High-Spec Retro Girl (Cyberpunk 2077 Inspired)

[MoonyNightShade]

A/N: To give you a heads-up, this is more of an original story than pure fanfic. I use none of Cyberpunk's characters or settings. But for now, I'm posting it as a fanfic. I can always move it later, y'know? Anyways, let me know your thoughts.

---

Rianna was halfway down the block, hood up, backpack bouncing, running late in the way that was less of an "oops" and more "the universe can eat my dick." The morning air had that crisp winter bite, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were being poke-tested, and she was already composing an excuse for first period.

Not that she cared what Mrs. Bitchy Beatrice thought, but it had become an habit.

She cut past the bodega like she always did – because cutting corners was basically her religion – and thought, not for the first time, that if life wanted her to behave, it should've punished her for it.

And life, for the first time, listened.

Her sneaker hit a patch of sidewalk that shouldn't have been there.

It wasn't ice. It wasn't oil. It wasn't even a loose slab. It was… nothing.

The world blinked.

The ground dropped out like a trapdoor from a magic show, and Rianna went from forward momentum to pure, stupid gravity in the space of a heartbeat.

"Yo– WHAT THE– "

Something punched her in the face. Her stomach tried to climb into her throat. Her arms windmilled, grabbing at air that had no interest in being held. She twisted, thinking there had to be a ledge, a stripper pole, a park chair? – anything – because falling like this only happened in those uniquely horrible rope-walking-between-skyscrapers nightmares and those funny youtube videos where somebody leaned on a fake railing.

Then suddenly, the sky wasn't sky anymore.

It was a kaleidoscope of glass and steel and light, layered in impossible depth. Roads stacked over roads. Trains that weren't trains gliding on tracks that weren't tracks. Neon sheets of ad-holograms rippling across the sides of buildings like the city had a fever dream and monetised it.

Below her, far below, the street was a ribbon of wet black like oil.

She was falling.

Rianna screamed – not a cute anime girl scream, nor a movie heroine scream either, but a full-bodied, throat-tearing "I am about to die and I would like to not be doing that" scream – and the city didn't even look up.

She fell past a billboard the size of her house. The billboard didn't show Coca-Cola. It showed a woman with chrome jawlines and perfect teeth, smiling like a shark that's just been told of its Jaws casting. Letters slid across the air in a language Rianna could read but didn't understand: promotions, upgrades, subscriptions. A little animated icon winked at her as she plummeted. Fucking French MFs.

"Oh my God," Rianna shouted at the people below, arms flailing. "Oh my God, oh my– this is not– this is not– "

Something buzzed past her ear – a drone, small, sleek, moving like it belonged to the United States military. It adjusted its angle midair to avoid her like she was a piece of trash falling out a window.

Rianna fell through a mist of warm steam that smelled like noodles and fried garlic and just a touch of soy. Her brain tried to find and latch upon a framework. Elevator malfunction? Terrorist hole in the sidewalk? God forbid… a dream?

Then she saw the people. Actually saw them.

They were not people – people shaped like people, sure, but changed. A guy on a skywalk with skin patterned in geometric tattoos that pulsed faint light. A woman whose eyes were too reflective, like a cat's, peering down the street. Somebody with ears that were unmistakably not human, tucked back beneath a hood, arguing with a vendor like this was normal Tuesday behavior.

And it hit her like the crisp snap of a belt: no one was acting like this place was weird.

Which meant it wasn't weird to them.

Which meant–

Rianna slammed into a pile of something soft and wet and smelly – trash bags, maybe, or a heap of discarded fabric – hard enough to knock the air out of her. Pain snapped through her ribs and spine. The impact bounced her sideways into a wall. Her cheek scraped brick.

For a second she couldn't move. The world pulsed with distant traffic noise, heavy bass from a club that was still going strong in broad daylight, and the constant hiss of rainwater– or some sort of liquid draining through unseen grates.

She tried to inhale and her lungs screamed back.

"Okay," she wheezed. "Okay. Cool. Great. Love that for me."

Her legs shook as she pushed herself up. The alley was narrow, cramped between two buildings so tall the top was just a strip of grayish colours and blinking lights. Pipes ran along the walls like veins. A small sign flickered above a door: LAUNDRY. It was in English, but stylized like it had been designed by someone whose typography opinions were a little too derived from Blade Runner.

Liquid still dripped from the gutter. Somewhere nearby, a sizzling pan hit oil.

Rianna stumbled forward and nearly ate it again when her sneaker slid on the slick pavement. She caught herself on the wall, palm smearing against damp grime. Her heart was still hammering like it was trying to punch its way out and run without her.

She whipped her head around, searching for something that made sense. A street sign. A familiar storefront. Anything.

The alley opened onto a street that looked like somebody had taken her city and shoved it through a miracle machine labeled "EXCESS."

Cars – no, not cars – sleek pods glided silently, their underlights painting the wet road light blue. People moved with purpose, umbrellas like black mushrooms. Above them, a rail line ran, and above that another, and above that a pedestrian walkway crowded with bodies.

