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Chapter 41: Sasha's Resolve
🕑 Added 2025-10-28 10:14:05 +0000 UTCChapter 41: Sasha's Resolve
Inside a high-level executive office within the Biotechnica tower. The once-pristine space was now a wreck. Filing cabinets were overturned, white data-slates scattered like fallen leaves. Monitor screens were shattered, their fragments reflecting the intermittent sparks from severed conduits. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes and scorched black by energy weapon discharge, an abstract mural of violence.
The only steady light came from the stubbornly blinking progress bar on a terminal screen, its soft blue glow fragile amidst the devastation. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the perpetual, diseased neon crawl of Night City bled into the room, staining everything with a false, eerie light.
Sasha was curled up behind a heavy, plasteel desk, her small form almost completely swallowed by the shadows, as if trying to become just another piece of forgotten debris. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her chest heaving, each inhale tasting of dust and burnt insulation. Sweat plastered strands of hair to her pale forehead.
In her hands, she gripped Rebecca's rugged plasma pistol. The weapon's casing was almost painfully hot to the touch. The muzzle glowed faintly red from repeated firing, and its internal capacitor emitted a high-pitched whine, warning of imminent overload – the sound like a dying hummingbird.
On the terminal screen, the progress bar representing the data upload crawled with agonizing slowness towards completion – ninety-four percent, ninety-five...
Outside the office's heavy alloy door, the grating screech of metal on metal and the rhythmic thud of heavy impacts grew louder. Biotechnica security automata were using augmented strength, or perhaps breaching tools, to force their way through the barricade she had hastily constructed from furniture and wrecked server racks. The door was visibly dented, its seals buckling, showering fine metal shavings with each blow.
"Faster... just a little faster..." Sasha prayed silently, her amber eyes fixed on the progress bar as if she could push it forward with sheer will. Her other hand unconsciously traced the worn edges of an old holographic photo pendant tucked inside her jacket. It was the only picture she had of her mother, her sister, and herself, from long ago. Her mother's smile in the photo was gentle, tired. Back then, she hadn't known that the "miracle pain relief" drug, produced by Biotechnica, was slowly, irrevocably destroying her life.
Hatred, like a deeply buried ember, had flared into a consuming fire the moment it touched the oxygen of truth.
This infiltration, originally just another data-theft gig, had become something else entirely. While navigating Biotechnica's data fortress, she had, on a dark impulse, accessed the archived, "sealed" records concerning that specific pain medication.
The cold, hard numbers and internal assessment reports revealed the horrifying truth: Biotechnica's executives knew about the severe, potentially neurodegenerative side effects before the drug ever hit the market. Driven by profit margins, they had chosen to bury the data, falsify the reports, and rush it to consumers. Her mother was just one of countless silent victims, an insignificant rounding error on a corporate ledger soaked in blood.
In that instant, the mission, the eddies, the crew's safety, her own life – all of it had turned to ash in the inferno of rage that roared up from the depths of her memory. Only one thought remained: expose them. Drag their crimes into the light. Tear down their facade of benevolence.
She had packaged all the damning evidence about the drug, selecting the anti-corpo News 54 network as the recipient, setting up multiple encrypted, delayed-release dead-drops to ensure the data survived even if she didn't.
But downloading the massive files took time. And her unauthorized deep-dive had finally tripped the most sensitive alarms within Biotechnica's internal security network.
Tracking... locating... containment... it had all happened so fast.
CRACK! BOOM!
Another massive impact. A clear fracture appeared down the center of the door. Through the widening gap, the crimson optical sensor of an automaton peered in, its red light cutting a disturbing path through the swirling dust and smoke.
Sasha's heart seized. Her knuckles turned white on the pistol grip.
Progress Bar: Ninety-seven percent.
She knew she probably wasn't walking out of here. She didn't regret it. Trading her life for the truth, for the chance that other families wouldn't suffer the same fate... it felt worth it.
She just... felt bad about Maine and the crew.
Maine, solid as a rock, always carrying the weight. Dorio, strong and fierce, but fiercely protective. Falco, quiet but brilliant, the crew's anchor. Pilar, loudmouthed and cowardly, but never truly failing them when it counted. And Rebecca...
Rebecca, small and explosive, who treated her like a sister...
Thinking of Rebecca brought a bitter twist to Sasha's lips. She touched the still-hot plasma pistol tucked against her ribs. Rebecca's prized possession, given without a second thought.
"Buy me a drink when you get back!" Rebecca's bossy, caring voice echoed in her memory.
"Sorry, Rebecca... guess I'll owe you that drink... in the next life," Sasha whispered, her voice lost in the thunderous assault on the door.
Progress Bar: Ninety-eight percent.
Through a security feed she still had access to, she saw them – not just automata, but several heavily armed Biotechnica security personnel in full tactical gear, moving down the corridor, weapons raised, forming a kill-box outside her door.
Escape? Impossible. This office was her tomb.
She took a deep breath, forcing her trembling hands to steady. If she was going to die, she'd take as many of these corporate dogs with her as possible, right after the data finished sending.
She checked the plasma pistol's status – overheat warning still critical. Useless for now. She holstered it carefully and drew her own, much lighter, far less powerful, pink-and-purple customized handgun.
Progress Bar: Ninety-nine percent.
The crack in the door widened. A cold, metal manipulator claw reached through, grabbed the edge, and began to tear the alloy apart. The shriek of tortured metal was the door's death cry.
"Come on then, you corporate lapdogs!" Sasha's eyes burned with resolve. She raised her pistol, aiming at the breach, her finger tightening on the cold trigger, waiting for the final moment.
