Cyberpunk - The Fall of Icarus

January 27th, 2069 – 08:50 AM

Washington D.C., The White House

Rosalind Myers

The blue-haired woman tapped her fingers against the polished conference table, each motion sharp with tension. In just a few minutes, a nationwide broadcast would begin — an official address in which the sitting President of the New United States would declare the start of what was already being called the Unification War. Preparations for this moment had been underway for years. And yet, as the final seconds bled away, Rosalind felt a strange weight settle in her chest. Not fear. Not doubt. Just a quiet, persistent certainty that something — something — was about to happen. Something that would become inseparable from the war to come.

"It's started," she muttered, after what felt like an eternity.

The broadcast went live across every federal network. Within minutes, global outlets picked it up. And just like that, the entire world watched as Rosalind Myers, President of the NUSA, formally announced the outbreak of hostilities across the Free Cities of America.

"Congratulations, Rosa."

A hologram flickered into view in one of the empty chairs lining the long table — Elizabeth Kress, former President of the United States.

"There's no turning back now," Rosalind said, her voice edged with an old, familiar fatigue. "We need to seize full control immediately. The corps are already making moves — quiet interference, market manipulation, cash flow disruptions. We'll need to deploy some of our newer skinners to stabilize financial traffic on the exchange. And we'll have to lock down a few key deals with the transcontinentals still operating on our turf."

"I'll handle that," Kress said with a nod. "Your attention has to stay on the military front. The operation. Everything tied to it. There's too much on the line — we won't get another shot at this."

"So I'm heading back to Night City?" Rosalind asked, though she already knew the answer.

"That's the smart move. Washington's mine — I'll keep things steady here. But you know Night City like the back of your hand."

The hologram of Kress reached into her blazer and pulled out a cigarette pack — an old brand, barely changed in the last hundred years. "We need to deploy our forces strategically. Put them where they'll matter most. The AV will be there in ninety minutes. If you've got loose ends to tie up, now's the time."

The hologram shimmered, then vanished.

Rosalind was alone again.

"Let's just hope our so-called allies don't start screwing us over before we're ready…" she sighed, leaning back into the plush chair. "Ninety minutes. Maybe I can steal a little sleep…"

With a long yawn, she closed her eyes — and within seconds, she was out. Sleep took her like a riptide, dragging her under. For the past two weeks, the new Madam President had barely touched rest — let alone food, a hot shower, or any of the small, fading comforts that still made life bearable in a world as cold and calculated as theirs.

"Ma'am, your AV will be landing in five. The pilot's already requested clearance."

The voice belonged to Sarah Alban — Rosalind's assistant for the past few years and, unofficially, the only person who could speak to the President of the NUSA without pulling punches.

"Thanks, Sarah. Must've dozed off…" Rosalind gave a sheepish smile, stifling a yawn behind her hand.

"Here." Sarah handed her a chilled glass of vitamin-infused water. "Tonic blend and nootropics. You'll want your systems running at full capacity."

Rosalind took the glass and drank deeply. The cold snapped her senses back online.

"You really need to start prioritizing rest," Sarah added, her tone hovering somewhere between a lecture and genuine concern. "Running on fumes catches up with you. Cognitive performance tanks, judgment slips — and that's when mistakes happen. The kind you don't come back from."

"I know. It's temporary," Rosalind said, massaging her temple. "Just give me a few more days — I'll get back on track."

"Ma'am, your health directly impacts Militech's stability. Which means my future's riding on it too." Sarah's cybernetic blue eyes locked onto her boss with cold precision — and a very human spark of sass.

"Fine," Rosalind sighed. "I promise I'll get some real sleep today. Happy?"

"I'll believe it when I see it." Sarah arched a brow, but nodded.

"Perfect. Then let's move." Rosalind stood and smoothed the crisp lines of her tailored jacket. "The pilot pinged me — he's already waiting."

***

January 27th, 2069 – 09:30 AM

One of the Hidden Domains in Cyberspace

Rache Bartmoss

"So this is what you meant by 'something interesting'?" The projection of a long-haired woman stared him down, curiosity thinly veiled beneath a tone that danced between amusement and suspicion.

"Well, war could count as interesting if you stretch the definition," Rache said, idly twirling a projected pen between his fingers. "But no — that's not what I had in mind."

"I was talking about our old agreement. Is it still on the table?" He leaned back, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"That depends entirely on whether you held up your end." Altiera Cunningham folded her arms, the digital rendering of her form unreadable — cool, detached, timeless.

"Ten minutes ago, I secured a controlling stake in Biotechnica," Rache said. "Fifty-three percent."

He paused, gauging her reaction.

"The market stirred, but nothing big enough to trigger alarms. Of course, your original body's long gone, so… you'll have to settle for something slightly different."

