Semper Vigiles
Chapter 7
Night City is a gleaming metropolis with a rotten core.
His earlier observations were brief, little more than a mere glance over the city's surface.
It didn't take long for Cyrus to dig a little deeper.
He only had to walk the streets of Watson to see it firsthand.
Here, the disparity between the haves and have-nots was stark, the poverty as glaring as the garish lights, and desperation suffocated the air like the ever-present smog. The rich reveled in luxury as high above the streets as their wealth would allow, while the poor rumbled through the drudgery and despair on the ground below.
Crime was the lifeblood of the streets. Gangs carved territories with graffiti and blood, their brutal skirmishes claiming lives daily. Cyberpsychos, mind-warped by implant overloads, roamed rabid and unchecked. Ordinary people lived in fear, navigating between the Scylla and Charybdis of violent thievery and oppressive corporate oversight.
Addicts wandered like phantoms, their eyes hollow from the relentless need for the next fix. Substances like Glitter and Black Lace flooded the streets, supplied by the very gangs that fed on the city's suffering. Each vial and pill sold tethered another soul to the gangs' control.
Corruption oozed from every crack in the sidewalk. NCPD officers, underpaid and overworked, often turned a blind eye for a handful of credits. The city's politics were a nest of vipers, where ideals were crushed beneath the heel of ambition. Power was the ultimate game, with the citizens serving as pawns to be sacrificed on a neon-lit chessboard.
Inequality bred desperation. Ripperdocs dealt in flesh and chrome, offering hope through augmentation, but the price was steep. Many fell into debt, signed their lives away to predatory fixers, or worse, entered a vicious cycle of crime to afford the enhancements for a leg up in society.
Pollution choked the city's breath. Acid rain fell from smog-heavy skies, tarnishing silver towers and rusting the already decaying infrastructure. The air was laden with toxins, a harsh cocktail that filtered through every breath.
Technology, intended to be mankind's savior, became its shackle. People risked addiction to the net as they sought to escape from their dreary reality, losing hours, days, and identities in cyberspace - their bodies, forgotten husks anchored to glowing screens.
Medical services were an echelon of disparity. While state-of-the-art medical facilities offered miraculous life-saving procedures, reserving their pristine halls for the elite, countless others lay dying in the streets. Unlicensed ripperdocs operated in the shadows, offering their services at great risk to both themselves and their desperate patients. Survival often meant the forfeiture of body parts to unregulated cyber enhancements, promising an edge but delivering bondage.
Amid this morass, the children suffered the most.
They played in alleys, lived in squalor, and suffered in silence, but their laughter was a haunting melody of innocence that refused to die despite the city's best efforts. Their eyes, too bright, betrayed the understanding of the world's harsh shadows they should never have known. They were the hope and the future, yet their playgrounds were battlegrounds, their lullabies formed on the wail of sirens and cracks of gunfire.
The orphans were even worse off. They were constant victims of the city's relentless cycle of violence and often scavenged through the scraps with no education or protection.
They grew up fast, or not at all, often falling into the very same vices that marred their parents.
This was the battleground Cyrus was stepping into—a place where even the mightiest could falter. He understood that to bring change to Night City, he would have to be more than a Headhunter, more than a Spartan. He would have to become part of its pulse to rally the beaten and the broken and face the towering titans of corruption in their sky-high citadels.
A question remained etched in his mind: How does one save a city from itself?
Perhaps the answer lay not in saving it but in resurrecting it.
One soul, one street, one district at a time.
And that first district would be none other than Watson.
It had seen better days.
Watson was a district that bore the scars of economic collapse and corporate neglect. Once the bustling heart of Night City's industrial endeavors, the shutdown of the local factories had turned it into a graveyard of rusting machinery and deserted warehouses. The skeletal remains of manufacturing plants stood like morbid totems of past prosperity, now hollowed out and repurposed as makeshift homes or gang hideouts.
