- 11 years before canon -
Night City never slept. Not really. It twitched, groaned, and spasmed through every hour, whether under burning neon skies or choking acid rain.
The city's pulse was erratic, thudding with gunshots one moment, club bass the next. But I had come to appreciate its rhythm, not for its artistry, but its pattern.
The package in my grip was unassuming: matte-black casing, reinforced alloy, a standard biometric clasp. To the average runner or merc, it was nothing special—just another briefcase lost in the shuffle between corps and fixers. But I wasn't average. I knew from the moment I scanned it—this held data. Encrypted, yes, but not beyond me.
I moved through the alleys between Japantown and Kabuki, my cloak trailing behind my exo-frame like a ghost tethered to its armour.
My face unmasked, hair slicked by drizzle, I passed unnoticed through the chaos. The exo-frame's micro-servos whispered with every step. I'd tuned it the night before to silence its heavier gait, not out of necessity, but out of principle.
A rusted service elevator clanked downward beside a noodle stand, its operator a headless synth-frame too fried to charge full fare.
I ignored it, pressing deeper into the back alleys until I reached the location Gina J had sent: a derelict maintenance shed built into the foundation of an old freeway overpass. Crumbling, tagged with graffiti, and exactly the kind of place someone like her would use for a dead-drop.
My eyes scanned for traps, my data pad signal for any interfaces.
No thermal signatures. No electromagnetic interference.
Still, I didn't approach blindly. I circled once—silently—mapped the entry points, predicted crossfire angles, and checked the rooftops. Only after I was satisfied did I approach the shed's door.
A retinal scanner blinked on. I held my gaze steady until the lock chirped. Inside, the air was dry filtered, artificially so. A simple desk. A datajack. A secure uplink to a server I couldn't trace.
I placed the package onto the table and activated the signal beacon embedded within. Within seconds, the line flickered green. Gina was watching.
I spoke aloud, my voice steady and controlled.
"It's done."
Her voice came through the speaker system—smoky, distant, and amused.
"So you're real. Old man Bubbles wasn't hallucinating."
"He may yet be." I didn't smile. "But his information proved accurate."
"You got the briefcase intact?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I turned the camera on the uplink toward the case.
"Encrypted," I said. "Unopened."
There was a pause. A few quiet keystrokes.
"Okay, pretty boy. I'll send a runner to verify."
"Unwise," I cut her off. "You'll receive it only after terms are met."
"You're already playing hardball. Cute. What do you want?"
"Not eddies. A connection." I stepped back from the case. "You have access to Ripperdocs. I require one."
"That can be arranged," she said after a pause, "Viktor. Kabuki. Old school, but trusted, he's yours. But I expect results after this. You've got talent. I'd like to keep feeding you gigs."
"We'll see," I said, turning toward the door.
"Hold up," she added before I could sever the link. "If you're serious about this game, pretty boy, you're gonna need a rep. And maybe a better alias."
I didn't answer. The door clicked shut behind me.
---
Outside, the rain had stopped.
Gina J had fulfilled her promise; an address was given, and favour was given. Walking towards the location, I took time to appreciate the city of nightmares.
I found the clinic nestled between a collapsed noodle stand and a rust-choked alley off Jig-Jig Street.
It wore the façade of obscurity well—flickering signage, barred windows, the faint scent of antiseptic bleeding into the scent of synth-smog and sweat.
But beneath the grime and detritus, the building thrummed with the energy of function. Purpose. Utility.
It scared those looking for trouble, but kept enough charm for those who knew what to look for.
I stepped through the door, and the silence welcomed me like an old acquaintance.
Inside, light panels buzzed faintly. The floor was scrubbed, but no amount of polish could hide the years of blood, oil, and burned skin that had soaked into the seams. Surgical tools were arranged on trays, each gleaming beneath lamplight.
A dermal station hummed beside a reclining chair—already occupied by a groaning man whose chrome fingers twitched sporadically.
Behind him stood a man of around his mid foties. He showed signs of intermediate aging, one eye behind a single optic, with the other free and closed. His skin seemed a tad dry like leather, with his build somewhat athletic.
Arms bare, gloved only where necessary, his fingers worked with deft familiarity as he adjusted a cranial port with precise pressure.
This, I knew, was Viktor.
He didn't look up.
"You're early," he muttered, voice gravel wrapped in gauze. "Sit, or don't. I've got thirty more seconds of brain surgery here."
I remained standing, arms folded, watching. He tweaked something at the base of the patient's neck—an implant socket.
The man winced, convulsed slightly. Viktor adjusted again, this time injecting a fine stream of nanogel, soothing the reaction. His hands moved like a pianist's, but his eyes were machines of war—calculating, vigilant, unimpressed.
"Done," he grunted, patting the patient on the shoulder. "You'll feel fuzzy for ten, maybe fifteen hours. If you see red in your peripheral vision, don't freak. That's just the regulator syncing."
The man staggered out, muttering thanks. Viktor finally turned to me. His eyes narrowed.
"You're the one Gina J sent?"
