We begin in a city. A city of shimmering neon monoliths of steel and glass. A city of a thousand and one stories, all colliding with each other. A city of a million dead dreams. A city of hierarchy where power exists with a pocket full of eddies, or on the right end of a gun barrel.
Welcome, dear reader, to Night City. Welcome to a city where you can become a legend, die trying, or simply be stepped over for another legend's journey. The Corpo capital of the world. When it was being built, it was called the city of dreams. Now? The people out here call this the city of chance. Everything's a gamble, and you'd best be praying luck is on your side, chooms.
In the city of Richard Night, just past the gates of the ridiculously underfunded Winslow "Academy", we see two unassuming youths. And now, good sirs, ladies, and others, we shall begin.
XxX
"Look, it's just a fact, Sparky. Why can't you accept that." Walking down the streets of Charter Hill, a very hyper boy was talking to his friend. Blond hair raised up in dramatic spikes, electric blue eyes with circuit patterned irises, and a pair of silver streaks that went across the side of his head.
"Well Greg, maybe it's cause you're wrong." A tall, lanky young man, with dark brown hair, a light brown skin, and a pair of perpetually tired grey eyes, looked at his choomba, as unamused as he ever was.
"C'mon Sparky, my man, my bro, my choom… you have to accept the facts."
"Greg, I will punch you over this bullshit. Don't tempt me."
"You can't kill me in a way that matters."
"... How the fuck'd you end up in the old net?"
"Same way I know I'm right: research!"
"Greg, I'm never going to even try and pretend that Armsmaster could beat one of the Cardinals."
"Nah nah nah, I never said 'beat'. I said he'd be hell for any of them. Especially Hero and Alexandria."
"Ok Tinker vs Tinker I get, even if we both know Hero is like leagues above Armsmaster. And Legend would have issues with some weird Tinker shit. But how the fuck would he put up a fight against the greatest Brute in existence?"
"Simple: You see how many crazy energy weapons he has in that one Halberd of his? And remember that one dude, the guy with the viking name, who had those lasers and hard light stuff? That dude managed to actually punch up a lot, and was able to fight against Alexandria for a while. Ergo, we can guess that she struggles to fight more exotic types of attacks."
"You know what, fair enough. I can concede when I'm wrong. But what about Eidolon huh?"
"Well uh… fuck you, I have a point."
"Fuck you, you're throwing a tantrum."
"Fuck you, you're being ignorant."
"Fuck you, you're ignoring the facts."
A loud coughing interrupted the bickering, their attention now on the Tyger Claws thug and his two buddies, all wearing their signature bandanas, chromed out arms on full display with their variety of colourful tank tops. The leader, a man wearing a half-mask, stepped forward.
"What disrespectful brats you are, ignoring your elders like that. Why, I am just so very insulted by that. I hope you've got an apology ready, before my feelings are too hurt."
"We don't want no trouble." Sparky pushed himself in front of Greg, arms already raised.
"No trouble he says," the Tyger stepped forward to Sparky, casually dragging his baseball bat on the ground, a fierce look in his eyes to match the oni mask on his face "and yet, he disrespects my friends. What d'ya say fellas? Do we give him no trouble?"
"I say they pay the toll if they want to go without trouble. A token of apology, for our troubles." The other thugs turned back to throwing pebbles at a hobo further down the alley.
"Hey boss, if we got these kids to fight that hobo, who do you think would win?" One thug, a younger teen with a bandana over his forehead was wiping oil over his tanto knife, leaning casually on the wall.
"You know, I bet on the hobo." One of the pebbles finally hit the hobo, thrown by the thug with the green sunglasses, and finally getting the attention of the target of those pebbles.
The hobo started walking, a tattered black coat swaying in the breeze. He muttered something, more secrets lost in the wind. A distant love? A failed investigation? A grand conspiracy that will change the world? Who knows what he saw, for he certainly wouldn't be sharing. Under the coat he was covered in bandages, all across his body, stained with barely dried blood. Over his distant eyes he had a very unique pair of opti-shields, single lenses of black and gold that could release at a moment's notice.
"Didn't ask…" these words caught the attention of the thug with sunglasses.
"Hey boss, this guy is just something else. It's really fu-" And before he could finish his sentence, suddenly the young man was split in two, his cleanly split shades falling by each of his feet, followed closely by the two halves of the rest of him. And at the side of the hobo, whose torn jacket now revealed a large, flat, square blade exiting from his right arm, the panels having opened to reveal the massive sword that had executed the thug.
And then he turned to them. Behind those black lenses was nothing but pure madness, fuel for the rampage that would ensue. Eyes whirring around to designate targets, lost in a distant war he couldn't understand was already over. This was more than madness, as he roared like a great demon of steel and fire.
