Chapter 3 - Rafael
Rafael’s fingers curl at his sides. Every instinct screams to call for help, but the consequences play out in his head. He forces a nod. The metal at his shoulder presses harder, driving him forward.
“Move.”
His body reacts before his mind can catch up, carrying him toward the HOV.
Stepping off the sidewalk, the woman stumbles behind, nearly dropping the rifle.
She recovers to shove Rafael through the door.
Knees buckling, he hits the carpeted floor, surrounded by unfamiliar technical equipment.
He steadies himself and spins around. The gun is back at Rafael’s chest.
“Don’t touch anything.”
He remains silent, pulse hammering against his ribs.
The auto-door hisses shut shortly before the woman enters the front cabin with her weapon in plain view.
“Back to base, Pixie. Step on it,” she orders the driver. “Please.”
Within seconds, the ground shudders beneath him. The HOV lurches forward, throwing Rafael backward. He braces against the floor, stopping himself from tumbling completely. Once steady, his wristlink catches his eye. A single tap, and authorities would be alerted.
But if they managed to grab him in Midtown, gun in hand, and vanish past VitaCorp patrols, no one could get to Rafael in time to save his life. And with the van windowless, he has no clue where they’re taking him, or what awaits at the end of the ride.
“Relax, doc. We’re not gonna hurt you,” the woman from before calls out from the front, her tone surprisingly warm. He glances up to see her peering at him from behind the seat.
Wait, does she think he’s a doctor? Did they grab the wrong person? His mouth opens before snapping shut. If she realizes he’s only a nurse, who knows what they’ll do?
Rafael’s never met street gangsters before. He’s seen the V-link reports and heard the rumors from coworkers. They’re fragments of the Collapse that never reintegrated when the Concord Eight took control. But if that were true, wouldn’t they have died out decades ago?
Then again, there’s no proof that’s who his kidnappers are. But who else would be armed, driving unmarked HOVs, and snatching VitaCorp staff?
The moment she turns away, Rafael steals a glimpse.
Her pale hair is braided past her shoulders, pulled to the side over a russet-skinned arm.
Faint bioluminescent tattoos pulse along her neck, the light catching where it encases her cyberlimb.
Clearly black market. The armor visible above her seat has the cut of corporate enforcers but with spiked pauldrons and a green vest marked with the HOV’s insignia.
Her arm shifts, drawing Rafael’s gaze to the floor until the rustle grows louder. He peers up as she crawls between the seats, inching toward him in a crouch.
“It’s okay,” his captor declares, but the gun in her hand tells a different story. “I’m just gonna cover your eyes.”
She vanishes behind him. What does she mean? What’s happening? He stiffens at the sound of an unfamiliar strap unfastening, then cold fingers press against his temple, freezing him in place.
Something slides over Rafael’s eyes, snug against his skin, then tightens along his temple. She withdraws, leaving him in darkness. He goes rigid.
“Sorry, not my choice. Protocol.” Her voice drifts from in front of him.
None of this makes sense. Not the blindfold, not her “protocol,” not why he’s been taken. Though he nods anyway. All he can do is remain calm and do whatever she says.
The HOV lurches, hum dipping before settling into a steady vibration. A deeper rumble shakes the floor beneath his legs as they seem to slow.
They’re stopping.
“Trixie, report in to Viper,” his captor orders near his ear. Rafael flinches. She gently hauls him to his feet by the arm. “Up you get, doc.”
Fear shoots through him as she guides him out of the van.
“We’re moving again. Stay with me.” She sounds almost teasing, yet her grip remains firm as she pulls him across rough concrete.
Nothing here is familiar. The usual city noises are gone, replaced by HOVs roaring somewhere in the distance, too loud and mechanical to be regular cars. Neon hums above as usual, but something metallic rattles alongside.
A few paces later, a door hisses open. Rough tile gives way to smooth tiling as the tang of synthohol and cooling liquid wafts over him.
“Thirty minutes left!” a deep voice snaps. His kidnapper locks her grip on Rafael’s arm.
“I know, Baron. I’m sorry!” She tugs Rafael forward. “I tried to move faster, but it took longer than expected to find the mark Coda sent.”
Heavy boots stomp in front of him. “Leave the excuses for Echo’s funeral if you keep wasting time!” the same person barks. “Get him ready.”
Rafael’s breath catches as he pieces together the situation. Their rushing. His kidnapping. Calling him doctor. Someone needs medical attention.
Before he can decide what to do, a hand presses against his temples, and the blindfold lifts.
He blinks against a green glow as his vision returns.
They’re inside a bar, somewhere in the slums, judging by the lack of Premiere Group logos.
Instead, empty glasses sit on abandoned high tops with vidscreens above an empty bar lined with neon.
Yet all else fades as he focuses on the holo billiard table at the center, where a wounded figure lies motionless.
Two men stand over her. One is dark-skinned with an arsenal of tech gear. The other is bald and muscular with heavy weapons strapped across his back. Both wear armor like his captor, marked with the same insignia and similar chrome cyberware.
More gangsters.
Despite the unease that settles over him, his focus shifts to the potential patient.
She looks older than the others, her vibrant utility gear standing out against the gang’s plain tactical outfits.
What really makes Rafael flinch is the frayed, exposed neural lace snaking beneath her hair.
He knows from experience the neural link could fail any second, frying both her augments and brain.
His fingers twitch to help, but he stays frozen.
A man—someone Rafael hadn’t noticed before—steps out from the side, and the others shift out of his way.
This must be the leader. Possibly the owner of that commanding voice.
He towers over the rest, a black duster and green armored vest doing little to hide the weapons strapped on his back. When he lifts his head, a scar cuts across the bridge of his nose beneath a tinted visor, auburn stubble rough along his square jaw, matching the chin-length hair framing his face.
As the man approaches, a wave of fear crashes over Rafael, followed by a strange sensation. When the man stops inches away, the scent of coolant and worn leather hits. His rational mind snaps to attention. This is his captor, not someone to be analyzed.
“Her neural lace is fried,” the man declares, gesturing at the woman on the table. “Fix her. Now.”
Rafael inhales. Exactly what he feared. His throat tightens. He can’t tell the truth, not after keeping quiet earlier. Desperation claws at him as he searches for something to say.
A pistol slides from the man’s jacket then presses against Rafael’s chest. His stomach lurches, and the man takes a step closer.
“I said now. She doesn’t have much longer!” he snaps, but green eyes flicker to the injured person.
The ticking clock and loaded gun push Rafael into motion.
He rushes to the table and lets his medical instincts kick in, checking airway, breathing, and circulation.
Her vitals are stable but concerning, though the real danger lies under her head.
While Rafael has assisted with reconnections before, he only knows the basics.
Enough to try, not enough to guarantee success. His hand hovers over the medical kit.
One wrong move, and she’s dead. And likely, so is he.
Drawing a shaky breath, Rafael plants one hand on the table while the other pries open the med kit. His fingers barely touch the diagnostic tool when a deafening click sounds in his ear.
His heart plummets. He whirls around to face the muzzle of a gun.
“You’re not a doctor, are you?”