Fifteen minutes later, the Reyes family stood in the private elevator of their Charter Hill complex, descending rapidly toward the ground floor. Julia had swapped her silk robe for a dark, heavy synth-fleece jacket, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looked pale, her jaw set, holding Santi's small hand in a grip that was almost painfully tight. However, Santi remained quiet, his violet eyes darting between his parents, analyzing the heavy, unspoken tension vibrating in the elevator car.
Alejandro tapped a command into his internal optics, connecting to the cab network, and ordered an anonymous cab. He checked his pockets one last time through his jacket, confirming the subtle bulges of the data shards and the heavy payment credsticks.
When they stepped out into the biting, acidic wind of the underground parking structure, a sleek, black cab was already waiting, its doors sliding open with a soft, electronic hum.
"Please enter, Mr. Reyes," the suave voice of the driver called out from the front of the cab, which had a privacy screen. "Where will you be heading today?"
Alejandro ushered Julia and Santi into the leather-scented interior before sliding in beside them.
"Take us to Watson," Alejandro commanded, his voice tight. "To the Little China district. I just sent you the coords. Take the arterial highways and avoid the center grid."
"You got it," the driver said. "Enjoy the ride, sir."
The cab accelerated smoothly, merging out of the gilded, heavily guarded perimeter of Charter Hill and into the sprawling, neon-soaked labyrinth of Night City.
Inside the cab, the silence was deafening. Julia stared out the window, watching the towering glass spires of the corpo center slowly give way to the dense, crushing concrete brutalism of the lower sectors. The rain began to fall, streaking the windows with toxic, iridescent runoff. The holograms outside grew larger, more aggressive, flashing advertisements for cheap chrome and synthetic meat.
Santi sat between his parents, his legs kicking slightly, unable to reach the floor. He looked at the massive, neon koi fish swimming through the air outside the window, projecting a soft orange glow into the cab.
"Ma," Santi whispered, looking up at Julia's rigid face. "Are you mad at Pa?"
Julia closed her eyes for a moment, letting out a soft sigh. She turned her head, offering her son a tight smile, and squeezed his hand. "No, papi. I'm not mad at your father. I'm just... worried. This is a very big step for you."
"It's a necessary optimization," Santi stated logically. "My processing speed will increase exponentially."
"I know," Julia murmured, leaning over to kiss his beanie-covered head. "I just want you to promise me something, Santi. No matter how fast you get... no matter what or how much you can see in the Net... promise me you won't forget the real world. That you don't forget us."
Santi tilted his head, genuinely confused by the request. "Why would I forget you? You are my primary foundational variables-" He stopped, catching the lingering, desperate fear in his mother's eyes. The cold, mechanical terminology faded from his expression, instantly replaced by the soft, pure sincerity of an eight-year-old boy. He squeezed her fingers tightly with his small hands. "You're my Ma and Pa. I could never forget you."
Alejandro let out a quiet, trembling breath, looking out his own window, the neon lights reflecting in his hazel eyes. The boy wasn't a machine yet. The humanity was still there, fighting to stay on the surface.
The cab pulled to a smooth stop forty minutes later, the doors sliding open to the heavy smell of Watson, a mix of stale synth-pork, ozone, and wet garbage.
"We have arrived at your destination," the driver said cheerfully. "Stay safe out there."
Alejandro stepped out first, his hand instinctively dropping toward the concealed holster beneath his jacket, his other hand casually brushing the pocket holding the payment while his eyes swept the street. It was a narrow, neon-lit alleyway in Little China, crowded with food vendors and hunched figures hurrying through the acid rain. He nodded to Julia, who stepped out, pulling Santi close to her leg.
Alejandro led them toward a rundown storefront. The neon sign above the door flickered erratically, spelling out CHAKRA HARMONY in half-dead pink letters. The front window was cluttered with cheap, plastic esoterica, tarot cards, synth-crystal healing pyramids, and dusty incense burners.
Alejandro pushed the door open, a small bell chiming weakly. The shop was empty, smelling heavily of patchouli and dust. He didn't stop to browse. He walked straight past the display cases, leading Julia and Santi to a heavy, reinforced steel door at the back of the room. A subtle retinal scanner hummed to life as Alejandro approached. A green light flashed, and the heavy door unlocked with a loud, metallic clank.
They stepped into a narrow, dimly lit stairwell leading down. As they descended, the smell of incense was replaced by the sharp, sterile scent of medical-grade alcohol and hot metal.
