The next ten days passed in a blur, just the honest grind of fixing things most folks didn't think was worth saving. No bigshots like on the first day. I'd earned my corner and decided to make it livable enough for the time being.
The back room Sprocket offered was damp and smelled of old wires and wet concrete, but it had four standing walls. I could deal with that. She wasn't lying, someone had clearly used the space before. The dirty mattress sagged as if shaped by a body that hadn't moved in years. I flipped it over, no sign of bed bugs or other biological threats, just a stale smell. Beneath it lay a crack pipe and two empty energy-bar wrappers.
I scavenged a busted vent fan, rewired it just enough to cycle fresh air and keep mildew from colonizing. I reinforced the front door, changed the lock. Whatever rust was holding the old one together wasn't exactly keeping squatters out. A few of my things remained under a crate in the corner: supplies, tools, and my knife, always within reach when I slept. Just in case.
On the wall near the mattress, someone had scratched a single word in neat letters:
"Wires."
Not a gang tag, too precise. More like someone marking their territory. I figured that guy wasn't coming back unless he wanted his crack pipe. I didn't ask Sprocket about him; I won't risk my job just to satisfy curiosity.
Something weird was happening to me, though, and I had zero idea why. Physically, I didn't feel tired, even after a full day of work. Sprocket sweated like a busted radiator and cranked the AC into overdrive at midday. Me? I can't sleep longer than four hours. After that, I wake up refreshed, be that middle of the night or not.
She let me use some of her tools and miscellaneous junk to tinker in my spare time. Even allowed me onto her computer, only after I wiped every trace of her data, of course. She goes home every night, so she must have another machine stashed somewhere. And her jobs pay handsomely. Who the hell rebuilds an entire engine in under seven hours? Her hands do magic, no question there.
Instead of wasting money, I saved up for a 3D printer. I tried making a gun once back in my old world, which I found out is hard to do.
Tech's advanced in this world, and those printers don't come cheap. Corporations lock the market: only exact-brand filament works, or it sends out a squad of assassins for that I know. It's like buying ink cartridges from regular old printers.
But once I get that printer, I can churn out weapons or general merchandise, undercut the dealers, make real money. Keep the niche low enough that nobody cares, at least until I've built a small empire. Then I'll start on my next project.
I think about my previous life more than I admit. My mom, my brother, my girlfriend, my friends, sometimes I catch myself picturing their reactions to my death. It makes me sick. I know I can't meet them again; I'm not just on a long trip. But I can't accept it. I refuse to give up. If necessary, I'll build a fucking Stargate. I need to get higher, get a full view of this place, find a way back. If there isn't one, that means I'm still too low. Slow and steady.
I'd be happy if that were the only issue. But I'm getting dirty all the time. Not just a smudge on the hand; I'm grimy from head to toe. My skin flakes, my nails need constant clipping, and my hair's grown noticeably long. None of that makes sense.
Funds are tight, so any medical checkup I delay screws my plan and forces me to register with the NCPD database. Turns out my face doesn't even exist in public records. I went through hell just to upload a picture: had Sprocket snap a photo, send it to the shop computer through her private link. She looked bewildered but oddly supportive.
I needed tests to figure out why I'm sped up. Changed food and water twice, like I was some dying dog. Finally, I decided to go to Vik for a checkup and then to Misty's Esoterica for a reading. Establish connections. Get answers about why my toenails grow like bamboo shoots.
After work, I took the bus to Jig Jig Street using an ancient prepaid card Sprocket pulled out of her stash and handed me. Stepping off, the street was a riot of neon signs, vendors shouting deals on knockoff cyberware, and a tangle of red and green holo-ads. Smelled like fried street meat and oil. I decided to make a beeline for Misty's, to avoid as much interaction with the crowd as possible.
The bell above the door jingled as I pushed in. Misty's Esoterica looked exactly how I'd expect: half-lit shelves crammed with jars of odd powders, tarot decks lining every shelf, incense smoke twisting toward the ceiling, and a pair of neon runes glowing faintly on the wall behind the counter.
Misty herself sat at a small table in the back, her head bobbing as she skimmed something on her holopad.
She glanced up, expression neutral but welcoming. "Ah, it's you."
"We met?" I asked.
She tilted her head. "I thought I felt you coming."
I frowned. "Right."
She set the holopad aside. "What do you need? All kinds of spiritual services here."
I stiffened, not sure how to feel. But I needed this, even if it was bullshit witchcraft. "I want a tarot reading."
She nodded, standing to fetch her deck. It was sizable, each card edged in filigreed gold with tiny neon sigils woven through the designs. When she set them on the counter, the images glowed faintly under the shop's dim lights. I wondered if the neon pigment on each card was meant to catch energy of the universe or something of that sort.
"How many cards?" she asked, shuffling slowly. The cards whispered together in a rhythmic, almost mechanical way.
"What options do I have?"
