Chapter 2: School Days
Winslow "Academy" was certainly an amazing example of standard education in the NUSA. A poorly funded prefab wretch of concrete, failure, and ignorance, it almost seemed tailor made to push students either to other schools or to join the workforce sooner, especially the more illegal kind. A waste of taxpayer money kept running only because the paperwork to tear it down was not worth the effort to file.
By the front doors, waiting just before the long since outdated metal detectors, Greg was scouting out for his best friend. Sparky had had two weeks to prepare an answer, deflecting constantly whenever Greg called that the explanation was better said in person. So here he would stand, waiting like a jackass, still irritated that the doctors said to keep his arm in a sling, watching the tide of various gang colours swept past, until he finally saw Sparky. And whatever it was Greg was going to hear, it had to be bad. The old teal bandana tied around Sparky's forehead was a bad sign.
"Sparky! Hey, Sparky!" Greg called out as he pushed through the crowd, not caring even slightly about the dirty looks people were shooting at him, "Hey man, I've been waiting to talk to you."
"Hey Greg, so glad to see you're alright." The bags under Sparky's eyes were deeper than usual, and the smell of weed was not faint, "just follow me and we'll talk."
And so they went, walking through concrete halls just filled with the most banal of inspirational posters, cheap beverage adverts, and whatever notices the staff wanted the students to ignore this week. As Sparky walked up the stairs to the fourth floor, the need for privacy was becoming apparent. Nobody ever used the fifth or above floors. There wasn't enough staff or students to justify even the fourth floor, and with all the busted elevators that had probably never worked, well…
There was a reason Sparky was going to an old abandoned classroom on the seventh floor to talk to Greg. Sliding open the door, stepping into a near barren room of concrete grey and cheap plastic desks, Sparky quickly scanned the hall and the room to ensure their privacy, laying down small metal cubes in the corners of the room as he knocked on the walls for hollow spots, and searched the vents for any possible bugs.
"Sparky, what the hell is this spy movie shit?" The only answer was getting shushed as Sparky continued to search. Eventually he was satisfied, and settled for just pressing a button on the cube he had kept in his hand, a small blue field surrounding the room in the space within them, before fading out.
"Alright, now we can talk. Now I guess you have a lot of questions-" Sparky tried relaxing on the teacher's desk, even as Greg exploded, arms flailing in the air.
"No fucking shit I do, you gonk! What the fuck was all that shit in the alley! We nearly fucking died and then you pulled some sorcery shit out your ass, and now you pull out this weird spy gadget shit like you're James Bond or something! What the hell is going on?"
"Yeah, glad to see you're still the same old you. Before I can elaborate, I need to ask: what do you know about the Carbon Plague?" Greg scratched his bare chin, trying to recall whatever details he could.
"That thing with the nanomachines a few years back? Not much, me and mom just didn't really see much of that. Didn't that shit turn people into Capes?" Sparky sighed, but was ready for the long talk ahead.
"Yes and no. The CyberEvolution process was hell, and it did give people powers. I knew a bunch of people with all sorts of things, including a guy with some crazy laser powers. But it was all biomechanical, not Cape powers. Believe me, I know the difference." Greg sat at a desk, ready for the lesson ahead.
"And how do you know the difference?"
"You're dumb Greg, not stupid. You can piece together the simple fact that I am both."
"So you have twice the powers of everyone else? Shit dude, that's awesome. That's like, the coolest thing possible." A dry laugh was all Sparky escaped Sparky.
"Awesome now, yeah. Not so awesome when dad pulled out the shotgun because I was sweating metal. Things are better now, but it was hell back then." There was a dark look in his eyes, even now filled with the hate for his late father.
"Shit, I never even knew about that. Is that why you don't talk about your dad?"
"Eh, no point wasting words on a dead man. Besides," Sparky held up a hand and formed a spiked grenade, "these are some hella synergised powers."
"Axel sparkius Ramos," Greg drew his pistol and aimed it for his oldest friend's head, "What was the agreement?"
"I don't care, you can't unhear the 'hella'." Sparky looked him dead in the eyes as he drew a blunt and a lighter.
"You fucking rat." He lit the blunt and took a long drag, never breaking eye contact.
"The only betrayal, Greg, was that you trusted something I refused." He blew the smoke directly into Greg's face, still smirking.
"There will be a reckoning for this!" Greg waved his gun around angrily one last time, before putting it on the table, closely followed by the full magazine in his back pocket.
" Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Jokes aside, I gotta ask: how the hell do you have your arm back?" Gret sighed, gazing at his arm as he flexed his hand.
"Yeah, I got no fucking idea. Remember my uncle?"
"The distant billionaire your ma said was a 'duplicitous, shit eating, whore sucking, vile corpo rat'?"
