Cyberpunk 2021

April 14, 2021. 20:00. Vancouver.

I impatiently tap my right foot against the wooden floor of my penthouse. A faint hum from a nearby air conditioner fills the room. The air softly blows my hair as I hold a game controller in my hand. "Man, where the hell is he?" I glance at two phones: the black one for my life as Artemis and the white one for my life as Gina, both resting on the coffee table as I wait for a notification that never comes. In front of me, a widescreen TV sits in a game menu. 

It's the latest first-person multiplayer shooter to hit the market. I stare at the leaderboard, locking on the name in the middle of the leaderboard, Speedweed, and then at my horrifically mediocre score. For the past hour, I made a light dinner and then rearranged my gear for whatever mission Wissen would throw my way. Now, I'm sitting on my sofa playing video games—only to be average. 

"C'mon, Wissen, hurry up." I reach for the white phone, checking my reflection on its darkened screen to make sure everything's still in place. My makeup is fresh, and I've changed into loose black clothing. Once satisfied, I unlock the phone and scroll through social media. I sift through messages with friends and clients, skimming posts and photos of people on vacation or in other parts of the world. 

Curious, I flip to the trending pages. Remi, the rising artist. V strikes again in Surrey. Cyberpsychosis spreading in Vancouver. I open one of my business conversations to check the latest update. 

Jinguji photoshoot in Italy—new fall release. I scan the conversation between me and a brand representative, flicking through several back-and-forth exchanges about my availability. I tap the screen to double-check that I confirmed the proposed day, August 4, 2024. Satisfied with the outcome, I swipe to the next chain of messages. 

Zetatech—recent release. I smile as I skim through several messages from the agent, thanking me for agreeing to model for an upcoming magazine. He's even offering some of their clothing as a bonus on top of the pay. I chuckle and respond with a, "Thank you!!! <3" before setting the black phone down. I swap the white phone for the black one and thumb in the password with a practiced motion. But what greets me this time isn't my life as Gina—it's my life as Artemis. 

I tap in the password, and a smaller selection of apps reveals itself. Some are for ordering replacement weapons and parts, while another links directly to the website I own. I ignore both and open the app dedicated to emails. Militech Executive Assassination Contract, €$25,000. Skimming the details, I note the simplicity of the contract—just a middle-tier corporate man. Bro here is asking for a quick death. The email includes several attachments, which I open one by one. Each outlines recent scandals, disgusting business practices, and ethical horrors. I shrug, exhaling in disappointment at yet another greedy man. At least I won't feel bad for offing him. 

A text message pops up at the top of my phone screen from one of my favourite netrunners, Nano. 

"Heya! I erased the vid and already fixed the car records." I smile at the speed of her work and respond to her. 

"Yuh thx for speed. How much is it this time?"

"6,000 for the hack, 13,000 for the car spoof."

"...ur kidding…?"

"<3."

"????? Ily but kys."

"Industrial Liability Yield but Kinetic Yield Stabilizer?" 

"I. Love. You. But. Kill. Your. Self." Air shoots out of my nostrils as I chuckle. Nano is always a brat and a jokester to deal with, but she's undeniably good at her job. "Sending u the eddies now LOL xD"

"Kk, 12,000 total plz :))))" I sigh as my funds dip slightly.

"Done!"

"Yayyyy! Oh, also, ur site will be down for a day. I'm updating some code." 

"Thx, gotta run for a job soon. Need anything else?"

"Nah, I'll send the new license over later. Cya!" 

"Thxx." I close my eyes in satisfaction and stretch my limbs. God, I love netrunners. I make a mental note that the Artemis website will be down for maintenance, then continue scrolling through my emails. Several more contracts appear—each one enough to cover all my monthly bills. I hop off the sofa, landing softly on the wooden floor, and head toward my upstairs armoury and gun workshop. While ascending the stairs, I respond to each assassination contract email, notifying the senders that their contracts are being processed. A nice way to buy some time. 

I approach the row of three doors near my spacious bedroom and enter the first one. Red lights flicker on as I step into the chamber of grey and black, but I flick a switch on the wall, bathing the room in a warm orange glow. Wasting no time, I double-check my inventory: high-quality ammunition, tools, kits, parts, and consumable items. Restocking everything would run me around €$10,000.

The various guns along the wall glint in the soft light, but my eyes settle on a heavily modified revolver propped on a stand near a mat for gun maintenance. Although it started life as a Colt Python—a relic that should no longer be in service. I run my fingers over the cold, smooth steel of the barrel, the faint hum of an electronic system reassuring me of its readiness. It has been carefully upgraded with modern parts to keep pace with contemporary firearms. 

My inner gun-nut swells with pride as I recall the hours spent sourcing parts from contacts around the world and tweaking the barrel and firing mechanisms. Flashes of memory surface—cleaning and restoring the cylinder and hammer, only to later upgrade them with a magnetic reloading system and a custom heat-management frame. What began as a standard-issue service weapon for police officers has been transformed into a unique antique, one that far surpasses anything related to it on the open market. Above all, it's something that would've made Dad proud. I smile, bittersweet, only to be yanked back to reality by the vibration of my phone. Wissen's finally arrived.

