Reality warped, buildings and streets dissolving into pixelated chaos. My legs buckled, sending me down to one knee as blood dripped from my nose onto the pavement below—crimson evidence of whatever price Noah's intervention exacted on my physical form.
My fingers trembled violently as I fumbled for my Beta-Blockers, but the small bottle slipped from my grasp, rattling across the concrete. My vision faded to black though consciousness stubbornly persisted, leaving me awake but effectively blind.
"Hey! What's happening?" Lisa's voice cut through the darkness, anchored by the sensation of her hands gripping my shoulders.
"Swallow!" she commanded. Something small and round pressed against my lips—a Beta-Blocker. I complied, and gradually, the fragmented pieces of my vision reassembled themselves. Lisa hovered above me, concern etched into every line of her face, as the throbbing in my head slowly receded to manageable levels.
"Are you okay? You're bleeding, like A LOT!" she exclaimed, using her sleeve to wipe blood from my face.
"I'm... I'm okay..." I managed, trying to sit up.
Lisa supported my weight, staggering slightly. "Damn, you're heavy," she remarked with a forced smile. "What's happening to you?"
"I think..." My thoughts struggled to align. "I think it's because of what just happened."
"The hacking?"
"Yes," I confirmed. "Somehow, when Noah takes over, there's always some aftermath—bleeding, headache. It's like my brain can't handle whatever he's doing."
"After what went down in there," Lisa gestured toward Boz's shop, "I'm starting to think that what happened at NeoDuck was a similar story."
I nodded weakly, the implications of this realization settling over me. Whatever Noah had done to those men—both at NeoDuck and at Boz's shop—wasn't without consequence. Each time he protected us, my body paid a physical toll.
"We need to move now," Lisa urged, scanning our surroundings with professional paranoia. "They're not going to stop coming."
"I know," I acknowledged, focusing hard to push through the pain.
My hesitation about Neo Underground must have been visible on my face. Lisa's expression softened slightly, though the urgency never left her eyes.
"Look, I know you have doubts," she said. "But we don't have many options left. They found you at NeoDuck, they found me at EcoNet, they attacked us at the underpass, and now they've tracked us to Boz. Wherever we go on the surface, they follow."
The pounding in my head made it difficult to think clearly. Between the pain, the blood loss, and the lingering shock from the betrayal at Boz's shop, my decision-making felt compromised. But Lisa had saved me from Boz's betrayal, and something in her determination rang true.
"Neo Underground it is," I conceded with a weary sigh. "I hope you know what you're doing."
She met my gaze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "I hope so too."
"We have no time to waste. I'll call a Homing Driver," she decided.
"That's... a good idea."
"But we need to get away from here first," she insisted. "They'll be back, that's for fucking sure."
"Okay, help me up," I requested.
She positioned herself under my arm, supporting my weight as we stumbled away from Boz's shop and the carnage we'd left behind.
We navigated through Red Fusion's maze of back alleys, putting as much distance as possible between ourselves and Boz's shop. After about fifteen minutes of zigzagging through narrow passages and shadowed corridors, Lisa determined we'd created sufficient buffer to summon a Homing Driver safely. She guided me to lean against a wall in a secluded side alley.
"I'm calling now. Are you okay standing there?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm better," I assured her, the Beta-Blocker having taken the edge off the worst of the pain.
Lisa's eyes flickered with the telltale dance of light that indicated active use of her neural interface. After a brief exchange through her heads-up display, she turned back to me.
"Three minutes," she reported.
I nodded, swallowing another Beta-Blocker to suppress the lingering headache. My entire body felt disconnected from my consciousness—as if I were observing myself from a slight distance, my senses dulled and echoing.
"How did you do that back at the shop?" Lisa asked, keeping her voice low. "How did you manage to hack their systems?"
"I think it's Noah," I replied. "When it happened, I could hack their implants, and it felt natural—like I'd been doing it my whole life."
"My dad," she said softly, the words carrying complex layers of emotion.
