Cyberpunk: Angel of Chrome

09:00 AM | V's Loft — Breakfast & Pings

I wake up to the scent of fried soy and the soft crackle of eggs. Miracle number one: full sleep. Miracle number two? Kiwi in a tank top, hair up, cig hanging from her lips, flipping synth bacon like she owns the place.

"If you didn't smoke," I tease, "you'd be wife material."

Kiwi deadpans without a beat. "I was a joytoy."

"Nobody's perfect," I chuckle.

She smirks. "Thanks for not pushing too hard last night. I needed sleep more than fun."

"That's what friends are for." Damn, she knows how to press buttons and disengage them like a pro.

I thumb my messages while crunching into toast:

Vic 💠: "Yo, how's the city's second best ripper doc doing?"

• Me ➔ "Check the mirror for number one. Got ten hours of sleep—feel reborn."

• Fukui 🔒: "Got a package for you. If you crack it, I want the Kiroshi 'Stalker' White V2 as a finders' fee ;)"

• Me ➔ "Alright, I'll check it."

Ping—

MedGenTech 📦: "Delivery incoming: chrome parts as requested."

A soft thud from downstairs. One box marked for Judy… and a whole damn truck from MedGenTech. Bots offload 250 crates like a chrome tsunami into the garage, which rises via cargo lift to my engineering floor. The Warlock honks from the street, evicted from its usual parking spot.

"She said one package, not a convoy," I mutter, one crate in hand while stepping over the metal flood.

Quick scan. Spyware found. GPS ping straight to Arasaka HQ.

"Figures. Arasaka tracking shipments like Amazon drones."

I triangulate the signal and fry the embedded tracker—fried circuits and a puff of black smoke.

One crate remains apart—a small armored case holding Fukui's test implant. She wants to see if I can crack and restore it. I tag it for courier pickup.

13:00 PM | Arasaka Internal — Chrome Trail

A sleek corpo in a tailored suit bows before a white coated elder deep within Arasaka HQ.

"Dr. Hasagawa," he says, "we've retrieved the trace."

"Good. We cannot touch the widow due to Hanako's protection. Let's see where her cargo ended up."

He pulls up a holo—V's address.

"Mmm. That area's off limits unless we want diplomatic fallout. Who rented the unit?"

A few seconds pass.

"Vincent. New merc. Golden goose of Militech, gone rogue."

"Fukui wouldn't send that kind of chrome to anyone unprotected. Let's wait. He may surface on his own."

Back at the loft:

I mass ping:

To Vic & Jackie: "Got a flood of chrome. Need hands."

• Vic ➔ "On my way, choom."

• Jackie ➔ "Was bringing breakfast anyway. That checkup might take longer."

To Kiwi: "ETA 10 min for the boys. Maybe swap the birthday suit for something less… flammable?"

Kiwi ➔ "Noted."

By 10:00 AM the crew's here: Vic sorting crates by tech type, Jackie carrying stacks like gym reps, Kiwi boxing spyware infected gear like it owes her money.

"Jackie, you're looking good. Muscles responding. Come back in a week—I'll upgrade you with skin paint."

"Hope it's fireproof," he mutters.

To all Chrome Angels: "Dinner meet tonight, 19:00. Location: The Platinum Lotus. Call your own Delamain—VIP guest access enabled."

14:00 PM | Lunch & Chrome Shuffle

We sit around leftover burritos. Jackie compliments Kiwi's cooking.

"If she didn't smoke," he says, "she'd be waifu tier."

Kiwi exhales a perfect smoke ring. "If I was perfect, you couldn't afford me."

Ping—Rebecca 💌: "No invite for your cupcake?"

Me ➔ "It's a group invite, <3. You still my frosting."

"Aww," she replies. Crisis averted.

251 boxes, one tank of patience, zero cooldown of Sandie. I sigh, roll my neck, and flick my wrist.

Sandevistan: engaged.

Time collapses. My hands blur—stacks reorganized, crates sorted, busted implants chucked into quarantine bins, good chrome filed by function and serial. With Sandie on infinite loop, I move like divine clockwork—refashing firmware and restoring damaged hardware in real time.

Two hours later, my HUD screams:

WARNING: Nanite Core at 0.1% – CRITICAL LEVEL

I barely finish slapping the final Fukui case—just one implant—into the courier box. My lungs burn, skin tingles from residual heat.

"Alright… maybe overkill."

