Consciousness returned like a reluctant visitor. My eyes opened to a gruesome tableau, the alley's grimy concrete canvas painted with alarming amounts of blood. For a disorienting moment, I thought it might be mine, but aside from the drying trickle from my nostrils, the crimson lake surrounding me belonged to others.

  Before me lay the remnants of the bulky man, his once-immaculate suit now a shredded ruin. The chest implant beneath had detonated with such force it appeared to have sought violent freedom from his body. The explosion had torn him open from sternum to throat, leaving a gaping maw of ruptured flesh where pristine fabric had been. Circuits and metal fragments protruded from the wound, still sparking with residual electrical discharge. The artificial components had rebelled against their host with catastrophic finality.

  A few meters away, the NeuroSlicer's corpse completed the macabre scene. His head had imploded rather than exploded, as if crushed by tremendous internal pressure. The neural device beneath his ear had apparently overloaded, liquefying portions of his brain. The resulting mess spattered the wall behind him, forming a grotesque halo of cognitive matter. His sunglasses lay nearby, one lens shattered, the frame bent at an impossible angle.

  I suppressed the urge to vomit, forcing back bile as it rose in my throat. Fragments of memory flickered through my mind—the NeuroSlicer accessing my neural interface, taking control of most of my body while something else kept my hand locked around the memory stick. Blood had streamed from all three of our noses simultaneously, as if we were all under attack from the same mysterious force. The NeuroSlicer's last panicked words echoed in my memory: "There's something else... something extremely aggressive." Then darkness had claimed me.

  Movement at the alley entrance caught my attention. Curious onlookers were beginning to gather, keeping a safe distance but drawn by the carnage like scavengers to a carcass. In ToxCity, scenes of violence rarely warranted intervention, but someone might eventually summon law enforcement if only to scavenge the bodies before the authorities arrived.

  My headache had vanished entirely—another inexplicable development. The memory stick remained clutched in my hand, my fingers still locked around it in the same desperate grip. I pocketed it quickly and rose to my feet. Escape was imperative.

  Distant sirens wailed, drawing nearer. With practiced movements, I scaled the side of the building, leveraging my enhanced limbs to ascend rapidly. Within seconds I was above the gathering crowd, traversing the rooftops with single-minded focus.

  I needed to get home.

  The rhythm of my footfalls matched the chaotic cadence of my thoughts. Each stride propelled me further from the scene, but the implications echoed with every step. During my two years as a Courier, I'd fought countless battles but never crossed the threshold into taking a life. And before that, my fragmented memories offered no evidence of such an act. A cold comfort, perhaps—surely I would remember something so significant, unreliable as my memory had become.

  What troubled me most was how the men died. Their implants turning against them suggested a sophisticated attack—not something a typical street-level operator could execute. More disturbingly, neither man had worn any corporate insignia or uniform. Unlike MainFrame's typical security or NeuroSlicer teams with their distinct black and silver attire, these two had seemed deliberately nondescript, more like independent operators than corporate agents.

  Yet coincidence didn't explain their presence. They had known about the memory stick, appearing at precisely the right moment to intercept me. The timing suggested someone had been watching the cafe, the alley, or me.

  I halted on a rooftop with a clear view in all directions, ensuring no pursuit. Perching at the edge, I lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as I examined the situation from all angles. The dying afternoon sun cast long shadows across the urban sprawl, highlighting the perpetual haze that hung over ToxCity.

  My mind kept returning to the neural battle in the alley. During that confrontation, I had experienced something unprecedented. The NeuroSlicer had controlled my body, forcing me to lower the memory stick to the ground—but something else had maintained an iron grip on my fingers, refusing to release it. My body had become a battleground between competing forces. But what was that second force?

  The most obvious explanation seemed to be Noah. His memories had led me to the memory stick's location with perfect accuracy, proving they weren't mere hallucinations. The flashbacks, the glowing letters on the delivery menu, the strange messages on my neural display—all suggested Noah's consciousness had somehow survived within my damaged receptacle. If he could project images into my visual field, perhaps he could also exert limited control over my motor functions under extreme circumstances.