"Yup, him. Apparently he snatched me up after I got put in the ambulance and did some weird shit with experimental chrome."
"... You realise how sketchy that is, right?"
"What, am I suddenly captain stupid?"
"Define 'suddenly', cause if we're talking when we were kids, well then…"
"I don't have to take this from you! Not right now at least." Greg got up to try and go, but Sparky put a hand out and he sat back down.
"Chill choom, I still have something I need to talk about. I'm CyberEvolved, yeah. But I'm also a Tinker. I got consumables or something. Bullets, bombs, blunts, whatever. If it's temporary or whatever, I got it. And as an apology, I'll do a favour I have owed you for a while."
"You don't mean…"
"That's right, I'll take this dinky little Lexington-"
"Dying Night."
"Lexington, and tune it up into something real nice. Even give you a discount on some of the fancy bullets I make."
"Now that is one hell of a deal."
"I know, I know, I am far too generous. Just leave it with me for a few days and I'll sort it out." Greg tossed it to him, with Sparky catching it out of the air easily.
"Dude, I cannot thank you enough. Like, I wasn't gonna hold it against you, you know that. But I will take the freebie."
"Don't mention it, seriously."
"I am the peak of discretion." Greg lay a hand on his chest and looked almost offended.
"I've seen your shitposting, Void Cowboy."
"That is not fair. You know I'm right that despite the 4th Corpo War regulations, Militech is the American government now."
"Maybe, but that doesn't mean shit about them having a secret cabal or whatever. And the fact you haven't gotten jumped by 'Saka ninjas for the shit you post is insane."
"If you won't believe me about the secret Kaiju that Saburo is experimenting on, that's your mistake."
"Yeah, yeah, I don't care what you quote from the conspiracy board. We need to head to class before a teacher shows up with a fine."
It wasn't hard to rush down a few flights of stairs and barge into Mr G's class. "World Politics", what a joke. It was an open secret where Gladly's allegiances lay, from the Militech posters, the NUSA flags, and most damning of all the 6th Street Paraphernalia. The only politics he gave a shit about were the American kind, and sometimes the Cape kind.
Gladly himself was exceptionally conspicuous, fatigues in plain view under his tactical vest, side cap worn proudly. And a very noticeable sidearm strapped to his belt. Rumours had it he wouldn't hesitate to draw on any student he deemed "unpatriotic"... but given how many students were wearing gang tags, and how many more were packing heat, Greg doubted Gladly would so much as draw it.
"Alright class, today we'll be talking about the Ellisberg Crisis." There was a collective groan that only seemed to encourage him, "now come on guys, even politics can be fun at times. Now, who knows the names of the major players in the conflict?" When faced with silence, he simply pointed at a random student who he would call on, unfortunately it was Greg this time.
"Uh… there was James Rinke, the Cardinals, Militech Director Fortuna, and what's her name, the Biotechnica lady." Gladly simply wrote the names down on the smart board, barely even paging attention.
"Very good Greg, and the name you were thinking of was former regional director Tina Caruso. Now, who can tell me how long it lasted?" This time he singled out a thin, black haired girl, sat away at the back of the class. "How about you Taylor?"
"Oh, it lasted 23 days, with a 15 day further negotiation period." Gladly simply moved onto the next slide, now showing a series of photos. Bombed out buildings, heavily armed security checkpoints, monsters of all shapes and sizes, all surrounding photos of the major players in the conflict. A mugshot of James Rinke, posters of the first four heroes, an older, fedora wearing lady sat at her desk, on the front page of Time Magazine (Person of the Year 2058), and an employee ID for Caruso, Tina.
"Excellent Taylor. These are the people instrumental in the start and end of the conflict, which is an important part of all wars. But we must never forget the brave men and women who fought during the war, giving their lives for the sake of this country and her people." The next slide was pretty much a grand memorial, showing several monuments that bore the names of all the poor souls killed by either side.
Greg wondered if the people killed in indiscriminate bombing runs wouldn't have preferred serving the Goblin King, before finally going onto a slide which held pictures of the various goblins that Nilbog had created to defend his kingdom. "Now Madison, would you like to share why this conflict kicked off to begin with?"
"... Huh? Oh uh yeah sure. It was cause James Rinke got tired of his job right?" To most, she would have seemed scatterbrained. But Greg had long since put together the clues, and determined that Madison Clements was secretly part of the Animals, and was just biding her time to get the typical Exotic body mods. Her cutesy face and small stature was why she was such an effective spy for them. She must have been considering which of those monsters she would fight after starting an appropriate steroid routine.
