Chapter 9: First work day
I was in sleep mode, dwelling within my mind. I sat in a familiar chair where I loved to spend my evenings. Lighting a cigarette, enjoying a simple movie, I tried to relax. The film on the screen was fragmented; faces and objects were distorted. These were just memories, which the human mind does not retain with minute precision. Unlike a robot's memory blocks, I recalled the events of the past battle and even the trash lying by the roadside perfectly reproduced in my consciousness.
The taste of the cigarette I lit was just an imitation, but it felt so real. I smoked them often, and they were well-embedded in my memory. Just like everything around me. What I remembered well was reproduced perfectly, and what I didn't was distorted. I examined the coffee maker, but inside, I saw only emptiness because I didn't know its workings, while its exterior was flawless.
Several times I replayed the last memories of my life. Here I am walking down the street, heavy rain obscuring my view. A person with an umbrella approaches, and then — darkness. I couldn't see who it was. Perhaps it wasn't their fault — too little information. However, replaying the final moments several times, amidst the rain's noise, I heard more footsteps. They were somewhere in the distance, but clearly behind me. So, was I attacked from the front and the back?
Rewinding, I noticed a person pressed against the wall. He wore a jacket with a hood pulled down. The tattoo on his neck looked familiar — he clearly belonged to some gang. I'll open the archives and check the case files; maybe I'll find similar tattoos.
After finishing the review of my memories, I decided to look at the second memory. Watching clips from life, I clearly remembered when and what happened to me. The last minutes of my life... Wait, what's that frame on the screen? I've seen this somewhere before.
Of course, that hall! I looked at the screen, and there were exactly the same frames. What's happening? I started to shake slightly from what was happening, and I began to search more intently. Watching memories of this game, I found more and more similarities. Cyberpunk 2077, that's the name of this game. Am I stuck in a damn game?
No, this is nonsense. Matthew lived in this world in 2030, and technology was advancing by leaps and bounds, so this is possible in reality. So who am I? Maybe I am detective Matthew, who died in 2030, or Mike, who died in 2020? I can only try to figure it out. What if Matthew did die, but his brain was preserved and decided to be revived? And if you imagine that his soul left his body long ago, another must have entered the empty shell, and I appeared. But the machine's memories replaced the old life. I don't believe in the afterlife and soul migration, but there are no other explanations.
In the corner of the room, the alarm clock suddenly rang, as obnoxious as ever. It was 7:00 AM. The sound was just as I remembered it. Approaching it, I turned off the alarm. I have time to figure this out.
Active Mode
As soon as I thought about it, I awakened. Opening the interface, I checked the condition of my body.
Statistics:
Energy - 54%
System Load - 2%
Strength - 5
Technique - 3
Intelligence: ????.
I still can't get used to the fact that my body is just a set of characteristics. Looking at my mechanical hands, I finally got up. My work shift starts at eight in the morning and lasts twelve hours. This is the standard time. A full shift is twenty-four hours when you must be on alert every second. This is usually the schedule for patrol officers. Since I am attached to the patrol, this schedule applies to me as well.
I moved downstairs. Descending the stairs, I stopped on the fifth-floor landing as I almost bumped into yesterday's victim. It looked like she was heading to work too. Most government organizations have the same schedule, so there's nothing surprising about the encounter.
"Good morning, Catherine Wright," I said. So, she decided to continue living after all.
"And what are you doing here?" she was genuinely surprised to see me.
"My apartment is a few floors up," I replied.
"Hmm, so you live here," she said.
"Yes," I confirmed.
"Good to know," she replied and, walking around me, headed down. I didn't stand there and followed her.
"Why are you following me?" she asked indignantly, turning around.
"I need to go downstairs to work too," I explained. She narrowed her eyes a bit, as if trying to see something in me, but what could she see besides the visor and mechanical face?
Turning back around, she continued her descent.
"What's your name, savior?" she asked without looking back.
"Matthew," I replied.
"Thank you again for helping with the gang and for stopping me from doing something irreversible," she said.
"Glad to serve; after all, I'm a police officer," I said. She only smiled and shook her head. I already suspected that the suffering of ordinary citizens didn't concern law enforcers too much, though I could be wrong. "If they come after you again, feel free to call me," I sent her my contact information through the network.
"I'll manage on my own," Catherine said. We parted ways at the exit, and she headed in a different direction. It was time for me to get to my new workplace.
The trip didn't take long, and soon I was standing before the doors of the police station. Just as I was about to enter, the doors slid open.
"Hey, rookie!" shouted a voice from behind. Turning around, I saw a police car with its window rolled down.
Name: Demian Todd
Age: 38
Place of Work: Haywood District Police
Position: Police Officer (Sergeant)
Criminal Record: None
Marital Status: Married, three children
Recommendation: Do not engage.
It seemed this was the sergeant who would be training me. I approached the car, and the door opened.
