Cyberpunk: Angel of Chrome

19:00 PM | The Platinum Lotus

Jackie's still a little pale when we step into the lotus-scented foyer.

"Could've been worse, you know," I say, smirking.

"Worse? How the hell could it have been worse?" he grumbles.

"Imagine if I'd given KITT access to the weapon systems."

Jackie blinks. "You didn't—right?"

I grin. "Of course not."

He mutters something in Spanish and shakes his head.

"You look better," I nudge.

"Damn joyride," he mutters. "Firmware test, huh? Don't worry, it won't happen again… probably."

We push inside.

Everyone's already there: Falco, Kiwi (fully clothed, guess the big-jacket-only vibe wore off), Rebecca grinning like she stole a tank, David and Lucy arm-in-arm.

"Welcome, Chrome Angels," I announce. "This joint serves biotraced food designed for corpo guts—but tonight, we dine like kings."

A round of laughter.

Kiwi leans in. "Even kings don't get tofu this smug."

Rebecca elbows her. "Still better than eating smoke, Kiwi."

Lucy smiles, her arm looping tighter around David. "Glad he's off Arasaka's hitlist. Nobody's gonna trace his Sandy now—not with the swap logs we planted."

I raise my glass. "Which brings me to this: I plan to upgrade all of you, slowly. Like Jackie here—took him from chrome virgin to metalhead in a month."

"Still got my soul though," Jackie grins.

"And that's the point. No one's forced to chrome out. If you want minimal mods, like Falco, I'll respect it. Every gig we take will be filtered—high-pay, high-morale. We fix Night City one target at a time."

They nod.

"And everyone gets ₵10,000 a week—₵40K monthly baseline for expenses. Food, rent, ammo, therapy, joytoys—whatever your soul needs to breathe."

Panam nearly chokes on her drink. "₵10K?! Corpo execs don't make that much."

"Normal corpos, yeah. Execs are another story—but they sell their soul. You don't have to."

"You're worth more than corpos, chica."

Kiwi murmurs, "Guess I don't have to sell my clothes next month."

"Don't tempt me," Rebecca smirks.

Lucy laughs. "You're all insane. I love it."

The dinner goes on—stories, jokes, and talk of future ops. Kiwi and Rebecca flirt-argue over who gets shotgun in the Warlock. David tells Jackie he wants to try hand-to-hand training. Lucy side-eyes the dessert menu like it's got netrunner secrets.

Eventually, I stand. "Alright, good people. Eat, laugh, enjoy. We've got gigs to crash and chrome to install."

Panam lifts her glass. "To Chrome Angels."

"To our family," Falco adds.

23:00 PM | Rogue's Line — Extraction Mission

After the crew disperses, I step out for fresh air. Ping—Rogue.

"You ready for that Sasha job?"

"Time to get my secretary," I mutter.

"You serious about that title?"

"Only if she says yes."

Rogue snorts. "Alright. You know the layout. Fortified lab between Badlands and the border ridge. No staff. Just 'It's Not My Job' bots."

"Cameras?"

"Looped. Courtesy of me. But let's be real—your ghost routine barely needs it."

"Appreciate it."

She pauses. "Listen, V. I've seen plenty of mercs. Killers, climbers, saints pretending to be devils. But what Biotechnica did to that girl... harvesting her, shelving her for six years like tech—it's different. Ugly. Even for this city."

"I know," I reply, voice steel. "I hate it, Rogue. People using people like spare parts—like Sasha was just some lab sample. She had a crew, a life. And they turned her into inventory. Not on my watch."

"That's why I passed it to you. You didn't need me for the job. But you knew I'd help make noise. Once you ghost her out, I'll leak the data you pulled—Biotechnica's black market logs, their internal rot. City needs to see it."

"Good. Let them burn."

I head to the Warlock, open the trunk. One crate marked: MED-CHROME: DNA SYNCHED - YAKOVLEVA. Inside, all the custom hardware tuned to Sasha's biometrics. Restored, upgraded, prepped.

Let's rock.

23:30 PM | Infiltration — Ghost Protocol

Infinite-jump boots launch me off the mountain's back edge—an air-hop straight to the lab's rear. No alarms. No resistance.

I sneak past the maintenance drones like a shadow with purpose.

The capsule chamber glows. There she is: Sasha Yakovleva. Body incomplete—arms and legs missing, but alive. Breathing. Monitored.

My HUD confirms: health stable, neural pressure within safe limits. Runtime: 6 years, 6 months. Release planned in 2 months. Priority: Low.