"Not quite Madison, but close. James Rinke was an employee of Biotechnica, and had been working 125 hour weeks for close to 20 months now, and was steadily losing grasp on reality, all for the project goal of figuring out a way to increase production in Biotechnica protein farms across the world. When interviewed, he said he was approaching a breakthrough when the department needed to be downsized and sadly, Mr Rinke was found to be non-essential personnel." Gladly moved to a new slide, this one showing similar images to the conflict page, but now including the gory details. Soldiers firing on monsters, even as they were torn apart. Capes swooping down and blasting apart streets as they tried to maximize their kills. James Rinke, clad in a torn shirt, dirty pants, and a regal cape holding up the bloody helmet of some random Cape, a local given all the edgy spikes on it. Gladly had continued on regardless.
"It took days of fighting before the Protectorate and Militech forces had to pull out and establish a quarantine zone, before chief director Fortuna stepped onto the scene. Seizing operational control, she decided that now was the time to talk with Mr Rinke. A representative from Biotechnica, a local boy, our very own Regional director, Mr Earl Lavere, as well as Eidolon, the greatest of the heroes. Together, they opened a line of communication and managed to talk to James Rinke, allowing for a peaceful resolution." The next set of photos has a very different tone. Monsters helping move debris, Earl Lavere shaking James Rinke's hands as he was instated as head of labs, and finally James Rinke on a magazine cover: Sat in a wooden throne with two monstrous hounds flanking him, "King of New York's food", he was a striking image as the latest regional director.
"Now what have we learned today, kids? Always keep an eye out for unpatriotic behaviour and how it can affect the people around us." And with that, everyone stopped paying attention until the bell rang, because why the fuck do you want to hear "why you should join Militech take 50"? Speaking of which, Greg was very grateful to hear that loud ringing, as it finally meant he could just escape before Gladly tried playing buddy buddy with him post Psycho.
It was barely a walk to get to his locker, and to start swapping out both books but also to grab a preem throwing knife. He ran his thumb over the dark blue metal, looking over the smooth blue metal of the grip, enjoying the weight of its balance. Sadly his mum put her foot down at letting him carry around neurotoxin, so the vial container remained a hollow section of blade. Still a treasure he made sure to keep safe with a booby trapped locker. Only he would wield the Blue Fang.
"Hey, you're Greg right?" Greg turned to see a girl actually talking to him. Like, a real girl talking to him. She was blonde, with some really long hair, reaching halfway down her back. She was pretty athletic, with clearly natural muscle tone that was rare these days. Her pretty face was in a firmly neutral expression, barely holding back a sneer. Aka, a girl talking to Greg.
"Uh, hi yeah I'm Greg, Greg Veder." Smooth Greg. Real smooth. Keep this up, you might actually be able to talk GString_Girl into actually sharing what had her so down.
"Great, I need your help. Heard you were a good shot and wanted to be an Edgerunner." He tried to play it cool, casually shrugging, but couldn't keep the dumb smirk off his face.
"Yeah, I got big plans. You're looking at a future Legend of Night City."
"Great, then I have a job for you, mister legend. A friend of my uncle has been dealing with some thugs that keep harassing people in front of his shop. Do you mind trying to come and scare them off?"
"Oh sure, I can help out. Uh, what's your name?"
"Tammi Herren, and thanks for helping out with this."
XxX One boring School day Later XxX
XxX Charter Hill, Night City XxX
Greg was glad that he had long since memorised a map of the city. It made it easier to rush off after school, to make his way to the shop Tammi mentioned. An All Foods of all things, what're the odds. He still needed to pick up some groceries for his mom too.
He browsed the aisles, noting where everything he needed for his list was, when he saw the thugs Tammi had mentioned. It was three guys, no gang tags thankfully since they all looked like Valentinos and he did not want to tangle with a gang tonight, but all three were armed. Two had some Novas on their belts, while one had an Igla slung over his shoulder.
"C'mon choom, we're just talking right now. You don't want us to stop talking, right? So why not just talk to us while you can?" The manager was impressively standing his ground, refusing to budge an inch. Greg was about to step in, prepared to be the big hero when he drew his pistol from his belt…
The pistol currently with Sparky. Fuck.
Greg quickly rushed back behind a different aisle, taking a moment to breathe. Ok, he still had his knife, that had to count right? Even if it meant he could kill at best one before the other two killed him. There was no way this freaky chrome would change the tide all that much, and there was no way to get a gun before he failed this gig. Unless…
There. A vending machine. Exactly what he needed.
$10 lighter, Greg finally had evened the playing field. Stepping back towards the registers, knife and pistol in hand, he saw that one man had drawn his Nova and was casually jabbing the manager's gut with it.
"That's enough, you're going to leave here and never come back." The three thugs turned, took one look, and burst out laughing.