"I don't care." Her reply was instant. Almost dismissive. "I've been nothing but code for decades. You think I give a damn about cosmetics?"

"Two weeks," Rache said, raising both hands in a casual shrug. "That's how long it'll take to grow the new body and configure the host vessel. Your consciousness is... let's say nonstandard. Basic neural drives can't support it."

"Acceptable." Alt nodded — though a flicker of static danced across her image.

"But I've got one more condition," she added abruptly, skipping any buildup.

"Oh?" Rache arched a brow.

"Your protege. I want to speak to him. If we're going to work together, I need to know who I'll be dealing with."

"To be honest…" Rache scratched the back of his neck, expression dry. "That's not up to me. And whether he even wants to talk to you? That's another matter entirely. These days, his schedule's tighter than a Militech firewall. Barely has time for anything outside his family."

"Interesting…" Alt's voice shifted into a thoughtful hum. Her avatar froze, suspended mid-frame for several seconds. "I'm sure he'll make time. I'll invoke my rights as an invested party."

She smiled — sharp, wicked. Rache rolled his eyes like a man who knew this was the start of another long headache.

"Might wanna ease up on that tone," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Alex doesn't respond well to pressure. Push him, and he'll ghost you faster than a ripperdoc with unpaid bills."

"What, afraid of your own student?" Alt smirked.

"Let's call it respectful caution," Rache replied. "He's surpassed me in every metric. And he's still climbing. No plateaus. Just straight vertical."

He paused for effect.

"Tell me — how long would it take you to breach high-tier corporate ICE? Cold access, no internal hook?"

"Back in my prime? With prep? Maybe an hour." She tilted her head. "These days? Fifteen minutes. I've... evolved."

"Two years ago," Rache said slowly, "he cracked it in fifteen. In the field. No prep, no static entry, no safety net."

Alt went silent.

"You're saying the kid's that good?"

"He's the whole package. Skill. Instinct. Endurance. You know better than anyone — genius alone doesn't cut it."

"If anything," Alt said, eyes narrowing with sudden intensity, "you've only made me more curious."

She leaned in, her presence radiating through the feed.

"Talking to him is now part of the deal."

"I'll try to convince him," Rache said with a shrug. "But I'm not promising anything."

"I'm counting on you." Her image flickered — interrupted by a brief cascade of digital noise — then vanished completely.

Rache was alone again.

"She's always dropping her shit on other people," he muttered, leaning back with a sigh. "Classic Alt…"

***

January 27th, 2069 – 06:00 AM

Night City – Megabuilding H4

Vega Engel

Strange images. Fleeting scenes from someone else's life. They'd been haunting Vega for over a month — surfacing each time she shut down her active processes and entered what humans liked to call cognitive reboot mode.

At first, she tried to approach it logically. She pulled data from every repository she had access to — cross-referencing anomalies, running diagnostics, scanning for patterns. Eventually, she found the closest human equivalent:

Dreams.

A purely biological phenomenon — subjective perceptions conjured in the sleeping mind of a human being.

A human. Not an android. And certainly not a synthetic like Vega.

At first, she'd assumed it was residual data — ghosts in the machine, remnants from the behavioral matrix she'd inherited from Kiwi: her template, her sister. But the more vivid the dreams became, the more certain Vega was that these memories — these fragments — weren't Kiwi's.

They didn't belong to anyone she knew. The visions had started to evolve — expanding in scope, thick with emotion, disturbingly cohesive. Too detailed to be random code. Too real to be noise. And the more she tried to deconstruct them — logically, analytically — the less sense they made.

The deeper she dug, the further the truth slipped away. And somewhere along the line, something inside her began to shift. She stopped trying to solve the puzzle… and started wondering if maybe — she was the puzzle.

Lying beside him, watching his slow, even breaths, Vega reached out without thinking. Her fingertips brushed gently across his chest — right over the spot where, according to human tradition, the soul resided.

She lingered there. Then slowly, she traced her hand across the warmth of his skin, toward the center of his torso — as if she might feel something beyond the biological.

Then, her fingers returned to her own chest.

Beneath synthetic muscle and polymer skin, her biomechanical heart pulsed in flawless rhythm — efficient, precise, unfeeling.

She waited. Waited for something. For a signal. A sensation. A hint of… more. But all she felt was the artificial warmth her body emitted. A mimicry of life. And then — he moved. As if sensing her mood without a word, Alex shifted and pulled her in close, his arm wrapping around her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No code. No command. Just… connection.

Vega let her eyes close again, resting her head against his shoulder. And that's when the question surfaced. Quiet. Lingering. The kind of question no algorithm could answer. No logic tree could solve. A question as old as humanity itself:

"Do I have a soul?"

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