The Architect of Anarchy: A Cyberpunk Crafting Quest

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Adventure 2: Never Fade Away Part 1: New
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    • Adventure 2: Never Fade Away Part 1:

    You sighed as Kenji watched you fasten the last piece of the armor into place. The servos hummed as they adjusted to your movement, the plates locking into position with a satisfying click. He scoffed, arms crossed, his expression a mix of exasperation and something else—concern, maybe.

    "The thing is stupid. Terribly tacky and dangerous," he muttered.

    "But it looks damn good on me," you shot back, flexing your fingers as the suit's response time synced with your movements.

    Kenji's eyes narrowed. "Without a helmet, it's practically useless." His voice was quieter now, less dismissive. "Why did you even make it?"

    You exhaled slowly, hesitating for just a moment. "It was for you."

    At those simple words, Kenji's jaw tightened. He understood immediately. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he shook his head. "Goddammit, Senji. I told you not to pour your guilt into your work. This shouldn't be why you make things."

    "But it's not just for you," you said, adjusting the fit of the gauntlet. "It's for me too."

    That earned a raised eyebrow. "Why?"

    "Look at the chest piece. Really look at it."

    Kenji's gaze dropped to the intricate etching that spanned the armor's breastplate. A painstakingly detailed map of Sengoku-era Japan, each region and warring faction meticulously marked in the metallic filigree. It was a history lesson carved into steel, a reminder of a time when warlords clashed for power, for ambition, for a future they believed in.

    He traced a finger over the design, eyes thoughtful. "Going back to the feudal past?"

    "No," you said, voice firm. "Going back to a time before corporations owned everything. Back when men fought for their own future, not one dictated by a monolithic, technocratic state."

    Kenji scoffed, shaking his head. "Sengoku wasn't some noble era, Senji. It was a bloodbath. Lords fought, but the people suffered. War didn't just take leaders—it crushed everyone underfoot."

    You knew that. You weren't some idealist painting history in romantic hues. Civil wars weren't grand stories of honor and justice—they were ugly, brutal, and left scars that lasted generations.

    But that was the point.

    "The people deserve better than what we have now," you said. "Not a system that grinds them into dust while pretending they have a choice. They deserve the power to challenge the government, to demand change. If democracy keeps failing them, if the corps keep tightening their grip—"

    Your fingers curled into a fist, the armor amplifying the motion.

    "—then they deserve the sword."

    Kenji exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You sound like a terrorist."

    You grinned. "Not a Terrorist, a revolutionary. Terrorism won't serve my purpose Kenji… but Revolution might. Always a business for arming revolutionaries."

    He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced away. "There's something else."

    You nodded, already knowing what he meant. Without a word, you turned, letting him get a full view of the backplate. The metal gleamed under the dim light, the intricately etched dragon spanning the entire expanse of your spine. It was nearly identical to the ink that covered Kenji's back—each scale, each curling tendril of the beast's serpentine body was a perfect match.

    But there was one difference.

    With the way the armor had been forged, the dragon's maw wasn't simply carved into the plating. The servos, the power conduits, the microfilaments running through the suit gave it something more. As the suit hummed to life, the glow from the internal hydraulics and energy regulators pulsed beneath the surface, and the dragon's mouth seemed to come alive. The faint red-orange light shimmered like smoldering embers in its throat, as if it were preparing to unleash a torrent of fire.

    For a moment, Kenji said nothing. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

    "That's…" He trailed off, running a hand over the etching. The heat of the active plating thrummed under his fingertips, the glow shifting slightly as the suit adjusted to your stance. "Shit. It actually looks like it's going to breathe fire."

    You smirked, flexing your shoulders so the light flickered just right, making the effect even more pronounced. "That was the idea."

    Kenji let out a short, dry laugh. "You really don't do anything halfway, do you?"

    You turned back to face him, crossing your arms. "When have I ever?"

    He shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips before it faded, his expression turning more serious. His eyes flickered from the dragon to your face.

    "This isn't just for show, is it?"

    You met his gaze, unwavering. "No. It's a message." You turned slightly, letting the pulsing glow from the dragon's mouth intensify, casting flickering shadows on the walls. "Like a dragon, I will not be tamed."

    Kenji studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, his gaze drifted back to the armor, to the careful etchings that mirrored the ink on his own skin. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to trace the lines again, but he stopped himself.

    "You do realize," he finally said, voice quieter now, "that dragons were hunted, right? Every legend ends with someone trying to slay the beast."

