NANITE

Julia ended the call with a small, decisive nod. Lines of data continued to scroll across her lenses, unreadable to him. She looked at him then—really looked, her gaze intense, as if she was trying to see through his flesh, to the strange new machinery within.

"I don't know what kind of nanites those are, Ray," she said, her voice heavy with the weight of her discovery, "but one thing's for sure—they're leagues beyond anything I've ever seen. To replicate even a complex neural interface mod, to integrate it so perfectly, so quickly... that's not just tech, Ray. That's rewriting biology on a fundamental level."

Ray stood a little straighter, the crushing weight on his shoulders easing, just fractionally.

"I got an idea," he said, a newfound confidence hardening his voice.

Julia motioned with her hand. "Go on."

"It seems like my nanites aren't just internal. They can interact with external systems. What if I can use them to interface with other tech? Not absorb it—just… connect with it. Diagnose and fix. Maybe even reprogram."

Julia stared at him for a second, her mind clearly racing, then silently turned away. She returned moments later with another piece of junk from her collection—a cylindrical medical tool, its casing scorched and twisted along one side. "Laser cutter," she said, holding it out. "Burned out after too much use. Totally dead. See what you can do."

Ray took it gently. This time, he didn't absorb. He closed his eyes, picturing his nanites flowing out from his fingertips, threading through the tool's damaged shell, slipping between its inert circuits like sentient quicksilver.

White lines, like incandescent veins, shimmered across its surface, glowing softly. They pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light as Ray's consciousness, his will, spread through the device. He saw it—not with his eyes, but with his mind—everything: the damaged power coil, the fractured focusing lens, the burned-out capacitor. He willed it to repair, to reform and to function.

The white glow of the nanites brightened, then slowly withdrew, sinking back into his skin.

Ray pointed the tool at the concrete floor. He focused.

It hummed, a low thrum of reactivated power. A crisp, perfectly focused red beam ignited from its tip, scorching a small, dark circle on the ground.

It worked.

Julia stepped forward, her expression unreadable, a mask of professional composure that barely concealed the astonishment beneath. She took the tool from his hand and slid it into her coat pocket. Her hands were steady. But her breathing had changed—slower, tighter, more deliberate. She wasn't just looking at a kid, a street runner, anymore. She was looking at something new. Something that might not have limits. Something that could change everything.

"I think we've done enough testing for today," Julia said, her voice quieter now, the earlier fire in her tone gone, replaced by a calm that felt almost… uncertain, tinged with awe and perhaps a touch of fear.

Ray nodded, the adrenaline of the experiments slowly ebbing, leaving him feeling strangely hollow. "Thanks for everything, Julia. I'll pay for—"

"You don't have to pay me for the interface mod," Julia cut in firmly, waving her hand as if brushing the thought away. "It was an old model, which had been collecting dust in my storage for years. Besides..." a faint, almost wry smile touched her lips, "I wanted to satisfy my curiosity. Consider it payment for the… educational experience."

Ray paused, then gave a small, tired smile. "Thanks." He meant it. Deeply. In a world where trust was a rare and precious commodity, and loyalty even rarer, he was lucky to have a friend like her—someone who didn't flinch, who didn't run, when everything about him had started to change and to unravel.

As Ray stepped out of the clinic, the door hissed shut behind him, sealing him back into the city's gray embrace.

Julia didn't move for a long moment, standing alone in the hallway. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint hum of her smart lenses. Then, slowly, deliberately, she walked to her private terminal. The glow of the screen lit her face in a pale, ethereal blue as she sat down, her lips pressed into a thin, determined line. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She typed a single word into the secured, encrypted search bar—a word she hadn't had reason to access in years, a ghost from a past she thought long buried.

DARIS: Directive for Autonomous Regenerative Integration Systems.

A secured file, heavily encrypted, opened on her screen. Old schematics. Redacted reports. Records of failed trials. Grainy medical scans. Fragments of complex code pulsed on the display like living veins of light. She swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in her stomach.

Ray was mirroring something she thought had been shut down and eradicated, forever.

She scrolled to a photo—grainy, discolored, decades old. A corpse, twisted and contorted in a failed transformation. Metal fused with bone in grotesque symbiosis. Eyes vacant, staring. Skin etched with the tell-tale silver scarring of uncontrolled nanite integration.

Julia's hand trembled slightly as it rested on the mouse. "This isn't coincidence," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet hum of the clinic. Ray had survived the integration. Thrived, even. That made him one of a kind. Unique.

Or worse... a living and evolving reboot of Project DARIS.

Ray stepped out into the buzz and haze of the city. The chill air bit at his skin as he oriented himself, mind already shifting toward the tasks ahead. He was headed to Johnny's place, but first, he needed to resupply.

