Cyberpunk - The Fall of Icarus

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The moment we stepped inside, the eyes of the bustling servers locked onto us. We stood out sharply compared to the other patrons, and not in a subtle way. The rest of the diners were decked out in a chaotic explosion of mismatched colors, with garish hairstyles that practically screamed for attention. It was enough to make me wince. Sure, fashion trends might condone this "look," but there's a limit — and some people were clearly sprinting past it without a second thought.

That said, no one actually cared about us. Most people gave us a fleeting glance before turning back to their meals or conversations. That worked just fine for us. Once we settled into our seats, one of the servers — a young man with distinctly Asian features — glided over to our table. He looked about twenty-five, but given the city's obsession with cosmetic procedures, I wasn't about to gamble on his real age.

"Welcome, honored guests. What would you like to order?" he asked in flawless English, holding a sleek tablet at the ready.

We rattled off a lengthy list of items from the menu, each of us chiming in with something. As he keyed in our order, I noticed his eyes flick across our faces, his expression softening ever so slightly. There was a brief hesitation before he confirmed the order in a noticeably more polite tone. Payment in places like this came after the meal — food first, then the bill.

"Please wait while your order is prepared," he said with a slight bow before disappearing back into the restaurant's flow.

"Alec, why did he seem so dismissive at first?" Vega asked in a low voice, careful not to attract any unnecessary attention.

"It's simple," I replied. "We don't look like the type who'd leave a generous tip. Tipping culture in North America is a big deal, and a server's attitude often reflects their assumptions about how much you'll leave."

"I see," Vega said, nodding slightly as her gaze turned distant. She was no doubt diving into a mental analysis of tipping culture, filling in whatever gaps she still had in her understanding.

Our food arrived about twenty minutes later, and soon the servers were weaving back and forth, clearing empty trays and bringing fresh dishes. Their efficiency was impressive, though nothing unexpected for a place of this caliber.

As we ate, a peculiar pair entered the restaurant. They were impossible to miss — colorful, edgy, and distinctly out of place, yet without any obvious gang affiliations. My first thought? Cyberpunks. Freelancers, mercenaries — essentially hired guns — who banked on loud, flashy jobs to make a name for themselves. Their ultimate goal? Earning a drink at the infamous Afterlife bar.

Marco and Jeremy had once given me the full breakdown of the mercenary scene. For solos, Afterlife wasn't just a bar; it was a symbol of prestige — a badge of honor in a profession where most burned out or died young. Entry wasn't just about skill; it was about reputation, about having a story that people wouldn't forget. As for the pair that just walked in? They clearly wanted that status, but they weren't there yet.

"Vega, Kiwi, stay alert," I murmured, shifting the portable Sandevistan case onto my lap in one fluid motion. Keeping my voice low, I leaned toward my daughters. "Lucy, Roxy, if things go south and a firefight breaks out, activate the shields on your bracelets and head straight for the kitchen."

Their eyes widened slightly, but they nodded. I could only hope they'd remember the drill.

"Oh wow, look at all the people here!" one of the mercenaries announced loudly, his voice dripping with mockery and amusement. He scanned the room with an unsettling grin, his gaze lingering on each table. His erratic movements — jerking shoulders, exaggerated head tilts, and expressions flipping between indifference and maniacal glee — gave him away instantly. These weren't just your run-of-the-mill punks. We were dealing with cyberpsychos.

Overhead, turrets descended from hidden compartments in the ceiling. Before they could train on the intruders, a snap of one punk's fingers redirected them toward the crowd instead. A netrunner. They'd hacked the restaurant's security systems, placing everyone in the room at their mercy.

As the diners gasped and instinctively ducked, I slipped a virus into the building's network — a backdoor waiting for my signal to fry every system in the place. Risking a direct counter-hack wasn't worth it; whoever their netrunner was, they'd be experienced enough to turn the tables if I wasn't careful.

"Apologies, folks," the lead psycho drawled, his grin widening as he fired several rounds into the air. The sharp cracks of gunfire sent panicked screams rippling through the room. "But we'll be conducting today's business without any interference. You wouldn't want to upset us, would you?"

"Al, the building's cut off from the external network," Vega's calm voice whispered into my ear. "They've set up a jammer. What's the plan?"

"For now, nothing," I replied, my eyes locked on the scene as it unfolded, scanning for an opening.

"Dad…" Roxy's small hand trembled as it gripped mine.

"It's okay," I said, giving her a reassuring smile. "Nothing will happen to you. I promise." Inside, I was already calculating how many of these bastards I could take down before they even realized what was happening.

"Alright, listen up, everyone! Today's your unlucky day," the leader sneered, his body contorting unnaturally as he let out a shrill cackle. Cyberpsychosis was taking its toll. He snapped back to coherence seconds later, his gaze sweeping the room with renewed malice. "Because I don't plan on leaving anyone alive."

