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Chapter Text

The bass in Molly’s didn’t just vibrate the floorboards; it rattled the fillings in your teeth.

It was a Saturday night in Woodstock, Vermont, which meant half the town was crammed into the only joint that mattered. The air was a thick, hazy soup of synthetic vape smoke, the smell of stale beer, and the electric ozone tang of over-clocked amps. On stage, a local chromecore band called The Maple Bleeders was shredding through a set, their guitarist literally sparking every time he hit a power chord.

I leaned back against the bar, my elbows resting on the sticky mahogany surface, swirling the ice in my glass. I was wearing my armor: red flannel with the sleeves rolled up to show the ink on my forearms, my dad’s old dog tags, and my mom’s silver rings clinking against the glass. And, of course, the aviators.

Yeah, I was wearing sunglasses inside at 11:00 PM. I knew I looked like a douchebag. I didn’t care. The Top Gun shades were the only thing separating my eyes from the rest of the world. They were a barrier. Behind the dark tint, nobody could see that I was tired. Nobody could see that I’d spent the morning crying in the shower because a song came on the radio that reminded me of her.

"You look like a statue, V. Drink the damn whiskey or give it back."

I looked up. Rita was standing there, wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days. My big sister looked like a goddess of the dive bar underworld. She was five-nine, built like a brick house, and commanded respect from every drunk, merc, and corpo-wannabe in the room.

"I’m savoring it, Rita," I said, my voice barely audible over the screaming vocalist. "It’s called class. You should try it."

Rita snorted, tossing the rag over her shoulder. "Class? You’re wearing a backwards baseball cap and sunglasses in a dark room. You look like you’re about to drop a mixtape in 1990." She reached over the bar, her expression softening just a fraction, and tapped the rim of my sunglasses. "You okay, kid? You’ve been staring at the neon beer sign for twenty minutes."

"I’m peachy," I lied, flashing a grin that showcased my dimples. It was my best weapon. The 'Valerie Wheeler Charm.' It usually worked on everyone. "Just waiting for the mosh pit to open up so I can break a rib."

"Don’t you dare," Rita warned, though she was already moving to serve a guy with a cybernetic jaw who was waving a credit chip. "I’m not explaining to Vanessa why you’re in a cast again."

Vanessa.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. My lock screen was a picture of the three of us—Me, Rita, and Nessie—taken last Christmas. Vanessa was smiling so big her eyes were squinted shut. My North Star.

To: Nessie (11:02 PM)

U good? Doors locked?

From: Nessie (11:03 PM)

Omg yes V. I’m watching a horror holo. Stop mom-ing me. Have fun. Don’t get arrested.

I chuckled, feeling the knot in my chest loosen just a little. She was safe. Rita was running the show. That meant I was technically off the clock. I down the rest of the whiskey, the burn settling warm and heavy in my stomach, and pushed off the bar.

"I’m going for a smoke," I yelled to Rita. She just gave me a thumbs up without looking, effortlessly pouring two beers at once.

I waded through the crowd. It was a sea of bodies—local farm kids in grease-stained coveralls, rich tourists from Night City rocking designer thermal-wear, and the usual Woodstock weirdos. I bumped shoulders, exchanged high-fives, and nodded at people I’d known since kindergarten.

"Hey V! looking fly!"

"Yo Valerie, you catch the game?"

I played the part. I was Valerie Wheeler. Captain of the track team, the girl who could draw anything, the life of the party. I laughed, I winked, I slapped backs. But inside, I felt like I was drifting in deep space. It was that hollow ache, the one that hit you when you were surrounded by people but felt completely invisible.

I needed air. I needed weed.

I pushed toward the back exit, the heavy steel door vibrating from the noise. I shouldered it open and stepped out into the cool Vermont night.

The alley behind Molly’s was quiet, lit only by a flickering blue service light and the distant glow of the town center. It smelled like rain and wet pavement. I pulled my pack of smokes from my flannel pocket, fished out a pre-roll, and stuck it between my lips.

I patted my pockets. Shit. No lighter.

"Fuck me," I muttered, patting my jeans, then my jacket. I had a joint, a desire to get high, and absolutely no way to spark it. Typical.

"Need a light?"

The voice came from the shadows to my left. It was smooth, smoky, with just a hint of a scratch to it. Like velvet dragged over gravel.

I froze, then turned my head.

She was leaning against the brick wall, half-hidden in the darkness until she stepped forward into the pool of blue light. And I swear to god, for a second, my brain just stopped processing data. It was like a system failure.

She was… magnetic. That was the only word for it.

She was shorter than me, maybe five-six, but she held herself like she was ten feet tall. She was wearing a distressed leather jacket over a band tee that had been ripped and pinned back together. But it was the hair that got me. Long, vivid purple hair, shaved on one side in a brutal, beautiful undercut, the rest falling in intricate braids over her shoulder.

She had hazel-blue eyes that looked like they could see right through my cheap sunglasses. And she was looking at me with a smirk that could start a war.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asked, her eyebrow cocking up. She held up a silver Zippo, flipping the lid open with a satisfying clink. The flame danced in the dark.

I swallowed, forcing my reboot. "I… uh. Yeah. Please."

Smooth, Valerie. Real smooth.

She stepped closer. The air between us suddenly felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. She smelled like vanilla, old books, and high-grade ganja. It was intoxicating.

She brought the flame to the end of my joint. I had to lean down, just a little, to meet her. I took a drag, the cherry glowing bright orange, and held the smoke in my lungs before exhaling a long, thick cloud into the night air.

"Thanks," I said, my voice dropping an octave. I took off my sunglasses. It felt wrong to wear them in front of her. I wanted to see her clearly. "You saved my life."

"I doubt that," she teased, snapping the lighter shut. She didn’t step back. She stayed right there, in my personal space. I didn’t want her to move. "But a tragedy was definitely averted. I’m Emily."

"Valerie," I said, extending a hand. "But everyone calls me V."

She took my hand. Her skin was warm, her grip firm but soft. I noticed the silver rings on her fingers—skulls, bands, little occult symbols. Just like mine.

"Valerie," she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. She made it sound like a secret. "You look like you were escaping something in there, V."

I let out a breathless laugh, leaning back against the damp brick wall. "Is it that obvious? Just the noise. And the… everything. Sometimes you just need to breathe, you know?"

Emily nodded, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket. She lit one with a practiced ease. "I feel that. I love the music, but the crowd? It’s a lot of energy to process. Especially when you’re new."

"New?" I looked at her, really looked at her. "I thought I didn’t recognize you. Woodstock is a small town. I know everyone’s face, usually. You just move here?"

"Chicago," she said, blowing a stream of smoke toward the sky. "Needed a change of scenery. Less concrete, more trees. Less… bullshit."

"We have plenty of trees," I said, taking another hit of the joint and offering it to her. It was an intimate gesture, sharing a smoke with a stranger in an alley. "And slightly less bullshit. Depends on the day."

She took the joint, her fingers brushing against mine. The contact sent a literal jolt of electricity up my arm. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Holy shit.

"I like trees," she said softly, taking a hit. She passed it back, her eyes locking onto mine. They were intense, intelligent, and a little bit sad. "And I like this town so far. It’s quiet. People leave you alone if you want them to."

"But you’re at a punk show on a Saturday night," I challenged, a playful grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. "That’s not exactly isolation."

"A girl can be lonely and still want to scream along to a bass line," she countered, her smirk returning. "Besides, I heard the bartender makes a killer Old Fashioned."

"My sister," I said proudly. "Rita. She’s the best."

"Runs in the family then?" Emily asked, her eyes dropping to my lips for a split second before flicking back up.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Was she flirting? Or was I just desperate?

"What runs in the family?" I asked, my voice husky.

"Good taste," she said.

I felt a blush creep up my neck, hot and fierce. I covered it by taking a long drag. This girl was dangerous. She had that Chicago edge, that big-city confidence that made me feel like a clumsy farm girl, even though I was the one leaning against the wall looking like a moody James Dean.

"So, Emily from Chicago," I said, trying to regain some ground. "What do you do when you aren't saving damsels in distress with your lighter?"

"I work at the Bijou," she said. "The movie theater on Main."

My eyes lit up. "No way. I live at that place. How have I not seen you?"

"I work the projection booth mostly," she said. "I like it up there. Watching the stories play out, seeing people’s reactions. It’s… safe. Plus, I’m a total film geek. Ask me anything about 20th-century horror, I dare you."

I laughed, shifting my weight so I was facing her fully. "Okay, hotshot. Best slasher villain. Go."

"Easy," she said without hesitation. "Ghostface. Because he’s human. He’s clumsy. He falls over couches and gets punched in the face. It makes him scarier because he’s real. Michael Myers is just a shark on legs. Ghostface is your boyfriend who snapped."

I stared at her. I think I fell in love a little bit right there in the alleyway, amidst the smell of garbage and rain.

"Marry me," I blurted out before I could stop myself.

Emily laughed, a bright, genuine sound that cut through the muffled thumping of the bass from inside. "Buy me a drink first, cowboy."

"I can do that," I said, pushing off the wall. I didn't want this conversation to end. I didn't want to go back inside and lose her in the crowd. "But fair warning, my sister will probably interrogate you. She’s protective."

"I can handle big sisters," Emily said, stomping out her cigarette. She looked at me, her expression turning serious for a moment. "You got a little… something."

She reached out, her thumb brushing against my lower lip. I stopped breathing. Her touch was electric, feather-light. She wiped away a speck of ash, but her hand lingered there for a second longer than necessary. Her eyes were dark, dilated.

The tension was thick enough to choke on. If I leaned in, just six inches, I could taste her. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to press her up against the brick wall and kiss the sarcasm right out of her mouth.

But I froze. The ghost of the past, the fear of being hurt again, locked my muscles.

Emily seemed to sense the hesitation. She pulled her hand back slowly, but the heat remained.

"Shall we?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Yeah," I breathed out. "Let's go."

I opened the door for her, and she slipped past me back into the noise of the bar. As she walked by, I caught that scent again—vanilla and mystery.

I put my sunglasses back on, not to hide the tears this time, but to hide the fact that I was staring at her ass in those tight black jeans.

Don’t screw this up, Valerie, I told myself. Do not screw this up.

I followed her into the purple haze, the music swallowing us whole. For the first time in months, the loneliness didn’t feel quite so heavy. I had a target. I had a mission.

Buy Emily a drink. Make Emily laugh. And maybe, just maybe, figure out why a girl with sad eyes and a fast bike ended up in Woodstock, Vermont.

I caught up to her at the bar, sliding in next to her as she leaned over the counter to flag Rita down.

"Hey Rita!" I shouted over the noise. "Two shots of tequila! The good stuff!"

Rita looked at me, then at Emily, then back at me. A slow, knowing grin spread across her face. She winked.

Yeah. Tonight was going to be interesting.

Rita slammed two shot glasses onto the bar with the precision of a sniper. The amber liquid didn’t even ripple.

"Tequila," Rita announced, her voice cutting through the thrum of the bass. "On the house. Because I haven’t seen V smile like that since she discovered she could torrent horror movies for free."

I felt my face heat up instantly. "Rita, shut up," I groaned, grabbing a lime wedge. "You’re ruining my mysterious vibe."

"Your mysterious vibe expired when you wore pajamas to the grocery store last Tuesday," Rita shot back, but she was grinning. She turned her gaze to Emily, her eyes narrowing in that scanning, protective big-sister way. It was like getting x-rayed by a security drone. "I’m Rita. I run this zoo. If anyone gives you shit, tell me. If she gives you shit"—she pointed a thumb at me—"tell me, and I’ll embarrass her with baby pictures."

Emily didn’t flinch. She leaned her elbows on the bar, looking effortless and cool in a way that made my stomach do gymnastics. "Nice to meet you, Rita. I’m Emily. And don't worry, I think I can handle her. She’s mostly just flannel and hot air."

I gasped, feigning offense. "Excuse me? I am a delight."

"You’re a dork," Emily corrected, clinking her glass against mine. "Cheers, dork."

"Cheers, Hollywood," I retorted.

We threw back the shots. The tequila burned a glorious path down my throat, tasting like bad decisions and good times. I slammed the glass down, shuddering as the warmth hit my stomach. When I looked over, Emily was licking salt off her thumb, her eyes locked on mine.

Jesus Christ.

The way her tongue moved… precise, slow. My brain short-circuited again. I needed to say something cool. Say something witty.

"So," I choked out, my voice cracking slightly. "You want another?"

"I want to get out of here," Emily said, leaning in close so I could hear her over the band’s breakdown. "It’s too loud to talk. And I want to know more about this 'art on the side' thing you mentioned."

I hadn’t mentioned it. Had I? Maybe I mumbled it in the alley. Or maybe she was just that good at reading people.

"You got a car?" she asked.

"Nah. I walked. I live like two miles out. The exercise keeps my ass in check."

Emily smirked, her eyes dropping to scan my body approvingly. "It’s working. Come on. I’ll give you a ride."

We stepped out the front door of Molly’s, leaving the wall of noise behind us. The air on Main Street was crisp and cold, the kind of Vermont chill that nips at your nose. The town looked surreal at night—colonial brick buildings bathed in the soft glow of LED streetlamps, the covered bridge in the distance lit up with neon purple strips.

"Over here," Emily said, jerking her head toward the curb.

Parked in the 'EV Only' spot was the sickest bike I had ever seen. It was a beast—a customized Yaiba Kusanagi, but stripped down and painted a matte black with iridescent purple detailing that shimmered like oil on water. It looked fast, dangerous, and expensive.

"Holy shit," I breathed, walking around it. "This is yours?"

"Built it myself," Emily said, pride coloring her voice. She fished a key fob from her pocket. The bike chirped, and the under-glow lights flared to life, casting a violet halo on the asphalt. "She’s got a turbo mod and a recalibrated suspension for these bumpy-ass country roads. Hop on."

She swung a leg over the seat, the leather of her pants creaking. She looked like an anime protagonist. She grabbed a spare helmet from a storage compartment—matte black with cat ears on top.

"Serious?" I asked, holding up the helmet.

"Don't be a hater, V. It’s aerodynamic."

I slid the helmet on. It smelled like her—vanilla and shampoo. I climbed onto the bike behind her, the seat vibrating as she revved the engine. The sound was a low, guttural growl that resonated right in my crotch.

"Hold on tight," she yelled over her shoulder. "I don’t drive slow."

I didn’t need to be told twice. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pressing my chest against her back. She felt solid, warm. My hands rested on her stomach, just above the belt of her jeans. I could feel her abs tense as she kicked the bike into gear.

We peeled out of the spot, the tires screeching against the pavement.

The ride was a blur of wind and neon. We tore down Route 4, the trees whipping past us like jagged shadows. Woodstock at night was beautiful, a mix of old-world darkness and new-world light, but I barely saw it. I was too focused on the feeling of Emily’s body against mine.

I tightened my grip, my fingers splaying over her leather jacket. I leaned my head forward, resting my chin on her shoulder. I could see her speedometer in the reflection of her mirrors—we were doing ninety.

It felt like flying. It felt like freedom. For the first time since my parents died, since that other person left, I didn’t feel heavy. I felt weightless.

She took the turns with a terrifying grace, leaning the bike so low my sneakers almost scraped the asphalt. I trusted her. I didn’t know why, but I trusted her completely.

We pulled up to my house way too soon. It was a big, drafty Victorian that my parents had bought twenty years ago, now retrofitted with solar shingles and smart-glass windows that were currently dark.

Emily killed the engine. The silence that rushed back in was deafening.

I hopped off, my legs feeling a little jelly-like, and pulled the helmet off. My hair was probably a mess, static-charged and wild. I handed the helmet back to her.

"Nice ride," I said, breathless.

Emily stayed on the bike, kicking the kickstand down but leaving the engine idling in silent mode. She took off her own helmet, shaking out that glorious purple hair. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, her eyes bright.

"Nice passenger," she countered. "You hold on tight. I like that."

The sexual tension slammed into me like a freight train. It was heavy, thick, palpable. Standing there on my gravel driveway, under the floodlight of the garage, I felt exposed.

"So," I said, scuffing my boot against a rock. "This is me."

"This is you," she repeated. She looked at the house. "Big place for three girls."

"It’s… yeah. It’s a lot. But it’s home." I looked at her, suddenly desperate to keep her there. "Do you… do you want to come in? We have leftover pizza. And I think Vanessa is asleep, so we can raid the good snacks."

Emily bit her lip, looking at the front door, then back at me. She looked torn.

"I can't," she said, and my heart sank. But then she smiled, soft and genuine. "I have an early shift at the theater tomorrow. Matinee of The Lost Boys. If I don't prep the reels tonight, the projector glitches out."

"Right," I said, trying to mask my disappointment. "Work. The bane of existence."

"But," she said, leaning forward over the handlebars. "I’m off at six."

"Six," I repeated. "Six is a good number."

"Meet me there?" she asked. "I can show you the booth. Maybe we can watch a movie after hours? I have the keys."

"Are you asking me on a date, Emily?" I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the mailbox, trying to regain my composure.

"I’m asking you to watch a movie," she teased, revving the engine slightly. "If it turns into a date, that’s entirely up to your behavior."

"I’ll be on my best behavior," I lied.

"I hope not," she said.

She winked. Actually winked. Then she slammed the visor of her helmet down, kicked the bike into gear, and spun around in a tight circle, gravel spraying behind her. She tore off down the road, a streak of purple light vanishing into the dark.

I stood there for a full minute, just staring at the empty road, my heart pounding a rhythm against my ribs. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Holy shit," I whispered to the trees.

I turned and walked up the porch steps, unlocking the front door. The house was quiet. The hallway light was left on—Rita’s doing—casting a warm yellow glow on the family photos lining the wall.

I crept up the stairs, avoiding the third step that always squeaked. I peeked into Vanessa’s room. She was passed out, tangled in her blankets, her holo-projector still humming softly, displaying a rotating image of a nebula. I tiptoed in, turned it off, and gently pulled the duvet up over her shoulder.

"Night, Nessie," I whispered.

I went to my room—the attic space I’d claimed years ago. It was a chaotic sanctuary. Sketches taped to the slanted walls, stacks of old DVDs, clothes piled on the chair. My drafting table sat by the window, covered in charcoal dust and pencils.

I flopped onto my bed, not bothering to take off my shoes yet. I pulled out my phone.

To: Rita (11:45 PM)

I’m home. Alive. She’s real, right? I didn’t hallucinate her?

From: Rita (11:46 PM)

She’s real. And she rides a Kusanagi. Don’t screw this up, V. Also, you owe me for the tequila.

I grinned at the ceiling. I rolled over, hugging my pillow, smelling the faint trace of vanilla on my flannel where she’d touched me.

My chest still ached. The old wound was still there, the scar tissue from the one who left without a goodbye. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, the ache felt… manageable. It felt smaller.

I closed my eyes, picturing hazel-blue eyes and a purple undercut.

"Six o'clock," I mumbled to the empty room.

I sat up, suddenly restless. I couldn't sleep. Not yet. The energy from the ride was still buzzing under my skin. I walked over to my drafting table and clicked on the lamp. The stark white light illuminated a blank sheet of paper.

I picked up a piece of charcoal.

I didn’t think about what I was doing. I just let my hand move. The curve of a jawline. The sharp, aggressive line of a shaved undercut. The softness of lips that had smirked at me in an alleyway.

I sketched until my fingers were black with dust and the moon was high in the sky. When I finally stopped, Emily stared back at me from the paper. It wasn't perfect—I couldn't quite capture the spark in her eyes—but it was close.

I wrote Velocity in the corner, small and messy.

I stripped out of my clothes, tossing the flannel onto the pile, and crawled under my covers. As I drifted off, I wasn't crying. I was planning what to wear to a movie theater.

The next morning, the house was a war zone of pancakes and panic.

"V! Have you seen my neural-link charger?" Vanessa screamed from the living room.

I stumbled down the stairs, wearing an oversized t-shirt and boxers, my hair a bird's nest. "It’s plugged into the toaster, Nessie. Where you left it."

"Why was it in the toaster?"

"Because you were trying to make 'smart toast' yesterday, remember? And you shorted out the kitchen."

Vanessa ran past me, grabbing the charger. She looked frantic. "Right. Okay. I’m late for the holo-meet with my study group. You’re the best, V! Love you!"

"Love you too, gremlin," I yawned, heading for the coffee pot.

The kitchen was sunny and bright, conflicting with my slight tequila hangover. I poured a mug of black coffee—synthesized bean sludge, but it did the trick—and leaned against the counter.

The house felt empty without Rita. She slept until noon on Sundays. It was just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Vanessa arguing about calculus in the other room.

I looked at the clock. 10:00 AM.

Eight hours until six.

I needed to kill time. I needed to not obsess.

I decided to do what I always did when I was anxious: run.

I chugged the coffee, threw on my running gear—thermal leggings, a tank top, and my beat-up sneakers—and headed out.

I ran the perimeter of the property, then pushed further, into the woods behind our house. The trees here were old growth, massive maples and oaks that had stood since before the Collapse, before the Corps took over everything. The air smelled of damp earth and pine needles.

I pushed my body hard, feeling the burn in my lungs, the slap of my feet against the dirt path. Left, right, left, right. It was meditative. It was the only time my brain shut up.

But today, the rhythm was different.

Em-i-ly. Em-i-ly.

I sprinted up the final hill, cresting the ridge that overlooked the town. I stopped, hands on my knees, gasping for air. From here, Woodstock looked like a toy village. I could see the river winding through it, silver in the sunlight. I could see the spire of the church.

And I could see the marquee of the Bijou Theater on Main Street.

Even from here, I could see the letters being changed by a tiny figure on a ladder.

THE LOST BOYS - MATINEE

TONIGHT: SPECIAL SCREENING

I smiled, sweat dripping down my nose.

"Okay," I said to myself, wiping my face with my shirt. "Game on."

I ran back down the hill, faster this time. I had to shower. I had to figure out what the hell "movie date casual" looked like. And I had to make sure I didn't smell like weed and desperation when I walked into that lobby.

When I got back inside, Vanessa was in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. She looked up, milk dripping from her chin.

"You’re in a good mood," she observed, eyeing me suspiciously. "You’re sweating, but you’re smiling. Usually, you look like you want to murder the sun after a run."

"I met someone," I said, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

Vanessa dropped her spoon. It clattered loudly against the ceramic bowl. "Shut up. No way. Who?"

"Her name is Emily," I said, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. "She works at the theater. She rides a bike."

"Is she hot?"

"Vanessa! You’re fifteen!"

"So? I have eyes, V. Is she hot?"

I sighed, leaning my head back against the cool metal of the fridge. "Yeah, Nessie. She’s really hot."

Vanessa pumped a fist in the air. "Yes! Finally! You’re going to stop moping around listening to sad indie rock!"

"I do not mope!"

"You mope. You are the Mayor of Mope City. You have the key to the city. It’s sad." She stood up, looking unexpectedly serious. "V, you deserve this. Okay? Mom and Dad would want you to be happy. Rita wants you to be happy. I want you to be happy."

I felt a lump form in my throat. I walked over and ruffled her blonde braids, ignoring her protests.

"Thanks, kid," I whispered. "Now, help me pick out an outfit. I have a date at six."

Vanessa’s eyes went wide. "Code Red! To the closet! We have work to do!"

She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the stairs. For a second, looking at her determination, I felt that fierce protectiveness surge up again. I would die for this kid. I would kill for this kid.

But maybe, just maybe, it was okay to do something for myself for once.

I let her drag me upstairs, laughter bubbling up in my chest.

Six o'clock couldn't come fast enough.

Chapter Text

October in Vermont was usually a postcard waiting to happen. In 2077, it was a hallucinogenic masterpiece.

The genetically modified maples lining our driveway didn’t just turn orange; they burned with a bioluminescent amber glow as the sun went down. The air was crisp, smelling of woodsmoke and the ozone tang of the atmospheric scrubbers kicking into high gear for the evening. It was my favorite month. The dying of the light. The spooky season.

And, of course, the countdown to my birthday.

"You cannot wear the Top Gun shirt," Vanessa declared, throwing a pile of clothes onto my bed. "It’s a first date, V. You don't want to look like you're going to a costume party. Save that for Halloween."

"My birthday is literally on Halloween, Nessie. It’s festive." I stood in front of the mirror in my underwear, feeling exposed and ridiculous. "And it’s not a date. It’s… hanging out."

"It’s a date," Vanessa corrected, holding up a black thermal long-sleeve and my vintage denim jacket. "She invited you to her work after hours to sit in the dark. If that’s not a date, then I don't understand human biology." She tossed the clothes at my head. "Wear this. It says, 'I’m effortlessly cool and I didn't spend two hours panic-showering.'"

"I didn't panic-shower," I muttered, pulling the thermal on. It was tight, hugging my curves in a way that made me feel self-conscious but powerful. I pulled on my black jeans—the ones with the rip in the knee—and laced up my combat boots.

Vanessa stood back, crossing her arms. "You look good, V. Seriously. Mom would say you look like a heartbreaker."

I froze for a second, catching my reflection. The blue eyes, the dimples, the nervous energy radiating off me in waves. I touched the silver necklace at my throat—Mom’s armor.

"Thanks, bug," I said, my voice soft. "Don't wait up. And don't watch The Exorcist alone again."

"No promises!" she yelled as I bolted down the stairs.

The walk to town was a cold one. I shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets, my breath pluming in white clouds before me. The town center was decked out for the season. Holographic ghosts floated aimlessly around the town green, flickering in and out of existence. The synth-pumpkins on the steps of the Town Hall glowed with neon grins.

My heart was doing a drum solo against my ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I checked my internal chrono. 5:55 PM. Perfect. Fashionably early, but not desperate.

The Bijou Theater sat on the corner of Main and Elm. It was a relic, a beautiful Art Deco beast that had survived the Corporate Wars and the tech boom. The marquee hummed with golden light: THE LOST BOYS - 35MM REVIVAL.

I pushed through the heavy glass doors. The lobby was empty, the concession stand closed, the popcorn machine dark. It smelled of old carpet, butter salt, and dust. Silence.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing.

"Up here!"

I looked up toward the mezzanine. Emily was leaning over the railing, grinning down at me like the Phantom of the Opera, if the Phantom was a hot punk girl with purple hair.

"Door to the left of the men’s room," she directed. "Come on up."

I found the unmarked door and climbed the narrow, winding concrete stairs. At the top, I stepped into the projection booth.

It was a small, cramped space, cluttered and cozy. The walls were covered in vintage movie posters—Alien, Halloween, Akira. In the center of the room sat two massive, archaic film projectors, purring like sleeping lions. And next to them, sitting on a beat-up leather swivel chair, was Emily.

She looked… incredible.

She was wearing her work uniform—a maroon vest with the theater logo—but she’d made it hers. She had a mesh shirt underneath, her tattooed arms on full display. Her purple braids were pulled back into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face.

"You made it," she said, spinning the chair around to face me.

"I didn't get lost," I said, leaning against the doorframe, trying to look casual despite the fact that my palms were sweating. "Cool office. It’s like a bunker."

"It is a bunker," she said, standing up. She walked over to the small observation window that looked out into the empty theater auditorium. "Nobody bothers me up here. It’s the only place in the world where I control the timeline."

She turned to look at me, her hazel eyes catching the light from the projectors. "You look nice, Valerie. The jacket works."

"My stylist picked it out," I admitted, stepping further into the room. "My little sister. She threatened me with violence if I wore flannel."

Emily laughed, a low, throaty sound that vibrated in my chest. "Smart kid. You hungry?"

She reached behind one of the projectors and pulled out a massive tub of popcorn and two liters of cherry soda. "Dinner of champions."

"Marry me," I said again, instinctively.

"We really have to stop rushing into things," she teased, patting the empty space on the floor next to the observation window. She had set up a pile of cushions and blankets there. A little nest.

Oh god. It was a date.

I sat down on the cushions, crossing my long legs. Emily settled in next to me, close enough that our knees touched. The heat coming off her was distracting.

"So," she said, reaching for the control panel on the wall. "Have you seen The Lost Boys?"

"Only about fifty times," I said, grabbing a handful of popcorn. "It’s a classic. Vampires in Santa Carla. The soundtrack slaps."

"Good," she said, dimming the lights in the booth until we were illuminated only by the flicker of the projector beam. "Then I don't have to explain the plot."

She hit a switch. The massive projector whirred to life, the sound of film rattling through the sprockets filling the small room. Through the window, the giant screen in the auditorium below lit up.

We weren't watching it from the seats. We were watching it from above, like gods looking down on a world of vampires and hair metal.

The movie started. Cry Little Sister began to play. But I could barely focus on the screen.

I was hyper-aware of Emily. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She was mouthing the dialogue, her eyes glued to the screen, a look of pure, childlike wonder on her face. It was such a contrast to the tough, sarcastic girl on the motorcycle.

About twenty minutes in, during the boardwalk scene, she shifted. Her hand, which had been resting on her knee, moved. She placed it on the cushion between us.

My hand was right there.

I froze. Do I move it? Do I grab her hand? Is that too much? Panic. System error.

I took a breath, summoned every ounce of courage I had, and slid my hand over until my pinky finger hooked around hers.

Emily didn’t pull away. She didn’t look at me, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her hand over and interlaced her fingers with mine. Her grip was strong. Her rings felt cold against my skin, but her palm was burning hot.

My heart was beating so loud I was sure she could hear it over the movie.

"You know," she whispered, not taking her eyes off the screen. "I used to think vampires were cool. Until I moved here."

"Yeah?" I whispered back, squeezing her hand. "Why?"

"Because vampires are frozen in time," she said softly. "They never change. They never grow up. I think… I think growing up is the whole point. Even if it hurts."

I looked at her profile, illuminated by the flickering light of the movie. She looked sad again. That deep, lonely sadness that I recognized in the mirror every morning.

"Why did you really leave Chicago, Em?" I asked. The question hung in the air, heavier than the popcorn scent.

She was silent for a long moment. On screen, Kiefer Sutherland was looking menacing on a motorcycle.

"I was drowning," she said finally, turning to face me. The movie played on her face—shadows and light dancing across her features. "My ex… she was everything to me. We planned our whole lives. Then she got that offer from Arasaka in Night City. And she just… erased me. Like I was a bad line of code. She didn't even ask if I wanted to come. She just assumed I wasn't enough to fit in her suitcase."

She looked down at our joined hands. "I felt like a ghost. So I came here. Figure if I'm gonna be a ghost, I might as well haunt a pretty town."

My chest ached for her. It was so similar to my own pain, it was scary.

"I get it," I said, my voice thick. "My… the person I loved. He didn't die. He just… outgrew me. He went to college in Europe. Said he needed to 'find himself.' I guess I wasn't part of the map."

Emily looked up, her eyes searching mine. "His loss. He’s a fucking idiot."

I chuckled, a wet, watery sound. "Yeah. He is."

"And my ex is a bitch," she added.

"A total bitch," I agreed.

We stared at each other. The air in the booth shifted. It wasn't just nervous tension anymore. It was gravity.

She leaned in. Just an inch.

I leaned in to meet her.

My gaze dropped to her lips. They looked soft. I could smell the cherry soda and the vanilla.

"V," she breathed.

"Yeah?"

"Are you gonna kiss me, or do I have to make the first move again?"

I didn't answer with words. I closed the gap.

Our lips met, and it was… electric. It wasn't like in the movies. It was clumsy at first, a collision of noses and teeth, but then it settled. Her lips were soft and warm. She tasted like sugar and smoke.

She let go of my hand and reached up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. I groaned low in my throat, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between us.

The kiss deepened. It wasn't polite. It was hungry. It was two lonely people crashing into each other, trying to prove they were still real. Her tongue brushed against mine, sending a jolt of heat straight to my groin. I pressed her back against the cushions, careful of the projector, losing myself in the feeling of her.

We broke apart, gasping for air, foreheads resting against each other. The movie was still playing, unnoticed, in the background.

"Wow," Emily whispered, her eyes still closed.

"Yeah," I managed, my voice wrecked. "Wow."

She opened her eyes. They were dark, blown wide. She reached up and traced the line of my jaw with her thumb.

"Happy early birthday, V," she murmured.

I laughed, breathless. "Best gift ever."

"We're missing the best part of the movie," she said, but she didn't make any move to look at the screen.

"I've seen it," I said, leaning in to peck her lips again. "I like this view better."

We spent the rest of the movie like that—tangled together on the floor of the projection booth, trading kisses and whispers, ignoring the vampires.

When the credits rolled and the lights came up, I didn't want to leave. I wanted to live in this booth forever.

"Come on," Emily said, standing up and offering me a hand. She pulled me up, and I stumbled a bit, my legs shaky. "I gotta lock up. But… do you want to go somewhere?"

"It's late," I said, glancing at my phone. It was almost 9:00 PM. "And I have school tomorrow. Senior year sucks."

"Right," she said, masking her disappointment. "School. I forgot about that."

"But," I added quickly, squeezing her hand. "I’m free after school. Every day. Forever."

She grinned, that crooked, sarcastic grin that melted my knees. "Forever is a long time, V. Let's start with tomorrow."

We walked out into the cold October night, hand in hand. The town was quiet now.

"I'll walk you home," she offered.

"It's two miles," I said. "And you have a bike."

"I like walking," she shrugged. "And I like you. So, two miles sounds like a bargain."

We walked the whole way back to my house under the starlight, talking about everything and nothing. When we got to my driveway, she kissed me one last time—a soft, lingering press of lips that promised everything.

"Night, V," she whispered.

"Night, Em."

I watched her walk back down the road toward town, her silhouette fading into the darkness.

I walked into the house, floating.

Vanessa was waiting in the living room, sitting in the dark like a villain.

"Well?" she demanded, turning on a lamp. "Tell me everything. Did you kiss? Did you hold hands? Did you get married?"

I slumped against the door, sliding down until I hit the floor. I covered my face with my hands, but I couldn't stop smiling.

"Yeah, Nessie," I said, my voice muffled by my palms. "We kissed."

"YES!" Vanessa screamed, doing a victory dance.

I closed my eyes. For the first time in years, the future didn't look like a black hole. It looked like purple hair and hazel eyes.

It looked like October.

Senior year of high school was basically a government-sanctioned waiting room. You sat there, you breathed the recycled air, and you waited for your life to actually start.

I was currently stuck in AP History, listening to Mr. Henderson—a man who I was 90% sure was a holograph on a loop—drone on about the Corporate Wars of 2023. The classroom smelled like floor wax and teenage angst. Outside the smart-glass windows, the Vermont leaves were burning bright orange, taunting me with their freedom.

I wasn’t taking notes. I was drawing.

My charcoal stick scratched softly against the thick paper of my sketchbook. I was obsessing over the curve of a nose. Her nose. I could get the jawline right—sharp, defiant—and I could nail the chaotic texture of the messy bun, but I couldn't capture the way Emily’s nose crinkled when she laughed.

"Valerie," Mr. Henderson’s voice buzzed, cutting through my daydream. "Perhaps you’d like to share your insights on the Arasaka Treaty with the class?"

I looked up, blinking behind my sunglasses. Yeah, I wore them in class. The teachers gave up fighting me on it freshman year.

"It was bad for the economy, good for security, and essentially privatized the concept of freedom," I recited in a monotone voice, not missing a beat. "Can I go back to my art now?"

The class snickered. Mr. Henderson sighed, the static in his voice glitching slightly. "Just… try to look alive, Miss Wheeler."

I looked down at my sketch. Alive. I felt more alive in the last twelve hours than I had in the last twelve months.

When the final bell rang, it was like a prison break. Bodies flooded the hallways, a stampede of backpacks and cyber-wear. I navigated the chaos, keeping my head down, dodging the "cool" kids who peaked in high school and the Corpo-brats talking about their parents' stock portfolios.

I pushed through the double doors and out into the crisp October afternoon.

And then I stopped dead.

Parked right at the bottom of the school steps, in the 'No Idling' zone, was the purple and black Kusanagi.

Emily was leaning against it, arms crossed, looking like she’d just ridden out of a graphic novel. She was wearing her leather jacket, tight black jeans, and boots that looked heavy enough to curb-stomp a tank. She had her helmet under one arm, her purple braids blowing in the wind.

The entire student body was staring. The jocks stopped throwing their football. The cheerleaders whispered.

I felt a grin split my face so wide it actually hurt. I walked down the steps, trying to maintain a cool, casual stride, but my heart was doing cartwheels.

"You’re blocking the bus lane," I said as I got close.

Emily pushed off the bike, her hazel eyes dancing with amusement. "Bus driver can go around. I’m waiting for a VIP."

"VIP, huh?" I hooked my thumbs in my belt loops, rocking back on my heels. "She sounds important."

"She is," Emily said, stepping into my space. She smelled like fall air and gasoline. "She’s also terrible at logistics. We never swapped numbers, V. I had to stalk your sister’s social media to figure out when you got out of this hellhole."

My eyes widened. "Shit. You’re right. I was too busy… getting distracted."

"Distracted?" She smirked, pulling a sleek, sticker-covered phone from her pocket. "By what?"

"By your face," I admitted shamelessly.

Emily laughed, handing me her phone. "Smooth. Put your digits in. And don't give me a fake one, or I’ll egg your house."

