Cyberpunk Edgerunners IF: Going to the Moon with Kiwi, Not Lucy - Cyberpunk Edgerunners IF: Going to the Moon with Kiwi, Not Lucy

"[scared]Hold it right there, you little shit!" 　Late Friday night. The open-air market streets of the Watson district were thick with a haze of neon, steam, and the acrid stench of burnt oil. David Martinez dashed through the gaps between shuttered stalls, breath ragged. Three gangsters were hot on his heels, hurling abuse. 　In his hand, he clutched the key to his mother's old apartment. Hand it over as collateral for a debt? No way in hell. "[angry]Screw you! That apartment's the one thing you're not getting!" 　An eighteen-year-old rookie edgerunner—one of Night City's illegal mercenaries. He stood about a hundred and seventy centimeters tall. Lean, but thanks to the military-grade cyberware embedded in his spine, the muscles under his clothes were far more solid than they looked. His black hair always had a bit of bedhead, and his trademark was his mother's old yellow bomber jacket. His deep brown eyes now blazed with a mix of fear and rage. 　The main street's neon died, leaving only the bare steel frames of the stalls in a narrow alley. Trash scattered everywhere, graffiti on the walls. No one was coming to help. That's just the kind of city this was. "[sarcastic]A brat who can't even pay his debts has some serious guts, huh?" 　A third man moved to block the alley's exit. 　Surrounded. 　David gritted his back teeth. (*Guess I've got no choice.*) 　A searing heat bloomed at the back of his neck. 　Military-grade Sandevistan—a hyper-expensive acceleration device implanted in his spine. Monstrous cyberware that could boost neural transmission speed by up to twelve times. On the black market, it'd fetch a hundred and fifty thousand eddies. David, through a miraculous compatibility rate, was one of the few people who could actually use it. 　But it came with a price. 　Strain on the heart and spine. Overdo it, and you'd end up a vegetable, or dead. "[serious]...First real fight." 　Activation. 　The world stopped. 　One of the gangsters was frozen mid-punch. Spit hung suspended in the air, and even the neon's flicker seemed to stretch out. Only David's heart hammered away at a frantic pace. 　A fist, flying toward his face in slow motion. 　He dodged by a hair's breadth. 　The air grazed his skin. 　Without pause, he drove a counter-punch into the man's gut. The gangster's body folded slowly, like a jackknife. It felt like an eternity before he hit the ground. 　Two left. 　David sprinted at full speed, slipping right past their flanks. There was no way they could catch him. The gangsters' eyes couldn't even track the direction he'd vanished in. 　He rounded three corners and burst out onto a neon-lit street. 　He sucked in a huge breath. "[laughing]I did it... I actually did it!" 　He'd won. For the first time in his life, by his own power. 　In that instant— 　His spine ignited. "Guh, aaaagh!?" 　A searing pain, like an ice pick being gouged into his vertebrae. His heart clenched as if it were being crushed in a fist. David collapsed in the shadow of a dumpster at the side of the road. His vision blurred white. 　The Sandevistan's price. Early symptoms of neural burnout. (*I knew it... I knew it, but still...*) 　The pain brought tears to his eyes. He felt like throwing up. 　But the key was still in his hand. He'd protected it. (*This is fine. This is good enough.*) 　David curled up on the cold ground and squeezed his eyes shut. 　After a while, the pain subsided. 　His whole body was drenched in sweat. 　David staggered to his feet and looked out at the street. In the late-night Watson district, countless neon signs still flickered and buzzed. (*I need to rest somewhere.*) 　Thinking that, he suddenly spotted a staircase leading underground. 　The Afterlife—the go-to bar for edgerunners. An old place, originally a nuclear shelter that had been renovated. Graffiti at the entrance read, "No Rep, No Entry." As a rookie, David felt a little nervous as he pushed open the heavy door. 　Inside, it was dim, thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap booze. A few edgerunners were at the counter. A guy with flashy chrome on his arms, a woman polishing a monowire, a huge man silently downing his drink. 　David settled onto a stool at the counter and ordered a beer. Fifteen eddies. Cheap. "Hey, kid." 　A scrawny info broker sitting next to him spoke up. His eyes darted around nervously; he seemed like a restless guy. "[excited]You ever heard of the Ghost of Watson?" "...Ghost?" "[excited]Yeah! It's the hottest rumor in the city right now." 　The broker took a sip of his beer and lowered his voice. "[whispers]There's this top-tier netrunner. Get this—all by herself, she stole classified data from the megacorp Militech. Now she's in an all-out war with three different gangs who want that data." 　