Chapter 1: A Rude Awakening
The night sky was an unnatural, pitch black. Assaulted from below by the glow of uncountable Neon and LED, the gentle twinkling of distant stars was drowned out, the grand bulk of Night City demanding the attention of her inhabitants far more important than the great easel of nighttime beauty mankind had ogled for countless generations.
That loss, ephemeral as it was, registered to few, if any of the men and women who called the City of Dreams home, the theft of that natural beauty by the unfeeling Corps and progress in general unimportant in the face of money, entertainment, or personal issues.
Even far from the city center, tucked away in the Dam Slums beneath the uncaring gaze of the towering concrete edifice that gave the region its name, one couldn't quite escape the touch of the corporate overlords of Night City, as those distant lights filtered through the ratty blinds of a rundown building, providing dim illumination to the interior of what could loosely be called an apartment.
The sorry excuse for an apartment in question was what one would expect of the arguably biggest slum in NC: Two rooms, with one of them a tiny closet masquerading as a bathroom without even the common decency of a door. The main room had a dearth of furniture, just a slim cot, a low-sitting coffee table, and a desk tucked into the corner by the foot of the bed next to a rolling chair. The only remotely valuable thing in the whole living space, if it could even be called that, was a battered computer atop the desk.
Of course, there was no shortage of less than worthless things all too happy to fill the space, trash piled high and mighty in the one free corner of the room. One could just barely see a hint of a trash bin, peeking through the monument to grease and mold erected in the thrilling medium of food wrappers and takeout boxes. Dust and grime coated the floor, the bedding on the cot was stained yellow, and the only surfaces that didn't seem to have a faint sheen of grime on them were the tops of the desk and coffee table.
That was not to say that the table was clear. It was festively adorned with a half-finished bowl of ramen, now cold, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, and a pair of sparkling red canisters. One was still full, the other empty and on its side, with a smattering of its contents spread across the table and everything on it. Brown-red dust, like ground-up rust, shimmered faintly in the dim light of the room.
This mess was the responsibility of the (former) inhabitant of this little slice of humanity. A pale, bony young man lay sprawled half-off his cot, a half-empty canister clenched in pale, cold fingers. Half his face was covered in grimy bandages and his single visible eye was wide and unseeing, the lights in the optic having gone dark. His dirty gray hair was crazed, and two thick streams of blood coated his lower face and mouth, having poured from his nose and dried there.
The young man, one
Caiman Dumas, wannabee Netrunner and current debug-monkey, was most certainly dead; overdosing on 'special' Glitter after celebrating some
excellent news.
The sounds of the slums filtered into the apartment, dulled by the walls. No one knew or cared that this young man, like so many others, had foolishly ended his own life with a few bad decisions made in the heat of high emotion.
So it would have remained until someone stumbled onto Caiman's corpse for one reason or another. However, just as the body of the young man had begun to cool, the attention of
something fell over that tiny room. It observed closely for a few moments and found it to be good enough.
The world
twisted. On the desk, Caiman's computer was flaring brightly with orange light, and in the same moment, a small note appeared on a clear space on the table.
Caiman's stark-white skin gained a bit more color, his still heart began to beat and a tiny nub formed within the depths of his grey matter. Moments later with a heaving, desperate gasp, the young man sat up, eye wide and darting around the room.
But the mind behind that eye was no longer Caiman Dumas.
It had taken all of two minutes to scan the whole of the room, and half of that had been getting his legs to stop doing a jello impression and fucking cooperate. Thankfully, while his stomach was gnawing on itself, it hadn't gotten to the point where he was shaking and sweating. As such, he was standing in the bathroom looking himself over instead of playing a dangerous game with that bowl of drug-sprinkled ramen.
Something about the pattern of the lights threaded through the edge of the grimy mirror was twinging at his mind, vaguely familiar, but he had bigger concerns after he washed the blood off. Namely, what the fuck was under those bandages. There was no pain, but he couldn't feel his right eye, even though there was definitely something in the socket.
Hands shaking slightly, he felt around the back of his head until he found where the bandage was tucked in on itself, and began unwrapping. The material stuck together, pulling against itself and then against his skin in a manner that left him feeling greasy and sticky as he peeled it off.
Soon enough, the last of the wrap came away, and beneath was… just a normal face. No scars, burns or any other visible damage. The only blemish on his otherwise normal face was the black ball that filled his eyesocket instead of… well, an eye. A cautious poke (after washing his hands, which still had some red powder caked on them) at the glossy sphere made him think it was glass, though he couldn't be sure.
"At least I don't have an empty socket with a flopped-in eyelid." He muttered, his voice about as smooth as sandpaper. Gargling some water fixed the screaming from his throat before it could properly begin, at least. "Or an infection."
Although, granted, he'd have noticed that. Lots of swelling and fever involved. Good thing he had no open wounds, either, he didn't fancy his chances of avoiding a visit from Papa Nurgle in this pigsty if he left the door open like that.
Speaking of. He had spotted some passably clean clothes hung on a few cheap hooks by the bathroom's outside wall, so time to degrease himself because god. This idiot clearly let the bandages stew there, it was a party of skin gunk in there. Beyond that, his hair clung to his scalp and itself, matted by what felt like days of dried sweat, and he could feel his cheap shoes pull slightly as they stuck to the floor for a brief moment every time he took a step.