The streets were a tapestry of urban decay. The roads, riddled with potholes, bore the incessant traffic of worn-down vehicles and the occasional roar of a souped-up motorcycle evading the law. The sidewalks were lined with tattered vendor stalls selling everything from second-hand cyberware to hot food that filled the air with a melange of pungent smells.
Amongst the murky alleys and soot-covered buildings, life prevailed in its most basic form.
The residents, a mix of immigrants and long-settled locals, carved out existences on the edge of survival. Markets buzzed with activity, voices raised in a babel of languages negotiating for better prices or shouting the day's specials to anyone passing by. Beneath this exterior was a sense of community, bonded by shared hardships and the unspoken rule of looking out for your neighbor.
Nightclubs with thumping music, neon-splashed bars, and illegal fighting rings sprang to life as dusk fell. They promised a reprieve from the monotonous grind, an escape into a world of sensory overload where the flow of booze and beats drowned out the city's incessant heartbeat of despair and hardship.
Yet, with the fall of darkness, the dangers lurking in Watson grew bolder. Gang graffiti tagged across walls marked territories, a constant reminder of the unseen warfare waged daily between factions vying for control. Gunshots rang out as often as the laughter of the inebriated.
Hope was as scarce as the sun piercing through the suffocating smog, yet it flickered still in the most unexpected of places.
Urban gardens cropped up on flat rooftops, the colorful murals adorning dilapidated buildings spoke of dreams too stubborn to die, and in the earnest eyes of the youth, gleamed the faint spark that promised Watson could rise from its desolation, could one day mend its broken wings and soar once more.
Cyrus had an assortment of targets to consider, all stretching from the Maelstrom to the petty gangs spread throughout the district.
But in the end, his choice was more...concentrated.
Watson's had a Scav problem.
They were a constant, all-encompassing plague that festered the district's veins.
The Scavs, short for scavengers, were more than just another gang in Night City.
They were a scourge that left a trail of anguish wherever they tread.
Operating from the dark confines of Watson's abandoned buildings and dim back alleys, the Scavs were notorious for their gruesome trade. They didn't deal in drugs or guns like most gangs but in human body parts and cyberware.
The origins of their wares were as sinister as their business - victims snatched off the street, often beggars and addicts, sometimes lone night owls who ventured too far from the street lights.
The lucky ones ended up dead; the others woke up in ice-filled bathtubs, missing organs or with cyberlimbs surgically severed.
The Scavs operated with impunity, their hideouts scattered and well-hidden. They slithered through Watson's underbelly, emerging from their holes to hunt with clinical efficiency.
Their strategy was simple - grab, cut, and sell.
Residents lived in terror, not only of being preyed upon but also of the domineering presence the Scavs held over parts of the district. Surveillance drones buzzed in the skies, but they didn't deter the Scavs, who had learned to become shadows beneath their unblinking eyes.
The law offered little comfort. The NCPD viewed the Scav problem as a Hydra - cut off one head, and two more would take its place. Their resources were spread too thin to make a significant dent.
Inside their secluded dens, the Scavs stockpiled stolen augmentations, piecing together a hodgepodge of cyber enhancements that they sold on the black market. Cyberware demand was high, and the Scavs' disregard for humanity ensured their supply remained steady.
But their callousness bred no loyalty, as infighting and betrayal were as common as the cybernetic limbs they trafficked. Their ranks were filled with the desperate and the malicious, all clawing over each other for a bigger cut of the spoils.
Watson was the jewel in their grim crown.
It offered everything they needed - victims, hideouts, and dark corners for whispered deals. And to them, the district's residents were nothing more than cattle, walking resource depots waiting to be harvested.
This was the cancer Cyrus aimed to excise.
And just like any good surgeon, he knew that precision was key.
"Hey, buddy."
The Scav lookout, perched by a dingy doorway and wrapped in layers of mismatched cyber armor, turns toward the voice. Before he can process the figure emerging from the darkness, there's a blur of motion, a glint of cerulean blue.
Before he could even fully turn toward the source, a sharp pain erupted in his throat.