  But another possibility nagged at me. What if a third party was involved? Someone with a vested interest in the memory stick who didn't want me dead. Someone powerful enough to remotely attack a NeuroSlicer through his own hardware. The NeuroSlicer had detected "something extremely aggressive" in the neural network—something he hadn't expected. Was it Noah's consciousness fighting back, or another player in this increasingly complex game?

  Drawing on the cigarette, I expelled smoke that mingled with the polluted air, my gaze drifting upward to the imposing silhouettes of space freighters suspended in the distant sky. "You probably have no idea what's happening down here, you fuckers," I muttered.

  The Gold Tier reward that had seemed within my grasp now proved entirely elusive—no record of the call, no trace of Noah's body, and a receptacle that Boz had declared "deep fried." The practical side of me cataloged these setbacks clinically: severe financial loss, inability to work without a functioning receptacle, and possible MainFrame scrutiny if they discovered the damage.

  A thought occurred to me. If Noah's presence could manipulate my visual display to communicate through the delivery menu, perhaps direct contact was possible. Or, if another force was at work, maybe they were watching and would respond.

  "Noah? Can you hear me? Can you talk to me?"

  Silence hung in the afternoon stillness. Undeterred, I opened a mental text editor on my heads-up display, creating a blank space where Noah—or whoever was there—might respond.

  The cursor blinked with mechanical patience. Nothing appeared.

  I took another drag on my cigarette, waiting. Still nothing.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "Are you there?" I whispered.

  The cursor continued its rhythmic blinking, mocking my attempts at communication.

  With a frustrated sigh, I flicked the cigarette butt into the abyss below and pushed myself up from my seated position at the edge of the rooftop. Whatever mysterious force had affected my neural interface—whether Noah's consciousness or some unknown third party—seemed unwilling or unable to communicate directly. For now, I had a memory stick to examine and whatever secrets it contained to uncover.

  Within twenty minutes, my apartment building came into view. Caution compelled me to perform a thorough surveillance of the surrounding area, ensuring no unwelcome attention trailed me. Once satisfied, I entered through the roof access door and descended the stairs rapidly, reaching my unit without incident. The door closed behind me with a reassuring click that transformed my shabby apartment into a sanctuary.

  The refrigerator yielded cold refuge—a beer liberated from its confines met my lips, its contents disappearing in a single, desperate gulp. The momentary pleasure provided little comfort against the weight of recent events, but it was something.

  I withdrew the memory stick from my pocket, examining it under the harsh kitchen light. An Int4 plug—obsolete by current standards but still accessible with an adapter. It represented technology from a bygone era, the kind of physical storage device that had fallen out of favor once neural interfaces became widespread. Its very antiquity provided security; unlike neural storage, it couldn't be remotely hacked or accessed without physical possession.

  Surveying my living space, I recalled the old computer stashed in my closet—one that should have the necessary adapter. I dug through boxes of forgotten possessions, eventually extracting a black laptop. Though relic technology, computers maintained some utility. Corporations still relied on them to isolate sensitive information from their employees' neural interfaces, preventing casual access or leakage.

  Before becoming a Courier, when my implants had been rudimentary, this laptop had been my primary tool. Its tactile interface, though slower than neural connections, offered greater security and precision for certain tasks. I hadn't used it in over a year, but it might prove crucial now.

  The screen flickered to life, its boot sequence achingly slow compared to instantaneous neural access. The adapter connected with a satisfying click, and I inserted the memory stick with trembling fingers. A precipice lay before me—an irreversible plunge into Noah's secrets. What information could be so valuable that men would die for it? What had he discovered during his eighteen years at MainFrame?

  With a steadying breath, I completed the connection. The computer recognized the device immediately, displaying its contents on the screen. To my surprise, it contained only a single text document. I opened it, expecting comprehensive data, technical specifications, or incriminating evidence.

  Instead, two words appeared:

  "Find Lisa."

  I stared at the screen, confusion mounting as the cursor pulsed rhythmically beneath this sparse message. This made no sense given what I'd witnessed in Noah's memory. In that flashback, Noah had brought the memory stick specifically to give to Lisa at the cafe—he'd slid it across the table toward her before she stormed out. It was clearly intended for her eyes. He'd even told her directly, "I want to take MainFrame down," suggesting the stick contained evidence supporting his claim.