I typed my number in, saving the contact as V (Future Wife) just to be an asshole. I handed it back. She looked at it, snorted, and then texted me immediately. My pocket buzzed.

From: Emily

Bold strategy, Future Wife. Let’s see if it pays off.

"Hop on," she said, handing me the spare helmet. "I’m kidnapping you."

"I have homework," I lied.

"Homework is for people who don't have a hot girlfriend with a turbo-charged motorcycle."

Girlfriend.

The word hung in the air between us, heavy and sweet. She hadn't asked me to be her girlfriend. I hadn't asked her. But hearing her say it… it felt like locking a puzzle piece into place.

I put the helmet on to hide my blush. "Shut up and drive."

The ride home was short but perfect. When we pulled into my driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires, I saw Vanessa’s face pressed against the living room window. Her eyes were saucer-wide. She disappeared instantly, probably to go scream into a pillow.

"Welcome to the manor," I said, hopping off the bike. "Prepare yourself. It’s loud."

"I like loud," Emily said, killing the engine.

We walked up the porch steps. I opened the door, and we were immediately assaulted by the smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes.

"We’re home!" I yelled.

Vanessa sprinted into the hallway like she’d been shot out of a cannon. She skidded to a stop in her socks, breathless, wearing a t-shirt that said ‘Space is Fake’.

"Hi!" she squeaked, staring at Emily. "I’m Vanessa. I’m the cool sister. V is the boring one. I like your hair. Is that a Kusanagi? Can I sit on it? Do you play bass? You look like you play bass."

I put a hand over Vanessa’s face, gently pushing her back. "Breathe, Nessie. Oxygen is important."

Emily chuckled, crouching down slightly to be eye-level with Vanessa. "Hi Vanessa. Yes, it’s a Kusanagi. Yes, you can sit on it later if V says it’s okay. And no, I don't play bass, I play drums. I like to hit things."

Vanessa looked at me, her eyes sparkling. "She plays drums, V. Drums."

"I heard," I said, rolling my eyes but smiling. "Is Rita up?"

"Kitchen," Rita’s voice floated out. "And if that’s the biker, tell her she better drink whiskey."

We walked into the kitchen. Rita was at the stove, stirring a massive pot of spaghetti sauce. She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, her biceps looking sculpted from years of hauling kegs. She turned around, pointing a wooden spoon at us.

"You," she said to Emily.

"Me," Emily said, standing her ground. I liked that. She didn't shrink away from Rita.

"You kept my sister out past curfew on a school night," Rita said, her face stern. Then, she cracked a smile. "Good job. She needs to get out more. I’m Rita."

"Emily," she said, shaking Rita’s hand. "And for the record, I got her home safely. Eventually."

"I like her," Rita declared, turning back to the sauce. "Dinner’s in twenty. V, show her around. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. which isn't saying much, but still."

I grabbed Emily’s hand and dragged her out of the kitchen before Vanessa could ask her about her horoscope.

"Your family is… intense," Emily whispered as we climbed the stairs.

"They’re a lot," I agreed. "But they’re mine."

We went up to my room in the attic. I kicked a pile of laundry under the bed as we walked in. It wasn't the cleanest room, but it was me. The walls were plastered with sketches, movie tickets, and polaroids.

Emily walked straight to my drafting table. My heart stopped. The sketch from the other night—the one of her—was sitting right on top.

"Don't look at that!" I said, lunging forward.

Too late. She picked it up.

She stared at the charcoal drawing of herself. The shading, the eyes, the word Velocity scrawled in the corner.

I stood there, mortified. "It’s… I was just messing around. It’s not finished."

Emily turned to look at me. Her expression was unreadable for a second, and I braced myself for her to think I was a creep.

"You drew this?" she asked softly.

"Yeah."

"V," she said, looking back at the paper. "This is beautiful. You made me look… soft."

"You are soft," I said, stepping closer. "Under all the leather and the sarcasm. You’re soft."

She put the paper down and looked at me. Her walls were down. "Only for you."

She reached out, grabbing the lapels of my jacket, and pulled me in. The kiss was different than the one in the projection booth. It wasn't frantic. It was slow, deliberate, tasting of promise. We stumbled back until my legs hit the edge of my bed, and we sat down, a tangle of limbs and giggles.

"So," she murmured against my lips. "Girlfriend?"

"Definitely girlfriend," I whispered back.

"Good. Because I—"

DING-DONG.

The doorbell rang downstairs. It wasn't the casual ring of a neighbor. It was a long, authoritative press.

We pulled apart.

"Pizza?" Emily asked.

"Rita’s cooking," I said, a cold feeling settling in my stomach. "We didn't order anything."

We heard the heavy tread of Rita’s boots walking to the door downstairs. Then the door opening. Then silence.

"Valerie Wheeler?" A voice drifted up the stairs. It wasn't a friendly voice. It was sharp, clipped, and official.

"Shit," I whispered.

"What?" Emily asked, sitting up, sensing my change in mood.

"Stay here," I said.

I ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I rounded the corner into the hallway.

Rita was standing at the door, her hand gripping the frame so hard her knuckles were white. Vanessa was peeking out from the kitchen, looking scared.

Standing on the porch was a woman in a grey corporate suit. She had a tablet in her hand and a pair of smart-glasses perched on her nose. She looked like a vulture.

"I’m Valerie," I said, stepping up beside Rita. I put my sunglasses on. Armor up. "Who’s asking?"

The woman looked me up and down, tapping something on her tablet.

"My name is Agent Gables," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "Department of Family Services, Woodstock Division. We’ve received a flagging on your file regarding the guardianship status of Vanessa Wheeler."

Rita bristled. "We’re fine. I have legal custody. The paperwork was filed three years ago."

"There have been… irregularities," Agent Gables said, her eyes sliding past us to look at the peeling paint in the hallway, the chaotic pile of shoes. "Reports of truancy. Noise complaints from the bar affecting the minor. And financial inconsistencies."

"That’s bullshit," I snapped. "We pay our bills. Vanessa is on the honor roll."

"Language, Miss Wheeler," Gables said smoothly. "I’m not here to argue. I’m here to notify you that a formal home review has been scheduled for November 1st. If the environment is deemed unstable… well."

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. We knew what happened to kids in the system. They went to Corp-sponsored group homes. They became numbers.

"November 1st?" Rita said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. "That’s two weeks."

"Plenty of time to get your affairs in order," Gables said with a tight, fake smile. "Have a pleasant evening."

She turned and walked down the steps, her heels clicking on the wood.

Rita slammed the door shut. The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot.

Vanessa let out a small sob. Rita immediately went to her, pulling her into a fierce hug. "It’s okay, Ness. It’s bullshit. Just a suit trying to make quota. We’re fine."

But Rita looked terrified.

I stood there, my hands shaking. November 1st. The day after my birthday. The day after Halloween.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Emily was standing behind me. She must have come down quietly. She didn't say anything. She just squeezed my shoulder, hard. A silent promise that she wasn't running away.

But looking at my sisters—Rita trying to be strong, Nessie crying into her shirt—I realized the bubble of happiness I’d been floating in all afternoon had just popped.

The real world had just kicked down the door. And it didn't give a fuck about my love life.

Chapter Text

The smell of burnt garlic was the first thing to break the silence.

Rita swore, a harsh, guttural sound, and rushed back to the stove to yank the pot of spaghetti sauce off the burner. Smoke billowed up, thick and acrid, joining the heavy cloud of gloom that Agent Gables had left behind in our hallway.

"Dinner’s ruined," Rita muttered, staring into the blackened pot like it held the secrets of the universe. Her shoulders—usually so strong, capable of carrying kegs and carrying this family—were slumped.

"It’s fine, Ri," I said, my voice sounding hollow. "We’re not hungry anyway."

"I’m hungry," Vanessa whispered. She was sitting at the kitchen table, hugging her knees to her chest, looking smaller than her fifteen years. Her eyes were red-rimmed. "Are they gonna take me, V?"

"No," I said, fierce and immediate. "Over my dead body."

"Or mine," Rita added, turning around. The fire was back in her eyes. "Okay. Family meeting. Now. War Room rules."

The "War Room" was just our kitchen table, a scarred oak slab covered in scratches, coffee stains, and Vanessa’s homework. We sat down. Rita took the head. I sat on her right. Vanessa on her left.

Emily was still standing in the doorway, looking like a punk rock statue. She looked out of place in our crisis—too cool, too new, too unburdened.

I looked at her, and my stomach twisted. I didn't want her to see this. I didn't want her to see the cracks in the foundation. I wanted to be the cool girl on the back of her bike, not the orphan fighting the government.

"Emily," I said, not meeting her eyes. "You should go."

The room went quiet. Vanessa looked at me, surprised.

"What?" Emily asked, her voice calm.

"This is… this is a family thing," I said, hardening my voice. "It’s messy. It’s ugly. You don't need to be here for this. Go home. I’ll text you later."

It was a push. A hard one. I was trying to save her from the wreckage. If the ship was sinking, I wasn't going to drag the girl I liked down with it.

Emily didn't move. She didn't even blink. She just walked over to the table, pulled out the empty chair next to me, and sat down.

"No," she said.

"Excuse me?" I snapped, my protective walls slamming up. "I’m not asking, Emily. I’m telling you. This is serious."

"I know it’s serious, Valerie," she shot back, using my full name. "That’s why I’m staying. You think I’m gonna bail because some suit with a tablet threatened you? I’m from Chicago. I’ve eaten suits like her for breakfast."

She turned to Rita. "I’m good with tech. I’m good with logistics. And I have a motorcycle that can outrun a DFS drone if it comes to that. I’m staying."

Rita looked at Emily, then at me. She saw the tension, the fear in my eyes, and the stubborn resolve in Emily’s.

"She stays," Rita ruled. "We need the manpower."

I slumped back in my chair, defeated but secretly relieved. I reached under the table, finding Emily’s hand. She squeezed my fingers so hard it almost hurt.

"Okay," Rita said, pulling a digital notepad from her pocket and slamming it onto the table. "Status report. Gables listed three things: Truancy, Financial Inconsistency, and 'Unstable Environment.' Let’s break it down."

"Truancy is bullshit," Vanessa piped up, her voice trembling slightly. "I haven't missed a day! I log in to the school server every morning!"

"I know, bug," Rita sighed. "But remember last month when the Wi-Fi was down for three days because we couldn't pay the bill? You logged in late. The system probably flagged it as absent."

"I can fix that," Emily said.

We all looked at her.

"The school district uses a legacy server for attendance," Emily explained, shrugging. "It’s practically open source. I can… adjust the timestamps. Make it look like a server error on their end, not yours. I can backdate your attendance to perfect."

Vanessa’s jaw dropped. "You can hack the school?"

"I prefer the term 'administrative correction,'" Emily smirked.

"Do it," Rita said without hesitation. "One problem down. Two to go. 'Unstable Environment.' That means the house."

We all looked around. The paint was peeling in the corner. The smart-window in the living room had a crack in it that we’d taped over with a band sticker. The heating unit in the basement groaned like a dying dinosaur every time it kicked on.

"We need repairs," I said, running a hand through my hair. "Real ones. Not duct tape. Gables is going to inspect every inch of this place. If the heat isn't up to code, they’ll say it’s unsafe for a minor."

"The heating unit alone is two thousand credits," Rita said, rubbing her temples. "Plus the window. Plus the fines they’re going to slap us with. We’re looking at five grand, easy. By November 1st."

The number hung in the air like a guillotine blade. Five grand. We barely scraped by on Rita’s tips and the survivor benefits from Mom and Dad.

"We have two weeks," I whispered. "How do we make five grand in two weeks?"

"I can sell some stuff," Vanessa said quietly. "My holo-projector. My vintage comics."

"No," I said sharply. "Nobody is selling anything. Especially not you."

"I can pick up extra shifts," Rita said, doing the math in her head. "Double shifts. Every night. But that means I won't be here in the evenings, and Gables will say I’m an absentee guardian."

It was a trap. The system was designed to make you fail. To get the money to prove we were a good family, we had to stop acting like a family.

Silence descended on the table again.

Then, Emily spoke up.

"What about the bar?"

Rita looked at her. "What about it?"

"You run the place, right?" Emily asked. "You said everyone loves you. You said local bands play there."

"Yeah…" Rita said slowly.

"Halloween is in two weeks," Emily continued, her eyes lighting up with that same intensity she had when she talked about movies. "It’s also V’s birthday. People in this town love a party. And they love the Wheeler girls."

She leaned forward, her hands moving as she sketched out the idea in the air.

"We throw a rager. A massive Halloween bash. But we charge a cover. Twenty credits at the door. We get the bands to play for free—tell them it’s a benefit gig. We sell 'Spooky Special' drinks with a high markup. We call it… 'The Monster Mash for the Manor.'"

"That’s a terrible name," I said, but a smile was tugging at my lips.

"Working title," Emily dismissed. "But think about it. If we get two hundred people through that door… that’s four grand right there. Plus the bar take."

Rita sat back, her eyes narrowing in thought. She tapped her fingers on the table. "The owner, Molly… she owes me a favor. She’s been in Florida for six months, letting me run the show. She won't care as long as she gets her cut."

"We can decorate!" Vanessa shouted, suddenly animated. "We have tons of stuff! And V can paint murals! We can make it look like a haunted cyberpunk castle!"

"I can run the tech," Emily offered. "Lighting, sound, projections. I can make the whole bar look like a horror movie set."

I looked at them. Vanessa was bouncing in her seat. Rita looked like a general plotting a victory. And Emily… Emily looked like she belonged.

"We can do this," I said, feeling a spark of hope ignite in my chest. "We really can."

"Okay," Rita said, slamming her hand on the table. "Operation: Save the House is a go. Vanessa, you’re on decorations and hype—tell everyone at school. Emily, you’re on tech and… 'administrative corrections.' V, you’re on art and logistics."

"And you?" I asked.

"I’m on booze," Rita grinned. "I’m going to call in every favor in Woodstock. We’re going to have the best selection of synth-ale this side of Night City."

The tension in the room broke. It wasn't gone—the threat was still there—but we had a plan. We had a weapon.

"I’m gonna go find the Halloween decorations in the basement!" Vanessa announced, jumping up.

"Wait," Emily said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, metallic object. It was a multi-tool, sleek and purple. "The light in the basement is busted, right? I saw it flickering when I came in."

"Yeah," Vanessa said. "It’s super creepy."

"Take this," Emily said, tossing it to her. "It has a high-beam flashlight and a taser. Just in case the ghosts get frisky."

Vanessa caught it, her eyes going wide. "Whoa. A taser?"

"Don't tase your sister," Emily warned.

"You’re my favorite person ever," Vanessa declared. She looked at me. "V, keep her. Seriously."

Vanessa ran off toward the basement door, the beam of the flashlight dancing on the walls.

I turned to Emily. The kitchen felt warmer now.

"You didn't have to do that," I said softly. "The hacking. The planning. The taser."

"I know," Emily said. She turned in her chair to face me, resting her chin on her hand. "But I told you, V. I like fixing things. And I hate seeing good people get screwed by the system."

"You’re not a ghost, you know," I said, referencing our conversation in the projection booth. "Ghosts don't help people plan fundraisers."

"Maybe I’m coming back to life," she shrugged. She reached out and tucked a loose strand of blue hair behind my ear. Her touch was grounding. "Besides. I have a vested interest. If you lose the house, where are we gonna have our movie marathons?"

"Priorities," I laughed, but my eyes were stinging.

"Hey," she whispered, leaning in so only I could hear. "We’re gonna pull this off. I promise. You, me, the Terminator over there"—she jerked a thumb at Rita—"and the Gremlin. We got this."

I looked at her hazel eyes, shining with determination and something else… something that looked a lot like love.

"Yeah," I said, leaning my forehead against hers. "We got this."

"Alright lovebirds, break it up," Rita called out, opening the fridge. "If we’re gonna save the farm, we need fuel. Who wants grilled cheese?"

"Me!" Emily and I said in unison.

I watched Emily laugh at something Rita said, watched her roll up the sleeves of her leather jacket to help slice the synth-cheese. I watched her fit into the jagged, broken puzzle of my life like she had been cut specifically for it.

The fear was still there. November 1st was coming. But for the first time, I wasn't just fighting for my sisters. I was fighting for us.

And God help anyone who stood in our way.

The next two weeks were a blur of caffeine, spray paint, and minor felonies.

If life was a movie, this was the montage sequence set to a high-tempo synth-pop track.

Day 3: I stood on a ladder outside Molly’s, a respirator mask over my face, blasting neon green spray paint onto the brickwork. I was turning the bar into a castle—a haunted, radioactive fortress. My arm burned from the repetitive motion, but the mural of a cybernetic skeleton drinking a beer was coming along nicely.

Day 6: Emily sat at our kitchen table, her laptop connected to the house mainframe and the school district’s legacy server. Vanessa hovered over her shoulder, vibrating with anxiety.

"Done," Emily said, hitting enter with a dramatic flourish. "Vanessa Wheeler: Perfect attendance record. You were never late. You never missed a class. In fact, according to this, you even attended an optional seminar on 'The History of Synthetic Agriculture.' You’re a model student."

Vanessa hugged Emily so hard the chair almost tipped over.

Day 9: The heating unit in the basement. It was a beast of rusted iron and outdated circuits. I held the flashlight while Emily lay on her back on the concrete floor, grease smudged on her cheek, wrestling with a wrench.

"Hand me the hydro-spanner," she grunted.

I handed it to her. "You know how to fix a boiler?"

"It’s just an engine that doesn't go anywhere," she said, straining as she turned a bolt. There was a hiss of steam, then a steady, rhythmic thrum. The heat kicked on.

"Hot damn," I whispered.

" literally," she winked.

Day 12: The flyers. Vanessa had blitzed the town. Every telephone pole, every smart-kiosk, every locker at school had a holographic flyer for THE MONSTER MASH FOR THE MANOR. The buzz was real. People were actually excited. It wasn't just a charity case; it was the event of the season.

By the time October 30th—Devil’s Night—rolled around, I was exhausted. My hands were permanently stained with paint. My muscles ached. But the house was warm, the window was fixed, and Vanessa was technically a scholar.

We just needed the money.

It was late, maybe 1:00 AM. We had just finished the final sound check at Molly’s. Rita had stayed behind to do inventory, but Emily and I walked back to my house.

The adrenaline of the last two weeks was fading, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep tiredness.

We walked up the stairs to my room in silence. It was a comfortable silence. The kind you share with someone who knows exactly how tired you are because they are right there with you.

"I’m crashing here," Emily stated. It wasn't a question.

"Good," I said, kicking off my boots. "Because if you tried to drive that bike right now, you’d hit a tree."

My room was cold, despite the fixed heater—it was still an attic in Vermont—so we didn't waste time. We stripped down to our underwear in the dark, the moonlight filtering in through the skylight.

"You have paint on your back," Emily mumbled, tracing a line down my spine with her finger.

"You have grease in your hair," I retorted, shivering at her touch.

We climbed into my single bed. It was a tight fit. We had to tangle our legs together, fitting like Tetris blocks. I lay on my back, and Emily curled into my side, her head resting on my chest. Her arm draped over my waist, her hand resting just above the waistband of my boxers.

"Tomorrow is the big day," she whispered against my skin. "Birthday girl."

"Don't remind me," I sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "I feel like I'm turning forty, not nineteen."

"You’re an old soul, V," she teased, pressing a soft kiss to my sternum. "But you’re a hot old soul."

I chuckled, running my fingers through her loose hair. It smelled like vanilla and ozone. "Are we gonna make it, Em? The money? Five grand is… it’s a lot."

Emily shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at me. Her hair fell around us like a purple curtain, shielding us from the rest of the world. Her eyes were serious.

"We’re gonna make it," she said firmly. "The ticket presales are good. The bar is stocked. And your mural looks sick. People are gonna lose their minds."

"But if we don't…" I started, the fear gnawing at me again. "If Gables comes on the 1st and we don't have the cash for the fines…"

"Shh," Emily said. She leaned down and kissed me. It was slow, lazy, and incredibly intimate. It tasted like toothpaste and exhaustion. "Sleep, Valerie. Let me worry about the math. You just worry about looking cool in your sunglasses."

I melted into the mattress. I realized, with a jolt, that this was the first time I had shared a bed with someone since… well, ever. Not like this. Not with this level of trust.

"Night, Em," I whispered.

"Night, V."

She dropped her head back to my chest. Within minutes, her breathing evened out. I fell asleep to the sound of her heartbeat and the feeling of her weight anchoring me to the earth.

October 31st. Halloween.

The Birthday.

I woke up to the smell of pancakes and the sound of The Monster Mash playing at full volume downstairs.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Vanessa screamed the second I opened my eyes. She jumped onto the bed, nearly crushing Emily.

Emily groaned, pulling the pillow over her head. "Too loud. Too early. Kill the DJ."

"Get up, lazy bones!" Vanessa poked Emily’s ribs. "It’s game day! We have pumpkins to smash! We have kegs to tap!"

I dragged myself out of bed, grinning. It was impossible to be grumpy when Vanessa was vibrating at that frequency.

The day was a whirlwind. We spent the morning hauling equipment to Molly’s. The bar looked incredible. My neon murals glowed under the blacklights. The stage was set up with smoke machines and lasers. We had hung synthetic cobwebs from the rafters and filled the booths with pumpkins carved to look like corporate logos.

By 4:00 PM, we were ready. The doors opened at 7:00.

We were in the back office, taking a breather. Rita was counting the cash float. I was adjusting the strap of my tank top—I was going as Ripley from Aliens, obviously. Emily was tuning the soundboard via her tablet, dressed as a Cyberpunk vampire with fake fangs and contact lenses that made her eyes glow red.

Then, Rita’s phone rang.

She picked it up, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Molly’s. Yeah? … Wait, what? … Are you fucking kidding me? … Dude, you signed a contract! … I don't care if your drummer got arrested! … Hello? Hello!"

Rita slammed the phone down so hard the screen cracked.

The room went dead silent.

"What?" I asked, dread pooling in my stomach.

"The headliner," Rita snarled, pacing the small room. "The Chrome Rats. They bailed. Their drummer got picked up by NCPD for possession across state lines. They aren't coming."

"No," Vanessa gasped. "But… they’re the draw! Everyone is coming to see them!"

"We have two opening acts," I said desperately. "Can they play longer?"

"They’re garage bands, V," Rita said, running her hands through her hair. "They have like, three songs each. Without a headliner, people are gonna demand refunds. We aren't gonna make the door money."

I sank into a chair. This was it. The house of cards was collapsing. No headliner meant no crowd. No crowd meant no money. No money meant Agent Gables took Vanessa.

"How much are we projected to lose?" Emily asked. Her voice was calm. Too calm.

"If the crowd walks?" Rita did the math, her face pale. "We needed two hundred heads at twenty credits. That’s four grand. Plus the bar… we’re looking at a three thousand credit hole. Maybe more."

Three thousand. It might as well have been three million.

I put my head in my hands. "It’s over."

"It’s not over," Emily said.

I looked up. She wasn't looking at me. she was looking at her banking app on her phone.

"Emily," I warned. "Don't."

She looked up at Rita. "I have savings. From Chicago. My 'Runaway Fund.' I was saving it for a rainy day, or maybe a better bike part, but… this seems rainy enough."

"Emily, no," I said, standing up. "That’s your money. You worked for that. I can't let you—"

"Shut up, V," she said, but there was no bite in it. She looked at Rita. "If we don't hit the goal… if we don't make at least two thousand tonight… I’ll cover the rest. I’ll write you a check for the difference. The house gets saved. Period."

"Em," I choked out, tears stinging my eyes. "That’s… that’s thousands of credits. You’ve known us for two weeks."

She walked over to me, grabbing my hands. Her red vampire contacts made her look intense, but her expression was pure softness.

"I’ve known you for two weeks," she said. "But I know I want to know you for a lot longer. And I can't do that if you’re living in a group home or stressed out of your mind."

She squeezed my hands. "Besides. It’s an investment. I expect free drinks for life."

Rita looked at Emily. For the first time, the tough bartender facade cracked completely. She looked like she might cry.

"You’re crazy," Rita said, her voice thick. "But… thank you. I won't forget this."

"Let’s hope we don't need it," Emily said, turning back to the group. "We still have a party to throw. And we still have a problem. We have no band."

She looked at the drum kit sitting on the stage monitor feed. Then she looked at Vanessa. Then she looked at me.

"Vanessa," Emily said slowly. "You said I looked like I played bass."

"Yeah?" Vanessa said.

"I don't play bass," Emily said, a wicked grin spreading across her face, revealing her fangs. "But I play drums. Like a demon."

She turned to me.

"V. You played guitar in sophomore year, right? I saw the acoustic in your room."

"I… I dabbled," I stammered. "I know a few chords. Nirvana. The Clash. Basic stuff."

"And Rita," Emily said, turning to the big sister. "You used to sing in a choir. V told me."

"That was a million years ago," Rita protested, blushing.

"Can you carry a tune?" Emily challenged.

"I can belt," Rita admitted.

Emily clapped her hands together. "Problem solved. We don't need The Chrome Rats. We have something better. We have a family band."

"You’re insane," I said, panic rising. "We can't just go up there and play! We haven't practiced!"

"It’s punk rock, V!" Emily laughed, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. "It’s not about practice! It’s about attitude! It’s about three chords and the truth! We play covers. We play loud. We play angry."

She looked at the clock.

"We have two hours until showtime. Let’s go make a setlist."

I looked at her—this maniac with purple hair and vampire eyes who was willing to bankrupt herself for us and force us onto a stage to save our home.

And I realized I was completely, hopelessly in love with her.

"Okay," I said, grabbing my sunglasses and sliding them on. "Let’s rock and roll."

Chapter Text

We need a name," Vanessa said.

She was sitting on a crate of synth-ale in the cramped back office of Molly’s, swinging her legs. She was dressed as a tiny, blonde Xenomorph, which was terrifyingly adorable.

"We need a miracle," Rita corrected, tuning an old bass guitar she’d pulled out of storage. She looked like she was about to throw up. "I haven't played this thing since I was twenty. My calluses are gone. I’m going to bleed on the strings."

"No, seriously," Vanessa insisted. "If we’re going out there as a family band to save our house, we need a cool name. We can't be 'The Wheeler Sisters plus Emily.' That sounds like a folk band that knits on stage."

I was pacing the floor, my Ripley flight suit unzipped to the waist to reveal a black tank top, sweat already trickling down my back. "Nessie, we aren't a band. We’re a disaster management team."

"We’re the Mox," Vanessa declared.

I stopped pacing. Emily, who was twirling a pair of drumsticks effortlessly between her fingers, looked up.

"The Mox?" Emily asked, a smile playing on her vampire lips.

"Yeah," Vanessa said, pointing at the dictionary app on her phone. "Short for Moxie. Force of character, determination, or nerve. And it sounds cool. The Mox. It’s us. The four of us against the world."

I looked at them. Rita, the protector. Vanessa, the heart. Me, the artist. And Emily, the spark.

"The Mox," I tested it. It tasted like iron and sugar. "I don't hate it."

"It’s better than 'The Panic Attacks,'" Rita grunted. "Okay. The Mox it is. Let’s go do this before I pass out."

We grabbed our gear—or rather, the gear we had scavenged. I had my acoustic guitar plugged into a distortion pedal that Emily had hacked to sound like a chainsaw. Rita had the bass. Emily had her sticks.

We were walking toward the stage door, the roar of the crowd already vibrating through the walls. Two hundred people were out there. They wanted loud music. They wanted The Chrome Rats. They were about to get three sisters and a projectionist playing Nirvana covers.

I put my hand on the doorknob. "Ready?"

"No," Rita said.

"Hell yes," Emily grinned.

BANG.

The back exit door—the one leading to the alley—flew open with a crash that shook the room.

We all spun around, weapons (guitars) raised.

Standing in the doorway, panting like he’d just run a marathon, was a guy with neon green liberty spikes, a torn leather vest, and handcuffs dangling from one wrist.

It was Razor. The lead singer of The Chrome Rats.

"Don't shoot!" he yelled, holding up his hands. "I made bail! I’m here!"

Rita lowered the bass. "Razor? You son of a bitch! You’re two hours late! We were about to go out there and humiliate ourselves!"

"I know, I know!" Razor gasped, stepping into the room and kicking the door shut. "NCPD held us at the border. They found illicit substances in the van. I managed to talk my way out—don't ask how much it cost me—but they kept Tank."

"Tank?" Vanessa asked.

"My drummer!" Razor screamed, grabbing his hair. "They kept the drummer! I have no rhythm section! I can't play without drums! The tracks are too complex!"

He looked at us, wild-eyed. "Do any of you know how to play a paradiddle? Please. I’ll give you double the cut. I just need a beat. Anything!"

Silence.

Then, a slow, rhythmic click-clack filled the room.

We all turned. Emily was tapping her sticks against the doorframe. It was a fast, aggressive beat. Complex. Perfect.

Razor stared at her. "You."

Emily twirled the stick, catching it with a snap. "I know your setlist, Razor. Chrome Coffin. Night City Burns. Neon Veins. I saw you guys play the Afterlife in Chicago three months ago. I memorized the fills."

Razor looked like he was witnessing the second coming of Christ. "You know Neon Veins? That’s a 7/8 time signature."

"I eat 7/8 for breakfast," Emily deadpanned. She looked at Rita. "We need the money, right? Double cut?"

Rita looked at Razor. "Triple cut. And you buy the first round for the whole bar."

Razor didn't hesitate. "Done. Let’s go! We’re on in five!"

He grabbed his mic stand and ran toward the stage.

Emily turned to me. The red contacts made her look feral, but the wink she gave me was pure, sweet Emily.

"Looks like The Mox are on standby, V. Hold my jacket?"

She shrugged off her leather jacket, revealing a torn mesh tank top that showed off the ink on her arms and the curve of her shoulders.

"Go kill it," I whispered, my mouth suddenly dry.

She leaned in, biting my lower lip gently before pulling away. "Watch me."

The transition was instant. One minute, the crowd was restless, booing the empty stage. The next, the lights cut to black.

A single spotlight hit the drum kit.

Emily sat behind it like a queen on a throne. She didn't look nervous. She looked hungry. She raised her sticks high in the air, crossed them, and then brought them down.

CRACK-BOOM-CRACK.

The opening fill of Chrome Coffin hit the room like a physical blow. It was thunderous. The kick drum rattled the glasses on the bar.

Razor sprinted onto the stage, screaming into the mic, his guitar wailing. The crowd erupted. It was instant chaos—a mosh pit forming in seconds, bodies slamming together in the strobe lights.

I stood in the wings, just off stage, watching.

I had never seen anything like her.

Emily wasn't just playing the drums; she was fighting them. Her entire body moved with the rhythm. Her hair whipped around her face in a purple blur. Her muscles tensed and released with every hit. She was a machine, a blur of motion and violence and beauty.

She was sweating, her mesh shirt clinging to her skin, her makeup smudging. She looked exhausted and exhilarated all at once.

And she was good. She was better than good. She was driving the band, pushing the tempo, forcing Razor to keep up with her. She locked eyes with the bassist, grinning like a maniac as they navigated a complex breakdown.

"Holy shit," Vanessa yelled over the noise, standing next to me. "She’s a rockstar, V! You’re dating a rockstar!"

"I know," I shouted back, unable to take my eyes off her.

I watched her play for an hour. I watched the way she bit her lip when she concentrated. I watched the way she tossed a broken stick into the crowd and grabbed a fresh one without missing a beat. I watched the way she owned that stage.

At the end of the set, during the finale of Neon Veins, Razor climbed up onto the bass drum, screaming the final lyrics. Emily didn't flinch. She just hammered the cymbals, a whirlwind of noise, until the final, crashing chord.

The lights went out. The crowd roared. "ENCORE! ENCORE!"

Razor grabbed the mic, breathless. "Give it up for the savior of the night! EMILY ON THE SKINS!"

The spotlight hit her. She stood up, kicked the stool back, and took a bow. She was drenched in sweat, chest heaving, looking like she’d just gone ten rounds in a prize fight.

She looked directly at the wing where I was standing. She pointed a drumstick at me, then tapped it against her heart.

I felt my knees go weak.

Two hours later. 2:00 AM.

The bar was empty except for us. The smell of stale beer and triumph hung heavy in the air.

Rita sat on the bar top, counting a stack of credit chips that was thick enough to choke a horse.

"Five thousand," she announced, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Plus the three grand from the bar. Plus Razor’s 'sorry I was late' tax."

She looked up, grinning so wide her face must have hurt. "Eight thousand credits. We have eight thousand credits."

Vanessa let out a shriek and tackled Rita. "WE’RE RICH! WE’RE RICH!"

"We’re not rich," Rita laughed, hugging her back. "We’re solvent. We can pay Gables. We can fix the heater properly. We can buy groceries that aren't dehydrated noodles."

I was sitting in a booth, watching them celebrate. Emily was sitting next to me. She had showered in the staff bathroom, changed back into her jeans and a hoodie, but her hair was still wet. She looked tired, her hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline dump.

"You okay?" I asked, taking her hand. Her palms were calloused and warm.

"My arms feel like jelly," she admitted, leaning her head on my shoulder. "But I feel… good. Really good."

"You were amazing," I said, kissing the top of her head. "I mean it. I think half the town is in love with you now."

"Too bad," she murmured, closing her eyes. "I’m taken."

Rita walked over to the booth, carrying a tray with four shot glasses. Apple cider for Vanessa, whiskey for the rest of us.

"To The Mox," Rita said, raising her glass. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. "To the family we have, and the family we chose."

She looked directly at Emily.

"You’re one of us now, kid. Whether you like it or not. You saved our ass tonight."

Emily sat up, taking the glass. She looked at Rita, then Vanessa, then me. For a girl who had been abandoned, who had felt invisible, the look on her face was heartbreakingly beautiful. It was the look of someone finally coming home.

"To The Mox," Emily whispered.

We clinked glasses and drank.

"So," Vanessa said, wiping cider from her lip. "Since we have extra money… can we get a hot tub? Or maybe a flamethrower?"

"No," Rita and I said in unison.

"Maybe a small flamethrower," Emily suggested.

"Don't encourage her," I warned, poking Emily in the side.

"I have to," Emily grinned. "She’s the one who named the band."

We sat there for another hour, just existing in the quiet aftermath of the victory. The fear of November 1st was gone. Agent Gables could come with her tablet and her suit. We were ready. We had the money. We had the house.

And we had The Mox.

November 1st. The Inspection.

Agent Gables arrived at 9:00 AM sharp.

She looked disappointed.

The hallway was freshly painted. The shoes were organized. The smart-window was brand new. The house was warm, humming with the efficient purr of a repaired boiler.

She inspected the fridge (stocked). She inspected Vanessa’s room (clean). She inspected the attendance records (perfect, thanks to Emily).

She sat at the kitchen table—the War Room—scrolling through her tablet. We stood in a line: Rita, Me, Vanessa. Emily was in the backyard, fixing her bike, but Gables knew she was there.

"Well," Gables said, her lips pursed like she’d sucked on a lemon. "I suppose everything appears to be in order. The fines have been paid in full?"

"Transfer cleared this morning," Rita said, crossing her arms. "Receipt is in your inbox."

Gables tapped the screen one last time. "Very well. Case closed. We will remove the flag from the file. But we will be monitoring. One slip up…"

"There won't be," I said, stepping forward. I wasn't wearing my sunglasses. I wanted her to see my eyes. "We’re good, Agent Gables. We’re better than good."

Gables stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Goodbye, Miss Wheeler."

She walked out. We watched her car drive away down the leaf-strewn road.

The second she was out of sight, Rita let out a breath she’d been holding for a month. She slumped against the counter.

"It’s over," she whispered.

I walked to the back door and opened it. Emily was crouched by her bike, tightening a bolt. She looked up as I stepped onto the porch.

"Verdict?" she asked.

"Clean slate," I said. "We’re free."

Emily smiled—a real, blinding smile that reached her eyes. She stood up and wiped her hands on a rag.

" told you," she said.

I walked down the steps and wrapped my arms around her neck. She pulled me close, lifting me slightly off the ground. I buried my face in her neck, breathing her in.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Don't thank me," she murmured into my hair. "Just… keep me around? Okay?"

I pulled back to look at her.

"Emily," I said. "You’re stuck with us. You’re a Mox now. There’s no getting out."

"Good," she said. "I wasn't planning on running anymore."

She kissed me. It was slow and deep, a kiss that tasted like victory and autumn leaves.

"Hey!" Vanessa yelled from the upstairs window. "Since we aren't getting arrested, can we go to the diner? I want pancakes! Celebration pancakes!"

I broke the kiss, laughing. "Yeah, Nessie! Celebration pancakes!"

I took Emily’s hand. "Ready to feed the Gremlin?"

"Born ready," she said.

We walked toward the house, hand in hand, stepping over the threshold together.

Woodstock, Vermont, 2077. It wasn't Night City. It wasn't a paradise. But it was ours. And for the first time in a long time, the future looked bright.

Bright blue and neon purple.

Chapter Text

November settled over Woodstock like a heavy wool blanket. The trees were bare now, their skeletal branches reaching up into the grey steel sky. The post-Halloween high had faded into a comfortable, domestic rhythm.

