Cyberpunk - The Fall of Icarus

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I didn't have to wait long — within minutes, the girl made her move. First, she deployed a "tracker" virus into the train's network. Clearly, she wasn't an amateur; taking such precautions showed a certain level of expertise. A tracker is one of the most popular and reliable tools for scanning a system for hidden viruses or embedded defensive scripts. Unfortunately for her, I'd been trained by the best hacker in the world, so avoiding detection was child's play.

After her tracker gathered the data, she launched a control demon into the system, gaining access to the train's cameras. She executed a looping command, and within a minute, the video feed was cycling on repeat. Watching another hacker work this closely, undetected, was fascinating. I even found myself evaluating her technique, spotting small mistakes likely born from inexperience.

Then she acted. Her first move was subtle — she shifted her position slightly, scanning the train's passengers for potential marks. With the train packed, she had plenty of options. She remained still for a few moments before moving in one smooth motion. Her first target was a massive man of Asian descent, clearly juiced on steroids — or maybe even rocking artificially enhanced muscles. She quietly slipped past him, plucking a chip from the port at the back of his neck as she went.

It all clicked then — she was trying to make a quick buck by lifting data chips. They were a hot commodity on the black market, and some could fetch two to three thousand eurodollars each. The way she moved — calm, unhurried — showed she wasn't new to this game. Within a minute, she'd pocketed several chips, slipping them neatly into her small hip pouch. Judging by how full it looked, it wasn't her first haul today.

Unfortunately for her, one of the passengers noticed his chip was missing and started glancing around suspiciously. By this point, the netrunner had moved next to me, casually leaning against the train's wall. The man scanned the car, his eyes darting around, occasionally landing on me. I wasn't sure what the girl was thinking, staying in the same car, but it was clear she might need help if this corporate guy linked her to the theft.

"Hey, you. See anything suspicious?" The man locked his gaze on me, expecting an answer.

"You talking to me?" I played dumb, pushing my glasses up my nose.

"Someone lifted a pretty expensive chip off me. The bastard's in this car," the corpo grumbled, taking a step toward me.

"Sorry, I've been a bit preoccupied. Maybe ask someone else. Am I making myself clear?" I replied, my tone sharp as I casually opened my jacket, revealing the armored vest beneath, complete with a holstered pistol. That was more than enough to make him back off, his aggression cooling real quick.

"Ahem, no need to get all worked up. I guess I overreacted. Forget about it." The painted corpo backed off immediately, his gaze quickly shifting away from me.

We arrived at Kabuki Station...

Right on cue, the girl decided to step off the train — a smart move on her part. However, there was one thing she hadn't considered — I also needed to get off at this station. As we both exited the platform, the netrunner tried to slip away, but I grabbed her by the wrist. I wasn't planning on doing anything harsh; I just wanted to teach a little lesson to someone who had used me to resolve her problem.

"What do you want from me?" the brunette snapped, trying to yank her hand free from my grip.

"You might want to be more careful next time, young lady," I said, frowning as I stared down at the now-nervous runner, applying a bit of pressure with my gaze. "Your hacking was decent enough, but the rest? That needs work."

"What the hell are you talking about?" She feigned ignorance, finally pulling her hand free — though not without a little help from me.

"This." I held up the pouch I had just lifted from her.

"When did you...?" she muttered, clearly surprised, as her hand instinctively reached for the bag I was holding.

"Doesn't matter. The point is, I was just planning to give you a heads-up, so you don't make these kinds of mistakes in the future. I don't know why you need the money, and frankly, it's none of my business. But sticking around in the same car after lifting multiple chips? At the very least, it's stupid." I handed her the pouch back and activated the minimap on my glasses, heading off toward the Totentanz club.

"Wait," the brunette called after me suddenly.

"I'm busy. What do you want?" I replied, a bit gruffly. I was in a hurry, after all.

"Here, take this as thanks." She handed me a few chips, each marked with a specific tag. These were knowledge bases for tech specialists — a valuable commodity in my line of work, and definitely not cheap. Honestly, I didn't expect this kind of gratitude from her, but I appreciated the gesture.