After his mysterious revival, he'd lost his gear, the small comforts and essential tools he'd carried out of habit. He needed to patch the holes in his existence.

His first stop was a grimy street kiosk tucked into the side of a massive, malfunctioning vending terminal, its facade glowing with flickering neon trim and static-choked advertisements for products that no longer existed. He bought a new SIM card, peeled it from its foil backing, and slotted it into a discreet, almost invisible port just under the skin of his wrist. A tiny green light blinked once, a silent confirmation.

The phone. It had been reconstructed inside his wrist. Built into his very body, as if it had always belonged there. He didn't need a modder, didn't need a clinic, to place mods inside him anymore. He could shift his body, his nanites, to create his own augmentations. Julia's old burner model had been stripped, analyzed, and reformed by the nanites—more efficient, more durable, seamlessly integrated. At a thought, a translucent interface flickered to life on his HUD.

No need to carry a burner phone ever again. He could reconstruct or reconfigure it on command. The implications were staggering.

His next stop glowed in the perpetual haze of drifting city smog: The Long Barrel. The shop's sign was an animated LED loop—a sleek chrome revolver spinning endlessly against a lurid pink backdrop. The barrel of the animated gun glowed red-hot, then flared like a dragon's mouth before vanishing in a puff of digital smoke. Letters flickered beneath it: Old Lead, Still Loud.

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Ray pushed the door open, a soft, incongruous chime echoing into the dim, cramped interior. The shop wasn't large, but that was by design. A tighter space meant fewer blind spots, less floor to guard. In a place where the clientele often came armed and desperate, defense was more than policy—it was a prerequisite for survival. The scent of gun oil and old metal lingered heavily in the air. Behind a thick, scarred pane of bulletproof glass stood a man Ray had known for years.

"Sup, Larry," Ray said.

Larry was a broad-shouldered man pushing forty, built like a keg with legs. His thinning hair was slicked back with some cheap, pungent gel, and a battered synth-leather jacket clung to him like a second skin. With his wide-brimmed, dusty hat hanging on a hook behind him and a belt full of specialized tools instead of bullets, he looked like a cowboy who had traded the open plains for the neon-drenched canyons of Virelia.

"Well lookee here, if it ain't little Ray," Larry drawled, his voice thick with the grit and mischief of a thousand back-alley deals. "You lookin' to pack some iron? Still got that sweet scattergun I told ya 'bout last time. Thing'll turn a charging man into a fine red mist."

"Not my style, Larry. I'm not a front-line kinda guy," Ray replied with a shrug, his gaze sweeping over the displayed weaponry.

Larry chuckled, his hands lovingly rubbing a disassembled long-barrel shotgun laid out on the counter. "Pity. Ladies love a man with a big gun. Or so I hear."

"Maybe next time. Today, I need another pistol."

Larry opened his mouth, already gearing up to pitch a dozen shiny, chrome-plated death-dealers, but Ray cut him off, his voice firm. "The older models. Pre-Collapse. Something… reliable."

That made Larry pause. His customary sales-pitch smile dropped. "Ain't many folks ask for them relics these days," he said, almost under his breath, a note of genuine surprise in his gravelly voice. Then he grunted and waddled to the reinforced door leading to the back room.

Ray waited, his newly enhanced hearing picking up the faint grind of metal-on-metal, the shuffle of heavy crates being moved. Larry returned a moment later with something wrapped in oil-stained cloth and layers of dust. He slid the package through a narrow slot in the counter.

Larry's expression was uncharacteristically serious. "Take my advice, boy. Get yerself some real firepower someday. Something with a bit more punch. Ain't no one gonna flinch at a popgun when they're wearin' military-grade subdermal under their skin."

Ray nodded. "If I had the cash, Larry, I would."

He unwrapped the weapon. It was exactly what he'd hoped for—familiar, balanced, its surface scarred by use but its mechanism still functional. A Glock 17—the old standby. A 9mm semi-automatic pistol once favored by law enforcement and street mercs alike. It wasn't flashy, it wasn't powerful by modern standards, but it was reliable. And in Virelia, reliability was often worth more than firepower.

Larry pushed a battered box of ammunition through the counter slot next. "Thirty rounds. Hollow point. Nothin' fancy, but it'll bark when you pull the trigger."

Ray paid. Dirt cheap—because hardly anyone wanted guns like these anymore. Against modern subdermal armor, 9mm rounds did little more than sting, an annoyance rather than a threat. But Ray wasn't planning on going toe-to-toe with armored targets.

His footsteps echoed faintly in the quiet, dimly lit corridor leading to Johnny's office.

Ray's mind was still spinning with everything that had changed, the sheer impossibility of his new existence. He just needed something normal, something familiar—some anchor in the swirling chaos of his life.