The clothes were promptly peeled off his body with thankfully less resistance than the bandages but far from none, and dumped into the sink. Predictably, he had neither hot water nor cleaning products other than gel soap, but hopefully letting them soak in soapy water while he showered would let him dislodge some of the filth before he hung them to dry.
A cold shower wasn't his idea of a good time, but at least it was simply tepid rather than freezing. It took a while, but slowly he started to relax, letting himself gently lower from that magic state of 'I woke up somewhere unfamiliar with no idea how I got here' shock as he examined his situation.
Last he knew, it was January 2nd of 2024 and he'd stayed up late watching trailers of a game while he let it download and install. He had put it on his wishlist after hearing about the anime and how apparently, after like five years, the actual game was playable now. Cue Grandpa Gabe deciding he had a spot on Santa's list and the damn thing popping up in his inbox.
Scrabbling a bit deeper there found him memories of watching one of the last trailers in the compilation, for the DLC instead of the main game, then– Nothing. Like he'd been put under, his consciousness had winked out without warning and next thing he knew he was coming to with a gasp on a new body.
At least the remaining eye worked like a dream, crystal clear and zero strain, even if the huge blindspot would take some getting used to. Weird that it was purple, but not the wilde–
Bzzt.
His thoughts were interrupted by an electronic ringing sound, one that seemed to be coming from… inside his own head? The ringing was followed almost immediately by a little purple text-box popping up along the right side of his vision.
Call from Personal Computer.
Accept?
Did he have cyberne… tics…?
Oh.
Well, that was one shot of dawning realization and horror to push DEEP down his skull because he had a decision to make and had to make it quick. It was coming from his PC and he doubted all calls needed to be routed through it, so– well, no matter what, he needed more data. Worst came to worst, he just hung up.
Only one issue.
"Yes?" He had no earthly clue how to operate this thing, so he could only pray that someone had idiot-proofed the neuralware to respond just fine to the user's vocal commands.
Thankfully, it seemed they had, as the textbox expanded to fill about a quarter of his view. It quickly shifted to a video feed, showing a
woman who looked about his age with lightly tanned skin and wild blonde hair with orange highlights done up in a messy ponytail. Loose bangs dangled in front of her face, and her brilliant orange eyes stared intently at him, her expression intense.
*Professor? Persicaria? Antonia? Is that you? Who's there?* She almost shouted. *I'm…I don't know what happened, but I think I'm out of Magrasea?!* She sounded incredulous, her brows furrowing after a moment of silence. *I… I don't recognize this icon, I…where am I?*
"My cybernetics," Man, oh man, he would be so giddy at being able to say that truthfully, but circumstances being what they were… no, focus. He had to sound calm, the poor girl was on the edge of a panic attack. "It says that you are calling me from the PC. Whether you're in there or just routing the call through it, I couldn't sa– wait, did you say Persica?"
Good fuckking jobbo, brain.
The woman's expression shifted to confusion for a few moments, before a look of comprehension dawned. *Miss Persica? You know…oh! You must work with 42Lab!* She sounded excited now, making her light accent more pronounced. It sounded… Scandinavian, maybe? Despite sounding like she was speaking directly into his right ear, it was faint enough he still couldn't be sure *Are you a researcher? Did you all figure out how to reconnect with Magrasea from the outside? Is that how you pulled me out into this server?* She wrinkled her nose a bit, looking around at things he could not see. *It's a little cramped– there's barely enough room for my Neural Cloud in here.*
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. Right, honesty time. "Sorry, but I'm just as lost as you are. Whatever pulled you into that desktop had me popping up on the bed of this apartment after I blacked out of nowhere. I know, in general terms, of
16Lab, but not 42. I assume this Magrasea you were stuck in was something like the Inverted Forest writ large?"
Well, okay, not
full honesty because he just wasn't going to get into the matter of 'you're from a world I thought was a fictional setting'. She was distressed enough as-is and even his dogshit social skills let him know it would, maybe, just maybe, be a poor idea to get into deep existential ponders with her right now.
Or ever. God knew he could go without them, given his situation wasn't much better from hers.
The Doll (given the mention of a Neural Cloud and, y'know, no reek of William's
tastes), now looked even
more confused, her eyes scrunching up and a small frown appearing on her face. *What? No, I… Magrasea is a superserver, other companies would rent space inside it from 42Lab to run experiments, or just store data. It… I was part of a project to put Doll Neural Clouds into the server to… I… actually I can't remember what the reason was, for us to be in there?* Her voice was quieter now, and she was looking down, off to the side, thinking intently. *I remember I wanted to join because in the server I'd have infinite tries to learn how to be a better fighter so I could protect people better, but I don't think they ever told me exactly what we were
supposed to be doing…*
"Fuckin' typical." He groaned as he belatedly finished up his shower, a tiny corner of his brain noting his hair was actually white instead of gray. He quickly dashed out and in, snagging a new set of clothes to put on. He hadn't checked if the computer had a webcam and while the Doll's comments pointed to her not having access to it if it even existed… he'd rather not chance flashing her with his pasty ass. "Can't even completely fault them for it, either, given IOP's track record with the cybersecurity of even T-Dolls."
*I guess… maybe they told Persicaria or Antonia? The Professor came in with us, so
he at least must have known what the reason was…* The Doll shook her head, focusing back on whatever she could see from her end that represented him.