"Hop in, I've already signed all the necessary documents," he said. Sitting inside, I was able to see his face. Short haircut, a light smile, and a cheerful look. It was as if he wasn't a seasoned police officer, but a happy person. "My name is Demian Todd. For the next month, you'll be under my supervision."
[image]
"Matthew Carrington," I said, extending my hand. Demian promptly responded with a handshake.
"Nice to meet you, and I hope you have a good service in our department," said Demian. The car started, and we drove off.
"Thank you," I replied, feeling a bit taken aback by his demeanor.
"The job isn't too hard. Our task is to patrol Haywood and respond to any incidents," Demian explained.
"I understand," I said.
"Don't worry, nothing too serious happens. Sometimes we have to shoot, but it's mostly small-time hooligans. We aren't supposed to fight gangs; that's what the assault teams are for," the sergeant continued.
"I'm not afraid of shootouts," I replied. With this body, taking a few bullets without feeling pain wasn't scary. Death didn't frighten me either; I'd been to the other side, and there was only emptiness.
"Got it, so you're not new to this. Where did you serve?" he asked.
"Nowhere," I replied, not understanding the question.
"Strange, you seem like you've served. Lost your body, holding up strong, like you've been through a lot. Thought you were military," he said.
"No, I worked in the police," I replied.
"In the police? Hm, demoted and now rehired. Happens," he said.
"No, I just haven't been on duty for a while," I explained.
"Strange, but who knows what the bosses are thinking. They come up with all sorts of nonsense. Don't worry, I see you're one of us. I don't care who you were before or that you have a metal body," he said with a smile. I couldn't understand where he got so much zest for life. Does he even know where he lives? "By the way, look. This is my daughter; she recently started walking, and she's only a year old," he said, showing me a picture of a child standing on her own two feet.
"Congratulations," I replied, hesitating a bit.
"Thank you. I also have an older son and daughter. I'm so happy for them. I always come home and hug them tightly. Although they resist, I know they are always happy to see me. If it weren't for them, I would have lost the joy of life a long time ago," he said. Now it became clear that he has close people he deeply loves, and this makes him happy.
"Do you have a family?" he asked.
"I did," even through the robotic voice, the bitterness was evident.
"Sorry, I didn't know," he said with sincere regret, realizing he had touched on an unpleasant topic for me.
Our journey continued in silence. After inspecting the city streets, I decided to take a closer look at the area where I live. According to the information available in the database, this was mainly a residential area with many houses where the majority of people lived—from the richest to the poorest. There were three gangs in the area, and their interests often overlapped, leading to fights. I had seen cartel wars a couple of times before, and it never ended well. Here, no one even tried to monitor them. Gang members walked the streets freely, without fear of being pursued. The sergeant didn't react to them at all, as if they didn't exist. However, I could clearly see the patches and symbols on their clothing.
"Patrol car 4318, code 38, Fourth Avenue, 'Pink Dolphin' club," the dispatcher said, the sound coming from the radio built into the dashboard.
Code 38: two or more individuals have entered into a physical conflict, without lethal consequences.
The system immediately provided a decryption of the code.
"Patrol car 4318, received," the sergeant responded. The car sped up and abruptly shot down the road. "Follow protocol, you stand aside and cover in case of anything," Damian said.
Soon, we entered a dense stream of cars. The sergeant turned on the siren, and breaking all the rules, we overtook cars on the opposite lane, brazenly squeezing between vehicles. Stopping on a street where numerous neon lights dazzled even my visor on such a sunny day.
Getting out of the car, I saw the sergeant briskly heading towards the doors of a building with a bright pink dolphin sign. I immediately guessed it was a club. Two bouncers were standing at the entrance, and upon noticing the police, they stepped aside, one of them saying something into a comm.
Upon entering, I was immediately blinded by a multitude of bright colors flashing throughout the room. Loud music played at full blast, and people partied wildly, clearly not knowing what to do in the morning. Although, perhaps these were those who stayed overnight.
We were met by a club employee, and we followed him, pushing through the crowd. I saw utter madness in the eyes of these people, as if they didn't understand where they were and what was happening around them. The program immediately began analyzing the state of the people around me. Apart from alcohol, there were many other substances in them, making them behave inadequately. No wonder a fight broke out here. But I was puzzled by something else—why was the police called? Usually, security handles everything that happens inside and doesn't particularly want to involve law enforcement, precisely because of the substances in such establishments.
The employee leading us entered one of the doors, and the music's sound immediately disappeared as soon as we stepped inside. The soundproofing here was excellent. We went upstairs, and screams of people were immediately heard. The bright VIP lounge sign gave me a simple answer: it looked like it was someone rich, and the club owner didn't want to spoil relations. If the police handle it, there will be no complaints against him.
Bang-bang
We immediately heard two muffled shots from somewhere above.
"Follow me, rookie, code 30C," the sergeant said, pulling out his gun. I still hadn't been issued a weapon. My kit only included a non-lethal shocker built into my arm.
Code 30C: two or more individuals have entered into an armed conflict.