    You let out a low sigh, understanding where he was coming from. "And yet, no matter how many times they're slain, the idea of them never dies. People still fear them. People still respect them." You shifted your stance, the armor's servos humming softly in response. "That's the part that matters."

    Kenji exhaled sharply, something between amusement and frustration. "You always have to be dramatic, huh?"

    You smirked. "It's part of my charm."

    He let out another breath, then crossed his arms. "Fine. Be the dragon. But know that I can't help you if you do something stupid."

    "I know."

    ---------------------------------------------------------------------

    The weight of the suitcase in your hand felt heavier than it should have—like it knew what kind of trouble you were about to walk into. You weren't looking for a fight, not today. You were just hunting for materials, wandering through the night-lit streets of Night City, trying to find a place where you could scavenge the last few components for a helmet, something to complete your design. The armor could deploy in seconds, but your head? That was still exposed. That was a problem.

    But then you saw the scene that made you wish that everything was not going your way that night.

    It wasn't just any scuffle in the dark, not just some street-level beef between gangoons. You saw him—Johnny Silverhand, legend, icon, pain in the ass to corpos everywhere—surrounded by men who looked too clean, too precise for the usual back-alley killers, despite their shitty clothes and messy hair. Prototype weapons in hand, no his arms, humming with an energy that wasn't standard issue. Arasaka.

    You stopped moving, instincts screaming at you to not get involved. But your eyes locked onto something else—her. Alt Cunningham, you had seen her before at the concert running towards Johnny when you stole that Shard and he shot something in the cloud. Pale blonde hair caught the neon glow, struggling, her screams cutting through the night. You saw the desperation in her eyes, the panic. And then—

    The blade sank into Johnny's back.

    It was quick, almost clinical. The goons surrounded him, exchanged words you couldn't quite hear over the city noise, and then shhk—a clean stab, a short-circuit of his body as prototype tech pulsed with a sickly red glow and electrocuted him. Johnny staggered forward, his body betraying him, and you saw him fall to his knees, grasping for a gun, for anything, but his body wasn't responding fast enough.

    Your breath hitched. You were knee-deep in shit now.

    The Arasaka van screeched open, and you saw them drag Alt inside, her voice raw as she screamed his name. "Johnny!"

    You clenched your jaw. You needed to—

    A hand clamped over your mouth.

    You stiffened, instincts kicking in, but before you could react, you felt the whisper of breath against your ear.

    "Don't make a sound, kid."

    The voice was calm, smooth—too calm for what was happening in front of you. Your eyes flicked to the side, catching the dim reflection of a man's face in a nearby window. Tall, thin, a face carved by experience, half-hidden beneath media camera, with a press pass on his coat, barely covered in rain. Lyle Thompson. Media.

    What the fuck was a media doing here?

    He slowly loosened his grip but kept you pressed into the shadows. You could feel the tension radiating off him, but his voice was steady, controlled. You saw that underneath his coat was something you didn't expect. An FN FAL, with extended magazines and duel magazines. He was ready for war.

    "You're carrying something heavy, and I don't mean the suitcase," he murmured, eyes flicking to your hands. "You even think about putting on that armor right now, and you'll be dead before you finish."

    Your fists clenched around the handle. He wasn't wrong. If you dropped the suitcase and suited up, those Arasaka goons would see the shift, hear the hum of the servos locking into place, and cut you down before you could finish standing.

    Instead, you focused on the scene unfolding in front of you. Johnny was crumpled, fighting against his own failing body, reaching weakly toward the retreating van as it pulled away. The goons didn't even spare him a second glance. They'd done their job. The legend was bleeding out in the street.

    "You planning on making a move?" Lyle asked, eyes sharp, scanning the streets like a predator watching for threats.

    Your heart pounded. You could let this slide. You could turn and walk away, let the corpos take her. You weren't a hero. You weren't a legend. You were just a guy trying to make sure his armor was finished.

    But—

    Alt's screams still echoed in your ears.

    Johnny's body hitting the pavement still burned in your eyes.

    And your grip on the suitcase tightened.

    "I'm thinking about it," you murmured.

    Lyle exhaled sharply. "Shit. That's what I was afraid of. You're stepping into some deep shit kid."