And every surface seemed to be advertising to her personally.

A floating thing-y hovered near her face and then slid away like it had taken one look at her and decided she wasn't a customer.

Rianna stepped out into the flow and immediately got shoulder-checked by a man who didn't even break stride.

"Watch it," she snapped automatically, the bluster having been long ingrained in her very being.

The man glanced back. His eyes were a soft gold, like melted coins. He wore a jacket that shifted colour under the streetlights.

He looked at her like she was a beggar that had wandered into a Ritz.

Then he kept walking.

Rianna stood there, rain soaking her hair, mouth open. That look wasn't fear. It wasn't respect. It was… dismissal.

Her jaw tightened. "Yeah, okay," she muttered. "Walk away. I didn't want to talk to you anyway, shiny-eyes."

A gust of warm air and spice rolled over her from a shop vent. Her stomach twisted painfully.

Hungry. Thirsty. Confused. Probably bruised. No backpack. No clue.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, a colder thought: if she'd fallen from that high, she should be dead.

She patted her jacket and jeans like the answer might be hiding in a pocket. Wallet. Keys. Phone.

Her phone was there – rectangle, cracked corner, familiar in her hand – and for one glorious second she thought, okay, okay, maybe this is some weird district, some movie set, something–

She clicked the power button.

The screen lit up. No service. The battery icon flashed deep red like it was personally offended at her.

But the time. The time still displayed 8:29 AM, 12th December 2025 – A minute left till math started and Mrs. Beatrice once again lectured the class about how useless she was – But she knew it wasn't right.

She swiped anyway. Her cracked home screen opened like usual.

Then every app tried to update at once, failed, and the screen filled with a polite message: NO SIGNAL.

Rianna stared at it, then at the street, then back at the phone. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," she said out loud, because her brain refused to accept reality quietly.

A woman selling skewers under a canopy glanced at her, eyes flicking down to the phone and back up to Rianna's face. She didn't look concerned. She looked entertained.

Rianna lifted her chin. "What?"

The woman's lips curled. She said something in a language Rianna didn't recognize, but the tone was unmistakable: lady, you lost?

Rianna went hot with irritation. "Yeah, I'm lost," she snapped. "You got a map? Or you just collect hobbies like staring at teenagers?"

The woman shrugged and turned back to her skewers.

Rianna's stomach growled so loudly it felt like it echoed off the buildings. She looked down at the skewers: meat, veggies, something glossy and spicy. Her mouth watered.

She fished in her pocket, found a crumpled twenty, and slapped it onto the edge of the vendor's table.

"Gimme that," she said, pointing.

The vendor stared at the bill like Rianna had offered her a used napkin. Then she laughed – one short bark – and pushed the twenty back with two fingers as if it was contaminated.

Rianna's face flushed. "Yo. It's money."

The vendor said something else and tapped a little glowing panel on the side of the cart.

Rianna followed the gesture. The panel displayed a symbol like a stylized coin and a number that changed when the vendor touched it. Beside it, a wave icon pulsed faintly.

Rianna blinked. "I don't have… whatever the hell that is," she said, because she couldn't even pretend to understand.

A guy in line behind her snorted.

Rianna turned. He was wearing a hoodie with a stitched logo that looked like a corporate brand. His jawline was sharp. His pupils were too dark. His gaze flicked over her clothes – cheap, street – and his expression sharpened into the kind of interest that made her skin crawl.

Not attraction.

Opportunity.

He leaned in slightly. "You new?" he asked, voice smooth as oil.

Rianna's first instinct was to lie. Her second instinct was to run.

"I'm not new," she said, because she refused to be new. "I'm… traveling."

The guy's smile widened like he'd just been handed a gift. "No cred chip?" he said.

"A what?"

He chuckled. "Oh damn. Okay."

He glanced down the street, then back at her. "Come on," he said. "I can help you out."

Rianna's brain ran through the options she had, which was basically: (1) stand here and starve, (2) follow the guy who smelled like a scam, or (3) fight the vendor's skewer cart.

She didn't like any of those options, so she picked the one where she stayed in motion.

"Fine," she said. "Help."

He walked, and she followed at a distance that made sure to clearly broadcast exactly what her opinions were of him: I'm trusting you exactly zero percent. She kept her eyes up, scanning.

The city's sound was different. Not just louder, but layered. A constant whisper of machines, a distant thump like a heartbeat under everything. People talked, but half of them were talking to nothing – mics? implants? pretend friends?

She caught glimpses of tech like it was jewelry: subdermal glows along wrists, small metal ports at the base of skulls, eyes that refocused with faint clicks.

When she passed a glass storefront, her reflection looked like her – same dark hair, same sharp brows, same mouth that always looked like it was mid-argument – but the background behind her was wrong. Too bright. Too sharp. Too unreal.

The guy led her down a side street into a tighter district where the buildings leaned in closer and the lights were muffled. The smell changed: less perfume ads, more oil and sweat and fried food.

"Name's Jace," he said, too casually. "You got a name?"