And then, a sound.
Thud.
Thud.
Crack.
It was the heavy, rhythmic sound of leather striking dense sand.
Alejandro pushed the basement door open, revealing the clinic. It was a surprisingly clean, organized space hidden beneath the grime of Watson. Sleek surgical chairs, advanced biometric monitors, and trays of gleaming, sterilized tools were arranged with precision.
In the corner of the room, hanging from a reinforced steel beam, was a heavy boxing bag. A man was working it with punishing, methodical intensity.
Viktor Vektor had given up professional boxing years ago as the sport became more and more chrome-dependent, trading the ring for the scalpel, but he had never given up the training. In 2061, Vik was still a mountain of a man, his shoulders broad and corded with muscle. He wore a simple white tank top, damp with sweat, and a pair of worn boxing gloves. He moved with a heavy, grounded grace, throwing a devastating left hook that made the heavy bag groan on its chains.
Crack.
Viktor stopped, his chest heaving slightly, hearing the hydraulic hiss of the clinic door. He turned around, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. He squinted through the harsh fluorescent light, taking in the battered leather jacket, the dark hair, and the familiar, dangerous stance of the man standing in his doorway.
A wide, genuine grin broke across Viktor's face.
"Well, look what the stray cat dragged in," Viktor laughed, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that filled the basement. "If it isn't Alejandro motherfucking Reyes. Thought the corpos had entirely sucked the soul out of you by now, brother."
Alejandro smiled, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders for the first time all day. He stepped forward. "They try, Vik. But you know me, too stubborn to flatline. Good to see you, man."
Viktor stripped his boxing gloves off with his teeth, tossing them onto a nearby metal table. He walked forward, raising his right hand. It was entirely flesh and blood, a rarity for a ripper, but a testament to his own steady hands. Alejandro raised his right arm, the synthetic, matte-black chrome plates shifting with a quiet whir.
They dapped up, flesh meeting metal in a firm, solid grip, pulling each other into a half-embrace, slapping each other on the back.
Viktor stepped back, his sharp eyes catching movement by the door. He looked past Alejandro and saw Julia standing there, holding the hand of a small boy hidden in a hoodie too big for his size.
Viktor's eyes softened instantly. He grabbed a clean towel from a rack, wiping his face and chest rapidly.
"Julia. Damn, it's been too long." He walked over, offering a warm, respectful smile. "I'd give you a proper hug, but I'm currently sweating enough to drown a rat. You look beautiful, as always. Ale is still punching way above his weight class, I see."
Julia's rigid posture relaxed slightly. She had always liked Viktor. He was one of the few pieces of Alejandro's past that didn't feel toxic. She offered a genuine, if tired, smile. "It's good to see you, Viktor. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
"For Ale? Always," Viktor said. His gaze dropped downward. He crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing himself eye-level with the boy hiding behind Julia's leg.
"And who is this?" Viktor asked, his voice dropping to a gentle, rumbling register.
Alejandro stepped up beside his wife. "Vik, this is Santi. Santi, this is Viktor. He's an old childhood choom of mine. One of the best men in Night City."
Santi peered around his mother's leg. He looked at the massive, sweaty man. He noted the lack of cybernetic optics, the steady flesh hands, and the warm, open expression. Santi stepped out from behind Julia, reaching up to pull the drab beanie off his head. It freed a messy mop of naturally curly, spun-frost white hair, exposing his piercing violet eyes to the harsh clinical light.
Viktor's breath hitched slightly, taken aback by the sheer, striking anomaly of the kid's appearance, but he recovered instantly.
"Hello, Viktor," Santi said politely, offering a small, formal nod. "Are you the operative installing my neural link? Pa said we were going to a secure location to see someone he trusts. I am very pleased to meet you."
Viktor blinked, then let out a booming, delighted laugh, looking up at Alejandro. "Jesus, Ale. You didn't tell me he swallowed a corpo dictionary." He looked back at Santi, offering a large, calloused hand. "Pleased to meet you too, kid. Call me Vik."
Santi took the massive hand in his small one, shaking it firmly. "Okay, Vik."
Viktor's smile lingered for a fraction of a second before the words actually registered. He let go of the boy's hand and looked at the sheer size of him, the small shoulders, the thin wrists. He looked back up at Alejandro, the warmth of the reunion vanishing entirely, replaced by a sudden, chilling confusion.
