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The rain in Neo-Kyoto never seemed to wash anything clean. It just smeared the grime and the neon reflections across the pavement, turning the streets into a distorted, shimmering memory of what they might have been. For Kaelen, his own memories were just as blurry. He navigated the crowded alleys of the Undercity on autopilot, the collar of his coat pulled high against the acidic drizzle and the prying eyes of the countless optical sensors that dotted every surface like metallic barnacles.
A dull throb pulsed behind his cybernetic right eye, a familiar phantom of the data-jack he’d ripped out weeks ago. Or was it months? Time, like everything else, had a tendency to fray at the edges in this part of the city. He clutched the data chip in his pocket, its sharp corners digging into his palm. He didn’t remember stealing it, but the armored footsteps of the corporate samurai that had been echoing in his nightmares for the past three cycles told him it was important.
He ducked into a noodle bar, the steam and the scent of synthetic broth a temporary shield from the city’s relentless assault on his senses. A holographic geisha flickered on the wall, her smile as empty as the promises of the mega-corporations that owned this city, soul and circuit. He ordered a bowl of nutrient paste with a shot of cheap, synthetic whiskey and tried to piece together the fragments of his past. A face, a name—Anya. A location—the Chrome Dragon, a black market clinic in the heart of the Undercity. He didn’t know if she was a friend or the one who had set him up, but her name was the only solid thing in the maelstrom of his fractured memories. He had to find her. As he forced down the tasteless food, the door to the noodle bar hissed open, and two figures in sleek, black armor stepped inside, their helmets scanning the patrons with cold, red optics. The throb behind his eye intensified. They had found him.
Kaelen’s hand instinctively went to the butt of the kinetic pistol tucked into the small of his back. The two corporate samurai from OmniCorp, their armor gleaming under the flickering neon, moved with an unnatural, synchronized grace. Their helmets, stylized to resemble the stoic masks of ancient warriors, swiveled in unison, their optical sensors painting the noodle bar’s interior with invisible lasers. The other patrons, a motley collection of factory workers, off-duty enforcers, and data-runners, froze, their faces a mixture of fear and resignation. Corporate justice in the Undercity was swift and brutal.
One of the samurai pointed a metallic finger at Kaelen. “Target acquired. Surrender the asset, and your termination will be… efficient.” The voice was a synthesized monotone, devoid of any emotion.
Kaelen’s mind raced. He could fight, but in this confined space, with civilians around, it would be a bloodbath. He needed a distraction. His cybernetic eye, a black-market model with a few… unofficial features, scanned the environment, highlighting potential advantages. A high-pressure steam pipe running along the ceiling, a stack of flimsy food crates, the flickering holographic geisha. An idea, desperate and probably suicidal, sparked in his fractured memory.
He slowly raised his hands, the picture of compliance. “Alright, alright. No need for a fuss.” He made a show of reaching into his coat, his movements slow and deliberate. The samurai tensed, their weapons raised. Instead of the data chip, Kaelen’s fingers wrapped around a small, metallic sphere. A flash-bang grenade, another relic from a life he couldn’t fully recall.
He rolled the grenade across the floor. It skittered to a halt at the feet of the samurai, and with a silent prayer to whatever digital gods might be listening, he triggered it with a subvocal command. A blinding white light and a deafening shriek filled the noodle bar. The patrons screamed, diving for cover. The samurai, their advanced optics momentarily overloaded, staggered back, firing blindly.
Kaelen didn’t hesitate. He kicked over his table, sending bowls of nutrient paste flying, and vaulted over the counter. The cook, a burly man with a cybernetic arm, wisely ducked out of sight. Kaelen landed in a crouch, his pistol now in hand. He fired two precise shots, not at the samurai, but at the steam pipe above them.
The pipe ruptured with a deafening hiss, spewing a cloud of scalding steam into the small space. The samurai’s thermal sensors would be useless. Kaelen scrambled through the back of the noodle bar, kicking open a flimsy door that led into a narrow, refuse-strewn alley. The rain was heavier now, a relentless downpour that turned the neon-lit cityscape into a watercolor painting bleeding at the edges.
He ran, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He could hear the heavy, metallic footsteps of the samurai behind him, their movements still unnervingly synchronized. They were relentless, tireless, a physical manifestation of OmniCorp’s will. And they wanted what he had.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. One of the samurai was raising its arm, a small cannon extending from its wrist. Kaelen ducked into a side alley just as a plasma bolt sizzled past him, melting a section of the ferro-concrete wall into slag. He was outmatched, outgunned, and running out of time. He needed to find Anya. He needed to find the Chrome Dragon.
He navigated the labyrinthine alleys of the Undercity, his fragmented memories of the layout a saving grace. He leaped over piles of discarded tech, slid under rusted pipes, and blended into the shadows, always moving, always one step ahead of the relentless pursuit. The throb behind his eye was a constant, painful reminder of his vulnerability.
Finally, he saw it. A flickering neon sign of a coiled dragon, its chrome scales peeling, its holographic fire long since extinguished. The Chrome Dragon. He stumbled through the entrance, a beaded curtain that did little to keep out the rain, and found himself in a small, cluttered room that smelled of antiseptic and ozone.
A woman with neon-pink hair and a series of data-ports embedded in her temples looked up from a console, her expression a mixture of annoyance and surprise. “Kaelen? I thought you were ghosted.”
“Anya,” he breathed, his voice hoarse. “They’re after me. OmniCorp.”
As if on cue, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the alley. Anya’s eyes widened. She grabbed a wicked-looking pulse rifle from under the counter. “Get in the back. Now.”
Kaelen stumbled into the back room, a makeshift operating theater filled with scavenged medical equipment and flickering monitors. He collapsed onto a gurney, the adrenaline that had been fueling him finally giving way to a bone-deep exhaustion. He could hear the sounds of a firefight erupting in the front of the clinic, the sharp crack of Anya’s pulse rifle and the heavier thud of the samurai’s plasma cannons.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, listening to the sounds of the battle, the fate of his life in the hands of a woman he wasn’t even sure he could trust. The sounds of fighting eventually died down, replaced by a heavy silence that was almost as terrifying. Then, the door creaked open.
Anya stood there, her face smudged with soot, a fresh burn on her cheek. She was holding the pulse rifle, the barrel still smoking. “They’re gone. For now.” She looked at him, her gaze sharp and calculating. “You have no idea the trouble you’ve brought to my door, do you?”
Kaelen could only shake his head, the data chip in his pocket feeling heavier than a black hole. He was alive, but he was no closer to understanding why he was a target, what was on the chip, or who he really was. The only thing he knew for sure was that in the neon-drenched hell of Neo-Kyoto, his past was a ghost that was determined to kill him.