    ----------------------------------------------

    The ripperdoc's clinic smelled of antiseptic and burned flesh, the air thick with the low hum of machines keeping a half-dead legend alive. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching as the doc worked, hands slick with blood as he cut into Johnny's midsection. Every precise movement peeled away ruined tissue, stitching him back together, replacing his mangled liver with a fresh one like it was just another day at the office. Silverhand groaned through clenched teeth, half-conscious but too stubborn to go under completely.

    Across the room, Lyle Thompson was watching you. Not just watching—studying. His sharp journalist's eyes flicked over you like he was assembling a puzzle, one piece at a time. And then, with that shit-eating grin of his, he said, "Senji Masamune. Student of the Arasaka Academy… associate of Kenji—what's his name—and a small-time merc with some very interesting contracts under his belt. More than you should, for someone playing at being a freelancer."

    He leaned in slightly, voice dripping with amused suspicion. "So tell me, what the hell are you doing out on the streets? Trying to take out Silverhand to win some favors from dear old mom and dad? Maybe hoping they'll finally say they love you?"

    You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head. "You seriously think I'd be out here to off Silverhand? Man, do you really believe every corpo brat who grew up in Arasaka wants to be part of it?"

    His grin didn't waver. "If you hate it so much, why are you still in their system?"

    You shrugged, shifting your weight. "Because I like using my daddy's credit card to buy expensive shit, rip it apart, and build better shit instead." You gestured vaguely toward the suitcase at your feet—the one holding your custom armor, a walking middle finger to the corporate machine. "Besides, just 'cause I was born in a cage doesn't mean I have to be another one of their pets."

    Thompson's smirk faded just a little, his gaze lingering on you a second longer. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, kid. You might not be a corpo stooge. But that just means you're either the dumbest smart person I've met or the smartest dumbass."

    You smirked right back. "I'll take that as a compliment."

    You paused, narrowing your eyes. "How do you know my name?"

    Thompson leaned back slightly, tilting his head as if amused by the question. "Alt Cunningham mentioned you in my interviews with her."

    That caught you off guard. Your mouth opened slightly, but no words came.

    "She said she owed a techie—some kid who saved her life, and a friend's too during a job where Arasaka almost nabbed her," Thompson continued, watching your reaction carefully. "Said you were interesting. Someone who might actually be good enough to change things. Or at the very least, buy her some time to do what she needed to do."

    Your stomach twisted at that. Alt Cunningham wasn't the kind of person to hand out empty praise. She was a legend in the making—one of the best netrunners alive. And she thought you were someone worth remembering?

    You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep cool. "She really said that?"

    Thompson shrugged, lighting up a cigarette. "More or less. Point is, she thought you were worth keeping an eye on because she wanted to make an offer. And considering the kind of people she surrounded herself with? That says something."

    You glanced toward the clinic's dimly lit hallway, the sound of Silverhand groaning in pain reminding you of the mess you were standing in. Alt was out there, somewhere, getting hauled off by Arasaka goons, and you were stuck here, talking about how she once thought you might be worth a damn.

    "Anything specific?" you asked, crossing your arms.

    Thompson smirked around his cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Yeah. She said you knew how to make John Moses Browning look like a pussy with the weapons you make."

    You froze. Then, slowly, your fingers curled into fists.

    "The fuck did you just say?"

    Thompson raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the sudden shift in your demeanor. "Hit a nerve, did I?"

    "Damn right you did." Your voice was low, almost a growl. "You don't disrespect the name of John Moses Browning. Man practically invented modern firearms. Half the shit still in use today? His designs. That's like saying Michelangelo couldn't sculpt worth a damn."

    Thompson chuckled, holding up a hand in mock surrender. "Relax, kid. Alt didn't mean it as an insult. If anything, she was hyping you up. Said you had a way of looking at weaponry that could push things beyond what even Browning could've imagined. You were a visionary."

    You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to unclench your fists. The compliment still sat weirdly in your chest, a mix of pride and irritation battling it out.

    --------------------------------------------------

    A few hours passed, and you found yourself slumped against the wall, arms crossed, watching the steady rise and fall of Johnny Silverhand's chest. The ripper doc had done good work—stitched him up, swapped out his shredded liver for a fresh one, pumped him full of enough meds to keep him sedated through the worst of it. But now, the sedation was wearing off.

    You glanced at Thompson, who was nursing the last embers of his cigarette, flipping through some notes on his datapad. He hadn't said much after your last exchange, but his eyes kept flicking toward Johnny like he was waiting for a bomb to go off.

    Then, a groan.