She smiled like she knew I'd been thinking. "Most common is a three-card spread: your past, present, and future. All stays between us. Not exactly accurate, more like pointers."
I nodded, already familiar with the concept.
She went on. "Then there's a five-card reading, a step-by-step story about a topic you choose: work, obstacles, love. We avoid general spiritual journeys. Or we can do an advanced past-present-future spread, adding known and unknown factors. Of course we can improvise. Tell me what concerns you?"
She didn't even ask if I wanted the simpler version. Just offered the upsell, probably knowing I'd pick it.
I thought: I can guess the basic three cards myself. Death for the past, that being bleeding out not too long ago. The Fool for the present, new beginnings I've put myself into. Then one random card, that I can only hope is not another copy of Death. Known would be something about my knowledge of the story to come; unknown, some card like The World, meaning I dont actually understand how to live here. Don't need those. I want details of my future: now, soon, later, and beyond.
"The five-card spread," I said. "I need details of my near future, then after that, and so on."
She frowned. "That's a complex layout. I need more connection to the energies for that."
Misty closed her eyes. Ominous. A low, haunting song started on hidden speakers. Then she lit up the incense along the counter. I prayed she wouldn't charge extra for that.
She half closed her eyes, fingers poised over the deck.
"Let's begin," she said, and flipped the first card.
First Card: The Magician, Reversed.
Misty's voice dropped. "This one's tricky. You'll be handed something, an opportunity. Could be tech, a role, anything on the surface that looks promising to you. Exactly what you need. But it won't be real. The tools aren't yours. You'll walk into something built to manipulate you. Be careful what you reach for, no upgrade is guaranteed progress."
I clenched my teeth. I'll focus on minimizing the damage or just avoid opportunities entirely.
She flipped the second card.
Second Card: The Lovers.
"You'll have to choose between loyalty and safety," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Someone's gonna enter your life soon. Not necessarily a romance, but something strong, trust, connection, maybe even a sense of purpose. But it comes with baggage. Could be theirs. Could be yours. You won't walk away clean."
Given that my days revolve around Sprocket's shop, I figured it'd be a client or a visitor.
She laid down the third.
Third Card: The Tower, Reversed.
"Here it is," she whispered. "The point where everything falls apart." She let the card lie on the counter like an open wound. "But it's not punishment, it's revelation. Every mask, every illusion in your life will burn. You'll have to decide who you are when there's nothing left standing. I'm sorry, but I can't say when it will happen."
Fate readings piss me off now, officially. Destined for failure at some point. I'll have to minimize it somehow if it's inevitable.
"From here, predictions become highly inaccurate, but it seems like the universe is graceful today."
She turned the fourth.
Fourth Card: The Hermit, Reversed.
"After the fall," she murmured, "you'll retreat, maybe forced to. You'll shut people out, maybe from fear, shame, or just to catch your breath. The danger isn't solitude, it's that you might stop seeking truth. You might lie to yourself just to stay sane."
I exhaled. If my plans collapse, retreat is the smart move, I know I'll do so regardless if needed. I need to know my strengths and weaknesses.
She flipped the final card.
Fifth Card: The Star.
Misty gazed at it for a long moment. "This one's rare, especially after a reading like this." She allowed a slight smile. "When the stars guide you, they don't always lead to comfort. Sometimes what you find is truth, and truth doesn't care if you're ready."
That felt comforting to some degree, but it was the farthest future, so it's too late to celebrate.
I stared at the spread: Magician reversed, Lovers, Tower reversed, Hermit reversed, Star. It felt like a prophecy and curse wrapped into one.
"You're not doomed," Misty said gently, "but you'll walk close to it. More than once."
Great. I'll be fine for a while, then everything falls apart, I retreat, then truth, whatever that means. Fuck that. I'm in a fictional world with a borrowed body for all that I know; normal logic is meaningless here. I won't let those cards control me.
"Thank you," I said. "Very enlightening. How much?"
"Take a moment," she replied. "You're clearly angry." She was right, she hadn't done anything wrong.
"Sorry. How much?"
She named a number I already suspected as it was plastered on the sign next to the entrance. "One hundred."
I laid the cash with a bleeding heart on the counter and added, "By the way, can I see Vik? Someone named V told me to come to his clinic. Around here?"
Misty nodded toward a door behind a beaded curtain. "Right through there, down to the basement."
…
Viktor Vektor's clinic was exactly what you'd see in the game, a basement sanctum, cold, sterile, and humming with old-world medical tech, even older than that portrayed. The door opened automatically after a short knock, and a blast of recycled air smelling of metal polish and antiseptic met me.
Half-lit cabinets displayed surgical trays and glowing interface nodes running diagnostics on tech that looked half-dead. A single operating chair dominated the center of the room with patched imitation leather. Functional. Intimidating. But a guy running this place should be fine enough.
Behind a glowing monitor, Viktor Vektor looked up. He was a middle-aged man, but his was built, boxing trophies all stood on the shelfs above him as watched some match.
