The antiseptic tang of sterilizer hangs in the air while dawn pink neon bleeds through the clinic's glass wall, painting chrome tools in ghost colors.
05:58 AM | Clinic surgical bay
David is half through the door when his nose twitches toward the take out bags. "Smells like ramen—thought you called me up for food, choom."
I clap a hand on his shoulder and steer him toward the secondary cradle. "First we make sure you keep feeling hungry. Vic's good, but chrome compatibility isn't his lane. Let's scan what that Sandevistan's really doing."
David grumbles, but Lucy squeezes his hand. "Humor the man. He rebuilt Kiwi's face in an hour."
I hook David to the diagnostic halo. Holos bloom—red spikes everywhere.
Fusiform dorsal cord latency — 112 ms (critical)
Motor nerve mapping — inverted
Firmware branch — Sandevistan β R0.9.2 (unsigned, deprecated)
"Short version?" I say. "Your dorsal root ganglia are cross wired, motor relays pull 112 milliseconds. We can patch the firmware, but that's like repainting a burning car."
David frowns. "How long?"
"Minimum five hours in theater. I'll yank the whole spine, slide in a fibro titan temporary, then custom print a DNA balanced replacement. Once that cures we'll rewrite the firmware from byte zero. After a month of physio we'll talk hybrid gorilla arms."
"Month?" he winces. "Lucy and I were gonna two man the city this week."
Lucy elbows him. "Rather you walk than drag Servo Legs around, choom."
Kiwi, shuffling decks for solitaire, deadpans: "Muscle first, ego later."
David sighs. "Fine. But I'm not paying Vic's markup."
I grin. "Materials only—about four grand. Pay me back with shawarma."
________________________________________
Pre op banter & surprise call
As I prep the anesthetic, my holo pings—Rebecca.
Rebecca: "Gonk, you fix everyone's chrome but don't call your favorite pocket joytoy?"
Me: nearly spits NiCola "—Rebecca! It's six AM."
Rebecca: "And I'm bringing tequila. Be there in ten."
Rebecca adds before cutting the line, "Had to pull emergency leave—my gonk brother torched his optics trying to overclock them. Spent days neck deep in ripper kits instead of fun."
I snort. "Figures. Meanwhile Maine's crew goes nuclear and you miss all the fireworks."
"Found out on the ride over," she growls. "Next time text me—between surgeries and, y'know, acting, we never talk."
Lucy cackles; Kiwi mutters, "Tiny terror inbound."
________________________________________
06:05 AM | Sedation & extraction
David goes under; I open the thoracic panel. The old spine slides out in articulated segments, each one swimming in obsolete neuro gel. I scan the firmware: half compiled debug comments, Korean placeholder text—and a nest of Arasaka telemetry spyware buried six layers deep. Even worse, the control stack ties into the nociceptor net: every time the Sandy clocks past thirty percent overdrive it deliberately spikes pain signals, hard throttling the user after a fixed number of bursts. Limited use poison pill—perfect for harvesting combat data while merc after merc burns out. "Beta build straight from a Santo Domingo chop shop—fast track beta testing in the most sadistic way possible," I mutter.
I scrub it clean in the bio bath, route it to Engineering Bay, and start reshaping:
Replace: manganese couplers → graphene composite. Add: triple redundant proprioceptive loops. Strip: entire firmware; leave EEPROM blank. Rewrite: bespoke micro kernel flashed from byte zero—not one line of Arasaka code survives; signed with my keys, sandbox hardened for future mods.
Printer time: three hours. I flick a glance at the countdown every twenty seconds, fingers itching for the next task even though the system does not need me—patience is its own surgery.
________________________________________
09:15 AM | Interim spine installed
Temp fibro titan assembly seats around the cord; nano sutures zip. I drop IV polycoll repair capsules and set the cradle to low gravity recovery. David will sleep another hour.
________________________________________
09:20 AM | Card table chaos
I step into the lounge. Lucy and Kiwi are locked in a high stakes card war (the pot is three brandy truffles). Rebecca lounges across the sofa, boots on the armrest, waving a tequila bottle.