I ping Delamain:

To Delamain: "Got a crate for Fukui. Dispatch ready."

Delamain pings politely from beside my Warlock. "Sir, please do not forget your ongoing diagnostics request."

"Didn't forget," I sigh. "Just ignoring it artistically."

"Confidence mode: enabled."

16:30 PM | Recharging Routine

Alright—time to replenish nanites. I slide into the ripper dock chair, hook up the intravenous protein drip, and unwrap a custom bar dense enough to make a thin guy obese with a single bite. Built them myself. A bug in my own system: mods at 100% spend nanites like a black hole.

The chair hums. Nutrients pump. I chew. I think. I scan Delamain's code. It's dense—layered logic, recursive guardrails, buried logs dating back decades.

My focus zones in. I smile. Coding always did this to me. Back in my last life, I only ever got this focused when debugging… or dodging kitchenware mid argument. My wife used to say it was my real superpower.

Panam's call flashes in. I flinch—right on cue. She always had timing like that: perfect interruption, down to the second. Just like old times.

"Yo," she says. "Still good for the meeting?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sending the cords. Bring avocados."

"Ha. Smartass."

Call ends. I shake my head, smile faintly, and dive back in.

The code is… solid. But something's missing. My gut says there's a dead loop hiding in plain sight.

After some more research, I realize what I need: a safe testbed. A sandbox environment where I can simulate Delamain's decade-cycle resets and track what breaks.

"Guess I could use Warlock for the test," I mutter.

If I load Delamain's code into a new AI shell… one that mirrors its behavior but flags every deviation… maybe it'll reveal the corruption before it happens.

"New AI… gonna name you… Knight Rider."

I start building:

Chip upload to Warlock

• Access security protocols

• Backward communication logging

• Self-reset on disobedience

"Alright. Let's see how you run."

I simulate Delamain's 10 year uptime in fast-forward, 1000x real-time. Logs tick like an odometer.

"Let's find that ghost in the machine."

18:30 PM | Jackie & the Wrap Up

Then the elevator pings. Jackie steps into the engineering suite, still chewing the last bite of his burrito. I wave Vic over, hoping to recruit him for the evening meet.

"Vic, come with? Be nice having the Angels' doc there."

Vic smirks, shaking his head. "Nah, kid. Let the next gen have their night. I'll man the medical line when you need backup."

"Alright, alright. Emergency call status it is. I'll fund the calls, just patch whoever bleeds."

Vic nods and heads to the Delamain that just pulled in.

I pat the Warlock. "KITT, ready for a joyride?"

"If I must, sir. But please refrain from naming me after 80s nostalgia."

"Snarky already?"

"Built from your codebase. What did you expect?"

Jackie hops in, looking impressed. "Car talks now?"

He glanced around the interior. "Where's Kiwi? Thought she was riding with us."

"Taking a Delamain back to her place," I say, buckling in. "Said she needed to change."

Jackie smirks. "What, the coat wasn't enough?"

I shrug.

She said she needed to change—and yeah, not like she was wearing anything under that coat when she crashed here last night. Still, I don't kiss and tell. But the steam in the kitchen? Definitely wasn't just from the synth bacon.

I keep that to myself. Out loud, I just say, "Guess she needed something less flammable."

Jackie laughs. "That explains the steam in the kitchen."

"Yeah," I grin. "Breakfast and a smoke weren't the only things sizzling."

We cruise out. One block in, the Warlock swerves and absolutely obliterates a random bystander.

"¡Qué carajo?!" Jackie yells.

"KITT?!"

"Scavenger. Low-threat."

"See? It's learning," I say.

"You say that like it's a good thing."

KITT continues: dodging pedestrians, bumping gang cars, sideswiping a Maelstrom van.

"This is a lot."

"It's just efficient."

We arrive with the Warlock looking like it won a demolition derby. Blood. Chrome. Bits.

"Alright, go wash up. Come back clean."

"Negative," KITT says. "Override: Core command active. All changes logged. Purge sequence complete."

"Too good to be true," Jackie groans, rolling down the window and puking.

"See? Helps you make room for dinner," I grin.

"NOW you think it's a problem?!" Jackie snaps.

The Warlock lets out a cheerful "Beep beep" before racing off to self-clean — KITT personality scrubbed, wiped, and reset to factory sass.

"Well… that's one way to pre rinse."

"One day that thing's gonna turn on you, hermano."

"Only if I forget to feed her data."