Emily was practically living at my house. Her toothbrush was in the bathroom cup next to mine. Her leather jacket was usually draped over the banister next to my flannel. It felt normal. It felt permanent.

But Emily, being Emily, needed to poke at the universe.

"Come on, V," she pleaded, tugging on my hand as we walked down Elm Street. "Vanessa said the new lady in the old apothecary shop is legit. She knew exactly when Mrs. Higgins’ cat was going to run away."

"That cat hates Mrs. Higgins," I argued, pulling my collar up against the biting wind. "That’s not psychic ability, Em. That’s just common sense."

"Her name is Misty," Emily persisted, her eyes shining with that supernatural fascination she loved so much. "She moved here from Night City. A real-deal spiritualist from the concrete jungle. Just one reading. For fun. Please? For me?"

She gave me the look. The 'Puppy Dog Eyes' combined with the 'I saved your family house' guilt trip. It was a lethal combo.

"Fine," I groaned. "But if she tells me I’m going to die in a fiery explosion, I’m demanding a refund."

The shop was tucked away in what used to be a pharmacy. The sign above the door was hand-painted in glowing, bioluminescent paint: MISTY’S ESOTERICA.

We stepped inside, and the smell hit me instantly. Not bad—just… intense. Jasmine, ozone, and old paper. The shop was a clutter of crystals, dreamcatchers made of fiber-optic cables, and jars filled with unidentifiable herbs.

And there she was.

Standing behind the counter was a woman who looked like she had walked right out of a pre-war noir film, but glitched. She had wild, crimped blonde hair that defied gravity, and she wore a fuzzy, oversized sweater that swallowed her frame. Her vibe was soft, but her eyes… her eyes were sharp. They looked like they had seen too much.

"Welcome," she said, her voice airy and kind. She didn't look up from the tarot deck she was shuffling. "I was wondering when the two anomalies would walk in."

I froze. "Anomalies?"

Misty looked up then. She stared right at me, then at Emily. A small, sad smile played on her lips.

"The artist and the drummer," she mused. "Come. Sit. The spirits have been gossiping about you two."

She led us to a small round table in the back, draped in velvet. We sat down. I felt ridiculous, but Emily was leaning forward, captivated.

Misty didn't ask for our hands. She didn't ask for our credits. She just stared at us, her eyes darting back and forth as if she was reading lines of code scrolling down our faces.

"You have a very loud soul, Valerie," Misty said softly. "It screams to be protected. And you…" She turned to Emily. "You are quiet. Like the space between stars."

Misty reached out and touched the center of the table. A holographic display flickered to life—a star chart, but not one I recognized.

"I see many timelines," Misty began, her voice taking on a rhythmic, chanting quality. "I see the multiverse like a web of fiber optics. Billions of strands. Billions of Valeries."

She looked at me, her expression turning serious.

"In ninety-eight percent of those strands… you are not with her." She gestured to Emily.

I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. "What?"

"In the other worlds," Misty continued, "Valerie finds a techie. A girl with green hair and a rose tattoo. A brilliant editor of braindances. Her name is Judy Alvarez."

"I don't know a Judy Alvarez," I said, defensive.

"No," Misty said. "Because she does not exist here. Not in this timeline. This frequency is… different. It is unique."

She turned her gaze to Emily. It wasn't unkind, but it was intense.

"You, my dear, are a glitch," Misty said. "You are an improbability. Mathematically, you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be holding her hand. The universe tries to correct its patterns, tries to force the same stories over and over. But you?"

Misty smiled, and it was radiant.

"You broke the pattern. You are a singularity. That doesn't mean you are wrong, Emily. It means you are special. It means the love you have isn't destiny. It’s defiance."

I looked at Emily. She looked stunned, but also… proud.

"A glitch," Emily whispered. "I like that."

"But defiance comes with a cost," Misty warned, her voice dropping. She looked back at me. "You are soft now, Valerie. You wear your flannel and your rings. You are flesh and blood."

She reached out, her finger hovering over my arm, tracing the veins.

"But I see the metal beneath the skin," she whispered. "I see the change coming. You will grow. You will harden. The artist will become the warrior. Your body will become a fortress of chrome and carbon. You will be stronger than you can imagine, but you must remember to keep the heart beating underneath it."

I pulled my arm back, unsettled. "I’m not getting implants. I’m an artist. I don't need combat mods."

Misty just tilted her head. "We do not always choose our armor, V. sometimes, the world chooses it for us."

She then looked at the empty chair where Vanessa would have sat if she’d come.

"And the little one," Misty murmured. "The North Star."

"Vanessa?" I asked. "Is she okay?"

"She is more than okay," Misty said. "She is the anchor. And her bond with you," she nodded at Emily, "will shape the future of this town. Perhaps this world. The glitch and the star. You will teach her things her sister cannot. You will show her the dark so she can understand the light."

The room fell silent. The ozone smell seemed to get stronger.

"Defiance," I repeated, squeezing Emily’s hand. "So we aren't supposed to be together?"

"You are impossible," Misty corrected. "Which makes you the most real thing in this room."

"Now," Misty said, shaking off the heaviness and picking up her deck of tarot cards. They were old, paper cards, worn at the edges. "Let’s see what the immediate path looks like. The Algorithm is shifting."

She shuffled. Zip-zip-zip. The sound was hypnotic.

"Three cards," she said. "Past, Present, Future. For the collective entity that is The Mox."

She laid the first card down.

The Past: The Tower (Reversed)

The image was a crumbling spire struck by lightning.

"Disaster averted," Misty interpreted. "The house that almost fell. You braced the foundations. You stopped the collapse. But the cracks are still there, hidden under the fresh paint. The Tower reminds us that security is an illusion."

She laid the second card down.

The Present: The Lovers

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The card showed two figures intertwined under an angel.

"Harmony," Misty said, smiling at us. "Passion. A choice made from the heart. You are in the honeymoon phase of the timeline. Enjoy it. It is the fuel you will need for the winter."

"I like this card," Emily said, leaning her head on my shoulder.

"Wait," Misty said. Her hand hovered over the deck. She hesitated. Her brow furrowed. "The third card feels… heavy."

She flipped it over.

The Future: The Chariot

The card showed a warrior in armor, driving a vehicle pulled by two sphinxes—one black, one white.

"The Chariot," I said. "That’s good, right? Victory?"

"It is victory," Misty agreed slowly. "But it is victory through will. Through control. Through war."

She tapped the card.

"The Chariot moves forward, crushing everything in its path. It represents ambition, travel, and armor." She looked pointedly at me. "This is your transformation, Valerie. You will take the reins. You will leave the comfort of the passenger seat. But the Chariot is lonely. The driver stands alone in the box."

She looked at Emily.

"And you… you are the fuel. But be careful you do not burn out keeping the engine running."

Misty gathered the cards up quickly, as if she didn't want to see any more.

"That is enough for today," she said, her voice brisk. "The data stream is getting muddy."

We stood up, feeling a little dazed. I paid her—she waved away half the credits, saying it was a 'neighbor discount'—and we walked back out into the cold November air.

It was darker now. The streetlights had clicked on, casting long shadows.

"Well," Emily said, kicking a pebble. "That was… intense."

"She’s crazy," I said, putting my sunglasses on even though it was night. "Judy Alvarez? Green hair? Sounds like a cartoon character."

"I don't know," Emily said softly. "I kind of like being a glitch. It makes me feel like I beat the system just by kissing you."

She stopped walking and pulled me around to face her. She looked up at me, her hazel eyes searching mine.

"If I’m a glitch," she whispered, "then I’m never getting patched out. I’m staying right here."

"And the metal?" I asked, looking at my own hands. My normal, unscarred, flesh-and-blood hands. "The fortress?"

"I like your fortress," Emily said, kissing my knuckles. "Whatever it looks like. Ganic or chrome. It’s still you."

I pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. The wind howled through the valley, sounding a little bit like a warning.

The Chariot.

I didn't know what it meant. I didn't want to think about war. I just wanted to go home, make hot cocoa, and watch horror movies with my glitch and my sisters.

"Let’s go home," I said.

"Yeah," Emily agreed. "Let’s go home."

But as we walked away, I glanced back at the shop. Misty was standing in the window, watching us go. She wasn't smiling anymore. She looked like she was mourning something that hadn't happened yet.

Christmas in Vermont was a weaponized level of cozy.

If you stood still long enough outside, you’d get buried in snow. If you stood still long enough inside, Rita would wrap you in tinsel and hand you a mug of spiked cocoa.

The house was transformed. We had dragged a massive, real pine tree into the living room, scratching the hardwood floors in the process. It was covered in a chaotic mix of ornaments: antique glass bulbs from our grandmother, plastic sci-fi characters Vanessa had made with a 3D pen, and loops of fiber-optic cables Emily had rigged to pulse in time with holiday jazz.

It was Christmas Eve. The air smelled of pine, cinnamon, and the roasting turkey Rita had been fussing over since dawn.

I was tasked with wrapping duty. I was hiding in my room, surrounded by rolls of holographic paper, trying to tape up a set of high-end charcoal sticks for Nessie and a rare bottle of pre-war whiskey for Rita.

I heard laughter drifting up from the living room. It wasn't the polite laughter of guests. It was the conspiratorial, hushed giggling of people up to no good.

I frowned. What are they doing?

I abandoned the wrapping, pulling on my wool socks, and crept down the stairs. I followed the sound not to the kitchen, but to the sunroom at the back of the house—a drafty space we mostly used for storage.

I paused at the doorway.

Emily and Vanessa were sitting on the floor, huddled over an old, locked heavy-duty toolbox that had belonged to my dad. It had been rusted shut for years.

"Okay," Emily was saying, her voice low and patient. "It’s all about tension. You feel that little click? That’s the first pin setting. Don't force it. Ask it nicely."

Vanessa was holding a set of tension wrenches—Emily’s tools—her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in intense concentration.

"I think I feel it," Vanessa whispered. "It’s… spongy."

"Good," Emily encouraged. "That’s a spool pin. Ease off the tension just a hair, then push."

Click.

The heavy latch of the toolbox popped open.

"YES!" Vanessa shrieked, throwing her hands up. "I did it! I’m a master thief!"

"You’re a master of entry," Emily corrected, high-fiving her. "A thief takes things. We just go where we aren't supposed to."

"What the hell is going on?"

My voice cut through the celebration like a knife.

Both heads snapped toward me. Vanessa looked guilty. Emily just looked… calm.

"Hey V," Emily said, twirling a lockpick between her fingers. "Just doing some holiday skill-building."

"You’re teaching my fifteen-year-old sister how to pick locks?" I demanded, stepping into the room. The "Protector" protocol in my brain was flashing red. "That’s illegal, Emily. That’s breaking and entering tools."

"It’s a toolbox," Emily said, standing up. "And it’s in her own house. Technically, she’s just retrieving property."

"It’s a slippery slope!" I argued, crossing my arms. "First it’s a toolbox, then it’s a locker, then she’s getting arrested for cracking a safe in Night City. She’s a kid, Em. She’s supposed to be worried about geometry, not felonies."

Vanessa stood up, looking hurt. "I asked her to teach me, V. I wanted to know how to open it. Dad’s stuff is in there."

"That’s not the point," I snapped, harsher than I meant to be. "It’s dangerous. Knowing how to do this stuff… it puts a target on your back. It makes you different."

"Being helpless puts a target on your back too," Emily said quietly.

She walked over to me. She wasn't backing down. She had that "glitch" look in her eyes—the defiance Misty had talked about.

"V," she said, lowering her voice so Vanessa couldn't hear the specifics. "The world is getting harder. You know that. Gables almost took her away because of paperwork. If Nessie ever gets stuck somewhere… if she gets locked in, or locked out… I want her to be able to handle it. I’m not teaching her to be a criminal. I’m teaching her to be free."

I looked at Emily. I saw the logic in her eyes. It was the logic of a survivor. Someone who had been on her own in Chicago.

Then I looked at Vanessa. She was clutching the lockpicks like they were a magic wand. She didn't look scared. She looked empowered. The Glitch and the Star.

I sighed, the tension draining out of my shoulders. I was losing this battle, and I hated that she was right.

"Fine," I grumbled. "But if you get detention, I’m not bailing you out."

Vanessa beamed. "Deal!"

"And," I added, pointing a finger at Emily. "Next time, teach her something safer. Like… I don't know, juggling grenades."

Emily smirked, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "Noted. Grenades next Christmas."

Christmas Morning.

The sun hit the snow outside, blindingly bright. The living room was a disaster zone of torn paper and ribbons.

Rita was dozing in the armchair, clutching the bottle of whiskey I’d bought her like a teddy bear. Vanessa was in the corner, wearing her new high-tech running shoes, trying to calibrate them with an app.

"Your turn," Emily said, sitting on the floor next to me.

She handed me a small, flat box wrapped in plain brown paper. It was heavy.

"You didn't have to get me anything," I said, feeling suddenly shy. "Saving the house was the gift. Seriously."

"Shut up and open it," she said softly.

I tore the paper. Inside was a sleek, silver data-chip drive. It looked old, but restored—polished to a shine.

"What is this?" I asked, turning it over.

"I found a box of old physical media tapes in the basement when I was fixing the heater," Emily explained. "They were corrupted. Demagnetized. Most people would have trashed them."

She shifted, looking nervous.

"I spent the last month running a recovery algorithm on the theater's server at night. I managed to clean up the noise and stabilize the frame rate."

She pointed to the holo-projector on the coffee table. "Plug it in."

I plugged the chip in.

A hologram flickered to life in the center of the room. It was grainy at first, then sharpened into 4K clarity.

It was summer. The backyard.

My dad was there, younger, laughing, trying to set up a tent. He turned to the camera.

"Alright, Nancy, put the camera down and help me! This tent is smarter than I am!"

The camera panned, shaky and laughing. It was Mom’s POV.

"You’re doing great, honey! Look at the girls!"

The camera swung to the grass.

There was Rita, maybe ten years old, looking serious and bossy.

And there was me. I was a toddler, wobbling around in a diaper and oversized sunglasses, clutching a sippy cup.

"Look at V!" Mom’s voice said, clear as a bell. "She’s already got the attitude. She’s gonna run the world one day."

The video cut to another clip. A birthday party. Mom bringing out a cake. Dad kissing her cheek. The way they looked at each other… it was pure electricity.

I sat there, frozen. I hadn't heard their voices in three years. I had forgotten the specific pitch of Dad’s laugh. I had forgotten the way Mom hummed when she filmed.

Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and fast. I didn't wipe them away. I couldn't move.

Rita had woken up. She was staring at the hologram, her hand over her mouth, silent tears streaming down her face. Vanessa had stopped playing with her shoes and was watching, mesmerized. She had barely known them.

"I thought these were gone," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I thought we lost all the videos in the crash."

"Data is never really gone," Emily said softly, her hand finding mine. "You just have to know how to look for it."

I turned to her. She looked terrified, like she was afraid she had overstepped, afraid she had caused pain.

"Is it okay?" she asked.

I didn't answer. I launched myself at her, tackling her into the pile of wrapping paper. I buried my face in her neck, sobbing—not happy tears, not sad tears, just… everything tears. A release of grief I had been holding onto since I was fifteen.

"Thank you," I choked out. "Thank you. Thank you."

Emily held me tight, stroking my hair.

"Merry Christmas, V," she whispered.

I pulled back, looking at her face. The "Glitch" who broke into systems and taught my sister to pick locks had just given me back my past.

"I love you," I said. It was the first time I had said it out loud. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just the truth.

Emily’s eyes widened. A slow, beautiful smile spread across her face.

"I love you too, Valerie."

We kissed, surrounded by ghosts and holograms and sisters.

In the corner, the projection of my mom zoomed in on toddler-me.

"She’s gonna be strong," Mom’s voice echoed. "She’s gonna have so much love to give."

For the first time in a long time, I believed her.

Chapter Text

January in Vermont was less "winter wonderland" and more "cryogenic suspension." The sky was a flat, bruised purple, and the wind cut through my flannel like a laser scalpel.

I was sitting in the back of Molly’s, sketching on a napkin, waiting for my shift to start. The bar was empty, save for a few regulars nursing synth-ales and staring at the weather report on the holo-screen.

My phone buzzed. A distinct, heavy vibration.

I glanced at it. A gold notification banner. SECURE PACKET: BOSTON ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS & CYBERNETICS.

My breath hitched. I stared at the screen, the charcoal stick crumbling in my fingers. This was it. The big one. The school that churned out the artists who designed the neon skylines of Night City and the fashion of Paris.

I tapped Open.

A holographic crest spun in the air above my phone—a quill crossed with a neural jack.

"Dear Valerie Wheeler," a synthesized voice read out, smooth and cultured. "We are pleased to inform you that based on your portfolio submission 'Velocity,' you have been accepted into the Fall 2078 program..."

I didn't hear the rest. The room spun. Accepted. I was accepted.

"V?"

I looked up. Rita was standing there, holding a crate of limes. She took one look at my face—pale, wide-eyed—and dropped the crate on the bar.

"What is it?" she demanded, rushing over. "Is it Vanessa? Is it the house?"

"No," I whispered. I turned the phone screen toward her.

Rita read the text. Her eyes scanned the acceptance letter, the scholarship offer, the start date. She stood frozen for a solid ten seconds.

Then, she let out a scream that probably woke up the neighbors three streets over.

"YOU GOT IN!" she yelled, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. "Holy shit, V! Boston! You’re going to Boston!"

She pulled me into a bone-crushing hug. I hugged her back, but my stomach was doing backflips. Boston. It was only three hours away by mag-lev train, but it felt like another planet. It was a metropolis. It was expensive.

And it wasn't Woodstock.

"We have to tell everyone," Rita said, pulling back, her eyes shining. "Mox Meeting. Tonight. We’re celebrating."

"Rita," I said, my voice shaky. "It’s… it’s a lot of money. Even with the scholarship. And who’s going to help you with the bar? Who’s going to watch Vanessa when you pull doubles?"

"Shut up," Rita ordered, pointing a finger at me. "Do not ruin this. We will figure it out. Tonight. War Room."

The mood at the kitchen table that night was weird.

It wasn't the panic of the "Save the House" meeting. It was heavier. It was the weight of change.

Rita had opened the bottle of fancy whiskey. She poured four shots.

"To Valerie," Rita announced, raising her glass. "The first Wheeler to get out of this town. The first one to go make a name for herself."

"To V," Vanessa said, raising her apple cider. She was smiling, but it didn't reach her eyes. She looked small again.

"To V," Emily said quietly.

She clinked her glass against mine. She hadn't looked me in the eye since I told her. She was wearing her armor—leather jacket zipped up, boots on, face carefully blank.

We drank. The whiskey burned, but it didn't melt the ice in the room.

"Okay," Rita said, switching into general mode. "Logistics. The term starts in September. That gives us eight months to save for your housing deposit. I can pick up extra shifts at the mill on weekends."

"No," I said immediately. "You are not working yourself to death so I can go paint pretty pictures, Rita. That’s not fair."

"Life isn't fair, V," Rita shot back. "Mom and Dad didn't leave us much, but they left us a work ethic. You have a gift. You are not going to rot in this town serving beer to farm bots. You are going."

"But what about Nessie?" I asked, looking at my little sister. "She needs help with school. She needs rides. She needs… me."

Vanessa looked down at the table, tracing a scratch in the wood. "I’m sixteen next year, V. I can take the bus. I can cook. I’m not a baby."

"She’s right," Emily spoke up.

We all looked at her.

"Vanessa is tougher than you give her credit for," Emily said, her voice steady. "And… I’m not going anywhere."

She looked at me then, her hazel eyes intense.

"I’m staying in Woodstock. I have my job at the Bijou. I have my room here. I can help Rita. I can keep an eye on the Gremlin. I can fix the heater if it breaks again."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "You… you’d stay? You wouldn't come with me?"

Emily let out a short, sharp laugh. "To Boston? V, I just escaped a city. I can't go back to the noise. The crowds. The corpos. I came here for the quiet. I can't leave that."

She paused, swallowing hard.

"But just because I can't go… doesn't mean you shouldn't."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"So that’s it?" I asked, feeling a surge of irrational anger. "I just leave? I pack my bags, hop on the train, and see you guys on holidays? The Mox breaks up?"

"The Mox doesn't break up," Vanessa said fiercely. "We expand. We have a Boston chapter."

"V," Rita said, her voice softening. She reached across the table and took my hand. "Listen to me. You love us. We know that. But if you stay here… if you stay just because you’re scared to leave us… you will end up resenting this place. You’ll resent the bar. You might even resent us."

She squeezed my hand.

"Go to Boston. Learn how to be the great artist Misty said you’d be. Get your 'fortress.' We will be right here."

I looked around the table.

Rita, the rock, willing to carry the weight so I could fly.

Vanessa, the star, willing to let go of her hero so she could grow.

Emily, the glitch, willing to stay behind and guard my family, even if it meant being apart from me.

Tears pricked my eyes. I felt selfish. I felt loved.

"I’ll come back," I promised, my voice thick. "Every weekend. I swear. And I’ll video call every night. You guys will get sick of me."

"We’re already sick of you," Vanessa joked, wiping her eyes.

"Okay," I whispered. "I’ll go."

Rita slammed her hand on the table. "Then it’s settled! Boston, baby! We need to budget. Emily, can you hack the train schedule to get discounted tickets?"

"Already on it," Emily said, tapping her phone. "Student commuter pass. 50% off."

The meeting dissolved into planning—Rita talking about savings accounts, Vanessa looking up Boston dorms.

But Emily stood up. "I need a smoke."

She walked out the back door.

I waited a beat, then followed her.

She was standing on the porch, leaning against the railing, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled up into the freezing night air. She wasn't wearing a coat.

"Hey," I said, stepping out.

"Hey," she replied, not looking at me.

I walked over and leaned next to her. "You okay?"

"I’m thrilled," she said, blowing smoke. "My girlfriend is going to become a famous artist. It’s the dream."

"Em," I said, touching her arm. "Don't do that. Don't give me the cool girl act."

She flinched, then sighed, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under her boot. She turned to me. Her eyes were wet.

"It sucks, V," she whispered. "It really, really sucks. I finally found you. I finally found a home. And now… you’re leaving."

"I’m not leaving you," I insisted, grabbing her hands. "It’s three hours. It’s temporary. It’s just school."

"I know," she said, her voice trembling. "But Misty said… 'The Chariot stands alone.' You’re getting in the driver's seat, Valerie. And I’m staying here."

"I can decline," I said frantically. "I will. I’ll stay. We can just be us. I don't need Boston."

"No," Emily said firmly. She gripped my jacket, pulling me close. "If you stay for me, I will never forgive myself. You have to go. You have to be big, V. You’re too big for this town."

She buried her face in my chest.

"Just… don't forget me, okay? Don't meet some cool Boston girl with a cyber-arm and forget about the projectionist in Vermont."

"Never," I vowed. "You’re the glitch, remember? Impossible to delete."

I kissed her then, desperate and fierce, trying to put all my reassurance into it.

"We have eight months," I whispered against her lips. "Let’s make them count."

"Eight months," she repeated.

Above us, the winter stars shone bright and cold. The timeline was shifting. The Mox was evolving. And for the first time, I felt the terrifying, exhilarating pull of my own future.

Chapter Text

The summer of '78 wasn't a season. It was a holding pattern. It was a bubble of golden light and humidity that we refused to let pop.

We knew the clock was ticking. September was a looming threat, a sniper waiting in the trees. So we decided to outrun it.

We lived that summer like we were dying.

June: The Quarry

"Don't think, just jump!" Emily screamed.

She was standing on the edge of the granite cliff at the old limestone quarry, fifty feet above the water. The sun was blazing hot, the air thick with the buzzing of cicadas.

I stood next to her, looking down. The water was a deep, terrifying blue-black.

"It’s too high!" I yelled back, gripping her hand.

"It’s perfectly high!" Vanessa shouted from behind us. She was already in mid-air, a blonde cannonball hurtling past us with a fearless shriek. Splash.

Emily looked at me. She was wearing a mismatched bikini and her combat boots (she refused to take them off until the last second). Her skin was tanned, her purple hair fading to a soft lavender in the sun.

"Together?" she asked, squeezing my hand.

"If I die, I’m haunting you," I warned.

"Deal. Three, two, one..."

We ran. We jumped.

For three seconds, we were flying. Weightless. Suspended in the air between the safety of the cliff and the unknown deep. I looked at her—her hair whipping around her face, her eyes wide and alive.

Then we hit the water. The cold shock knocked the breath out of me. I sank into the darkness, the silence enveloping me. I kicked up, breaking the surface, gasping for air.

Emily popped up next to me, spitting water, laughing hysterically.

"Alive!" she shouted, splashing me.

I pulled her close, treading water, and kissed her. She tasted like quarry water and summer.

"Alive," I agreed.

July: The Tower

The water tower stood on the highest hill in Woodstock, a rusted metal giant watching over the town.

It was 2:00 AM. We were dressed in black, carrying backpacks full of rattle cans.

"Boost me," Rita grunted.

Emily and I laced our hands together, hoisting Rita up until she could grab the bottom rung of the maintenance ladder. She scrambled up, then reached down to pull Vanessa up.

We climbed to the top, the wind whipping our hair. The whole valley was spread out below us—the town lights flickering like distant stars, the dark ribbon of the highway leading south to the city. Leading to Boston.

"Okay," I said, shaking a can of neon blue paint. "Make it count."

We worked for an hour. We didn't tag over the other names—the history of Woodstock teens past. We found a blank spot facing the town.

I painted the outline. Emily filled it in. Rita added the shading. Vanessa did the stars.

When we were done, we sat on the edge of the catwalk, dangling our legs over the void, passing a bottle of warm synth-ale.

THE MOX - 2078

It glowed in the moonlight.

"It’s permanent," Vanessa whispered, leaning her head on Rita’s shoulder.

"Nothing is permanent, bug," Rita said softly, taking a swig. "But paint lasts longer than memories."

I looked at Emily. She was staring out at the horizon, her expression unreadable. She was checking her phone—a quick, nervous glance—before shoving it back in her pocket.

"You okay?" I asked, bumping her shoulder.

She jumped slightly, then smiled. It was a little too bright. "Yeah. Just… enjoying the view. It’s a long way down."

I didn't press her. I didn't want to ruin the night. I just leaned my head on her shoulder and watched the sun start to bleed purple into the eastern sky.

August: The Last Night

The suitcases were packed. They sat by the front door like coffins.

My room was stripped bare. The posters were down. The sketches were packed. It looked like a guest room again.

Emily and I lay on the mattress—no sheets, just us. The window was open, letting in the sound of crickets and the distant hum of a thresher drone.

We didn't sleep. We didn't talk much. We just memorized each other.

I traced the line of her spine with my thumb. I memorized the exact shade of hazel in her eyes. I memorized the way her breath hitched when I kissed the spot behind her ear.

"I don't want to go," I whispered into the darkness. It was the first time I had admitted it since January.

"I know," Emily whispered back, her voice thick. "But you have to."

"Come with me," I pleaded, one last desperate attempt. "Pack a bag. Right now. We can steal the bike. We can just… go."

She pulled back, framing my face with her hands. In the moonlight, she looked like a tragic painting.

"I can't, V. I have a life here. I have Rita and Nessie. I have the Bijou. And… I have ghosts I need to keep buried."

"What ghosts?" I asked.

She shook her head, kissing me to stop the questions. "Just go to Boston. Become the artist. Paint me something beautiful. And come back to me."

"Every weekend," I promised.

"Every weekend," she echoed.

We made love then, slow and desperate, trying to fuse our souls together so distance wouldn't matter.

September 1st: The Platform

The Mag-Lev station was sterile and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the summer. The announcement system droned on about delays and luggage restrictions.

The train—The Silver Streak—hummed on the track, a sleek bullet of chrome.

Rita was crying. She didn't even try to hide it. She hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack.

"Eat vegetables," she sobbed. "Don't trust city boys. Call me if you run out of money. I love you."

"I love you too, Ri. Take care of the bar."

Vanessa was trying to be brave. She was wearing her sunglasses to hide her eyes, but her chin was trembling.

"Don't forget us when you're famous," she said, her voice wobbling.

"Never, Gremlin," I said, pulling her into a hug. "You keep practicing those lockpicks, okay? Stay out of trouble."

"No promises."

Then, there was Emily.

She stood a few feet back, hands shoved deep in her leather jacket pockets. She looked small against the massive train.

I walked over to her. The noise of the station seemed to fade away. It was just us.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," she replied.

She reached out and adjusted my collar, her fingers lingering on my neck.

"You got everything?" she asked. "Ticket? ID? Sketchbook?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

She looked down at her boots, then up at me. Her eyes were swimming.

"I hate this," she whispered.

"Me too."

"Go," she said, pushing me gently toward the train. "Before I chain you to a bench."

I grabbed her face and kissed her. It was salty with tears. It was a kiss of promise, of fear, of love.

"I'll call you tonight," I said, pulling away, my hand slipping from hers. "As soon as I get in."

"I'll be waiting," she said.

I turned and stepped onto the train. The doors hissed shut behind me, sealing me in.

I ran to the window.

They were standing there on the platform. Rita with her arm around Vanessa. Emily standing a little apart, her hand raised in a wave.

The train jerked forward. They started to slide away.

I pressed my hand against the glass. Emily did the same.

Faster. Faster.

They were gone.

I sank into the seat, pulling my knees to my chest. I watched the Vermont countryside blur into streaks of green and gold. The trees whipped by. The mountains faded.

I put my headphones on, but I didn't play any music. I just listened to the hum of the magnetic drive, carrying me away from my heart, carrying me toward the Chariot.

Welcome to the future, Valerie.

Boston didn't welcome you; it assaulted you.

The moment the mag-lev doors hissed open at South Station, the noise hit me like a physical blow. It was a cacophony of thousands of voices, the screech of subways, the thrum of heavy drones overhead, and the relentless, pounding bass of advertising jingles beaming directly into my skull via the public PA.

I stepped onto the platform, gripping the handle of my battered duffel bag until my knuckles turned white. The air smelled of ozone, frying oil, and wet concrete.

I looked up, trying to find the sky. There wasn't one.

In Woodstock, the sky was a massive, open dome. Here, it was a sliver of grey trapped between skyscrapers that stretched up into the smog layer. Holographic billboards the size of mountains floated between the towers, selling everything from Kiroshi optics to synthetic liver replacements.

“Upgrade your life! Upgrade your soul!” a fifty-foot woman with neon pink skin screamed silently at me.

I pulled my sunglasses down over my eyes. My armor. But here, amidst the chrome and the neon, my Top Gun aviators didn't look cool. They looked like a costume.

I navigated the crowd, feeling like a ghost. Everyone moved so fast. People with chrome legs blurred past me. Businessmen in suits with shifting fractal patterns shouted into invisible comms links. I was a rock in a river of mercury, stationary and stubborn.

I hailed a combat-cab—a beat-up yellow sedan with armored windows—and threw my bag in the back.

"Boston Academy of Fine Arts," I told the driver, a guy with a robotic jaw that clicked when he chewed his gum.

He eyed my flannel shirt and the guitar case slung over my shoulder in the rearview mirror. "Fresh meat, huh? Good luck, kid. That place eats people."

"I have sharp teeth," I muttered, looking out the window as the city blurred by.

But as we wove through the traffic, watching the city grow taller and meaner around me, I didn't feel like I had sharp teeth. I felt like a country mouse walking into a trap.

The Academy was a fortress of glass and steel jutting out of the harbor. It looked less like a school and more like a corporate HQ.

I found my way to Studio 4B for the orientation mixer. I expected paint fumes. I expected easels. I expected messy, chaotic artists like me.

What I walked into was a sterile laboratory.

The room was white. Blindingly white. There were no easels. Instead, there were rows of sleek, black neural-interface chairs. The students standing around didn't have paint under their fingernails. They had ports in their necks.

I stood in the doorway, clutching my sketchbook to my chest.

"You must be the transfer from the boonies."

I turned. Leaning against a pristine white table was a guy who looked like he’d been 3D printed by a fashion magazine. He was tall, thin, and wearing a suit made of shimmering, liquid fabric. His eyes were completely silver—no pupils, just chrome orbs.

"I’m Valerie," I said, stiffening.

"I’m Kael," he said, pushing off the table. He circled me, his silver eyes scanning me up and down like he was reading a barcode. "I saw your portfolio. Velocity, right? The charcoal sketches?"

"Yeah," I said, feeling a flicker of pride. "You saw them?"

"Quaint," Kael said. The word landed like a slap. "Very… tactile. It’s adorable that you still use dead trees to make images. It’s so retro. Like churning your own butter."

A few students nearby snickered.

"It’s not retro," I snapped, my temper flaring. "It’s real. It has texture. Weight. You can’t delete it with a keystroke."

Kael laughed, a cold, digital sound. He tapped the temple of his head, right next to a gold-plated data port.

"Darling, reality is customizable. Why draw on paper when you can sculpt light directly into someone’s visual cortex? You’re painting caves. We’re building cathedrals in the cloud."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Better upgrade, farm girl. Or you’re going to be left in the dust."

He walked away, his liquid suit rippling.

I stood there, shaking with rage and humiliation. I looked down at my hands—my flesh and blood hands, stained with ink. For the first time in my life, they felt inadequate. They felt slow.

Misty was right, a treacherous voice whispered in my head. The Chariot stands alone.

My dorm room was a shoebox on the 40th floor. It was clean, grey, and smelled like disinfectant. The window didn't open—it was just a thick pane of glass looking out at another building.

I sat on the narrow bed, the silence of the room pressing in on me.

I needed to hear a voice. I needed to hear her voice.

I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over the contact: Emily (Future Wife).

It was 8:00 PM. In Woodstock, Rita would be opening the bar. Vanessa would be doing homework at the counter. And Emily… Emily would be in the projection booth, prepping the reels for the night show.

I hit call.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

My heart started to pound. Pick up. Please, pick up. Tell me Kael is a prick. Tell me I’m cool. Tell me you miss me.

Ring.

"Hey, you’ve reached Emily. I’m probably watching a movie or riding my bike. Leave a message, and if you’re not a debt collector, I’ll call you back."

Beep.

The voicemail tone was the loneliest sound I had ever heard.

"Hey, Em," I said, my voice cracking immediately. "It’s me. I… I just got in. The dorm is… it’s okay. The city is loud. Really loud."

I gripped the phone tighter, squeezing my eyes shut to stop the tears.

"I miss you. I really, really miss you. I met some people, but… they aren't The Mox. Call me when you get this? Please? I just need to know you’re there."

I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. I stared at it, willing it to light up. Willing it to buzz.

One minute passed. Five minutes. Ten.

Nothing.

She was probably just busy. The projector jammed. A customer was difficult. She was driving.

But the doubt—that creeping, cold shadow from Chicago—started to snake its way into my chest.

Does she miss me? Or is she relieved I’m gone? Is the glitch fixing itself?

I walked over to the window and pressed my hand against the cold glass, looking out at the endless, uncaring city of Boston.

"Don't forget me," I whispered to the neon lights.

But the city didn't answer. It just blinked back, indifferent and electric.

Chapter Text

The first day of Studio 101 felt less like an art class and more like a LAN party.

The classroom was a sleek, circular amphitheater. In the center stood a massive holographic projector. Around the perimeter, twenty-five students sat in ergonomic pods, cables snaking from the walls into the ports behind their ears. Their eyes were glazed over, lost in the construct, their hands twitching slightly as they manipulated polygons in a virtual workspace.

And then there was me.

I had dragged a heavy, wooden easel from the storage closet—it was covered in dust, like it hadn't been used since the 2040s. I set it up right in the middle of the room, blocking the view of the projector.

I pinned a fresh sheet of thick, textured paper to the board. I opened my metal tin of charcoal sticks.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

The sound was jarring in the silent room. A few students jacked out to glare at me.

Kael, the silver-eyed snob from orientation, slid his headset off.

"You’re actually doing it," he scoffed, his voice echoing in the acoustic chamber. "You’re going to draw with burnt wood. It’s adorable, really. Are you going to churn some butter later, too?"

"Focus on your pixels, Kael," I said, not looking up. I attacked the paper, pressing hard, letting the charcoal crumble and stain my fingers black. "I’m busy."

"It’s messy," a girl with neon-pink dreads whispered. "And it smells like smoke."

"That’s the point," I muttered.

The door whooshed open. The room went dead silent.

Professor Brooks swept in. She was a legend in the art world—a woman who had designed the aesthetics for the first orbital habitats. She was seventy if she was a day, but she moved with the grace of a dancer. She wore a severe black tunic and a monocle that I suspected was a high-end scanner.

"Jack out," she commanded, her voice sharp.

The students groaned, pulling their plugs.

"Let’s see what the future of humanity has created today," Brooks said, prowling the room.

She stopped at Kael’s pod. He smirked, tapping his console. A hologram materialized in the air—a perfectly rendered, hyper-realistic apple. It was flawless. You could see the pores in the skin, the way the light hit the curve.

"Technical perfection," Kael bragged. "I used a fractal algorithm to randomize the texture so it doesn't look generated."

Brooks peered at it through her monocle. "It is technically adequate, Mr. Kael. It is also completely boring. I have seen a million apples. This one tells me nothing about you, other than the fact that you know how to execute code."

