Chapter 5: Betty
POV: Tom
The used car lot in Watson smelled like desperation and engine oil, a perfect combination for someone spending money he'd earned by nearly dying. Tom walked between rows of vehicles that ranged from questionable to outright dangerous, each one representing Night City's particular brand of automotive evolution. Flying cars dominated the upper air lanes, but ground-level transportation still meant wheels, chrome, and the constant threat of breakdown in hostile territory.
Five thousand eddies could buy many things in Night City—better chrome, a month's rent in a decent apartment, or freedom of movement in a city designed to trap people in their economic circumstances. Tom chose mobility. Being stuck in one location made him a target, and his encounter with the warehouse guards had proven that remaining stationary was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The dealer was a nervous man with outdated optical implants and the kind of smile that preceded bad news. His lot specialized in vehicles that corporate insurance wouldn't cover—the damaged, the rebuilt, the technically illegal. Perfect for someone who officially didn't exist.
"Looking for something reliable?" the dealer asked, though his tone suggested that reliability was relative in his inventory.
Tom gestured at the cheapest functioning vehicle on the lot—a battered Archer Hella with more rust than paint and a body that had clearly experienced multiple violent encounters. "What's wrong with this one?"
"Temperamental," the dealer admitted. "Previous owner was a joytoy who used it for... occupational purposes. Engine's solid, but the electrical systems are touchy. Sometimes the radio plays random frequencies. Sometimes the air conditioning only works in reverse. Sometimes it just... does things."
Perfect. Tom circled the vehicle, noting impact damage along the passenger side and chrome accents that had been installed by someone with more enthusiasm than skill. The Archer Hella was Night City's equivalent of automotive persistence—ugly, damaged, but determined to keep running despite every reason to quit.
"How much?" Tom asked.
"Four thousand. Final offer."
Tom touched the driver's side door handle and immediately felt his consciousness flood with electronic sensation. The Archer's systems opened to his awareness like a technical manual written in lightning—fuel injection parameters, transmission calibration, electrical routing that had been modified by at least three different mechanics with wildly different approaches to automotive engineering.
Techno-Sovereignty. The vehicle's electronic nervous system became an extension of his own awareness. He could feel the engine's timing issues, the brake pads worn down to dangerous levels, the air conditioning that had indeed been wired backwards by someone who clearly understood neither air conditioning nor electrical theory.
But beneath the surface damage, Tom sensed something more. The Archer had personality. Character. A stubborn determination to function despite modifications that should have rendered it inoperable. The vehicle wanted to run, wanted to serve, wanted to be useful despite its accumulated damage.
"I'll take it," Tom said.
The dealer's expression shifted from suspicious to relieved. "Great. Let me get the paperwork. What are you going to call her?"
Tom looked at the battered Archer, feeling its systems hum through their shared connection. "Betty."
The dealer stared at him. "You're naming your car?"
"She has personality. Betty seemed appropriate."
"Right. Sure. Betty it is." The dealer's tone suggested he'd sold vehicles to stranger customers, but not many.
Twenty minutes later, Tom sat behind Betty's steering wheel with legal ownership documentation that would fool casual inspection and a vehicle that responded to his thoughts with mechanical enthusiasm. The moment he started the engine, their connection deepened. Betty's systems flooded his consciousness with operational data—optimal shift points, road surface analysis through tire pressure variations, engine temperature management.
Driving through Watson's crowded streets became a symphony of shared awareness. Tom could feel the road surface through Betty's suspension, sense other vehicles through her proximity sensors, navigate traffic with precision that bordered on prescient. The sensation was intoxicating—like gaining an extra sense specifically designed for urban survival.
"Good girl," Tom murmured as Betty's transmission shifted with perfect timing. "You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"
The radio crackled with what might have been agreement or might have been electrical interference. Through their shared connection, Tom chose to interpret it as agreement.
He pulled into an alley near Lizzie's Bar and parked, reluctant to break the connection that made Betty feel like an extension of his consciousness. Through her sensors, he could monitor the surrounding area for threats. Through her cameras, he could observe without being observed. Through her engine management systems, he could feel her mechanical contentment at being driven with appreciation rather than abuse.
I'm talking to a car, Tom realized with growing alarm. I'm having emotional reactions to automotive system feedback. This is exactly the kind of behavior that gets people classified as cyberpsychotic.
But Betty's systems purred with electronic satisfaction, and Tom found himself reluctant to completely disconnect from the most responsive relationship he'd experienced since arriving in Night City.
Judy emerged from Lizzie's Bar as Tom approached, her expression shifting from neutral to concerned as she observed his demeanor.