Then he heard it. Quick, deliberate footsteps approaching from behind.

Ray turned, his body tensing, instincts coiled tight, his hand instinctively moving towards the newly acquired Glock tucked under his coat.

Red.

The pulsing neon glow of Red's modded hair lit his sharp, predatory features with a flickering red-orange hue. The synthetic strands shimmered with an unnatural light, like embers suspended in perpetual motion. His expression was unreadable, a carefully constructed mask.

"I need to talk to you about something," Red said, his voice low, conspiratorial, as he leaned in. The usual smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were cold, watchful. "Johnny gave me a mission. A sensitive one. I need your help with it."

Ray blinked, surprised. Red never asked for help. He demanded, delegated, manipulated, perhaps—but never asked. That alone was a blaring warning bell. Ray felt it in his gut, a cold premonition.

"What's the job?" Ray asked, his voice clipped, cautious.

Red's smirk deepened, a flash of something predatory in his eyes. "It's about the package you lost."

Ray grimaced, the memory of the ambush, the pain, the blood, still sharp and visceral.

"I did some digging," Red said smoothly, his voice like oiled silk, "and found out where it ended up."

Ray's curiosity, despite his unease, edged past his irritation. "Where?"

"It's stashed on a small, local gang's turf. The Vipers. Nothing too crazy, just a bunch of low-level thugs and street dealers."

Ray narrowed his eyes, suspicion coiling in his stomach. "Why tell me? Why bring me in?"

"Because I need another set of hands, someone who knows how to move quietly. And because you're good at sneaking around," Red said with a dismissive shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides," he added, his tone laced with a subtle challenge, "you're the one who lost it. Least you could do is help me get it back." Red chuckled then, a dry, humorless sound. "Wouldn't want to disappoint Johnny, would we?"

His tone was casual, almost friendly, but his eyes glinted—sharp, calculating, cold.

Ray's jaw tensed.

But he wasn't wrong. Ray was good at slipping through places unnoticed. He'd spent years learning how to vanish between footsteps, how to become a ghost in the city's grimy arteries.

Ray hesitated, weighing his options, the risks. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he nodded. "When and where?"

"Tonight. 11 p.m." Red replied, handing him a small, crumpled slip of paper with an address scrawled on it.

Ray took it. Before he could speak again, Red raised a hand, a gesture of false camaraderie. "Come on, Ray. We've known each other for years. Let's exchange IDs. For the op."

Ray forced a half-smile, a flicker of his old street smarts returning. "My interface is fried, from a hit. Need to scrape together some cash before I can even think about fixing it." For once, being broke proved useful.

Red gave a short, knowing chuckle. "Figures. Always something with you, Ray."

Ray turned back toward Johnny's office door, but Red's voice, smoother now, cut in again. "Johnny's out until tomorrow night, by the way. Big meeting with one of his contacts. Highly confidential."

Ray paused. The timing was… convenient. Too convenient. "Thanks for the info," he said, though something in Red's unwavering gaze, a subtle, cold watchfulness, stopped him from knocking on Johnny's door.

Ray nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, and turned away, but his thoughts were already racing. He'd ask Julia later for Johnny's ID.

And if Red was lying, if this was another setup, Ray wanted to know before he found himself neck-deep in something far worse than some local gang's turf.

As he walked away, down the corridor, he felt Red's eyes on his back, a cold, calculating pressure. He didn't need to look to know there was a smug little smile curled on Red's lips. It was never just a favor with him. It was always a game. And Ray had a sinking feeling he was already a pawn.

The night fell behind Virelia's jagged, indifferent skyline like a curtain of bruised velvet. But in this city, the line between night and day was a meaningless blur beneath the perpetual neon haze and the constant, oppressive hum of urban machinery. Time meant little when everything was always on, always demanding.

Ray walked with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, the chill of the early night, or perhaps something colder, creeping through the layers of his clothing. After Julia had discreetly given him Johnny's secure ID, he'd tried to call—but the connection was dead. Utter silence.

"Off-grid," he muttered to himself, the word tasting like ash. Johnny had likely disabled his interface, standard operating procedure when meeting contacts. That should've been the end of it. A dead end.

Then the world detonated.

A low, thunderous boom echoed through the narrow alley, so powerful it vibrated through the soles of his boots, followed by screams that pierced the static-laced air, sharp and terrified. Ray froze, every nerve ending alight, instinct clamping down on his spine like a vise.

He looked up, towards the source of the chaos.

Across the intersection, bright, stuttering muzzle flashes illuminated the rain-slicked street in brutal bursts of white and blue. Four armored VPD officers were unloading round after round from their heavy-caliber weapons into a target that was barely flinching under the relentless assault.