*Anyways… the Server got severed from the real world while the Professor was gone, and our section was destroyed. We were scattered for a few years, but after the Professor managed to get back to us, he set up a safe haven for everyone, and we'd been trying to figure out a way to reconnect with the real world for the last few months.* She looked around again. *I thought…maybe someone on the outside had managed to figure the problem out, but if you don't know how
you got to wherever we are…*
She shook her head and tried to smile. It would have looked nicer if it weren't so forced. *Ah, I haven't even managed to introduce myself. I'm Sol, an EG 4.0 Scientific Expedition Guide Doll.* She raised a hand into frame and waved at him. *You're…Caiman, right? Caiman Dumas? That's what it says on the connection here…now that I'm…looking at it…* She said, her voice trailing off with obvious embarrassment towards the end of the statement.
…What the fuck sort of parent named their poor kid
Caiman? How much had this bastard gotten bullied as a child? Assuming he hadn't just legally changed it in a fit of chuuni pique and– no, focus.
"It's…
complicated." He hedged as he finished buckling his pants and stepped out in… pretty much the exact same outfit as before, except with a black hoodie and 'only' smudged rather than downright caked in filth. "I can try to explain if you're curious, but I have a feeling you've had enough shocks to the system and we don't even know where we are yet."
*...alright…* Sol said slowly. *Ah, so…what do we do now then? I…could take a look around in this computer? It's not exactly my specialty but I might be able to find something.*
"Just call me Dumas for now, it works well enough." He sighed, waving off the whole thing only to belatedly remember that she didn't have any video feed of him. Although she definitely heard his awkward cough, "Anyways, yeah, I'll look around the apartment to see if there's any clues. My first once over was more about 'is anything about to eat my face?' then I had to go clean my face of dried blood."
'Dumas' got to work on doing just that, starting with the topmost drawer on the desk and finding… a glock variant with a few spare mags atop a bunch of wires. He made a mental note of 'probably somewhere in America' and reached in to grap the thing alongside the holster it was resting on. Thankfully, the body still had some muscle memory, so it wasn't any trouble popping out the mag to check it was loaded before hooking the whole thing to his belt.
After he put the safety on, which the idiot hadn't thought of.
The second drawer had assorted electronic bits and bobs that he didn't know the first thing about, even if something in the back of his brain was tickling him. Probably some leftovers from Caiman.
Dumas nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the third and saw a mess of wires and plastic that
screamed IED. It was only 'nearly' because something in his skull chimed up that it was a 'reusable' flashbang for one, and not primed for another.
After that, the small collection of advanced-looking tools in the fourth drawer was pedestrian by comparison.
He started moving towards the table by the bed when Sol chimed in again, their call still going despite the automatic minimization of her window, either from her wandering deeper into the computer or his cyberware being smart about it. *Okay, there doesn't seem to be a lot on this computer; there are a few folders which have what… seem to be coding projects? None of the labeling for them makes sense to me. There's a messaging program, mostly full of short message chains about the owner doing debugging on different programs. Two contacts are different though. There's one to a man named Horace MacGyver, it's very short, seems that whoever owns the computer wanted to buy a bathtub?*
Dumas barely heard the 'weird' she muttered before continuing. *The other is… a woman named Chiyo Omoto, he calls her a Ripper? That doesn't seem good.* A few more moments of silence. *They're talking about…I'm not sure what it is exactly, he wants to buy something called a Cyberdeck and she's offering to cut down on the price, which is in… Eddies? What? Um… in exchange for one of his optics? Does that mean anything to you?" The Doll came back into the frame of the call, looking
very lost. "The only other thing on here is a web browser I don't recognize. The only searches saved in the cache seem related to those last two conversations. What have you found?*
"Ripperdoc is a fancy name for cybernetic surgeons, I think." Dumas supplied, quietly thankful to know at least that much. "Not one hundred percent sure what a Netdeck is, but I can only assume some sort of mind-machine interface for browsing the net. Why that'd be worth becoming a cyclops, no idea."
He shook his head, making the rest of his way to the table. Maybe with a bit of luck– he hadn't even finished the thought before he spotted a piece of paper on the table. A piece of paper that was very distinctly
on top of the drug dust. "It looks like whoever dumped us here left a note, lemme see what it says."
Picking up the folded slip of paper, it took Dumas a moment to adjust to the cursive handwriting, but once he did, he began to read the note aloud for the sake of his fellow abductee.
"Hello, my friend.
I'm sure you're rather confused about your current circumstances.
I will do my best to explain, but the rules that bind me limit what I can say in that regard.
You are now in Night City, California. I know that name is at least loosely familiar to you.
]The body you find yourself in was of a nobody, who would have died unknown and been mourned by few. I placed you in his shoes due to a lack of options– if I could have provided a better start, I would have, but the Budget provided by my Employer was very limited, and was mostly spent elsewhere.
The world you find yourself in is dangerous. To help you survive, I have provided you with a boon and a companion, both from a world much more familiar to you than this.
The boon is an 'aptitude' of sorts (I cannot say more) for that world's technology, although only that which has been built by humanity, save for some of the more unsightly work of Paradeus.
]The Companion is a Doll, one whose fate saddened me greatly, and who I believe deserved better than she received. Treat her kindly, if you would.
I have no grand task for you to accomplish. I do not ask you to do something as impossible as saving the world you find yourself in. I only ask that you live well, and perhaps make your small corner of that world a little better along the way.
Best Wishes, An Agent of Those Who Live Between"
He had no idea how he had managed to read the whole thing without choking on his spit. Shock, maybe?