"Doc's out," she sing songs. "How's the chrome, ladies?"
Kiwi flashes perfect teeth. "I can bite through the table."
Lucy fans her cards. "And I can hack your gun before you draw it."
Rebecca grins at me. "Chrome Angels, huh? Call me the mascot."
I toss her a fresh deck. "Mascots shuffle."
The clinic hums—printers forging a new backbone, laughter filling the air, the faint scent of burned polymer and iodine drifting like incense.
________________________________________
09:25 AM | Rebecca on the slab
Rebecca eyes the surgical cradle and waggles her brows. "Last time I said 'play doctor,' you tried to kiss me instead of calibrate me. How was I supposed to know you meant a literal check up?"
I gesture at the diagnostics rig. "Boots off, jokes on standby. You've nuked half your chrome keeping up with Maine; let's see the damage."
She hops up, tossing me her pistol like a set of car keys. Holos flare.
Optics: corroded light sensors, 29 % artifacting
Berserk: toastered—thermal paste crystallized
Knee tendons: micro tears × 47
Firmware: 4 major versions behind
"Gonk," I mutter. "You've been moonlighting as a crash test dummy."
Rebecca grins. "Big bad doctor gonna fix me up and make me pay for the rest of my life? Hihi."
"Materials only," I sigh. "Now hold still."
Swap: Kiroshi Gemini Mk V optics—adaptive focus, low light overlay, thermal band, smart target linkage. Replace: berserk core with a fresh Militech Legend model—auto coolant loops rated for sustained rage mode. Rebuild: bilateral knee tendons with syn weave and carbon anchors; add shock absorber pistons for rooftop drops. Install: Duraflex subdermal armor mesh (rating IV) across thorax and abdomen, plus graphene laced BulletSkin weave layered under the epidermis—handgun rounds flatten, rifle calibers reduce by 60 %. Upgrade: spinal dampers—graphene disks to cut recoil feedback by 60 %. Augment: synthetic hepatic filter—reinforced stim liver rated for Black Lace detox. Tune: cardio regulator v7—keeps heart rhythm stable in berserk overclock. Update: full firmware sweep, compatibility matrix maxed, all telemetry beacons stripped.
Sedative floods; Rebecca slurs, "Chrome Angels rule…"
I roll my eyes—every patient says that—then double check her vitals." and dozes off. ETA recovery: four hours.
________________________________________
10:30 AM | David on his feet
Printers still chug on Rebecca's parts when David wanders in, polishing countertops like they offended his honor. "Figured I'd flex the new spine on chores," he says—then winces as the stabilizer LEDs in his back pulse blue.
"Easy, chrome monkey," I say, steering him to a stool. "Spine's solid but the sutures still knit."
Lucy perches on the med bench, scrolling through fresh Net intel. "While you were napping I cracked that shard we grabbed off Maelstrom. Guess what—it's an Arasaka beta tester ledger."
She flicks a holo towards us: names, implant IDs, live feed data streams. David's serial blinks red. "They pipe telemetry straight to an air gapped vault. A dedicated netrunner farm watches for anomalies—anyone who outperforms the limiter goes on a kill or capture list."
Kiwi lets out a low whistle. "So Maine burned out, Sandevistan data uploads, Arasaka collects the corpse and calls it R&D. Brutal."
I tap the sealed smart box on the bench. "Which is why this little corpse prop exists. Looks exactly like your old Sandy—same scorch pattern, same diagnostic logs. I even cloned your last five combat bursts so the forensic algos stay happy."
I pop the lid; inside lies a mangled Sandevistan, cooling gel crusted like ash.
David stares. "You made me a decoy?"
"Exactly—and check the new chassis profile," I say, angling his arm so the vents catch the light. "I re skinned the outer casing for cleaner airflow and stealthier contours. Runs ten degrees cooler, looks nothing like the old loadout."
"Printer ran it while I carved Rebecca. When Arasaka's sweeper drones comb the site, they'll tag this, pull the data, and file you under 'deceased asset.' Meanwhile—" I rap his chest plate "—you're running a ghost kernel Sandevistan no database on Earth can fingerprint."
