Chrome Prayer

Rain fell in thin, luminous threads, catching the neon like it wanted to be noticed. From the balcony outside my megabuilding unit, the city looked like a circuit board turned vertical—lanes of traffic pulsing, billboards breathing, drones hovering like impatient insects.

Johnny Silverhand’s presence sat behind my eyes like a cigarette burn.

You keep staring at it like it’s gonna apologize, he said, voice dry, amused in the way that never meant kind.

“Just listening,” I muttered.

To what? The city’s sob story?

I was about to tell him to shut up when my holo buzzed on the counter—encrypted ping with a handshake I hadn’t seen in months. Old-school, deliberate. The kind of message that didn’t want to leave fingerprints.

A name flashed.

EL CAPITÁN

Then a location tag, and two words:

NO QUESTIONS.

Johnny laughed softly. That’s your favorite flavor.

“I’ve got rent,” I said, even though we both knew that wasn’t the reason.

Sure. Rent. Not the part where your brain’s a rented apartment for the ghost of a terrorist rockstar.

I grabbed my jacket, checked the mag on my Unity, and headed out.

Santo Domingo at night felt like the city’s industrial exhale—heat, grit, and the low roar of factories that never stopped chewing. The meet was in the belly of an abandoned loading dock, lit by a single strip of flickering LEDs that couldn’t decide if it wanted to live.

El Capitán waited with his back to a rusted container, hands in pockets, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Two guards stood nearby, chrome visible beneath their sleeves.

“V,” he said, like the word tasted expensive. “You look… alive. Always a surprise.”

“Spit it out,” I said.

He nodded once, businesslike. “Someone stole something from me. Something I paid dearly to keep quiet.”

Johnny’s commentary slid in like static. Let me guess. It’s a ‘something’ that’s gonna get people killed.

El Capitán continued, ignoring my silence. “A shard. Data. Not just numbers—memories. Braindance raw streams. Uncut.”

My jaw tightened. “Blackmail material.”

“Worse. It’s a map,” he said. “A map to a person.”

“Who?”

He hesitated, and that was new. I watched the guards shift their weight. Their hands were near their weapons, not quite resting.

El Capitán finally said, “A street legend. The kind the city loves because they die young and pretty.”

Johnny whistled. Oh no.

El Capitán slid a small case across a crate toward me. “This is the job. Find the shard. Bring it back. Do not view it. Do not copy it. Do not sell it. You do that, you won’t even have time to regret it.”

I popped the case open.

Inside was a chip and a paper note—actual paper, old-world paranoia.

On it, a single line:

MARTINEZ / GLEN / CHURCH OF THE CLEAN CIRCUIT

My fingers went still.

Johnny’s voice softened, just a fraction. David Martinez?

“Thought he was gone,” I said.

So do most people. Night City’s full of dead guys who keep getting booked for encores.

El Capitán watched me carefully. “You know the name?”

“Everybody knows,” I said. “Edgerunner story. Kid with a sandy heart and too much chrome.”

El Capitán’s smile returned, brittle. “Then you know why I want that shard back. People worship myths here. They build religions out of gunfire. If that shard gets out—if the wrong gangs, the wrong corpos, the wrong fans get their hands on it…”

“A feeding frenzy,” I said.

“Exactly.”

I closed the case. “Where do I start?”

El Capitán pointed with his chin. “The Glen. There’s a chapel squatting between a ripper clinic and a used cyberware shop. They call it the Church of the Clean Circuit. They say it’s for people trying to get off chrome.”

Johnny snorted. Like a church for quitting oxygen.

The Glen’s streets were slick and loud. Vendors hawked bootleg optics and fried protein. A trio of kids ran by with glowing tattoos that shifted like koi fish. Overhead, a billboard smiled down—some corpo model with porcelain skin and a promise: BECOME MORE.

Johnny stared at it with open contempt. They’ll sell you ‘more’ until you’re nothing left but payments.

The chapel was easy to find because it didn’t advertise. No neon cross, no holo choir. Just a door painted matte white, stubbornly unbranded, with a small symbol carved into the wood—an unbroken circle crossed by a line, like a circuit that refused to close.

I pushed in.

The air smelled like ozone and incense—cheap, synthetic, somehow sincere. The room was narrow, lined with benches made from repurposed crates. At the far end, where an altar should’ve been, there was a low table with a bowl of sand and a single old military dog tag laid across it.

A dozen people sat scattered across the benches. Some looked half-asleep, some looked like they were holding themselves together with tape and prayer. Their chrome was minimal—covered, subdued, or removed with scars that made their skin look like it had been rewritten.

A woman stood near the front, her head shaved, her eyes a calm gray that made me think of overcast skies.

She saw me and didn’t flinch. “You’re not here to detox.”

“No,” I said. “I’m looking for something.”

“Everyone is.”

I walked closer. “Name’s V.”

Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes measured me. “I’m Sister Hale.”

Johnny leaned in, voice low. Sister? In this city? That’s either brave or stupid.

I ignored him. “I heard you’ve got a shard. Something people are fighting over.”