I inclined my head. "Victor."
He blinked. "You're not from around here."
"I never claimed to be."
"Hmph. And you want a consultation?"
"A position. Temporary apprenticeship, if you must name it."
Viktor laughed once, dry and sharp. "That's a new one. Most kids come in with a shard full of stolen blueprints and big dreams. You don't look like a dreamer."
"I'm not."
I moved to the empty chair, but did not sit. Instead, I looked at the table beside him—scalpels, bone drills, ocular inserts. Nothing primitive. Nothing miraculous. But useful. Practical. Carefully maintained.
"You've read anatomy?"
"I taught it," I said evenly.
"Yeah?" He raised a brow, crossing his arms. "Then tell me—what's the regenerative threshold for the average low-budget dermal weave in subdermal plating?"
I didn't hesitate. "Six hours, minimum, depending on platelet acceleration. Less if the subject maintains electrolyte balance. More if the interface is spliced rather than bonded."
Viktor blinked. "Huh. Not bad. Most chooms can't tell a stim pump from a kidney when I open them up."
"I studied under a different curriculum," I said. "Biomancy, high theory, soul resonance—disciplines your city's science dares not name."
"You're either full of shit," he muttered, turning to sanitize his gear, "or just weird enough to be interesting."
I let the silence stretch.
He spoke without looking back. "I'll cut you a deal. You work six hours a day for three months. No skipping, no 'got a gig' bullshit. You learn what I teach. You clean what I cut. You ask questions, but don't get in my way."
"Agreed," I replied immediately.
"You'll get paid. In cash. Paper stuff." He smirked, as if expecting a protest.
"Acceptable."
"You got a place to stay?"
"I'll acquire one."
He turned, appraising me with new suspicion. "You got a SIN?"
I said nothing.
He nodded. "Didn't think so. Gina said you were strange. Told me you didn't even exist on the grid. That's rare."
I allowed myself a faint smile. "Existence is a matter of perception."
"Sure, fortune cookie. You start tomorrow. Seven sharp. Don't be late, or I'll gut ya."
I left the clinic as the sun broke through Night City's pollution, its rays filtered through chemicals and neon, casting long shadows across broken pavement.
As I walked, I opened my data pad and all I saw was junk software, barely functional and began patching a request through stolen comms. A fake SIN. Not difficult to generate, but difficult to hide.
It was similar to opening a cart on the side of the road, the downsides being that anyone could view and see it from afar.
I could hold anything under the storefront front, but that meant I couldn't control who saw it and if they could take it for themselves.
Without a proper one, any item held in my "fake names" could be stolen. The Net was anything but simple.
For now.
I returned to the place I had first slept upon my arrival—if sleep was the correct word for what amounted to calculated unconsciousness.
The apartment nestled behind a noodle stand in Kabuki had once been unnoticed, a forgotten space where the broken neon buzzed louder than the landlord's concern. It now bore a new lock, reinforced with magnetic tape and biometric codes.
A gang tag had been spray-painted across the wall in bright yellow, some half-coherent insult in Chinese slang.
Typical. Even the rats couldn't hide for long in this city.
I was not surprised, merely inconvenienced. I could bypass the lock, but the scent of fresh habitation clung to the rusted threshold.
Someone else lived there now—probably a low-tier ripper or a chem cook with just enough firepower to hold it for a week. I wasn't going to squabble over scraps.
Not when I had greater aspirations.
The internship with Viktor would yield me an income, but not yet. He had offered payment in eddies, unregistered—likely to keep his books clean. It suited me. Still, even the most modest life in Night City demanded planning, and I had no intention of returning to the open alleys like some broken thing.
I began calculating.
A typical apartment in Watson's mid-tier zone ran 3,000 eddies a month. Add 25% tax on top, and the number swelled.
Food, even the processed sludge passed off as sustenance, averaged another 1,000 to 1,500 a month, depending on supply lines.
Commute wasn't a major concern; most walked, rode stolen AVs, or hitched on corpse-hauliers pretending to be taxis.
Insurance, if you were foolish enough to believe in it, costs anywhere from 1,500 to 10,000, depending on package tier. Platinum Trauma Team was a fantasy. A quick stop to the net showcased the absurd prices one needed to pay to receive even the most basic care.
I would need to earn at least 16,000 a month to live securely. My internship promised a fraction of that.
I needed a base, somewhere not on record, not taxable, and not prone to eviction via automatic gunfire. A workshop. While the Junkyard offered resources, I would be treated like a rat.
It was beneath me.
I wouldn't allow myself to rest amongst the rubble of an old world.
I checked my map. A run-down mechanic shop listed under a dead zoning code caught my eye. No rent. No owner listed in the registry. Likely abandoned. Or worse, claimed by squatters.
Perfect.
I went in the dark.
The structure had once been a ripperdoc's satellite clinic, perhaps even legal. The signage was shattered, but fragments of the words "RECLAIM," "AUG," and "VITA-MECH" remained across the soot-covered glass.