"...I'm just– I'm just going to send you a photo so you know I'm not making shit up." Dumas muttered quietly, wrestling with the HUD that just so happened to light back up once he was done reading. A surprisingly spartan one, considering everything he'd learned so far about 'Caiman Dumas', even if it made up for it by being vivid violet on dark purple. The only new elements of the HUD were the time and weather (7:21 AM and Cloudy) in the upper-left corner of his vision, and a stylized A opposite the call-window.
Upon activation, the A appeared to lead to some kind of in-built cellphone, which he was able to navigate through with only a little struggle to snap an image of the note and send it through to Sol.
The Doll had been quiet through his fumbling, her expression morphing from disbelief and shock to an unusual flatness that didn't seem to fit her. Her eyes twitched to the side after he sent the picture of the note, and he could follow them as she read it herself.
After a long silence, she looked back at him.
*I don't understand?* She said, voice quiet.
"Do you know those novels that go on about what-if timelines, a historical figure going back in time or even someone ending up in a different world altogether?" Dumas hedged gingerly, hoping to god that the Soviet thirst for Stalin isekai remained in the GFL world.
Sol's face scrunched in thought. *...not really? I think I remember Croque talking about one of her mecha-shows that did something about the main character having to fight dragons? I wasn't really paying attention.*
Not ideal, but at least he'd gotten her thinking of her friends which… both did and didn't help, given the situation. "Well, we're basically living one right now. It is 2077 or thereabouts and we are in a world without Relics, much less Collapse Radiation, Zones and ELID."
Sol blinked. *Really? No… was there no World War Three in this world then?*
"Yep. Just megacorporations fighting each other, from what little I know. America may've ended up a bit of a wasteland still, but nowhere near as bad as having one of the world's biggest Black Zones in its heart." At least the implication was that outside Night City and well beyond it, everything was desertified to fuck. He could be wrong, though.
Sol nodded slowly. *Alright, so we're in America. Let me just…* She looked off to the side, then cocked her head to one side after a few moments. *Huh… that's a lot of desert, and those look like nuclear dead-zones or chemical dumps, but it doesn't look that bad. And we're… here, by the ocean. The note said you know this 'Night City' place?* She asked, looking back at him.
"In broad strokes, at least. Full of crime and corruption at every level, the most poverty and violence of any city in the West Coast, and– well, I won't sugarcoat it. People treat each other like humans did Dolls in your timeline. Chopshops included." Dumas explained with a sigh; better to just rip out the bandage, "I know the names and MO of each major gang here and one of them is wholly dedicated to abducting people and tearing out their cybernetics to re-sell. Scavs, they're called. Then there's the Maelstrom who will do the opposite and kidnap monks who forswear the use of cybernetics to jam them full of the stuff for kicks."
Sol frowned. *That sounds really dangerous then. And I won't be able to do anything to help, as long as I'm inside this computer. Do they have Dolls here?*
"They at least have some stuff that looks like military Dolls." He knew that one from concept art. Police bots. "There's also a big thing about using cybernetics for fashion, so I wouldn't be surprised if there were A- and T-Doll equivalents around. Shouldn't raise any eyebrows to have you walking around in a proper chassis."
The moment he started pondering on the matter of chassis, images flashed through Dumas' mind. Schematics and lists of materials and ranges of tolerance and programing and–
It was gone as suddenly as it'd come, but some ideas lingered, tiny threads at the edge of his awareness he could pull. Designs for a trio of drones: The Sangvis Ferri Scout, Prowler, and Dinergate. As well as, more distantly and vaguely, an outline of a mechanical human crowned with Sol's gold and orange hair. That thread felt like it was covered in oil as much as the image was foggy, slippery and hard to grasp. He could maybe do it if he was willing to stubborn it out, but… honestly, what was the point when he didn't even have enough materials to build a Dinergate's lasgun?
…Wait, no, if he got a heat source he could take the materials from the flashbang and his glass eye and– No, focus. What else could he sense from his 'boon'?
There were more shapes lurking around the spots of light in this odd mindscape, other technologies and designs, even more muddied than the Doll chassis. If that one was seen through a frosted glass, these were nothing but shadowy forms in the dark, although the rough silhouettes told him they were all sorts of robotics. They were all blatantly beyond his reach at the moment, not even an oily thread for him to pull on.
*Dumas? You still there? You've been quiet for a few minutes.* Sol's voice snapped him out of… whatever that was.
"Sorry, that 'boon' kicked in. Good news, I can make you a chassis. Bad news, I won't be able to pull it off for a while yet. I do have a 9mm and the muscle memory for it, though, and should be able to put together a few Sangvis drones without too much hassle once I get some materials." Dumas explained, walking back over to the desk and opening the second drawer. Yeah, there were some tools buried in there and enough electronic parts to put together a good chunk of a Dinergate. He was obviously missing most of the metal for the chassis and needed something other than his glass eye to make the lasgun lens, but that should be easy enough scrap to acquire.
Sol smiled. *Well, that's a start at least!* There was a pinging sound from her end of the call which caused the Doll to jump with a yelp, spinning around to look at something in her digital environment.