Lucy grins, eyes bright with mischief. "Better than cloak and dagger—it's cloak and dumpster fire."
David's expression shifts from awe to anger to relief. "So I'm free?"
"Free and anonymous," I confirm. "But keep the heat low until the Decoy Debrief window closes—two weeks. After that, we upgrade you to the hybrid arms."
He exhales, shoulders slackening. "Choom… thank you. I owe you more than shawarma."
"Shawarma and a lifetime crew slot," I correct. "Chrome Angels need muscle."
Kiwi smirks. "And now we've got housekeeping muscle, too."
David laughs, wiping a stray tear he pretends is sweat. "Alright—muscle, janitor, whatever. Count me in."
Lucy slides off the bench, plants a quick kiss on his cheek. "Told you he thinks deep."
The clinic lights dim to soft amber. Between the whirr of printers and the slow breathing of friends healing, Night City's chaos feels a block away. For now, the Angels have wings—and work to do.
________________________________________
11:00 AM | Farewells & flirting mishaps
With Rebecca still snoring in recovery, I hail a Delamain Excelsior for Lucy and David. The armored cab docks at the private lift, humming pristine.
Lucy arches a brow. "Delamain? Fancy."
"Lifetime plan," I shrug. "Never know when we'll need ten getaway cars."
Kiwi whistles. "Accommodating and over equipped—careful, doc, a girl might get ideas."
David and Lucy climb in—David still ginger with the sutures, Lucy stealing one more kiss. Doors hiss shut; Delamain's polite baritone promises a smooth ride.
________________________________________
In the cab — Lucy & David
City lights streak past. Lucy leans back, eyes distant.
"Still hurts—Maine, Dorio." She squeezes David's hand. "But with Chrome Angels, at least if we go down it's not as cyberpsycho lab rats."
David nods. "If V had shown up earlier… maybe my mom would still be here."
Lucy's smile turns soft. "We can't change the past, but we can use his kindness, not abuse it. Besides, he's no fool—it's his choice to help."
She bumps his shoulder. "Stay good to me or I'll trade up—run into V's arms."
"Hey!" David laughs. "Bros before—" He stops, grinning. "Wait, you calling yourself—"
Lucy pokes his ribs. A fleeting thought crosses her face—first time she's felt light enough to tease since the Maelstrom raid—and it makes her grin wider. "Finish that sentence and I'll hack your optic filters pink."
They laugh, weight lifting as the cab glides toward Watson.
________________________________________
Back at the clinic — Interrupted heat
I dim the clinic monitors and roll my shoulders, ready to finally shut my brain down—until Kiwi glides in front of me, hips swaying like she's calibrating new servos. Her fresh teeth worry her bottom lip as she looks up through silver lashes.
"Doc," she murmurs, voice smoky from the new emitter, "I promised a stress test for this jaw…"
She lifts my hand and sets it against the sleek curve of synthetic skin along her throat, pulse thrumming under my fingertips. The rest of Night City blurs to neon haze as she tilts closer, warm breath brushing my cheek.
I start to lean in—
Door hiss. Rebecca tumbles inside, tank top askew, teal hair spiked from the pillow.
"Well, well," she drawls, taking in the tableau. "Somebody started the party without me."
Kiwi doesn't flinch; she just smirks, trailing a fingertip down my chest. "Room's big enough for three, mini mart."
Rebecca's grin widens. "Call me fun size. Move over."
She hops onto the couch, knees bracketing mine, sandwiching me between chromed mischief and razor toothed charm. The air smells of antiseptic and tequila sweet sweat.
I raise both palms. "Ladies—patient rotation? I really do need that booking system."
Kiwi nips—softly—at my earlobe. "We'll write the algorithm later."
Rebecca laughs, nuzzling the other side. "Beta test starts now."
Before the circuitry in my brain completely fries, I thumb the smart glass to opaque and lock the outer doors. Sirens and distant gunfire fade behind triple pane duraglass while, inside, soft neon paints tangled limbs and hushed laughter.
Fade to black.