We immediately hurried, running upstairs as people rushed down trying to escape the gunfire. There was a large panoramic window overlooking the hall. Down there, people heard nothing due to the loud music and continued dancing. Dodging civilians, we approached the source of the gunfire.
"Sorry, rookie, but you go in first, you have armor that can withstand any small calibers," the sergeant said.
"Got it," I replied, understanding that it was logical; I had nothing to risk, unlike him.
Bursting into a room lit by red lamps, I saw a man who was clearly not himself. He kept rubbing his eyes with his left hand, holding a gun in his right. He was half-naked, wearing only pants. He was shooting aimlessly in different directions.
Name: Peter Johnson
Age: 29
Place of Work: Militech Corporation
Position: Head of Testing Department
Crimes: Fraud
Marital Status: Single
Recommendations: Armed, neutralize without lethal measures.
[image]
Weapon: M-10AF Lexington
Type: Pistol
Kind: Automatic 9mm Pistol
Magazine: 20/4 (remaining ammo)
He was firing at an overturned table, a makeshift shield that blocked the view of his potential target, making it a frequent choice for cover. But with such erratic shooting as our troublemaker's, you could stand still, and not a single shot would hit.
The sergeant entered the room right behind me, using me as cover, and aimed his weapon at the suspect.
"Drop the weapon and lie down on the floor, or I will open fire," he ordered.
Seeing us, Peter nervously raised his gun. I acted faster: closing the distance, I delivered a blow to his stomach, sending him flying a few meters back into a couch. He started coughing intermittently, clutching his abdomen. Picking up the dropped pistol, I glanced at it and attached it to my leg.
"Damn, rookie, you didn't need to hit him so hard; he's not our client anymore," the sergeant said.
"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.
"He has a gold status with Trauma Team. It's easier to let them take him than deal with the paperwork and courts for the next month," the sergeant explained.
"But he broke the law, used a weapon, and possibly killed someone," I objected.
"You're new, but we have our ways here. Understand, we're limited in every way. If he killed someone, we'll charge him and lock him up, but otherwise, we're powerless," he said, moving towards the makeshift barricade and peeking behind it. "Rookie, get the first aid kit; a couple of bullets hit this poor guy."
Approaching, I saw a bleeding man holding his leg. The injury didn't seem serious. Taking a medication from the bag, I administered it to him.
"Okay, we've stabilized your condition. Do you have Trauma Team insurance?" the sergeant asked.
"Yes, yes, I do. They're already on their way," he replied.
"Good, our job here is done. We just need to wait for Trauma Team to arrive, and then we can leave," the sergeant said.
A girl lying on one of the couches caught my attention. Something was clearly wrong with her. She was covered with only a small sheet. Approaching her, I connected the analyzing module. The scan revealed numerous drugs in her system, her condition critical due to a severe overdose. It wasn't hard to guess what had happened here. A couple of corporate folks decided to have some fun and found a victim to pump full of drugs, and the conflict was the least that could have happened under the influence of alcohol and drugs. Maybe they fought over who would be first.
" What do we do with her?" I asked, unsure of what to do.
"We're not an ambulance. She doesn't have insurance and can't afford medical services," the sergeant replied. I realized that money dictated everything in this city. Leaving the girl to die just because she couldn't pay for our help? Taking out a detox medication, I administered it to her.
"All medicines and supplies used off-duty will be deducted from your salary," said the sergeant standing beside me.
"I don't care," I replied.
"Got it. Don't forget to take her with you and bring her home. Otherwise, your help will be for nothing: as soon as we leave, there will be those who'll pump her full of drugs again," said the sergeant.
I looked at her details.
Name: Miranda Hill
Age: 21
Place of Work: "Pink Dolphin"
Position: Escort
Crimes: Fraud, robbery
Marital Status: No information
Recommendation: Do not intervene
With additional information, I found her address. She lived in the poorest areas of Heywood. A few minutes later, operatives burst into the room. Their equipment was clearly better than the police's. It was strange that they were better armed than my commander. He had only a small pistol, while they had grenades, assault rifles, and armor.
[image]
Two operatives with small cases ran to the fallen troublemakers and began stabilizing their condition. The rest surrounded them with weapons, keeping an eye on the perimeter.
"Officer, was the client Peter Johnson the instigator of the conflict?" one of them asked, approaching the sergeant.
"Correct," the sergeant confirmed.
"His gold card status will be revoked, and future insurance costs will increase by 40 percent," he said. It wasn't clear why we needed this information.
After administering several medical preparations, they placed them on stretchers and quickly started to carry them out.
"That's it, let's go," the sergeant said.
I lifted the girl, carefully wrapping her in a cloth, and followed. I couldn't leave her here. Though I wasn't a Samaritan, it was hard for me to accept such inhumanity in modern society. Just leaving someone to die—how could that be right? Then again, who was I kidding? This kind of thing happened in my time too, but now it's all out in the open, with no pretense or cover.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone