NANITE

Ray stepped closer, a sense of unease prickling at the back of his neck.

"What is it? Where did you get this?" Julia asked, her voice suddenly taut, strained.

"Someone I met this morning. A… tech enthusiast. Why? Is it infected?"

"No... it's clean. Very clean, actually." She hesitated, a strange, almost choked sound escaping her lips. "But… Ray, you need to come look at this."

Ray stepped behind her, his gaze falling on the main display screen. It showed an image. No, not an image. A photograph. High-resolution. Uncomfortably clear.

Arty. Tied, spread-eagled, to a very large, very pink, fluffy bed. Wearing pink, frilly bunny ears. And matching pink, frilly lingerie. And pink, fluffy handcuffs. It looked… staged. Consensual, even. A bizarre, inexplicable kind of private joke, accidentally preserved for posterity on a data shard filled with technical manuals.

Ray stared, his face a mask of utter, complete deadpan.

Julia snorted, one hand flying up to cover her mouth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Ray didn't blink. "I'm going to see this every time I close my eyes for the rest of my life," he said flatly, his voice devoid of all emotion.

Julia lost it. A sharp, sudden bark of laughter broke from her as she quickly turned the monitor away, though not before the image was seared into Ray's unwilling memory.

Ray let Julia inspect the rest of the shard for any other hidden files, particularly any more… compromising photos. She found nothing else of that particular vintage, thankfully. Just terabytes of incredibly valuable, incredibly dangerous, and incredibly illegal software, schematics, and restricted technical data. Half an hour later, with Arty's data shard—and the unwanted and now deleted image of him in bunny ears—back in his coat pocket, Ray left for Johnny's HQ.

Johnny's office was an oasis of manufactured quiet in the heart of the city's relentless storm. The reinforced, polarized plasteel windows were tinted to a mirror black from the outside, muting the cacophony of Virelia to a distant, almost subliminal hum. Inside, the room buzzed softly with the quiet, efficient life of well-maintained machinery—multiple monitor screens pulsing with data feeds, the environmental control system humming almost inaudibly, a faint, almost imperceptible crackle emanating from an overloaded, sparking power strip tucked discreetly beneath the massive, scarred metal desk.

Ray stepped in. Johnny sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on a bank of translucent monitors displaying at least a dozen different data feeds. His cybernetic polished black chrome right arm clicked softly as it rotated a 3D holographic image, rewinding a grainy corner-cam security feed from somewhere deep in Lower Bastion. His face, when he finally looked up, was drawn, exhausted—sunken cheeks, heavy, bruised shadows beneath bloodshot eyes. The face of a man working too long, sleeping too little, carrying too much weight.

"Ray," Johnny said, his voice a low, tired rumble. His cybernetic eye, a cold, unblinking lens, locked with Ray's, its intensity mirrored by the profound weariness in his remaining organic one. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Hi, Johnny. I take it the conversation with the client didn't go as planned," Ray said, dropping into the worn synth-leather chair across from the desk. His gaze flicked to the monitors—one displaying what looked like a Red Obsidian convoy moving through the city's lower levels, another a pulsing red tracker signal, like a malevolent, digital heartbeat.

Johnny leaned back heavily in his oversized chair. The old, abused mechanism groaned in protest beneath his considerable frame. "Yeah, you could say that. They were… pissed. Understandably. Luckily it didn't escalate further—at least for now. I barely managed to calm them down by assuring them, with a confidence I definitely didn't feel, that we'll recover their damn package within a week. Max."

Ray raised an eyebrow. "They have that kind of pull? Do they have serious backing?" He had never cared about the details of Johnny's business before. Johnny handed him a package, and he delivered it.

Johnny sighed, running a weary hand through his already disheveled hair. "I hired a discreet info-broker to look into them. So far, nothing major on the surface—they present as just another small, independent shipping concern, like us, trying to carve out a niche."

"A small fish in a very big pond," Ray murmured, the street slang coming easily.

Johnny nodded, a grim understanding in his eyes. "Exactly. But there could be someone much bigger, much nastier, breathing down their necks. Someone we haven't seen yet, someone operating from the deep shadows."

Ray glanced away for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then looked back, his gaze steady. "Did you find out what was actually in the package? "

"They either genuinely don't know, or they're not allowed to say. It's locked up tighter than a corporate vault on lockdown."

Ray leaned forward, his voice dropping, becoming low, intense. "It's about that package. I found out Red set me up."

Johnny's gaze sharpened instantly, all traces of weariness vanishing, replaced by a cold, hard focus.

