April 14, 2021. 20:00. Vancouver.
I tap my right foot against the penthouse's wooden floor. A faint hum from the air conditioner fills the room; its soft breeze lifts a few strands of my hair as I cradle the game controller.
"Man, where the hell is he?"
On the coffee table lie two phones—the black one for Artemis, the white one for Gina. And I'm left waiting for a notification that never comes.
The widescreen TV ahead of me glows with a game menu.
It's the latest first-person multiplayer shooter. I stare at the leaderboard, lock onto the name in the middle—Speedweed—then at my own horrifically mediocre score.
For the past hour, I've made a light dinner and rearranged my gear for whatever mission Wissen might throw my way. Now I'm on the sofa, playing video games and getting insulted over voice chat.
"Come on, Wissen, hurry up."
I reach for the white phone and check my reflection in its darkened screen, making sure everything's still in place. My makeup's fresh, and I've changed into loose black clothes.
Satisfied, I unlock it and scroll through social media: messages from friends and clients, posts and photos of people on vacation—or somewhere else in the world.
Curious, I flip to trending.
Remi, the rising artist.
V strikes again in Surrey.
Cyberpsychosis spreading in Vancouver.
A business chat opens to reveal the latest update.
Jinguji photoshoot in Italy—new fall release.
Skimming the exchange with a brand rep, I flick through the back-and-forth about availability and tap the thread to double-check the confirmed date: August 4, 2024.
The next chain slides into view.
Zetatech—recent release.
Messages from an agent thank me for agreeing to model for an upcoming magazine; he's even offering some of their clothes as a bonus.
A small smile escapes before typing back, "Thank you!!! <3," and setting the black phone down.
I swap the white phone for the black and thumb the screen; my password slides in by muscle memory. A smaller grid of apps appears—one for ordering replacement weapons and parts, another that links straight to the site I own.
They can wait; I open the email app instead.
Militech Executive Assassination Contract—€$25,000.
The details are simple enough: a middle-tier corporate man asking for a quick death. Attachments open one by one, each file outlining recent scandals, vile business practices, and ethical horrors buried under corrupt laws and judges paid off.
Disappointed to find another greedy mark, I shrug and exhale. Oh well—won't feel bad about offing him.
A text pops up at the top of the phone screen: Nano, one of my favorite netrunners.
"Heya! I erased the vid and already fixed the car records."
I smile at the speed of her work and fire back, "Yuh thx for the speed. How much is it this time?"
"7,000 for the rushed hack, 15,000 for the car spoof."
"...ur kidding…?"
"<3."
"????? Ily but die."
"Awwww when's our marriage?" She sends a kissing emoji.
"In. Your. Dreams." Air shoots out of my nostrils as I chuckle. Nano's a brat and a jokester, but she's damn good at her job. "Sending the eddies now LOL xD."
"Okieeee, for real tho 12,000 total plz [friendship discount applied] :))))"
I sigh as my balance dips slightly. "Done!"
"Yayyyy! Oh, also, ur site will be down for a day. I'm updating some code."
"Oooh. Thxxxx! Btw gotta run for a job soon. Need anything else?"
"Nope~ I'll send a new license later. Cya!"
"Kk thxxx."
Man, I love netrunners.
Eyes closed in satisfaction, I stretch and make a mental note: the site will be down for maintenance.
Afterward the inbox clears—several contracts slide in, each one enough to cover a month on its own.
I hop off the sofa and head for the upstairs armoury and gun workshop. While climbing, quick replies fire off to each assassination request, a neat little ruse to buy time.
The first door swings open; red blips and shadow greet me. One flip floods grey and black with warm orange. Inventory gets a fast once-over: premium ammo, tools, repair kits, spare parts, consumables. Restocking will set me back about €$10,000.
Guns along the wall catch the light, but my fingers go straight to the revolver on its stand—a heavily modified Colt Python that shouldn't still exist in active use. A faint electronic hum runs under the barrel's skin: systems live. Modern parts have been grafted on—upgraded firing mechanics, a magnetic reloader, a heat-managed frame—obsessive grafting that turns service issue into bespoke.