"Keep them. I don't need anything like that," I said, pushing her hand back, causing a moment of confusion. Acts of goodwill were rare in the city, and my refusal only seemed to throw her off even more. It was something I'd forgotten — living the nomad life, where mutual aid takes priority over profit, had deeply ingrained itself in me.

"What do you want?" The dark-haired runner fixed me with a piercing stare from her cybernetic eyes.

"You might not believe this, but absolutely nothing. Besides, I doubt you have anything I need. Now, go on with whatever you were doing." I scoffed, throwing her a haughty look, playing the role of a first-class jerk to perfection.

"You're a merc, right?" she asked suddenly.

"And if I am? What's it to you?" I shot back, raising my eyebrows dramatically for effect.

"I heard your line of work needs good runners." The brunette wasn't exactly subtle, clearly hinting at her request. She must really need the money if she's willing to trust a shady stranger who showed her a bit of sympathy. I wasn't sure what to make of it — if nothing else, it reeked of desperation.

"First off, what makes you think you're a good netrunner?" Now it was my turn to ask the tough questions.

"You said it yourself." She stared at me boldly, arms crossed over her chest.

"I said you were decent. There's a difference. Your skills aren't at the level to be called 'good' just yet." I rolled my eyes, shutting down her attempt to twist my words.

"As if you're such a great runner," she muttered, pouting slightly.

"Either way, I don't need those services right now." I made my stance clear.

"I just need to make some money, that's all." Her shoulders slumped, but her voice stayed firm. Strong girl — she'd go far if she didn't end up dead first.

"Humor me — what do you need the money for?"

"To pay for my mother's treatment." For the first time during our conversation, her voice faltered.

"I see..." An unexpected silence settled between us. I wasn't sure what to say at that moment, a pang of guilt hitting me. After all, the girl just wanted to help her mother, and for me, family always came first. In her shoes, I'd probably be grasping at any opportunity to earn, just like she was. "What's your name?"

"Sasha Yakovleva." The netrunner stared stubbornly into my eyes.

"Sasha, huh..." I switched to our shared native language, catching her off guard. "Alright, Alexandra, tell me more about yourself, and I'll decide if I can help you or not. Deal?" I sat down on a nearby bench, grabbing a couple of cans of NiCola from a vending machine on the way. "Here, take one." I handed her a can, and while she stared at it in surprise, I downed a few big gulps.

"My mom got sick..." she finally broke the silence. "She's been diagnosed with progressive neurodegeneration, and I've been trying to save up to pay for her treatment..."

"Neurodegeneration, huh..." My mind flashed back to a similar case we dealt with for one of our clients. The cause had been a drug prescribed to him by a ripper before I got involved. "Did your mom take Securicine?" I asked, turning my head toward the thoughtful brunette. She seemed to be racking her brain to remember the medications her mother had been using. "It's a painkiller produced by Biotechnica. It's everywhere — flooding every medical market."

"I think she did take something like that," Sasha nodded, agreeing. "But how would you know about medical stuff? Sorry, but you don't exactly look like a ripper." Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Believe it or not, I've got some medical experience. And I'm telling you, standard treatment isn't going to help her. That stuff burns out the nerves completely with long-term use."

"And then… how… My mom, the doctors promised me…" Her voice started to crack, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

"How much does her treatment cost?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation steady.

"The room and care are ten thousand, plus around three thousand a day for the meds…"

"So, thirteen thousand total. What clinic is she at?"

"Night City Medical Center. Silver insurance."

"Strange…" I trailed off for a second, diving into the files Roosevelt had left me. "Doctors with that level of coverage should know what they're doing. If she was being treated by street rippers like I initially thought, it would've made sense. But corporate doctors? They should have the tools to handle something like this."

The whole picture started coming together. These corporate doctors weren't incompetent — they were milking the situation for all it was worth. They probably knew exactly what was wrong but were using the opportunity to bleed the family dry. In this city, money talks, and if you offer enough of it, people will look the other way.