"There was a tracker planted in the package. A sophisticated one. Red put it there," Ray continued, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "He gave the Red Obsidian my exact location, my route, everything. So they could hit me. Then he played dumb and acted like he didn't know a damn thing."

Johnny's chrome eye narrowed, its internal lens whirring almost inaudibly as it focused on Ray's face, analyzing, searching. "You sure about this, Ray? That's a heavy accusation."

Ray nodded and pulled the small, handheld tracking device from his coat pocket. He activated it. The screen flickered to life, displaying a detailed map of the city. A single red dot pulsed rhythmically in the heart of Lower Bastion, in known Red Obsidian territory. His biological hand clenched into a fist, the knuckles white. The faint, pulsing light from the tracker flickered across his hardened, unreadable features.

"He's been… off lately," Johnny muttered, more to himself than to Ray, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Gotten cocky. I figured something was wrong. But I didn't think he'd burn us. Not like this." His voice dropped lower, rougher, laced with a raw, unexpected pain. "And now this. This betrayal."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Ray hesitated. He could tell Johnny the truth. That Red was dead. That he had killed him. That the betrayal had already been answered, swiftly and brutally, with blood and absorbed biomass. But what would that solve? Red was gone. And dredging it all up now would only create more questions—questions Ray wasn't ready, or able, to answer.

"Red tried to kill me two nights ago," he finally said.

Johnny's gaze snapped up, his jaw tight, his organic knuckles whitening as they gripped the edge of his desk.

"But someone else intervened," Ray continued, his voice still flat and detached. "Someone Red really shouldn't have crossed. They killed him and his crew. Left no witnesses. I found this tracker on Red's body before I… disposed of it." He gestured towards the device still pulsing on the desk.

Johnny slowly leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long, slow breath through his nose. His shoulders sagged, the tension visibly draining from his massive frame. "Good," he said finally, the single word imbued with a universe of grim satisfaction. A heavy, loaded silence filled the office.

Ray stood. "I want in on retrieving the package."

Johnny studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, his chrome eye unwavering. "Ray... if something happens to you out there," he said quietly, his voice laced with a weary concern, "it won't be me or you who pays the ultimate price. It'll be your mother—watching another piece of her already shattered world vanish. Are you sure you want to risk that? For this?" Shootouts weren't just operations—they were ruptures. And as far as Johnny knew, Ray had no serious combat mods, no significant enhancements or expertise. He was just a street-smart kid with quick reflexes.

"I installed a Z-Dragger recently," Ray said, his voice steady, meeting Johnny's gaze without flinching. "I'm faster now. Much faster. I can help. I won't slow anyone down."

Johnny rubbed his beard, his gaze distant, thoughtful. The immense weight of leadership, of responsibility, seemed to make his broad shoulders slump just slightly. Then finally, with a slow, reluctant nod, he conceded. "Alright, Ray. You're in. We move tonight. I'll assemble a small, trusted team. You ride support. Eyes and ears. No heroics. No unnecessary risks. Understood?"

Ray nodded once.

He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "One more thing. I, uh… I picked up a motorcycle recently. A high-end one. Needs to be… properly registered. So I can ride it legally. Or, you know, less illegally."

Johnny raised a surprised eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for the type to jack a high-end vehicle. That's a risky move if the GPS and kill-switch trackers aren't scrubbed clean, and I mean professionally scrubbed."

"It was… damaged when I acquired it," Ray said, the lie coming easily. "I ran a full diagnostic scan—it's not broadcasting any signals. It's completely offline."

Johnny leaned back, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, then. That shouldn't be too much of a problem." A soft ping sounded from Ray's interface.

CONTACT RECEIVED: GHOSTRIDER REGISTRATIONS.

"He'll help you set the new system ID up and get it registered. No questions asked, as long as your NEX is good. And tell him I sent you; he owes me a favor or two."

"Thanks, Johnny," Ray said, a genuine note of gratitude in his voice. Then he turned to leave, but Johnny's voice, rougher now, stopped him.

"Ray."

Ray paused at the door, looking back.

"You've done good, kid. Red screwed us all—and you came out the other side, still standing. That… that matters. More than you know."

Ray didn't respond. He just nodded once, then walked out, the heavy office door hissing shut behind him.

Just as he arrived back at his apartment block, his HUD chimed with an incoming message. Monica.

Monica K.: Just in time. Got an offer. Interested?

Ray set the bag of rapidly cooling synth-noodles he'd picked up on the way onto the scarred kitchen table and dropped wearily into a chair.

