I stalked down a dim corridor, each footstep muffled by the dust-laden concrete. A flickering overhead lamp cast twitching shadows along the walls. The scavers in this old factory had gutted the place.
I exhaled quietly, adjusting the red cat mask that encased my entire face. The built-in plates gave it some extra armor. Pillar's design had been borderline comedic when I first saw it, but I'd come to appreciate its intimidation factor, even if the fuck was being a bit of a perv. Though a strip brand dance was a small price to pay for something like this. That, and it paired nicely with the new armor-skin implant I'd sunk my eddies into. You know being more safe and all.
My new dermal weave felt tight around my forearms as I flexed, as it all i could afford even is it was on the cheap end. No scars from old bullet wounds, it would be able to at least resist against scaver knives. A month ago, I could barely stretch without wincing from that bullet graze. Now, my body answered me fluidly. Well worth the pain, well worth the cost.
The half-tattered sign overhead read "CHASSIS LINE B." An arrow pointed to where the assembly lines used to be. I took another step, letting my newly fitted finger claws slide out with a faint metallic rasp. They glinted in the uncertain light—ten slender blades that retracted back i to my finger tips. A crazy buy, but they'd already proven lethal in up-close fights. And right now, stealth was the name of the game.
A rummaging noise at the end of the corridor yanked me from my thoughts. A scaver with a cheap neon mohawk stepped out from behind a rusted crate, scanning the hallway with augmented eyes. I didn't move, hugging the wall, hidden behind a crate. Good thing the cat mask had a built-in mouth filter, no chance of him spotting stray breath or hearing a jittery exhale.
The mohawked scav fiddled with his battered pistol, probably checking if the magazine was seated. At the same moment, I mentally activated the demon in my new Cyberdeck. Two quick neural clicks: first the Ping demon, which highlighted the silhouettes of any living bodies connected via local net signals. Sure enough, neon outlines popped in my vision, eight scavers total scattered around this floor.
The second demon I'd slotted tonight was Eye-Glitch. With a quick thought, I targeted the unsuspecting scaver, letting the demon scramble his cheap aug optics. He jerked upright, free hand clawing at his eyes as the feed presumably shorted out.
I moved.
I slithered forward, dashing into a straight run. He didn't hear me until it was too late. One savage thrust of my left hand, and the finger claws punctured the side of his neck as I then slashed it out. I felt a hot spurt of blood across my knuckles, I'd have to make sure to wash after, didn't know if any of these fucks had stds. He let out a choked gasp, body spasming. Before he could make noise, I twisted the claws free. He collapsed in a limp heap, pistol clattering to the floor which I stored away, could sell it for something, maybe.
I pressed my back to a half-crumpled piece of plating, scanning for the next. My new mental to-do list: find the missing kid. The job, if you could call it that, came through some in the Mox chat, since i did runs for them i was added to a group chat, where id learn a few random things or i was pinged for quick jobs. A worried mom said her boy had vanished. The scavers had been spotted in the same block. I didn't ask for payment. Couldn't, not if they'd snatched a freaking kid. People who cut organs out of children needed a personal brand of retribution. My brand.
Crouching, I combed the dead scaver's pockets. Just an ammo clip and a hypo. I pocketed them anyway. With the corridor clear, I padded onward, stepping carefully to avoid any broken glass. More flickering lights revealed a makeshift barricade up ahead, lumps of shredded crates. The shape of another scav behind it showed up in my ping overlay, a hunched figure scanning to the right.
I tapped into my deck again, queuing the Eye-Glitch. But the range was iffy, maybe just outside the demon's sweet spot. I sighed, mentally telling the deck to run Ping once more. The silhouette glowed bright. I counted paces.
Then, very slowly, I climbed onto a collapsed pipe that angled above the barrier. It squeaked ominously under my feet, but the scaver was too focused on the far end of the corridor, probably expecting an intruder from that direction. I slid across the pipe, balancing so as not to jostle it too much. The faint hum of old machinery masked the sound anyway.
Atop the barrier, I leaned down and tapped the scaver's shoulder. She jerked upward with a startled yelp. My claws flashed out, hooking under her chin. One swift yank, and her throat parted. The gurgle was short-lived as I guided her body to the ground. No bullet fired, no alarm raised. Good. My heart thudded with adrenaline, but I forced my breathing to remain calm.