"Yes. And I think you're right about NeoDuck. I collapsed there too, right as they were being hacked. The difference is that this time I was conscious during the process—if it was the same thing happening at NeoDuck, I wasn't in control then."
"Were you communicating with him? Was he helping you guide the hacking?" she asked, leaning forward with intense curiosity.
"No. This was more..." I paused, searching for words to describe the indescribable. "It was like I was him. I had his knowledge, his skills, somehow. Was your dad a hacker?"
She chuckled softly. "No, I don't think so. But he was Director of OS for MainFrame. He was a genius programmer; I have no doubt he dabbled in hacking more than a little, especially considering what he revealed to us during the Dive. He somehow managed to hack into MainFrame's most secure systems to uncover their secrets—a feat practically unheard of. MainFrame's security protocols are legendary for being impenetrable."
She glanced upward at the perpetual haze that obscured ToxCity's sky. "But even with his skills, you don't have the implants that should allow you to do that. Skill can only take you so far."
She was right. While a basic wireless connection could theoretically interface with brain implants, NeuroSlicers relied on specialized hardware to effectively breach security systems. Security protocols were robust, designed specifically to prevent unauthorized access. Cross-Plugging was more straightforward because it created a direct, physical connection. But wirelessly hacking multiple targets simultaneously without specialized equipment should have been impossible.
"How did I do it then?" I finally asked.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But there's a lot we still don't understand about what's happening."
She suddenly turned toward the main street, tensing. "The car is here. Let's go."
She helped me to my feet, and I leaned against her shoulder as we made our way toward the street. The Homing Driver vehicle waited at the curb—a reinforced van with thick steel panels and bulletproof glass, marked by the distinctive violet light pulsing on its roof. Three automated turrets swiveled vigilantly, constantly scanning for threats as we approached.
Lisa helped me to the open door and eased me into one of the passenger seats, making sure I was securely inside the vehicle before turning back with a reassuring smile. "Now, just relax, we—"
Her words died as a gunshot cracked through the night. Blood and tissue erupted from her chest in a violent spray, warm droplets spattering across my face and hands. Her eyes widened with shock and pain before closing involuntarily as she began to collapse. The sight burned into my mind—another person's blood on my hands, another life hanging in the balance because of my involvement. The traumatic image triggered something primal in me, a flash of memory too fractured to grasp but emotionally devastating nonetheless.
Adrenaline flooded my system like an electric current, instantly washing away any neural discomfort and disconnection. Suddenly, I felt 100% present in my body, every sense heightened to painful clarity. From my seated position inside the vehicle, I lunged forward, catching Lisa before she hit the ground and dragging her into the van with desperate strength.
"GO!" I shouted.
The door sealed with a pneumatic hiss, and the van lurched forward as bullets pinged against its armored exterior. The turrets on the roof activated in response, tracking our attackers with mechanical precision and returning fire with devastating effect.
"Lisa! Lisa!" I called, helping her into one of the vehicle's seats.
"I'm... I'm... okay," she gasped, her hands pressing against her abdomen where the bullet had torn through her. The entry wound on her right side and exit wound on her front were pumping alarming amounts of blood. I pressed my hands over hers, applying pressure to stem the flow. The severity of her bleeding made me realize something important—unlike many in our cybernetic world, Lisa's torso must be mostly original, organic flesh. A cybernetic chest wouldn't bleed like this, wouldn't be so vulnerable to a single bullet.
"Fuckers," she whispered through gritted teeth as her consciousness began to fade.
I divided my attention between the rear window, where a convoy of black vehicles pursued us relentlessly, and Lisa's wound, which continued to bleed despite my efforts. The exchange of gunfire intensified as our Homing Driver engaged with our pursuers, the armored van swerving through streets at dangerous speeds.
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I turned toward the driver's compartment, protected behind bulletproof glass, and shouted, "Full Service! Client in distress!"
A notification immediately appeared on my heads-up display:
"HD 07942: Full Service request: 100,000 Credits."