*Ah,* She said, looking back, a bit sheepish. *It's that doctor, she's asking where you are? I, uh… didn't read the whole thing, apparently, you've got an appointment to 'chip in' the Cyberdeck your… donor? Traded his eye for. And it was about fifteen minutes ago.*
"Who the fuck opens up shop before eight?" Dumas muttered under his breath, before shaking his head and hurrying to– look like an idiot because keys, wallet and everything else was built into his goddamn head. It showed up in the trailers and more importantly, they were there when he'd been flailing around with his skull-phone, "Right, if nothing else that deck should let me get in there with you and get some training in."
Besides, he was still hungry and hopefully he could grab something on the way back. As well as that bathtub. He vaguely remembered ice baths being involved in net diving, at least there was a scene of it when showcasing the Voodoo Boys.
*That sounds great!* Sol chirped. *Stay safe out there, then!*
*Well, this is certainly a district of all time.* Dumas grouched into his Agent, as he'd found it was called, hurrying past the nth mountain of trash and batting aside some adventurous flies.
This section of the city was, officially, known as Rancho Coronado. Unofficially, at least for the section where Caiman had found an apartment that'd take him (
fuck, did he have to pay rent now?), it was the aptly named Dam Slums.
The buildings that sat in the shadow of the Dam were, for the most part, ugly concrete and cinderblock boxes. Most were unfinished multi-story affairs, sometimes linked together by a shared wall or a walkway or staircase between upper floors. Most first floors were completed, and maybe two-thirds of the second floors, but it was a rare building that had a finished third story, and even rarer were those with a functioning skeleton for the fourth. His own little 'apartment complex' was one of the better-put together places in this whole shitheap, being a relatively clean and fully completed three-story affair.
The remnants of all that unfinished construction littered the area. Rusting sheet metal leaning against buildings, stacks of pallets abandoned in alleys alongside piles of cinderblocks, and heaps of rebar lay alongside the cracked roads, which in sections resembled gravel more than asphalt.
The concrete of the sidewalks and buildings was oddly stained, doppled faintly, and rougher than concrete should be. The air was always filled by the smells of garbage, smoke, and/or burning garbage-it would fade at times, but it never fully
left.
At least there was a silver lining amongst this mess of a neighborhood: Plenty of trash he could scavenge for materials like the goblin he was.
His first port of call would be the gutted husk of a car that sat next to the box containing his apartment; someone had used it for practice with a plasma blade or the like, so there were a LOT of metal chunks in man-portable sizes he could put to work. Never mind the glass shards that should work well enough for lenses if he could get them to heat up just right, although carrying them without slicing his hands to ribbons would be a trial. He'd probably dump them in the bathtub he'd be dragging home on the way back.
Sol's agreeable hum answered his internalized mutter. The Doll was now able to see out through his eyes as he trudged his way toward the nearest 'NCART' station, which was unfortunately a decent distance away. The lines only ran to the edge of 'Rancho Coronado Proper,' the station located in the basement of one of the wannabe arcologies locals called Megabuildings.
Well, more like sub-level, the damn thing may not be a Hive City but it was far from small. There were 12 of the damn things throughout the city, too.
*I've certainly seen nicer places– but I've seen worse!* Sol's cheery voice continued as Dumas turned a corner onto a new street, following the line of the Map-App he'd found inside his Agent.
There weren't many people out and about in the streets-no cars driving around either. He'd seen some people lingering in alleys or lounging on the unfinished roofs of buildings, and there'd been maybe a dozen other pedestrians he'd passed who had all ignored him. Overall this section of Night City was pretty quiet, at least for now.
*So, Dumas. What did you do before you ended up here?*
*I was a hobbyist writer, mostly. I was working on a degree in English Studies after finding out the hard way biotech wasn't for me, but I had to drop out due to health issues.* Dumas supplied, by now thoroughly familiar with how to mentally operate the call thanks to a very bored Doll. *Was thinking of getting into HEMA or archery once I had my long-term medication sorted out at long fucking last, but that didn't exactly pan out.*
Sol visibly perked up at that, noticeable even with how much he'd minimized her video window. *Really? Well, I can help you with that if you want? Not right now, obviously, but I know a lot about fighting, especially European combat styles. I use a sword so that's what I'm best with but I can probably help you learn other weapons. What were you originally planning to learn?*
*Well, I did about three years as a sabreur until I got fed up with the teachers who never actually taught anything, so I was thinking of trying out an arming sword and going from there. I know at the very least I'm a hyperaggressive little shit, so a one-hander that swings fast and can shrug off getting smashed into guards is the way to go.* He replied as he crossed the invisible border between the slums and Rancho Coronado proper, the urban decay practically vanishing between eyeblinks as he came out into a far wider street. Sure, some of the houses could use a bit of paint and plaster, but the streets were clean and there wasn't a single broken window or abandoned building in sight. *I do like how more rapier style swords can fuckin' dance at a twitch of the wrist, but it being so easy to bat aside is a bit iffy, so maybe something like a mace? I hear they're deceptively fast.*
Sol made a cute thinking sound, raising one hand to cup her chin. *Maces aren't as unwieldy as media tends to make them seem, but they're pretty useless for defending. If you want to actually fight with one, you'd need to get a shield to go along with it, or really, really good armor.* She held up her free hand, her head shifting back and forth a little. *On the other hand, rapiers might be easier to dislodge, but their speed means it's equally easy to get them back into line, and also easier to keep the blade out of the way of someone trying to knock it out of line.*
*True, and depending on what sort of sword tech's floating around, the venerable railroad spike with a fingerguard may be one scary bastard.* Dumas mused, relaxing into the conversation a little as he spotted no less than three duos of men and women in branded body armor patrolling along the (admittedly lengthy) street. Should be safe enough around here to not be a suspicious noise away from grabbing his gun. *Give it a quick search to see what sort of weapons are on the market? I know there's thermal swords around, at the very least.*
Sol nodded seriously before looking off to the side, eyes flickering around as she began researching. Dumas continued to walk in silence for a few minutes, the looming bulk of the Megabuilding growing ever closer until Sol piped up again.