I hopped down to rummage in a battered terminal near the barricade. A quick link from my Cyberdeck let me see if it was connected to any cameras. Barely. The scavs were sloppy. One ancient camera feed flicked alive, a grainy view of a dusty chamber further in the complex. A small figure huddled behind a steel cage. The face was too shadowed to confirm, but it had to be the kid.
Focus. I studied the feed. Four scavers milled around that main chamber, plus at least two more in adjacent spots. That tallied with my ping count. Good. I set a quick Eye-Glitch loop to hopefully hamper them if they came searching. Then I carefully slid the gun from my belt, just in case.
I pressed on, wending through a narrow path that was once maybe a conveyor belt route. The overhead lights gave out entirely, leaving me to rely on the faint red glow from an emergency fixture. At one point, a scaver's voice echoed near a broken doorway: "Yo, Mikey, you there?" I froze, shoulders tense, finger resting on my trigger. Another scaver stepped out, scanning left and right.
He looked fairly chrome'd up and surprisingly fit, one mechanical arm from the elbow down and an ocular mod with an eerie green lens. My deck was on cooldown for the Eye-Glitch demon; I'd have to either wait or handle this the old-fashioned way.
I sank deeper into the shadows, trying to let him pass by. Instead, he halted a yard away from me, scanning the gloom suspiciously. My breath caught, heart pounding. Another second and he'd see me. Screw it. I lunged.
He disappeared???
Suddenly one hand latching onto my throat. Next thing I knew, I was airborne. My back slammed into a stack of crates with a teeth-rattling crash, half-splintered wood and rusted metal collapsing around me. I gasped, vision sparking with white spots, the breath punched clean from my lungs.
Fuck a sandy.
A smirk curled across his lips as he pressed forward, trying to jam an elbow into my throat. I twisted at the last second, hooking my claws around his forearm. Sparks flew from where dermal plating met steel nails. He didn't care and kept piling on the pressure. My vision blurred.
Distantly, I heard the echo of footsteps pounding on the concrete and shouting. other scavs zeroing in on the commotion.
My deck was in cooldown, no Eye-Glitch demon to bail me out. So I shoved a knee up into the scaver's gut and raked my free claws across his cheek. He hissed, reeling back with half his face slashed, leaving deep red rivulets. I tumbled sideways, dropping low, just as his servo-laden fist hammered the crate behind me to splinters. If I'd stayed put, that blow would've cracked my skull like a melon.
"Die, you piece of shit!" he roared, voice crackling through a cheap voice mod. As he vanished.
My heart spasmed with fear, I rolling onto my back, gun in hand. He appeared above me, blade gleaned as he arcing down in a lethal chop. I got an arm up, letting the newly implanted dermal weave absorb part of the impact. The blade skidded off, leaving a searing line of pain.
I squeezed the pistol trigger twice, muzzle pressed to his chest. The shots tore into him, but he must've had subdermal plating because only one round seemed to sink, if only a little. He grunted, stumbling, and I used the distraction to scramble backward on hands and knees.
A hiss from my left: another scaver, pistol up, trying to flank me. I threw myself behind a half-toppled piece of machinery and heard gunshots ping off metal. The bullets whined past, sparking showers of metal flakes. One or two more scavs, from the sound of it, piling on.
"All right," I muttered, chest heaving, "I can do this." My shoulder screamed where the scaver with the blade had clipped me. No time to baby it. I reached into my belt pouch for a MaxDoc – a quick jab to my neck and the stimulant coursed through my veins in a flash of fiery relief. My breath came easier.
I risked a glance around the side of the machinery, sending a short mental command to ping again. The demon was off cooldown, thanks to those precious seconds. The silhouettes flared in my vision: the Sandy scaver, plus two more approaching from the corridor behind me. All armed, all closing fast.
Damn. I needed to lighten the crowd. Setting my pistol aside for a moment, I drew a small flash bomb I'd scavenged from a previous raid. I thumbed it on and lobbed it over the machine.
The pop was deafening, a burst of harsh white light. I heard a startled chorus of curses. Perfect. I vaulted up, claws extended, darting toward the nearest scaver. He was still blinking from the flash, eyes streaming. He never even fired his weapon. One slash across the throat, hot blood spattering my cat mask. He gargled, toppling.
The second scaver managed to get off a shot that grazed my side. I let out a sharp hiss, turning my claw strike into a downward stab. She raised her forearm, block mostly successful, but not enough—my claws punctured deep, metal scraping bone. She screamed. I shoved her bodily away. A quick bullet to the temple ended that problem.