I authorized the transaction without hesitation. Within seconds, a panel in the ceiling slid open, and two articulated mechanical arms descended from the compartment above. Lisa's seat reclined automatically, gentle restraints securing her limbs while positioning her for treatment. I moved to the opposite seat, watching as the AI-controlled medical system methodically addressed her wound, cleaning and suturing the injury with remarkable precision.
Additional mechanical appendages extended from various compartments, administering a series of injections that quickly sedated her. A new display appeared in my vision, showing Lisa's vital signs—initially alarming, but gradually stabilizing as the robotic system worked.
Another message appeared on my interface:
"HD 07942: 2 cars in pursuit, please choose an option for full service:
- Clear out the menace
- Evade them
- Change destination."
I glanced at my display, confirming Lisa's selected destination—Saint-Emily Street, a primary gateway to Neo Underground. Despite my instinctive aversion to that notorious underworld, her choice would stand. But as I watched her unconscious form, blood soaking through her clothing, an unfamiliar rage surged through me—a white-hot fury unlike anything in my fractured memory.
"Clear out the menace," I commanded.
The option illuminated green, and immediately the van executed a perfect 180-degree turn, tires screeching against asphalt. A video feed appeared on my heads-up display, showing our pursuers—two black vehicles identical to those we'd encountered at Cala Street—closing rapidly.
Concealed compartments in our vehicle's exterior slid open, revealing missile launchers that deployed with silent efficiency. The targeting systems locked on instantly, and twin projectiles streaked toward the pursuing cars. The explosion illuminated the street in a brief, apocalyptic flash, the concussive force rattling our armored transport even at this distance. The blast tore a massive crater in the street, shattering nearby windows and setting off car alarms for blocks. Another problem for someone else to deal with in ToxCity's endless cycle of destruction and makeshift repairs.
When the smoke cleared, nothing remained of our pursuers but twisted metal and flames.
"HD 07942: Menace eradicated."
I sank back in my seat, a disbelieving laugh escaping my throat. The legendary "Full Service" option lived up to its reputation—and so did its price tag. In my two years as a Courier, I'd heard rumors of its capabilities but had never witnessed it firsthand, much less activated it myself. The Homing Driver network's premium service offered comprehensive protection: medical care, elimination of threats, and guaranteed delivery to your destination—alive or in a body bag.
Two ironclad rules governed this service, beyond its exorbitant cost. First, no conflict could be initiated before entering the vehicle—the client had to be inside before hostilities began, which we'd satisfied because Lisa had helped me into the seat before the attack came. Second, the client couldn't use it to initiate aggression—it was strictly defensive. We had satisfied both conditions through sheer luck.
I looked at Lisa's vital signs on my display, relief washing over me as the indicators stabilized further. The medical arms retracted into the ceiling, leaving only an IV port in her arm. Blood stained the van's interior, but the immediate danger had passed. Her eyes remained closed, her expression now peaceful in sedated unconsciousness.
I leaned back, the adrenaline subsiding and allowing the headache to resurface. Closing my eyes, I let the van's smooth motion soothe me as we continued toward our destination. A moment of calm in the eye of the storm—temporary, but welcome nonetheless.
I reached into my pocket, fingers closing tightly around the memory stick, gripping it with intense focus. This small device felt suddenly heavier, its secrets still encrypted, waiting to be unlocked.
Whatever Noah had discovered about MainFrame—whatever had driven him to create the unprecedented Receptacle 2.0 and the Aurora OS—had cost him his life and now threatened ours. Yet as I watched Lisa's steady breathing, I knew with certainty we would continue his mission, whatever the price.
I just hoped we'd survive long enough to understand what we were fighting for.
Seated in the Homing Driver's vehicle, I kept watch over Lisa's unconscious form as the medical system maintained her sedation. Through the window, the cityscape blurred past—dilapidated buildings, shadowed streets, and the ever-present freighters looming in the distance. The familiar urban tapestry of ToxCity seemed somehow different now, as if viewed through a lens altered by everything we'd learned.