Rianna had an urge to give him a fake one. But she was tired of being confused and falling and unsupported devices.

"Rianna," she said. "Ria."

"Ria," he repeated, tasting it. "Okay, Ria. Here's how it works. No chip, you can't buy shit, can't rent, can't get transit. You need a sponsor to set you up, or you need to steal a chip."

Rianna's mouth went dry. "Sponsor," she repeated. "Like… a job?"

"Like… someone vouches you exist," Jace said. He pointed at his own wrist where a faint metal strip sat under the skin. "Everything's tied. You don't got a trail, you don't got a life."

Rianna swallowed hard. A world where you needed permission to exist was a world she could not stand.

"So what, people just… die?" she asked, and tried to sound like she was mocking the concept instead of terrified.

Jace shrugged. "People get harvested," he said like he was talking about weather. "People get vanished. People… get creative."

Rianna's pulse spiked. "That's insane."

"But you'd know that of course, traveling wasn't it?" Jace said, smiling again.

They reached a narrow storefront with a shutter half down. The sign overhead flickered: CASH FOR TECH. Under it, smaller letters: ID SERVICES.

Rianna stared. Her instincts screamed.

Jace stepped closer. "They can get you a temporary chip," he said. "Costs, though."

Rianna rubbed her thumb along the edge of her cracked phone, thinking. Temporary chip meant access. Access meant food. Food meant not dying.

But "ID SERVICES" in a sketchy alley meant unsavoury transactions.

"How much," she demanded.

Jace spread his hands. "Depends."

"Depends on what?" she snapped.

He tilted his head. "Depends on what you can pay."

Rianna stared at him. "I don't got anything."

"Everybody's got something. You… certainly," Jace said softly.

Rianna's stomach dropped.

No. Not that. Never.

She took a step back. "Nah," she said, voice hard. "Nah, nah. I'm good."

Jace's smile didn't fade. It sharpened. "Relax," he said. "I'm not saying like that. Not first, anyway."

Rianna's vision tunneled. Her hands curled into fists. She did not freeze. Freezing was how you died.

She looked around. Street traffic. People passing. Nobody paying attention. In this district, a girl about to get sold was background noise.

Rianna made a decision in the same way she made most decisions: fast and angry.

She lunged.

Not at Jace – at the storefront door. She shoved past him, shoulder into his chest, and burst into the ID shop like she owned it.

Inside, it smelled like burning plastic and something sweet and acrid at the same time. The lights were too white. The room was cluttered with screens, wires, and little drawers of components. A man behind the counter looked up, eyes widening.

Rianna grabbed the nearest thing she could use as leverage: a small metal baton sitting on a shelf. She yanked it up and pointed it like a gun.

"Everyone chill," she barked, voice loud enough to shake. "Nobody do anything stupid."

Jace laughed behind her. "Oh, she's spicy."

The man behind the counter lifted his hands slowly. "Hey," he said, calm. "Hey, no need for–"

"Shut up," Rianna snapped. "Give me– give me whatever chip thing lets me buy food."

The man's eyes flicked to Jace, then back to Rianna. Something passed between them: recognition.

Rianna's stomach turned colder.

Jace stepped in, casual, like he was walking into his own kitchen. "Look," he said, "I tried to be nice. She's making it weird."

Rianna swung the baton toward him. "Back up."

He stopped, hands lifted slightly. "Okay," he said, and his voice was still smooth, but his eyes were dead. "Okay. Here's the thing. You can't just walk in and–"

Rianna's grip tightened. She could feel her pulse in her fingers.

She didn't want to hurt anyone. She wanted to eat. She wanted to go home. She wanted–

A click sounded behind the counter.

Rianna's eyes snapped to the man's hands. He was reaching under the desk, not slowly anymore.

Rianna moved without thinking. She vaulted the counter like she was back in gym class, landed hard, and swung the baton down toward his arm.

The man hissed, jerked back, and something bright flashed.

Gunfire in a tiny room didn't sound like the movies. It sounded like a god slapping you.

Rianna felt the impact before she understood it. A punch to her face. A hot, wet shock. Her right eye exploded into light and then darkness.

She screamed – again, not cute – and stumbled backward, hands flying up to her face.

Blood poured between her fingers, warm and slippery.

"No, no, no–" she choked.

Jace's voice, too close: "Told you."

Rianna's mind scrambled. She could still hear. Still smell. Still feel the sticky wetness running down her cheek.

She tried to swing the baton blind.

Something grabbed her wrist. Something yanked.

Pain tore through her hand – white, splitting pain – as her fingers caught on something sharp. The baton dropped. Her hand was pulled into the path of a descending shutter – metal teeth slamming down like a guillotine.

Rianna screamed until her throat ripped.

The shutter crushed, mangling flesh and bone, and the pain was so immediate her body tried to shut down to escape it. Her legs buckled. She collapsed half behind the counter, half under the shutter, blood spreading beneath her like a dark halo.

The room swam.

She heard voices, distant and warped.

"Shit, you closed it on her!"