Kael’s smirk faltered.

Brooks moved on, dismissing student after student with terrifying efficiency. "Derivative." "Soulless." "Are you an artist or a photocopier?"

Then, she stopped at my easel.

She stared at the drawing. It was raw. It was angry. It was a sketch of the view from my dorm window—the suffocating skyscrapers, the lack of sky—but I had drawn them as twisting, organic roots choking the life out of the ground. It was messy, smudged, and violent.

Kael snickered. "Primitive."

Professor Brooks turned slowly to look at Kael. "Quiet."

She turned back to my drawing. She reached out, her pale finger hovering inches from the paper, sensing the texture.

"You are the transfer," Brooks said. "Miss Wheeler."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, wiping my charcoal-stained hands on my jeans.

"Why charcoal?" she asked. "Why not light?"

I took a breath. "Because light lies. You can edit light. You can delete mistakes. With this… if I screw up, the mark stays. I have to work with the mistake. It’s honest."

Brooks looked at me. Her stern face cracked into a small, terrifying smile.

"Honesty," she announced to the room. "Look at this! Look at the violence of the stroke! The frustration! I can feel the artist’s isolation in the pressure of the line. This isn't a picture of a building. It is a picture of a feeling."

She turned to the class.

"Mr. Kael gave me an apple I could buy at a supermarket. Miss Wheeler gave me a scream. That is art."

She looked back at me, her eyes twinkling.

"Don't you dare plug in, Miss Wheeler. You keep getting your hands dirty. The rest of you… try to find a soul before next Tuesday."

I walked back to my dorm room feeling ten feet tall. I was covered in soot, tired, and hungry, but I had won. I wasn't just the farm girl. I was the artist.

I threw my bag on the bed and collapsed, staring at the ceiling.

Bzzzzzt.

My phone vibrated on the mattress.

I scrambled for it. V (Future Wife).

"Emily!" I answered, breathless.

"Hey, big shot," her voice came through. It was warm, familiar, grounding. The knot in my chest loosened instantly.

" You called," I breathed out. "I thought… I called yesterday and you didn't pick up and I freaked out and I thought you hated me."

Emily laughed, a tired, raspy sound. "Whoa, slow down. I don't hate you, V. I definitely don't hate you. I just… died. Literally."

"What?"

"The projector for Screen 3 blew a fuse mid-screening of 'The Godfather'," she explained. "I spent six hours upside down in the ceiling crawlspace rewiring the power coupling. By the time I got home, it was 4 AM and I passed out in my clothes. I woke up ten minutes ago."

"Oh," I said, feeling foolish. "Right. Work."

"Yeah, work," she said. "But I got your voicemail. You sounded… sad, V. You okay?"

"I’m better now," I said, rolling onto my side, cradling the phone. "I had a day, Em. There’s this guy, Kael—total corpo-trash. He made fun of my charcoal."

"I’ll fly down there and beat him up," Emily offered immediately. "Just say the word. I have a wrench."

I laughed. "Professor Brooks beat you to it. She told the whole class my drawing was better than his. She called his art 'supermarket apples.'"

"Hell yeah!" Emily cheered. "That’s my girl! Show those city kids how The Mox does it."

We talked for an hour. I told her about the noise, the smell of the subway, the lack of sky. She told me about Vanessa trying to cook dinner (disaster) and Rita yelling at a supplier (standard).

It was good. It was easy.

But there was a delay. A tiny, imperceptible lag in the connection. When I laughed, she laughed a millisecond too late. When I paused, she waited a second too long to fill the silence.

"I miss you," she said eventually, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"I miss you too," I said. "It’s weird here without you. I keep turning around to show you things, and you're not there."

"I’m there in spirit," she said. "Or via satellite. Look, V… I gotta go. Rita needs help with the inventory. It’s Friday night, bar’s gonna be packed."

"Right," I said. "Friday night."

In Woodstock, Friday night meant the punk show. It meant Molly’s. It meant us.

Here, Friday night meant… studying in a quiet room.

"Go paint something angry," Emily said. "Love you, V."

"Love you, Em."

The line clicked dead.

I lowered the phone. The silence of the dorm room rushed back in, louder than before.

I looked at my hands, stained black with charcoal. I was doing it. I was succeeding. I was defiant.

But as I looked out the window at the endless, glowing city, I realized that Misty was right about one thing.

The Chariot was powerful. It was moving forward. It was winning.

But the Chariot was really, really lonely.

By mid-October, my hands were failing me.

I was pulling eighteen-hour days in the studio. I was obsessed. I was angry. I was trying to prove to Kael, to the city, to myself, that a girl from the sticks could out-create their algorithms with nothing but burnt wood and graphite.

But the human body has limits. My wrist throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that shot up to my elbow. My fingers cramped into claws by midnight. I was dropping charcoal sticks because my grip strength was gone.

I was finishing a massive portrait of Vanessa—capturing the chaos of her blonde braids—when the charcoal slipped from my numb fingers and shattered on the floor.

"Damn it!" I hissed, grabbing my wrist and massaging the burning tendon.

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

I spun around. Professor Brooks was standing in the doorway, illuminated by the harsh white light of the hallway. She held a tablet, her monocle glowing softly.

"I’m fine," I lied, picking up the broken charcoal. "Just a cramp."

"It is tendonitis, Valerie," Brooks said, walking over. She took my hand in hers. Her skin was cool and papery, but her grip was firm. She manipulated my wrist, and I winced. "You are damaging the instrument."

She let go of my hand and looked at me.

"You have two choices," she said matter-of-factly. "You continue like this, and by Christmas, you will have permanent nerve damage. You will never draw again."

My stomach dropped. "What’s the other choice?"

"Upgrade," she said.

She tapped her tablet, projecting a hologram of a human nervous system. She zoomed in on the arm and the brain stem.

"We can replace the hands," she said casually, as if suggesting a haircut. "Arasaka makes a 'Fine Motor' series. Titanium skeletal structure, synthetic muscle. You would never cramp again. You could crush a stone or paint a eyelash."

I recoiled, clutching my hands to my chest. "No. No robot hands. I like my hands. They have… they have my mom’s rings on them."

Brooks smiled, a rare, genuine expression. "I thought you might say that. You are a sentimentalist."

She swiped the hologram. The image changed to a small, sleek chip located at the base of the skull.

"Then consider this. A Neural Co-Processor. The 'Muse' Mark IV."

"A chip?" I asked.

"It intercepts the signals between your brain and your hand," Brooks explained. "It optimizes the nerve impulses. It eliminates the tremor. It manages the lactic acid buildup in the muscles. It doesn't replace your hand, Valerie. It just… tunes the engine. It makes the connection flawless."

I stared at the hologram. A chip. A piece of metal in my head.

The Chariot, Misty’s voice whispered. The metal beneath the skin.

"It’s expensive," I muttered. "I’m on a scholarship, Professor. I can barely afford synth-ramen."

"The Academy invests in its assets," Brooks said. "I have already authorized the grant. The procedure takes twenty minutes. Recovery is instantaneous."

She leaned in, her eyes intense.

"You have a vision, Valerie. Do not let your biology hold it back. Take the gift."

I looked at my trembling hand. I looked at the unfinished drawing of Vanessa. I wanted to finish it. I wanted to draw forever.

"Okay," I whispered. "Let’s do it."

The procedure was terrifyingly simple.

I sat in a chair in the campus medical bay. A drone hovered behind me. There was a sharp pinch at the base of my skull, a sound like a dentist’s drill for three seconds, and then…

Ping.

My vision sharpened. The headache I’d had for weeks vanished.

I looked at my hand. I flexed my fingers. They didn't hurt. They felt… light. Responsive. Like I had taken off a heavy glove I didn't know I was wearing.

I picked up a pen from the nurse's desk. I drew a perfect circle on a notepad.

Perfect. No wobble. No hesitation.

I touched the small, cold metal port behind my right ear.

I was different. I was upgraded.

And I couldn't wait to show Emily.

The train ride home for the weekend felt like it took five years. I spent the whole time touching the spot behind my ear, wondering if I looked like a cyborg. Wondering if I looked like Kael.

When I stepped off the platform in Woodstock, the air was crisp and smelled of woodsmoke. It was grounding.

Emily was waiting for me by the ticket booth. She looked incredible—ripped jeans, her leather jacket, and a new purple streak in her hair.

"V!" she yelled, jogging over.

I dropped my bag and collided with her. We kissed right there in front of the commuters. It was frantic and desperate, trying to make up for weeks of bad signal and lonely nights.

"I missed you," she mumbled against my lips. "I missed your face. I missed your smell."

"I missed you too," I said, pulling back. "I… I have something to show you."

Emily’s eyes narrowed playfully. "Is it a tattoo? Did you get 'I Love Emily' on your forehead?"

"Better," I said. "Or worse. Depends on how you look at it."

I turned my head, sweeping my hair back to reveal the fresh, silver port at the base of my skull. The skin around it was still a little pink, but the chrome shone in the station lights.

"I got a neural processor," I said, my voice rising in a nervous question. "For my art. Brooks said it would help with the—"

I didn't finish the sentence.

Emily gasped. Her fingers reached out, hovering for a second before touching the cold metal.

"Holy shit," she whispered. Her eyes weren't scared. They were wide with awe. "V… this is preem. This is Nova."

"You… you like it?" I asked, relaxing slightly. "I thought you might think it was too… corporate."

"Are you kidding?" Emily grinned, tracing the rim of the port with her thumb. It sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "It’s sexy. It’s like… you’re evolving. You’re leveling up."

She leaned in and kissed the skin right next to the port. My breath hitched.

"Does it work?" she asked, pulling back.

"I don't know," I said. "I haven't really tested it outside the clinic."

"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "Let’s go home. I want a demonstration."

Back in my room—which Emily had kept exactly as I left it—I set up my sketchbook.

Emily sat on the bed, watching me. She looked like a queen surveying her subject.

"Draw me," she commanded.

I picked up a piece of charcoal.

Usually, there was a friction. A resistance between what my brain saw and what my hand could do. But now… the resistance was gone.

My hand moved before I even finished the thought.

Swish. Swish. Scratch.

I wasn't drawing; I was transmitting. The lines flowed onto the paper with terrifying speed. I captured the curve of her neck, the rebellion in her eyes, the softness of her lips. My hand didn't cramp. My wrist didn't ache.

I felt a low hum in the back of my skull—the processor syncing with my nervous system. It felt like power.

In ten minutes, I had done what usually took me an hour.

I turned the sketchbook around.

Emily stared at it. It was her. But it was more than her. It was hyper-real, vibrating with energy.

"Whoa," she whispered.

She stood up and walked over to me. She didn't look at the drawing. She looked at me. She looked at the port behind my ear.

"You’re amazing," she said, her voice husky.

She reached out, her fingers tangling in my hair, exposing the chip again. She ran her thumb over it, and the sensation was electric. It fed directly into my nerves.

"It’s sensitive," I gasped.

"Good," she smirked.

She pushed me back against the drafting table.

"I love the flannel, V," she murmured, kissing my jawline, working her way up to the new metal. "But I really, really love the chrome."

"I’m still me," I whispered, gripping her waist.

"I know," she said, pressing a kiss directly onto the port. "You’re just V 2.0. And I want to test all the new features."

That night, the processor didn't just help with art. It heightened everything. Every touch, every sensation felt sharper, cleaner. Misty’s warning about the "Chariot standing alone" felt a million miles away.

I wasn't alone. I was with Emily. And if becoming a machine meant I could hold her like this without getting tired?

Chapter Text

Thanksgiving had always been Rita’s Super Bowl.

Since Mom and Dad died, she had turned the fourth Thursday of November into a mandatory, military-grade operation of forced joy. The turkey had to be perfect. The stuffing had to be made from scratch. We had to sit at the table without phones, without drama, and pretend that we were a normal American family and not three orphans trying to survive the apocalypse.

But this year, I was bringing a ghost to the table. And a piece of Arasaka hardware screwed into my skull.

I had been home for three hours. I hadn’t shown Rita the port yet. I had kept my hair down, wearing a beanie I claimed was a "Boston fashion statement."

"V, stop hovering and mash the potatoes," Rita ordered, bustling around the kitchen with a carving knife. "And take that hat off. We don't wear hats at the table. It’s disrespectful."

I hesitated. Emily was leaning against the counter, sipping a cider, watching me. She gave me a small nod. Rip the band-aid off.

I pulled the beanie off and tossed it onto the counter. I shook my hair out, tucking it behind my ears. The silver port caught the kitchen light, gleaming starkly against my pale skin.

I grabbed the potato masher. "On it."

Rita froze.

She didn't drop the knife, but her knuckles turned white around the handle. She stared at the side of my head. The silence in the kitchen went from 'holiday bustle' to 'funeral parlor' in two seconds.

"What," Rita said, her voice dangerously quiet, "is that?"

"It’s a neural co-processor," I said, attacking the potatoes with rhythmic precision. Mash. Mash. Mash. My new hand didn't cramp. It was effortless. "I told you on the phone, Ri. I got an upgrade for my art."

"You said you got a 'tool'," Rita said, walking slowly around the island. "You didn't say you got a hole drilled in your head."

"It’s not a hole," Vanessa piped up from the table where she was setting napkins. "It’s a port. It’s an interface. It’s super preem, Rita. V can draw like a printer now."

"I didn't ask you, Vanessa," Rita snapped, not taking her eyes off me. "V. Look at me."

I stopped mashing and looked at her.

"Why?" she asked. "Your hands were fine. Mom’s rings fit on them just fine."

"My hands were failing," I said, trying to keep my voice calm, though the processor was flagging my elevated heart rate. "I had tendonitis. I couldn't hold the charcoal anymore. This fixes it. It optimizes the nerve signals. It’s just… medicine, Rita."

"It’s metal," Rita spat. "It’s corporate chrome. You let those Academy ghouls cut you open and put a machine in you."

"It was free!" I defended. "It’s an investment in my career!"

"It’s a slippery slope!" Rita shouted, slamming the knife onto the cutting board. "First it’s a chip. Then what? You replace your eyes because you want better zoom? You replace your heart because you don't want to feel sad? You’re turning into one of them, V. One of the city freaks."

"Hey," Emily stepped forward, her voice sharp. She moved to stand next to me, a physical barrier. "Watch it, Rita. She’s not a freak. She’s an artist."

"She’s my sister!" Rita yelled, her face flushing red. "And I promised Mom I would take care of her! I didn't promise to take care of a cyborg!"

"I am not a cyborg!" I slammed the potato masher down. "I am the same person! I just don't want to be in pain anymore! Is that a crime? Do you want me to suffer just to satisfy your nostalgia?"

"I want you to be human!" Rita screamed.

"Being human sucks!" Vanessa shouted, standing up and throwing her napkin on the floor.

We all turned to look at the fifteen-year-old. Vanessa was trembling, her fists clenched.

"Being human means being weak," Vanessa said, her voice shaking. "It means getting sick. It means dying in a car crash like Mom and Dad. If V can get stronger… if she can get better… then that’s good! I want one too!"

Rita looked like she’d been slapped. "Nessie…"

"I do!" Vanessa insisted, moving to stand next to me and Emily. "I want Kiroshi eyes so I can see in the dark. I want a neural link so I can learn faster. I don't want to be just… meat. V is brave. You’re just scared, Rita. You’re scared of everything changing."

The room was dead silent. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the faint whir of my processor cooling down.

Rita looked at the three of us. The Mox. United against her.

Me with my chrome. Emily with her tattoos and defiance. Vanessa with her hunger for the future.

Rita looked at the turkey—the symbol of the tradition she was trying so desperately to hold onto.

"Scared?" Rita whispered, her voice breaking. "Yeah. I’m scared. Because I’m the one who had to identify the bodies, Vanessa. I’m the one who remembers what they looked like. They were flesh and blood. And they were perfect."

She looked at me, tears streaming down her face.

"You’re erasing them, V. Piece by piece."

"I’m not," I said, tears stinging my own eyes. "I’m honoring them. I’m making something of myself. Mom wanted me to run the world, remember? I can't do that with broken hands."

"Then go run it," Rita said coldly. She untied her apron and threw it onto the counter. "But don't expect me to applaud while you carve yourself up."

She walked out of the kitchen. We heard the front door open and slam shut.

The silence left behind was heavy and suffocating.

"Is she coming back?" Vanessa whispered, looking terrified.

"She just needs to cool off," Emily said, though she didn't sound convinced. She reached out and squeezed my hand. "You okay?"

"No," I said, wiping my face. "I feel like shit."

"You shouldn't," Emily said fiercely. "You didn't do anything wrong, V. Evolution hurts. Growing pains."

"She’s right about one thing," Vanessa said quietly, picking up a fork and poking the turkey. "Dinner is getting cold."

I looked at the feast Rita had spent two days preparing. It looked grey and unappetizing now.

"I can't eat," I said. "I’m going upstairs."

"V—" Emily started.

"Just… give me a minute, Em. Please."

I fled the kitchen, running up the stairs to my old room.

It was exactly as I left it, but it felt smaller now. Or maybe I was just bigger.

I sat at my old drafting table. My sketchbook was there. I picked up a pencil.

Usually, when I was upset, I would draw jagged, messy lines. I would tear the paper.

I put the pencil to the page.

Zip.

A perfect, straight line.

Zip.

A perfect circle.

I tried to make my hand shake. I tried to make it tremble with the grief and rage I was feeling. But the processor compensated. It smoothed out the emotion. It translated my pain into perfect geometry.

I stared at the paper.

I had perfect control. I could draw anything.

Except, apparently, how I felt.

The door creaked open. Emily walked in. She didn't say anything. She just walked over and wrapped her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder.

"She’ll get over it," Emily whispered. "She just loves you. And she’s realized she can't control you anymore."

"I don't want to fight her," I said, leaning back into Emily’s warmth. "She’s my sister."

"She’s your past," Emily said, kissing the port behind my ear. "And you’re the future. The two don't always get along."

I closed my eyes, listening to the hum of the chip and the beat of Emily’s heart.

"Vanessa took your side," I murmured.

"Vanessa wants to be you," Emily said. "That’s why Rita is scared. She sees you leading the way, and she sees Vanessa following right behind you into the machine."

I opened my eyes and looked at the perfect circle on the paper.

"Maybe she should be scared," I whispered.

We didn't see Rita for the rest of the night. She came back late, went straight to her room, and locked the door.

The next morning, I packed my bag to go back to Boston. The goodbye was brief and awkward. Rita hugged me, but it was stiff. She didn't look at the port.

"Be safe," was all she said.

On the train ride back, I stared out the window at the grey landscape.

I pulled out my phone and texted Vanessa.

To: Nessie

Don't get any ideas about implants, kid. Wait until you're 18.

From: Nessie

Too late. I'm already saving up. I want the Kiroshis. Pink ones.

I sighed and put the phone down.

I looked at my hand. I flexed the fingers.

Misty’s Tarot reading floated in my mind. The Chariot.

I was driving the Chariot now. And the wheels were crushing the flowers in the garden I grew up in.

I put my headphones on and turned the volume up until the world disappeared.

Chapter Text

The end-of-year Student Showcase was less of an art gallery and more of a sensory assault.

The Grand Hall of the Academy was filled with floating holograms, screaming audio-sculptures, and VR pods that let you experience the sensation of falling forever. It was impressive. It was high-tech.

And then there was my corner.

I had been given a prime spot near the center, thanks to Professor Brooks. I stood next to my installation, wearing a black dress I’d found at a thrift store and customized with safety pins, my neural port gleaming under the gallery lights.

My piece was called Analog/Digital.

On the wall hung three massive, four-foot-tall charcoal portraits. One of Rita, looking fierce. One of Vanessa, looking hopeful. One of Emily, looking mysterious. They were drawn by hand, every line raw and textured, thanks to the precision of my processor.

But when a viewer looked at them through their Kiroshi optics or a phone camera, the drawings changed.

An augmented reality overlay—which I had coded myself—mapped onto the charcoal. Rita’s face became a topographic map of Woodstock. Vanessa’s braids turned into fiber-optic cables pulsing with data. Emily’s eyes glowed with code, shifting and glitching.

It was the fusion of my two worlds. The rust and the chrome.

"It’s… disturbing," Kael said, appearing beside me. He was holding a glass of synthetic champagne. "But effective. I hate that I like it."

"High praise coming from the Apple King," I smirked.

"Don't get cocky, Wheeler," he said, clinking his glass against my water bottle. "But seriously. It’s good. You’re the talk of the room."

He wasn't wrong. A crowd had gathered. I saw suits—corporate scouts. They moved like sharks, swimming through the sea of students, looking for talent to devour.

"Miss Wheeler."

The crowd parted. Professor Brooks stepped forward, accompanied by a man I didn't recognize. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my family’s house. It was a dark, midnight blue Arasaka cut, sharp enough to bleed on.

"I’d like you to meet Mr. Sato," Brooks said, her voice brimming with pride. "He is the Director of Cultural Archiving for the Arasaka Corporation, North American Division."

My stomach did a flip. Arasaka. The boogeyman. The company that owned half the world.

"A pleasure," Sato said, bowing slightly. His eyes were cold, calculating, and impressed. "Professor Brooks tells me you utilize the Muse Mark IV processor?"

"Yes, sir," I said, instinctively touching the port behind my ear.

"Remarkable application," Sato said, looking at the drawing of Emily. "Usually, that chip is used for technical drafting. Engineering. You use it to replicate human emotion. We are looking for that kind of synthesis."

He pulled a data shard from his pocket and held it out.

"Arasaka is launching a Summer Intensive Program here in Boston. We are digitizing pre-Collapse artwork for the private collection in Night City. We need artists who understand both the physical medium and the digital interface. We want you, Miss Wheeler."

I stared at the shard. It was glowing red.

"It is a paid internship," Sato continued. "Generously paid. And it guarantees a job placement upon graduation."

The room seemed to tilt. A job. Money. real money. Enough to fix the house forever. Enough to send Vanessa to any college she wanted.

"When… when does it start?" I asked.

"June 1st," Sato said. "It runs through August. You would be housed here, at the Arasaka tower in downtown Boston."

The world crashed down.

Through August.

The promise echoed in my head. Every weekend. I’ll come back.

I looked at Sato. I looked at the shard. Then I looked at the drawing of Emily. The glitch. The girl who stayed behind.

If I took this, I wouldn't go home for the summer. I would break my promise. I would be doing exactly what her ex from Chicago did—choosing the career, the corporation, over her.

"I…" I stammered, stepping back. "I can't."

Sato’s eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?"

"I can't do it," I said, my voice shaking but gaining strength. "I have to go home. I have a family in Vermont. I promised them I’d be back for the summer. I can't stay in Boston until August."

The students around us gasped. Kael looked at me like I had grown a second head. Nobody said no to Arasaka.

Sato looked at Brooks. Brooks didn't look angry. She looked thoughtful.

"Mr. Sato," Brooks interjected smoothly. "Miss Wheeler is a unique talent. She draws her inspiration from her environment. Caging her in a tower for three months might… dull the edge."

She turned to me, a glint in her monocle.

"Valerie. The digitization work requires a secure terminal, yes? But the restoration work—the physical drawing—that can be done anywhere."

She looked back at Sato.

"What if we compromise? Miss Wheeler attends the intensive orientation and training here in Boston for the month of June. Four weeks. After that, we set her up with a secure remote terminal. She completes the July and August workload from her home studio in Vermont. She uploads the data daily."

Sato considered this. He looked at my art again. He looked at the perfect, impossible lines of charcoal.

"A remote asset," he mused. "Unconventional. But… acceptable. Provided her output remains at this level."

He held the shard out again.

"June in Boston. July and August in Vermont. Do we have a deal, Miss Wheeler?"

I looked at the shard. June. One month. Thirty days.

I could do thirty days.

I took the shard. "Deal."

I called Emily the second I got back to my dorm. My hands were shaking as I held the phone.

"Hey," she answered on the first ring. I could hear the background noise of the movie theater—popcorn popping, people chatting. "How was the showcase? Did you dazzle them?"

"I dazzled them," I said, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Em… I got an offer. From Arasaka."

The line went quiet. "Arasaka? The big bad?"

"Yeah. A summer internship. Paid. Like, really paid."

"V, that’s… that’s huge," she said. Her voice was steady, but I was listening for the crack. I was listening for the hurt.

"There’s a catch," I said quickly. "They wanted me to stay in Boston all summer."

"Oh," she said. Small. Quiet.

"But I told them no," I rushed on. "I told them I wouldn't do it. So Brooks worked out a deal. I have to stay here for June. Just June. For training. But then I can come home. I can do July and August from Woodstock. I’ll be home for the rest of the summer."

I held my breath. I waited for her to be angry. I waited for her to say, 'June is too long.' I waited for her to say, 'You’re choosing them over me.'

Instead, I heard a sigh of relief.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. June."

"You’re… you’re okay with that?" I asked. "It’s a whole month, Em. I won't be there for the start of summer."

"Valerie," Emily said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "You just stared down an Arasaka suit and told him to screw off because you wanted to come home to me. You think I’m gonna be mad about four weeks?"

I let out a sob of relief. "I was so scared you’d think I was like her. Like your ex."

"You’re nothing like her," Emily said firmly. "She left and never looked back. You’re fighting to come back. That’s the difference. Plus… June gives me time to prepare."

"Prepare for what?"

"To turn your room into a proper studio," she said. "If you’re gonna be working for Arasaka from the attic, we need to upgrade your rig. I’m gonna soundproof the walls. Get you a better chair."

I laughed, wiping my eyes. "You’re the best, you know that?"

"I know," she teased. "Go celebrate, V. Drink some expensive champagne. And then call me later and tell me exactly how much money we’re talking about so I can plan our vacation."

"I love you, Em."

"Love you too, Corpo-Sellout. Make us proud."

I hung up the phone and fell back onto the bed, clutching the data shard.

I had the internship. I had the girl. I had the compromise.

The Chariot was moving fast, gaining speed, turning into a machine of war and commerce. But for the first time, I felt like I wasn't alone in the box. I was steering it home.

Chapter Text

June in Boston was a grayscale hallucination.

I lived in a cubicle on the 42nd floor of Arasaka Tower. It wasn't a cage; it was a "Creative Pod." It had ergonomic seating, perfect climate control, and a view of the smog layer that never changed.

My job was to be a human filter. I took corrupted, pre-Collapse data—old oil paintings, faded photographs, fragments of cultural history—and I restored them.

My neural processor hummed constantly. I didn't use charcoal here. I used a stylus on a tablet that cost more than my family’s house.

Swipe. Restore.

Tap. Color correct.

Think. Execute.

I was efficient. I was terrifyingly good. By the third week, Mr. Sato told me I was outperforming the AI algorithms by 14%.

"Stay," he had urged me on the last day, standing in my pod as I packed my bag. "We can move you to the executive floor. A permanent suite. You have a future here, Miss Wheeler. You fit the corporate mold perfectly."

I looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the window. I saw a girl in a sleek grey tunic, pale and tired, with a silver port in her skull. I looked like a component. I looked like hardware.

"I don't fit the mold, sir," I said, zipping my bag. "I just know how to fake it. My future is on a train to Vermont."

I walked out of Arasaka Tower without looking back. I left the air conditioning, the sushi bars, and the silent, carpeted hallways.

When the Silver Streak pulled into the Woodstock station three hours later, the doors opened and I was hit by a wall of humidity, the smell of heated asphalt, and the distant scent of cow manure.

I took a deep breath. It was the sweetest thing I had ever smelled.

Emily was leaning against a support pillar, wearing a cut-off band tee and her signature combat boots. She was tossing a tennis ball against the wall and catching it. Thump. Snap. Thump. Snap.

She saw me. The ball dropped and rolled away, forgotten.

"V!"

I dropped my expensive Arasaka duffel bag on the dirty platform and ran. She met me halfway.

The impact knocked the wind out of me. She felt solid. Real. Not a pixelated face on a screen. I buried my face in her neck, smelling vanilla and sweat and motor oil.

"You’re real," I whispered, squeezing her tight enough to bruise. "You’re actually here."

"I’m here," she murmured, her hands tangling in my hair, careful of the port but not afraid of it. "And you’re back. You look… corporate. Nice shirt."

"Burn it," I said, pulling back to kiss her. "Seriously. Take it off me and burn it."

"Later," she smirked, grabbing my hand. "The car is waiting. And by car, I mean Rita’s rusted-out hatchback because I couldn't fit your luggage on the bike."

The house was chaotic, messy, and loud. It was heaven.

Vanessa was screaming about a new holo-game she was playing. Rita was yelling at the stove because the pilot light was acting up again. The TV was blaring the news.

I walked in and stood in the hallway, letting the noise wash over me. In Boston, silence was a luxury you paid for. Here, the noise was love.

"She’s back!" Vanessa yelled, abandoning her game to tackle me.

"Hey, Gremlin," I laughed, hugging her. "Did you break into any banks while I was gone?"

"Only two!" she chirped.

Rita walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looked tired—the dark circles under her eyes were prominent—but when she saw me, her face softened.

"Hey, Hollywood," she said. "You look skinny. Didn't they feed you?"

"They fed me algae paste and vitamins," I said. "I would kill for a burger."

"Burgers are on the grill," Rita said, jerking a thumb toward the back porch. "Go change. You look like a narc in those clothes."

Dinner was eaten on the back porch, watching the fireflies dance in the tall grass. It was the first time in a month my shoulders weren't up by my ears.

"Okay," I said, pushing my plate away. "Business first."

I reached into my bag and pulled out a cred-stick. I slid it across the picnic table to Rita.

"What’s this?" she asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"My stipend," I said. "And the completion bonus for Phase One. It’s ten thousand credits."

Rita choked on her beer. "Ten… V, that’s more than I make in six months."

"It’s for the house," I said firmly. "New roof. New siding. And put the rest in a fund for Nessie’s college. I don't want it. It’s blood money as far as I’m concerned."

Rita looked at the stick, then at me. She didn't argue. She just nodded, her eyes bright. "Okay. Thank you, V."

"And," I said, reaching back into the bag. "Gifts."

I tossed a small box to Vanessa. She tore it open. inside was a pair of Kiroshi Scout smart-goggles—not implants, but wearable tech.

"No way!" she screamed. "These have thermal vision! I can see raccoons in the dark!"

"Don't use them to spy on neighbors," I warned. "Or Emily."

"No promises!"

I pulled out a small, velvet pouch for Emily. She took it, raising an eyebrow. inside was a necklace—a simple silver chain with a pendant made of a strange, iridescent black stone.

"It’s a shard of raw silicon from the original Arasaka mainframe," I explained. "It’s… literally a piece of the beast. For the glitch who beat the system."

Emily smiled, touching the stone. "You stole from Arasaka?"

"I liberated it from a recycling bin," I corrected. "Put it on."

She did. It looked perfect against her throat.

"And for you, Ri," I said, my voice getting softer.

I pulled out a large, flat portfolio case.

Rita stiffened slightly. She was still wary of my art since the "Cyborg Thanksgiving" incident. She knew I was using the processor.

"I know you hate the chrome," I began, my hands sweating slightly. "I know you think I’m erasing things. But… I wanted to show you what the chrome can actually do. It remembers, Rita. Better than we can."

I handed her the portfolio.

Rita opened it slowly.

It was a drawing. A large, charcoal portrait on textured archival paper.

It was Mom and Dad.

But it wasn't copied from a photo. It was a moment that never existed on film. It was a compilation of a thousand memories stored in my brain, stitched together by the processor, and rendered by my hand.

They were sitting on this very porch. Dad was laughing, head thrown back, a beer in his hand. Mom was looking at him with that look—that pure, unadulterated love. The lighting was the golden hour of a Vermont summer.

The detail was impossible. You could see the grease stains on Dad’s jeans. You could see the stray hairs escaping Mom’s ponytail. You could see the life in their eyes.

It was hyper-real. It was a ghost captured in graphite.

Rita stared at it. Her hand came up to cover her mouth. She didn't breathe.

"V," she whispered. The sound was wrecked.

"The processor helped me access the deep-storage memories," I explained quietly. "The ones I thought I forgot. The smell of his cologne. The way the light hit her hair. I didn't erase them, Ri. I brought them back."

Rita traced the edge of the paper. A tear hit the glass covering the drawing. Then another.

She looked up at me. Her eyes were red, but the anger was gone. The fear was gone.

"I forgot," she sobbed softly. "I forgot he had that chipped tooth. How did you remember that?"

"I didn't," I said, tapping the port behind my ear. "We did."

Rita stood up and walked around the table. She pulled me into a hug that felt like forgiveness.

"It’s beautiful," she cried into my shoulder. "It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you, V. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."

"It’s okay," I whispered, holding her tight. "I’m home."

Emily watched us from across the table, fingering her silicon necklace, a soft smile on her face. Vanessa was looking at the drawing through her thermal goggles, probably analyzing the heat of our tears, but she was smiling too.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the porch in twilight.

I had ten thousand credits. I had a job. I had a neural port that made me a machine. But sitting there, smelling the burger smoke and feeling my sister shake with happy tears, I realized I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The Chariot could wait. The summer belonged to The Mox.

July in Vermont was a sticky, sweet syrup of heat.

My life had settled into a strange, bifurcated rhythm. By day, I was a corporate asset. I sat in my attic studio—which Emily had soundproofed and upgraded with a cooling rig that hummed like a sleeping cat—and I connected to the Arasaka secure server. I spent eight hours staring at digital artifacts, cleaning up code, restoring lost history for the private collections of billionaires.

By night, I was just V. We had bonfires. We skinny-dipped in the creek. We ate popsicles on the roof and watched the satellites trail across the sky.

It was perfect. Until the algorithm snagged on a ghost.

It was a Thursday afternoon. The heat index was pushing 102 degrees. I was working on a piece from the mid-2060s—a digital painting of the Night City skyline, corrupted by a nasty data-rot virus. It was a tedious job, pixel-by-pixel reconstruction using my neural processor to predict the missing data.

Swipe. Smooth. Enhance.

My hand moved across the tablet in a trance state.

Then, my processor hitched. A sharp, localized headache spiked behind my right ear.

ERROR: DATA MISMATCH.

I blinked, shaking my head. "Pause," I muttered to the system.

I zoomed in on the section that triggered the error. It was a dark corner of the painting, the shadows of a megabuilding. Visually, it looked black. But to my processor, it felt… heavy. Dense.

There was something buried under the pigment layers. Steganography—hiding data within an image.

I tried to smooth it out, but the code resisted. It wasn't rot. It was a file, encrypted and embedded so deep that only a neural interface like mine—one sensitive to "emotional" variance—would notice the weight of it.

"Emily!" I yelled, swiveling my chair around. "I need the hacker!"

Emily appeared in the doorway a minute later, holding two sweating glasses of lemonade. She was wearing cut-off shorts and a tank top, sweat glistening on her collarbone.

"I’m not a hacker, I’m a 'digital locksmith'," she corrected, handing me a glass. "What’s up? Did Arasaka try to brainwash you again?"

"Look at this," I said, pointing to the screen. "Layer 44. Shadow density. My processor hates it. It feels like… like holding a lead weight."

Emily set her glass down and leaned over my shoulder. She tapped a few keys on my secondary keyboard, bringing up the code view. Her eyes narrowed.

"Whoa," she whispered. "That’s not artifacting. That’s a payload. Someone hid a binary packet in the shadow rendering."

"Can you open it?"

"Can I open it?" she scoffed, cracking her knuckles. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

She pulled a cable from her own datapad and jacked into my terminal. Her fingers flew across her holographic interface.

"It’s old encryption," she muttered. "Arasaka internal cipher, circa 2070. Clunky. Panic-coded. Whoever hid this was in a hurry."

Click.

On my main screen, the black pixels of the shadow unraveled. They swirled and reassembled into a text document and a low-res medical scan.

SUBJECT: ALVAREZ, JUDY

DOB: 02/11/2064

STATUS: TERMINATED (Casualty of Experiment 77-B)

AGE: 13

I felt the blood drain from my face. The glass of lemonade slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor, splashing sticky sugar water over my bare feet. I didn't move.

"Judy," I whispered. "Judy Alvarez."

Emily froze. She looked at the screen, then at me. "The name from the psychic? The 'other timeline' girl?"

"Read it," I said, my voice shaking. "Read the rest."

Emily scrolled down, her face pale in the monitor's glow.

MOTHER: ESTHER ALVAREZ (Senior Researcher, Neural Synapse Division)

INCIDENT REPORT:

Subject displayed high aptitude for tech-empathy. Selected for 'Deep Dive' prototype integration. Neural pathways proved incompatible with the construct. Catastrophic synaptic failure occurred at 14:00 hours. Subject expired.

NOTES:

Mother attempted to extract subject data. Mother terminated for security breach. Subject data buried in Sector 4 archival cache.

Emily sat back, staring at the screen with horror.

"She was a kid," Emily whispered. "She was thirteen. Her own mom… she worked for them. And they used her kid as a lab rat."

I touched the port behind my ear. It felt suddenly hot, like it was burning me.

"Misty said she didn't exist here," I murmured. "She said in 98% of timelines, I’m with her. But in this one… she died. She died because Arasaka killed her."

I looked at the medical scan. It was a grainy image of a young girl’s brain, lit up like a Christmas tree with stress signals.