"Wait," Viktor said, his voice dropping. He looked back at Santi. "Kid... how old are you?"
"I am eight years and ten months old," Santi answered precisely.
Viktor froze. He slowly stood up to his full, imposing height. The professional demeanor of the ripperdoc was shattered as he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Alejandro's battered leather jacket and physically dragged the man three hard steps away from Julia and the boy.
"Are you fucking gonked, Ale?" Viktor hissed, his voice a low, furious rumble vibrating in his chest. "I thought the Kjellberg specs you sent over the encrypted line were for a teenager. A young adult with severe nervous system degradation. You want me to run this 'Chrysalis Protocol' on an eight-year-old?!"
"I know the math, Vik," Alejandro said, his hazel eyes cold and resolute, making no move to break Viktor's grip. "Santi is choking in his meatspace. His brain is a supercomputer, and it's trapped. The installation of a standard copper neural link at age ten won't be enough for what he needs to do. The carbon-nanotube mesh requires hyper-plasticity. If we wait, then the window will close."
Viktor's eyes darted away from Alejandro, landing on Julia. He looked at her with a mixture of absolute horror and disbelief. "Are you both completely cracked?"
Julia flinched, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, but she held the ripper's gaze. "I was against it at first, Viktor. I fought him and screamed at him. But... I saw the data he's talking about and realized that it's for the better good of Santi. It will make him untouchable when he grows up, and it will keep him safe."
"For the better good?" Viktor repeated, his voice cracking with sheer incredulity. "Fuck the better good, Julia! He's a kid, for fuck's sake! Let him be a kid for another year! Let him grow!"
"We don't have the luxury of waiting another year, Vik," Alejandro insisted, his voice hard. "Biology won't allow it. The astrocytes won't bind to the mesh if his myelin sheath sets. It has to be now."
"No," Viktor said, shoving Alejandro backward and releasing his jacket. He took a step back, shaking his head. "I refuse. I will not install a neural link on a kid that's younger than ten. I don't care what century the tech is from. I don't care what the processing output is. I'm a doc, Alejandro. I am not doing it."
Alejandro adjusted his jacket, his expression completely blank, fully shifting into the cold, calculating corpo-rat he was. He played his final card, knowing exactly how much of a low blow it was.
"Fine," Alejandro said smoothly. "Then we'll just go to another ripper. After all, I have the creds. I'm sure to find some chop-shop butcher in Kabuki or Pacifica who doesn't ask questions and doesn't give a shit if their hands shake during the procedure."
Viktor stared at him. The sheer, ruthless manipulation of the threat hung heavily in the sterile air of the clinic. If Alejandro took the boy to a back-alley butcher to perform a fifty-year-old, experimental surgery, Santi was a dead kid walking.
Viktor turned away, letting out a roar of absolute frustration. He walked over to the heavy boxing bag, raised his bare, ungloved fists, and struck it.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
He punched the bag hard, again and again, the heavy leather groaning under the brutal impacts. He punched it in anger, furious at Night City, furious at the corpo meat-grinder, and furious at his friend for backing him into a moral corner and forcing him to compromise his own values as a man and as a doc.
He stopped, his knuckles raw and flushed red. He leaned his forehead against the heavy bag, his broad chest heaving as he breathed heavily, staring blankly at the concrete wall behind it.
The silence in the clinic was suffocating, and Santi watched the massive man with wide, analytical eyes, entirely unsure of why his age had triggered such a violent shift in the man.
"I can believe this coming from you, Alejandro," Viktor said to the wall, his voice laced with a bitter, profound disappointment. "You've always had a screw loose. Always been a bit of a gonk with the way you looked at the world like a math problem."
He turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder at the mother of the boy. "But you, Julia? I never thought I'd see the day."
Julia closed her eyes, a single tear escaping to track down her pale cheek, but she didn't apologize. She couldn't.
Viktor let out a long, heavy sigh, pushing himself off the bag. He grabbed the towel, wiping the fresh sweat from his face, before turning back to face the Reyes family. His eyes were tired, carrying the weight of a man who knew he was about to do something he would never forgive himself for.
"I'll go take a shower," Viktor finally relented, his voice a hollow, clinical rasp. "You can put him in the chair, but God help you both if this goes south. Because I won't."
---
I need stones!
The infamous P@treon exists for those of you who want to read ahead.
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They get around 3 long-form weekly chapters (4.5-6k words each).