Sister Hale’s gaze flicked toward the dog tag on the table, then back to me. “We keep no weapons here. No deals. No trades.”

“Then you won’t mind if I ask and you answer,” I said. “Someone stole a shard tied to David Martinez. Heard it ended up here.”

The room didn’t go silent. It had been quiet already. But the quiet tightened, like a wire being pulled.

A man on the bench nearest the wall shifted his sleeve down over his wrist ports. Another person’s jaw clenched hard enough to click.

Sister Hale spoke carefully. “Names are heavy. Don’t throw them around.”

“It’s already thrown,” I said. “I’m trying to keep it from breaking someone’s skull.”

Johnny’s voice was almost… curious. Ask her why they’re keeping relics of him. People don’t worship ghosts unless they’re getting something out of it.

Sister Hale exhaled. “You’re late,” she said.

“What?”

She stepped aside, gesturing toward a narrow hallway behind the altar table. “Follow me. Quietly.”

I did.

Behind the chapel was a converted storage room—cleaner than it had any right to be. A single chair, a med cot, a little sink. On the wall, pinned with magnets, were handwritten notes: mantras, reminders, a list of names under the heading WE DO NOT GO BACK.

In the corner sat a small, cheap braindance rig.

Sister Hale crossed her arms. “The shard you’re looking for isn’t a map. Not really.”

“Then what is it?”

“A confession.”

Johnny laughed once, sharp. Every confession in Night City is a weapon.

Sister Hale picked up a small metal box from a shelf and set it on the cot. “It showed up two weeks ago. No courier. Just… left on the altar with his dog tag. The tag is real. We checked.”

“You knew him?” I asked.

She hesitated. “No. But I’ve treated people who tried to become him. They come in bleeding and bright-eyed, telling themselves they’re different. That legend will save them.”

She tapped the metal box. “This shard contains a braindance. A memory stream from someone who was there—one of the last moments.”

My fingers tightened into a fist. “El Capitán said not to view it.”

“Because once you do,” she said, “you’ll understand why people would kill for it.”

Johnny’s voice lowered. And because once you do, you can’t unsee it. Trust me. I’m a professional at not being able to unsee things.

Sister Hale watched me. “Are you going to take it?”

“That’s the job,” I said.

“And give it back to a fixer,” she said softly, “so it can be buried, sold, leveraged, weaponized—anything but honored?”

“Honored?” I repeated. “It’s a shard.”

“It’s a story,” she corrected. “And stories are the only thing in this city more addictive than chrome.”

Johnny drifted into my peripheral vision—half a hologram, half a bruise in reality. He leaned against the wall like he owned it, eyes narrowed. We’ve been stories for a long time, V.

I looked at Sister Hale. “You’re keeping it?”

“We’re keeping people from using it,” she said. “We’ve had break-ins. Scavs. Wannabes. A corpo suit with clean hands and dirty eyes. They all ask for the same thing: proof. A relic. A piece of him they can turn into currency.”

“Then why not destroy it?” I asked.

Her face tightened. “We tried. The data’s locked behind a self-repairing encrypt—old netrunner craft. The more you damage it, the more it rebuilds. Like it doesn’t want to die.”

Johnny’s lips curled. Now that sounds familiar.

I held out my hand. “Give it.”

Sister Hale didn’t move.

I lowered my voice. “If you keep it, they’ll keep coming. People die in here. People who came to you to get clean.”

Sister Hale’s jaw worked once. She looked tired, like she’d been arguing with the city itself and losing.

Finally, she slid the metal box toward me. “Take it, then.”

I picked it up. It was heavier than it should have been.

“Don’t watch it,” she added. “Not unless you’re ready to carry it.”

Johnny’s voice turned almost gentle, which was worse than cruel. You already are carrying it. Name’s in your pocket now.

They hit me outside.

Not in the chapel—Sister Hale’s “no weapons” rule held, at least on the inside. But the alley beside the building was Night City’s jurisdiction, and Night City’s laws were simple: if you can take it, it’s yours.

Three figures stepped from shadow. Their optics glowed like cat eyes. One wore a jacket with a faded patch: a stylized skull with a halo made of circuitry.

A Martinez tourist club.

The leader spoke first. “Hand it over.”

I didn’t draw my gun yet. “Walk away.”

He smiled. “We’re not here for your eddies, choom. That shard’s got the truth. We deserve it.”

“Deserve,” I echoed. “You didn’t know him.”

“Don’t need to,” he said. “He’s ours.”

Johnny barked a laugh. People love owning dead heroes. It’s cheaper than building their own.

The second guy cracked his knuckles; the joints clicked, metal on metal. “Last warning.”

I sighed and let my hand drift toward my Unity. “Then come take it.”

The alley exploded into motion—boots splashing in puddles, a knife flashing, the hiss of cyberware engaging.

I moved on reflex, Sandevistan-like speed without the hardware: just muscle memory and the cold arithmetic of survival. I fired once, twice—aiming for knees, for hands. One attacker dropped, screaming. The leader lunged; I stepped aside and slammed him into the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.