"They killed my soulmate," I said, the realization hitting me with the force of a physical blow. "In another life, she’s the love of my life. In this one, she’s just… a file hidden in a painting."

Emily stood up and pulled me out of the chair. She wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight. I was shaking.

"It’s not your fault," Emily said fiercely into my ear. "V, this happened years ago. You were a kid too."

"I’m working for them," I spat, pulling away. I looked at the Arasaka logo in the corner of my screen. "I’m taking their money. I’m fixing their art. And they grind up little girls to make better chips."

I reached for the power cord. "I’m deleting it. I’m quitting. I’m burning this whole rig."

"Stop!" Emily grabbed my wrist. Her grip was iron.

"Let go, Em! I can't work for them!"

"Think, V!" Emily snapped, shaking my arm. "If you quit now, if you delete this… she disappears for good. This file? This is the only proof she ever existed. If you burn it, you kill her memory."

I stopped fighting. I looked at the screen. Subject: Alvarez, Judy.

"What do we do?" I asked, my voice breaking.

Emily looked at the screen, her hacker eyes analyzing the data path.

"We don't delete it," she said cold and low. "We keep it. We copy it. We extract every scrap of data they have on her."

She looked at me.

"You said Misty called you the Chariot. The Chariot goes to war, V. You don't quit. You stay inside. You keep working. You keep smiling at Mr. Sato. And while you’re restoring their precious paintings… I’m going to use your clearance to steal their skeletons."

She reached out and wiped a tear from my cheek.

"We’re going to find out exactly what happened to Judy Alvarez. And we’re going to make sure they never forget her name."

The summer sun was still shining outside. The cicadas were still buzzing. But the attic felt cold as a grave.

I looked at the file one last time.

"Okay," I whispered, touching my neural port. "We keep it."

Chapter Text

August was a lie.

To the outside world, it was the lazy, hazy end of summer. The cicadas screamed in the trees, the air smelled of cut grass and barbecue, and the biggest worry in Woodstock was whether the heatwave would break before the county fair.

Inside my attic, it was cold war.

My studio had become a dual-processor engine. On the main screen, I was restoring a masterpiece—a 2020s digital landscape of the Swiss Alps, rendering snow so bright it made your eyes ache. It was beautiful. It was pure.

On the secondary monitor, shielded by a polarization filter that only Emily could see from her angle on the floor, was the rot.

Emily sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by energy drink cans and tangles of cable. She was mining. Every time I completed a brushstroke, my neural processor sent a "handshake" signal to the Arasaka mainframe to save the progress. And every time that signal went out, Emily piggybacked a packet of extraction code on it.

I painted a mountain peak. Emily stole a medical record.

I blended a shadow. Emily decrypted a termination order.

I highlighted a cloud. Emily downloaded a video file of a weeping mother.

It was grueling. I had to keep my heart rate steady so the biometric monitors in my chair wouldn't flag stress. I had to focus on beauty while my girlfriend unraveled a horror story three feet away.

"Got another one," Emily whispered, her voice rough with fatigue. "Esther Alvarez’s personnel file. It’s… V, it’s bad. They flagged her as 'unstable' because she filed a complaint about safety protocols. Two days later, Judy was assigned to the Deep Dive unit."

I didn't stop painting. My hand moved with mechanical precision, laying down a perfect gradient of blue. But inside, I was screaming.

"They set her up," I murmured, barely moving my lips. "They wanted the kid, so they discredited the mom to get her out of the way."

"Bingo," Emily said, tapping her deck. "I’m scrubbing the logs. Keep painting. Don't spike your cortisol."

I took a deep breath, letting the processor flatten my emotional response. I was a machine. I was the Chariot.

Beep-Beep.

A bright red notification slashed across my main monitor, overriding the Alps.

INCOMING VIDEO CALL: MR. SATO (PRIORITY 1)

My blood froze.

"Em!" I hissed.

"I see it!" Emily scrambled, her fingers flying across her keyboard. "I’m deep in the directory. If I disconnect now, it leaves a trace. I need twenty seconds to mask the exit!"

"I have to answer," I whispered. "If I don't, it triggers a security alert."

"Answer it," Emily commanded, sliding flat onto the floor so she was below the camera's field of view. "Just keep him talking. Don't look at me."

I tapped the Accept button. I forced a smile onto my face.

Mr. Sato’s face filled the screen. He was sitting in his high-rise office in Boston, looking impeccable and terrifyingly calm.

"Miss Wheeler," he said smoothly. "I trust I am not interrupting a breakthrough?"

"Mr. Sato," I said, my voice steady thanks to the chip regulating my vocal cords. "Not at all. Just putting the finishing touches on the Alpine restoration. The atmospheric scattering was… challenging."

"Indeed," Sato said. He leaned closer to his camera. His eyes seemed to bore right through the screen. "I was reviewing the data stream. We noticed a… fluctuation in the upload latency. A micro-lag every time you save. Is your connection stable?"

Under the desk, Emily’s hand gripped my ankle. She squeezed once. Stall.

"Woodstock internet, sir," I lied smoothly. "The heatwave is messing with the local relays. I can switch to the backup generator if the lag is compromising the file integrity."

Sato stared at me. He was analyzing. He was looking for sweat. He was looking for the twitch of a liar.

"That won't be necessary," he said slowly. "However, security protocols require a perimeter check when latency exceeds 50ms. Pan your camera, please. Show me the room."

My heart stopped.

If I panned the camera, he would see the cables running from my terminal to the floor. He wouldn't see Emily—she was flat—but he would see the unauthorized rig.

Emily squeezed my ankle again. Harder. Do it.

I reached for the external webcam mounted on my monitor.

"Of course," I said.

I detached the camera. I moved it slowly to the left, showing the window, the dusty bookshelves, the empty easel in the corner.

As I swept past the desk, Emily kicked the cables. With a silent, fluid motion, she yanked the connection cord out of my terminal and rolled under the bed in one second flat.

The cables vanished from view just as the camera lens swept over the floor.

"Just my messy attic," I said, panning back to my face and reattaching the camera. "I apologize for the clutter. Artists, you know?"

Sato looked at the feed. He looked at the empty floor.

"Very well," he said, leaning back. "Get that Alpine file uploaded by EOD. And Valerie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"When you return to Boston next week… we will have much to discuss regarding your future. Arasaka is very pleased with your… potential."

"Thank you, sir," I said.

The screen went black.

I slumped forward, putting my head on the desk. My hands were shaking so hard I knocked the stylus onto the floor.

"Clear," Emily whispered.

She rolled out from under the bed, covered in dust bunnies, clutching her datapad to her chest. She looked up at me, eyes wide.

"That," she breathed, "was too close."

"We can't keep doing this," I said, lifting my head. "He knows. Or he suspects. 'Fluctuation in latency'? He’s watching the data packets, Em."

"We have almost everything," Emily said, sitting up and brushing dust off her knees. "We have the mom’s diary. We have the experiment logs. We just need the final autopsy report to prove cause of death. Then we have the smoking gun."

"We have a smoking gun pointing at our heads," I countered.

I stood up and paced the small room.

"We have to tell Rita."

Emily froze. "V… Rita hates the corp stuff. If we tell her we’re stealing from Arasaka? She’ll freak out. She’ll try to shut it down to protect you."

"No," I said, stopping to look at the drawing of Mom and Dad I had given Rita. "She hates the corp stuff because she thinks it owns me. If she knows I’m fighting them? If she knows I’m getting revenge for a kid who died?"

I looked at Emily.

"Rita is a Mox. We don't hide scars from each other."

The War Room—our kitchen table—felt different this time.

It wasn't panic. It was rage.

I had projected the stolen files onto the wall. Rita sat in silence, reading the medical reports. Reading the name Judy Alvarez, Age 13. Reading the clinical description of how her brain had burned out because a corporation wanted to test a new toy.

Rita didn't scream. She didn't yell.

She stood up, walked to the fridge, and pulled out a beer. She cracked it open with a sound like a gunshot.

"They killed a kid," Rita said. Her voice was flat, low, and terrifying.

"Yeah," I said.

"And her mom worked for them," Rita continued. "She trusted them. And they used that trust to murder her daughter."

"Yeah," Emily added softly.

Rita turned around. Her eyes were hard. The 'Protector' was gone. This was the 'Avenger.'

"You’re going back to Boston in three days," Rita stated.

"Yes," I said.

"And you’re going to be working in their tower. In the belly of the beast."

"Yes."

Rita took a long pull of her beer. She slammed the can down.

"Get the rest of the files," she ordered.

I blinked. "What?"

"You heard me," Rita said, leaning over the table. "You finish the job. You get every single byte of data they have on that girl. And then?"

She looked at me, then at Emily.

"Then we burn them."

"Burn them how?" Emily asked, leaning forward.

"We leak it," Rita said. "We don't just keep it. We give it to the press. We give it to the Netrunners. We make sure the name Judy Alvarez is sprayed on the side of Arasaka Tower in neon paint."

She pointed a finger at me.

"You go back to Boston, V. You smile. You bow. You paint their pretty pictures. But you are not an employee anymore. You are a saboteur. You are a spy for the Wheeler family."

I felt a shiver run down my spine. I looked at my big sister—the woman who just wanted to pay the bills and keep us safe—and saw a general.

"What about the danger?" I asked. "If they catch me…"

"They won't," Emily said, stepping in. "Because I’m going to build you a ghost drive. A partition in your neural processor that they can't scan. You’ll carry the data in your own head, V. Literally."

Rita looked at Emily. "Can you do that? Without frying her brain?"

"I can," Emily said. "But it’s risky. If they deep-scan her…"

"They won't deep-scan her," Rita said confidently. "Because they’re arrogant. They think she’s a country bumpkin who got lucky with a charcoal stick. They don't know she’s one of us."

Rita walked over and grabbed my face in her hands.

"You are Valerie Wheeler," she said fiercely. "You are The Mox. And you are going to make them pay for Judy."

I nodded, feeling the weight of the mission settle onto my shoulders. It wasn't just art anymore. It wasn't just a job. It was war.

"For Judy," I whispered.

"For Judy," Rita agreed.

The morning sun didn't reach the inside of Misty’s shop. It was a sanctuary of eternal twilight, smelling of sage and old motherboard coolant.

We hadn't made an appointment. We just walked in, the bell above the door chiming softly.

Emily gripped my hand. I could feel the tension radiating off her. We weren't here for a fun palm reading this time. We were here to ask if I was going to die.

"I expected you sooner," Misty’s voice floated from the back room.

She emerged through a beaded curtain, wiping her hands on a rag. She looked tired, her crimped blonde hair pulled back in a messy clip. But behind her, filling the doorway, was a mountain of a man.

He was massive. He had a topknot, gold-plated jewelry that caught the dim light, and a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite and then softened by a lifetime of laughing. He wore a Valentinos t-shirt that was stretched tight across his chest.

He wasn't from Vermont. He was pure Heywood.

"Chica," the man grumbled playfully to Misty, his voice a deep rumble. "I told you, the incense is giving me a headache. Makes me miss the smell of exhaust."

"Hush, Jackie," Misty said, patting his massive bicep affectionately. "Go check the inventory. We have customers."

The man—Jackie—looked at us. His eyes landed on me.

For a second, the world tilted.

I felt a jolt in my chest—a phantom ache. I didn't know this man. I had never met him. But looking at him felt like remembering a song I used to know by heart.

"Hey," Jackie said, a slow grin spreading across his face. It was a warm, infectious grin. "You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, jaina. You okay?"

"I’m… I’m fine," I stammered. "Just… nerves."

"Nerves are good," Jackie said, winking. "Keeps you sharp. Don't let the corpos grind you down, yeah?"

He disappeared into the back room, humming a tune.

Misty watched him go, a look of fierce, protective love on her face. Then she turned to us. The softness vanished.

"Sit," she ordered.

We sat at the round velvet table. I placed the stolen data shard—the one containing Judy’s file—in the center.

"We’re going to war," I said, my voice steady. "I’m going back to Boston. I’m going to steal everything Arasaka has on Judy Alvarez. Emily is installing a hidden drive in my head tonight."

Misty looked at the shard. She didn't touch it.

"You want to know if you will win," she stated.

"I want to know the cost," I said. "You said I was the Chariot. You said Emily was a Glitch. We need to know what we’re up against. Don't speak in riddles, Misty. Tell us everything."

Misty took a deep breath. She reached under the table and pulled out a different deck of cards. These weren't paper. They were thin sheets of glass, etched with laser filaments.

"The balance of the universe is a delicate math," Misty began, shuffling the glass cards. They clicked like loading a gun. "Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It can only be transferred."

She laid the first card down. The scales.

"You asked about the timelines," Misty said, looking toward the back room where Jackie was whistling. "In the primary timeline—the one that flows like a main river—Judy Alvarez lives. She is a brilliant techie. A revolutionary. And in that timeline, Valerie… you love her. You fight for her."

She looked me dead in the eye.

"But in that timeline… Jackie Welles dies."

I felt the air leave the room. "The guy in the back? Your boyfriend?"

"My soulmate," Misty corrected, her voice trembling slightly. "In the other world, he dies in a heist. He dies in your arms, Valerie. You lose your best friend to save your lover."

She laid the second card down. The Inverted World.

"But here… the stream broke. The glitch happened." She gestured to Emily. "Because Emily exists here, because she anchored you… the equation shifted. A trade was made."

She leaned in, her eyes intense.

"Jackie lives. He retired. He came here with me to find peace. But death demands a balance. So the scales tipped. Judy Alvarez paid the price."

I looked at the closed curtain. That big, warm man. Alive. Happy.

And then I thought of the 13-year-old girl in the medical file. Dead.

"A soul for a soul," Emily whispered, horrified.

"It is not fair," Misty said. "But it is the law of this reality. You are living in a world bought with Judy’s blood. That is why you feel this pull, Valerie. That is why you found her file. You are haunted by the ghost of the life you didn't live."

"So what do we do?" I asked. "Do we avenge her?"

Misty flipped the third card. The Moon.

The card glowed with a pale, blue light. It showed a path winding between two towers, disappearing into the dark.

"The Moon represents illusion," Misty interpreted. "Secrets. Subconscious fears. You are entering the realm of shadows, Valerie. You are going to hide a graveyard in your own mind."

She reached out and tapped the neural port behind my ear.

"If you put Judy in your head… she will not be just data. The Ghost Drive will hold her essence. You will carry her. And Arasaka will sense it. Not with their scanners, but with their greed. They hunger for what you have."

"Will I survive?" I asked.

Misty looked at the cards. She hesitated.

"The Chariot is armored," she said slowly. "You will survive the battle. But the Moon changes things. You will see things others do not. You will walk in two worlds—the physical and the digital. The risk is not death, Valerie."

She looked at Emily.

"The risk is that you will lose yourself in the data. That you will forget which timeline is real. You must keep her tethered," she told Emily. "You are the glitch. You are the only thing that keeps her here."

"I won't let her go," Emily vowed.

Misty nodded. She swept the cards away.

"One last thing," she said.

She stood up and walked to a shelf, pulling down a small, heavy object wrapped in cloth. She set it on the table and unwrapped it.

It was a mandala. A complex, geometric pattern made of gold and silver sand.

"Arasaka fears chaos," Misty said. "They try to order the world. You must be the chaos. When you are in the tower, do not try to be a better machine than them. Be human. Be messy. Be unpredictable."

She looked toward the back room again.

"Jackie!" she called out.

The curtain parted. Jackie stuck his head out. "Yeah, babe?"

"They’re leaving," Misty said. "Give them the package."

Jackie blinked, then grinned. "Oh! Right!"

He ducked back in and returned with a small, flat metal case. He walked over and handed it to me. His hand engulfed mine.

"Misty told me you were heading into the belly of the beast," Jackie said, his voice serious now. "Arasaka Tower. Bad vibes in that place, chica."

"Yeah," I said, holding the case. "Bad vibes."

"This is an old Valentino luck charm," Jackie said. "My mama gave it to me. And a little something extra."

I opened the case. Inside was a golden cross on a chain, and a small, sleek data chip with a hand-painted skull on it.

"The cross keeps the demons out," Jackie said, tapping his chest. "The chip? That’s a 'La Chingona' virion. It’s a little… present for their servers. If you get cornered? Slot that in. It won't kill 'em, but it’ll make their systems dance the salsa for about ten minutes. Give you time to run."

I looked at this man—this man who was supposed to die in my arms in another life—and I felt a surge of fierce protectiveness. He was alive. Misty was happy.

Judy died so they could live.

"Thank you, Jackie," I said, my voice thick. "I’ll make it dance."

"You do that," Jackie beamed. "And hey… when you get back? Beers on me. You look like the kind of girl who knows how to handle her tequila."

"I do," I smiled.

Misty walked us to the door.

"Remember," she whispered as I stepped out into the blinding sunlight. "You are balancing the scales. You are not just stealing data. You are laying a ghost to rest. Do it with love, not just hate."

"I will," I promised.

We walked away from the shop. I looked back once. Jackie was standing in the window, arm around Misty, waving.

I turned to Emily. She looked pale.

"A soul for a soul," she repeated.

"Yeah," I said, clutching the Valentino charm. "So let’s make sure it was worth it."

I touched my neural port.

"Tonight," I said. "We install the drive. Tomorrow, I go to Boston."

"Tomorrow," Emily agreed, taking my hand. "We wake the dead."

Chapter Text

The attic smelled of isopropyl alcohol and fear.

I sat in my office chair, gripping the armrests until my knuckles turned white. The room was dark, lit only by the blue glow of Emily’s diagnostic screens and a single, focused lamp aimed at the back of my head.

"Don't move," Emily whispered. Her voice was steady, surgery-calm. "I’m bypassing the safety protocols on the port. If you sneeze, I might accidentally lobotomize you."

"Comforting," I muttered through gritted teeth.

"Almost there," she murmured.

I felt a cold pressure behind my right ear. Not pain—the local anesthetic took care of that—but a deep, unnatural intrusion. It felt like someone was walking on my spine with ice-cold feet.

Emily was installing the Ghost Drive.

It wasn't a physical extra chip—there wasn't room. It was a software partition, a virtual vault carved out of the existing neural architecture of the Arasaka processor. She was rewriting the firmware to create a blind spot. A pocket of memory that system scanners would read as "Corrupted/Unallocated Space."

"Okay," Emily said. "Injecting the partition code... now."

ZAP.

A flash of white light exploded behind my eyes. I gasped, arching my back. For a split second, I saw static. I heard a scream that wasn't mine—a digital echo.

Then, silence.

I slumped back in the chair, panting.

"V?" Emily’s hands were on my face instantly. "V, look at me. Follow the light."

She shone a penlight in my eyes. I blinked, the afterimage fading.

"I’m here," I rasped. "I saw... static."

"That was the partition sealing," Emily said, letting out a breath. She checked her monitor. "It worked. You have 500 terabytes of encrypted storage sitting right next to your visual cortex. Arasaka scanners will just see it as a dead sector."

She wiped sweat from her forehead. "You’re a smuggler now, Valerie. You’re a walking vault."

I touched the port. It felt warm.

"So I can carry Judy?" I asked softly.

"You can carry her," Emily confirmed. "And the autopsy report. And the experiment logs. Everything."

She began packing up her tools—the micro-soldering iron, the laser scalpel, the datapad. But instead of putting them back in her toolbox, she started shoving them into her black duffel bag.

I watched her. She threw in her soldering kit. Then her lockpicks. Then a stack of t-shirts. Then her combat boots.

"Em?" I asked, sitting up slowly. "What are you doing?"

"Packing," she said, not looking at me. She grabbed her leather jacket.

"For what? You’re staying here. You have the Bijou. You have the house."

Emily stopped. She zipped the bag shut with a decisive rip. She turned to face me.

"Misty said you’d walk in two worlds," she said. "She said you were going to hide a graveyard in your mind. And she said I was the tether."

She walked over to me, placing her hands on my knees.

"I can't tether you from Vermont, V. I can't be your anchor if I’m three hundred miles away while you’re walking into Arasaka Tower every day."

My eyes widened. "You... you’re coming?"

"I’m coming," she stated. "I quit the Bijou this morning. Molly was pissed, but I told her I had a family emergency."

"But... Boston," I stammered. "You hate the city. You ran away from Chicago to get away from the noise."

"I hate the city," she agreed. "But I love you more."

She leaned in, her eyes fierce.

"You’re going into the belly of the beast to steal souls, Valerie. You think I’m gonna let you do that alone? I’m your tech support. I’m your getaway driver. I’m your Glitch."

I looked at her—this girl who had found peace in the quiet woods, now willing to dive back into the neon chaos just to keep me safe.

"We’re going to be broke," I said, a smile breaking through my shock. "Boston rent is insane."

"I have the rest of my savings," she shrugged. "And I can fix anything. I’ll find work. Maybe I’ll fix cyber-limbs in a back alley. Who knows."

She pulled me up from the chair and kissed me.

"Pack your bags, Chariot. We leave at dawn."

The goodbye the next morning was surprisingly efficient.

Rita stood by her rusted hatchback, looking at the two of us. Two duffel bags. One guitar case. One tech-rig case.

"So," Rita said, crossing her arms. "The dynamic duo rides again."

"I’ll keep her safe, Rita," Emily promised. "I won't let the corpos eat her."

"I know you won't," Rita said. She looked at Emily with a newfound respect. "Because if you do, I’ll drive down there and beat you both with a tire iron."

She hugged me first. "Don't be a hero, V. Just be smart. Get the data, get out."

"I will," I promised.

Then she hugged Emily. It was brief but firm. "Watch her back."

"Always."

Vanessa was hanging out the car window. "Can I come? I can fit in the trunk!"

"No," we all said in unison.

"Fine," she pouted. "But bring me back a souvenirs. Like... a severed robot head."

"We'll see what we can do," I laughed.

We climbed into the car. Rita drove us to the station. We boarded the Silver Streak, but this time, I wasn't sitting alone with headphones on.

I was sitting next to Emily. Her hand was laced with mine. Her head was on my shoulder.

As the train accelerated, leaving the green hills of Vermont behind, I felt the Ghost Drive humming in my head. It was empty now, waiting to be filled.

"Ready?" Emily whispered as the skyline of Boston appeared on the horizon—a jagged jaw of steel teeth biting the sky.

"Ready," I said.

Boston was exactly as I remembered it: loud, grey, and aggressive. But seeing it through Emily’s eyes changed the texture of the city.

Where I saw overwhelming noise, Emily saw systems.

"Grid looks overloaded," she muttered as we navigated the subway platform. "Look at those maintenance drones. erratic flight paths. Their guidance firmware is out of date."

"You’re critiquing the city’s infrastructure?" I laughed, dragging our bags through the turnstile.

"I’m analyzing vulnerabilities," she corrected, adjusting her sunglasses. "Always look for the cracks, V."

We didn't go to the dorms. I had used my Arasaka stipend to rent a tiny, studio apartment in the South End. It was technically "off-campus," which meant Arasaka surveillance would be minimal.

The apartment was a box. Concrete floor, exposed pipes, one window that looked out at a brick wall.

"Home sweet bunker," Emily said, dropping her bag on the floor.

She immediately began scanning the room with a handheld device.

"One bug in the light fixture," she announced casually. She grabbed a chair, stood on it, and crushed the tiny microphone with her thumb. "Now it’s clean."

She jumped down and looked at me.

"Okay. We’re here. When does the internship start back up?"

"Monday," I said, checking my phone. "Mr. Sato expects me at 0800 hours. 'Phase Two Orientation'."

"That gives us forty-eight hours to prep," Emily said. She unzipped her tech bag and started setting up a mobile server on the tiny kitchen table. "I need to calibrate your Ghost Drive to the local network. And we need to map the building."

I watched her work. She was in her element. The country calm was gone, replaced by a sharp, urban intensity. She was Chicago Emily now.

I walked over and wrapped my arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder.

"Thank you," I whispered.

She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She leaned back against me.

"For what?"

"For coming. For checking for bugs. For being my tether."

She turned in my arms, her hazel eyes serious.

"We’re balancing the scales, V. Remember what Misty said. A soul for a soul. We’re going to get Judy back. Or at least... her story."

I touched the port behind my ear.

"Monday," I said. "We go to work."

Monday Morning.

Arasaka Tower loomed over the financial district like a monolith. It was black glass and red neon, piercing the clouds.

I stood at the base, looking up. My stomach churned.

I wasn't just an intern anymore. I was a Trojan Horse.

"Check one, check two," Emily’s voice crackled in my ear. She had given me a microscopic comms bud that sat deep in my ear canal.

"Loud and clear," I murmured, adjusting my collar. I was wearing the corporate tunic again. I looked the part.

"I’m set up at the apartment," Emily said. "I’m monitoring your vitals and your connection stability. If your heart rate spikes, I’ll play soothing jazz."

"Please don't."

"Remember the plan," she said. "Don't force the download. Be natural. Paint the pretty pictures. Wait for the handshake signal. Sip the data. Don't gulp."

"Sip, don't gulp," I repeated.

I took a deep breath. I touched the Valentino charm in my pocket.

"Going in," I said.

I walked through the revolving doors and into the lobby. The air was cool and smelled of expensive perfume and ozone.

"ID, please," the security guard drone buzzed.

I held up my wrist. Beep.

"Welcome back, Miss Wheeler," the drone chirped. "Mr. Sato is expecting you on Level 42."

I stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, sealing me in.

I watched the floor numbers tick up.

10... 20... 30...

I closed my eyes. I pictured the empty drive in my head. A blank grave waiting for a name.

42.

The doors opened.

"Valerie!" Mr. Sato was standing there, arms spread wide, a shark-like smile on his face. "Welcome back to the family."

I stepped out, smiling back.

"It’s good to be back, sir."

Let the heist begin.

Chapter Text

My new "office" was a trap.

It was a glass-walled cube suspended in the center of the 42nd floor atrium. Mr. Sato called it "The Spotlight." He wanted the other departments to see the "synthesis of organic and digital art" in real-time.

I called it the Fishbowl.

There was zero privacy. Every executive walking to the elevator could look in and see me. Every security drone buzzing by could scan my screen.

"This is a nightmare," I muttered, adjusting my headset. I was ostensibly listening to classical music while I worked. In reality, I was listening to Emily typing furiously three miles away in our apartment.

"It’s designed to keep you honest," Emily’s voice whispered in my ear. "Panopticon theory. If you think you’re always being watched, you behave."

"I am always being watched," I whispered back, picking up my stylus. "Sato is watching. The cameras are watching. And Kael is watching."

Kael.

My nemesis from the Academy had somehow snagged an internship here too, though he wasn't in the Spotlight. He was in a shared cubicle farm down the hall, doing grunt work—generating background textures for marketing holograms.

Every time he walked past my glass box to get coffee, he glared. His silver eyes tracked my every move.

"Focus," Emily said. "I’ve tunneled through the HVAC maintenance port. I have a clean line to the archive. We’re looking for File 77-B: Final Autopsy. It’s big. If you download it, your painting speed is going to drop by 40%. It’ll look like you’re lagging."

"I can fake a contemplative artist moment," I said. "Staring at the canvas, waiting for inspiration."

"Okay," Emily said. "Initiating The Sip. Don't blink."

I stared at the tablet. On the screen was a portrait of Saburo Arasaka’s great-grandfather. I held my stylus over his eye, perfectly still.

Thump.

I felt the weight hit the back of my skull. The Ghost Drive engaged. It was a cold, heavy sensation, like swallowing an ice cube whole.

Downloading... 12%...

My hand froze. My eyes lost focus on the real world as the data streamed into the hidden partition. To an observer, I looked like I was zoning out.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone was knocking on the glass.

I jolted, the connection wavering. I looked up.

Kael was standing there, leaning against the glass wall, smirking. He pointed to his wrist.

I tapped my headset, turning off the noise cancellation (but keeping the line to Emily open).

"Can I help you, Kael?" I asked, my voice cool.

"You’ve been staring at Saburo’s left nostril for fifteen minutes," Kael said, his voice muffled slightly by the glass. "Productivity metrics are down, Wheeler. Sato tracks keystrokes, you know."

"I’m conceptualizing," I lied, keeping my hand steady. "It’s called 'thought.' You should try it sometime."

Kael chuckled and walked into the office uninvited. He stood behind me, looking at my screen.

"It doesn't look like thought," he whispered, leaning close. "It looks like latency. It looks like your fancy neural processor is glitching."

He reached out and tapped the performance monitor on the corner of my desk. It showed my CPU usage spiking to 99%, but my output at 0%.

"Weird," Kael mused. "Your brain is running a marathon, but your hand isn't moving. What are you doing, V? Mining crypto on company time?"

My heart slammed against my ribs. If he reported this to IT, they would run a diagnostic. They would find the partition.

"Emily," I sub-vocalized. "Problem."

"I hear him," Emily’s voice was tight. "He’s sniffing around. I need two minutes to finish the transfer."

"I don't have two minutes," I whispered.

I spun my chair around to face Kael. "Get out of my office."

"Or what?" Kael sneered. "You’re the Golden Child, sure. But Arasaka hates inefficiency. If I tell Sato that his star intern is stealing processing power for personal projects... you’ll be out on the street by lunch. And I’ll have your office."

He pulled out his datapad. "Maybe I should send that memo now."

He had me. He held the gun.

"Em," I pleaded internally. "Give me something. Anything."

"Working on it," Emily said. "I’m back-tracing his user ID. Give me ten seconds. Keep him talking."

"You really want this office, Kael?" I asked, standing up. I tried to channel Rita’s intimidation tactics. "It’s a fishbowl. You can't hide in here."

"I have nothing to hide," Kael said smoothly. "Unlike you. You’re a fraud, Wheeler. 'Organic Art.' Please. You’re just a girl with a lucky chip."

"Got him," Emily’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Oh, this is rich. This is delicious."

"What?" I thought.

"Kael’s portfolio," Emily said fast. "He claims he writes his own fractal code, right? He’s lying. I just checked his workstation logs. He’s using a banned open-source AI called 'Dream-Weaver' to generate his base layers. He’s just copy-pasting code from the Net and signing his name on it. That’s an immediate termination offense under Arasaka copyright policy."

I felt a slow, cold smile spread across my face.

I sat back down on the edge of my desk, crossing my arms. I looked at Kael.

"Go ahead," I said softly. "Send the memo."

Kael blinked. He hovered his thumb over the 'Send' button. "You think I won't?"

"I think you should check your own logs first," I said, channeling Mr. Sato’s icy demeanor. "Specifically, the import history for 'Dream-Weaver.exe'."

Kael froze. His silver eyes widened, the smugness vanishing instantly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered.

"Arasaka Section 4, Paragraph 2," I recited, thanks to Emily feeding me the lines. "Use of unauthorized third-party AI generation in proprietary assets is classified as corporate espionage and plagiarism. Termination is mandatory. Legal action is likely."

I stepped closer to him.

"You’re not coding, Kael. You’re tracing. And you’re doing it on their servers."

Kael lowered his datapad. He looked terrified.

"How... how did you..."

"I have a very expensive processor," I tapped the port behind my ear. "And I see everything. Including frauds."

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper.

"So here is the deal. You are going to walk out of my office. You are going to go back to your cubicle. And you are going to generate your textures manually. And if you ever come in here and look at my performance monitor again... I forward your logs to Legal."

Kael stood there, shaking. He looked at the glass walls. He realized he was the one in the trap.

"Understood," he whispered.

"Good," I said. "Close the door on your way out."

He turned and practically ran out of the office.

I slumped back into my chair, letting out a shaky breath.

"Remind me never to piss you off," Emily said in my ear. "That was cold, V."

"That was survival," I muttered. "Status?"

"Download complete," Emily announced. "File secured. The Autopsy is in the Ghost Drive. You’re carrying the body, V."

I touched the back of my head. It felt heavier.

"Disconnecting," I said. "I need to actually paint something before Sato walks by."

"Copy that. I’ll start decrypting the file. V... are you okay?"

I looked through the glass wall. I saw Kael in his cubicle, head in his hands, furiously typing code from scratch.

"Yeah," I said, picking up my stylus. "I think I’m getting the hang of corporate life."

"That’s what I’m afraid of," Emily murmured.

I turned back to the portrait of the dead Arasaka ancestor. I painted a gleam in his eye.

One secret buried. A thousand more to go.

The file was encrypted with a "Black Ice" grade cipher, but Emily cut through it like a blowtorch through butter.

We were back in the bunker—our tiny, concrete apartment. The only light came from the wall of monitors Emily had set up. The air conditioner rattled, fighting a losing battle against the heat generated by the servers.

"Okay," Emily said, her voice tight. "I’ve stripped the final layer. This is it. File 77-B: Final Pathology Report."

She hovered her finger over the enter key. She looked at me.

"You don't have to read this, V. I can summarize it. You don't need the images."

"I’m carrying her in my head," I said, sitting on the edge of the desk, clutching a cold mug of coffee. "I need to see what he did to her."

Emily nodded and hit the key.

The screen filled with text. It was clinical. Sterile. The font was standard Arasaka Gothic.

SUBJECT: ALVAREZ, JUDY

AGE: 13

DATE OF TERMINATION: NOV 12, 2070

CAUSE OF DEATH: CATASTROPHIC CEREBRAL HEMORRHAGE / SYNAPTIC BURNOUT.

I read the summary. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a "failed experiment" in the sense that something went wrong. It was a failed experiment because the subject wasn't strong enough.

“Subject was subjected to ‘Soulkiller’ Prototype V.04. Objective: To imprint a digitized personality construct onto a biological host. Subject displayed initial neuro-plasticity, but rejected the construct at 85% integration. The rejection resulted in a cascade failure of the temporal lobe.”

"They were trying to overwrite her," Emily whispered, horrified. "They weren't trying to upload her mind to a computer. They were trying to download a computer into her mind. They wanted a human vessel for an AI."

I felt bile rise in my throat. Judy. My Judy. The girl who loved tech. They used her own gift—her "tech-empathy"—to try and hollow her out and wear her like a suit.

"Who?" I asked. "Who authorized the overload? The report says the safety protocols were overridden manually."

Emily scrolled down to the bottom of the document. To the digital signature authorizing the procedure.

My heart stopped. The room seemed to tilt.

AUTHORIZED BY: KEIJI SATO

PROJECT LEAD: NEURAL SYNTHESIS DIVISION

"Sato," I breathed.

The man who hired me. The man who complimented my "synthesis." The man who watched me through the glass walls of the Fishbowl with that shark-like smile.

"He was there," Emily said, her voice shaking with rage. "He didn't just work there, V. He ran the program. He pushed the button that fried her brain."

The pieces of the puzzle slammed together in my mind, forming a picture so ugly I wanted to scream.

"That’s why he hired me," I said, standing up and pacing the small room. "It wasn't for my art. It wasn't for the restoration project."

I touched the neural port behind my ear.

"He saw the way I use the processor. He saw how I pour emotion into the digital space. He called it 'Synthesis.' He told me I had 'potential.'"

I stopped and looked at Emily.

"He’s not grooming me for an executive suite, Em. He’s grooming me for the chair. He wants to finish Experiment 77-B. He thinks I’m the one who can survive the download."

Emily stood up, knocking her chair over. "We’re leaving. Now. Pack the drives. We’re going back to Vermont tonight."

"No," I said.

"V, he’s a murderer! He’s planning to lobotomize you!"

"If I run," I said, my voice turning cold, "he wins. He’ll just find another 'potential' subject. Another kid. Another Judy."

I looked at the screen—at the signature of the man who killed the love of my other life.

"Misty said I was the Chariot," I whispered. "The Chariot doesn't run."

I turned to Emily. I felt a strange calm settle over me. It was the calm of a soldier who finally sees the enemy clearly.

"The trap is set," I said. "He thinks I’m a naive artist dazzled by the money. He thinks I’m walking blindly into his lab."

I touched the Valentino charm around my neck.

"So let’s walk in. Let’s let him think he has me. And when he tries to upload his monster into my head... we’re going to upload a virus into his."

"V," Emily warned. "This is dangerous. You’re playing with your own sanity."

"I have a Ghost Drive," I said. "I have you. And I have Judy."

I picked up my bag.

"He wants a test subject? Fine. I’ll be the best test subject he’s ever had. Until I burn his tower down."

The Next Morning.

Arasaka Tower was bustling. Drones buzzed overhead. Interns rushed by with coffees.

I walked into the lobby. I felt different today. Yesterday, I was an impostor. Today, I was a predator.

I took the elevator to the 42nd floor. I walked past the security checkpoints, my heart rate steady.

Mr. Sato was standing in my glass office, examining the work I had done yesterday.

"Good morning, Valerie," he said, turning to face me. He looked fatherly. Kind.

I looked at his hands. Manicured. Clean.

I wondered if he washed them after he killed a thirteen-year-old girl.

"Good morning, Mr. Sato," I said, putting my bag down. I smiled. It was a perfect, practiced smile. "I had some ideas about the new project. I think I can push the integration further."

Sato’s eyes lit up. "Oh? You’re feeling ambitious?"

"I want to see what this processor can really do," I said, stepping closer to him. "I feel like I’m barely scratching the surface. I want to know... how deep the connection can go."

Sato smiled. It was the smile of a scientist looking at a particularly interesting lab rat.

