Cyberpunk 2077: Night City Lord

The ride was the longest I'd had since I bought the car. 
It took me further from Watson than I'd ever been, all the way to and through Santo Domingo. 
Never in my life had I imagined I'd be happy to see so much trash. The larger and closer the mountains of waste grew, the tighter I clenched my steering wheel. It was so bad I left permanent, visible creases and handprints in the tough leather. 
That aside, once I spotted the giant transmission tower with the lit up CHOOH2 sign, I knew I was on the right track. I pushed down on the accelerator and advanced down the road, the trash zipping past and the accompanying stench increasing in intensity. 
Soon enough, the asphalt transitioned into dirt, the road still staying trash free despite the heaps lining it like pavements. 
Noting the distant position of the final transmission tower on this side of the landfill, I drove towards it, the overpowering stench breaking barriers and somehow progressing into higher levels of disgusting and repulsive.
In less than 30 seconds, I arrived at my destination, a makeshift clearing at the foot of the massive steel tower. I spotted my quarry instantly and drove my car closer to it before alighting. 
As I crossed the final meter distance to the abandoned refrigerator on foot, I clenched my fist and fought to keep myself from pumping it. 
The ever-present winds of decay swarmed me like baleful currents, taking up all the available slots of my nose's processing power. Yet somehow, through all this noxious bombardment, I managed to single out the rot seeping from the refrigerator.
This didn't deter me though. It in fact emboldened me. 
I stooped down, found the right spot to grab and flung the fridge open, dosing myself with a healthy blast of cool, rotten air. This turned out to be the last straw. My nose shut down for good. Yet, I had the biggest smile possible. 
Because laying in the refrigerator, in a pool of water and melting ice cubes, was the cold and dead Rache Bartmoss. 
...
"I'm giving you godlike power, I expect godlike things."
This is one of the many things my benefactor said in his farewell. 
His tone when he said this vaguely suggested there'd be consequences if my "achievements" with the power he gave me didn't match his expectations. To that, I said he could rest easy.
He didn't ask then, but I could have given him three reasons why I'd do what he said, off the top of my head.
One, I liked living. Two, I hated this place. Three, I wanted to do it. 
Starting with the first reason, I had no absolutely no intention to displease an entity that could take my soul from my home universe, stuff it in a body in another universe, and give me powers to go along with it. 
I really liked this new life very much, thank you. 
On the second note, have you seen this world? I've been here just a week yet the number of reasons why I hate it keep going up, each new one worse than the last. 
It's like the world was eager to show me how utterly unlivable it was for the average person. Frankly, it was stunning how extremely hostile it seemed to the concept of decency, joy, and happiness.
Don't get me wrong, there were obviously those who, through determination or sheer luck, navigated the madness and chaos to obtain and preserve their versions of these concepts.
But comparing these scant few to those struggling against and succumbing to the darkness was like comparing the amount of water in a lake to the quantity in an ocean. They were completely different beasts.
I mean, in what world was it normal for kids to watch people die violent and completely unnecessary deaths and think… I want that for myself. Yeah. I want to end up as a drink in a bar that used to be a morgue.
"The big leagues" they called it. A legend in Night City. 
What a bunch of fucking bullshit. It was sad and depressing, but still bullshit. Two things can be true at once.
Having knowledge of all this and the system, was it wrong to dream about changing the world? Was it wrong to try? People with less… potent means had tried. They'd fought and left wounds even the corporations had taken ages to heal.
Why then couldn't I, someone who was very willing and had no plans to start a family or bring a child into this mess, at the very least, try? There was nothing stopping me but my own apprehension.
And this is what brought me to my third reason. 
Changing the world, kinda, sorta was my dream.
When I grew old enough and found out the truth regarding my life expectancy, I …changed. I became angry, hurtful and dismissive towards my friends and family. I was lashing out, something that to my loved ones, was completely normal for a kid in my situation.
What the people close to me didn't know was the existential crisis I was dealing with. My tiny, immature mind couldn't wrap its head around why my life was like this, and why it was like this for me. Why was I born? It couldn't have been for this.
After spinning that question in my head for weeks, I finally and begrudgingly accepted settled on an answer. I'd been born to suffer and then die. It was the only thing that made sense. And it made me angry. Angry at my parents, and angry at God. 
Remembering how I treated my family in that period made me feel a deep shame. It was one of the things I wished I could change about my past. But if I did that, how would my grandmother have shown me what life was truly about?
It goes without saying that my grandmother was a devout christian and had been one for most of her life. When I entered this "rebellious" phase, she was the only one who managed to see through the nonsense and deduce the true reason behind my behavior. 
She kept it to herself and waited until she could talk to me alone. Once she cornered me, she confronted me about my behaviour, the truth behind it, and proceeded to tell me a lengthy story about Jesus, his disciples and how the modern world was still feeling the effects of his existence.
