chair pivoted until he and the colossal figure were now face-to-face, albeit in an upside-down orientation. Skin seemed stretched over his skull, almost looking plastic without pores or hair. His neck and arms were of a different shade with many scars and marks, revealing even more that he had his real face covered up with a type of synthetic leather.

“Nyx said to—“

“Oh hey, Benny. Nuke mug gotta say,” Ned said and attempted to stand up from the recliner. “Is the poor man sti—” The colossal Benny blocked him. He leaned a bit closer and grinned.

“Nyx said, to FUCK you up.” The overhead punch landed with brutal precision, and the impact resonated through his body and the chair like a lightning strike. Pain and blindness is felt for a brief moment before he lost his consciousness.

Ned's limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, likely bound to a chair by restraints he couldn’t see beneath the black matte hood. As he struggled to breathe, the potent scent and metallic taste of his own drool and blood became apparent. His broken nose throbbed with each heartbeat as Nyx reached out and removed the hood, revealing a visage marred by bruises and cuts. His eyes, though clouded by the aftereffects of a heavy concussion, narrowed as they met Nyx's indifferent gaze.

“Shit, you’re bleeding.” His sardonic comment is accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of munching. Before him rested an artfully arranged plate of seared tuna, some wasabi, and soy sauce. They were back in the main room of the Xetho, in a private cubicle deep within the club.

“Fuck me, someone please get me a pen and my autograph book, we have The Array Breaker,” Nyx giggled, sat back, and crossed his legs. His appearance mirrored the surrealism of his surroundings—sleek, form-fitting suit that shimmered with iridescent hues from the kaleidoscopic lighting. Black hair, ice-blue eyes, and an aura of purchased authority. They hadn’t seen each other in thirteen months, yet he looked like he’d aged a decade.

“Is Tank de—“ Ned paused and tilted his head to the side a tiny bit.

“Why? You need her? She’s around.’ Their eyes locked for a few seconds. “Now, I would assume you’re not here just for the mad dogging and nose bleeding on my guards and so I’m going to take a wild guess to help you out a bit. You follow?”

“Sure.” Blood ran from his nose to his lips. He leaned forward and expelled a portion of the blood and saliva that had pooled in his mouth. It landed with an audible splatter upon the platter of sushi. Ned's jaw remained unclenched, his posture poised but relaxed.

“You sold Tank the chip. Hottie sold it to me. You went to the cooler, and now that you’re out, you want to get it back. Am I correct?”

“Yeah that’s”—he snorted some more blood—“that’s pretty spot on actually.” Nyx leaned forward, joining his elbows and his knees. There was a small hint of a smile, but not anymore.

“Alright,” He said and got up, placed his hands inside his pockets, and started walking slowly, as if he were trying to sort out a problem in his head. One of his bodyguards walked out the cubicle. “So, you know that I have your little fuck-meat. You know that shredding your little conversation means nothing. I would assume your plan ain’t going the way you wanted it to go,” he turned to look at him. “You know, that I know, you’re not gonna fry the deck. I mean, I get that it’s your soft kid, ‘cept I bought it. It is mine now, I own it.”

“Cut the shit, you knew damn well she didn’t type it, what the fuck did you expect, really?”

“Not my problem you kids can’t do biz no more,” Nyx sat back down, crossing his legs once again. “So the plan was to come here, grab the three point fucking three keygen from Rigger, slot a pseudocore, and do what exactly? Rip it off my skull?” He laughed, grabbed another tuna roll, only to throw it back into the stained dish.

“Agents found the rig, trashed everything, every single pseudo I made, my work. They took my softs, my gear. You know I have no choice. This keygen is a loose end.” He lowered his head, his words are calm, betraying no discernible emotion, as if he's unraveling the layers of Nyx's intent with each syllable.

“Damn, it has been so nice and quiet all those months,” he shaked his head and gloomed at his spoiled tuna. “Want to hear what your real problem is, Ned. It’s the Array Breaker.” He giggled. “You think you can do something about it, anything. Erase everything, make everyone forget. You think you have a choice. You’re basically a walking corpse you know that?” he watched his reaction with an almost detached curiosity. Ned raised his head. “Oh yeah, a Vega lab rat came here a week ago. Bought a lot of pseudo, made a lot of good friends. Yamaguchi’s men from Osaka came too, just saying.”

“How much money did you make from selling the softs?” Ned asked.

“I typed them.”

“Remind me again, whose jailbreak are you still running to this day. Who is responsible for the plugs you and your bulldogs wear,” he paused for a second. “What if Vega, or the clan, or any one of your new friends found out?” Ned, despite his earlier indifference and determination, is now visibly jolted.

“What is it that you want from me?” said Nyx. His body started tensing up. His lips clenched and his voice carried an undertone of anger.

“If I can’t have it, then I want a cut. One off, thirty five percent. And I want me and Tank, to walk out of Xetho with the creds,” he said, “tonight. Right now.”

“Or you’re going to the clan and?” Nyx’s posture tightened, his sharp gestures punctuating his words.

“Or every single data junkie in here will know. After a few seconds, all the lab rats will know. In less than a minute, Osaka too. The keygen goes open, nobody will buy from you again.”

“You’re bluffing. It drops you out all the same.”

“It does. But watch me typing it all over from the start baby, a few years sitting on a rig, shit, I can do it.” The tension escalated further. Nyx’s reaction was one of defiance and calculation as he listened, an almost mocking grin on his face. He sat back and lit up a cigar, the lines on his forehead deepening as he furrowed his brow. He appeared frustrated and cornered, as if he’d already seen countless attempts at negotiation crumble before him. He took out a pistol and aimed it at Ned, his arm resting on his knee as he leaned back. Ned stared at the barrel of the gun, the metal glinting in the neon-lit darkness of the Xetho cubicle.