I already had her DNA sample—grabbed it last op. The med-chrome's ready. I prep the surgical zone, disable surrounding bots, loop the local sensors. No one's watching.

A whisper: "Don't worry. I got you."

First, I inject a stabilizing booster. Then I get to work:

• Remove rusted cranial ports

• Install new neural interface sockets

• Bond carbon-weave spine couplers

• Organic rebreather

• Organ support tanks

• Compliant joint inserts for future limb reattachment

Every implant keyed to her DNA. No mismatches. No overload risk. Just pure, healing-grade cybernetics.

It's all medical-grade, subtle. Invisible healing chrome. Not meant for combat—meant for recovery. A soft glow emanates as nanites activate to stimulate tissue regeneration.

I clean her up, patch the dermal ports, and wrap her torso gently. She's light—smaller than I remember. I slide her into my back rig, padded and secure.

My HUD flashes: EXFIL READY.

I move.

Jump. Ghost. Vanish.

I land silently near the Warlock, pop the rear doors, and gently set Sasha in the padded back seat. She doesn't stir. Still breathing. Still stable.

I slide behind the wheel and start the drive back to my loft.

Ping — I shoot Rogue a quick message: "Package secure. Second plan can take effect."

Her reply comes seconds later:

"Leave it to me, rookie. Biotechnica will pay for the arrogance."

"Thanks," I type.

"No, kid. Thank you. You could've grabbed her during your first gig, but you waited. That's a real pro. I'll buy you a bio orange juice next time you crawl out of the Afterlife. That's a promise."

I smirk. As the message fades, I hit the dial for Rebecca.

She picks up fast.

"Cupcake," I say, smirking into the line.

"Sasha's with me. Safe. I'll take it slow, but give me two or three days—we'll have a new netrunner on the team."

"Thank you for saving her! But—how come you didn't tell me anything?"

"Had to run it stealth. Didn't want to spook Biotechnica just yet."

"Alright... I owe you one for my brother. And now Sasha too? My joytoy tab with you's getting wild. How am I ever gonna repay you?" Wink in her voice.

"Hey now, slow down," I chuckle. "The night's still young. Got a lotta work to do."

"Work?"

"Her muscles are practically jelly—atrophied from lack of use. I need to do a full nanite pass, stim therapy, deep-tissue repump. Can't exactly collect joytoy points if she's not at 100%, right?"

Rebecca laughs. "Something like that!"

The call ends.

I park at the garage platform, scoop Sasha up from the back seat, and ride the lift up—to the ripperdock room. Time to rebuild.

After six hours of nonstop work, the clock ticks over to 6:00 AM. I've been working tirelessly on the 'cat girl.' Her brain activity is good—stable. With the neural caps in place and everything indexed, she should be fully conscious in a day or two.

Her muscles? Completely shot from stasis. But after a nanite soak, biomatrix reweaving, and the introduction of integrated myomarcle tissue grafts—custom-grown to her DNA signature—her body should be back in one day, tops.

Just in case she wakes up early, I administer a mild stasis dose to keep her calm and avoid shock. I also calibrate the healing capsule for full-body regeneration:

• Gentle neural massage to regulate cognitive equilibrium

• Cranial fluid purification cycle

• Organo-support reinforcement

• Intravenous delivery path of over 50 types of restorative compounds—all queued for optimal deployment

I fine-tune the capsule's pathing system just as my phone pings.

"Hey, sorry to bug you this late," Panam says. "Had a fight down at Aldecaldos. Can I crash on the sofa?"

"Sure," I reply, pinging her my address. "Just ring the bell when you're close."

"Thanks, boss."

I finish the final setting, then slide Sasha into the capsule. The lid seals with a soft hiss as it fills with luminescent ambrosia suspension fluid—designed to amplify med-chrome recovery functions and stimulate dormant tissue.

"She's going to have a full rebirth," I whisper to myself.

As I wipe my hands and lean back, an idea sparks in my mind. A new procedure. A more efficient integration technique. I pause.

"Am I just brilliant... or is it the mods?"

I smirk. "Definitely the mods."

Ding—

The elevator buzzes. I walk over and open it as Panam steps in from the human lift.

"Wow... amazing house," she says, looking around.

"Well, anything compared to Nomad caravans probably feels amazing," I tease.

She smirks. "Wouldn't know."

"Actually, I would. Ran with the Bakkers for two years."