    Johnny stirred, his head lolling to the side before his eyes cracked open. He blinked blearily at the ceiling before his hand shot down to his midsection, feeling at the bandages. His face contorted as the pain hit him full force.

    "Shit..." His voice was rough, raw. He coughed, sucked in a breath, then turned his head to take in the room. His gaze landed on Thompson first, then on you. The moment his eyes locked onto you, they narrowed.

    "Where the hell is Alt?" His voice carried a dangerous edge, barely constrained rage simmering just beneath the surface.

    Thompson pushed off the counter, exhaling through his nose. "They took her."

    Johnny stiffened. "Who?"

    "Who the fuck do you think?" Thompson shot back. "Arasaka."

    The name sent a ripple of barely contained fury through Johnny's body. His grip tightened on the edge of the table, metal creaking under his fingers, the silver hand living up to the name. His breathing became measured, controlled, like he was reeling himself in just enough to keep from going berserk.

    Then his attention snapped back to you, and all that rage refocused itself like a laser.

    "And who the fuck is this?"

    You barely had time to open your mouth before Thompson answered for you. "Senji Masamune. Techie. Student at Arasaka Academy. Not exactly a suit, but adjacent."

    Johnny's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. His entire body tensed like he was ready to leap out of bed and rip your throat out, fresh surgery be damned.

    "So what, you're a corpo assassin?" His voice was razor-sharp, laced with venom. "Here to finish the job?"

    You sighed, already exhausted with this line of thinking. Slowly, deliberately, you reached into your jacket and pulled out Johnny's pistol, the Malorian, holding it in your palm for Johnny to see. Then, in a fluid motion, you flipped it around, offering him the grip.

    "If I was here to kill you," you said, voice flat, "you'd already be dead,and I would be taking this piece of crap and making it better."

    Johnny didn't take the gun immedeatly. Instead, he just stared at you for a moment before snorting, and shaking his head. Some of the tension in his shoulders loosened, but not much before he took it, and began to drink the bottle of scotch that Thompson had opened.

    "Fair enough." He looked over at Thompson. "So what the hell's going on? They after me for torching their ops? Blowing up their facilities? Pissing on their front door?"

    Thompson hesitated, then shook his head. "No, Johnny. It's not you they're after."

    Johnny frowned. "Then what—"

    "It's Alt." Thompson's voice was quieter this time, grimmer. "They don't give a shit about your little guerrilla war. They want her. For Soulkiller."

    You saw the exact moment that word hit him.

    Johnny went still. The rage in his eyes dimmed, just for a second, replaced with something far colder. His hands clenched at his sides, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was low.

    "What the fuck is Soulkiller?"

    Thompson ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose before leaning back against the counter. He looked tired—like he'd been waiting for this conversation, dreading it.

    "Soulkiller," he said, voice tight. "It's some black-bag project out of Arasaka's deep labs. Alt didn't give me everything, but from what she did tell me... it's not just some program. It's something worse. A construct."

    Johnny's brows furrowed. "What the hell does that mean?"

    "It means," Thompson continued, tapping his datapad against his palm, "it doesn't just copy you—it is you. Or at least, something close enough that nobody would know the difference."

    That sent a chill down your spine.

    "Wait," you interjected, shifting forward in your seat. Something about that phrasing, about the implications, didn't sit right. "You're saying it... what? Copies a person's engram? Their entire mind?"

    "Yeah," Thompson said, grimacing. "Every thought, memory, personality quirk—everything that makes you you gets digitized, turned into data. But here's the catch—" He leaned in slightly. "The original? Gone. Fried. Brain burns out like a fucking overclocked processor, killed instantly when it's used."

    That settled like lead in your stomach.

    "That's not how doll chips work," you muttered, more to yourself than to them.

    Thompson glanced at you, brow raised. "What?"

    "Doll chips," you repeated, shifting your focus back to him. "They map behavioral engrams, create overlays—hell, even rewrite responses in real-time. But the original person is still there, still conscious, even if they're buried under the program."

    Thompson shook his head. "Nah, kid. This is different. Doll chips? They just hijack your brain for a little while. Soulkiller? It replaces you. There's no coming back from it. Arasaka doesn't just want to control people, they want to own them. Forever."

    You went quiet, your mind racing through possibilities. The tech required to pull something like that off… The implications. The consequences.

    "And Alt?" you asked finally.

    Thompson's jaw tightened. "She figured out how to make it work. She was building a countermeasure. And now Arasaka has her."

