The Fall of Icarus (Cyberpunk)

My eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, accompanied by an unpleasant sensation and a throbbing headache. Blinking away the grogginess, I began to look around and noticed a head of white hair. "Inga," the name of the girl I had the pleasure of meeting the previous day, immediately came to mind.

My head fell back onto the hard mattress as I tried to piece together the events that had happened to me. I had woken up in a dumpster, buried under the corpse of this body's mother. At this point, memories scorched through my mind, particularly those of the days spent together. Everything connected to my current self flashed through my mind so quickly that I didn't realize when I began to forcefully suppress my tears. My chest ached with longing and unbearable pain, and it wasn't just physical. Such pain could be endured, but the loss of the people closest to you is a different matter. Tears streamed down my cheeks as my body shook in a silent fit.

I couldn't stop myself, but suddenly, a hand resting on my head brought me back to reality. Turning my head to the side, I saw the blurry figure of a boy. It was Marco, trying to calm me down.

"Easy, Amigo. I don't know what crap you've been through, but now you've got people you can rely on," Marco's voice cut through the darkness, his smile faintly visible, offering me a bit of solace.

"Sorry if I woke you," I whispered back to him, biting my lip to distract myself from gloomy thoughts with a flash of pain.

"I see you're feeling better," Marco said after a few seconds, removing his hand and smoothly rising from the mattress. "Come on, I've got something to show you." The teenager grabbed my hand and pulled me along.

He led us straight to a hatch, which he deftly climbed through. Waiting for me to emerge, Marco gestured and then headed towards the emergency stairs. I remembered that Americans use these in their multi-story buildings - convenient, but also making it easier to rob such apartments.

Marco sprinted and, pushing off from the wall, leaped towards the stair railings. Honestly, I didn't expect such agility from a well-built, but still a teenager. "Climb up," he said, lowering the ladder to allow me to reach it.

The iron steps were still slippery from moisture, so I took my time. After several flights, we were on the roof of a low-rise building, offering a beautiful view of another part of the city. From what I know now, Night City was divided into six districts, each with several neighborhoods, but commonly considered as six main ones: Center, Heywood, Watson, Westbrook, Santo Domingo, and Pacifica. My knowledge about these places was laughably scant - just their names. Alex Volkov was a sheltered child who never ventured beyond the mega-tower he lived in. These towers had everything one could desire, from schools to supermarkets.

Indeed, Alex's parents did take him out of Westbrook a few times, but it was more out of necessity than a genuine desire to show their child the world. Wealthy people are often reluctant to let their children venture far from home. The streets are too dangerous, and many prefer to educate their children at home with specialized educational chips. These chips aren't cheap, but the knowledge gained from them is unforgettable. I had one of those chips, but alas, I hadn't absorbed everything. My knowledge was at an elementary level, focusing on physics and biology.

"It's a great spot, right?" Marco nudged me with his fist, apparently trying to distract me from what he thought were gloomy thoughts. After all, I had been sitting for a few minutes, completely unresponsive. In his place, I would have also thought that my conversation partner had withdrawn into themselves. Interestingly, where did this teenager get such knowledge of child psychology? He doesn't seem like someone who has lived on the streets all his life, although he acts with too much confidence. But truthfully, as my new friend said, the place was indeed beautiful, especially since the sun had not yet risen.

"Beautiful," I grumbled, unable to muster a smile. The onslaught of childhood hormones was pressing on my brain, and only my adult mind kept me from slipping back into deep apathy. Being a child sucks. You can hardly influence anything, and this silly body constantly wants to do nonsense, and even now I was almost losing my temper with the boy sitting next to me.

"Listen, I understand this might not be my business, but tell me about yourself and your parents. It'll feel better to get it off your chest, trust me, amigo," the teenager said, thumping his chest and giving me a broad smile.

"My father was a former military man from the USSR, worked for a corporation. My mom helped him, but I know even less about her. Some time ago, they came home earlier than usual and talked about something. They injected me with something, and I passed out. I woke up in a dumpster, buried under my mother's dead body. After that, I guess you can figure out the rest. I first tried to hide and survive, finding a decent spot to stay. Then I got hungry and went looking for food, and after that, you found me." Of course, my story was incomplete, but it was enough for Marco to know. The death of Mikhail and Hirako wasn't just a simple matter, so it's better he only knows a small part of the whole truth.