"I didn't– she–"

"Move her, move her–"

Hands grabbed her. Dragged her. Her ruined hand scraped against concrete and she saw, for a second, the shape of it: wrong. Broken. Not a hand anymore.

Her stomach heaved. She gagged, choking on bile and panic.

Her vision on the left side blurred. The right side was just blackness and pain. Nonexistent.

She tried to fight, but her body was already leaving her.

Then suddenly– outside.

Rain hit her face and brought some cold solace. The street noise returned, muffled and far away. Someone dragged her into an alley again, because of course.

"Not here," a voice said. An older voice. Gravelly.

Another voice: "She ain't our problem."

Older voice: "Everything's somebody's problem if it bleeds on your doorstep."

A metallic door slid open.

Rianna tried to speak. Tried to curse. Tried to tell them she'd be back, that she'd kill them all.

All that came out was a wet, choking sound.

And it all went black.

---

Light returned just as abruptly as it'd left.

She was hauled into warmth. The smell hit her: antiseptic, burnt circuitry, stale coffee.

Lights overhead. White, harsh. Her left eye squinted against it.

A face leaned over her – an older man with tired eyes and hands that looked like they'd been stained beyond cleaning agents could handle.

"Right in front of my door," the man mumbled.

He clicked his tongue. "Kid," he said. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"

Rianna tried to answer. She couldn't.

He lifted her bloody hand, examined it with a grimace, then looked at her ruined eye. "Christ," he muttered. "You're lucky you made it here."

"Lucky," Rianna rasped, barely audible.

The man snorted. "Yeah. Lucky. Shut up."

He moved fast, efficient. Straps on her arm. A needle. Cold sting. Then warmth spreading through her veins, dragging her down.

Rianna fought sleep out of pure stubbornness.

She heard muffled conversation through the fog.

"…brought her in like a damn sack–"

"…shot her right through the eye–"

"…no chip, no trail, probably fresh drop–"

Fresh drop.

Rianna's mind snagged on the phrase. It sounded like jargon. Something she should get familiar with.

She tried to lift her head. Couldn't.

The older man's voice came closer again. "Listen," he said, as if she could listen through the tide rolling over her. "You're gonna wake up different. You're gonna hate it. You're gonna scream. That's fine. But if you wake up and try to walk out before your stitches set, I'm stapling you to the bed."

Rianna tried to laugh. It came out as a cough.

"Good," he said. "Still got spirit."

She felt him touch her temple gently – too gently for someone who claimed not to care.

Then the sharpest pain of all: something inside her skull, a pressure like fingers pressing into her brain from the inside.

Rianna's left eye rolled back. Her thoughts scattered like roaches under a light.

"Hold still," the man murmured.

Rianna wanted to tell him to go to hell.

Instead, she fell.

Darkness, thick and heavy.

In the dark, images flashed – too fast to be memories, too structured to be dreams.

A hallway mapped in angles. A fight playing out a thousand ways. A door, a latch, the timing of a guard's blink. Lines of probability branching like lightning.

Rianna's mind tried to reject it and couldn't.

Then, somewhere far away, she heard the doctor's voice again, like a radio through walls:

"Cheap parts, kid. That's what I can afford. Don't make me regret it."

And Rianna, deep in the black, thought one clear, furious thing:

I'm not dying in this stupid future.

---

She woke choking.

Her body jerked upright – then screamed in protest. Pain detonated behind her eyes, a deep, pulsing ache that made her teeth grind. She clutched at her face with her left hand and felt bandages. Thick. Tight.

Her right side was… wrong.

She tried to blink with her right eye and nothing happened. She tried to move her right hand and felt a weight that didn't belong.

Rianna sucked in air, sharp, panicked, and the room sharpened into focus with her left eye.

A cramped clinic. Stained ceiling tiles. A single harsh lamp. Walls lined with drawers and tools and parts in labeled bags. A laundry machine rumbling through the wall, like somebody's aunt trying to get the maximum out of a load.

"Hey," a voice said from the corner. "Easy."

Rianna whipped her head, saw the doctor sitting on a stool, sipping something that was definitely burnt.

"Where the–" she rasped, then her throat caught.

The doctor leaned forward. "Don't talk yet," he said. "You'll pop something and then I'll have to fix it, and I'm already annoyed."

Rianna stared at him. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She lifted her right arm slowly.

Her hand wasn't her hand.

It was metal and polymer, shaped like a hand but too clean, too precise. Fingers with faint seams. Knuckles that didn't bruise. A wrist with a subtle slit port.

Rianna's breath hitched.

She flexed the fingers.

They moved.

A cold, sick thrill slid under her panic. It was disgusting. It was fascinating. It was–

She felt something else, too. A faint hum behind her forehead, like a second brain had been installed and was idling.

She looked at the doctor again, voice cracking. "What did you do to me?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Saved your life," he said. "You're welcome."

Rianna's jaw trembled with rage and fear and something like awe. "My eye," she whispered.

The cyber-doctor shrugged. "Gone," he said. "Replaced. You'll see out of it once it finishes calibration."