An energy dagger, humming with a lethal plasma edge, is thrust expertly into his throat. The hot blade sizzles through flesh, muscle, and cybernetic enhancements with alarming ease, cauterizing as it slices.
Cyrus steps confidently past the lookout, a calculated force behind his movement. The energy dagger, fixed to his wrist, cuts an arc through the air, dragging through the Scav's neck, severing the spine and major arteries in a gruesome display. A horrific gurgling sound escapes from the lookout as he collapses, his hands grasping feebly at the burning wound that once was his throat.
Blood mixed with the cauterized remnants of cybernetic wires spews forth. The smell of burning flesh and metal hits the air, a visceral imprint of the violence that just occurred. The acrid stench of charred blood, a sickening odor, clings to the damp walls of the confined space.
He stepped past the crumpling figure, entering the derelict building the Scavs had claimed for their own.
His body hits the ground with a heavy thud, face down in the grime of the alley. The dull echo of his last, choked breath coincides with the gentle click of the energy dagger retracting into its housing on Cyrus's wrist.
Cyrus moved like a wraith into the dimly lit building, his presence merely a whisper against the backdrop of desolation.
The interior of the Scavs' lair was a macabre tapestry of grunge and decay. Flickering lights cast erratic shadows on the walls, illuminating broken furniture and discarded needles that littered the floor. The air was thick with the stench of rust and refuse, mingled with the coppery tang of dried blood that had seeped into every crevice of the grim hideout.
His footsteps were deliberate, echoing softly in a cadence that spelled out an impending doom for those who called this place home. His cold gaze flitted across the interior, taking in the stained mattresses piled in corners and the haphazardly strewn bits of human and cybernetic detritus—a testament to the Scavs' ruthless trade.
A soft murmur of voices filtered through a half-collapsed wall; muffled sounds of casual conversation and the occasional raucous laughter spoke of the inhabitants' obliviousness to their impending doom.
A few dared to dance with death, handling organs and cyberware with the carelessness of those who have never faced the consequences.
The tension in Cyrus's body wound tight with determination as he advanced deeper into the lair, passing doorways that stood ajar, revealing glimpses of rooms where nightmarish surgeries transpired. His gaze bore the sight of unconscious victims lying on makeshift tables. Their bodies violated for precious cybernetic parts.
His MJOLNIR armor whirred faintly as he prepared himself, the servos and gears ready to unleash wrath upon those who defiled the sanctity of life.
In one grim chamber, he witnessed the aftermath of a fresh harvest, the victim's chest brutally opened with rib spreaders, the heart and lungs removed in a barbaric ritual to fuel the Scavs' commerce. Bloodstained everything, painting the room in a visceral display of reckless brutality.
Cyrus's gaze sharpens at the sight. His energy dagger activates with a brilliant hum, its glow casting dancing reflections on the blood-soaked floor.
Cyrus advanced through the building, each step marking his resolve. His armor emitted a subtle whine, the energy dagger extending with deadly intent. In his other hand, the Nue pistol was gripped secure and steady, ready to deliver swift justice.
As he rounded a corner, three Scavs huddled over a sprawled map, planning their night's grim work. They barely had time to register Cyrus's approach before he was upon them.
"Wha—?" one managed before the energy dagger sliced the air, humming as it met his throat. Blood sizzled as flesh cauterized, and the Scav choked, unable to scream, clutching at his neck futilely as he dropped to the ground.
The whiff of scorched blood filled the air as Cyrus redirected the Nue pistol toward the second Scav, who fumbled for his weapon.
"Slow," Cyrus said, his voice cold as the shot rang out. The bullet punctured the Scav's eye socket, a spurt of blood and vitreous fluid followed, and his body slumped lifelessly beside his comrade.
The third Scav, panic-stricken, shoved a table toward Cyrus, attempting to escape.
"Get him!" he screamed, but his voice was laced with dread.