"I’m glad to hear that, Valerie," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I have a special project in mind for the end of the summer. Something... revolutionary. I think you are finally ready for it."

"I can't wait," I lied.

He walked out of the office.

I sat down in my chair. I put on my headset.

"He took the bait," I whispered to the empty air.

"I heard him," Emily’s voice replied in my ear. "He’s moving up the timeline. 'End of summer.' That gives us three weeks."

"Three weeks to map the entire server," I said, picking up my stylus. "Three weeks to find where he keeps the prototype."

I looked at the blank canvas on my screen. I selected the color red. Deep, arterial red.

"Let’s get to work."

Chapter Text

The headaches started as a low hum, like a fluorescent light buzzing in a quiet room. By the second week of "Phase Two," they felt like a railroad spike being driven into my temple.

Mr. Sato had escalated the testing. He wasn't asking me to restore paintings anymore. He was feeding me raw, uncompiled sensory data—"Braindance fragments," he called them—and asking me to interpret them onto the canvas.

"Focus, Valerie," Sato’s voice drifted through the intercom of the Spotlight. "Don't just see the color. Feel the temperature. Feel the intention."

I gripped the stylus. My hand—the one controlled by the processor—was steady. But my other hand was gripping the edge of the desk so hard my fingernails were cracking.

The data stream hit me. Rage. Cold metal. The smell of ozone.

I slashed red across the digital canvas. Then black. Then a jagged burst of white.

Drip.

A drop of bright crimson hit the pristine white surface of my desk.

I blinked, touching my upper lip. My fingers came away wet.

"Subject is exhibiting minor vascular stress," I heard Sato say to someone else in the monitoring booth. "Cortisol levels are elevated. Proceed with the next packet."

"Sir," I said, my voice sounding tinny in my own ears. "I need a minute. Visual artifacts. I’m seeing... static."

"Push through it," Sato commanded. "The artifacting is just your biological brain struggling to keep up with the processor. Let the chip lead."

I gritted my teeth. Let the chip lead.

The problem wasn't the chip. The problem was the stowaway.

The Ghost Drive—the partition holding Judy’s corrupted autopsy file—was heating up. It pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. Every time Sato forced high-bandwidth data into my head, the walls of Emily's partition thinned. The dead girl's data was leaking.

"V?" Emily’s voice in my ear was worried. "Your vitals are spiking. Temperature is 101. You’re cooking, V. Get out of there."

"I can't," I whispered. "He's watching."

I looked at the screen. The red slash I had just painted... it wasn't just paint. It moved. It looked like hair.

Green hair.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Clear the buffer," I muttered to myself. "Clear the buffer."

When I opened my eyes, the screen was just digital paint again.

That night, the apartment felt like a centrifuge.

I stumbled through the door and went straight to the bathroom sink. I turned the water on cold, splashing it onto my burning face. The water turned pink as it washed away the dried blood from my nose.

I gripped the porcelain, staring into the mirror.

My eyes were bloodshot. The skin around my neural port was angry and inflamed.

"You look like shit, Valerie ."

I froze.

The voice was soft. Raspy. Teasing.

I looked into the mirror.

Standing behind me, leaning against the shower door, was a girl.

She wasn't a ghost. She wasn't transparent. She looked as real as the tiles on the wall. She was wearing grey techie overalls with one strap undone. Her hair was a shaved undercut, dyed a brilliant, toxic green on one side. She had a rose tattoo on her neck.

She was looking at me with big, sad brown eyes.

"Judy," I whispered.

"Hey, V," the reflection said. She crossed her arms. "You’re running hot. You’re gonna burn out your synapses if you keep letting him poke around in there."

I spun around.

The bathroom was empty.

I spun back to the mirror. She was still there in the reflection, watching me.

"You’re not real," I said, my voice trembling. "You’re a glitch. You’re corrupted data from the drive."

"Am I?" Hallucination-Judy tilted her head. "Misty said we’re soulmates in 98% of the timelines. Maybe I’m just... bleeding through. The walls between worlds are getting thin, calabacita."

Calabacita. Little pumpkin.

I had never heard that word before. I didn't speak Spanish. How did my brain know that word?

"Get out of my head," I pleaded, pressing my palms against my temples.

"I can't," Judy said sadly. "You’re the one holding onto me. You’re the one who stole my skeleton."

She reached out in the mirror, placing her hand against the glass from the inside.

"He killed me, V. And he’s gonna kill you too. The Chariot is fast, but it crashes if you fall asleep at the wheel."

"V!"

The bathroom door burst open. The mirror shattered—not physically, but the image fractured. Judy vanished.

Emily stood in the doorway, looking terrified. She had her datapad in her hand.

"Who were you talking to?" Emily asked. "I heard voices."

I sank to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. I was shaking uncontrollably.

"Her," I choked out. "I saw her, Em. I saw the Prime Timeline. She was right there."

Emily dropped to her knees beside me. She grabbed her diagnostic tool and jammed the cable into my port without asking.

She stared at the readout on her pad. Her face went pale.

"Shit," she hissed. "The partition integrity is down to 60%. The data is bleeding into your visual cortex. Your brain is trying to interpret the corrupted files as sensory input. You’re hallucinating her memories. Or... something worse."

"She spoke to me," I whispered. "She called me calabacita."

Emily froze. She looked at me, pain flashing in her eyes. It was a specific kind of pain—the pain of realizing your girlfriend is being haunted by the love of her other life.

"We have to offload the data," Emily said urgently. "Tonight. We can't wait for the end of the summer. If that partition breaks, her death trauma overwrites your personality. You’ll flatline."

"We can't," I argued, grabbing Emily’s arm. "We don't have the key yet. We have the autopsy, but we don't have the why. We don't have the proof that Sato authorized it personally to create a weapon. If we dump the data now, we lose the smoking gun."

"I don't care about the gun!" Emily yelled. "I care about you! I’m not losing you to a ghost!"

"I can hold it," I insisted, struggling to stand up. "I just need... I need you to patch it. Reinforce the code. Give me a few more days."

"V..."

"Please, Em. I saw her. She told me he’s going to kill me. She’s warning me. I have to finish this."

Emily looked at me. She saw the blood on my shirt. She saw the madness creeping into my eyes.

She hated it. But she was a Mox. She understood the fight.

"Fine," she said, her voice shaking. "I’ll write a patch. I’ll double the encryption walls. But V... if you start hearing her voice when you're awake? If you start losing time? We pull the plug. No arguments."

"Deal," I said.

Emily guided me out of the bathroom and into bed. She sat up all night, typing furiously, the blue light of her screen washing over us.

I tried to sleep. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw green hair. I saw a flooded town. I heard the hum of a server room.

And I felt a phantom hand holding mine. Not Emily’s hand.

Just a few more days, I thought, drifting into a fever dream. Just hold on.

The elevator to the sub-basement didn't have numbers. It just had a single, glowing red bio-hazard symbol.

Mr. Sato stood next to me, humming a piece of classical music. He looked like a man on his way to the opera, not a man taking his twenty-year-old intern to a secret underground laboratory.

"You are trembling, Valerie," Sato observed, glancing at my hands.

"Anticipation, sir," I lied. My hands were shaking because the closer we got to the bottom, the hotter the port behind my ear felt. The Ghost Drive was vibrating, reacting to the proximity of... something.

"Good," Sato smiled. "Fear is just data. Process it."

The doors slid open.

The air hit me first. It was freezing—zero degrees, kept cold to cool the massive server banks. It smelled of ozone and death.

The room was a cavern of black glass and blinking blue lights. In the center sat a single chair. It wasn't an office chair. It was a medical restraint chair, modified with thick cables and a heavy neural-interface helmet.

I knew this chair. I had seen it in the grainy medical logs Emily stole.

This is where she died.

"Welcome to the Deep Dive," Sato said, gesturing to the chair. "This is the Neural Synthesis Engine. It connects directly to the raw data stream of the Arasaka global network. No buffers. No filters. Just you and the ocean."

"And the objective?" I asked, my voice echoing in the cold room.

"Survival," Sato said simply. "And creation. I want you to paint the network, Valerie. I want you to translate the feeling of pure data into image. If you can withstand the pressure... you will be the first human to ever truly see the machine."

The first to survive, he meant.

"V," Emily’s voice crackled in my ear, barely audible over the hum of the servers. "I’m losing your signal. The shielding down here is thick. If you go into that chair, I can't pull you out. You’re on your own."

"I know," I tapped the comms once. Acknowledged.

I walked toward the chair. Every step felt heavy.

I sat down. The metal was freezing against my back. Sato began strapping my wrists.

"Just a precaution," he soothed. "The seizure response can be violent."

He lowered the heavy helmet over my head. Darkness.

Then, the click of the jack sliding into my port.

CRACK.

There was no transition. One second I was in a cold room; the next, I was drowning in light.

It wasn't a screen. It wasn't VR. I was in it.

I was floating in a void of blinding white static. Data roared around me like a hurricane—stock prices, surveillance feeds, encrypted comms, weather patterns. It was too loud. It was too bright. It was tearing me apart.

Pain.

My synapses fired all at once. I felt my physical body thrashing in the chair, miles away.

"Focus!" Sato’s voice boomed from the sky like a god. "Don't fight the current! Synthesize!"

I couldn't. It was crushing me. I felt my identity fragmenting. Who was I? Valerie? V? The Chariot?

I was dissolving.

“Grab my hand, calabacita.”

The voice cut through the static. Clear. calm.

I looked up.

Standing in the hurricane, unaffected by the wind, was Judy Alvarez.

She looked exactly like the file photo, but older—my age. She wore a Mox tank top and tech-goggles pushed up on her forehead. Her green hair shone like a beacon in the white void.

She reached out a hand. Her fingers were pixelated at the edges, dissolving into binary and reforming.

"Judy?" I screamed—or thought I screamed.

"Come on, V," she smiled, a sad, crooked smile. "I know the way. I mapped this basement the hard way."

I reached out. I grabbed her hand.

It felt... warm. An impossible warmth in the digital ice.

The second our hands touched, the static cleared. The white hurricane vanished.

We were standing in a hallway. It looked like the hallway of the sub-basement, but constructed of neon lines and code.

"Resonance," Judy said, looking around. "You brought my ghost back to the scene of the crime. Bold move."

"Is this real?" I asked, looking at my own hands. They were glowing silver.

"Define real," Judy shrugged. "You’re in the subnet. I’m a construct generated by your Ghost Drive interacting with the local server memory. I’m basically a really advanced hallucination. But I know where he keeps the skeletons."

She pointed down the neon hallway.

"Sector 4. That’s where he locked me away. That’s where he keeps the Weaponization Protocols."

"Lead the way," I said.

We ran.

The subnet tried to stop us. Firewalls manifested as walls of black ice. Security daemons materialized as wolves made of jagged glass.

"Watch your left!" Judy yelled.

I didn't fight with a gun. I fought with art.

I raised my hand—my processor humming—and drew. I slashed a line of white light through the air, and it became a shield. I drew a door in the Black Ice, and it opened.

"Nice," Judy grinned. "Digital graffiti."

We reached a heavy, vaulted door marked PROJECT SOULKILLER: LEGACY.

"I can't open this," Judy said, stepping back. Her avatar flickered. "My clearance was revoked when... well, when I died."

She looked at me.

"You have to do it, V. You’re the employee. You have the access."

I stepped up to the door. I placed my glowing silver hand on the panel.

"Sato wants me to paint," I whispered. "So let’s paint."

I pushed my consciousness into the lock. I didn't try to hack it. I tried to overload it with color. I flooded the system with raw, chaotic sensory data—the smell of the quarry in Vermont, the taste of Emily’s lips, the sound of The Mox playing loud punk rock.

The system choked on the humanity. The lock turned green.

ACCESS GRANTED.

The door swung open.

Inside wasn't a room. It was a single file floating in the void.

MEMO: SATO TO ARASAKA BOARD

SUBJECT: DISPOSAL OF SUBJECT 77-B

“The girl is useless. Her rejection of the construct proves that unwilling subjects are inefficient. I recommend liquidation. However, the failure provided excellent data. For the next phase, we need a subject who enters the machine willingly. An artist, perhaps. Someone who craves the connection.”

There it was. The smoking gun. He didn't just kill her. He planned to kill me before he even met me.

"Grab it," Judy whispered. She was fading now, her legs turning into mist. "My signal is weak here, V. I can't hold on."

I reached out and grabbed the file. I shoved it into the Ghost Drive, right next to Judy’s autopsy.

"I got it," I said. "Judy?"

I turned. She was almost gone. Just a pair of sad eyes and a splash of green hair.

"You’re a good driver, V," she whispered. "Tell Emily... tell her she has good taste."

"Judy, wait!"

She smiled one last time.

“Wake up.”

GASP.

I slammed back into my body.

The cold air of the lab burned my lungs. I ripped the helmet off, vomiting bile onto the sterile floor.

"Valerie!"

Sato was there, unstrapping me. He looked ecstatic.

"You did it! You were in for ten minutes! The telemetry... it was beautiful. Chaotic, but beautiful."

He grabbed my face, forcing me to look at him.

"What did you see?" he demanded. "Did you see the infinite?"

I wiped my mouth. My head was splitting open. The Ghost Drive felt like a lead weight in my skull, heavy with the stolen file.

I looked at Sato. I saw the murderer beneath the suit.

"I saw..." I rasped. "I saw green."

Sato frowned. "Green? There is no green in the raw data stream."

"There is now," I whispered.

I stood up, my legs shaking.

"I need to go home, sir. I need to... process the inspiration."

Sato stepped back, looking at me with awe. "Of course. Go. Rest. Tomorrow, we begin the final phase."

"Yes," I said, stumbling toward the elevator. "Tomorrow."

I got into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby.

As the doors closed, hiding Sato’s face, I touched my ear comm.

"Em?"

Static. Then, a frantic voice.

"V! I thought I lost you! Your vitals flatlined for three seconds!"

"I’m out," I said, leaning against the elevator wall, clutching the Valentino charm. "I saw her, Em. She got us in."

"You got the file?"

"I got it. I have the proof. Sato planned it all."

"Okay," Emily said. Her voice went hard. "Get back to the apartment. We’re done. We’re burning this city down."

I watched the floor numbers tick down.

I was alive. I had the gun.

And for a brief, shining moment in the dark, I had held the hand of the girl I was never supposed to meet.

Goodbye, Calabacita.

The elevator pinged. Lobby.

I walked out into the Boston night. It was raining.

I let the rain wash the sweat off my face.

It was time to go to war.

Chapter Text

The door to the apartment slammed shut, locking out the rain, the neon, and the Arasaka drones.

I didn't walk in; I collapsed in. My legs gave out the second we crossed the threshold.

"I got you," Emily gasped, catching me before I hit the concrete.

She dragged me to the mattress on the floor, her hands shaking as she pulled off my wet jacket. She was in full panic mode—techie mode. She grabbed her datapad, jamming the diagnostic cable into my neck port with trembling fingers.

"Your temp is 103," she rattled off, her voice high and tight. "Synaptic firing rate is erratic. You’re shaking, V. Talk to me. Is the partition holding? Is Judy’s file leaking?"

She was frantic. She was terrified. She was reaching for a damp cloth to wipe the sweat and rain from my face, her eyes darting between my dilated pupils and her screen.

"I’m stabilizing the neural load," she muttered, tapping furiously. "I need to give you a sedative. I need to—"

I reached up and grabbed her wrists.

"Stop," I rasped.

"I can't stop!" she cried, pulling against my grip. tears were streaming down her face now, mixing with the rain on her cheeks. "You flatlined, V! For three seconds, you were gone! I watched your heart stop on my monitor! You can't just—"

"Emily," I said, louder this time. "Look at me."

She froze. She looked down at me, her chest heaving, her hazel eyes wide with terror. She looked like she was waiting for me to break, or to disappear, or to turn into someone else.

"I’m here," I whispered. "I’m back. I’m V."

"Are you?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "You saw her. You saw the soulmate. The one you’re supposed to be with. The one the universe wants you with."

She looked away, biting her lip.

"Did you... did you want to stay there? With her?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It broke my heart. She thought she was the consolation prize. She thought she was just the Glitch keeping the seat warm for the real protagonist.

I sat up, ignoring the throbbing pain in my head. I took her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me.

"I saw her," I admitted. "She was amazing. She was brave. She saved me."

Emily flinched, looking down.

"But," I continued, pressing my forehead against hers. "She told me something before I left. She told me the driver has good taste."

Emily blinked, confusion warring with the sadness. "What?"

"I touched the infinite, Em," I whispered. "I saw the raw data of the universe. I saw the timeline where I’m with her. And you know what I felt?"

I moved my hands to her shoulders, gripping her tight, grounding her.

"I felt lonely. Because you weren't there."

Emily’s breath hitched. She stared at me, stunned.

"Misty said we’re impossible," I said, my voice gaining strength. "She said you’re a glitch. A mistake in the math."

I leaned back to look her dead in the eye.

"Well, I love the mistake. I love the glitch. I don't want the perfect timeline, Emily. I don't want the destiny written in the stars. I want the messy, broken, impossible one. I want the one where we freeze in a Vermont attic. I want the one where we steal files to save a ghost. I want this."

I took a deep breath, letting the truth pour out of me, raw and unfiltered.

"I love you. Not because you’re here. Not because you’re my tether. I love you. Every piece of code, every scar, every bad joke. I choose you, Emily. Over Judy. Over Arasaka. Over everything."

Emily stared at me. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. She looked shocked—like she had braced herself for a breakup and got a proposal instead.

She searched my eyes. She was looking for the lie. She was looking for the data corruption.

But all she found was me.

"You... you choose me?" she whispered, her voice tiny.

"Every single time," I promised. "In every single timeline, if I have a say... it’s you."

The dam broke.

Emily let out a sob—a sound of pure, unadulterated relief—and crashed into me. She kissed me, and it wasn't like the other kisses. It wasn't desperate or fearful. It was a claim. It was an answer.

I felt it in every fiber of my being. I felt her love washing over me, hotter than the neural port, brighter than the subnet. It burned away the ghost of Judy. It burned away the fear of Sato.

We fell back onto the mattress, tangled together, wet clothes and wires and all.

"I love you," she murmured against my skin, over and over, like she was rewriting my code. "I love you, V."

"I know," I whispered, holding her tight. "I know."

The rain hammered against the window. The servers hummed in the corner. We were fugitives. We were in danger. We had a target on our backs.

But lying there, holding the girl who broke reality to find me, I knew one thing for sure.

The Glitch wasn't an error. It was the best thing that ever happened to the system.

The morning sun filtered through the grime of the apartment window, hitting the tangled mess of sheets where Emily and I lay.

I woke up with a headache, but it wasn't the sharp, stabbing pain of the data overload. It was a dull throb—the feeling of a bruise beginning to heal.

I looked at Emily. She was asleep, her arm thrown over her eyes, her breathing deep and steady. The "Glitch" who had rewired reality to find me.

I reached for my comms unit on the bedside table. I popped the back panel off, revealing the small hidden slot where I kept the lucky charm Jackie had given me.

Next to the golden cross was a sliver of old-school cardstock. A business card.

REGINA JONES

Media / Information / Fixer

Night City - Boston - Tokyo

On the back, in Jackie’s scrawled handwriting: “She has a cyber-eye for the truth. Tell her J.W. sent you.”

I nudged Emily awake.

"Em," I whispered. "It’s time to take out the trash."

We packed everything. Not just the tech gear, but the toothbrush, the half-empty shampoo bottle, the coffee mugs. We scrubbed the apartment. Emily ran a magnetic degausser over every surface to kill any digital fingerprints.

"We’re not coming back," Emily stated, zipping up her duffel bag. It wasn't a question.

"No," I said, looking at the empty concrete box. "I’m done with towers. I’m done with Boston."

We carried our bags down to Rita’s hatchback, parked in the alley. The city was waking up—sirens wailing, steam rising from the vents. It felt hostile now. The buildings felt like teeth waiting to snap shut.

I sat in the passenger seat. Emily drove.

"Where’s the meet?" she asked, putting the car in gear.

"The Fens," I said, reading the encrypted coordinates Regina had sent back after I pinged her. "Old flooded district. Under the ruins of Fenway Park."

"Classy," Emily muttered. "Regina likes her drama."

The Fens was a "No-Go Zone." The seawalls had failed decades ago, turning the historic neighborhood into a swamp of brackish water and crumbling brick.

We parked the car on a cracked overpass and walked down a rusting metal staircase into the fog. The air smelled of salt and rot.

"Keep your hand on the taser," Emily whispered, scanning the shadows with her own tech-goggles. "Thermal signatures ahead. Homeless camp to the left. Scavengers to the right."

"We’re not here for them," I said, clutching the Valentino charm.

We reached the rendezvous point: the dug-out of the old stadium. The field was a lake of black water, reflecting the grey sky.

Standing on the pitcher's mound—which was now a small island connected by a plank walkway—was a woman.

She wore a long trench coat and an eye-patch over her left eye. As we got closer, I saw it wasn't a patch—it was a high-end cyber-optic implant, glowing a faint, menacing red.

Regina Jones.

"You’re the artist," Regina said. Her voice was smoke and gravel. She didn't look at me; she was watching the perimeter. "And you brought a tail."

"She’s my tech," I said, stepping onto the mound. "And she’s the reason I’m alive."

Regina turned her cyber-eye on Emily. It whirred softly as it zoomed in.

"Jackie said you were good people," Regina said. "He didn't say you were kids."

"We grew up fast," I said.

I reached behind my ear.

"Emily, extract it."

Emily pulled a blank data shard from her pocket. She jacked a cable into the back of my neck, then into the shard.

"Initializing dump," Emily murmured. "Ghost Drive partition... exporting."

I gasped. It felt like someone was pulling a fishhook out of my brain. The pressure, the heat, the constant buzzing of Judy’s corrupted file—it all rushed out of me, flowing down the wire.

For a second, I felt a phantom touch—a cold hand squeezing mine.

Goodbye, V.

Then, it was gone.

My head felt light. Empty. Silent.

"Done," Emily said, pulling the cable. She handed the shard to me.

I looked at the small piece of plastic. It contained a murder. It contained a cover-up. It contained a soul.

I handed it to Regina.

Regina took it. She slotted it into a reader on her belt. She watched the data scroll across her internal HUD.

Her visible eye widened. Her cyber-eye flickered rapidly.

"Mother of God," she whispered. "Sato. This... this is a smoking crater. Project Soulkiller. Attempted forced engrammatic overlay on a minor."

She looked up at me, and for the first time, she looked scared.

"Do you know what you just handed me? This isn't just a story. This is a declaration of war against the Neural Synthesis Division."

"Can you run it?" I asked.

Regina pocketed the shard. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face.

"Run it? Honey, I’m going to broadcast it on every independent frequency from here to Night City. By tomorrow morning, Sato’s face is going to be plastered on every news feed labeled 'Child Killer'. His stock is going to zero. His career is over."

She reached into her coat and pulled out a burner phone.

"Take this. One-time use. If you need to disappear, call the number stored in it. But my advice? Get out of the blast radius. Go home. Lock the doors."

"We’re way ahead of you," Emily said.

"Good luck, Mox," Regina said, tipping an imaginary hat. "Watch the news at six."

She turned and vanished into the fog, a ghost with a story to tell.

We ran back to the car.

Emily slammed the door shut and keyed the ignition. The engine sputtered, then roared to life.

"Go," I said. "Just drive."

Emily floored it. We peeled out of the Fens, tires screeching on the wet pavement.

We hit the highway—Interstate 93 North.

I watched the skyline of Boston recede in the side mirror. The Arasaka Tower stood tall and black, piercing the clouds. Somewhere inside, Sato was waiting for his intern to show up. He was waiting to peel my brain apart.

He would be waiting a long time.

As we crossed the bridge, leaving the city limits, I rolled down the window. The air changed. The smog thinned. The smell of the ocean gave way to the smell of pine.

I took the burner phone Regina gave me. I took my own phone—the one Arasaka tracked.

"Pull over for a sec," I said.

Emily swerved onto the breakdown lane of the bridge.

I got out. I walked to the railing. Far below, the Mystic River churned.

I looked at my phone. I looked at the contacts. Kael. Brooks. Sato.

"I quit," I whispered.

I threw the phone. It tumbled end over end, flashing once in the sunlight before splashing into the dark water.

I got back in the car.

"It’s done," I said.

Emily looked at me. She reached over and took my hand, interlacing her fingers with mine.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

I touched the port behind my ear. It was cold. Quiet. Mine.

"I feel... light," I said. "I feel like I’m just V again."

Emily squeezed my hand. She put the car in drive.

"Let’s go home, V. I think Rita saved us some pie."

We drove north, chasing the mountains, leaving the Chariot and the Moon behind in the rearview mirror.

We were The Mox. We were the Glitch and the Artist. And we had just set the world on fire.

Now, we just had to watch it burn from the safety of our front porch.

Chapter Text

The news broke somewhere around the New Hampshire border.

We were listening to the independent radio station, the static cutting in and out as we wound through the mountains.

“…reports surfacing of a massive data leak from Arasaka’s Boston division. Allegations of unethical human experimentation… stock down four points in Asian markets… Keiji Sato, Director of Neural Synthesis, unavailable for comment…”

Emily turned the volume down, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "Regina works fast."

"Four points," I mused, watching the familiar pines of Vermont whip by. "That’s billions of credits. We just punched a giant in the nose."

"And broke his nose," Emily added.

We pulled into the driveway just as the sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the lawn. The house looked exactly the same—peeling paint, overgrown hydrangeas, the warm yellow glow of the kitchen window. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I got out of the car, stretching my stiff legs. I took a deep breath of air that didn't smell like ozone or fear.

"We made it," I whispered.

The front door flew open.

"YOU’RE BACK!"

Vanessa didn't run; she launched herself off the porch steps. I dropped my bag just in time to catch her. She was taller—had she grown in a month?—and wearing a t-shirt that said ‘Corporate Death Burger’.

"I missed you! Did you bring the robot head? Did you see the news? Rita is freaking out because she thinks Arasaka is going to drone-strike the house!"

"Breathe, Gremlin," I laughed, squeezing her tight. "No drone strikes. We’re ghosts. And no robot head, but I brought you something better."

I pulled a stash of high-end Japanese candy I’d swiped from the Arasaka breakroom out of my pocket.

"Matcha-coated cricket crunch!" Vanessa squealed. "Preem!"

Rita appeared in the doorway. She was holding a spatula like a weapon. She looked at me, then at Emily, then at the car.

"You’re alive," she stated, her shoulders dropping three inches.

"Alive and unemployed," I said, walking up the steps. "I quit, Ri. In spectacular fashion."

Rita pulled me into a hug that smelled of garlic and motor oil. "Good. I hated that job anyway. Come inside. I made lasagna. And I’m about two seconds away from drinking a whole bottle of wine."

Dinner was a celebration. The TV was on in the corner, muted, showing looping footage of Arasaka Tower surrounded by protesters. We ignored it. We were too busy eating and laughing.

I felt lighter than I had in years. The secret was out. The ghost was gone. My head was quiet.

"So," Emily said, leaning back and patting her stomach. "Now that we’ve taken down a mega-corporation and driven three hundred miles… what’s the plan for the rest of the summer?"

"Sleep," I suggested.

"Art," Rita suggested. "Non-corporate art."

"Actually," Vanessa said.

The tone of her voice stopped us all. It wasn't her usual chaotic, high-energy tone. It was… shy. Hesitant.

We all looked at her. She was poking at her lasagna, her face turning a bright, violent shade of pink.

"I have a plan," Vanessa mumbled. "Or… well… a thing."

I sat up straighter, my Big Sister Sense tingling. "What thing? Did you get suspended? Did you hack the school again?"

"No," Vanessa said, looking down. "I… I met someone."

Silence.

Rita slowly lowered her fork. Emily raised an eyebrow. I felt my jaw unhinge.

"Someone?" I repeated. "Like… a contact? A fixer?"

"A boy," Vanessa whispered.

The room went dead silent. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

"A boy," I said flatly. "You’re fifteen, Nessie. You don't meet boys. You meet homework."

"I’m almost sixteen!" she protested, looking up. "And he’s really cool, V. His name is Toby. He works at the skate park."

"Toby," Rita said the name like it was a disease. "The kid with the hair? The one who looks like he stuck his finger in a socket?"

"It’s a style!" Vanessa defended. "He plays bass in a band called Radioactive Vomit. They’re playing at the fairgrounds on Saturday. And… he asked me to go."

She looked at us with wide, pleading eyes.

"He asked me out. On a date."

I looked at Emily. Emily looked at me. She was trying not to laugh.

"V," I said to myself, rubbing my temples. "I just infiltrated a secure Arasaka facility. I just uploaded a virus to a global network. I just saw the ghost of my dead soulmate."

I looked at Vanessa.

"But this? This is terrifying."

"He’s nice!" Vanessa insisted. "He likes my goggles! He thinks I’m tech-savvy!"

"Of course he does," I muttered. "He probably wants free cable."

"Valerie," Rita warned. She turned to Vanessa. "Does he have a job? Besides… vomiting radioactively?"

"He fixes drones part-time!" Vanessa beamed.

"A mechanic," Emily mused. "That’s steady work."

"Don't encourage her," I snapped at Emily. I turned to Vanessa. "Nessie, listen. Boys in bands are trouble. I should know, I’m dating a drummer. They’re moody, they’re loud, and they smell like old shoes."

"Hey!" Emily protested. "I smell like vanilla and danger."

"I want to go," Vanessa said, crossing her arms. "I saved up my allowance. I have pepper spray. And I have the taser Emily gave me."

She looked at me, channeling every ounce of Wheeler stubbornness.

"You went to the punk shows when you were my age, V. You hung out at Molly’s. You can't lock me in a tower just because you’re scared."

I looked at her. She wasn't the little kid in the home movies anymore. She was a teenager. A teenager with thermal goggles and a crush.

I sighed, collapsing back in my chair.

"Fine," I groaned. "You can go."

Vanessa squealed. "Yes!"

"But," I added, holding up a finger. "We are chaperoning."

Vanessa’s face fell. "What? No! That’s social suicide!"

"Not hovering," Emily clarified quickly, seeing the meltdown approaching. "We’ll be… in the area. At the fairgrounds. Getting corn dogs. If Toby tries anything un-gentlemanly, V will just happen to be nearby to break his fingers."

"I will break his bass guitar," I corrected. "It’s more expensive."

Vanessa thought about it. "Okay. Fine. But you have to stay at least fifty feet away. And no sunglasses indoors, V. It’s embarrassing."

"Deal," I said.

Vanessa jumped up, grabbed her plate, and ran to the sink. "I have to text him! I have to figure out what to wear! Does black go with neon orange?"

She sprinted upstairs, thundering like a herd of elephants.

The three of us sat in the kitchen. The quiet returned.

"So," Rita said, pouring herself more wine. "Arasaka assassins or teenage romance. Which one is worse?"

"The romance," I said instantly. "At least with assassins, you can shoot back."

Emily laughed, resting her hand on my knee.

"Welcome back to the real world, V," she said. "No more saving the multiverse. Just saving your sister from bad taste in men."

I covered my face with my hands.

"Radioactive Vomit," I mumbled. "God help us."

Saturday night. The county fairgrounds were a sensory overload of fried dough, flashing lights, and screaming children.

It was the perfect cover for a stakeout.

I stood by the 'Whack-A-Mole' booth, wearing a hat pulled low (Vanessa had banned the sunglasses). I was holding a giant stuffed alien I had just won for Emily.

"Target acquired," Emily said. She was eating a massive funnel cake, watching the bandstand.

On the rickety wooden stage, Radioactive Vomit was playing. They were… loud. That was the best thing I could say about them. Toby, the bassist, was a lanky kid with neon green spikes who played with his back to the audience.

Vanessa was in the front row. She was wearing her thermal goggles on her head like a headband. She was bouncing up and down, clapping.

"He’s not even looking at her," I growled, taking a bite of Emily’s funnel cake. "He’s looking at his pedals. Is he shy or just stupid?"

"He’s focused on his art, V," Emily teased. "Like someone else I know."

"I look at you when I draw," I countered.

The song ended in a screech of feedback. Toby looked up. He scanned the crowd. His eyes landed on Vanessa.

He smiled. It was a goofy, braces-filled smile. He pointed at her, then pointed to the side of the stage.

Vanessa beamed and ran over to meet him.

"Movement," I said, tense. "They’re moving to the concession stand."

"Let them talk," Rita said, appearing beside us with three beers. "Here. Drink this. Relax. If he tries to kiss her, then you can intervene."

We watched from a safe distance (sixty feet, just to be sure).

Toby bought Vanessa a soda. They sat on a bench. They talked. Vanessa was using her hands a lot, explaining something animatedly—probably the specs of her goggles. Toby was nodding, looking genuinely interested.

"He’s listening to her," Emily noted. "That’s a point in his favor."

"He’s staring at her goggles," I pointed out. "Maybe he just wants to steal her tech."

"You are paranoid," Emily laughed.

Suddenly, a group of older kids walked by the bench. Letterman jackets. Jocks. One of them bumped into Toby, spilling his soda on his shirt.

The jock laughed, shoving Toby’s shoulder. Toby shrank back, looking scared.

Vanessa stood up.

She didn't shrink. She got right in the jock’s face. She pointed a finger at his chest. I couldn't hear what she said, but the jock took a step back. Then another.

Vanessa put her hand in her pocket—where the taser was.

The jock held up his hands and walked away quickly.

Toby looked at Vanessa like she was Wonder Woman.

I lowered my beer. A slow smile spread across my face.

"Okay," I said. "Maybe I don't need to break his fingers."

"She’s a Wheeler," Rita said proudly. "She handled it."

"She protected him," Emily observed. "That’s cute. In a terrifying, Mox kind of way."

Vanessa sat back down. Toby wiped his shirt, laughing. He reached out and took her hand.

I flinched, but I didn't move.

"Let them be," I whispered. "It’s just a hand."

We spent the rest of the night trailing them, but the panic faded. Seeing Vanessa happy, seeing her defend herself, made me realize something.

I didn't need to be the shield anymore. I just needed to be the safety net.

As the fireworks started, exploding in bursts of red and gold over the fairgrounds, Emily wrapped her arms around my waist from behind.

"See?" she whispered in my ear. "Normal problems. No data leaks. No ghosts. Just a girl and a boy and some fireworks."

I leaned back into her. I watched my little sister holding hands with a boy named Toby, her face illuminated by the explosions.

"Yeah," I said, closing my eyes and listening to the boom of the fireworks. "I could get used to this."

Chapter Text

September burned the Vermont hills with color. The maples turned violent red, the birches bright gold.

I was in the garage. We had converted it into a studio—a real one. No servers. No cooling rigs. Just canvas, turpentine, and oil paint.

I was painting the tree line. I was using a brush, not a stylus. My neural processor was quiet, just a hum in the background helping me stabilize my hand. I wasn't uploading anything. I was just making a picture.

The sound of a mag-lev engine cut through the quiet.

I froze. My hand tightened on the brush.

It wasn't the rattle of Rita’s hatchback. It was the smooth, expensive purr of a luxury sedan.

I wiped my hands on a rag and stepped out of the garage, grabbing a crowbar from the workbench on my way. Old habits.

A sleek, black Makigai MaiMai was parked in the driveway. The door opened.

I expected a suit. I expected a hitman.

Instead, an elderly woman in a severe tweed coat and a monocle stepped out. She leaned on a cane with a silver handle.

Professor Brooks.

I lowered the crowbar, but I didn't drop it.

"Professor," I said, staying near the garage door. "You’re a long way from Boston. Did you come to expel me in person?"

Brooks looked at the house, then at the garage. She looked at me—dirty jeans, paint-stained shirt, crowbar.

"You look well, Valerie," she said. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. "The country air suits you better than the filtered oxygen of the tower."

"I quit," I said. "But you probably know that. You probably know everything."

"I know you orchestrated the largest data leak in Arasaka history," Brooks said, walking slowly up the driveway. "I know you destroyed Keiji Sato’s career. I know you are currently the most wanted unemployed artist on the eastern seaboard."

She stopped a few feet away. She didn't look angry. She looked... relieved.

"I didn't come to expel you," she said. "I came to thank you."

I blinked. "Thank me?"

Brooks sighed, looking at the painting visible through the open garage door.

"May I sit?" she asked. "My hip is not what it used to be."

I pointed to a plastic lawn chair. She sat down with dignity, resting her cane against her knee.

"You asked me once why I pushed you to get the processor," Brooks began. "You asked why I sent you to Sato."

"Because you thought I had potential," I said bitterly. "Because you wanted to feed me to the machine."

"No," Brooks shook her head. "Because I knew you were the only one strong enough to break it."

She reached into her coat pocket. I tensed, grip tightening on the crowbar.

She pulled out a physical photograph. Old. Faded.

She handed it to me.

It was a picture of two women standing in front of a modest house in California. One was a younger Brooks—brown hair, no monocle. The other was a woman who looked just like her, holding a baby.

"That is my sister," Brooks said. "Esther."

I looked at the baby. The baby had a tuft of dark hair and big, curious eyes.

"And that," Brooks whispered, "is my niece. Judy."

The crowbar clattered to the driveway.