"Replaced," Rianna repeated, like the word was poison.

"And your hand was mulch," he added, matter-of-fact. "So now it's not."

Rianna's left hand clenched into a fist. "I didn't ask for–"

"As if you could ask for anything," the cyberdoc cut in, and his voice went hard for the first time. "You came in leaking like a faucet. Asking wasn't on the menu."

Rianna swallowed. Her throat burned.

She tried to stand.

The moment her feet hit the floor, her head filled with that hum– no, not a hum. A flood.

The room turned into geometry. The cyberdoc's posture became vectors. The door's distance became numbers. The weight of her body became a calculation. A thousand tiny simulations spun up all at once, each one a version of her taking a step, falling, catching herself, collapsing, lunging, fighting.

Rianna grabbed the edge of the bed, gasped, and the world lurched.

The cyberdoc was suddenly there, hand on her shoulder, grounding her. "Yeah," he said grimly. "That'll happen."

Rianna stared at him, panting. "What," she croaked. "The hell–"

He hesitated, and for the first time he looked… uncertain.

"I put a piece in your head," he said. "It was cheap. It fit. It worked."

Rianna's left eye widened. "A piece. In my head."

"It's not magic," he snapped. "It's hardware. Brain support. Compute assist. Don't freak out."

Rianna laughed– one harsh bark that turned into a cough. "Don't freak out? I got shot in the face, my hand got–" She glanced down at the metal fingers, felt bile rise. "–and you're telling me don't freak out?"

The cyberdoc's mouth twitched. "Freak out later," he said. "Right now you owe me."

Rianna stared at him, then at the room, then at the rain-streaked window that showed a city that wasn't hers.

Her chest tightened.

"Where am I?" she whispered.

The cyberdoc's eyes were tired. "Home," he said, not unkindly. "Or at least mine."

Rianna's new hand clenched slowly, the metal fingers curling surely like they were meant to.

She swallowed down the panic, the grief, the insanity of it, and replaced it with something she understood better: anger.

"Okay," she said softly, voice rough. "Okay. Fine."

The cyberdoc watched her, wary.

Rianna lifted her chin, staring at the wall like it had insulted her mother.

"Tell me," she said, "how the hell do I get paid in this place."

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Rianna learned three things in the first ten minutes of being awake.

One: pain in the future still felt exactly like pain in the past, which was extremely rude of science.

Two: her right hand was not her hand, it was a very convincing mix of iron and wires with joints.

Three: whatever the cyberdoc had shoved into her skull had strong opinions.

She sat on the edge of the clinic bed, bare feet on cold tile, left hand gripping the mattress trying to keep her upright. Her right eye was a bandaged absence; her right wrist ended in a sleek prosthetic that looked too new and shiny for the rest of the room.

Miro – because the guy had finally, begrudgingly introduced himself as Dr. Miro Sanz – slid a dented tray onto a rolling cart and nudged it toward her with his foot.

On the tray: a cup of water, two chalky pills, a protein bar that looked even less appetising than the ones back from her time, and a tiny foil packet of something which, surprisingly, looked like candy.

Rianna stared at it. "What is that."

"Food," Miro said, already annoyed. He leaned against a cabinet. "Pain. Antibiotic. And a glucose gel in case your new… friend…" he nodded at her head, "decides it doesn't like its new home."

Rianna's left eye twitched. "New friend."

Miro lifted his mug. The smell coming off it was burnt enough to be tagged as self-harm. "You're gonna get cravings," he said. "Sugar. Salt. Protein. The hardware's hungry."

Rianna tore open the protein bar wrapper with her teeth and bit down hard, tearing through it. Almost feral-like. It tasted like extremely dry and chalky chocolate, but her body accepted it all the same, grateful in that humiliating way bodies always were.

She chewed. Swallowed. Tried to ignore how her throat still scraped raw from screaming.

"Okay," she said around a mouthful. "So. Money. You said I owe you."

"You do."

"How much."

"More than you have."

Rianna's jaw worked. "That's not a number."

Miro shrugged. "It's a reality."

Rianna wanted to throw the bar at him. Instead she forced herself to breathe, slow, because the moment her emotions spiked the weird pressure behind her forehead stirred. The new attachment; a second set of hands inside her skull, just waiting to be flexed.

And also because she didn't think he'd give her a replacement bar.

She took a sip of water and spoke carefully. "I need a money credit chip."

Miro's gaze flicked to her wrist, then her face. "You need a lot of things."

"No," Rianna snapped. "I mean a–" She waved her left hand vaguely, mimicking the vendor's motion from the stall before. "The tappy thing. So I can buy food and not die."

Miro's eyes crinkled, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You're a ghost."

Rianna pointed at herself. "I'm right here."

"In the flesh," he agreed. "Not on the system."

Rianna hated that. Hated that she could be alive and still not count. It scratched at something deep and furious in her.

"So fix it," she said. "You're a doctor."

"I'm not a magician."