He turned it off.
"Don't recognize you. What's your business?" he asked, voice gruff but not unfriendly.
"Name's Caelen. V said you're the guy to see."
That got a response. His jaw tightened, not hostile just yet.
"V is still being a nice person, I see."
"Would not say that, still seems like an asshole and a jerk when we first talked."
He gave a single nod and gestured toward the chair. "Alright, that checks out. Sit. If V's vouching, I'll look."
I eased into the chair. It adjusted with a pneumatic hiss, supporting my back. Vik wheeled over a cart loaded with scanners, a tactile pulse reader, and an interface needle. He worked fast, methodical.
"Why're you here? Chrome trouble?"
"No chrome," I said. "I haven't had anything installed for personal reasons.."
He paused, glancing at me. "Walking around meat-only in Night City? Bold. I thought my scanner must've glitched."
"Not a choice," I muttered. "I've been… off since ten days ago, maybe longer. I can't sleep over four hours, and I wake up like I just came out of a spa. Never get winded. But I eat like I'm fueling three people. Nails grow faster than I can clip them, skin flakes, and my hair's so long I'll need a haircut soon. Something's wrong."
Vik expression fell into deep thought as he grabbed some instruments and moved around.
"Sit still. Non-invasive. Won't hurt."
He attached a neural sensor to the back of my neck and watched the screen. Vitals, chemistry, muscle feedback, baseline neural activity all appeared in sharp lines on three floating panels. I waited for him to interpret.
"…Damn."
Not a great start.
"That bad?" I asked.
"Not bad exactly," he scrolled through molecular data, "but not normal. Your blood profile's unique, but cells look accelerated. Not unstable, but running fast, like your metabolism hardwired to treat every process as urgent."
"Meaning?"
"Your body's in constant overdrive. Heart rate's way above average. Oxygen levels are unstable for someone sitting in a chair. Breathe. Muscular density's high, but you're not producing stress proteins for normal function. You're never exhausted as you said?. I don't know if you can be."
I tried to absorb that. But my head felt lightheaded.
"I've seen cyberware do this. Combat drugs, experimental neuro implants. But you? No surgery scars, no datajack, no implants. This is biological. I'm sorry."
"Give it to me straight."
He played with the interface needle, peering at my readout. A real-time graph showed my metabolic rate pinned near a peak most athletes hit briefly. Mine held there, steady.
"Looks like someone cooked you with adaptive hypermetabolic conditioning. Genetically embedded, like your body was made to perform under permanent high-intensity stress… and it never stops."
I blinked. "So I'm a lab rat?"
"You tell me. Or just a side effect of something weirder."
He pointed at a part of the readout I couldn't decipher. "Your myostatin levels are borderline suppressed, that's why you're strong as you say. But you also show signs of mitochondrial overcompensation. Every cell's burning hotter than normal, like you're a compact fusion engine."
"…But I'm not dying?"
He hesitated. "Not yet. But this burn? It's not infinite. You're not regenerating, you're outpacing decay. Every process is sped up, including DNA aging. You won't make it to old age unless something breaks first. Could be ten years. Could be five. You'll get diseases, old people get bladder problems and organ failure. There are anti-aging treatments, the kind Saburo Arasaka uses, but I doubt you have that kind of cash around."
My mouth went dry.
"Viktor, any solutions?"
He exhaled, unlocking a small case from a drawer. Inside were several dark vials labeled IMD-X2 and injector modules. "These are biochemical inhibitors, military grade. They'll slow you down, take the edge off your cells running at full throttle. You might sleep a full night again. It's not a cure, just a suppressant. Reserved for severe cyberware rejection. Expensive, hard to source. I can't hand them out freely and you probably need them for the rest of your life."
I picked up a vial, held it to the light. The liquid shimmered faint violet. I placed it back.
"And if I skip them?"
He shrugged. "Then save for a cremation in a few years."
Vik let out a dry chuckle that felt forced.
We sat in silence for a moment. Then he leaned against the wall. "Caelen right?"
I nodded.
"Sorry. But whatever you are… you're built like a prototype someone scrapped before the final revision. I don't know what to do. Seems like V sent you to the wrong place, kid."
I stood slowly. My legs felt fine, too fine, really. The only consequence is I'm time-limited. Fuck them legs.
"Thanks, Vik."
He nodded. "I'll run deeper scans on your data, including DNA. Come back in a month or so. For now, regulate your energy output. Don't sprint or overwork unless you have to. And if you ever want chrome…"
"Yeah?"
"Come to me. If you install mods without oversight, your body will treat it like a virus. You'll either reject violently or evolve around it. I don't know which is worse in your case just yet."
I dropped the last of my money on his table and left.
"Thanks for the consultation," I said.
He didn't respond.
I avoided Misty on the way out and headed straight for the bus stop. I was furious at my own leniency. Time to accelerate everything, there's no other choice.