"You're... you're her aunt?"

"Esther Alvarez was my sister," Brooks said, staring at the tree line. "When she died... when Arasaka said it was an accident... I knew they were lying. I changed my name. I moved east. I infiltrated the Academy to get close to the source."

She looked at me.

"I spent ten years looking for the files. I found them, eventually. Hidden in the sub-basement. But I couldn't extract them. My neural compatibility was too low. I couldn't carry the ghost."

She tapped her own temple.

"I needed a vessel. I needed a Chariot."

"You used me," I whispered. The anger flared up, hot and bright. "You groomed me. You sent me into that room knowing what Sato would do. You knew he would try to fry my brain."

"I knew he would try," Brooks agreed. "And I knew you would survive. I saw your work, Valerie. I saw the defiance in your charcoal. I saw the love you had for your family. You were grounded in a way Judy never was. Judy was pure signal. You... you are signal and noise. You are human."

She looked up at me, her eyes wet behind the monocle.

"I aimed you like a weapon, Valerie. I am sorry for that. But I am not sorry for the result. You gave my sister justice. You gave my niece a voice."

The anger drained out of me, leaving only a hollow ache. She had played a long game. A dangerous game. And she had won.

"Sato?" I asked.

"Gone," Brooks said. "Disgraced. The Board liquidated his assets and erased his clearance. He is a ghost now. You killed him without firing a shot."

She stood up, leaning heavily on the cane.

"I am retiring," she said. "The Academy... it feels empty now. I am going back to California. To visit their graves."

She walked over to the Makigai. She opened the trunk.

"I saved some things," she said. "From Esther's estate. Arasaka tried to incinerate them, but I managed to smuggle a box out."

She pulled out a small, battered cardboard box and handed it to me.

"These belong to you now. If you are the one carrying her memory... you should have her things."

I took the box. It was light.

"Thank you," I said.

Brooks nodded. She looked at me one last time—a look of professional appraisal and personal gratitude.

"You are a great artist, Miss Wheeler. But you are a better revolutionary. Don't stop painting."

She got in the car. The engine purred. She backed out of the driveway and disappeared down the road, leaving me standing in the autumn leaves with a box of ghosts.

I carried the box into the garage. I set it on the workbench.

Emily walked in a moment later, wiping grease from her hands. She saw the box. She saw my face.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Just... closing the loop."

I opened the box.

Inside were trinkets. A soldering iron with a pink handle. A stuffed shark toy. A notebook filled with doodles of robots.

And at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper... a headset.

It was an old-school Braindance wreath. Heavy. Analog. Customized with stickers and paint markers.

On the side, written in silver marker: JUDY'S RIG.

I picked it up.

"Her tech," Emily whispered, touching the worn leather pads. "The gear she used to learn on."

I turned the headset over. On the inside band, there was a small inscription scratched into the plastic.

“Reality is just a suggestion.”

I smiled. Tears pricked my eyes, but they didn't fall.

"She would have liked you," I told Emily. "She would have loved that you hacked Arasaka with a toaster."

"I bet she would have," Emily smiled.

I put the headset on the shelf, right next to my charcoals.

It wasn't a sad artifact. It was a trophy. It was a reminder that even in the darkest timeline, the signal survives.

I picked up my paintbrush.

"What are you painting?" Emily asked, leaning against me.

I looked at the canvas. The red trees. The gold light. The future.

"Everything," I said. "I'm painting everything."

Chapter Text

The bar was packed.

Molly’s had been renamed The Wheeler House, though everyone still called it Molly’s. But the sign out front was neon pink, designed by me.

Rita was behind the bar, pouring shots with lethal efficiency. She looked happy. Tired, but happy. The mortgage was paid off. The roof didn't leak.

Vanessa—now almost eighteen—was in the corner booth with Toby. They were arguing about drone schematics. Toby had cut his hair. Vanessa had dyed hers blue. She was applying to engineering schools in the fall.

And Emily.

Emily was in the projection booth. She had bought the old Bijou theater and turned it into an indie cinema/arcade. But tonight, she was here, fixing the jukebox that someone had kicked.

I sat at the bar, sketching on a napkin.

I wasn't famous. I wasn't rich. I was a freelance illustrator for underground news networks. I used my neural processor to create anonymity masks for whistleblowers.

Regina Jones still sent me work. Sometimes, even Brooks sent me a cryptic postcard from the West Coast.

The door opened.

A cold wind blew in, smelling of snow.

I looked up.

It wasn't a customer. It was just the wind.

But for a second, in the reflection of the window, I saw her.

Green hair. Mox shirt. Smiling.

She raised a hand in a wave.

I waved back.

The reflection vanished.

Emily walked up behind me, wrapping her arms around my neck. She kissed my cheek.

"Who are you waving at?" she asked.

"Just an old friend," I said, closing my sketchbook.

"Ready to go?" she asked. "It’s snowing. I want to get home before the roads freeze."

"Yeah," I said. "Let's go home."

I stood up. I looked around the bar—at Rita, at Vanessa, at the life we had built from the wreckage.

I touched the port behind my ear. It was silent. The partition was empty. But the memory was full.

I took Emily’s hand.

We walked out into the snow, leaving the ghosts behind, walking toward the warm, messy, beautiful glitch of a life we had chosen.

The envelope sat on the bar counter like an unexploded bomb.

It wasn't digital. It was heavy, cream-colored cardstock with a holographic seal that shifted from gold to neon blue depending on the light.

Vanessa, now eighteen and wearing a leather jacket she had stolen from my closet, stood on the other side of the bar. Her arms were crossed. Her chin was jutted out in that defiant Wheeler angle that usually meant I was about to lose an argument.

"Open it," she challenged.

Rita paused her cleaning, holding a rag over a beer tap. Emily stopped counting the cash register.

I picked up the envelope. I knew that seal. I had seen it in the background of a thousand news feeds.

NIGHT CITY UNIVERSITY: SCHOOL OF ADVANCED ENGINEERING.

"Nessie," I said, putting the envelope back down without opening it. "No."

"You didn't even read it!" Vanessa exploded. "V, it’s a full ride! The 'Saburo Arasaka Memorial Scholarship' for Excellence in Robotics!"

"Absolutely not," I said, my voice rising. "I don't care if they’re paying you a million eddies a week. You are not going to Night City."

"Why?" Vanessa yelled. "Because of the ghosts? Because of the files you stole two years ago? That’s ancient history, V! Arasaka doesn't even know who we are anymore!"

"Night City eats people," I snapped. "It chewed up Judy Alvarez. It chewed up Jackie Welles in another timeline. It’s a meat grinder, Vanessa. You’re staying here. Go to UVM. Go to Boston. Go anywhere but there."

"I can't learn what I need to learn in Vermont!" Vanessa argued, slamming her hand on the bar. "I want to build drones, V. Real ones. I want to work on cybernetics. NCU has the best labs on the planet. You can't keep me in a bubble forever just because you’re traumatized!"

"I’m not traumatized, I’m experienced!" I shouted back.

"Ladies," Emily’s voice cut through the shouting. Calm. Measured.

She walked around the bar and stood next to me. She put a hand on my shoulder, grounding me.

"V, breathe. Vanessa, tone it down."

Emily picked up the letter. She looked at the seal.

"It is a big deal," Emily admitted quietly. "NCU is the ivy league of chrome."

"Thank you!" Vanessa threw her hands up.

"But," Emily continued, looking at Vanessa seriously. "V is right about the danger. Night City isn't like Boston. It’s a war zone with good marketing. If you go there, you’re on your own. No Rita. No Mox."

"I can handle myself," Vanessa insisted. She pulled her taser out of her pocket and set it on the bar. "I’ve been training. I know how to code. I know how to fight."

"You know how to fight drunk frat boys in Vermont," I said. "You don't know how to fight Maelstrom gangers who want to harvest your kidneys for fun."

"I want to go," Vanessa said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She looked at me, eyes shining with tears. "V, please. You got to go to Boston. You got to be the Chariot. Let me be... whatever I’m supposed to be. Let me be the Tower."

I looked at her. She wasn't a kid anymore. She was brilliant, fierce, and suffocating in this small town.

I looked at Rita. Rita sighed, pouring herself a shot of tequila.

"She has a point, V," Rita grumbled. "We can't clip her wings."

I rubbed my face. "I need a drink."

Buzz.

The sound didn't come from my phone. It came from the TV mounted in the corner.

Then it came from the digital jukebox.

Then it came from the digital cash register.

Buzz. Click. Hiss.

The screens in the bar all flickered simultaneously. The football game on the TV vanished, replaced by static. The jukebox stopped playing classic rock and let out a high-pitched screech.

"What did you do?" I asked Vanessa instinctively.

"Nothing!" she said, backing away from her phone. "My phone is bricked!"

Emily stiffened beside me. Her hand went to her pocket, pulling out her datapad.

"This isn't a glitch," she whispered, her eyes scanning the scrolling code on her screen. "This is a handshake."

The static on the TV cleared.

A symbol appeared. It wasn't Arasaka. It wasn't Militech.

It was a stylized, neon-green spider hanging from a web made of binary code.

Emily dropped her datapad. It clattered onto the floor.

She went pale. Ghost white. Whiter than I had ever seen her, even in the Arasaka basement.

"Em?" I asked, reaching for her. "What is that?"

A voice synthesized through the jukebox speakers. Distorted. Artificial.

"Hello, Glitch. Long time no see."

Emily gripped the edge of the bar so hard the wood creaked.

"Chicago," she whispered.

"We found you," the voice purred. "Did you think you could just walk away with the source code? Did you think the Combine forgets?"

"Combine?" Rita asked, reaching under the bar for the shotgun she kept taped there. "Who the hell is the Combine?"

"My old crew," Emily breathed. "The Netrunner collective I ran with in Chicago. The ones I stole the... the algorithm from."

"We want it back, Emily," the voice continued. "And we want the interest. We’re tracking your signal. We’ll be in Vermont in... oh, let’s say three hours."

The screen flashed a map. A red dot was moving rapidly up Interstate 91.

"Don't run. It’s tiring."

The screens went black. The lights in the bar flickered and died, plunging us into darkness.

For a second, nobody moved.

Then the emergency lights kicked on, bathing the bar in a sickly red glow.

I looked at Emily. She was trembling.

"You said you ran away because of noise," I said slowly. "You didn't tell me you stole from a Netrunner syndicate."

"I stole the code that lets them bypass the Blackwall," Emily said, her voice hollow. "V... if they’re here... they’re not going to just beat us up. They’re going to wipe us. They’re going to burn this house to the ground to cover their tracks."

She looked at Vanessa. Then at Rita. Then at me.

"They aren't corporate lawyers. They’re digital terrorists. We can't fight them here. Not with Vanessa in the house."

"Three hours," I said, my brain snapping into combat mode. The Chariot woke up.

I looked at the envelope on the bar. Night City.

"We can't stay here," I said. "If we stay, we put the town in the crossfire."

I looked at Rita.

"Pack the car," I ordered. "The big one. The van."

"Where are we going?" Vanessa asked, looking terrified but holding her taser.

I grabbed the Night City acceptance letter. I looked at Emily.

"You said the Combine is tracking us?"

"They’re tracking my bio-signature," Emily said. "As long as I’m here, you’re in danger."

"Then we move the target," I said. "We run."

"Run where?" Rita asked, racking the shotgun slide.

I slapped the envelope onto the bar.

"West," I said. "To the only place where Netrunners are afraid to go because the corporate ice is too thick."

I looked at Vanessa.

"You wanted to go to Night City, Nessie? Pack your bags. We’re all going."

"What?" Emily stared at me. "V, Night City is a shark tank!"

"Exactly," I said, a dangerous smile forming on my face. "And sharks eat spiders."

I grabbed my keys.

"We have three hours to vanish. Let’s show the Combine how The Mox leaves town."

Chapter Text

I threw the last duffel bag into the back of the van. The engine was already idling, sputtering white smoke into the cold night air.

"Get in!" I yelled, adrenaline spiking my voice. "Nessie, grab the cat! Rita, leave the inventory!"

Vanessa was scrambling into the backseat, clutching her drone controller. Emily was in the passenger seat, furiously scrubbing our digital footprint on her datapad.

I ran to the driver's side door.

SLAM.

The trunk flew shut.

I turned around. Rita was standing there. She wasn't getting in the van. She was holding her shotgun, the barrel resting on her shoulder. She looked at the van, then at the house, then at me.

"Get in the car, Rita!" I shouted. "We have two hours!"

"No," Rita said.

She walked past me, toward the house.

"Rita!" I grabbed her arm. "This isn't a bar fight! These are Netrunners. They will fry your brain before you can even pump that shotgun. We have to go."

Rita ripped her arm away. She turned on me, her eyes blazing with a fury I hadn't seen since the bank tried to foreclose on us five years ago.

"This is our house, Valerie," she hissed. "Mom and Dad bought this land. We bled for this roof. We saved it. You went to Boston and fought Arasaka to save it."

She gestured to the neon sign of The Wheeler House buzzing above the porch.

"The Mox don't run," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "We hold the line. If these techno-freaks want our home, they’re going to have to step over my dead body to get it."

I stared at her. I looked at the peeling paint of the porch. I looked at the tire swing in the yard.

I thought about running to Night City. Starting over. Living in fear.

Then I looked at Emily in the passenger seat. She was watching me, terrified but waiting for my call.

I realized Rita was right. If we ran now, we’d be running forever.

I slammed the van door shut—with me on the outside.

"Emily!" I yelled. "Get out of the car!"

Emily blinked, opening the door. "What? V, the Combine—"

"Rita’s right," I said, walking toward the garage. "We’re not going to Night City. We’re going to war."

I turned to Vanessa, who was poking her head out of the van.

"Nessie, get your tools. Emily, I need that server rig you built."

"What’s the plan?" Emily asked, running to catch up, confusion and hope warring in her eyes.

I stopped at the garage door and picked up a heavy coil of copper wire.

"They’re coming here for a signal, right?" I said, a cold smile spreading across my face. "They want to link up? Fine. We’re going to give them a connection they’ll never disconnect from."

I looked at Emily.

"Can you build a localized EMP? Something that triggers only when it detects their specific network handshake?"

Emily’s eyes widened. The gears turned.

"A logic-triggered pulse," she whispered. "If I wire the house generator into the server cooling array... and use the stolen code as the bait..."

She grinned. A sharp, dangerous grin.

"I can turn the front yard into a microwave. But only for anything running the Combine's encryption protocol. It won't fry the house, but it’ll fry them."

"Do it," I ordered. "Rita, barricade the windows. Vanessa, I need eyes in the sky. Launch the drones."

I grabbed a soldering iron.

"Let’s set the table."

One Hour Later.

The house was dark. We had killed the main breaker.

The only light came from the moon and the faint, blue pulsing of the trap we had buried in the flower beds.

We had rigged the main generator to a series of copper induction coils hidden under the hydrangeas. Emily had coded a "sniffer" program that was currently scanning the driveway.

The moment a Combine cyber-deck pinged our local network, the coils would discharge a directed electromagnetic pulse. It was calibrated specifically to the frequency Emily’s old crew used.

We were huddled in the kitchen. It was our bunker. Rita had flipped the heavy oak table on its side, creating a barricade facing the front door.

I sat behind it, holding a heavy wrench. Rita had her shotgun. Vanessa was wearing her goggles, piloting a stealth drone that was hovering a mile down the road.

"Target acquired," Vanessa whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Three black SUVs. Approaching fast. No headlights."

"They’re using LIDAR," Emily said from her spot on the floor, where she was monitoring the trap on a shielded tablet. "They think we’re helpless. They think we’re hiding in the dark."

"How many?" I asked.

"Six heat signatures," Vanessa reported. "Heavy cyber-mods. V... one of them has thermal mantis blades."

"Show-offs," Rita muttered, checking her safety.

"Steady," I said. " nobody fires until the pulse hits. We need them on the lawn. They have to step into the circle."

We heard the gravel crunch in the driveway. The SUVs rolled to a stop.

Silence.

Then, the sound of car doors opening. Heavy boots on the pavement.

I peeked through a crack in the boarded-up window.

Six figures stood in the driveway. They looked like nightmares—chrome limbs, glowing red optics, leather trenches.

The leader stepped forward. He was tall, thin, and his face was a mask of shifting digital geometry.

"Emily," his voice projected from a speaker in his throat, echoing through the quiet yard. "We know you’re in there. The house is surrounded. Come out with the code, and we’ll make it quick. Make us come in... and we peel you."

Emily gripped my hand. Her palm was sweating.

"Wait for it," she whispered. "He’s scanning for the network. He’s looking for the bait."

The leader took a step onto the grass. Then another. The other five followed him, fanning out in a tactical wedge.

They were right on top of the hydrangeas.

"Come on," I hissed. "Connect. Take the bait."

The leader raised his hand. His fingers split open, revealing data ports. He was pinging the house.

On Emily’s tablet, a red bar spiked.

CONNECTION ATTEMPT DETECTED: COMBINE PROTOCOL V.9

"Gotcha," Emily snarled.

She slammed her fist onto the ENTER key.

THRUM.

A sound like a massive bass drop shook the house.

Outside, the flower beds exploded—not with fire, but with a wave of blue distortion. The air shimmered as the EMP blast ripped upward, guided by the induction coils.

It hit the Combine crew like a physical wall.

SCREECH.

The sound of six high-end cyber-decks frying simultaneously was horrific. It sounded like screaming metal.

The leader arched his back, sparks erupting from his eyes and throat. The others collapsed, seizing as their cyber-limbs locked up and their nervous systems overloaded. Smoke poured from their joints.

Their fancy cloaking fields failed. Their mantis blades sparked and retracted halfway. They were bricked.

"NOW!" I yelled.

Rita kicked the front door open.

We stormed out onto the porch.

The Combine crew was writhing on the lawn, helpless. Their tech was dead. They were just meat in heavy coats.

Rita racked her shotgun. CH-CHK.

"GET OFF MY LAWN!" she roared.

She fired a warning shot into the air. The boom echoed off the mountains.

The leader, half-blind and smoking, tried to push himself up. His digital face-mask was flickering and broken, revealing a terrified human face underneath.

"My... my optics," he wheezed. "System failure..."

I walked down the steps, swinging the heavy wrench. I stopped inches from his face.

"You’re not in the Net anymore," I said cold and low. "You’re in Vermont. And here? We do things analog."

I raised the wrench.

"Scram," I ordered. "Before my sister reloads."

The leader looked at the smoking barrel of Rita’s shotgun. He looked at Vanessa, who was hovering a drone with a spinning saw blade inches from his nose. He looked at Emily, who was standing on the porch, smiling like a triumphant witch.

"Retreat," he gagged. "Manual retreat."

They scrambled. It was pathetic. Without their enhanced speed and coordination, they were stumbling, falling over their own dead cyber-legs. They dragged themselves back to the SUVs.

Since the cars were shielded, they started.

The SUVs peeled out of the driveway, spraying gravel, tearing down the road faster than they had arrived.

We stood on the lawn, watching tail lights fade into the dark.

The smell of ozone and burnt hydrangeas hung in the air.

Rita lowered her shotgun. She let out a long, shaky breath.

"That," she said, "was satisfying."

Vanessa ran over and high-fived Emily. "Did you see that?! His head practically exploded! That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!"

I looked at the scorched grass. I looked at the house. It was still standing.

"We fought," I whispered. "And we won."

Emily walked over to me. She wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her head on my chest.

"We fried them, V," she said. "It’ll take them months to repair that damage. And by then, I’ll have changed the encryption keys again."

"They won't come back," I said, kissing the top of her head. "Not after Rita yelled at them."

Rita walked over, picking up a piece of charred metal that had fallen off one of the runners. She tossed it into the bushes.

"Alright," she said, dusting off her hands. "Show’s over. Who wants pie?"

We walked back inside. The danger had passed. The house was safe.

But as I closed the door, I looked at the envelope from Night City still sitting on the bar.

We had won the battle. But Vanessa was still looking at that letter with hunger in her eyes.

The Combine was gone. But the future was still waiting.

"V?" Vanessa asked quietly, picking up the letter.

I sighed. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a deep, bone-weary realization.

"We can't keep you here, can we?" I asked.

Vanessa shook her head. "I want to learn how to build that," she pointed to the EMP trap. "But bigger."

I looked at Emily. She nodded.

"Okay," I said. "We don't run. We move. On our terms."

I grabbed a bottle of champagne from behind the bar and popped the cork.

"To Night City," I toasted, raising the bottle. "Let’s go teach them a lesson."

The War Room looked less like a kitchen and more like a command center for a military invasion.

The heavy oak table was covered in holographic maps of Night City, real estate listings, and half-eaten pie. We were huddled around the glow of Emily’s central projector, nursing coffees and the adrenaline hangover from the EMP fight.

"Okay," Emily said, swiping away a map of Watson ("Too gritty") and a map of Heywood ("Too close to the Valentinos").

She brought up a new image. It hovered in the air, spinning slowly.

It was a house. But it didn't look like our house. It was sleek, white, and angular, perched on a hillside with a view of the skyline that cost more than my kidney. It had high walls, a security gate, and actual palm trees.

LOCATION: NORTH OAK, WESTBROOK

SECURITY RATING: PLATINUM

CRIME RATE: 0.02%

"North Oak?" Rita choked on her coffee. "Emily, have you lost your mind? That’s where the rockstars live. That’s where the corporate executives sleep. We’re bartenders and mechanics."

"Exactly," Emily said, zooming in on the specs. "We wanted safe, right? V said 'away from the gangs.' This is as far away as you can get without living on the moon."

She pointed to the security stats.

"NCPD response time in North Oak is under three minutes. Private security patrols every hour. No Maelstrom. No Tyger Claws. No random gunfire."

She looked at me.

"It’s a fortress, V. It’s boring. It’s quiet. It’s perfect."

I stared at the hologram. It was beautiful, in a sterile, terrifying way. It was the kind of place people like us usually only entered to rob.

"The price," I said, leaning forward. "Give me the damage."

Emily flashed the number. It was long. It had a lot of zeros.

Rita whistled low. "We’d have to sell the bar, the house, and maybe Vanessa to afford the down payment."

"Hey!" Vanessa protested from the floor, where she was packing her drone parts.

"We have the Regina payout," I reminded them. "The money from the Sato leak. I haven't touched it. It’s been sitting in an encrypted account gathering interest for two years."

"That covers half," Emily calculated. "The rest... we sell the Vermont property. The land value went up since we fixed the roof and, you know, didn't let the bank take it."

Rita went silent. She looked around the kitchen. The peeling wallpaper. The scratches on the table. The ghost of our parents in every corner.

"We’re really doing this," Rita whispered. "We’re trading the family farm for a mansion in the sky."

"We’re trading a target for a shield," I said gently. I reached across the table and took Rita’s hand. "Ri, look at Vanessa. She’s going to NCU. She’s going to be walking around a city full of sharks. Do you want her coming home to a megabuilding in a combat zone? Or do you want her coming home to a gated fortress with a pool?"

Rita looked at Vanessa. She saw the brilliance, the naivety, the potential.

The 'Protector' in Rita finally nodded.

"North Oak," Rita decided, her voice firm. "If we’re going to the city of dreams, we might as well live at the top."

"It has a four-car garage," Emily added, smiling. "Plenty of room for a workshop. And a studio for V."

"And a drone lab!" Vanessa cheered.

"And," Emily tapped the map, "it’s five minutes from the Kerry Eurodyne estate. So if we run out of sugar, we can ask a Samurai legend."

I laughed. It felt surreal. The Wheeler sisters, the orphans of Woodstock, moving into the zip code of legends.

"Okay," I said, standing up. "It’s settled. We buy it."

I looked at the map of Night City—the neon grid that had consumed so many people I loved in other lives. Judy. Jackie.

But in this life? I was bringing an army. I was bringing a hacker who could fry a Netrunner squad. I was bringing a mechanic who could build weapons out of toasters. I was bringing a sister who would shotgun a demon in the face.

"One last rule," I said, looking at my family.

"No corporate contracts?" Vanessa guessed.

"No dying," I corrected. "We go there to live. We go there to win. The Mox take North Oak."

Rita stood up and raised her coffee mug.

"To the Ivory Fortress," she toasted.

"To the pool," Vanessa added.

"To the quiet," Emily smiled.

"To the future," I finished.

We clinked our mugs. The sound rang out in the empty farmhouse, signaling the end of an era and the start of a legend.

Outside, the crickets chirped in the Vermont darkness for the last time. Tomorrow, we would trade them for the hum of neon and the roar of the future.

The Chariot was leaving the station. Next stop: Night City.

Chapter Text

The house was empty.

It’s a strange sound, the echo of a house that has held a family for three generations. It wasn't silent; it creaked and groaned, settling into the foundation as if it knew we were leaving.

Rita stood by the front door, her hand resting on the frame. She wasn't crying, but she looked like she was leaving a limb behind.

"We can't sell it," she whispered. "I know we need the money for North Oak. I know the math works. But... V, Mom painted this hallway. Dad built that porch."

"We're not selling it," I said, though I knew the listing agent was supposed to come tomorrow. "We're just... letting it rest."

"It’s going to rot," Rita said bitterly. "Pipes will freeze. Roof will leak. Without someone here to fight the winter, this place will be a ruin in five years."

She was right. Vermont winters were brutal. A house needed a heartbeat to survive.

I looked at Emily. She squeezed my hand. We had the money from the heist, but maintaining two estates—one in North Oak and one here—was bleeding us dry before we even started.

"We have to go, Ri," Vanessa said softly from the van. Even she looked sad, clutching her cat carrier.

Rita took a deep breath, pulled the keys from her pocket, and reached for the lock.

Crunch.

Gravel popped in the driveway.

I spun around, hand instinctively going to my hip—but I didn't have a weapon. Old habits.

A heavy, reinforced Herrera Outlaw pulled up next to our van. It was dusty, covered in road grime, looking like it had driven straight from the Pacific to the Atlantic.

The door opened.

A massive boot hit the dirt. Then a gold chain. Then a laugh that shook the last leaves off the oak tree.

"Hola, familia!"

Jackie Welles stepped out, stretching his massive arms wide. He was wearing a flannel shirt that looked comically small on his frame and cargo pants.

"Jackie?" I gasped.

The passenger door opened, and Misty hopped out. she was wrapped in a thick shawl, looking at the farmhouse with wide, spiritual eyes.

"The aura," Misty breathed, walking past Jackie and spinning in a circle on the lawn. "Jackie, look. It’s purple and gold. It’s grounded. It’s perfect."

"It’s a nice shack, babe," Jackie agreed. He walked over to me and pulled me into a bear hug that cracked my back in three places. "Good to see you, V. You look tough. City tough."

"What are you doing here?" I asked, wheezing as he let me go. "You’re... you’re supposed to be in Heywood."

"Eh, Heywood is loud," Jackie said, waving a hand. "And Misty... she had a vision. Said the spirits were telling us to head east. Said the Chariot was leaving a void that needed filling."

Misty walked up to the porch, standing next to a stunned Rita. She touched the peeling paint of the doorframe.

"You’re worried about the cold," Misty said to Rita. "You’re worried the house will be lonely."

Rita blinked, tears spilling over. "Yeah. I am."

"We’re looking for a change," Misty said softly. "The city... the spirits are restless there. Jackie wants to chop wood. I want to grow herbs in real soil, not hydroponic tanks."

She looked at Rita, then at me.

"We don't want to buy it. We just want to watch it."

Jackie stepped up, slinging an arm around Rita’s shoulders.

"We’ll keep the pipes warm, chica," Jackie promised. "I’ll fix the roof. Misty will sage the attic. We’ll keep the lights on for you."

"You... you want to live here?" Rita asked, her voice trembling.

"Rent-free?" Jackie winked. "If that’s cool. We’ll take care of the taxes. You go conquer the big city. Go live in that ivory tower. But know that when you need to come back... when you need to remember who you are... the door will be open."

"And the kettle will be on," Misty added.

I felt a massive weight lift off my chest. It wasn't just a house anymore. It was a bridge.

In the timeline where Jackie died, he left a hole in the world. In this timeline, he was filling the hole we were leaving behind.

"You’d do that?" I asked. "It’s quiet out here, Jack. No fixers. No gigs. Just crickets."

"Sounds like heaven, jaina," Jackie grinned. "I’ve had enough gigs for one lifetime. Time to retire. Be a gentleman farmer."

Rita looked at Jackie, then at Misty. She wiped her eyes.

"The boiler is tricky," she sniffed. "You have to kick it sometimes."

"I have a very persuasive kick," Jackie assured her.

Rita handed him the keys.

"Take care of them," she whispered. "The house. And the ghosts."

"We’re good with ghosts," Misty smiled, taking the keys. "We’ll make friends with them."

I walked over and hugged Misty.

"Thank you," I whispered. "You saved us. Again."

"The scales are balanced," Misty whispered back. "Go, V. Night City is waiting. But don't let it eat you. You have a home to come back to now."

I hugged Jackie last.

"Don't break the furniture, big guy."

"No promises," he laughed. "Go get 'em, tiger. Make the major leagues."

We piled into the van.

Rita sat in the passenger seat, looking back. She didn't look sad anymore. She looked at peace.

Jackie and Misty stood on the porch, waving. Jackie had already picked up a piece of firewood and was inspecting it like it was a rare weapon. Misty was seemingly blessing the hydrangeas.

I put the van in gear.

"Ready?" Emily asked, her hand on my knee.

I looked at the house one last time—lights on, smoke starting to curl from the chimney as Jackie lit the fire.

"Ready," I said.

I hit the gas. We rolled down the driveway, leaving the quiet darkness of Vermont behind, heading toward the blinding neon lights of the future.

The house was safe. The family was together.

And somewhere in the distance, Night City was waking up, unaware that the Wheelers were coming for it.

Chapter Text

The pool at the North Oak estate was an infinity edge that looked like it spilled directly into the smog and neon of Night City below. It was heated, saline, and cleaned by silent drones.

I sat on the edge, dangling my feet in the water, staring at the city. It looked beautiful from up here. Quiet. Just a sea of light.

"It’s too quiet," Emily said.

She was sitting in a lounge chair behind me, surrounded by holographic screens. She wasn't relaxing. She was coding. She was always coding now. Since we moved in a week ago, she had upgraded the perimeter firewall three times.

"It’s North Oak, Em," I said, leaning back on my hands. "Quiet is what we paid for. The wildest thing that happens here is a delivery drone getting lost."

"No," Emily muttered, her fingers flying across the air. "It’s the Net. The local subnet is… dead. No chatter. No runners. It’s like the ocean before a tsunami pulls the water back."

I frowned. Emily’s instincts were rarely wrong. If she said the digital water was receding, a wave was coming.

"Maybe the Combine got scared off?" I suggested. "You did fry their brains in Vermont."

"That was a scout team," Emily said, dismissing a window with a sharp flick of her wrist. "The Combine isn't a gang, V. They’re a collective. They’re like ants. You step on a few, the colony releases pheromones. The soldiers come next."

BZZZT.

Every screen around Emily flashed red. Then black.

Then, a single, pulsating line of code appeared. It wasn't binary. It wasn't hex. It looked like shifting, bleeding geometry.

"What is that?" I asked, standing up and dripping water onto the expensive patio stones.

Emily stared at it. Her face went pale.

"It’s a summons," she whispered. "It’s bypassing my ice. It’s bypassing the house ice. It’s… it’s coming from the Deep Net."

She reached for her deck.

"Don't," I warned, grabbing her wrist. "If it’s a trap—"

"It’s not a trap," Emily said, her eyes locked on the screen. "A trap tries to hide. This is… an invitation. I have to take it."

She looked at me, fear and curiosity warring in her hazel eyes.

"Watch my body, V. If I seize, pull the plug."

She jacked in. Her head fell back against the lounge chair.

The Construct.

Emily didn't materialize in a lobby or a chat room. She materialized in a void.

It wasn't the white void V had described seeing with Judy. This was red. A deep, shifting crimson that felt heavy, like standing inside a dying star.

Before her stood a figure.

It was a woman, but ten feet tall. Her skin was alabaster white, glowing from within. One of her hands was wrapped in digital bandages. Her eyes were black pits that swallowed the light.

She didn't look human. She looked like a goddess made of old data.

"Alt Cunningham," Emily breathed. The ghost of Night City. The legend. The woman who invented Soulkiller and became part of the Net itself.

"Hello, Glitch," Alt’s voice didn't come from a mouth. It vibrated directly into Emily’s code. "You are loud. You are messy. You rewrite reality to suit your emotional needs. It is… inefficient. But fascinating."

"You called me," Emily said, trying to keep her avatar stable. The sheer pressure of Alt’s presence was threatening to de-rez her. "Why?"

"Because the Combine has escalated," Alt said. She waved a hand, and the red void shifted.

Emily saw a map of the Net. She saw a swarm of black shapes moving like a virus, converging on a single point: The North Oak Estate.

"They have contracted with Rogue AIs from beyond the Blackwall," Alt explained. "They do not just want your code, Emily. They want your anomaly. They want to dissect the 'Glitch' to learn how to manipulate probability."

"They’re coming for V," Emily realized, horror cold in her chest. "They’re coming for my family."

"They are," Alt confirmed. "And your current defenses are meaningless. Your firewalls are made of paper against what is coming. You cannot stop them with standard code."

"Then help me!" Emily pleaded. "You’re Alt Cunningham! You can wipe them with a thought!"

"I do not interfere in the affairs of mortals unless there is an exchange," Alt said coldly. "I am not a savior. I am a system."

She leaned down, her giant, glowing face inches from Emily’s.

"However. I have a use for a Glitch. The Blackwall is degrading. Things are leaking through. I need an agent who can walk on both sides of the line."

Alt extended a hand. The data swirling around her fingers was terrifying—jagged, chaotic, eldritch. It looked like madness given form.

"I can teach you," Alt offered. "I can show you how to weave the Blackwall into your own code. I can teach you to execute commands that rewrite the local physics of the Net. You will be able to burn the Combine’s AIs before they even touch your subnet."

"What’s the catch?" Emily asked.

"The catch is the risk," Alt said. "To learn this, you must step behind the Wall with me. You must expose your mind to the raw data of the Old Net. If you are weak, your brain will liquefy. You will become a vegetable in that lounge chair."

She paused.

"But if you survive… you will be the most dangerous Netrunner in Night City."

Emily thought of V. She thought of Vanessa packing her bag for university. She thought of the "Ivory Fortress" they had bought to be safe.

Safety was a lie. Power was the only truth.

"Teach me," Emily said.

North Oak.

GASP.

Emily shot up in the chair, ripping the jack from her neck.

"Em!" I was there instantly, holding her shoulders. "You were under for three minutes. Your temp spiked. Your nose is bleeding."

Emily wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She looked at the blood. It was bright red against her skin.

She looked at me. Her eyes were different. The hazel was the same, but there was a depth to them now—a sharpness that hadn't been there before. She looked older.

"Who was it?" I asked.

"Alt Cunningham," Emily rasped.

I froze. "The legend? The ghost?"

"She warned me," Emily said, swinging her legs off the chair. She stood up, a little unsteady, but waved me off. "The Combine is coming, V. And they’re bringing heavy hitters. Rogue AIs."

She walked to the edge of the pool, looking out at the city.

"We can't hide in the fortress," she said. "The walls won't hold them."

"So we fight?" I asked, stepping up beside her.

"No," Emily said. She turned to me. A slow, terrifying smile spread across her face. It was the smile of someone who had just looked into the abyss and the abyss had blinked first.

"We don't fight," Emily said. "We hunt."

She held up her hand. Small sparks of red electricity—Blackwall energy—danced between her fingers.

"I have to go back in, V. Tonight. I have to go deep. I have to learn how to break the rules."

"It’s dangerous," I said, recognizing the look in her eyes. It was the same look I had when I sat in Sato’s chair.

"I know," Emily said. She took my hand. The static shock from her skin stung, but I didn't pull away.

"But you’re the Chariot," she whispered. "And I’m the Glitch. It’s time I learned how to crash the system."

I squeezed her hand.

"Just come back to me," I said.

"Always," she promised.

She turned back to the house.

"Wake up Vanessa," she ordered. "I need her to build a better cooling rig. I’m going to run hot tonight."

The "War Room" in North Oak wasn't a kitchen table with pie stains. It was a subterranean server bunker with climate control and walls made of smart-glass.

We stood around a holographic table that cost more than the entire herd of cows at the neighboring farm back in Vermont. The light from the map of the Net bathed our faces in a ghostly blue.

Emily stood at the head of the table. She looked small against the wall of humming server racks, but her shadow stretched long across the floor. She was vibrating—a low-frequency tremor that I could feel from three feet away.

"Sit down," she said. Her voice was flat. Command voice.

Rita sat on a sleek leather stool, spinning a knife on the table. Vanessa was already sitting, clutching a tablet to her chest, looking wide-eyed at her sister. I leaned against the glass wall, arms crossed, watching Emily.

"We have a problem," Emily began. She tapped the table. A projection of a red, shifting cloud appeared. "The Combine isn't just a group of hackers. I told you that before. But I was wrong about their scale."

"Wrong how?" Rita asked, stabbing the knife into the virtual map. "More of them?"