*Right, seems like the melee technology weapons they have here are about the same as what we had back home. I'm seeing thermal blades, like you said, as well as arc-blades, monomolecular blades, injector or coating blades, high-frequency blades, and all sorts of combinations of all of those features. It should be pretty easy for you to recreate Árvakr and Alsviðr once you can build me a body again…* Sol trailed off, a small frown on her face for a moment. *I hope everyone is okay.* She said after a moment, almost idly.
*Same. Hopefully Mr. Agent and his Employer arranged things on our end. God knows my Mother would freak out if she found my apartment empty, nevermind my Grandma.* Dumas sighed into the call. At the end of the day, that was all they could do. Hope these people really had their best interest at heart, when all they really had on their hands was an impromptu abduction, some super powers and a letter that could be entirely tripe aside from the facts they could independently confirm. *Ugh, change of topic time before we end up in the dumps. So, it looks like a rapier would be mostly useful as a delivery mechanism for whatever gimmick, especially given how here people can probably get titanium skulls and backup organs. Sure, not everyone is that cyberized, but Maelstrom and the Animals would on average be able to ignore such a thin hole punched into them, if the damn thing can penetrate in the first place. At the same time, it seems like blunt weapons are being left a bit on the wayside. Thoughts on axes?*
Sol pursed her lips, taking a step back and making a so-so gesture with her hand. *They can certainly work, Instructor Python
definitely proves that, but I don't think they'd fit with you from what you've told me. Besides that, axes call for a lot of tricky and technical skill to get the most out of them, and that's… not
really my specialty.* She said a bit sheepishly.
*Right, the wonders of edge alignment. Don't have to worry about that with a mace, that's for sure.* Dumas commented, offering an idle nod to a patrolling duo as he passed them by. He, to little surprise, didn't recognize the corporation branding their orange armor, although the big
Kang Tao emblazoned on their chestplates at least told him what it was called. Impeccable aesthetic, that was for sure.
The duo, to no surprise either, ignored him entirely after a cursory glance.
*Yeah, there's a little bit of skill in ensuring you get the best impact out of a mace or morning star, but not nearly as much as an axe or warhammer.* Sol agreed.
Dumas was within the shadow of the Megabuilding now. The map-app directed him down a crowded alley, where a set of stairs descended into the sublevels connected to the massive construct.
There were considerably more people streaming in and out of the stairwell, many not looking outwardly different from anyone he'd see back home, at least at a glance. But at a closer look, you'd see the glowing yellow eyes indicative of an Agent call (given that he'd noticed his doing the same when he'd passed a window), or the lines of metal set into the face and neck, or the glowing hair, or hands made of bare, gleaming metals, or the steel legs poking out of a pair of shorts.
Not one sparing a pasty cyclops like himself more than a glance, of course. Just how he liked it, honestly. Good to see the unspoken rules of public transport remain true fifty-plus years in the future and a step to the side.
The station itself looked similar enough to the subways he'd used in the past, a fair bit cleaner and less muggy though. Probably thanks to future tech trickling all the way down.
The process seemed a bit more streamlined, too. The incoming tide of people funneled through several floor-to-ceiling turnsdials, and once Dumas passed through a small pop-up appeared in the center of his vision, informing him we was now 'riding the NCART' and tolls would be accruing.
A quick search on his Agent told him it was 25 cents per station, so not really a concern, doubly so when he was getting off in just a few stops. Even if he missed his pink pensionist card of free public transport.
The flow of bodies eventually led Dumas onto a blocky subway train, the inside of which looked nearly identical to the ones he was used to using, save for the screen-based add space up near the ceiling. Packed as the train was, he was forced to stand.
*Alright, I took a look online, doesn't really seem to be a market for mass-made bludgeoning weapons like there is for swords. Especially
katanas,* Sol sounded annoyed as she mentioned the weeb-blades, the train pulling away from the station as she spoke, *But a basic mace should be manageable from a custom-design company I found. Only about three-hundred dollars!*
*Ouch. Maybe later, when I'm less of a twig and I can afford something fancier besides.* He replied. If it was going to be custom made, better get a good one, ideally one that discharged a bunch of fire or lightning on impact. Actually. *Hey, can you check the prices for batons? An electrified one would help a lot with self-defense early on.*
The Doll blinked, glancing away as the train slid silently through the tunnel. After a few moments, she looked back sheepishly. *Those are about half the price of a mace, between 150 and 225 dollars.* She rubbed the back of her head. *That'd probably be a better place to start, yeah? Considering how low on funds we are.*
*Yup. I'm
hoping that this deck will be a good way of making money. If nothing else, my boon should help in servicing machines and even stuff like cybernetic limbs, so being a back alley mechanic is an option… assuming I can find customers, anyways.* Dumas sighed, quietly checking his digital wallet again.
Just over a thousand Eurodollars, same as last time he looked, with half of that already earmarked for his new Deck.