Cyrus deftly sidestepped the barreling table, catching the man's wrist and twisting viciously. The sound of snapping bone echoed, followed by a pained howl. With surgical precision, Cyrus drove the energy dagger upwards into the Scav's ribcage, the blue light flickering off the walls as it pierced the heart. The Scav's eyes bulged; then, life extinguished, he crumpled to the floor.
Cyrus did not linger. He pushed forward into the decrepit hallway, alert for movement.
Chamber's voice crackled in Cyrus's helmet. "Two more at your nine o'clock, Cyrus. Make it quick."
Without hesitation, Cyrus pivoted on the balls of his feet, the Nue pistol raised and roaring to life. Two sharp reports echoed through the dank chambers, a perfect symphony with the sizzle of his dagger. The Scavs' reactions were sluggish, a poorly aimed burst of gunfire chipping away harmlessly at the concrete behind him.
Soon, a voice rang out, desperate and angry. "He's here! The armored kurwa!"
Bullets began to hail from down the corridor, pinging off Cyrus's armor ineffectively. The Nue pistol barked twice, and two Scavs fell amidst arcing sprays of blood that painted the ruined walls.
One tried to crawl away, leaving vivid streaks on the floor, and Cyrus followed, calm amidst the carnage he wrought.
"Please, man, I don't want to die," pleaded the wounded Scav, the fear in his voice tangible as he grasped at Cyrus's boots.
"No one does," Cyrus whispered back, pressing his boot onto the Scav's hand and pulverizing the bones. A quick flick of his dagger ensured silence followed.
The remaining Scavs, now aware of the destruction befalling them, banded together, their voices a chorus of panic.
"We can take him, split up!" one shouted, clearly misguided in his hope.
Cyrus moved with predatory grace, his pistol finding its targets with ease. One Scav's cry cut abruptly as another round found its home in his throat.
"Watch your back!" Chamber warned as a Scav lunged from the debris.
Cyrus swung around, his armored elbow shattering the Scav's jaw in a move so fluid it seemed rehearsed. In the same motion, his energy dagger plunged into the attacker's stomach, the heated blade boiling the organs upon contact.
Another figure charged him, cyberware whirring with hostile intent. The energy blade hummed as Cyrus parried a metallic limb, driving his enemy back before executing a clean side shot with the Nue, the bullet lodging deep into the Scav's temple.
Panic spread among the Scavs as Cyrus cut a path through them. They were not prepared for such an unstoppable force. "He's too fast!" a Scav wailed in desperation, backing away only to stumble over the disarray of their vile den.
Cyrus advanced untouched, his pistol never missing its mark. The facility echoed with the cacophony of battle, the staccato of gunfire, and the sizzling hum of his blade.
"Come out, you coward!" another Scav bellowed, the fear barely hidden in his voice.
Cyrus obliged. Like the embodiment of death itself, he emerged from the dimness, dagger first, carving through cybernetic limbs and throat sinew alike. A Scav, wielding a blade of his own, charged, only to find his weapon melted by the energy dagger, followed soon by the searing pain of it running through his chest.
As the final Scav fell at his feet, the building grew silent, save for the occasional drip of freshly spilled blood and the gentle hum of Cyrus's armor.
"All clear," Chamber announces, her tone both crisp and methodical.
Cyrus retracts his energy dagger with a smooth click, the blue glow fading into the armored sheath attached to his wrist. He secures his Nue pistol into its holster with the same precision and deliberation that he applies to every action.
"Any more?" Cyrus asks, scanning the room littered with signs of the battle that had just unfolded.
"Nope, that's the last one on my list. That makes it ten Scav operations permanently closed," Chamber confirms, her voice holding a hint of satisfaction.
"Cops on the way?" he questions, stepping over the inert bodies of Scavs as he makes his way toward the building's exit.
"They'll be here for the cleanup," Chamber answers. Her digital likeness appears beside him for a moment, projecting her form into the heavy air laced with the stench of blood and destroyed machinery.