  So why, after going through all that effort to meet with Lisa and offer her the memory stick directly, would he hide it with instructions for someone else to find her? The timeline didn't add up. Had he hidden it after the failed meeting? Or was all of this some elaborate contingency plan? The puzzle was missing critical pieces.

  A sudden thought struck me—perhaps there was more to the message than just these two words. The mental text editor hadn't worked, but Noah had communicated with me before through making actual text glow on the delivery menu. Maybe he could only interact with physical objects rather than my neural interface directly. What if he could provide additional context through that crude method again?

  I hurried to the kitchen, retrieving the delivery menu from my counter and spreading it flat on the table beside the computer.

  "Come on, Noah! Talk to me!"

  Silence. No responsive glow, no letters etching themselves into existence. The menu remained stubbornly ordinary, offering nothing but overpriced synthetic food options that somehow managed to taste worse than they sounded.

  I returned to the computer, the two-word directive still displayed with maddening simplicity.

  "Find Lisa."

  A thought occurred to me. I quickly examined the memory stick's properties, and a triumphant smile crossed my face as my suspicion proved correct. The device's capacity far exceeded what would be needed for two words—the properties indicated over 200 terabytes of data, despite the text file being mere bytes in size. Hidden files must occupy the remaining space, concealed behind sophisticated encryption.

  For two hours I grappled with various software and online tutorials, trying every decryption method available to me. Each approach hit the same impenetrable wall. The files remained stubbornly hidden, taunting me with their proximity yet complete inaccessibility.

  Exhausted, I collapsed onto my bed. "I should have gone into cybersecurity," I mumbled into my pillow.

  Then it clicked—Lisa was an information security programmer. She would possess the expertise to breach this encryption. With renewed determination, I accessed the DarkNet and began searching for "Lisa Cole."

  My efforts yielded nothing useful. If she existed in the digital realm, she had carefully obscured her tracks. Recalling that Noah had used the pseudonym "Cleo Hano" when I received the call, I tried variations: Lisa Hano, Lisa Cleo. Each search led to equally empty results.

  I needed to recalibrate my approach. What did I know about Lisa from Noah's memories? She grew up without a father, her mother had died, she worked in InfoSec, and she harbored deep distrust toward MainFrame. Her distinctive appearance—blonde hair with a blue section, cybernetic chrome hand, and natural eyes—provided visual markers, but little to trace electronically.

  Opening another beer, I considered the landscape of cybersecurity operations in ToxCity. Beyond the Big Four corporations, smaller security firms operated legitimately, providing services to businesses that couldn't afford corporate-level protection. Many existed as decentralized collectives of specialists, trying to maintain independence while staying just under the radar of the major players.

  I refined my search parameters, focusing on independent InfoSec groups rather than individuals. If Lisa worked in cybersecurity but distrusted MainFrame, she likely operated within these alternative structures.

  After an hour of methodical investigation, a promising lead emerged: EcoNet—a loose collective of programmers and NeuroSlicers contracting with smaller enterprises. Their public roster included security specialists, hardware engineers, and network architects.

  Scrolling through their personnel directory, a name caught my attention: Lisa May—Senior Security Specialist.

  The accompanying photo confirmed it immediately. Only then did I realize my initial search mistake—of course she wouldn't have her father's surname since he'd never been part of her life. Her features were unmistakable—the same determined green eyes from Noah's memory, the distinctive blue section in her blonde hair. She'd aged several years since the cafe confrontation, but there was no doubt this was Noah's daughter.

  "I found Lisa," I announced to my empty apartment, a mixture of triumph and trepidation washing over me.

  The memory stick's directive had been fulfilled, yet this was clearly just the beginning. Whatever secrets lay encrypted within those 200 terabytes, Lisa May was evidently the key to accessing them. The question remained: would she help me, or did she still harbor the same bitter resentment toward her father that she'd displayed in Noah's memory?

  More troubling still was the question of what I would tell her. That her father's consciousness might somehow exist within my receptacle? That unknown forces were willing to kill for the memory stick he'd left behind? That I'd been experiencing his memories as if they were my own?

  I stared at her photo on my display, searching those familiar green eyes for answers they couldn't provide. Only one way to find out.