This was cyberpsychosis.
"CYBERPSYCHO! GET THE FUCK BACK!" The lead thug swung his arms out wide, large mantis blades springing out of his arms. Drawing back for a swing, he leapt at the psycho and prepared to take his head. The psycho expertly stepped into the guard, bringing his left arm up as a second blade not only exited his arm, but was fired like a missile through the air.
The Tyger was flung back, a sharp hole torn through his chest, and Greg turned back in time to see the blade coming for him. A brief blink, and a hot pain ran through his arm, almost blinding him with how intense it was. He desperately grabbed at his shoulder, hoping to alleviate it somehow. When his eyes cleared though, he saw only a stump just under his shoulder, the rest of his arm on the ground. Limp. Dead. Gone.
He could distantly hear Sparky screaming at him, but he couldn't process any of the words. He could feel someone grabbing his left arm and saw the world blur for a moment before coming sharply into focus with a sting in his cheeks. He took a moment to observe the room around them, realising they were now in some random house with a Cyberpsycho screaming at them through the doors.
"Sparky!" Greg could barely choke out anything else, cut off both by the pain of his arm, and the sound of shouts followed by gunfire from the alleyway.
"Shhh, keep quiet. We're barely able to hide as it is, and I don't want to be found by the psycho or those Claws that just saw what he did to their chooms." Sparky reached into his bag, cursing under his breath as he saw the handful of bullets he had for his Lexington.
"Fuck, Greg I need you to promise that whatever you see, you tell fucking no one. Look at me Greg, you take this to our fucking graves." Caught off guard by his friend's intensity, Greg nodded, and watched as a silver sheen covered Sparky's hands. He squeezed the bullets between his two hands, a small swarm of metal shredding them down completely. Just as quickly though, the bullets were reformed, the copper jacket now replaced with a bright silver, an X carved into the tip of the bullet.
"These should pack enough of a punch to get us out of here. Wish I could get more on such short notice." Sparky quickly loaded the magazine and slammed it back into the gun, handing it over to Greg in a rush as he quickly used that same metal swarm to make bandages he wrapped around what little remained of Greg's shoulder.
"You do remember I was right handed, and how my right arm is in that alleyway, and how we're still fucking dead anyway?" Greg wished he could blame the motormouth on the shock, but honestly was just a little too delirious to care that much.
"Still a better shot. I'd have picked up the good stuff if I knew we were getting into a gunfight." A deep breath to steady his hands a bit more, and Sparky tied off the bandages. "On three we run out that door, and rush the entrance on the right, and try shooting whatever is in our way."
The pair made their way to the door, Greg leaning on Sparky for a moment before leaning against the door frame. Sparky raised three fingers as they listened for the sounds of fighting to move just a bit further from their door.
Three.
Two.
One.
The door slid away and the duo ran with everything they had, damn near slamming into a Tyger Claws lieutenant with a single Mantis Blade he had released to rush the Cyberpsycho, who was at this time surrounded by several claws, all of whom carefully paced about him, cautious of the fierce beast in front of them. The blank eyes of the Cyberpsycho suddenly focused on Greg, who had turned to aim desperately at his attacker. Even behind those black lenses, Greg could feel the near mindless hatred this man held for him and him alone.
Whatever he saw in Greg's place was something he despised so much that even as his mind crumbled away nothing could erase that hatred.
A bright electrical blue glow filled the air around the figure, before he suddenly exploded forth, rushing down the alley and blasting away all the Claws, each member that made the mistake of fighting him screaming a chorus of agony as the wires of their cyberware conducted the electricity through their chrome.
Greg emptied every last bullet he had even as the man rushed them, the few that found purchase actually managing to punch four clean holes through the man, each one rupturing apart to reveal a mess of cables and black metallic veins that continued to function even with the amounts of flesh just blasted out.
It did nothing to stop the sword that pierced through Greg's stomach, the burning pain rushing through his stomach as he collapsed, looking into the eyes of a man who had lost all reason.
"Vic. Max. Die. Traitor. Burn." The blade twisted in his guts and Greg couldn't stop the scream as it scraped against his spine, tearing him apart with ease. The blade was torn from him, a burst of blood trailing behind. Before "Vic" could bring the blade down on his neck, a burst of submachine gun fire interrupted him, with Max turning towards the firing squad of several Claws, his blades warping into a large disk shield that he covered himself with.
As Greg watched Vic steadily walk towards the gangoons, a death sentence when he closed the distance, Greg felt a needle stab into his stomach as someone grabbed him, dragging him away from the fight and down the alleyway.