He grabbed for the metal box. His fingers brushed it.

And the box vibrated—subtle, like a heartbeat.

A static whine filled the air.

Johnny froze in my periphery, eyes widening. What the hell is—

The leader’s eyes rolled back as if someone yanked a cord. He went limp, sliding down the wall. A thin line of blood ran from his nose. His mouth moved like he was trying to say something, but the words didn’t come out—only a wet, terrified exhale.

The two others stumbled back, suddenly afraid of the prize they’d been chasing.

“What did you do?” one whispered at me.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, voice low.

The box vibrated again. My vision swam with a brief flicker—an image that wasn’t mine: a city street in overexposed light, the sense of running, of laughter turning into screaming.

I clenched my teeth and forced my gaze to steady. “Go,” I snapped at them.

They didn’t argue. They fled, splashing through the rain, leaving their leader unconscious and leaking.

Johnny stared at the box in my hand like it was a snake. That shard’s broadcasting. Or… reacting. Like it knows when someone wants it.

“Self-defense encryption,” I muttered.

Yeah, Johnny said, voice thin. And it just pulled the trigger.

Back in my apartment, I set the metal box on the counter like it might crawl away.

Johnny hovered beside it, arms crossed, the ghost of an expression on his face I couldn’t name. Not fear. Not respect.

Recognition.

You’re not giving that back, he said.

“I’m getting paid to,” I replied.

Yeah? And you ever get paid enough to feel clean afterward?

I stared at the box. My holo buzzed—El Capitán’s number, impatient.

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I opened the metal box and slid out the shard. It was old, scratched. Someone had held it with sweaty hands. Someone had tried to break it.

Sister Hale’s voice echoed: Don’t watch it unless you’re ready to carry it.

Johnny watched me. V.

“I just need to know what it is,” I said, like lying to myself could pass as caution. “Then I decide.”

That’s the same lie everyone tells before they slot the BD, Johnny said. But his voice had softened again. If you watch it, it’ll change you.

“Too late,” I muttered.

I slotted the shard.

The world snapped sideways.

I wasn’t in my apartment anymore.

I was in motion—running, lungs burning, heart hammering so hard it shook the world. My hands weren’t my hands. The air tasted like metal and hot asphalt. Somewhere behind me, people shouted—excited, afraid.

A laugh burst from my mouth—young, reckless, alive.

Then the memory lurched.

A woman’s voice, close, urgent—someone I cared about more than my own blood. A name I couldn’t quite catch through the distortion.

The street turned into a blur of light and danger.

And then—like a knife sliding between ribs—came the sensation of too much chrome, too much power, too much pressure. A body being pushed past what it could hold. The world stuttered, glitched at the edges, as if the memory itself was tearing.

A figure loomed in the periphery: towering, armored, corporate death given shape. The memory filled with dread so pure it felt like prayer.

Then, suddenly, a pause.

A still frame.

A hand—shaking—reached toward the camera’s view. Someone pressed fingers to the side of the rig, adjusting it, like they wanted the last seconds to be clear.

A voice, raw and quiet, not performing for anyone.

“Don’t—” it said, then cut off, swallowed by the memory’s collapsing noise.

The image fractured into sand.

And through it, one last sensation: not heroism, not glory.

Just someone trying very hard not to be forgotten.

I ripped the shard out like it was burning me.

I collapsed onto the edge of the counter, breathing hard. My apartment was the same—neon outside, rain on glass—but it felt like the air had changed density. Like a story had been released into the room and now it wouldn’t leave.

Johnny stood very still.

“Now you know,” he said finally.

“That wasn’t a map,” I whispered.

No, he agreed. It’s bait. It’s a hook with a heartbeat on it.

“Why lock it like that?” I asked. “Why make it fight back?”

Johnny’s eyes were distant, fixed on something that wasn’t on the counter. “Because whoever recorded it knew what Night City does to dead kids with a good legend. They didn’t want him turned into merch.”

My holo buzzed again. El Capitán. Third call.

I stared at the screen until it dimmed.

Johnny tilted his head. So what’s the play, V? You give it back, you help bury it. You keep it, you become a target. You destroy it—you can’t.

“I can hide it,” I said.

Johnny scoffed. Nothing stays hidden in this city.

I picked up the shard between two fingers, holding it like a tiny piece of shrapnel. The memory still clung to my skin, like grit.

Then I remembered Sister Hale’s wall of names: WE DO NOT GO BACK.

“I know a netrunner,” I said slowly. “Someone who doesn’t work for fixers. Someone who likes burying corps in data graves.”

Johnny’s expression sharpened. This is you doing a good deed?

“This is me,” I said, “making sure the city doesn’t get another religion.”

Johnny watched me for a long moment, then gave a tired smile that looked like it had been stolen from a better life. Careful, V. You keep acting like you’ve got a soul, people will start expecting things.

I slid the shard into my jacket pocket and headed for the door.

Outside, Night City glowed and hissed and begged to be believed.

Behind my eyes, Johnny’s voice followed me into the rain.

Tell me something, V, he said. When you die, who do you want owning your story?