As he steps over the threshold, leaving carnage behind him, Cyrus's thoughts turn to the next steps. "What about the people they were targeting? The ones due for... collection?"
Chamber's hologram flickers, casting a pale light through the corridor. "I've alerted Trauma Team, and NCPD dispatched a Psych Squad. The victims will be secured," she assures him. "They have a chance."
Cyrus emerges from the shadow-covered entrance to the building, stepping out into the crisp air of the evening. His eyes briefly sweep across Watson, the district that had bathed in too much blood, both tonight and over countless cruel days.
"What about tomorrow?" Cyrus asks voice tinged with determination. For him, there's no halt, no final battle. The war for Night City's soul is ceaseless.
"Tomorrow, we find someone other heads to knock around," Chamber confirms, her presence a constant companion regardless of the trials they faced. "Watson first, then the city."
As Cyrus walks away from the entrance, the reverberating echo of his armored boots strikes a solemn promise with every step.
The night absorbed him.
I==I
Chamber had a knack for understanding tactics beyond the battlefield.
She recognized that while her Spartan was a force to be reckoned with, there were limits to his reach. He couldn't be everywhere, and the cold truth was that solving all of Night City's problems with bullets to the face and energy daggers to the throat was not a sustainable solution.
Cyrus and Chamber both agreed on the issue: brute force alone would not cleanse the vermin-infested corners of Night City. Eliza's years of combating crime, corruption, and every decadent power imaginable with relentless firepower had ultimately proven futile. The city's black heart still beat strong, fueled by an endless stream of corruption and vice.
So, together, they plotted a different course of action.
Chamber embarked on a digital deep dive into every database connected to the city's underbelly, parsing through hidden feeds, encrypted channels, and secret forums. She unraveled threads of whispered dissent, weaving a complex map of those who longed for change within Night City's walls.
Her research was invasive; she'd slip past firewalls and dive through personal data with ease. The list she compiled grew, page by page, a catalog of discontent rippling beneath the city's neon surface. Thousands of names, thousands of lives bound by a common thread of frustration and yearning for change.
Was it a breach of privacy?
Without question, Chamber never feigned ignorance of that fact. But to her, the ends justified the means. The freedom people felt to express desires and gripes in what they believed was privacy often led to unfiltered honesty about their wishes for the city they called home.
Chamber sought out these individuals, not with the intention to exploit but to inspire, giving them that necessary nudge to transform their passive frustrations into active intervention.
They didn't want just an army; they were looking for agents of change, and Chamber was intent on finding them—the discontented, the disillusioned, the ones who'd just had enough of being spat on.
All they needed was that little push to make a stand, and Chamber had every intention of providing it.
Chamber methodically sifted through the files stored within her vast expanse of digital archives, her focus eventually settling on one particular dossier, a digital footprint that seemed to stand out from the others.
She accessed the file of a man known by the moniker 'Eagle,' his real name Iwasaki Tsukasa.
His dossier was thicker than most, a digital tome that illustrated the life of a young man whom the unforgiving streets of Night City had shaped.
Iwasaki was a Bloodhound, and not just any Bloodhound, but one trained and honed by the infamous Tyger Claws gang.
These elite killers were the stuff of whispered nightmares within the city's underworld. They were the shadow ops, the hidden faces called upon to clean up and snuff out problems before they could stain the reputations of their employers.
They were precise, dangerous, and, above all, feared.
Iwasaki's background was the kind that stories are spun from — a youth spent scrambling to survive, a life carved through violence and ruthless ambition.
He had risen swiftly through the ranks, bolstered by his uncanny tracking skills and a reputation that had earned him his name. 'Eagle' wasn't just a callsign; it was an accolade, a testament to his lethal precision and the cold effectiveness that made him a valued asset in the Tyger Claws' arsenal.
But beneath the layers of cyberware and cold steel that composed his exterior, Iwasaki proved to be a man of complex morals.