“Listen—“

‘Shut up, I’m thinking,’ Nyx interrupted, his voice anything but measured, his eyes fiery with anger. His mind worked swiftly, calculating the value of the silence that Ned was trying to bargain. “Seven hundred. Plus the girl, mostly unharmed.” Ned nodded in agreement as one of Nyx’s bodyguards retrieved a very thin and sleek-looking laptop from a backpack, while another ushered in Tank, who had been kept at a nearby cubicle. Transcations that big required authentication and a secure stable connection to the NeuroCred systems. As it progressed, the amount of seven hundred thousand credits materialized onto Ned’s heads-up display. Nyx unplugged himself from the laptop and folded the screen slowly with one hand, while the other continued to grip the pistol. Once pointed at him with intent to intimidate—but mostly to buy him enough time to think—it now hovered with deliberate menace in the smoky air. Tank was bruised, her face painted with swelling, small cuts, and a cloth gag over her mouth. Ned looked considerably worse, still tied to the chair, his nose swollen, and a purple circle formed under his one open eye.

“Aren’t you going to untie me?” asked Ned. Nyx got up fast, waving the gun around as he talked. He was far from satisfied with the deal he had offered, his mind churning with suspicions, and his icy resolve began to break down.

“What are you doing here, exactly? Enlighten me a tiny bit, Ned.” He started questioning every single action he’s done and every single word that came out of Ned’s mouth since the very moment the doorman pitched him about his arrival. “Life time wasn’t it? What did you do, you struck a deal?” Two of his bodyguards took out their pistols as well. Another delivered a brutal punch to Tank's stomach, a forceful blow that brought her to her knees. “Are we really going to pretend that you’re going to walk ten feet outside Wabash before someone plants a death seed to your head? Shit, you just got out, Faramind knows everything there is to know. There is no fucking way you’re open-sourcing your only leverage.” His eyes, ablaze with anger and denial, now bore a dispassionate focus, his gaze locked onto Ned's. The barrel was pressed against his head, and his finger hovered nervously over the trigger. “Fuck it.” There was a flicker of grim satisfaction in his gaze, a sense of finality as he pulled the trigger. But in the split second before Nyx's finger could complete the motion, a sudden and overwhelming sensation engulfed him. It was as if the world itself melted into digital noise. Every single cyber-enhancement in his body and mind failed him in a perplexing and inexplicable manner. His consciousness was abruptly halted. The world around him dissolved into infinite black. The pistol remained frozen in his hand, suspended in an unyielding silence. A cascade of falling code surged through his neural interface, targeting the implants of everyone in the immediate vicinity, including his bodyguards and Tank’s. After a couple of seconds, their bodies collapsed to the ground in a synchronized descent.

The syncopated pulse of synthesized beats reverberated through the air as Ned remained ensconced in his chair. Some alone time to gather his thoughts. Drops of blood landed on his chest, mingling with the dim light that cast patterns on his face, revealing bruises, dried blood, and exhaustion. He took deep, slow breaths, relaxed his body, and closed his eyes to rest them. Just for a few minutes. He called Duckie.

It was the hour just before dawn that was his absolute favorite. The intimate, warm feeling that started boiling softly in his guts reminded him of the pachinko parlors in Osaka, almost twenty years ago. Every Friday night, the arcades were jam-packed, but it was at Saturday sunrise that most kids, blowing their allowance playing shooter games, and most obsessed gamblers, crawled out of the game lounges to go home. There was a small window of time in which every single system in the building was rebooting. That included all the pachinko machines and slot machines that gave out prizes for matching the symbols and characters, and most importantly, their proxy firewalls and real-time surveillance programs. Out of the 64 slot machines, only 5 random ones would reach the payout mode each night. Just before the third reel stopped spinning, the animation would be delayed. A Japanese young woman, sporting a very revealing cybernetic samurai armor with lots of cleavage showing, represented your symbol, and she would get into battle with another number, often played out by an evil corporate, a killer robot blasting laser beams, or a dark cybernetic face with glowing green eyes. Kai called that function rīchi. He would spy for hours, trying to locate the exact machines that went into payout mode, often taking notes about very specific graphical details appearing on the screens. Ned spent most of his time shooting xenomorphs with a plastic laser tag-style pulse rifle or practicing just-frame inputs on the latest fighter cabinets from Shinjuku. At the time of the reboot, most machines had empty seats, and Ned was already jacked in on the first one. Soon after they started playing, the machine went into rīchi, and Ned began uploading a hack-tool that glitched the animation, freezing it and restarting it from the top. At the same time, Kai was waiting for the three symbols to synchronize, which in itself was quite hard to even witness amidst a downpour of melting sprites and flashing polygons. If he missed the pattern, he simply restarted the rīchi, giving them infinite retries for a chance to cash out the digital coins onto their NeuroCred accounts. But they needed to be fast and accurate if they wanted to hit all five of them during the reboot. On a good night, they got three of them. Maybe four if the cabinets were close to each other. When sunlight started spilling over and around the skyscrapers of Shinsaibashi-Suji, they were already spending their money on snacks, arcade games, and pirated porno softs.

Sunlight started shining through the columns of Xetho’s parking lot, reminding him of Japan. Ned gripped the steering wheel with both hands on the ten and two o’clock positions and slowly rested his head against it.