Sol sighed, making a face halfway between a pout and a frown. *This is a lot more complicated than guiding expeditions. I've never had to worry about funding or anything before.*
The train pulled into a station, people shifting on and off with the quiet mutter of moving humanity, then the doors closed with a cheery
Ding! and the journey continued.
*You can say that again. The extent of my financial responsibility back home was rationing my allowance to make sure I could buy enough groceries. I owned my apartment and utilities were paid by my parents.* Dumas groaned, running a hand through his hair. At least he didn't seem to have a chip socket that he could see, so no way for small time netrunners to load a shard with money and have it launch out. *Actually, can you check around the computer a bit more to see if there's any info on what sort of rent and utilities I'm supposed to pay and when?*
*Sure! Be right back!* Sol chirped, before vanishing from the window.
She was not, in fact, 'right back'. By the time Sol returned to frame, hair a little disheveled and breathing faintly labored, Dumas was exiting the train at the Charter Hill station.
*Sorry, I had to go digging into the trash to find it.* Sol said, triumphantly holding up a piece of paper in frame. *But, I was able to track down a message from your…our? Our landlord, reminding Caiman about his rent being due for last month.* Seeing Dumas' eye widen and his heart get ready to hit the ejection button, she hurriedly added, *Don't worry, don't worry! There was another one that said he was all caught up on that, also in the trash! A-anyways, rent looks like…twelve hundred Eddies a month, and last month's utilities were…327 Eddies between water and electricity.*
*
Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow* He chanted, face screwed up like he'd taken a bite out of a lemon, skin and all. *Right, I will
really need to get some money going in the next 29 days, I don't fancy trying the homeless life.*
Nevermind what would happen to Sol. Unless he could fit her into the cyberdeck… best not to dwell on it. How he would get money by netrunning (he thought that was the term), he had no idea, but he was already committed to this course so hop–
Once again, the boon from his abductor seemed eager to chime in, pushing more ideas to the forefront of his mind as he stepped out onto the street, feet carrying Dumas along while his greater focus rested on the ideas swimming in his mind.
They were code, but
not. It was like having double-vision. One 'eye' could see long, complicated strings of code. The other, mechanical constructs of white, gray, and gold, yet not the precise machine blueprints of the Sangvis drones, but more like… avatars? He didn't recognize them, not like the other designs, but his 'power' supplied a name in place of recognition: Lesser Sanctifiers.
There were five of them:
Refractor,
Raider,
Purger,
Protector, and
Defender. Each one was a different 'class', and each was followed by the faint outlines of other designs, one or two each, with yet more stretching off into the shrouded distance. Running perpendicular to the five… antivirus programs?... Was a thread connected to a slightly clearer double-vision of code for what he
thought was a learning program overlaid with a digital representation of a blank-faced, aggressively generic man and woman.
His first instinct about this new thread was that they were Neural Cloud seeds, meant to be grown in the Inverted Forest, but peering as close as he could get… No, these were pure infomorphs, with zero systems for hooking into a Doll chassis. It became really obvious when, with a bit of effort, he overlaid them with the A-Doll blueprint's software components. He couldn't exactly look at the nitty gritty details, but generalities like this? His boon had no problem sharing that.
'Civilian' VIs to the much more specialized 'military' of the Sanctifiers, perhaps? He flicked the murky data clouds away and brought the quintet of anti-viruses back up, a little corner of his brain marveling at how intuitive this whole thing was. Of course, he was promptly jarred out of it as Sol spoke up, the visions fading away as he returned his full focus to reality.
*I'm sure we'll figure something out Dumas.* She said reassuringly with a wide, confident smile. *We've still got those coding projects Caiman was working on, and the message contacts with the people who hired him for the work. We could try finishing those first? I'm not the best with that kind of stuff, but I'll do my best to help!*
*I can only assume that it kept him afloat well enough, even when he was presumably spending a good chunk on drugs given the mess I saw on the table, so…* He sighed, tension leaving his shoulders as he realized, *We'll be okay. It may be tedious work, but we can get it done and we aren't ever going to run out of people who need debug work.*
Sol nodded emphatically, before deflating a little. *Too bad Antonia isn't here… she'd be able to get that kind of stuff done in no time at all.* She groused.
*At least boon's saying that I can make some blank AIs in a while and a bit? So you'll have some company in there other than my pasty ass.* Dumas offered after a moment's thought. He was curious about this Antonia and talking about her may help Sol, but… nah, things were too raw right now. Better to steer things in another direction.
Sol looked confused for a moment before letting out a small 'oh' of comprehension. *Ah, Agents, that makes sense.* She looked around. *I don't know how useful that would be, it's pretty cramped in here. I doubt you'd be able to get anything much better than one of those Helios Helper Bots to fit with me.*
A short jingle drew Dumas' attention fully back to his surroundings (rather than just enough to not crash into people nor get… right, he had nothing to pickpocket. Still!), which happened to be the underside of an overpass. He could feel the faint vibration of the air and ground as dozens of vehicles passed overhead. Across the street was his destination: a nondescript door with a neon sign above it that read 'medical assistance.'
*Right, I'm here. Going to hang up while I'm there, just in case.* He sent as he crossed the road.
Sol nodded. *Okay. Good Luck!* She waved as the window closed, leaving Dumas to step through the door.
Dr. Chiyo Omoto wasn't in the greatest mood this morning.