My chest puffs with memory: nights hunting parts through shady contacts, the slow, exact work of fitting them—cleaning the cylinder, polishing the hammer, swapping in better pieces.
Craftsmanship the market can't touch. Above all, the kind of work that would've made Dad proud.
A quick, sad smile. Then, the phone buzzes. Finally.
I pull a compact pistol from the wall and grab some concealable gear. "Hey, you here?" The gun slides into a holster under my hoodie. Belt cinched. Gear stuffed into pockets. A black shoulder bag slung across my body.
Wissen's voice is low on the line; a soft clink of ice in a glass somewhere behind him. "Good evening to you too, Artemis. I'm nearby—parked at our usual on Burrard."
"Give me a few minutes. Heading over."
The armoury door clicks shut; I bolt down the stairs, switching off the lights on the way.
At the foyer, black running shoes slide on, laces finished, a keychain snagged from the hook. One tap on the control panel and the penthouse slides into darkness. Door locked, shoulders steady.
Time to meet him.
...
April 14, 2021. 20:30. Vancouver.
The elevator ride is quick, and the evening traffic, for once, is kind. A gust of cold air bites through my hoodie the moment I step outside. The sky's already dark, streets alive with neon and restless energy—people rushing to finish their business and get home. For me, this is when work starts.
I push through a crowd of tired wage slaves until I spot a dark, armoured limousine parked near my building.
A reflection in the front mirror catches a man's gaze—someone I don't recognize. I flash him a polite smile. The back door unlocks and swings open, revealing a velvet-lined interior.
Inside sits a well-dressed European man with greying slicked-back hair, swirling amber liquid in a glass. Grey suit, tie, designer shades—all trademark Wissen. He gives me a faint smile as I slide into the seat opposite him.
The door seals with a soft click. Plush cushions yield under my weight. A suitcase rests beside him; the air smells faintly of expensive whiskey. Wissen swirls his drink, letting the aroma drift between us.
"Care for a drink?" he asks.
"As tempting as that is, I'll pass." I lean back. "So—what did you need me for?"
"Why so quick to skip the pleasantries? We haven't seen each other in some time."
"Fine," I say, flat. "How've you been? Kids graduate yet?" I throw in a dramatic wave. Wissen chuckles and sets his glass down.
"Let's not dive into fiction," he says dryly. "How's life treating you?"
"Honestly? Not bad. Nano's been consistently a godsend, Harper pulled off my penthouse in under a year, and Adam's still a good vendor." I cross my legs, giving a lazy kick with my foot.
"Oh, and my modelling career's holding steady—thanks to you, of course."
Wissen nods, sipping his drink. "Good. You're acclimating well."
Behind his almost-black shades, his eyes flash an electric blue before fading again. The limousine begins to move, smooth as silk—no lurch, no jolt—just the quiet hum of magnetic dampeners at work.
"You can imagine that my life's been getting increasingly more hectic ever since I had kids," he adds.
"Naturally." I glance his way, then turn to the shifting skyline as we leave downtown's gleaming towers for the calmer suburban grid. "So where are we headed, anyway? You never told me."
"Ah, right." Wissen opens the briefcase beside him and hands me a folder. "This would be easier if you had a neural implant, but I took the liberty of printing it out."
I chuckle—same old argument. "Don't even try," I say, flipping through the pages—infographics, news reports, financial charts.
"Implants will always be a hard no," I mutter. "Never trusted them, never will." I rest the folder on my lap.
"A respectable, if risky, choice. Still, I figured I'd ask one more time." Wissen leans back, the lenses of his shades glowing faintly as his mechanical eyes come alive. "One moment." He raises a finger—no doubt pinging messages to half a dozen contacts.
While I wait, I trace a finger along the red velvet seat until I find a familiar switch. The chair reclines with a soft hiss, and I sink a little deeper, scanning the pages again, this time slower.
Then one phrase stops me cold: Prototype Railgun.
My brow lifts. Odd—tech like that shouldn't exist outside classified labs.
No image of the weapon—just a logo: a black crane cutting through stylized red wings. Sleek, precise, and unfamiliar.
What the hell is this?
Before I can ask, Wissen's voice cuts through the quiet.
"Autumn Blade," he says. "That's the name of the organization."