    Johnny didn't say anything. He just sat there, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists, the tendons in his arms standing out like steel cables.

    Then, slowly, he exhaled, forcing his shoulders to relax. His eyes burned with something cold, something lethal.

    "Then we're getting her back."

    Thompson's hand rested on Johnny's shoulder, steady and firm, but his eyes flicked to you. "No offense, Johnny, but you look like you just went ten rounds with the reaper. You're gonna survive this, but you need rest if—"

    Johnny cut him off, his voice low but burning with something dangerous, something raw. "They took Alt. They fucking took her." He leaned forward, his body taut with rage, his fists clenched tight enough to make the knuckles whiten. "You corpo—"

    But before he could finish, you stepped in. A grin pulled at your lips, and despite the heavy weight in your chest, the dark storm swirling inside your gut, you couldn't help but enjoy the irony of the situation. "Something tells me I'm getting press-ganged into fighting Arasaka... Where do I sign up?"

    Johnny's eyes snapped to you, still clouded with fury, but there was a flicker of something else. Surprise. Something unexpected.

    You didn't quite understand it either—not why the words came out the way they did, or why they felt strangely right. It wasn't like you had any love for the corpo machine, for the prison your family had made you a part of. You hated it. The lies. The games. The strings they pulled on your life, making you a puppet in a world of chaos. But now… now it was personal. You had to take this fight somewhere, anywhere. You had to tear through it all, to bring down something that had controlled you for too long.

    You swallowed hard, but your voice was steady. "I don't know why, Johnny. I don't know why I'm doing this. But it's like…" You trailed off, looking down at the gleam of your own hands, the armor still tucked away inside its case, ready for whatever came next. "I've been living under Arasaka's thumb, under my father's thumb, my mothers thumb, for my entire life. I can't just keep sitting here waiting for someone else to fix it. I need to do this myself. So sign me the fuck up."

    Thompson watched you closely, his expression shifting, reading something in your tone, your words. Maybe he understood. Maybe it was the same thing burning inside him too. But Johnny just nodded, a slow and deliberate gesture.

    "Then we fight." Johnny's voice had hardened. "Come on, I'm driving."

    --------------------------------------------------------------

    The 911 proshe was… cramped with all the stuff you had and Thompson's stuff.

    But hey, it was good enough you suppose.

    And you arrived at the greatest Merc Club in all of Night city… The Atlantis.

    Do you go with Johnny or stay with Thompson:

    []Go with Johnny: He dosen't trust you, but something told you that things were about to get mighty interesting.

    []Stay with Thompson: He seemed to have his shit together… and that… you had questions for him.
     
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    • [X]Go with Johnny: He dosen't trust you, but something told you that things were about to get mighty interesting.

    This gives me an idea for an engraving on an Iconic for Johnny. From one Artist to Another.
     
    [X]Go with Johnny: He dosen't trust you, but something told you that things were about to get mighty interesting.

    Johnny needs a Babysitter to keep him from doing something dumb, he's still high on pain medicine.
     
    [X]Go with Johnny: He dosen't trust you, but something told you that things were about to get mighty interesting.

    i do wonder if Johnny or any other major NC player will start asking for commissions
    tho i do hope we get to vote on a helmet while we make the weapon next up date or do we need to make creation to vote for the helmet?
     
    Last edited:
    [X]Go with Johnny: He dosen't trust you, but something told you that things were about to get mighty interesting.

    The game is afoot time to join the board.
     
    [X]Go with Johnny: He dosen't trust you, but something told you that things were about to get mighty interesting.
     
    Get a helmet get a helmet for the love of god Senji get a helmet!
    And if you can't alter your voice, don't say anything out loud while in the suit!
    This Quest could end prematurely if Senji's identity as Ghost becomes public. He HAS to keep it hidden.
    Dammit, I'm anxious now. Not for this upcoming operation, but what happens after.

    The symbols on the suit, along with the suit itself, in a very loud and very public attack on Arasaka Corporation…those symbols may cause Arasaka Corp to start looking within Japan. Maybe at people who - unlike Saburo who always claimed to be a nationalist but in my opinion only ever cared about his own power - are genuine Japanese ultranationalists.

    Senji in my opinion needs to keep everyone off his tail. Create false leads and false clues. Construct fake identities online and send people on wild goose chases.
    There may be idiots who'd try to claim the identity of Ghost. Senji might be able to use that.
     
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