First, she had to get up unreasonably early to prepare for a surgery that some jumped-up street rat had all but demanded as early an appointment time as she was willing to let him push, and then the little shit had the temerity to miss his fucking appointment.
She'd only allowed him to push his appointment this early because the punk had (unknowingly) done her a massive service when he'd let her convince him to trade one of his optics for a bottom-of-the-barrel cyberdeck.
The situation that caused that bargaining to even be necessary was a headache in and of itself.
One of her oldest clients, a man who was tied tightly to both Arasaka and the Tiger Claws, had been in an accident that had destroyed one of his optics. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem for someone of that client's wealth, a new optic was nothing to a man like that.
However, the Old Man was nothing if not stubborn; his pigheadedness about doing things exactly the way he wanted was the reason such a powerful man was still making use of her services despite being able to afford close to the best that Corporate Medicine would be able to afford him.
He had been satisfied with the work she did for him back before he reached the heights he now rested at, and the man loathed to change that which he was comfortable with.
So was the same with his Optics-Starlyne NightOwls, a model discontinued over fifteen years ago, made by a tiny 'artisanal' cyberware start-up here in Night City that had died almost as fast as it briefly entered the public eye, its designers poached by larger corps and leaving Starlyne to wither and die.
Regardless of Starlyne's fate, the Old Man had purchased a pair of their most popular optics, and taken a liking to them; he refused to change to another model if he could help it, and so had offered Chiyo an exorbitant amount of money if she could find him a replacement NightOwl before his children or coworkers forced him to replace his optics.
After nothing but disappointment from every ripper and supplier in her contacts, lo and behold. A week after she had gotten the Old Man's message, some greasy little slime with delusions of grandeur came crawling into her shop for the second time, this time asking about Cyberdecks as opposed to just loitering looking at her catalogue. And he had a pair of NightOwls staring out of his pale, gaunt face.
Caiman Dumas obviously had no idea how much his eyes were worth to her; otherwise, he would have asked for a better deck. But she liked to consider herself fair, taking 80% of the cost off of the Paraline and offering a 50% discount on any replacement optics when he had the eddies for them was a steal for a man as badly off as Dumas obviously was– it wasn't exactly hard to spot a Glitter addict.
And the kid wasting her time had certainly killed any tiny twinges of guilt she may have had about the stack of eddies she had made at the man's expense.
Chiyo was drawn from her annoyed thoughts by the sound of someone entering the shop.
And speak of the devil. She thought sourly, moving back to the front of her clinic, thinking of the message she'd received five minutes after she'd messaged her patient about missing the appointment he set.
'Sorry, got some malware in my agent, had to purge everything and forgot about the appointment' certainly sounded better than 'I got high off my ass and didn't come out of it until you messaged me,' but it wasn't exactly believable.
Stepping into the reception area, the ripperdoc paused, confusion welling up in her.
"Terribly sorry about missing the appointment, Dr Omoto." Said the young man standing in her lobby, pure white hair still frizzing out slightly. His expression was sheepish, his face pockmarked with acne scars but clean, one hand rubbing the back of his neck to complete the effect of a genuinely embarrassed but well-meaning and sincere young adult making an apology.
Who the fuck was this?
He had the appearance of Caiman Dumas. Same face, build, and hair. His clothes were the same too, though they looked cleaner. The whole person looked cleaner than the last two times she'd had the misfortune of seeing him.
His cocky, arrogant demeanour was gone, same with that slimy grasping aura so many young people had nowadays. He was focusing on her, but she could see his eyes flicking around the lobby quickly, taking it in like he hadn't seen it before. And the little twitches and spasms in both his face and hands indicative of glitter withdrawal were missing too. They'd been worse the last time she'd seen him, only three days ago. Even if they'd meant he was trying to kick the poison, this was far too fast to have moved beyond those symptoms.
For a moment, her paranoia flared, and the hand 'Dumas' couldn't see twitched towards the Quasar holstered behind her back. Was this some kind of trick? An assassination attempt? Robbery? Something more haphazard? Dumas didn't have the Chrome normally associated with a 'cyberpsycho' but she knew well enough that that didn't really matter.
"You're lucky that I don't have any other appointments today, Dumas." She said after a long pause, making sure to fill her voice with her annoyance. "Especially since you were the one to insist on the appointment time and then were foolish enough to miss it."
He winced, but she could tell by his good eye that he hadn't known that. She dealt with career criminals and veteran dolls (the ones smart enough to not go to that hack in Jig-Jig) day in, day out. Never mind how she knew every muscle and nerve in the human body like the back of her hand. The man was good but not that good. "Yeah, not exactly covering myself in glory there. I can debug something for cheap to make up for it? Then again, not exactly giving you reasons to trust my work, am I?"
"No, you aren't." Chiyo said bluntly, but relaxing minutely all the same. Whatever was going on with 'Caiman Dumas', it wasn't particularly her problem. She had an agreement to uphold, and as long as the man didn't do anything stupid she would ignore his oddities the same way she would for any other client. "I do not need your 'services' Dumas. I'm knocking ten percent off my offered discount on new optics as tax for wasting my time. Now come, let's get this over with so that I can get some actual work done." She waved for him to follow before turning and walking back towards the operating theater next to her weapon wall.
"Fair enough, I suppose. Not going to gainsay someone about to root around in my brain." 'Dumas' sighed as he obliged.
At least the boy had some common sense. That was depressingly hard to come by in Night City.