His partner laughed gleefully, licking his lips as he raised his weapon. "Everyone on the left side is mine…"

"Vega, shield the kids — "

I didn't wait for him to finish. Time slowed as I triggered the Sandevistan. The world ground to a crawl, each movement of the psychos and the terrified diners unfolding in excruciating detail. My virus activated in tandem, sending sparks through the turrets and disabling the overhead electronics. The flickering lights cast jagged shadows across the punk's grotesquely twisted face.

The Sandevistan case was already slung onto my back when I activated it fully. The second cyberpsycho's finger was on the trigger, his rifle aimed at a woman huddled in the corner with her arms raised in a futile attempt to shield herself. Meanwhile, I caught sight of figures in the security room, hammering desperately against a locked door. It was clear the netrunner had anticipated resistance, giving his accomplices the time they needed to wreak havoc undisturbed.

The moment the Sandevistan fully deployed and locked onto my body, I activated it without hesitation. The resistance of the air around me seemed to vanish, and the world slowed to a crawl. In those fleeting seconds, before the turrets sparked and died in a chaotic shower, the mercenaries claimed their first victim — a poor soul caught in their line of fire.

From my position across the room, they hadn't noticed me immediately. But as I closed the distance in a blur of movement, one of the punks caught sight of me and swung his weapon in my direction, managing to fire off several rounds. This one had a Sandevistan of his own. That made him my priority.

Typically, most users can activate a Sandevistan three to five times a day without significant consequences. Trained operatives might push that limit to ten, while in high-stress situations, some manage as many as fourteen. Each activation drastically accelerates perception, movement, and reflexes, pulling the user into a dimension of speed few can match.

Fortunately for me, his model was cheap — lacking the advanced air resistance mitigation that allowed seamless movement. My own modifications, coupled with sheer physical strength, gave me the edge. He was fast, but I was faster.

I had a pistol, but firing it was pointless. Bullets moved too slowly to catch someone using a Sandevistan. This fight was going to be up close and personal. Activating the powered gloves integrated into my bracers, I prepared to engage. These weren't tools of finesse — they were raw, unrelenting force designed to crush.

The punks quickly realized I was the biggest threat in the room, and both shifted their focus to me. The loudmouthed one transformed his arms into Mantis Blades, a predatory grin spreading across his face as he lunged toward me. As the distance between us shrank to mere meters, I ducked under the deadly sweep of his blades and drove a powered punch straight into his chest. The impact sent him flying into a wall, the plaster cracking from the force. It wasn't a killing blow, but it left him stunned and struggling for breath.

Before I could press my advantage, the second mercenary came at me with a lateral strike. I dropped low to avoid the attack, already primed to send him flying just like his partner. But before I could make my move, his body seized up mid-swing, sparks erupting from his joints as the acrid stench of burnt wiring filled the air. Someone had fried his systems — someone very familiar.

Snapping out of acceleration mode, I quickly scanned the room before my attention shifted to the main entrance. Another group of assailants was forcing their way inside. Leading the charge was a hulking figure, his body covered head-to-toe in implants. There wasn't a single patch of flesh left untouched. He was practically a walking advertisement for excessive augmentation — a chromed-out cyberpsycho. In other words, a full-blown borg.

Frowning in irritation, I bolted toward the stunned mercenary sprawled on the floor. Without a moment's hesitation, I drew my pistol and put a round through his head. Mercy wasn't an option. It never was.

With no time to waste, I crouched over the fallen cyberpsycho and yanked the Mantis Blades from his arms. At my current speed, firearms were practically useless, and I doubted my pistol had enough punch to penetrate the reinforced plating of the borg bulldozing his way inside.

The moment the chrome maniac crashed through the doorway, I charged at full speed, gripping the stolen blades tightly. The borg, clearly no fool, attempted to knock me off my feet with a seismic shockwave. I caught on to his plan just in time, leaping into the air to avoid the brunt of the impact.

Despite the distance — roughly three meters — it was enough for the borg to raise an energy cannon embedded in his arm and fire straight at me. Instinctively, I threw up my arms, activating the energy shield built into my bracers. The blast was fierce, sending a fiery shockwave that hurled me back several meters and filled the room with a wall of flame, momentarily obscuring my vision.

Grinding my teeth, I forced myself forward again, ignoring the heat and temporary blindness as I closed the gap. The borg wasted no time, charging straight through the flames to catch me off guard. Unfortunately for him, my speed gave me the upper hand. Timing it perfectly, I drove one of the stolen blades into his leg. His mouth twisted in pain as I regained my footing, already preparing to drive the second blade into his other leg.

Closing the distance once more, I slashed deep into his remaining leg, twisting the blade sharply to widen the wound. The borg let out a guttural growl, his massive frame shuddering as I hamstrung him.

Dropping out of acceleration mode, I hissed in frustration. My Sandevistan couldn't maintain peak performance indefinitely — it needed time to cool down. That meant I'd have to finish this fight the old-fashioned way. The borg, realizing my momentary vulnerability, flashed a vicious grin.

Too bad for him — a smug smile wouldn't save him.