A flickering LED above the shattered entrance pulsed in red and blue—silent alarm systems that had long since died.
Inside, I found them. Scavengers.
Three of them. One was wired up to a half-operational surgery rig, slicing into some poor vagrant's corpse with a grin on his oil-slicked face.
Another held a power blade in one hand, flipping it idly while chewing on synth-gum. The third manned a datapad, likely coordinating black-market deliveries of whatever body parts they could scavenge.
I did not hesitate.
"Убей этого ублюдка и оторви ему голову! Сука-пизда!"
I moved through shadow and smoke. The first died with his neck pierced, the quick pull and slash leaving his body lifeless and convulsing.
Blood seemed to welcome itself upon my hands, the scene sinister to those untouched by this world's stain.
The second screamed as I crushed his blade arm and rammed the splintered hilt through his throat.
While most individuals in this city were enhanced and most likely a threat to the average man, Doom was not average.
No technique, no skill, and no brain.
If such people were tasked with fending against The Hand, they would suffer a million defeats.
Vital areas were left unattended, and their guard was left mostly unattended. Foolish, did they believe that y layering their clothes with sheets of plastic and cloth that they would survive?
No security cameras were set up, nor traps; this demonstrated a lack of foresight and planning.
A typical pattern I've come to analyse from this world's natives.
This city's reliance on perception wasn't a mistake; it was optimal for the average man to value it more than intelligence or strength.
Without perception, both intelligence and strength meant you would be used.
It wasn't the most "intelligent" people that ruled this world, it was those who had the cunningness to do it.
It required a triune amalgamation of strength, Intelligence and perception.
It was why the average citizen lacked proper manners; they were stripped of the façade made by those who controlled the world. They removed the curtain of civilisation and regressed to their most rudimentary ideals.
Fight, steal, conquer.
It was why being a "punk" or "edge runner" meant something.
It was why those who fought for their ideals were regarded as the highest degree.
To fight for something meant you were real.
In a world where identity and power could be bought, being someone meant something.
Doom suffered no such weakness.
Strength was limited because man only equated strength to stronger implants – a stronger arm canon, increased muscle grafting, thicker skin, etc.
Intellect was limited because man only equated it to crafting stronger implants, tools or weapons.
Perception meant survival in a jungle where being the lion meant something. It meant battles cost either your life or a pitiful reward. It rewarded the fortunate and reckless or the cautious and cunning.
But I was not a lion. I was a God.
My strength could move mountains and shape stars.
My Intellect could reshape dynasties and build universes.
My perception equated to truth.
The last scav tried to run. He didn't make it past the threshold. My pistol barked once. His spinal port erupted in sparks and smoke. He fell to the floor, limp but still alive.
"Please…Farkin', please! Spare me!" He heaved in broken English, tears dripping from his eyes.
I merely lifted the barrel of my weapon and fired.
Bang!
I now stood alone in the ruins, heart silent.
The smell of burnt circuitry mingled with blood. I tore down the rusted blackout curtains and let the weak neon spill in.
Tools. Tables. Power lines—some are still functional. Refrigeration units for harvested implants. Old net architecture in the basement.
It would suffice.
I dragged the bodies to the incineration pit out back. Not all scav hideouts had them, but this one had been professional enough. Or at least organised.
I claimed the workshop as my own. I sealed the door with a makeshift magnetic rig from a corpse's optic slot and began the labour of scrubbing blood from steel.
If I were to build my empire in this poisoned world, it would begin here—among wires, steel, and the hushed memories of those who thought they could profit off the flesh of others.
Their foolishness now feeds my future.
The next morning came, and I returned to Viktor's laboratory. I arrived not a minute early or late, simply on time.
"Hmm, right on the dot. Thought you were going to do some sick power play and be an hour late… Would've told you to shove it up your ass… Come, the patient came in early." He gestured over.
Viktor returned to his patient.
A woman in her mid-thirties, unconscious under mild sedation. Her neural threads glistened as Viktor worked a spinal anchor beneath the dermis.
I remained silent. Observing.
Most would mistake my interest for arrogance. But no. This was ritual. Every motion, every incision—it was language. A dialect of blade, blood, and voltage.
If this world had a Go, then it had a design etched into the bones of man. If God spoke the world into existence, then the blueprint was in understanding the materium.
"Spinal nerve junction's misaligned," Viktor muttered. "Need to correct or she'll seize when rebooted."
I leaned slightly closer. "You haven't accounted for the secondary delay loop. Her last port is introducing a latency spike through the thoracic link."
He paused.
Looked at me.
Then on the screen.
Then back.
"You... just eyeballed that?"
"I've performed vivisections under more volatile circumstances."
He chuckled, incredulous. "Okay, smartass. What do you know about Sandevistan regulators?"
"Primitive. Rely on synthetic adrenal emulation. Latverian models were far superior."
"Lat-what-now?"
"Irrelevant."
He laughed. "Alright, alright. You've got something in that skull. Most gonks can't even spell thoracic."
He didn't ask for more. But I knew I had earned a sliver of respect.
All according to plan.