Questions swirled through my mind, each demanding answers I didn't have. Noah had revealed fragments of his existence during our Dive, yet crucial elements remained obscured. I could seemingly tap into his expertise during moments of crisis, accessing his knowledge and abilities, but the cost was severe—physical debilitation that left me vulnerable afterward.
The memory stick in my pocket—which both Noah's Soul within my Receptacle and Lisa could unlock together—supposedly contained five years of clandestine research into a hidden department within MainFrame. But why had Noah chosen this particular method of transmitting the information? Why not simply release it publicly? And why did he need to die to accomplish his goal?
The most troubling question remained the enigma of his physical body. One moment he was there in his apartment, the next moment gone without a trace as I lay unconscious on the floor. It seemed almost inconsequential compared to the larger mysteries we faced, yet something about it nagged at the periphery of my consciousness.
"What happened to his body?" I murmured to myself.
A glance at my heads-up display showed our estimated arrival time: 14 minutes.
I leaned back, determined to use this brief respite to collect my thoughts. As my eyes drifted closed, fatigue pulling me toward a moment's rest, I felt a familiar shift in perception—the unmistakable sensation of slipping into a Dive. Unlike previous instances, this transition felt smooth, almost natural, as if a door had been opened rather than forced.
The black void of the Dive materialized around me, that formless digital space that existed somewhere between minds. Noah appeared before me, his spectral form more defined than during our previous encounter, the edges of his presence sharper against the darkness.
"Hello," he greeted simply.
"Noah," I responded, immediately alert despite the dreamlike quality of our surroundings. "You initiated this Dive, didn't you?"
"Correct."
"Will you disconnect like last time? What happened at Boz's shop? And how did—"
"We're pressed for time," he interrupted, "and while your questions are valid, priorities must be addressed first."
I fell silent, acknowledging the urgency with a nod.
"Our connection is still developing," he explained. "Communication is possible, but the process remains imperfect."
With a gesture of his hand, Noah summoned a holographic representation of a human brain adorned with an array of implants, including a recognizable Receptacle at the base of the skull.
"Your Receptacle has activated Aurora," Noah continued, his voice momentarily faltering as he paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. "The OS designed for this..." He hesitated, a shadow passing across his expression. "...this mission."
"Mission?" I asked, studying the hologram with renewed interest.
The image zoomed onto the Receptacle, illuminating its intricate wiring and modular construction. "The MainFrame Receptacle connects differently than any other implant," Noah explained. "To sustain a Soul—in the absence of a better term—it needs a direct link to the Courier's brain. Hence, the memory loss; the Soul forges its own neural connections by obliterating the host's."
A section of the holographic brain displayed red areas being engulfed by mechanical connections, like a metallic infection spreading through neural tissue, completely overtaking the original structures. I noticed that luminous particles flowed only in one direction—from the Receptacle to the host brain, a one-way transfer that consumed rather than complemented.
"I was never informed—" I began.
"No Courier fully comprehends the system," Noah interjected. "But you're aware your memories are irrevocably lost with each transfer, or at least severely fractured."
I nodded, the reality of my splintered past a constant reminder of this truth.
"Aurora alters this paradigm fundamentally," he continued. The hologram reset, this time showing the Receptacle expanding itself, generating entirely new modules that seemed to materialize from nothing.
"Symbiosis," Noah stated, the word hanging between us with profound implications.
"How?" I asked, fascinated despite my wariness.
"Aurora OS overrides the original Receptacle patterns to integrate with the host—in this instance, you. It allows both consciousnesses to coexist instead of one subsuming the other."
"But how are these modules created? Where does the new hardware come from?"
"Nano-technology," Noah replied simply.
The term triggered a memory—images from an old magazine I'd once treasured, illustrations of microscopic machines that could build and repair at the cellular level. A technology long regarded as fantasy in our broken world.