"How much did they ask for this 'experimental' treatment? I don't believe for a second they told you your mom's condition was incurable without dangling some kind of solution."

"A hundred thousand… They said I need to come up with the money by the end of the month…" Sasha's hands clenched around the can, her head bowed, hiding her eyes behind the bangs falling across her forehead.

"Wow…" I couldn't help but feel a wave of dark amusement. They were really trying to squeeze every eddie they could out of her. The sheer audacity was almost impressive. "How much do you have saved up so far?"

"Half… not counting what I earned today." She shrugged, her fingers brushing against the pouch in her lap. "I got a few good chips — should be able to sell them for a couple thousand. And some smaller stuff, maybe another three grand." She spoke absently, still in shock from our conversation.

"That should be enough." I mentally tallied the estimated costs of proper treatment and rehab. "Do you have any other family besides your mom?"

"Just her," she said, shaking her head. "My dad disappeared about a year ago."

"Of course, more complications..." I muttered to myself. It was obvious now — if she had anyone else, she wouldn't be scrambling to gather this kind of cash. She wouldn't be in this position if she had someone to rely on. "Well, lucky for us, we live in the thriving world of late-stage capitalism, right?" I smirked at Sasha, who just stared back, clearly missing the sarcasm. "Alright, here's the deal. I'll give you my contact info, and tomorrow we're getting your mom out of that place. I know how to treat neurodegeneration, but it'll take time. I'll send the details and the costs with my card. Trust me — what you've saved up will be enough."

"Why are you helping me at all?" Sasha's eyes bore into mine, trying to figure me out. "This is Night City. I'd sooner believe you're planning to sell my mom's organs than that you're helping out of the goodness of your heart. You'll take my money and do exactly what Trauma Team's corporate doctors are doing."

"Well..." I scratched the back of my head thoughtfully. "I wouldn't exactly call myself a saint, but let's just say Biotechnica and I have some unresolved issues. Believe it or not, I just want to help you, nothing more." I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender, then rested my chin on one.

"You're such an idiot," Sasha muttered, hiding her face from me.

"Why does everyone keep calling me an idiot?" I sighed dramatically, rolling my eyes in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Heh..." Sasha chuckled, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Maybe because they're onto something," she said, still laughing through her words.

"Keep smiling. It suits you," I said, placing a hand on her head, gently smoothing her hair. There was something about her that reminded me so much of Lucy. "Uh, sorry, you just reminded me of my daughter," I added awkwardly, pulling my hand back when I noticed Sasha's surprised expression.

"Your daughter? You don't look old enough," she said, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

"I'm twenty-one, and she's adopted, but we're really close. Besides, that's supposed to be my line," I replied, turning slightly and crossing my arms.

"I'm sixteen," Sasha admitted, smiling shyly as she covered her face with her hand.

"Well, at the end of the day, it's up to you to decide who to trust and who not to," I said, standing up and tossing my empty can into a nearby trash bin. "I sent my contact info to your inbox. If you ever decide to take me up on the offer, just give me a call. The hours I'm available are all there."

"Wait, I never gave you my email," Sasha said, blinking in surprise as she checked her messages.

"Weak encryption. I hacked it in a few seconds." I shrugged, sending her a smiley emoji straight to her optics. "Anyway, I've gotta go. See you around, Sasha Yakovleva." I waved as I walked away, leaving her standing there, wide-eyed and speechless.

Even though I didn't know her well, something about her story stirred something inside me — a sense of responsibility, maybe. Was it the fact that Biotechnica was involved? Or her dying mother? Or maybe the crooked ripperdocs taking advantage of someone's suffering. Whatever it was, I knew one thing for sure: I wanted to help, and, more importantly, I could.

I don't know what the odds were of Sasha running into me today, but one thing's clear — luck was on her side for once.

And here I was, crossing paths with Biotechnica yet again. Lately, these encounters were becoming far too frequent. Was it some kind of sign from above, or something like that? I glanced up at the night sky, not really expecting an answer to my question.