Her brow rises. "Oh... you were Nomad then."

"I was, sister," I say with a smile.

She laughs softly. "You know, I never properly thanked you for killing that bastard."

"Nash?"

"Yeah. Saying thank you isn't enough, even if you're my boss now. Just know—if you ever need anything, and I can do it, I will."

"Appreciate it," I nod. Then glance toward the digital panel on the wall, subtly closing Panam's database overlay before it finishes streaming. My mods automatically scan and organize a person's entire profile on contact. I could read every detail... but where's the fun in that?

"So," I shift the topic, "I've got some mods for you to review. Nothing crazy—just a few things to bring out your full potential. Thinking dedicated sniper setup."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Optics suite, arm regulators, jump-boosting feet—plus camo-tier skin with active stealth. Custom-built for recon work."

"But I don't have a lot of chrome, you know."

"I know," I nod. "But out there? Power matters. One stray bullet from a psycho in the wrong place, wrong time—and that's it. I can't be everywhere at once."

I walk behind her quietly and place a hand on her shoulder.

"Boom. You're dead," I whisper near her ear. "If I was a psycho, your story ends here. Don't you want to rewrite that?"

She freezes for half a second—then exhales slowly.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I do."

I grab a syringe and draw a vial of her blood.

"Hey!" she flinches. "Prep would've been nice."

"Relax," I smirk. "It's for the chromes."

She rolls her eyes. "Still. A heads-up doesn't cost anything."

"Where would be the fun in that?"

I gesture toward the ripper chair. "Stay here two or three days. You've got full access. We'll find the right mods for you. And actually—since you're pretty much chrome-free and the skin craft on opticamo's light work compared to what I'm layering on Jackie—your full loadout? Less than a day."

"From chrome-less to... what?"

"Adam Panam," I grin.

She laughs. "Okay, okay, that was good."

"C'mon," I say, booting the diagnostic panel. "I promise—you'll still look exactly like a 31-year-old."

Her eyes narrow. "Wait... how do you know my age?"

I shrug. "I like to know my crew."

She frowns a little. "Hmph."

"Don't worry about age," I grin. "I met a woman the other day—Fukui—who's got sixty years on me and still looks younger than I do. Acted like a teenager too. Or at least pretended to."

Ping—my HUD lights up.

Speak of the devil.

Fukui 📩: White Kiroshi received. Feels better than mine. Thank you, dear. More jobs coming soon. Stay alert. 😉

I blink, then another ping:

Emilia 📩: Can you stop by Afterglow near Lizzie's this afternoon? Sending the address. My weapon systems need your magic touch. Judy's helping too—maybe teach her a few things? 💋 Thanks, Angel. And this pic is just for you.

(A provocative selfie follows.)

Me ➜ Haha. You're more balanced now—good to see. Less manic energy.

Emilia ➜ Yeah... feels better. No more overload. But now that I'm stable, we need to refit the rest. One-day session or slow burn?

Me ➜ Let's do it in one shot. Never know what Night City throws next.

Emilia ➜ Mmm. Okay. I'll think on it. Bye, V 💋

I glance back at Panam.

"Sorry. Business ping."

"Late-night gig?"

"Sort of. You know Cloud? Used to be under Tiger Claws—now the Mox want to convert an old building near Lizzie's into a new dollhouse-style hub called Afterglow. I invested. Helping with their defense grid and... a few enhancements."

"Nice," she nods. "More people like you in the city, we'd be less messed up."

After some small talk, I wave toward the guest room.

"Extra bed's ready. You've got the kitchen, refresh station, and whatever else you need."

She stretches. "Thanks."

As she steps away, I watch her settle in. In the dim light, she looks less like a tough-as-nails merc and more like an older sister who's been through too much, too fast.

Maybe it's my Nomad side... but something tells me Panam isn't just backup. She'll be a pillar for the team. And for Aldecaldos.

I smile faintly and start pulling up her baseline settings on the system—just enough to prep the data, not begin the install.

Truth is, I'm running on fumes. I've been up all night piecing Sasha back together, and my brain's ready to short. No sense in starting precision work when my hands might shake.

Install can wait.

I dim the lights, double-check Sasha's vitals on the capsule display, and finally let myself breathe. Just a few hours. Then I'll finish what I started.

7:00 AM.

Alright—time to sleep. Unless someone's literally dying, don't wake me up...

Oh wait. Scratch that. This is Night City.

I collapse into bed like a dropped weapon case—no grace, no ceremony. Just out.