"Holy shit dude, your brat over there watch too many Action BDs?"
"Must've, gonk clearly fried his brain."
"This kid really out here with a Slaught-o-matic. God damn are kids getting dumber."
The three men continued laughing, infuriating Greg. What did it matter he had to use Budget Arms, didn't everyone have hiccups early on? Besides, he had 36 bullets here, and that was nothing to scoff at.
Greg fired a shot at the floor between them, readying the knife as he did so. That cut the laughing off real quick, and he smirked at that.
"I won't ask again, walk away now or don't walk away at all." The three men glared at him, shared a look, and the man with his revolver out turned it to Greg. A knife got lodged in his wrist and two shots rang out, hitting the shoulder and gut, knocking him to the ground. The other two had already drawn their weapons but were held at bay by the pistol.
"You really don't want to do that. We can all still go home if you just put those down." He almost hoped for a moment that they would back down, before he saw the man he'd knocked over grabbing the gun with his other hand. He quickly shot him, watching the man cry out as the bullet tore through his throat, and had to dodge around the corner of an aisle when he saw the other two drawing their weapons.
Ducking away from a shotgun blast and a handful of bullets, Greg once again cursed his awful luck. He could see in the glass that the revolver thug was holding position while the shotgun thug tried to flank the aisle. If he stayed, he was fucked. If he tried to leave either side, he was fucked.
Thankfully, Greg knew one other option, as he aimed a bullet at the wall. Lining it up, he prayed the ricochet would favour him, and blasted away. Greg watched as most of the bullets went wide, but this did not save the thug. A line of bullets carved across the thug's torso, a violent streak of red almost tearing him in two.
"You litte puta! You're dead! Dead!" Greg and the thug stalked each other on both sides of the aisle, waiting for someone to slip up, for a chance to take down the other. And as Greg knocked into a can, it clicked that it was him. And that click sounded a lot like the trigger pull of an Igla. The shotgun shell punched through the thin sheet metal and various canned goods, tearing into Greg's right side and knocking him onto his side, gasping for air.
Greg desperately tried to crawl, hoping to get somewhere he could get back up, or at least get to a pistol, only to watch the man come closer as he turned the corner, murder in his eyes.
"When you see my friends in hell, tell them it was Carlos who sent them a present." Greg tried to get his hand up, only for it to do nothing. Shotgun pellets tore into his hand, and punched deep into his chest and neck. Greg fell back, not even able to cry out anymore. The man dropped his empty shotgun and made his way over to his friends, desperately trying to see if there was anyway they could have survived, before falling to his knees before them, unable to hold back the tears.
Greg was unmoved. In that he both struggled to move, and was paralysed with shock that he was still alive. Looking at his hand, he saw the answer. Beneath the flesh, there was metal. Metal strands that were flowing and snapping into place, filling the holes in his hand, his guts, and his arm. He felt a weird tingling in his left hand and looked over to see it steadily sinking into a small pile of spilt peaches and syrup, as it seemed to eat through the metal of the cans.
"What the fuck?" The words caused the thug to freeze, turning around in shock to see a man rise from the dead. They eyed each other up, before turning to the Slaught-o-matic in between them. One last shared look was all they needed for them both to spring into action leaping forward to grab at the gun, wrestling each other with it. Greg was barely able to keep it away from his body, but could feel something pumping into his arms. Something that helped him feel stronger. Something that helped him turn the pistol.
He looked into the eyes, saw the fear in them, and pulled the trigger, watching as 16 bullets rapidly tore through the man's guts. Carlos collapsed to the floor, barely clinging to life. Greg simply leaned over, grabbed the handful of shotgun shells in his pocket, and grabbed the igla he'd left on the floor. Carlos also tried raising up a hand, hoping to stop Greg from shooting him. It was exactly as successful. The only difference is Greg made sure to double tap, firing a second shell that exploded the thug's skull across the floor.
He dropped the shotgun, collapsing down as he leaned against the register counter. The manager peaked his head out from behind it, eyeing up the bloody mess, and the dead eyed Greg.
"So you're the solo I hired right?"
"Yup." He looked at the chunks of brain meat splattered onto the floor.
"I suppose this is where I pay you."
"Yup."
"Would you help clean the bodies for a tip?" Greg turned to him, barely even sure he heard him right.
"... Yeah sure."
Two hours of dragging bodies, throwing them into the dumpster, moping and brushing the blood and bullets up, tossing the guns, ammo, cash, and fancy ring of one guy into a bag, and buying some milk and eggs later, and Greg was finally closing the door on his apartment. He casually chucked stuff in the fridge, left the loot on his floor, and lay down on his Armsmaster bedding.
"... WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!"