"Not everyone, especially at your age, could go through something like that and still think clearly, bebé," Marco shook his head, and I quickly added a bit to my story to raise fewer questions from the perceptive teenager. Unfortunately, I needed his help, and as much as I dislike exploiting someone's trust, especially a child's, my situation dictates my actions.

"My dad taught me a lot, as you can see, not in vain," I responded truthfully. Indeed, Mikhail had taught his son some useful survival skills, but they were more about how to create fire without matches and how to filter water using makeshift means. The man always showed Alex all sorts of "cool" things that were indeed fascinating for a child.

"Good parents you have there, even if they are corporates," Marco's voice carried a carefully concealed contempt for this class of society. Understandably so - the rich live off the labor of the less fortunate.

"We shouldn't generalize everyone," I snorted involuntarily, amusing my companion. 

"I know, amigo. If I thought otherwise, I wouldn't be helping you," Marco winked at me and then sprang to his feet energetically. "Okay, time for you to see the real beauty!" The boy gestured towards the slowly rising sun reflected on the water's surface. Honestly, the sight was worth seeing. My first dawn in this world, and hopefully not the last. "What do you say, Alex? Worth coming here more often, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh." I grunted contentedly, trying not to take my eyes off the pleasant scene. In my past, I rarely had the chance to see the sunrise. There simply wasn't time. "Marco, thank you, I really do feel better now." I nodded gratefully to the boy, turning halfway towards him. Marco smiled contentedly and, brushing off his knees, waved his hand invitingly.

"We've seen enough. We don't have much time to waste on such thoughtlessness..."

Descending, I silently followed the boy. He moved carefully, constantly listening for something, sometimes pausing in place. To my surprise, he meticulously explained every action, allowing me to learn much faster. I didn't have street life experience, unlike my older and more life-beaten companion. Now, the main thing was to learn the basics as quickly as possible, and then try to adapt them to myself. I couldn't understand how Marco navigated this cacophony of sounds that sometimes made my head hurt, but it was probably due to his habit. Humans are adaptive creatures and, with enough desire, can adapt to many things.

Along the way, I was constantly distracted, trying to soothe the itching in my arm and neck. The areas where the cybernetic implants were located itched and distracted me from focusing. I didn't know what caused this, nor did I have anyone to ask. Other kids didn't have such luxuries, so it was pointless to ask them about my problem. All that was left was to endure it, occasionally scratching the reddened skin from my itching. I just hoped I hadn't picked up some disease while unconscious in the dumpster...

"Look, this place is called the flea market, and this is where we 'work'," Marco pointed towards a rather large market that seemed quite extensive at first glance.

"And what does the work involve?" I tilted my head inquisitively, expecting an answer I could probably guess.

"We gather information and look for useful odds and ends. See those dumpsters?" The Latino gestured towards a large garbage heap with various types of waste, "People often throw out junk there that we can sell to someone else."

"So, you don't steal?" I asked him, somewhat provocatively surprised.

"We do, but not here. These are good people. You don't have a problem with that, do you?" He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"No issues," I shook my head negatively. "Honestly, I was expecting it to be much worse. And who do you sell your 'finds' to?"

"There's a girl who deals with microchips and other electronic scrap, then resells it at a markup."

"By the way," I interrupted him, recalling our conversation from yesterday, "I remembered something about old man Kim... Who is he?"

"A nasty Korean guy who sells third-rate groceries at the next stall. We once managed to buy some buns from him. My stomach still aches whenever I see his shop," the brunette shook his head. "You'll need to change your clothes, by the way. Yours are too noticeable."

"I know, but where can I get them?" I looked at the thoughtful Latino.

"There's a place, and if you don't mind, we can sell your clothes for a good price and make a profit. I think it will pay off well. What do you say?" He asked thoughtfully, scratching his chin.

"Go ahead, I'd rather not stand out," I waved my hand in agreement.

"Then let's go!" Marco grabbed my hand energetically and led me deeper into the flea market.

The teenager moved confidently, managing to navigate through the early crowd. In such chaos, I couldn't really remember the way, but I guess that's just at the beginning. We ended up at an inconspicuous door with a neon "Open" sign hanging on it. Without much thought, Marco pushed the door open and went inside, pulling me along with him. The shop was relatively spacious, with very modest prices. For instance, a synthetic fabric t-shirt cost 3 Eurodollars (eddies), and trousers were five. Shoes were more expensive, but understandably so.