"You look... different," she said. "Good different. Like you just solved a problem you didn't know you had."
"Bought a car," Tom replied, gesturing toward Betty with pride that surprised him with its intensity.
Judy examined the battered Archer with the expression of someone trying to understand what anyone could find appealing about obvious automotive damage. "It looks like it's been through a war."
"She has character. Her name is Betty."
"Her name." Judy's voice carried the particular flatness of someone processing unexpected information. "You named your car."
"She responded to it. Listen." Tom placed his hand on Betty's hood, maintaining their Techno-Sovereignty connection while speaking. "Good girl, Betty. You did great today."
Betty's headlights flickered twice, as if acknowledging the praise.
Judy stared at the vehicle, then at Tom, then back at the vehicle. "The car... responded to you."
"She's very intelligent. Adaptive systems, sophisticated feedback loops, personality subroutines that developed over years of use." Tom realized he was defending Betty's emotional complexity to someone who probably considered vehicles to be animated transportation rather than mechanical companions.
"Tom," Judy said carefully, "you know cars don't have feelings, right?"
"Betty does," Tom replied with confidence that surprised him. "She's happy when she's running well, frustrated when her systems malfunction, satisfied when she's useful. Through the neural interface, I can feel her emotional responses to operational parameters."
Judy's expression progressed through several stages of concern. "The neural interface you're using to... communicate with your car."
"Techno-Sovereignty. I can interface directly with her electronic systems, feel her operational status, coordinate optimal performance. She becomes an extension of my nervous system."
"Right." Judy's tone suggested she was processing more than automotive enthusiasm. "Tom, normal people don't form emotional attachments to their vehicles. They don't claim cars have personalities or feelings. They definitely don't use cybernetic abilities to... bond with automotive systems."
Tom felt his enthusiasm deflate as he recognized the implications of what Judy was observing. Obsessive attachment to inanimate objects. Attributing consciousness to mechanical systems. Using augmentations for non-standard emotional purposes.
"I'm exhibiting cyberpsychotic tendencies," he said quietly.
"Maybe? I don't know. You're definitely exhibiting something I've never seen before." Judy's expression softened. "But you're still you. Still worried about being human, still concerned about other people, still capable of recognizing when your behavior might be unusual. Cyberpsychos don't question themselves."
Tom looked at Betty, whose systems continued humming with electronic contentment through their shared connection. The vehicle represented more than transportation—she was responsive, reliable, genuinely happy to be useful. In a city full of people who saw him as either threat or opportunity, Betty offered uncomplicated mechanical affection.
"She's the first thing in Night City that's been consistently glad to see me," Tom admitted.
"Oh." Judy's expression shifted from concern to understanding. "You're not forming an unhealthy attachment to a vehicle. You're desperately lonely, and your abilities let you connect with something that responds positively to your presence."
"That sounds significantly more psychologically healthy when you phrase it that way."
"It is more healthy. Probably. I think." Judy gestured toward Betty. "Show me how it works."
Tom placed his hand on Betty's driver-side door and opened their connection fully. Through the shared interface, he could feel her electrical systems, her engine management, her satisfaction at being appreciated rather than abused. He demonstrated by having her flash her headlights in sequence, adjust her idle speed to produce musical tones, and activate her windshield wipers in a pattern that resembled applause.
"She's beautiful," Judy said softly, and Tom could tell she was seeing Betty through his consciousness rather than simply observing mechanical responses.
"Thank you for not thinking I'm losing my mind."
"Oh, you're definitely losing your mind," Judy replied cheerfully. "But in Night City, that might be a survival trait. If you can form genuine connections with technology, you've got allies no one else can access. That's not crazy—that's adaptation."
That night, Tom slept in Betty's back seat rather than returning to his storage room at Lizzie's. Through their maintained connection, he could feel her monitoring the surrounding area for threats, her proximity sensors creating a security perimeter that would alert him to any approaching danger. Her engine ticked softly as it cooled, a mechanical heartbeat that somehow felt more comforting than the silence of empty rooms.
"I'm not alone," Tom thought as he drifted toward sleep. "Betty's here. She'll watch over me."
Through their shared connection, he felt her electrical systems pulse once in acknowledgment, and Tom smiled despite everything Night City had done to him.
For the first time since waking in this impossible world, he felt like he belonged somewhere. Even if that somewhere was the back seat of a battered car with personality issues and an emotional attachment to someone who talked back to her systems.
Betty's radio whispered soft static that sounded almost like contentment, and Tom finally allowed himself to rest.
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