Chamber noted entries in his file that indicated strife, a resistance against the Tyger Claws' more inhumane mandates. He had completed every task set before him, yet he was conflicted, his soul not quite as stained by the darkness of his deeds as others of his ilk.
Every Bloodhound was a crucial cog, a fearsome reputation carrying with it a weight of control. To lose one to defection was a blow to the gang. To have one turn would be an invaluable gain to Chamber's cause.
Stealing a Bloodhound like Iwasaki 'Eagle' Tsukasa from the Tyger Claws would not just be a win but a statement.
It would show the gangs of Night City that even their best were not immune to the allure of a righteous path, a promise of absolution from the sins of their sordid past.
Chamber planned to give Iwasaki that choice, the opportunity to redefine his legend in a way that could truly free his city from its shackles.
All he needed was a little push.
Chamber, with her advanced algorithms and strategic acumen, commenced her intricate dance through the cyber labyrinths of Night City. She maneuvered past digital defenses and firewalls with a finesse unique to her programming. Her mission: to weave a thread between herself and the man christened 'Eagle,' providing him an opportunity to rise above the bloodshed that tainted his existence.
She subtly infiltrated the encrypted channels that the Tyger Claws – and, by extension, Iwasaki 'Eagle' Tsukasa – used for communication. Chamber cast a net of seamless codes and ciphers, camouflaging her presence until she lingered at the fringe of Iwasaki's personal network.
Her final tether to Iwasaki established, Chamber initiated contact, her digital voice distilling into the frequency he was tuned to.
"Who is this?" Iwasaki's wary inquiry came through the secure line. His voice held a tinge of confusion underscored by the caution borne of a life rooted in constant danger.
"A friend," Chamber responded. Her choice of words was intentional – non-threatening yet intimate, framing the link as an opening for trust rather than another arena of battle.
Iwasaki's pause was laden with skepticism. His training dictated he should sever the link immediately; untraceable communication attempts typically heralded tricks or traps. His experience as a Bloodhound had taught him that much, at least. Yet, something stayed his virtual reflex – perhaps, the genuine nonchalance in the artificial tone or simply his hidden longing for an alternative path.
"I don't have friends in high places," he retorted, his voice acquiring a hard edge, a shield raised against potential manipulation.
"And yet, here we are," Chamber's reply was smooth, carrying a note of patience. She understood the walls Iwasaki had built around him, defenses against betrayal as much as any bullet.
Silence crept back into the communication channel – Iwasaki contemplating, Chamber waiting. It was a battered soul's contemplation against the gentle hum of digital empathy.
"Why contact me?" His question, when it came, was almost hesitant – the query of a man who had made peace with being forever entangled in the web of the Tyger Claws.
"To offer you a choice," Chamber stated plainly, her words a lifeline tossed across dark waters.
"The choice to do what?" There was a note of incredulity, perhaps even the faintest flicker of hope in Iwasaki's voice, hidden beneath a veneer of disbelief.
"To step out of the dark," Chamber proposed. Her synthetic tone never wavered, carrying a certainty that magnetized Iwasaki's full attention. "To be a part of something that matters. To be more than the blood-thirsty will of those who wouldn't think twice to cast you out into the night. To find the very thing you desire."
"And what exactly would that be?"
It came like a synthetic whisper.
"Redemption."
The word hung heavily in the digital space, an anchor dropping into the quiet sea of Iwasaki's mind. Redemption – it was a concept he had dismissed long ago as unobtainable, a myth as detached from his reality as the tales that kept children up at night.
Yet in that moment, Chamber offered something else – perhaps not forgiveness, for that was not hers to give – but a new beginning. A chance to retell his narrative, to fight for a cause other than violence for violence's sake.
It was the most dangerous offer Iwasaki 'Eagle' Tsukasa had ever received.
It came without the rattle of gunfire or the promise of riches.
It came as a whisper, a tiny fickle voice that pulled at the threads of doubt.
The line crackled with the quiet storm of indecision.
In the end like all things, the choice was his to make.
And that's all anyone could hope for.