That left the Sandy user, still reeling from the flash, but quicker to recover than the rest. He shook his head furiously, optical mod glitching with static. I leveled my gun at him, and fired but he was gone again.
He crashed into me in a tackle, smashing me into a nearby wall so hard my teeth rattled. We collapsed in a tangled heap, rolling across the debris-strewn floor. My cat mask saved me from at least a broken nose, but I felt something pop in my wrist. Pain flared.
"Just… die already, you fucking bitch!" he snarled, spittle flecking my visor. He pinned me with a knee to my abdomen, raising that damned blade again. My vision went fuzzy, everything was too close, too hot. I wrenched my arm free from beneath his knee, cramming my palm into my hip as a MaxDoc appeared in my hand from my inventory. Jabbing it haphazardly into my thigh, I bit down a cry as the chemicals surged in. My heart hammered, and I almost vomited from the intensity. But the pain in my wrist dulled, and clarity returned.
I twisted my hips, hooking a leg around his waist and yank him sideways. He lost balance enough for me to bring my left clawed hand up in a savage uppercut. The claws raked across his jawline, carving through flesh as a bit of his lips fell on me. He howled, reeling backward, blood spurting.
I seized that moment, slamming him with my forearm to push him off. He coughed up a out blood, spat it out, and triggered the sandevistan once more.
He zipped behind me and sank a punch into my kidney. Agony exploded in my side, doubling me over.
Gasping, I swung blindly. He backstepped, then hammered a blow to my gut. I collapsed to one knee. The world spun. Another blow cracked the plating at my shoulder. A third hammered my cat mask, spidering the internal visor. My head whiplashed.
I swallowed the blood in my mouth and used a third MaxDoc. My body was screaming that two in short succession was insane, but I jammed the hypo against my neck anyway. Stars exploded across my vision as the adrenaline surge overloaded me. I lurched upright.
I drove forward, clawing for his throat. He twisted, letting the claws rake his shoulder instead, deep gashes, but he could keep fighting. He hissed, trying to bring that blade down on me again and miss, blood was coming from his noses and eyes. I lifted my pistol, shaking from the triple MaxDoc rush and pressed it right to his gut. Then I unloaded 7 rounds in quick succession.
He gasped, eyes wide in shock. He tried to slash me, but I jerked left, letting the blade slice across my shoulder plating. Pain flared, but I forced the muzzle higher, aiming at his chest and firing twice more. The sandevistan scaver wobbled, coughed up blood, then toppled to the side like a felled statue.
For a moment, I stood there, swaying, chest heaving. My heart hammered dangerously fast, borderline meltdown from too many MaxDocs. My stomach lurched. I managed two steps before I crumpled to my knees, doubling over and retching violently. The mask clattered off, blood and bile spattering the dusty floor. My entire body felt too hot, the forced healing and stimulant doping me up to an unholy degree.
I tasted copper and acid, choking back another wave of nausea. Tears blurred my vision. My cat mask lay cracked beside me. Each breath was a rasp, each muscle fiber vibrating with leftover adrenaline. Slowly, I forced myself to stand, ignoring the spinning room. "Your not special you fuck" I said looking at the sandy scav. Thankfully he over did it, I knew that was the only reason I was still alive.
"Kid," I mumbled, voice raw. I was here for the missing child. Another wave of dizziness threatened to flatten me. But I grit my teeth, stooped to pick up my cat mask. The faceplate had a jagged fracture across the cheek, but I could still jam it over my head if needed. I cleaned it on the scav and used a water bottle to make sure nothing was inside before putting it back on.
I limped through the corridor, stepping over the shredded bodies of scavs. A part of me wanted to rummage them for valuables right away, but the child came first.
Finally, I stumbled into the main chamber from the security feed. Flickering overhead, body parts in iceboxes, half-dismembered torsos with messy spool cables running from them, and scattered cybernetics, some polished, others caked in dried gore.
A chain-link cage sat in the corner, the door ajar. Inside, huddled and shaking, was a small figure. Could've been a boy around ten years old, maybe.
"Hey…" I managed, tugging the cage door open. "You're safe. They're gone."
The kid looked up, eyes huge and terrified, not sure whether to trust the masked psycho dripping blood. My mind reeled—was this even the child I was looking for? I couldn't confirm. But no way was I leaving them here.
Slowly, I extended a hand. "C'mon. I won't hurt you."
They stared for a second, then scurried forward, half-crawling into my arms. My body flinched at the contact, pain signals screaming at me, but I just gently scooped them up. They weighed almost nothing, trembling fiercely.
"It's okay," I whispered, voice muffled through the cracked mask. "We'll get you out of here."
A part of me demanded I check for survivors, other kids, other victims, but a quick glance told me the scavers had been thorough. The only things left were stacked up organs in ice and scrap cybernetics I might salvage.
With a grimace, I carefully set the child down. "Hold on for just a second." Then I rummaged among the blood-spattered tables, ignoring the nauseating squelch of remains. I found a small stash of worthless gun parts, a battered pile of shards, and some chipped optics. The real catch was a the three boxs of valuable implants, possibly still functional. "Better than letting them rot," I muttered, opening my system interface. With a mental flick, I stored them away.
The kid flinched at the distortion effect but didn't protest. They were too stunned for questions.
Finally, I hoisted the child back into my arms, stepping gingerly over the scaver corpses. Outside that main chamber, I paused to check my phone, no signal. If the local Mox chatter wanted an update, they'd have to wait, I'd drop off a tip for them once I was out.
My side burned, the triple MaxDoc was wearing off thankfully. We reached the battered exit.
I set the child down behind a battered shipping crate, out of sight from the street but close enough to the main drag that someone from the Mox would spot him. He was trembling but calmer than before. The moment I let go, he clung to my arm, wide eyes filling with desperation. After everything he'd been through, I couldn't blame him.
"Listen," I whispered, voice muffled behind my cracked cat mask. "You're safe here. I promise, someone's coming for you."
He stared, tears brimming. "But… who?"
"The Mox," I replied gently, though I prayed it was true. "Some nice ladies. They'll help you home."
His eyes darted around as if searching for any sign of ambush. Then he swallowed. "And you? You're leaving?"
I paused, scanning the dark alley for threats. My body still ached and too many open questions. If I stuck around, I'd risk tangling with the NCPD. Not to mention how I looked.
"Yeah," I said, tone soft. "I can't stay."
He took a shaky breath, face filled with gratitude and fear all at once. "Th-thank you," he managed, voice cracking. "What's… what's your name?"
I almost answered with my real one, out of habit. But I wasn't about to blow my new vigilante gig. I'd gone through the trouble to keep my identity secret in that scaver hideout—no sense bungling it now. So I let out a slow breath, thinking of the name that had been rolling around my head for a while.
"Call me Chishio Neko," I finally said.
He blinked at the unfamiliar syllables, then nodded. "Ch…Chi-shio…?"
I smiled behind the red mask. "Close enough," I murmured, reaching out to lightly ruffle his hair. "Stay right here. A friend of mine will guide you back."
With a final glance, I stepped away, I had to disappear before any cops arrived. I was halfway up the street when I remembered to ping the Mox. Couldn't do it from inside that steel trap with no signal, but out here, the city's network glowed in my HUD.
I knelt behind a dilapidated vending machine, tapping into my deck. My eyes darted, making sure I was alone. Then I composed a quick, anonymous message for the Mox group chat, the same one I'd plucked the lead from.
> Found your missing kid. 3rd Street side alley near the abandoned factory.
Condition: Shaken, but alive.
–Chishio Neko
To hammer it home, I attached a quick image from my phone's camera: a stylized cartoon cat traced in something that looked like blood, plus a quick snap of the kid from behind so the Mox could confirm it was real. The message zipped out, my deck confirming it had hopped between a few ghost nodes to keep me incognito.
I rose unsteadily, My heart hammered so hard I thought it might burst out of my rib cage. Leaning on a fractured wall, I let out a long, ragged breath.
"Worth it," I muttered to myself. Sure, I'd used up half my stash of MaxDocs. But it was worth it if that kid got home safe. If I'd been even a fraction slower… I didn't want to think about it.
I flicked the claws in and out a couple times, verifying they still functioned. They did, though they were caked with gore. Which i cleaned with a rang and switched clothes while hidden by mentally clicking on them. And stored my mask. Now I just looked like a normal person on the street.
A few blocks away, I heard sirens wailing, maybe the NCPD that so.eone must have called. If the Mox had pulled strings, they'd show up fast. Good. Let the kid have a chance to see real help for once.
"Chishio Neko," I whispered into the empty street, letting the words roll off my tongue. They sounded strange, but right. A new name for a new identity. A lowlife killer with a good cause, or so I told myself. I'd keep at it, I'm not the bat, I would be more like redhood I thought as I walked home.
At home.
I lay sprawled on my couch, back still aching from the brawl in that scaver hellhole. The midday sun streamed in through my uncovered windows, painting dusty streaks across the floorboards. I was about to doze off when the holo-TV, which I'd turned on just for background noise, cut to a breaking-news segment. The anchor's voice snapped me fully awake.
"—now to our top story: A gruesome scene in the abandoned Carlson factory early this morning. Corporate security forces have confirmed at least a dozen scavers found dead. It appears that this new so-called 'vigilante'—known only as Chishio Neko—may have been responsible."
I startled upright. The feed switched to shaky surveillance footage: a grainy camera angle showing a corridor lit by a flickering overhead lamp. My red cat mask as I lunged at some scaver with my retractable claws.
The news had spliced in slow-motion replays of the kill, sensationalizing every blood spatter. My stomach churned just watching it from the outside.
"Local authorities have declined comment on the authenticity of this footage," the anchor continued. "But sources within NCPD say the suspect, a masked figure going by the name 'Chishio Neko'—left multiple bodies in their wake."
The video cut to a shot of medtechs carting body bags out of the factory. A cluster of Mox members lingered in the background. My shoulders tensed at the memory of those dismembered limbs and organ coolers. If anything, the news feed was sugarcoating how awful it truly was.
The anchor reappeared, her face a polished mask of false concern. "But in a twist, a child was found alive near the scene. The child, a ten years old, claims this 'Chishio Neko' is responsible for the rescue."
They switched to a brief clip of the boy, face blurred out for privacy, wrapped in a blanket and looking pale but conscious. He was talking to a reporter offscreen, voice shaking: "They—they said their name was…Chishio Neko. They saved me from the bad people."
I couldn't help feeling a prickle of pride. The reporter on-screen continued: "In a tragic update, it appears that the originally missing child, a local woman's daughter, was found deceased. Sources say the remains were identified in the same factory, but had likely been there for days. Authorities have not released the mother's identity."
My gut twisted in knots. So the kid I saved wasn't even the one the Mox had flagged as missing. That poor mother… I clenched my fists.
I'd gotten there too late. And ironically, I'd saved some other random kid. Guess that was something.
My eyes flicked up to the screen again. They'd brought on some so-called expert for commentary, a suit-wearing corpo hack with immaculate silver hair. The lower third labeled him "Maximilian Kross – Psychological Analyst." He wore that smug half-smile.
"Vigilantism never ends well," he pontificated. "We have seen it time and again. Individuals who take justice into their own hands inevitably cause more chaos. This 'Chishio Neko' is clearly unstable, as evidenced by the extreme violence caught on camera. Claws? A cat mask? It smacks of narcissistic delusion and borderline psychosis."
He kept talking: "In my professional opinion, this is an individual seeking attention and gratification through brutality. I doubt they truly care about saving lives. The child's survival was likely happenstance."
I found myself half-grinding my teeth. Sure, I'd carved up those scavs, but they'd been murdering innocents.
The anchor nodded sagely. "So you believe this vigilante is more dangerous than helpful?"
"Absolutely," the man replied, not missing a beat. "We can't have unregulated murderers running around. Even if they occasionally rescue someone, the collateral damage—both psychological and physical—is tremendous."
Typical corporate mouthpiece. If they got their way, scavs would roam free until a paid-for police squad decided to show up. People like that kid I found would just vanish in the cracks.
Breathing slowly, I forced myself to remain calm. The camera feed ended with a final shot of the battered factory building. The anchor, obviously relishing the dramatics, turned back to face the viewers:
"As of now, NCPD has no leads on the identity of Chishio Neko. We'll keep you updated. Now, onto our next story: A city-wide policy on braindance regulation—"
I flicked the holo-TV off in disgust, the screen going dark. My reflection stared back at me from the black glass, a faint bruise on my temple. If the city's official mouthpieces recognized me as anything other than a 'psycho with a cat mask,' I'd be worried.
I sank back against the cushions, forcing the tension out of my shoulders. The child was safe. The scavs were not. If the news wanted to brand me as an unstable murderer, fine. Let them.
Let's hope Rebecca and her brother didn't watch the new.....