Chapter 4: First Gig
POV: Tom
Three days after Viktor's examination, Tom sat in the storage room Judy had grudgingly allowed him to use, counting and recounting the same pathetic collection of eddies. Fourteen. Barely enough for a week's worth of protein bars, let alone anything approaching real food or shelter. Night City was expensive, and his options for legitimate income were limited by the small problem of not officially existing.
The irony wasn't lost on him. In his previous life, he'd worried about mundane things like mortgage payments and whether to upgrade his phone plan. Now he was measuring survival in single digits and trying to avoid corporate attention while his body evolved into experimental technology.
The burner phone Viktor had given him chirped with an incoming call from an unknown number. Tom stared at the device, knowing that answering could change everything. In Night City, anonymous calls usually meant work—and work meant exposure to exactly the kind of attention he'd been trying to avoid.
His stomach chose that moment to remind him of its emptiness with an audible growl.
"Tom Adler," he answered.
"Mr. Adler." The voice was crisp, professional, carrying the particular tone of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "Regina Jones. I believe we should discuss business."
Regina Jones. The name triggered recognition from his game memories—one of Night City's most competent fixers, someone who brokered deals between mercenaries and clients while maintaining careful neutrality. If she was calling, it meant Judy had given his contact information to someone in the mercenary community.
"Depends on the business," Tom replied cautiously.
"Simple data acquisition. Corporate warehouse in Watson, minimal security, no violence required. Standard smash-and-grab for someone with your particular talents."
Tom's enhanced hearing detected the subtle emphasis on 'particular talents.' Regina knew something about his abilities. The question was how much and from whom.
"What makes you think I'm qualified for corporate data theft?"
Regina's laugh was dry as circuit dust. "Mr. Adler, very little happens in Watson without my knowledge. Your encounter with the Tyger Claws has been thoroughly documented. Your survival rate in situations that should have killed you is statistically interesting. Either you're very lucky or very special. I prefer working with special."
The offer was simple: infiltrate a Biotechnica subsidiary warehouse, steal a specific data chip from their secure server, deliver it to a predetermined location. Payment: five thousand eddies. More money than Tom had ever seen in Night City, enough to afford real food, better shelter, maybe even legitimate chrome maintenance from Viktor.
"What's the catch?" Tom asked.
"No catch. Straightforward job for someone with advanced technical skills. You get in, you get the data, you get out. Clean and professional."
Tom's chrome augmentations hummed with nervous energy as he considered the proposal. Taking the job meant exposing himself to corporate security systems, potentially leaving electronic traces that could be tracked back to him. It also meant accepting that he was becoming exactly what Night City had shaped him into: a mercenary surviving on the margins of society.
But the alternative was starvation.
"I'll take it," he said.
"Excellent. Warehouse location is uploading to your device now. Security rotations, entry points, target location—all documented. You have six hours to complete the job before the data expires. Don't disappoint me, Mr. Adler."
The call ended, leaving Tom staring at detailed schematics of a warehouse complex that his enhanced memories recognized as typical corporate storage—multiple security layers, automated defenses, and human guards who would shoot first and identify bodies later.
Simple smash-and-grab, she said. No violence required, she said.
Tom gathered what passed for his equipment: dark clothing to avoid cameras, basic tools that might be useful for bypassing locks, and the chrome-enhanced confidence that came from knowing his body could adapt to most forms of damage. Everything else would have to be improvised.
The warehouse sat in an industrial sector of Watson where legitimate business ended and corporate secrecy began. Tom approached through shadows cast by massive shipping containers, his enhanced vision automatically cataloguing security cameras, patrol routes, and potential escape paths. The facility hummed with the electronic signatures of active defense systems—motion sensors, automated turrets, and ICE programs that would trace any unauthorized network access.
Techno-Sovereignty, don't fail me now.
Tom approached the main security panel that controlled warehouse access. Placing his hand against the interface, he felt the familiar rush of electronic consciousness flooding his awareness. The warehouse's security network opened to him like a flower, revealing its digital architecture in perfect detail.
Authentication protocols, access controls, surveillance systems—all of it became malleable beneath his will. Tom's consciousness pressed against the security architecture, convincing it that he belonged here, that his presence was authorized, that the cameras should ignore his movement.
The locks opened with soft electronic chimes.
Moving through the warehouse was like navigating a cathedral of corporate paranoia. Rows of storage containers stretched toward a ceiling lost in shadow, each one marked with codes that referenced inventory he couldn't identify. His target was located in the secure server room at the facility's heart, protected by redundant security measures and automated countermeasures.
Tom's enhanced hearing detected the approaching footsteps before his conscious mind processed them. Two guards, moving in patrol patterns that suggested military training rather than corporate security. His game knowledge kicked in with startling clarity—these weren't standard warehouse guards. They were armed, alert, and professionally paranoid.
So much for no violence required.
The first guard rounded a storage container with weapon drawn, professional sweep that would have detected any normal intruder. Tom pressed himself against the container's metal surface and concentrated on his adaptive systems. If he could remain perfectly still, perhaps they would miss him.
"Got movement on sector seven," the guard's voice carried clearly in the warehouse's acoustic space. "Infrared's showing heat signatures that don't match the rats."
Tom's chrome responded to his spike of adrenaline with defensive activation. Adaptive plating hardened beneath his skin, reflexes enhanced to combat-ready status. The sensation was like feeling electricity flow through his nervous system—overwhelming and intoxicating in equal measure.