Rianna leaned forward, voice sharp. "You put a chunk of metal in my brain and you can't give me a damn debit card?"

Miro set his mug down with deliberate care, like he was preventing himself from throwing it.

"Listen," he said, and the tone shifted from grumpy to serious. "Cred access ties to identity. Identity ties to trails. Trails get people found. You're in a unique position. You don't want to be found."

"I don't care," Rianna said immediately, because caring felt like being controlled. "I just–"

"You do care," Miro cut in. "You just don't know what you're afraid of yet."

Rianna's mouth opened to argue.

Miro pointed at the bandage over her right eye. "You got shot because you – correct me if I'm wrong – clearly didn't think through whatever you walked into. That's not a cute personality trait, it's a sign that you're prey."

Rianna's stomach worked in smooth contentment, at odds with the conversation going down. She swallowed down the last of the bar.

"Okay," she said, quieter. "So what do I do."

Miro's shoulders loosened a fraction, like he'd gotten what he wanted: her listening.

"You work," he said. "You keep your head down. You get a temporary cred wafer, maybe. Disposable. Doesn't make you legal, but it lets you buy basic stuff."

"Where."

Miro jerked his chin toward a cluttered corner of the clinic where a small kiosk sat – maybe a medical scanner or a computer. "I can issue you a clinic wafer," he said. "It's tied to my shop, my reputation. You run up debt, it's my ass. So there are some rules."

Rianna straightened automatically. Rules were fine. Rules meant there was a game. Games meant she could win.

Miro held up a finger. "Rule one: you don't bring trouble back here."

Rianna snorted. "Define trouble."

Miro's gaze went flat. "Rule one is not a negotiation."

Rianna pressed her lips together and nodded once.

"Rule two," he continued, "you don't let anyone scan your head. Not a cop, not a corp, not some cute idiot at a party who says it's 'just for fun.'"

Rianna's skin crawled. "Why."

Miro hesitated. That same flicker of uncertainty returned.

"Because you're carrying… junk," he said finally. "And sometimes even junk belongs to people who get violent about losing it."

Rianna stared at him, heart thudding. She wanted to ask what he meant by "belongs," but her pride wouldn't let her sound scared.

Miro held up a third finger. "Rule three: you don't overuse the Neuro-Additive Support Component."

Rianna blinked. "The what."

"The thing in your brain making you look like you're about to faint every time you stand," Miro said. "If you push it, it'll push back. You'll get overload. Migraines. Nausea. Maybe seizures if you're an idiot."

Rianna exhaled hard. "So just… don't use it."

Miro gave her a look like she'd suggested not breathing. "You'll use it. I'm just telling you not to treat it like a toy."

Rianna looked down at her metal hand. The fingers flexed in a way that was almost natural, almost comforting.

"What about this," she asked, rotating her wrist. "Any rules?"

Miro's mouth twitched. "Don't stick it in moving machinery."

Rianna stared.

Miro's eyes slid to the laundry machine rattling behind the wall.

Rianna's lips twitched despite herself. "You got jokes."

"I got experience."

He moved to the kiosk and tapped a few commands. The screen lit, flickered, and then displayed a pop-up she couldn't fully parse, but she caught enough: temporary access, limited spend, tied to an account, repayment terms.

Miro pulled a small thin wafer – like a flexible sticker with faint circuitry – and slapped it onto the inside of her left wrist.

It tingled, then warmed. A tiny icon lit up on the wafer, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Congrats," Miro said. "You can buy burritos. Don't make me regret it."

Rianna stared at the wafer like it was the most valuable thing she'd ever owned.

"So I can just… tap it," she asked.

Miro nodded. "Most places. Grime districts especially. Clean zones will laugh at you."

Rianna frowned. "Clean zones."

"Later," Miro said, already done. He gestured at a pile of clothes on a chair, ill-fitting stuff found in lost-and-found bins and charity dumps. "Put something on that doesn't have so much blood on it. Can't have you going around announcing 'Fresh victim.'"

Rianna stood slowly, bracing for the flood of nausea.

It came anyway; less than before, but still there. Along with a bunch of calculations. No, simulations.

Distance to door: three steps. Weight distribution: favor left leg. If someone attacks from the right: pivot, use left elbow, metal hand to throat.

The information wasn't spoken in words. It was just… there, like her brain had become a math problem that kept solving itself.

Rianna squeezed her eyes shut. "Stop," she muttered.

Miro watched her, arms folded. "You can't tell it to stop," he said. "You can only learn to steer."

Rianna opened her left eye again, glare sharp. "I don't steer," she said. "I drive."

Miro's expression said: good luck with that.

She grabbed a pair of pants and a jacket from the chair, both slightly too big, both scuffed. The jacket had a hood and a collar that stood up, reaching high till her lips. It looked tough.

Rianna approved.

She dressed carefully, avoiding tugging her injured face. Under the bandage, she could feel swelling, stitches, an ache that pulsed with her heartbeat.

Her right eye – where her eye should be – was numb and heavy.

She touched the bandage lightly and hissed.

