The clinic door hissed shut behind them, sealing out Watson's perpetual hum of gunfire and leaking neon. Viktor's workspace was a concrete bunker of brutal efficiency—no incense, no crystal balls, just steel shelves stocked with organ tanks glowing faint green and a wall-mounted monitor frozen on a boxing match. Two cybernetic fists hung mid-swing, knuckles sheathed in rust-blood splatter.
Carl nodded at the black-haired man hunched over a terminal, the screen's blue wash highlighting Viktor's angular jaw. "Afternoon."
Viktor turned, chair creaking under his boxer's frame. "Polite. First time for everything in this city." His voice was gravel wrapped in cigarette ash. Eyes—augmented irises contracting like camera shutters—scanned Carl head-to-toe. "No chrome. Not even a neural port." He leaned back, leather jacket squeaking. "Here for an OS slot, kid?"
Oliver stepped forward, thumbs hooked in his belt like a discount merc. "What've you got? Militech? Zetatech?"
Viktor tossed a certification slate onto the counter. The holographic badge pulsed with Trauma Team verification codes. "Militech Paraline. Five grand. Zetatech Echion's seven-five. No black-market scrap. Certified only."
Oliver's ocular implants flickered gold as his balance sheet materialized: €$1,400. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. "That better be fresh-off-the-line pricing, doc."
Viktor didn't blink. "I don't deal in scavenger junk."
Carl methodically counted bloodstained eurobills from a plastic bag. €$3,200 total. The numbers glared up at him—still eighteen hundred short. Above, the clinic's ventilation rattled, pumping antiseptic air thick enough to choke on.
Oliver's fingers twitched as he fired off a neural message:
[SOS, sis. Wire me 500.]
A sharp ping cut through the silence. Oliver's pupils dilated as a notification burned across his retina:
[ACCOUNT CREDIT: €$5,000]
His sister's reply snapped back:
[Where the hell are you? Your loc's not in Santo Domingo.]
Oliver texted rapidly, gold text flickering:
[Met a friend. Heading back soon. Love you.]
[You only say that when you need eddies,] she shot back. [I'm back in two days. Don't get flatlined.]
[Got it.]
Before Oliver could speak, Carl slapped his €$3,200 onto the surgical tray—bills sticking to the cold steel—and turned toward the door, Lexington half-drawn. "Be back with the rest soon, Vik."
"Wait!" Oliver and Viktor barked in unison.
The ripperdoc flicked two blood-speckled bills back at Carl. "Three grand. Military discount." His lenses whirred as they tracked Carl's confusion. "What, you kids never heard of haggling?" A gold-capped molar flashed beneath his trim goatee.
Oliver's cheeks burned. "I, uh… usually get family rates." He hurriedly refunded €$4,500 to his sister, the transaction chiming like a laugh.
Viktor circled Carl, boots squeaking on bloodstained tiles. "Eighteen. Pure organic." A gloved finger tapped Carl's unmodified temple. "This'll take hours. Want anesthesia or full sensory?"
Carl didn't hesitate. "I want to feel it."
Viktor's grin widened. "Attaboy." He tossed Oliver a med-scanner that beeped ominously. "Make yourself useful—monitor his vitals."
The operating slab was colder than a Maelstrom's heart. Carl reclined, restraints clicking into place with finality. Above, the autodoc's arms unfolded—pneumatic joints hissing like angry serpents.
Viktor adjusted his glasses, lenses flashing opaque. "Welcome to the major leagues, kid."
The bone saw screamed to life, its whine drowning out the distant wail of NCPD sirens.