"Come on Greg, just stay with me." Sparky came back for him. Sparky stayed. Even as his vision faded to black, all he needed to see was that Sparky had stayed.
XxX
Beep. Beep. Beep. So annoying, that single repetitive beep. Over and over without any change in tone or volume. Just the same beep, continuing ad nauseum, as Greg vaguely came back into consciousness.
The only thing more irritating was a slight itch in his eyebrow. Reaching up to scratch it, he opened his eyes to see his right arm. Not a chrome arm. His arm. His regular flesh and blood arm, down to that one small scar on the back of his hand from when he tried to practice knife flipping. The arm that he knows was left in a fucking alley.
He barely choked back a scream, the memory of those monoblades still fresh in his mind, that searing edge forever burned into his mind. Desperately trying to grab for the call button, hoping a nurse or doctor or someone could explain what the hell was going on, when a leather gloved hand firmly grabbed his wrist, almost like a stern father watching his son grab the cookie jar.
"Now Gregory, calm yourself. This behaviour is unbecoming of a man of your age." Greg looked up to see a man, probably mid 30s in appearance. He was in a finely tailored double breasted suit, a fitted coat hanging loose but secure over his shoulders, splayed out behind him like an old officers cape. He was very similar to Greg, only far more well groomed than a teenage with light acne and peach fuzz over his lips, instead having a very striking beard, perfectly cut to follow his sharp jawline and contours, accenting a very handsome face perfectly. It took a minute to register, but Greg knew this man, even after all these years.
"... Uncle Max? What the fuck?" The so named "uncle Max" scoffed, clearly unimpressed by his nephew.
"Disappointingly uncouth vocabulary aside I can tell you are more shocked at my appearance here than anything else," barely waiting for the stunned nod he barrelled past Greg's bumbling attempts at understanding, "Well I suppose it is genuinely hurtful to know you think so little of me, Gregory. We are family, and I'm sure your mother taught you what that means to us."
"Uncle my arm. What the fuck?"
"Well you should be more careful with the fights you pick, Gregory. At least this particular undesirable had a very sharp blade. Left minimal nerve damage, according to the doctors."
"Uncle. He carved my arm off and tore open my guts. How the fuck do I have my arm back."
"Well Gregory I am so glad you asked. You must recall that Medhall is a pharmaceutical company, and perhaps you've seen our attempts to break new ground in nanotechnology advances, given how much the marketing cost. We'll look at your shoulder and stomach, and you'll see what we've managed." Greg couldn't tear the gown off fast enough, seeing thin silver bands that stretched around his entire shoulder and his nonexistent abs.
"A brand new biometal implant designed to hold together host tissue, whether it be from severe damage, organic transplants, or cyberware installation. This Weld system could be the source of a lot of improvements, and I can only be glad I could use it to help you after such a gruesome attack." Greg brushed his hands over the metallic bands, feeling the way they contrasted against his skin. Sure he had the standard netlink package like everyone else, but this was something else entirely. He could almost feel his heartbeat through these, and the rush of blood under the surface.
Any further exploration would have to wait, as the hospital room door slammed open. There, looking as disheveled as a woman who waited a week to know if her son would live would, still dressed in her realtor outfit, stood Susan Veder. Eyes all but glowing with a dangerous cocktail of relief, stress, fear, and pure hatred.
"Get out of here, Maximus." Max simply put his hands up, not even taking a step.
"Look, I know we've had our disagreements in the past Susan, but now is hardly the time-" Susan simply reached into her bag and half drew her personal Overture revolver.
"I won't ask again. We're leaving here today, and you will not reach out." The raw murderous loathing in Susan's eyes was only barely matched by the very brief dark look that crossed his eyes, before it passed, and Max began to walk away, slipping Greg a small business card as he went.
"That line will reach me 24/7 Greg, and will be open to any request. I will always be there to help at a moment's notice." And with that, Maximus Lee Anders walked away, leaving his sister and nephew in the very upscale hospital room.
In a second, the anger seemed to drain out of Susan, and she looked at her son, her boy, scarred and scared but still very much alive, and she could not hold back the tears. Rushing to him, she wrapped him in a hug that was quickly returned.
"I knew you'd pull through," Susan clung tight, forcing this moment to last longer, forcing it to stay as fact no matter what, "I knew you'd show you were a fighter. I knew that no matter what you'd pull through, baby."
As he hugged his mum close, Greg looked at his hand again, watching the muscles move as he flexed them, and felt a strange tension he hoped was nothing new. And that the silvery perspiration flowing down the back of hand really was just a trick of the light.