A netrunner—a pro who dives into cyberspace using a brain-implanted interface to steal data or crash systems. It takes a talent found in maybe one in tens of thousands, and the surgery alone costs at least fifteen thousand eddies. 　David found himself asking before he could stop. "[surprised]All alone... against three gangs?" "[laughing]Yeah. She's either got a death wish or she's a complete idiot." 　The broker cackled. 　But David couldn't laugh. (*She's fighting alone, huh?*) 　A memory from five years ago resurfaced. His mother, caught in the crossfire of a gang war, dead. No one helped her. There was no one around who could. 　David's hand unconsciously tightened into a fist. "[serious]...Where is she now?" "Huh? How the hell should I know? If I did, I'd be selling that info." 　David downed his beer in one go. (*How can I just ignore someone fighting alone?*) 　Call him an idiot. He knew it was dangerous. But he couldn't shake the feeling. 　At his hot-bloodedness, the info broker just shrugged, looking exasperated. 　In the corner of the bar. In the shadows. 　A man was staring intently at David. 　Phantom—a top-tier netrunner with roughly sixty-seven percent of his body converted to cyberware. His long, pale platinum-blond hair was tied back carelessly. His left eye was a blood-red optical scanner, his right a dull, dark gray. He was tall, a hundred and eighty-five centimeters. Though slender, an eerie aura always seemed to cling to him. 　The red optical scanner traced over David's back. 　Data on the Sandevistan model embedded in his spine, and its compatibility rate, streamed into Phantom's mind. (*Better than I expected. A new toy to play with.*) 　His thin lips twisted into a smirk. "[cold]A new error for Kiwi? Worth testing out." 　He murmured it so quietly no one could hear, tilting his glass. 　Unaware that his natural enemy was right there, David left the bar. 　Around the same time. 　Megabuilding Zeta in the Watson district. Forty-five years old, elevators always broken. Room 1407 on the fourteenth floor. 　Kiwi hung up her call, thoroughly annoyed. 　Her bob cut was a vivid two-tone of pink and blue. Her bangs hid her right eye, but the exposed left one was an ice-blue cyber-eye. When she dove into the Net, countless streams of data would rush through that eye, glittering like twinkling stars. 　She was slender, a hundred and sixty-five centimeters. A monowire for self-defense was embedded in her left wrist. "[sad]Another late upfront payment... I'm really sick of handling cheap jobs all by myself." 　Her room was packed with net-diving equipment; opening the fridge revealed nothing but nutrient drinks. 　Kiwi glanced out the window. 　A sea of neon in Night City. 　In the distance, the high floors of corporate towers glittered. Beautiful, cold lights, as if to say, "Let the poor drop dead." 　Kiwi closed the curtain with a cold look in her eyes. "[serious]And the pursuers are persistent... Maybe I should hire some idiot frontliner to be a bullet sponge." 　A soliloquy. Just a complaint, meant for no one's ears. 　But she didn't yet know that those words would soon become reality. 　The next morning. 　Black Dog Garage—a repair shop on the southern edge of Watson, reeking of oil and iron. On the surface, a bike repair shop, but in the back, they sold modified weapons and parts. The owner, Doc Marquez, was an ex-soldier and one of David's few confidants. 　David was wiping down the engine of his beloved Yaiba Kusanagi—a modified bike—lost in thought. He couldn't get last night's rumor about the Ghost out of his head. (*What kind of person is she?*) 　Just then, an incoming call pinged in his neural link. 　A new job from a fixer. 　The details: Infiltrate the hideout of the Chromejaw gang, a group based in Watson, and steal a corporate classified chip. 　The reward was five thousand eddies. A huge sum. "[excited]I'll do it! I'm in, right now!" 　He could've sworn he heard the fixer chuckle. "Hold on. You're getting support on this one." "Support?" "Yeah. You've probably heard the rumors—the Ghost of Watson." 　His heart leaped. "[surprised]Wh... whaaat!?" 　The person he'd been so curious about just yesterday. The mysterious, top-tier netrunner fighting alone. 　He was going to team up with her? 　Admiration, curiosity, and then—that stupid impulse of David's to protect anyone in danger—all swelled up at once. (*I've absolutely got to see her with my own eyes.*) "[excited]Where's the meetup point!? I'm on my way!" 　The fixer sent over an address. 　David jumped onto his bike and revved the engine. 　The roar of the exhaust echoed through the garage. 　The gears of fate had begun to turn in a big way.

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Episode 1

Name: Cyberpunk Edgerunners IF: Going to the Moon with Kiwi, Not Lucy
Author: Novelia

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