She explained that for someone who lived 2000 years ago, Jesus was a very well-known if not the most well-known individual to ever live. She gave me a rundown on why she believed that was, breaking down his popularity to one word: others.
Jesus had such a profound effect on other people that most of them dedicated their whole lives and livelihoods to spread his name and teachings to every corner of the world. She mentioned his disciples, who endured unspeakable things just because they would not deny his existence and feats.
By the time she finished her sermon, I felt like the most stupid person ever. One, what she explained was so obvious I wondered why human beings didn't know this by default. 
Two, I was bitching and moaning about my life having no meaning when I'd been treating the people who could give me exactly what I wanted like they were the enemy.
Needless to say, I was a changed man after that. My greatest desire was no longer to be cured of my illness. It had been moved to number 2, its previous spot taken by my desire to help as many people as I could before I died.
Apart from wanting to experience life in all its forms and live it to the fullest, the main driving force behind most if not all my decisions so far was this. I wanted the effects of my existence to be felt long after I was gone. I wanted to live a life that mattered.
That's why on this late Wednesday morning, I stood in my office/workshop gazing at the action board I'd put together over the past couple of days. It was a simple metal board covered with printed images, sticky notes and pieces of paper.
A long strip of red string used the magnetic clamps pinning the displayed items as cleats, forming crisscrossing lines that connected everything in a messy, confusing sort of way. It was like a maze, one I was slowly but surely making my way through. 
Once I escaped it, the plan to go about changing the world would have some concrete steps. Beginning steps if you will. 
Arms crossed and tapping my foot, I flitted my gaze across the various sections of the board. I paused on where I wrote "Fixers" and freed my arms, uncapping the marker in my grip and circling the word. 
If I could solicit the help and support of these secretive old-timers, my chances of success would shoot up. Unfortunately, brainstorming how to go about doing that had to be paused for another time. The alarm in my agent just went off.
It was 9:30. It was time to call Regina. 
...
'9:30 on the dot. This kid's punctual.'
Gazing in her interface at the unknown ID contacting her, Regina crossed her arms and answered it.
"Regina. Good morning."
"Morning. You're right on time."
"Yeah... I hate being late."
"Hm, good to know. I've got some updates for you. Good and bad. Which one d'you want first?" 
"In that order."
"Okay. First, the good news. I found the guys you're looking for. They are indeed Maelstrom. Sending you the deets." 
After pausing to send the information packet, she resumed. 
"You'll also be getting your money back. The guy you saved? He's awake. He made contact yesterday looking you. He also placed a hit on the gonks."
His focus split between the data she sent over and the woman herself, Bishop paused his analysis for a split-second before resuming. 
"How'd he know about me?" 
He wasn't surprised about the man wanting to meet him. The surprise had to do with how his existence was discovered, and it seemed Regina could sense his confusion. 
"There were no cameras in the alley. The goons made sure of that. They however made personal recordings of the attack and used it to promote the XBD of it. They also spread it to look for you. You messed with their business, so you're on their shit list now."
To that, Bishop shook his head in dismissal, unbothered by the threats of drugged up lunatics and their disturbing means of business. 
"Is that everything? You said good and bad. I'm guessing that's it?"
"Yep. That's all. Just to be clear, you're going to zero the gonks."
"Yes. It should be done by tomorrow." 
Regina raised her eyebrow at that. For a moment she wanted to warn Bishop of this particular group of Maelstrom. But then she quickly remembered she'd already passed him the intelligence he had her gather. 
She didn't need to do that. He'd gone through the info and given her that response. Either he was truly competent or he was just like every wannabe gonk that thought themselves a legend in the making. 
No matter the case, time would tell. He said tomorrow. If she didn't hear from him then, there were mercs lined up to do jobs for her. If she did hear from him however, that meant she'd have a new, promising talent on her roster.
"Tomorrow, same time?"
"Yeah." 
"Good luck then."
"Thanks."
...
Little China…
Clad in a zipped up olive colored field jacket, plated cargo pants, and steel-toed boots, I held my head high and made my way to the familiar alley where Vik's clinic was located. I took the long way since I wanted to avoid Misty and Gomorrah, the "establishment" Shantel worked at. 
With Misty it was due to the nature of the things her cards revealed. How do I navigate the awkwardness about me leaving a mountain of bodies behind?
For Gomorrah, after giving the lustful thoughts time to abate, I realised I didn't want to indulge in a service that took advantage of women. Sure, not all them in this line of work were coerced into it, but that didn't change anything. 
What Woodman, Fingers, and Wakako did to Evelyn Parker was the freshest it'd ever been in memory. I was by no means a good guy, but I knew an animal when I saw one. So no. No joytoys or prostitutes for me. 
As much as I wanted to munch on that forbidden fruit, behaving like a normal human being was more important. Besides, I wasn't even 18 yet. I'm pretty sure trying to score with women without telling them my age will make me the creep.