I grab a pistol off the wall, along with some other concealable gear, while answering the call. "Hey, where you at?" I secure the pistol inside a holster beneath my hoodie, fastening everything to the belt around my waist. The rest of my essentials get stuffed into the pockets of my black sweatpants or tucked into a black shoulder bag, which I sling across my body.

On the other end of the line, Wissen's voice comes through, accompanied by the soft clink of ice cubes swirling in liquid.

"Good evening to you too, Artemis. I'm nearby, parked at our usual spot on Burrard."

"Alright, give me a few minutes to head over!" I close the armoury door and bolt down the stairs from the upper floor. Smacking the light switches along the way, I reach the front foyer and quickly slip on my black running shoes.

"Excellent. See you soon."

"Yep." I finish tying my shoes and grab a keychain from the hook on the wall. With a quick tap on the control panel, the penthouse lights flicker off, plunging the space into darkness. I step out, locking the door behind me.

Time to meet him.

...

20:30

The elevator ride is quick, and the light evening traffic is surprisingly kind for once. Wind blasts me in the face as I step outside. It's chillier than I thought. It bites through my hoodie. The sky has darkened, leaving the streets buzzing with neon lights and scattered energy—people eager to finish their business and head home. But for someone like me, this is where money's made.

I weave through a crowd of tired wage slaves and spot a dark, armoured limousine parked along the street, not too far from my building. As I approach the back doors, I catch the reflection of the front mirror, revealing the gaze of a man I don't know. I flash him a polite smile, and the back door automatically swings open in front of me, inviting me inside with red velvet seating.

Inside, a well-dressed European man with aging features and greying slicked-back hair swirls an orange liquid in a glass. Wearing his signature grey suit, tie, and designer shades, he offers me a faint smile of acknowledgment as I slide into the spacious interior.

The door closes behind me, and I sink into a nearby chair as the soft and warm cushioning gives way beneath my weight. His legs are crossed, and a suitcase rests beside him on the seat. The limousine is roomy enough for us to move freely, with enough space to sit on opposite ends without needing to hunch over. Wissen swirls his drink again, letting the aroma of aged whiskey drift through the air, tantalizing my senses.

"Care for a drink?" he offers.

"As tempting as that is, I'll pass." I lean back against the limo's wall. "So, what did you need me for?"

"Why so eager to skip the pleasantries? We haven't seen each other in a while."

"Fine, how have you been? Did the kids graduate from high school yet?" I scoff, feigning curiosity with exaggerated enthusiasm. My hands dance through the air like I'm catching up with an estranged relative. Wissen chuckles and sets his glass down.

"Let's avoid diving into fiction. How has life been treating you?" He waves a hand vaguely around us.

"Honestly? Pretty good—thanks to you. Nano's a godsend, Harper made my penthouse happen in under a year, and Adam is one hell of a merchant." I pause, crossing my legs and giving a playful kick with my right foot. "And my modelling career's been steady too, thanks to you, of course." Wissen nods along, sipping from his glass.

"That's good, you're acclimating well." Beneath his almost completely black shades, his eyes glow a mesmerizing blue before dimming again. The limousine starts moving shortly after. One would expect a jolt of momentum, but the transition is almost seamless. Instead, I hear the soft whirr of motors, followed by the gentle hum of magnetic and dampening systems reducing any inertia.

"My life has been pretty hectic ever since I had kids."

"Naturally." I glance at Wissen, then shift my gaze to the changing scenery as we leave the wealthy heart of downtown and enter the middle-class suburban streets. "So, where we headed, anyways? You never told me."

"Ah, right." Wissen opens the briefcase beside him and hands me a folder of papers. "This would be a lot easier if you had a neural implant, but I've taken the liberty of printing this out for you."

I chuckle at his remark—it's a familiar conversation that always ends the same way regardless of who I talk to.

"Don't even try." I flip through the folder's contents, my eyes skimming past pages of infographics and news reports. A phrase catches my attention—Prototype Railgun. I pause, raising an eyebrow at the words. Shouldn't this tech still be years away from reality?

"Implants are a hard no. Never trusted them, never will." I rest the folder on my lap and look back at the aging fixer, waiting for his response.

"A respectable, albeit risky choice." Wissen leans back in his seat, his mechanical eyes glowing briefly beneath the dark lenses. "One moment." He raises a finger. Although I'm no implant expert, I suspect he's sending messages to various contacts in rapid succession.

While I wait, I let my gaze drift to the city outside. My fingers trace the red velvet of the seat until they find a familiar switch. I press it, and the seat reclines slightly, inviting me to sink deeper into its comfort.

I pull out the folder again, this time reading more thoroughly. I find the page with the word railgun and begin absorbing the information. To my disappointment, there's no picture of it—just a different image. The unfamiliar logo stares back at me, a sleek black crane cutting through stylized red wings. Sharp and deliberate. 

I frown, studying the unfamiliar symbol. What the hell is this? Just as I'm about to dive deeper into the folder, Wissen's voice cuts through the quiet.

"Autumn Blade, that's the name of the organization."