"Worse," Emily said. "They’ve contracted out. They aren't using human runners to hunt us anymore. They’re using Rogue AIs."

Vanessa gasped. "AI? Like... Blackwall stuff? That’s illegal. That’s insane."

"It’s efficient," Emily corrected. "Human runners make mistakes. They get scared. They hesitate. An AI doesn't. It just executes the command: Find. Isolate. Delete."

She looked at me.

"They are coming for the house, V. They are coming for the family. And our current ice... the firewalls I spent all week building? Against a Rogue AI, they’re wet tissue paper."

"So we run," Rita suggested, though she didn't look like she meant it. "We go somewhere off the grid. No signal."

"There is no 'off the grid' for an AI," Emily said. "They can track the magnetic signature of the alternator in the van. They can track the biometric rhythm of your heartbeat through a satellite feed. If we run, we die tired."

"So we fight," I said. "How?"

Emily took a deep breath. She looked terrified.

"I had a meeting," she whispered. "With Alt Cunningham."

Vanessa dropped her tablet. It clattered loudly on the floor.

"Alt... Cunningham?" Vanessa squeaked. "The Ghost of Night City? The creator of Soulkiller? She’s real? She’s... sentient?"

"She’s real," Emily said. "And she’s willing to help. But she’s not a charity. She’s a system. She offered a trade."

Emily looked at her hands. Sparks of static electricity were jumping between her fingers again, unbidden.

"She wants to teach me how to use the Blackwall. She wants to show me how to weave the chaos code into my own deck. If I learn it... I can burn the Combine’s AIs before they even touch our subnet. I can create a localized dead zone where their code can't exist."

"And the price?" I asked. I knew there was a price. There was always a price.

"I have to go behind the Wall," Emily said. "I have to dive deep. Deeper than anyone usually goes and comes back. I have to let Alt rewrite my neural firmware."

Silence filled the room. The hum of the servers seemed to get louder.

"You’ll die," Vanessa whispered. "The thermal load alone... your brain will cook. Your synapses will melt before you can download the first packet."

"Not if you help me," Emily said, turning to Vanessa. "I need a coffin, Nessie. A deep-freeze rig. Liquid nitrogen cooling, direct neural shunt, bypass regulators. You have to build me an ice bath."

Vanessa looked at her sister. She looked at the diagrams Emily was flashing on the screen.

"That’s... that’s experimental," Vanessa stammered. "If the coolant fails for even a second..."

"Then I flatline," Emily said simply. "But if we don't do this, the Combine wipes us all out by Friday. This is the only play."

I pushed off the wall. I walked over to Emily.

"This isn't a play, Em," I said softly. "This is suicide."

"It’s evolution," she countered, looking up at me. Her hazel eyes were burning with that strange, new intensity. "I’m the Glitch, V. Remember? I’m the thing that shouldn't be here. Maybe this is why. Maybe I was always supposed to break the rules."

She took my hand.

"You sat in the chair for Sato. You let him poke around in your head to save Judy’s memory. Let me do this. Let me sit in the chair to save our future."

I looked at her. I saw the fear, yes. But I also saw the resolve. She wasn't asking for permission. She was asking for support.

I looked at Rita. Rita stopped spinning the knife. She nodded once, grimly.

I looked at Vanessa. She was already typing on her tablet, her face pale but focused.

"I can build the rig," Vanessa said, her voice shaking. "I can repurpose the cryo-tanks from the garage. But I need twelve hours."

"You have six," Emily said. "The swarm hits at midnight."

"Then I better get to work," Vanessa said, grabbing her tablet and sprinting out of the room.

"I’ll secure the perimeter," Rita said, standing up. "If these AI things decide to manifest in the real world... like drones or hacked security bots... I’ll be ready."

She walked out, leaving me and Emily alone in the blue light.

"You’re scared," I said.

"Terrified," Emily admitted, her shoulders finally slumping. "Alt... she’s not human, V. Being near her feels like standing next to a black hole. She could delete me just because she’s bored."

"She won't," I said, pulling Emily into a hug. I held her tight, feeling the static prickle against my skin. "Because you’re going to be too interesting to delete. You’re going to show her something she’s never seen before."

"What’s that?" Emily mumbled into my shoulder.

"A glitch with a heart," I said.

I pulled back and kissed her forehead.

"Go prep. I’ll help Vanessa with the ice."

Emily nodded. She turned back to the screens, her fingers flying, preparing to dive into the digital abyss.

I walked out of the war room. The "Ivory Fortress" didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like the eye of a hurricane.

And at midnight, the storm was coming inside.

Chapter Text

The garage had been transformed into a cryo-chamber. The air was freezing, thick with the fog of liquid nitrogen.

In the center, a modified medical pod sat open. Vanessa was frantically adjusting the coolant valves, her breath puffing in white clouds. Rita stood by the door with her shotgun, watching the security feeds.

I held Emily’s hand. She was shivering, wearing a thin neural-interface suit.

"Heart rate is elevated," Vanessa announced, checking a monitor. "Core temp is dropping. V, get her in. We have five minutes before the swarm hits the outer firewall."

"I’m ready," Emily whispered, though her teeth chattered.

I helped her into the pod. The gel was freezing. She gasped as it enveloped her limbs.

"Remember," I said, leaning over her. "You are the Glitch. You break rules. Don't let them rewrite you."

"I love you," she said, her eyes wide and scared.

"I love you too," I said.

Vanessa lowered the neural helmet over Emily’s head.

CLICK. HISS.

The pod sealed. The coolant rushed in.

On the monitor, Emily’s brainwaves spiked red.

The Deep Net.

Emily opened her eyes.

She wasn't in the red void this time. She was in a nightclub.

It was Atlantis—the legendary runner bar from the 2020s, perfectly reconstructed from old data archives. The music was thumping, a heavy synth-wave beat that vibrated in her chest.

But the club was empty.

Except for a booth in the corner.

Alt Cunningham sat there, her digital form shimmering like liquid mercury. She looked almost human now, wearing a white netrunner suit.

And sitting across from her, boots up on the table, smoking a digital cigarette, was a man with a silver arm.

Johnny Silverhand.

He looked exactly like the legends. The tactical vest, the aviators, the sheer, arrogant charisma radiating off him like heat.

"You’re late, Glitch," Johnny drawled, exhaling a cloud of pixelated smoke. "We were just taking bets on whether your brain would melt before you logged in."

Emily froze. "Johnny Silverhand? But... you’re dead. You’re an engram."

"I’m data," Johnny corrected, taking a swig of a beer that didn't exist. "Just like her. Just like you, right now."

Alt looked at Emily. Her eyes were still black voids, but there was a flicker of something... amused?

"He insisted on joining," Alt said, her voice echoing in the empty club. "He says he likes your style. Creating anomalies. Breaking fate."

Johnny grinned. "You saved my life in another timeline, kid. Or V did. Doesn't matter. Point is, you’re shaking up the status quo. And I hate the status quo."

He leaned forward, the humor vanishing from his face.

"But the Combine? Those corpo-rats with their pet AIs? They’re the worst kind of boring. They want order. They want control."

He slammed his silver fist onto the table. The digital wood cracked.

"So here’s the deal. Alt teaches you the magic tricks. I teach you the attitude."

"Attitude?" Emily asked, bewildered.

"Focus," Johnny snapped. "Willpower. You’re about to let a Goddess rewrite your source code. If you don't hold onto who you are—the punk, the lover, the sister—you’ll just become another line in her database."

He pointed a finger at her chest.

"You have to scream, Glitch. You have to be louder than the system."

Alt stood up. The club dissolved. The music stopped.

They were back in the red void. But now, it was teeming with monsters.

Shapes were forming in the distance—black, jagged, hungry things. The Combine’s AIs. They were breaching the perimeter.

"They are here," Alt stated calm as a funeral bell. "Lesson one: The Blackwall is not a barrier. It is a filter. You must become the filter."

She reached out and touched Emily’s forehead.

PAIN.

It wasn't physical pain. It was existential. It was the feeling of being unmade. Emily felt her memories fragmenting—Vanessa’s laugh, V’s charcoal hands, the smell of Vermont rain.

"Hold it together!" Johnny’s voice roared over the static. "Don't let go! Scream at them!"

Emily screamed.

She didn't scream with her voice. She screamed with her code. She poured all her love, her fear, her defiance into a single command.

<EXECUTE: CHAOS_THEORY>

Red lightning exploded from her hands. It lashed out, striking the encroaching black shapes. The Rogue AIs shrieked as the Blackwall energy corrupted their logic cores.

"Good," Alt’s voice whispered, sounding impressed. "Now... weave it. Make it a weapon."

Johnny was laughing maniacally in the background, firing his Malorian pistol into the horde of data-demons.

"Burn 'em all, kid! Burn the whole damn city down!"

Emily raised her hands. She felt the power of the Old Net flowing through her—wild, ancient, and terrifying.

She wasn't just a mechanic anymore. She was a god of the machine.

And she was angry.

<TARGET: COMBINE_HIVE_MIND>

<ACTION: DELETE>

The red lightning turned white. A shockwave of pure deletion expanded outward, erasing the black shapes, erasing the fear, erasing the threat.

In the silence that followed, Johnny walked up to her. He clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"Not bad for a rookie," he smirked. "Now wake up. You’ve got a family to save."

Alt nodded once. A dismissal. And a blessing.

"Go," she commanded.

North Oak.

The pod hissed open.

Emily shot up, gasping for air, clutching the sides of the tank. Her skin was freezing, but her eyes were burning.

"Em!" I yelled, dropping the towel I was holding. "You’re back! Are you okay?"

Emily looked at me. Her pupils were dilated. For a second, I saw a flash of red in them.

"I saw him," she rasped, shivering violently. "I saw Johnny."

"Johnny?" Vanessa asked, checking the monitors. "Who?"

"Silverhand," Emily said. She looked at her hands. They were trembling, but she clenched them into fists.

"The Combine?" Rita asked from the door. "The sensors just went dark. All of them."

"They’re gone," Emily whispered. A slow, terrifying smile spread across her face—a smile that looked a lot like the one Johnny Silverhand wore on the posters.

"I deleted them," she said. "All of them. Every node. Every backup. Every AI."

She looked at me, her eyes fierce and alive.

"They won't be coming back, V. I burned their house down."

I grabbed her, pulling her freezing body out of the pod and into my arms. I wrapped the towel around her, rubbing her back to warm her up.

"You did it," I whispered into her wet hair. "You crazy, beautiful glitch."

"We have friends in high places," Emily mumbled against my chest, her adrenaline fading into exhaustion. "Very high places."

I looked at the monitor. The threat level was zero. The map was clear.

We were safe.

But as I held Emily, I felt a faint static shock against my skin. Stronger than before.

The Glitch had leveled up. And Night City had no idea what just woke up in North Oak.

The morning was blindingly bright. North Oak sunlight hit the white pavement differently than Vermont sunlight—it was sharper, cleaner, and felt expensive.

We were standing in the driveway next to Vanessa’s new ride: a heavily modified Thrax 388 Jefferson that she had rebuilt herself using parts from the Combine’s abandoned SUVs. It was matte black, terrifying, and completely out of place next to the neighbors' gleaming Rayfields.

Vanessa was vibrating. She wore her NCU hoodie, combat boots, and her thermal goggles pushed up on her forehead like a headband.

"Okay," she said, pacing back and forth. "I have my deck. I have my drone schematics. I have my lunch. I have my taser."

"Don't tase anyone on the first day," I advised, leaning against the car door. "Wait until midterms."

"Unless they're Arasaka," Emily added, sipping coffee from a mug that said 'I Deleted Your Firewall'. She looked exhausted but happy, the dark circles under her eyes fading. The post-Blackwall tremors had stopped, replaced by a calm, electric hum.

"V!" Vanessa groaned. "Stop being embarrassing. And Emily, stop teaching V how to be embarrassing."

I grabbed Vanessa in a headlock and ruffled her hair.

"It’s my job," I said, kissing the top of her head. "I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to ruin your cool factor."

Vanessa struggled free, laughing. "You’re ruining my street cred! I’m going to be the weird girl with the scary sisters."

"We prefer 'eccentric guardians'," Emily corrected. She walked over and hugged Vanessa. "Knock 'em dead, Nessie. Show them what a Wheeler can do. If anyone gives you trouble... well, you know the drill."

"Hack their grades?" Vanessa guessed.

"Disable their implants," Emily winked. "Subtly."

Vanessa climbed into the car. The engine roared to life—a deep, guttural sound that probably violated three HOA noise ordinances.

"Bye!" she yelled over the engine. "Don't burn the house down while I’m gone!"

She peeled out of the driveway, swerving slightly to avoid a terrified delivery drone.

I watched her go, feeling a strange mix of pride and panic. My little sister. In the shark tank.

"She’ll be fine," Emily said, sliding her arm around my waist. "She’s got your stubbornness and my code. She’s unstoppable."

I leaned into her. The morning air smelled of jasmine and ozone.

"So," I said, turning to face Emily. "The house is empty. Rita is terrorizing the neighbors. Vanessa is gone until five."

Emily raised an eyebrow. A slow, mischievous smile spread across her face.

"Are you suggesting we skip our chores, Miss Wheeler?"

"I’m suggesting," I murmured, pulling her closer by the belt loops of her jeans, "that we test out the soundproofing in the master bedroom."

Emily laughed—a bright, genuine sound that chased away the last shadows of the Deep Net.

"I think that’s an excellent use of resources," she whispered.

She kissed me. It wasn't desperate. It wasn't fearful. It was slow, lazy, and full of promise.

"Race you," she challenged, breaking away and sprinting toward the front door.

"Hey! You have cyber-legs!" I yelled, chasing after her. "That’s cheating!"

"I’m a Glitch!" she shouted back, laughing. "I make my own rules!"

Meanwhile, Two Streets Over.

Rita stood in front of the massive steel gate of the Eurodyne Estate.

She held a Tupperware container. Inside was her famous lasagna.

She wasn't intimidated by the gate. She wasn't intimidated by the security cameras. She wasn't intimidated by the fact that a rock god lived here.

She pressed the intercom button.

BZZT.

"Delivery?" a bored voice crackled.

"Neighbor," Rita corrected. "I’m Rita Wheeler. I moved into the glass monstrosity down the hill. I brought food."

"Mr. Eurodyne isn't seeing visitors," the voice droned. "Leave it at the box."

"Listen, pal," Rita said, putting her hand on her hip. "This is lasagna. It needs to be eaten warm. Tell Kerry that if he doesn't open this gate in thirty seconds, I’m going to assume he has no taste and I’ll give it to the security bots."

Silence.

Then, a different voice came over the speaker. Older. Raspy. Amused.

"Did you say lasagna?"

"Homemade," Rita confirmed. "Family recipe. Better than anything your private chef makes."

"That’s a bold claim," the voice—Kerry Eurodyne—said. "The gate is opening. Come to the front door. If it sucks, I’m throwing you in the pool."

"Deal," Rita said.

The massive gates swung open.

Rita walked up the driveway, clutching the Tupperware. She looked at the manicured lawns, the gold statues, the sheer excess of it all.

She shook her head.

"Rich people," she muttered. "So dramatic."

She reached the front door—a slab of black marble three times her height. It opened before she could knock.

Kerry Eurodyne stood there. He was wearing a silk robe, sunglasses, and holding a guitar. He looked tired, hungover, and bored.

"You must be the new money," Kerry said, looking her up and down. "I heard you had a little... light show last week. Something about an EMP?"

"Pest control," Rita said smoothly, holding out the lasagna. "We had a bug problem. It’s handled."

Kerry took the container. He popped the lid. The smell of garlic, basil, and cheese wafted out.

His eyebrows shot up above his sunglasses.

"Okay," he admitted. "That smells legit."

"It is," Rita said. "I’m Rita. If you ever need a break from the plastic food and the fake people... come down the hill. We run a real kitchen."

Kerry looked at her. He saw the calluses on her hands. He saw the no-nonsense set of her jaw. He saw someone who didn't want his money or his fame.

He smiled. A real smile.

"I might just do that, Rita," he said. "Name’s Kerry. Welcome to the neighborhood. Try not to blow up the power grid again. It messes with my amps."

"No promises," Rita winked.

She turned and walked away, leaving a rock legend standing in his doorway holding a casserole dish.

The Mox had officially arrived in North Oak. And we were already running the place.

Chapter Text

The dining room table in North Oak was a slab of polished obsidian that looked like it belonged in an Arasaka boardroom. Tonight, however, it was covered in cheap red-and-white checkered placemats that Rita had insisted on bringing from Vermont.

In the center of the table sat a massive tray of lasagna, a bowl of garlic bread, and a bottle of expensive wine that looked suspiciously like it had been "gifted" from a neighbor’s cellar.

And sitting at the head of the table, wearing a silk shirt that probably cost more than my first car, was Kerry Eurodyne.

The Kerry Eurodyne.

I was trying to be cool. I was failing.

Vanessa was worse. She was staring at him with her mouth slightly open, her fork hovering halfway to her plate.

Emily was the only one functioning somewhat normally, though she kept tapping her fingers on the table in a rhythm that I recognized as the drum beat to Chippin' In.

"So," Kerry said, taking a bite of garlic bread. He chewed slowly, looking like a judge on a cooking show. Then he pointed at Rita. "This is dangerous. If my trainer finds out I’m eating carbs like this, he’ll have an aneurysm."

"Let him," Rita said, pouring him more wine. "You looked like you needed a meal that wasn't printed from a tube. Eat up."

Kerry laughed. It was a good sound—raspy and genuine. He looked relaxed, the tension of his celebrity persona melting away in the face of Rita’s aggressive hospitality.

"You guys are... different," Kerry observed, looking around the table. "Most people who move into North Oak hire a staff within twenty-four hours. You’re... doing your own dishes?"

"We like to know who touched our forks," I said, finally finding my voice.

"Smart," Kerry nodded. He looked at me. "You’re the artist, right? The one who did the Sato restoration? I heard rumors about that. Some people say you’re a genius. Others say you’re a corporate spy."

"I’m retired," I said quickly. "Just painting landscapes now."

"Uh-huh," Kerry smirked. He turned to Vanessa. "And you look like you’re about to ask for an autograph or pass out. Which is it?"

"Both?" Vanessa squeaked. "I... I built a drone that can play the solo from A Like Supreme. It’s... really cool."

Kerry chuckled. "I’d like to see that. Maybe we can jam sometime. Me and the drone."

Vanessa looked like she was going to cry from happiness.

Then Kerry turned to Emily.

He paused. The playful smirk faded. He leaned forward, looking at her intently.

"You," he said softly. "You’re the quiet one. But you’re the loudest thing in the room. What’s your story, purple?"

Emily put down her wine glass. She looked Kerry dead in the eye.

"I saw him," she said.

The room went silent.

Kerry didn't ask who. He stiffened, his hand tightening around the stem of his glass.

"When?" he whispered.

"Three nights ago," Emily said. "In the Deep Net. He was... holding court. In a place that looked like The Atlantis."

Kerry’s face went pale. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

"The Atlantis," he murmured. "He always loved that dump. Was he... was he okay?"

"He was Johnny," Emily said with a small smile. "He was smoking. He was yelling. He was arrogant. He told me to burn the city down."

Kerry let out a breath he had been holding for fifty years. A slow, sad smile spread across his face.

"Yeah," he whispered. "That sounds like him. That sounds like the asshole I remember."

He looked at Emily with a new respect.

"You talked to an engram of Johnny Silverhand and lived to tell about it? You must be some kind of wizard, kid."

"Just a glitch," Emily shrugged. "But... he seemed happy, Kerry. In his own way. He’s fighting a war in the machine. He’s not gone. He’s just... underground."

Kerry nodded slowly. He picked up his wine glass.

"To the underground," he toasted, his voice thick with emotion.

"To Johnny," I added, raising my glass.

"To burning it down," Vanessa chirped.

"To the lasagna," Rita finished practically.

We clinked glasses.

For a moment, the ghost of Samurai wasn't just a legend on a poster. He was there, in the room, sitting in the empty chair, grinning at the fact that his best friend was eating dinner with a family of misfits who were planning to rewrite the rules of his city.

Kerry took a long sip of wine. He looked at us—really looked at us.

"You know," he said, leaning back. "Johnny would have liked you guys. You’re trouble. I can smell it."

"We try," I smiled.

"Good," Kerry grinned. "North Oak needs trouble. It’s been boring as hell since I moved in."

He looked at Vanessa.

"Show me that drone, kid. Let’s wake up the neighbors."

Vanessa knocked her chair over in her haste to get up.

"Yes! Right now! It’s in the garage!"

As they ran off to the garage, Rita shook her head, refilling her own glass.

"Rockstars," she muttered affectionately. "They’re just loud children with expensive toys."

"And we," Emily whispered, taking my hand under the table, "are the babysitters."

I squeezed her hand. The glass garden was fragile, yes. But tonight? It felt like home.

Night City University looked less like a school and more like a space station that had crashed into a botanical garden.

The "Freshman Innovation Hall" was a glass atrium filled with floating displays, holographic projectors, and students wearing suits that cost more than my entire education.

I adjusted my collar. I was wearing a blazer. I hated blazers.

"Stop pulling at it," Emily whispered, swatting my hand away. She looked effortlessly cool in a vintage netrunner trench coat and combat boots, playing the role of 'eccentric tech genius' to perfection.

"It itches," I grumbled. "Why couldn't I wear my leather jacket?"

"Because we are 'supportive guardians of a scholarship student'," Emily reminded me. "Not 'local gangers looking for a fight'."

"Speak for yourself," Rita muttered. She was wearing her Sunday best, but she was glaring at a security drone that was hovering too close to her purse (which definitely contained a flask).

We walked down the aisle of projects.

It was impressive. And terrifying.

One kid had built a cybernetic dog that could sniff out radiation. Another had designed a localized weather control system for penthouses.

"Money," Rita scoffed. "It smells like money in here."

Then we saw Vanessa.

She was tucked away in a corner, far from the prime real estate near the entrance. Her booth didn't have a holograph. It had a hand-painted sign that said: PROJECT: SWARM.

On the table sat her drones. They weren't sleek white plastic like the others. They were mismatched, made of recycled servos, bits of combine surveillance gear, and—I was pretty sure—parts of our old toaster.

But they were alive. They hovered in a perfect formation, shifting and dancing in the air like a school of metallic fish.

Vanessa stood behind the table, looking nervous. She was wearing her lucky flannel under a lab coat.

Standing in front of her booth was a tall, blonde boy with a Militech pin on his lapel. He was sneering.

"It’s quaint," the boy was saying, loud enough for us to hear. "Really. It’s like... folk art. Did you dig these parts out of a dumpster in Santo Domingo?"

Vanessa crossed her arms. "I built the navigation AI myself, Julian. Unlike you, who bought yours from a catalog."

"My father is the VP of Militech R&D," Julian laughed. "I don't need to build the AI. I own the people who build it. These things are a safety hazard. Look at that soldering. It’s pathetic."

He reached out and flicked one of the drones.

The drone buzzed angrily and dipped.

I saw red.

The "Supportive Guardian" vanished. The "Chariot" woke up.

I started walking. Fast.

"V," Emily warned, grabbing my arm. "Don't hit the child."

"I’m not going to hit him," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "I’m going to educate him."

I walked up to the booth. I didn't look at Vanessa. I looked at Julian.

I stepped into his personal space. I was taller than him. I had scars he could see. I had eyes that had seen the inside of Mikoshi.

"Is there a problem here?" I asked. My voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a sledgehammer.

Julian turned, annoyed. "Excuse me? We’re having an academic discussion. Who are you?"

"I’m the dumpster diver," I said, leaning in. "I’m the one who taught her how to solder. And I’m the one wondering why your hand is touching my sister’s hardware."

Julian blinked. He looked at my blazer. He looked at the way I stood—balanced, ready. He looked at my eyes.

He saw something there that scared him.

"I... I was just pointing out the structural flaws," he stammered, stepping back.

"Flaws?" Emily glided up beside me. She didn't look scary. She looked bored. She pulled out her datapad.

"That’s funny," Emily said, tapping the screen. "Because according to the local subnet, your 'weather control' project is running a stolen algorithm from a Biotechnica open-source forum. And your firewall? It has a backdoor so wide I could drive a truck through it."

Emily smiled. A shark smile.

"Would you like me to demonstrate? Or would you like to apologize to the lady about her 'folk art'?"

Julian went pale. He looked at Vanessa, then at the hovering drones that were now buzzing menacingly close to his perfectly gelled hair.

"I... sorry," he mumbled. "Nice... nice drones."

He turned and fled, disappearing into the crowd of parents.

Vanessa let out a breath, her shoulders sagging. Then she grinned.

"You guys are terrifying," she said. "I love it."

"He started it," I shrugged, fixing my blazer.

"Besides," Rita said, walking up and placing a heavy hand on Vanessa’s shoulder. "The drones look great, mija. They got personality."

Just then, a man in a tweed suit with elbow patches walked up. He had wild white hair and thick glasses. He didn't look at us. He looked at the drones.

He watched them dance. He watched the way they corrected for the air currents.

"Remarkable," he muttered. "Distributed processing? No central hub?"

"Uh, yes sir," Vanessa said, straightening up. "Peer-to-peer logic. They think as a group."

The man looked at Vanessa. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, and uncomfortably intense.

"I am Professor O'Malley," he said. "Head of the Advanced Robotics Division. I haven't seen code this elegant since..."

He paused. He looked at the "junk" drones.

"Since I worked with a woman  named Alt Cunningham. A long time ago."

Emily stiffened beside me.

Professor O'Malley smiled—a genuine, eccentric smile.

"Come see me after the showcase, Miss Wheeler. I think you’re in the wrong class. I want to put you in the accelerated program."

He walked away, humming to himself.

Vanessa looked at us, her eyes wide with shock.

" accelerated program?" she whispered. "That’s for juniors!"

"See?" I nudged her. "Dumpster diving pays off."

"But," Emily whispered to me, her voice serious. "He mentioned Alt. We need to be careful, V. Smart people in this city... they usually work for bad people."

"We'll watch him," I promised. "But for now? Let the kid have her win babygirl."

Vanessa high-fived Rita. The drones did a little victory loop in the air.

The shark tank wasn't so scary when you brought your own sharks.

Chapter Text

The garage was quiet, save for the hum of the server rack and the click-clack of Vanessa taking apart her prize-winning drone to "optimize" it.

I sat on the workbench, nursing a beer. Emily was leaning against the cryo-tank, arms crossed, watching Vanessa work.

"So," Vanessa said without looking up, her screwdriver spinning. "Professor O'Malley. He got weird when he said the name. 'Alt Cunningham.' Who is she really? I know the legends, but... he acted like he knew her."

Emily exchanged a look with me. It was the look of parents deciding how much truth to tell the kids.

"He probably did know her," Emily said softly. "Alt was... a force of nature, Nessie. Before she was a ghost in the machine, she was a woman. A brilliant, terrifying woman."

Vanessa stopped working. She spun her chair around. "Was she like us?"

"Better," Emily said, a hint of reverence in her voice. "She wrote the code that became Soulkiller. She cracked the immortality barrier. But she didn't do it for a corporation. She did it because she could."

Emily walked over to a holographic projector and pulled up an old, grainy image from the 2013 archives. It showed a woman with long blonde hair, striking features, and a look of absolute confidence. Standing next to her, looking wasted and adoring, was Johnny Silverhand.

"She was Johnny's girlfriend," Vanessa gasped. "The Rockerboy and the Netrunner?"

"The beauty and the beast," I corrected. "Johnny loved her. In his own messed-up way. But Arasaka took her. They wanted her brain. They wanted her code."

"They used Soulkiller on her," Emily finished, her voice dropping. "They ripped her mind out of her body and trapped it in the subnet. She’s been there ever since. Evolving. Changing. She’s not just a person anymore, Nessie. She’s a god of the data realm."

Vanessa looked at the picture. "Is that why she helped you? Because you're like her?"

"Maybe," Emily said, touching her own temple where the neural port sat. "Or maybe she just misses the chaos. Johnny was chaos. I’m... a glitch. She likes things that break the system."

Emily walked over and put a hand on Vanessa’s shoulder.

"O'Malley comparing you to her... it’s a compliment. A huge one. But be careful. Alt flew too close to the sun. She got burned. I don't want you to be a ghost, Nessie. I want you to be here."

Vanessa nodded slowly. "I’ll stick to drones. No soul-stealing software. Promise."

"Good," Emily smiled, kissing the top of her messy curls. "I’m going to bed. The deep dive... it takes a lot out of you."

"Night," Vanessa said, turning back to her work.

Emily squeezed my knee as she walked past. "Coming?"

"In a minute," I said. "Gonna finish this beer."

Emily nodded and headed inside.

I waited until the door clicked shut. Then I looked over at the corner of the garage, where Rita was organizing her "security supplies" (which looked suspiciously like a stash of frag grenades).

"Rita," I said.

"Yeah?" She didn't look up from her inventory.

"I need to talk to you."

Something in my voice made her stop. She put down a grenade and turned around. She looked at me—really looked at me—with that sharp, mother-hen gaze.

"You’re sweating," she noted. "And it’s sixty degrees in here. What’s wrong? The Combine back?"

"No," I said. I took a deep breath. I reached into the pocket of my bomber jacket. My fingers brushed against the small, velvet box I had been hiding for three days.

"I’m thinking of asking her."

Rita blinked. "Asking who what?"

"Emily," I said, feeling my face heat up. "I’m thinking of asking her to... you know. Make it permanent."

Rita stared at me. The silence stretched for five seconds. I started to panic.

Then, a massive grin split her face. She threw her head back and laughed—a loud, barking laugh that echoed off the metal walls.

"Finally!" she shouted. "Jesus, V! I thought you were gonna wait until we were all dead!"

"I... what?" I stammered.

"You two have been practically married since Vermont!" Rita walked over and slapped me on the back, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. "You act like an old couple. You finish each other’s sentences. You literally share brain space."

"So... you think it’s a good idea?" I asked, feeling a weight lift off my chest. "We’re young. The world is ending every Tuesday. Is it crazy?"

"Of course it’s crazy," Rita said, her eyes softening. "This is Night City, kid. Love is the craziest thing you can do here. It’s a target on your back."

She leaned against the workbench.

"But it’s also the only thing that keeps you sane. Look at us. We’re in a glass house surrounded by sharks. If you have something real... lock it down. Don't wait."

I pulled the box out. I opened it.

Inside wasn't a diamond. It was a ring made of pure, polished meteorite iron, inlaid with a thin strip of purple neon circuitry that glowed faintly.

"Vanessa helped me make it," I admitted. "It’s... tech. It syncs with her heartbeat."

Rita looked at the ring. She looked at me. Her eyes got a little misty.

"She’s gonna love it," Rita whispered. "It’s weird. It’s dangerous. It’s perfect."

She poked me in the chest.

"When?"

"Soon," I said, snapping the box shut. "I want to take her somewhere. Not here. Somewhere... quiet. Somewhere that feels like the old days."

"The Badlands?" Rita suggested. "Out past the solar farms? Under the stars?"

I smiled. "Yeah. Exactly."

"Well," Rita picked up her beer. "To the happy couple. And to not dying before the wedding."

I clinked my bottle against hers.

"To not dying," I agreed.

But as I looked at the ring box in my hand, I wasn't thinking about dying. I was thinking about living. For a long, long time. With Emily. My beautiful glitch 

The dream didn't begin with sound. It began with pressure.

The heavy, crushing weight of a million gallons of water pressing against my chest.

I wasn't in the silk sheets of the North Oak master bedroom. I wasn't in the Ivory Fortress. I was drifting, weightless and cold, suspended in a world of murky emerald green.

Laguna Bend.

I knew this place. Not because I had been here—I was an artist from the city, not a diver from the sticks—but because she knew this place. The ghost I carried in the partition of the hard drive I’d restored. The echo I had spent weeks painting without understanding why.

I looked down. Below me, the skeleton of a town rose from the silt. Rotted rooftops, rusted cars, the hollowed-out shell of a gas station. And in the center, a church steeple, reaching up toward a surface I couldn't see, like a drowning hand begging for air.

And there she was.

Judy Alvarez.

She wasn't a hologram. She wasn't a glitch in the Sato files. She was solid. Real. She sat on the peak of the submerged church roof, her legs dangling into the abyss, her wild, colorful hair floating around her head like sea anemones.

She looked up. Her eyes were large, dark, and filled with a sadness so profound it made my own heart ache.

"Hey, Artist," she said. Her voice didn't bubble; it resonated directly in my skull, clear as a bell.

I swam down, my movements slow, dream-like. I landed on the roof beside her. I felt like an intruder in a tomb.

"Judy," I whispered. "I... I shouldn't be here. This is your memory. I’m just the restoration girl."

"You’re the vessel, V," Judy said softly. She reached out and touched a piece of floating debris—an old doll, preserved by the lack of oxygen. "You cleaned the drive. You saved the data. You let me breathe again, just for a second."

"I didn't know you," I said, the regret tasting like copper in my mouth. "I saw your work. I saw your edits. You were a genius. I wish... I wish I had known you when the air was still breathable."

"We walked different paths," Judy murmured, looking out at the ghostly streetlights flickering in the deep. "You were painting sunsets while I was trying to edit out the darkness. But we both loved the same broken things."

She turned to me. Her face was inching closer, the digital ghost becoming painfully human.

"You found her, V."

I froze. "Emily?"

"The Glitch," Judy smiled. It was a beautiful, tragic smile. "She’s loud. She’s messy. She breaks things just to see how they work. She’s everything I was too afraid to be."

"She’s brilliant," I said, my voice shaking. "And she’s in danger. Because of me. Because I dragged her into this high-society war."

"She’s in danger because she loves you," Judy corrected. "And that’s a good danger. It’s the only kind worth having."

Judy stood up on the slanted roof. She floated slightly, her boots barely touching the shingles. She pointed upward, toward the shimmering, distant surface of the water where the sun was trying to break through the sludge.

"You have the ring, don't you?"

I instinctively touched my pocket. The meteorite iron. "Yes."

"Then stop waiting for the paint to dry," Judy commanded gently. "Life isn't a canvas you can scrape clean and start over, V. It’s a braindance. You only get one take."

"I don't know where to do it," I confessed. "North Oak feels fake. The apartment feels small. I want... I want it to mean something."

"Take her here," Judy whispered.

I blinked. "Here? Underwater?"

"No," Judy laughed, the sound rippling through the water. "To the shore. To the reservoir. Laguna Bend."

"But... this is your place," I protested. "This is your tragedy. Why would I bring her to a graveyard?"

Judy drifted closer. She placed a hand on my chest, right over my heart. Her hand was cold, but it burned with intensity.

"Because it’s quiet, V. It’s the only place in Night City where the silence is real. And..."

She paused, her eyes searching mine.

"Because I want you to overwrite the sadness. This place took everything from me. My home. My history. I want you to give it something back. Give it a promise. Give it love."

"You want me to reclaim it?" I asked, tears mixing with the lake water.

"I want you to finish the edit," Judy said. "My timeline ended in static. Yours is just starting. Don't let the city eat you, Valerie. Don't let the chrome take your soul. Go to the water. Wash it clean."

She began to fade. Her tattoos blurred. Her hair dissolved into green mist.

"Judy!" I reached out, my fingers grasping at the water. "Wait! I have so many questions. The ghost drive—"

"The drive is just data," Judy’s voice echoed, fading into the hum of the deep. "The feeling... that’s yours. Keep painting, V. Paint a world where we don't have to drown."

"Thank you," I sobbed, the emotion overwhelming me. "Thank you for letting me in."

"Take care of her," the voice whispered, now just a vibration in the silt. "Be the happy ending I never got."

Pop.

The pressure vanished.

North Oak. The Bedroom. 4:13 AM.

I woke up with a sharp intake of breath, my lungs burning as if I had actually been holding them for twenty minutes.

I sat up, clutching the silk sheets, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The room was silent, bathed in the blue light of the pre-dawn city.

I looked at my hands. They were trembling. I could still feel the cold phantom touch of the water on my skin.

Beside me, Emily shifted. She was deeply asleep, one arm thrown over her eyes, her purple braids splayed across the white pillow. She looked peaceful. So incredibly alive.

I swung my legs out of bed and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. I looked out at Night City. From up here, in the ivory tower, it looked like a circuit board of gold and neon.

But I wasn't seeing the city. I was seeing the lake.

I reached into the pocket of the jeans I had discarded on the floor and pulled out the small velvet box. I opened it. The meteorite ring glowed faintly in the darkness, pulsing in time with my own racing heart.

I had never met Judy Alvarez. I was just an artist who found her digital soul in a pile of junk. But in that dream, in that water, she had given me permission to be happy. She had given me a mission.

Overwrite the tragedy.

I closed the box and gripped it tight.

"Okay, Jude," I whispered to the glass reflection. "I hear you."

I turned back to the bed. I climbed in slowly, careful not to wake Emily. I curled up behind her, wrapping my arm around her waist, pulling her warmth against me.

She mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep and backed into my embrace.

"I love you," I whispered into her hair.

Tomorrow, we were going to the water. Tomorrow, I was going to ask the Glitch to be my wife. And we were going to turn a graveyard into a garden

Thank you Judy. God I’m sorry you’re not here.