The second guard appeared from the opposite direction, implementing a pincer movement that left Tom exposed between them. Professional tactics executed with deadly efficiency.
"Freeze! Corporate security! Identify yourself!"
Tom raised his hands slowly, mind racing through options. Running would trigger automated defenses. Surrendering would result in interrogation he couldn't survive. Fighting seemed impossible against trained operatives with military-grade weapons.
Then the first guard's smart gun jammed.
Tom stared as the weapon's electronic systems failed catastrophically, sparks flying from its targeting array. The guard cursed and drew a backup pistol, but its ammunition counter immediately reset to zero. Both weapons rendered useless by inexplicable technical failures.
Techno-Sovereignty. I'm controlling their equipment.
The realization hit Tom like revelation. His abilities weren't limited to simple network access. He could manipulate any electronic system within range, including the guards' cybernetic implants, their communications equipment, their weapons.
He pressed his will against their equipment more deliberately this time. Helmet displays went dark. Communication systems filled with static. Targeting reticules spun wildly across their visual feeds.
The guards stumbled through the warehouse like blind men, cursing at equipment failures they couldn't understand. Tom slipped past them toward the server room, leaving them to struggle with technology that had suddenly turned hostile.
The secure server room was a monument to corporate paranoia. Multiple layers of ICE protection, biometric scanners, and isolation protocols that would challenge even experienced netrunners. Tom approached the central terminal and placed both hands against its interface.
The data fortress opened to him like it had been waiting for his arrival.
Tom's consciousness dove into the network with desperate hunger, seeking the specific data chip Regina had described. Corporate files cascaded past his awareness—shipping manifests, inventory reports, financial records. Nothing that seemed worth the elaborate security until he found the encrypted partition labeled "Project Lazarus."
The file was massive, heavily protected, and absolutely fascinating. Technical specifications for adaptive cyberware. Research notes on consciousness integration. References to "anomalous individuals" and "impossible chrome manifestations."
They're studying people like me.
Tom downloaded the target file along with everything related to Project Lazarus, storing data in his enhanced memory systems rather than external devices. As the transfer completed, alarms began blaring throughout the warehouse.
His network access had triggered delayed security protocols. ICE programs launched counterattacks against his consciousness, trying to trace his location and identity. Automated turrets activated with mechanical precision, scanning for intruders.
Tom ripped his connection from the terminal and ran.
Moving through the warehouse at speed, his enhanced reflexes processed threats with inhuman clarity. Turret targeting lasers swept past him as he dove between storage containers. Security doors slammed shut, sealing corridors—but Tom's Techno-Sovereignty convinced them to open again moments later.
The first gunshot came from behind as the guards finally resolved their equipment failures. The bullet caught Tom in the shoulder, spinning him around with impact that should have dropped him immediately.
Instead, his adaptive chrome activated with devastating efficiency.
Tom felt the bullet deform against suddenly-hardened skin. Chrome plating spread across the impact site, creating armor that gleamed with metallic perfection. The wound sealed itself in seconds, leaving protective enhancement where flesh had been.
The second shot hit him in the chest and bounced off.
"Holy shit," one of the guards whispered into his comm. "We've got a freak. Bullets aren't working. Repeat, small arms fire is ineffective."
Tom reached the warehouse exit as backup arrived—additional security teams with heavier weapons and anti-chrome countermeasures. He burst through the main door into Night City's neon-stained darkness, leaving behind a corporate facility in complete electronic chaos.
Two hours later, Tom sat in a 24-hour diner in Watson, delivering Regina's data chip while trying to process what had happened to his body. The chrome patches where bullets had struck him were still visible, metallic scars that marked his evolution from human to something else.
Regina's voice came through the secured channel with professional satisfaction. "Clean extraction, valuable data acquired, minimal complications. Well done, Mr. Adler."
"The guards shot me," Tom said quietly.
"Did they? How unfortunate for them. I trust you're unharmed?"
Tom looked down at his chrome-covered shoulder. "Mostly."
"Excellent. Payment is transferring now. I suspect this won't be our last collaboration."
Five thousand eddies appeared in Tom's account—more money than he'd ever possessed in Night City, enough to afford security and sustenance while he figured out his next move. But the cost was becoming clearer. His body was adapting faster now, chrome spreading in response to violent stress. The warehouse guards had reported a "freak" whose defensive systems exceeded anything in their tactical manuals.
Tom was officially on corporate radar as an anomaly worth investigating.
Walking back through Watson's maze of streets, Tom caught his reflection in a shop window and barely recognized the person staring back. Chrome covered thirty percent of his visible skin now, creating patterns that looked almost decorative. His eyes held a metallic sheen that caught neon light and threw it back in geometric patterns.
He was becoming something beautiful and terrible, a hybrid of human consciousness and adaptive technology that shouldn't exist. The warehouse job had proven he could survive corporate security and emerge stronger from violence.
It had also proven that hiding was no longer an option.
Back in his storage room at Lizzie's Bar, Tom counted his payment while watching the bullet wound finish healing. The chrome had spread another inch up his arm, metallic tracery that pulsed with soft blue light.
Still human, he told himself. Just different.
But as he settled down to sleep on a bed of storage blankets, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that he was changing into something Night City needed—something it had been waiting for.
The question was whether he would still recognize himself when the transformation was complete.
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