Ray: What's it about?

Monica K.: Small gang crew wants to hit a Red Obsidian warehouse. Needs some extra barrels for a smash and grab. Quick in, quick out. Decent pay.

Ray's eyes widened slightly. The Red Obsidian. Coincidence?

A beat of silence, then another message from Monica K.: Johnny Reavers, your boss, hired us.

He stared at the screen, a cold, unsettling feeling creeping through him. This was getting complicated.

Ray: Send the details.

The reply came fast. The location, which was Johnny's HQ and the time.

21:30. Tonight.

Monica K.: See you then. Don't be late. She didn't respond again.

Ray sighed, a heavy weight settling in his chest. This was going to be an interesting night indeed.

He turned and walked towards his mother. She was resting on the couch, her eyes flickering across the flickering screen of her datapad.

They had dinner together, a quiet, somber affair. His funds were running dangerously low, but he'd still brought home something with actual flavor—better than the usual bland, tasteless nutri-wraps. It was tempting, increasingly so, to stop buying food for himself entirely. His nanites had made it abundantly clear: he didn't need to eat or drink in the traditional sense anymore. But when his mother smiled at him over the shared meal, the way her tired eyes lit up as she watched him eat, it anchored him. It reminded him of what he was fighting for. Of who he was still trying to be. So, he ate. For her.

Later, after his mother had drifted off to sleep, Ray retreated to his room and slotted Arty's data shard into his interface. Streams of indexed content, a veritable treasure trove of digital knowledge, flickered into view—complex schematics for advanced robotics, black market tech catalogs, archives of cracked corporate software, and a surprising, almost overwhelming number of incredibly detailed, professional-grade technical tutorials. Arty hadn't been exaggerating. It was a digital goldmine.

Ray scrolled through a few of the main folders. Everything looked clean, well-organized and surprisingly professional. He was immensely relieved that Julia had scanned it first—he really didn't need a second, high-definition visual of Arty in pink, fluffy bunny ears taking up valuable mental real estate. A reflexive shudder ran down his spine as the image, unwelcome and unbidden, involuntarily resurfaced in his mind's eye. He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.

Night came to Virelia not as a gentle fading of light, but as a sudden, brutal plunge into a deeper, more dangerous darkness. His HUD alarm beeped, precise and insistent. A new message from Johnny lit up his display a moment later:

Johnny R.: Be at HQ at 21:00.

Ray geared up, the familiar weight of his Glock and his new pistol, taken from Red's stash, a cold comfort against his ribs.

As he walked through the city's neon-drenched, refuse-strewn streets toward Johnny's HQ, his thoughts swirled, a chaotic vortex of doubt, determination, and a gnawing, underlying fear. He wasn't just a runner anymore. He was walking into something heavier and far more dangerous. No more hiding in the shadows. No more blending into the background.

When he arrived, he spotted Monica's sleek, black Kurai Specter parked discreetly just outside the nondescript small building that served as Johnny's main operations center. Inside, the place buzzed with a low, controlled hum of pre-mission activity. Some of Johnny's most trusted men, hard-faced veterans of a hundred street battles, were already there, meticulously checking their weapons, their armor, their gear, their voices low and serious as they muttered over holographic schematics and tactical maps.

At the center of it all, Johnny and Monica stood talking, their heads close together, their expressions grim. Monica caught sight of Ray first as he entered the main briefing room. Her golden eyes lingered on him for a second longer than was strictly necessary—measuring, assessing, perhaps even reassessing her earlier judgment of him.

"My partner's here," she said, her voice steady, commanding, cutting through the low murmur of conversation. "Debrief us, Johnny."

Johnny paused mid-sentence, looking past her towards Ray, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow.

"Wait," someone, a burly, heavily scarred man Ray vaguely recognized as 'Breaker', muttered from the side, his voice laced with disbelief. "She's talking about him?" He jerked a thumb in Ray's direction.

Monica gave a single, curt nod. "Yes. Ray."

Heads turned. A sudden, uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

"No way," another of Johnny's men, a wiry tech specialist called 'Glitch', scoffed, open disbelief written all over his narrow, pale face. "Ray's a courier, not a goddamn merc."

Another man, his face a roadmap of old scars and bad decisions, exchanged a skeptical look with his squadmate, his eyebrow raised in a silent question. A few low, incredulous murmurs rippled through the assembled crew. Ray spotted a faint, derisive smirk on someone's lips before it quickly vanished, replaced by a mask of professional indifference.