Miro tossed her a small mirror. Rianna caught it with her metal hand without thinking, and the smooth efficiency startled her.

She looked at herself.

Her left eye was her left eye – dark, sharp, too young for what she felt inside. The right side of her face was wrapped thick. Blood stains had been cleaned, but faint shadows remained.

She looked like someone who'd lost a fight.

Rianna hated that.

She lowered the mirror and forced her shoulders back. "Where do I get real money," she asked.

Miro snorted. "You mean cred. Not real. Not paper."

Rianna rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Credit. Where."

"Jobs," Miro said. "Errands. Fixer boards. Street markets. If you're smart, you don't start with violence."

Rianna laughed. It came out ugly. "Too late."

Miro's gaze hardened. "And if you're smart, you don't start with robbery again."

Rianna opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Because she didn't have a better idea and she hated that.

Miro pointed at her wafer. "You got enough for food today," he said. "That's it. Tomorrow you figure it out."

Rianna lifted her chin. "I'll figure it out."

"Don't die," Miro said.

Rianna paused in the doorway. Looked back at him. "No promises," she said, because it was the closest she could get out to thank you without choking on it.

She stepped out into the alley.

It was morning again now. Nearly a whole day had gone past in the time she got nearly trafficked, almost killed, partially mutilated and now back out on the streets as a freshly minted debtor.

The rain had slowed to a mist, but the city still screamed colour. The air still smelled like spice and oil.

And now, at least, she could buy food like a real person.

She walked the streets for a long time with her hood up, scanning. Every drone felt like a watchful eye. Every passing stranger felt like a threat.

Her new hand felt heavier than it should. Not physically– psychologically. Like it was reminding her: you've crossed an irrevocable line.

The streets got more and more familiar as she strolled. Those fucks hadn't put much of an effort in disposing her at all.

Her stomach growled again, and she let it drag her toward the same food cart from before.

The old skewer vendor from yesterday was there, under her canopy, hands moving quick. She glanced up as Rianna approached, recognition flickering.

Rianna didn't slow. She held out her wrist like she knew exactly what she was doing.

"I want two," she said. "And don't play with me."

The vendor lifted a brow. She tapped her payment panel.

Rianna copied her, pressing her wafer to the spot.

A soft beep. A tiny chime. The vendor's panel updated.

Rianna exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for hours.

The vendor handed her the skewers and said something that sounded suspiciously like: about time.

Rianna took a bite and almost cried. The food was hot, spicy, and real. Fat hit her tongue like relief. Her body unclenched.

She chewed fast, eyes still scanning.

A couple meters away, a guy leaned against a pole, watching the street like he was waiting for someone. He didn't look like a street punk. Too neat. Too calm. Clothes plain but fitted. Eyes sharp.

He glanced at Rianna, then away, like she was just another face.

Rianna clocked him anyway.

Something about him felt… measured. Like he wasn't here for breakfast.

She finished the first skewer and licked sauce off her thumb, then froze.

Her brain chunk hummed.

No flood this time. Not an overload.

Just… a quiet nudge.

The neat guy shifted his weight a fraction. His gaze flicked toward a narrow side street.

Rianna followed his glance and saw it: two men loitering near the corner, pretending not to loiter. One of them had the same kind of smile Jace had worn yesterday – the smile that meant opportunity.

Rianna's stomach tightened. She looked down at her own clothes, her bandage, her cheap jacket.

'Fresh victim.'

Her new implant didn't give her words, but it gave her a pattern: the angle of their bodies, the way they weren't leaning for comfort, the way their hands were too still.

Ambush.

Rianna swallowed and forced herself to keep eating like she didn't care.

She angled her body so her left side faced the street and her right – blindside – faced the cart, minimizing what she couldn't see. She shifted her metal hand inside her jacket pocket, fingers curling around nothing.

The two men stepped away from the corner and drifted closer, casual.

Rianna kept chewing. Kept her expression bored.

Her left eye flicked to the neat guy again. He was still there, still waiting, but his gaze had sharpened slightly, like he'd noticed the same thing.

He wasn't moving to help.

Rianna didn't expect him to.

One of the approaching men called out, voice friendly. "Hey, miss. You alright?"

Rianna ignored him.

He came closer. "You look hurt," he continued. "Need a hand?"

Rianna snorted around a mouthful. "Yeah? I got one," she said, and lifted her metal hand out of her pocket just enough for the light to catch it.

The man's friendly expression slipped for half a second, replaced by calculation.

Then it returned, smoother. "Nice hardware," he said. "Where'd you get it?"

Rianna finished her bite. "None of your business."

He laughed like she was adorable. "Come on. We're just being neighborly."

His partner drifted around to her right side. The blind side.

Rianna felt the shift almost too gradually, as if she'd felt it all her life. Her implant fed her a simulation: turn now, elbow him, step through, shove his face into the cart, grab the skewer stick like a knife.

Her pulse spiked.

She didn't want to fight. She didn't want to cause a scene.

But she also didn't want to get dragged into another alley and wake up missing more parts.