Anyways, I soon arrived at Vik's, and unlike before, he was open. The homeless man I met last time was also back in his spot.
Keeping myself mobile, I stuffed my hand in my jacket pocket, removed 200 eddies from the system, and dropped the notes in the man's lap when I passed by him. I didn't stop to see his reaction and went down the stairs.
With careful, well timed thoughts, the sliding and folding security doors opened up and let me in, my steps unimpeded. Upon entry into the mad scientist den Vik called a clinic, I immediately noticed his empty-no backrest, seat.
My senses directed my gaze left where I found him attending to another customer. The sound of the gate unfolding must have alerted him since he turned his head in my direction. 
Aware that I'd interrupted something important or confidential, I mouthed "I'll wait outside" and backtracked and made myself comfortable in the same spot I waited for the ripperdoc a week ago. 
Thankfully, the homeless man was gone. I still remember our awkward interaction last time. 
After close to 20 minutes of waiting, I raised my eyebrows as a thin, middle aged woman with robot arms the size of mine left the clinic. I followed her with my gaze for a few seconds and stopped trying to deduce what job or reason could necessitate such implants. 
I went back in and found Vik cleaning up around the operating chair.
"Morning Vik." 
"Hey kid. 'Was just coming to get ya. How are you? City treating you well?"
'Hm. As if,' is the response that instantly jumped to mind. Saying that however, would be untrue. All the things I'd gained ever since I came here were good. Amazing even. Behaving as if I wasn't enjoying myself would be dishonest. 
"Actually yes. The city is, you know, the city, but I've been enjoying myself quite well."
"Heh, that's the nicest thing I've heard anyone say about it."
"Yeah well, there are still times when I wonder if I died and woke up in hell."
"Can say with certainty you're not the first to think that. Anywho, what brings you here? The neural link threading shouldn't be complete yet."
"Uhh, it is. Happened an hour ago." 
"Really? Hop on."
I smiled and unzipped my jacket, revealing the modified vest. It was all black now. No use looking shiny and attractive when your job was to stop bullets from entering me. 
With a sharp toss, I flung the jacket to the far away couch and gestured at my torso. "Do I take these off?"
"Not necessary. Just jack in." 
Nodding, I made myself comfortable on the chair, grabbed the plug Vik was holding and pushed it into the port behind my ear. 
What followed was a 2 minute silence while he ran whatever checks and tests he wanted. Maybe he'd discover I was lying. I don't know if he'd confront me about it though. He had a lot of customers and I was certain I wasn't the only one with secrets. 
"You weren't lying kid. The threading is complete and all systems are active."
I just shrugged and tossed up my arms, giving him the "I told you so" gesture again. 
"One day we're gonna talk about what's going on with you."
"We will. I promise."
"Hm, I'll hold you to that. So far everything looks good. You're all healed up and the implants show no signs of rejection. Unless you want something else chipped, which I don't recommend, I'd say you're in perfect shape."
"Uhh, thanks. I know you're supposed to take time to adjust after each installation. But a ballistic coprocessor can't be what sends me over the edge right?" 
Vik just shook his head and laughed. 
"I see you've also fed into the misconceptions. You don't need to be chromed up to the gills to fall prey to cyberpsychosis. A neuroport and the right situation is enough for the most normal person to break."
"Oh… I didn't know that." 
"Eh, don't sweat it. Most folks don't. Just be careful out there. Now, lay that arm here and let's get started."
Following the man's instructions, I pulled back my sleeve, waited until he lifted and positioned the 3D printer/armrest combination, before laying down my arm.
"Right there. Just like that. Now, a bit of anaesthe–"
I interrupted and pointed at the column of occupied chipware sockets behind my ear. 
"I've got a surge chip. Can turn off my pain receptors." 
Vik ignored me and pressed the gun against my exposed forearm, dosing me a few times. 
"That's all well and nice but anesthesia numbs more than pain. When the printer starts cutting through your hand, it'll keep your autonomic reflexes from acting up." 
"Huh, the more you know. I feel like I learn something new whenever I'm here."
To that, Vik just laughed and started up the printer, asking if I felt anything when the device began to interweave the flesh of my numbed hand with the deconstructed implant. 
My answer was nothing. If the anesthetic Vik applied wasn't enough, the surge chip I was using would pull through for me. 
The installation took a few minutes to complete. When it finished and Vik lowered the printer armrest, he asked me to try my weapon.
I reached for my left side and grabbed my modified Liberty, aiming the pitch black gun at the wall situated at the far end of the room. A white dotted line stretched from the gun's muzzle, hit the wall and curved sharply to the right, showing the ricochet trajectory of any bullets should I fire.
With my superhuman eyesight, accuracy, bodily control, and the surge chip, I had near perfect aim. 9 out of ten shots would go through the same hole if I was using the Liberty. This ballistic coprocessor implant should bridge this one point gap and make me Deadshot with any gun. 
"Perfect."