"Correct," Noah said, catching me off guard.
"You—"
"I'm you, and you are me," he stated. "There's no surprise in my reading your thoughts."
I considered this for a moment, testing the boundaries of our connection.
"I can't read yours, though," I observed.
"Because you are the host," Noah explained. "Stop thinking of me as a person; the Noah that initiated the call is gone. What remains is a Soul—a digital version of that person, with memories, knowledge, and patterns. Just data. No body, no brain, no independent thoughts. I am merely information."
"But you can take complete control of me," I challenged. "Like at Boz's shop, and maybe at NeoDuck too."
"No, I can't," he refuted firmly.
"Then who did?"
"You," he replied.
I stared at him, perplexed. It couldn't have been me—at least not within the realm of my unreliable memory. Hacking had never been among my skills.
"Allow me to clarify," Noah continued, sensing my confusion. "When I say 'you,' I don't refer to who you were in the past, but who you are becoming now."
With another gesture, light emanated from the branching connections of the Receptacle, the hologram expanding. Luminous particles coursed through the neural interfaces between machine and brain, flowing bidirectionally.
"You're no longer just the Courier you once were, nor am I simply Noah," he explained. "We've amalgamated into something unprecedented—a convergence of two Souls in one person. You are a singular entity that has never existed before. Something entirely new."
"But you control me," I insisted.
"Incorrect," he rejected firmly. "As the connections expand, you receive knowledge—Noah's knowledge—but you remain in control. You make the decisions."
"I didn't initiate this Dive," I pointed out.
"Yes, you did," he countered. "You had questions that needed answers. The connection was stable, the moment was right—so here we are."
I fell silent, considering the implications of what he was suggesting. Could this explain everything I'd been experiencing? The hacking abilities, the foreign memories, the sense of displacement—were these all signs of two consciousnesses gradually merging into one? The possibility was both fascinating and terrifying.
His avatar began to flicker, the edges of his form wavering like static.
"We're short on time," he announced abruptly. "I need to explain something more critical."
"Why do you keep disappearing?" I demanded, frustration building. "Why do I lose consciousness afterward? I have so many questions!"
Noah's expression softened with what appeared to be genuine regret. "I promise, everything will be addressed. For now, you need to grasp the imminent danger." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "To answer one of your questions: our connection requires resources. These conversations manifest visually as a representation of the ongoing processes in your brain. We're, for lack of a better term, merging. This requires two essential elements—energy and stable synaptic connections. Both factors determine how we can interact, eventually leading to our unification. Currently, the connections are still forming, and the exchange of data creates instability."
"So, it will improve over time," I surmised.
"Correct. Now, onto the crucial part," he continued. "Last time, you and Lisa misunderstood my message, and the connection destabilized before I could complete my explanation. I wasn't referring to a hacker; I was talking about a tracker."
As he spoke, a red target illuminated a small electronic component at the core of the Receptacle model.
"I'm being tracked?!" I exclaimed, the implications immediately apparent.
"Correct. It's imprecise, but it's a MainFrame security measure. Every Courier has one. Unfort—"
Noah's avatar suddenly distorted, sections of his form breaking into geometric fragments.
"Noah!" I reached out instinctively.
"--- rated, you -- moved, I can't he-- "
His form dissolved completely, expelling me from the Dive with jarring abruptness.
"Noah!" I called out, my eyes snapping open as I returned to physical reality.
He was gone. The Homing Driver continued its smooth journey toward Neo Underground, and across from me, Lisa stirred, her eyelids fluttering.
"Dad?" she murmured groggily, still caught in the haze between sedation and consciousness.
I leaned forward, unsure whether she was seeing me or something from her dreams. But one thing was now unmistakably clear—if Noah was right, we'd been under surveillance from the beginning. I should have guessed that MainFrame would build tracking technology into every Courier's Receptacle. Our movements were never truly our own.
And somewhere deep in the vast hidden network of MainFrame's systems, someone was watching our every step.