So she made the choice that felt most like her: she escalated first.

Rianna stepped forward abruptly, closing distance with the "friendly" guy until she was inside his comfort bubble. She stared into his eyes with her one working eye and smiled; wide and sharp.

"You're not neighborly," she said softly. "You're hungry."

His smile tightened.

Rianna lifted her skewer and pointed it like a weapon. "Back up," she said. "I'm having breakfast."

The man's gaze flicked to the vendor, to the street, to his partner behind her.

"Or what?" he asked, tone still friendly but edges showing.

Rianna's implant ran the scenario anyway. A thousand times. His shoulder drops before he swings. His right hand reaches first. His partner moves half a beat late.

Rianna's metal fingers flexed.

Then she heard a quiet voice from the side.

"Leave her," it said. Calm. Almost bored.

Rianna glanced.

The neat guy had pushed off the pole and stepped closer. Not rushing, not threatening, just present. His hands were visible. His posture relaxed.

But his eyes were on the two men like they were paperwork he'd already filed.

The "friendly" guy's expression shifted, irritation flashing. "This ain't your–"

"It is," the neat guy said, and there was something in his tone that made Rianna's skin prickle. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just… certainty.

The partner on Rianna's blind side hesitated.

Rianna took advantage of the hesitation immediately. She pivoted hard to her right, swinging her metal forearm up and back – fast and precise – into where she predicted the partner's throat would be.

Impact.

The man choked, stumbling, hands flying to his neck.

Rianna didn't stop. She drove her shoulder into him and shoved him into the side of the cart, hard enough to rattle the canopy.

The vendor yelped and jerked back, swearing in her own language.

The "friendly" guy lunged.

Rianna's implant screamed possibilities.

She ducked under his swing and jabbed the skewer stick into his forearm; not deep, but enough to make him flinch. Sauce splattered. He cursed.

Rianna grabbed his jacket with her metal hand and yanked, using her weight and the slick pavement to pull him off balance. He slipped, heel skidding.

She slammed her metal fist into his cheek.

Her new hand didn't hurt.

His face did.

He hit the ground with a wet smack.

For one second, the street paused around them: people turning heads, vendors shouting, someone laughing like this was free entertainment.

Rianna stood over him, breathing hard, eyes bright with adrenaline. She felt the implant hum, eager, like it wanted to keep going, to keep running fights until there were no threats left.

The neat guy stepped closer and spoke quietly, only for Rianna to hear.

"Now leave," he said. "Before they come back with friends."

Rianna snapped her head toward him. "Who the hell are you?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at her, really looked, taking in the bandage, the cheap jacket, the way she'd moved like she'd been fighting her whole life and learning something new at the same time.

Then his gaze flicked to her wrist.

To the wafer.

To the fact she'd just made a scene while tied to the clinic account.

Rianna realized, with a cold drop in her stomach, that she'd just dragged Miro into her mess.

The neat guy's mouth twitched, like he could read her thought.

"Don't use someone else's name while you're making enemies," he said.

Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd like he'd never existed.

Rianna stood there, rain misting her hood, chest heaving, and watched him go.

She didn't know his name.

But she knew two things: he was not a random bystander, and he'd just filed her away in his head.

People started moving again. The vendor began yelling at the fallen man. Someone dragged him up by the collar. The partner was still wheezing, eyes watering, fury building.

Rianna backed away, hands up like she was innocent, and slipped into the flow of pedestrians before anybody decided she was worth a chase.

Her implant buzzed behind her forehead, offering simulations of escape routes: left alley, right stairs, underpass, skywalk.

Rianna picked one without thinking.

She ducked down a narrow lane between shops, boots splashing through shallow puddles, and only stopped when her lungs burned.

She pressed her back to a wall and laughed a short laugh under her breath.

"Breakfast fight," she muttered. "That's who I am now."

Her stomach was full for the first time since she'd fallen, and it made her feel almost human.

Then the consequences rolled in.

Her head started to throb. Not normal headache, this was a pressure behind her left eye, a squeeze at the center of her skull. The implant was punishing her for playing.

Rianna slid down the wall into a crouch, breathing through her teeth.

Okay. Rule three. Don't overuse.

She hadn't even meant to use it.

But it had… come alive on its own. It had fed her timing and angles like it wanted her to keep feeding it violence. It was clearly waiting and judging, deciding when to switch on and off.

Rianna swallowed hard.

"Steer," she whispered to herself, because Miro's words echoed whether she liked them or not. "I drive."

She waited until the pain eased from "I might throw up" to "I can function if I hate myself enough," then pushed back to her feet.

She needed money. Real cred, not "borrowed from the grumpy doctor who saved her life."

She needed a place to sleep that wasn't a clinic bed with metaphorical and literal strings attached.

And she needed to stop looking like prey.

Rianna adjusted her hood, set her jaw, and stepped back toward the street.

If this world ran on chips and trails and sponsors, then fine.

She'd get a chip.

And if she couldn't get one clean?

She'd do what she'd always done.

Get creative.