Cyberpunk - The Fall of Icarus

"Yeah, just rolling around in my pocket..." Ramirez looked sadly at his savings and, with a heavy sigh, tucked the chip back into his backpack to avoid torturing himself with the sight of it any further.

Lately, there's been no work, or more accurately, nothing that fits his profile. All the somewhat profitable gigs had already been snagged by teams who had made a name for themselves with the fixers. For a lone wolf like Marco, there seemed to be nothing left that he deemed worthy. He wasn't fond of engaging in assassinations or other dark jobs, especially after one incident where all the blame was pinned on him.

The "Animals" gang had spent about two weeks hunting down such a bold Latino. When they finally found him, they questioned him with utmost severity. The gang's unusual customs allowed him to navigate through this tricky situation by defending his life in a duel. In the end, the guy even managed to receive an invitation to join them, but the young man wisely declined the offer. Becoming a pumped-up gorilla wasn't something he was particularly eager to do.

The gangs of Night City are quite peculiar people. They all adhere to something singular and at the same time, unconsciously mimic each other, making their differences quite bland. Every group in the city strives for the same thing: to make money and elevate their status among others, thereby exalting themselves above other people. In this regard, the "Voodoo Boys" and "Maelstrom" are more the exceptions to the general rule than contributors to the cited statistics. The former don't talk much about themselves, and much about them seems like a silly urban myth that, for some reason, continues to circulate through the streets, while the latter are cyber-fanatics, obsessed with the metal they endlessly implant into their bodies. They're kind of chrome junkies with a whistling flask instead of brains.

Out of frustration, Marco checked his personal mail once again and confirmed that nothing had changed. No new messages had arrived, meaning the Latino would have to sit idle for a while longer. Boredom pressed on his mind, and the empty apartment strongly suggested that it was better to stroll through the evening streets of Night City than to sit around doing nothing. Putting on his jacket, the young man also grabbed his pistol, which could be conveniently hidden under his arm, unlike bulkier weapons. The city cops didn't pay much attention to people with guns, but they understandably attracted more scrutiny. Moreover, there was the element of surprise, which would make any would-be muggers think twice.

This was exactly what Marco intended to do. No, not take money from ordinary people, but rather take it from the bandits who would sooner or later want to rob a lone guy peacefully wandering through the most notorious districts of Santo Domingo.

The mask snugly covered his face, preventing others from recognizing in him the "ghost" who had been cleaning the streets of all sorts of scum for the past three months. Lately, this had even started to bring in more money than the rare jobs from fixers, searching for something or delivering someone, which the guy occasionally engaged in.

"It's quite chilly today," Ramirez felt the cold air uncomfortably brushing against the exposed parts of his body, its rare gusts unpleasantly chilling his palms. He had to quickly shove his hands into his pockets, otherwise, there was a chance his fingers would completely freeze.

It took the Latino about half an hour to encounter the first potential easy marks, who were staring a bit too obviously at the lone young man slowly heading towards the "Las Palapas" motel. This place was notorious for its overwhelming frequency of "random" robberies, often ending in the murder of yet another solitary traveler seeking cheap accommodation in Arroyo.

"Three people, and by the looks of it, they're not new to this. Two are following behind, keeping a respectful distance, pretending to be random passersby, while the third walks a bit ahead, effectively closing the trap. Probably scavengers," Marco thought to himself, his mind wandering leisurely while his body automatically moved along a route known only to him. The teenager gently touched the barrel of his "Unity," calming his nerves. A decent model for self-defense on the night city streets. Getting ready, Marco felt a familiar dose of adrenaline, now customary to his body, yet each new time brought a sense of tension and anticipation.

"And here I am, doing exactly what many cyberpunks do..." The teenager smirked, shaking his head slightly. "This seems like the right spot." Turning into an inconspicuous alley, the boy had about ten seconds to hide, which was more than enough for him. Concealing himself behind dumpsters in the middle of the yard, the Latino patiently waited for the "hunters" following him, who didn't take long to arrive. Exactly ten seconds later, the first of the trio cautiously turned into the alley, scanning the area with a keen eye, looking for his target, who couldn't have gone far in that time, meaning she must be hiding somewhere.

Smiling at his guess, the bandit grimly grinned and smoothly pulled out his pistol, taking it off safety. The good old M-10AF "Lexington" from Militech. The favorite pistol of all Night City police — light, convenient, accurate, with low recoil. Perfect if you need to neutralize rather than kill on the spot. Easily fits in the pocket of a coat or a lady's purse, hence it's also favored by those who need to conceal their weapon...

Ten minutes later

"Damn, got my shoes dirty," Marco looked annoyed at his boot, smeared with some strange muck. Likely, the Latino had stepped in it while hiding from prying eyes. "Well, at least the city has a few less scumbags in it." With not a drop of sympathy, the Latino dumped the bodies in the trash bins, meanwhile emptying their pockets and forcing a transfer of all their money to his account. The bandits didn't have much in eddies, about a thousand, but it was better than nothing. Moreover, their guns and chips could be sold to a familiar fence for a couple thousand eurobucks more, making the outing quite successful.

"However, it's better to stop this kind of wealth accumulation for a while." Other scumbags might sense the danger and start tracking him, which was unacceptable. The guy worked quietly and without unnecessary noise, so he'd have to act less conspicuously for a week. "I wonder how the guys are doing?"

***

A year later

Days began to fly by too quickly. My schedule was packed to the brim, which sometimes forced me to take a timeout just to gather my thoughts into some semblance of order. Many started whispering that I was trying to outrun time itself, which wasn't far from the truth. While I sleep, the hypothetical enemy is pumping iron and gaining strength, though I might be exaggerating a bit here.

I don't have personal enemies, except maybe for a certain Valentin Astra, who was my parents' former boss. I couldn't dig up anything concrete on him, just a few leaked correspondences and a couple of orders for the elimination of his opponents. That won't surprise anyone in Night City, and Biotechnica would just brush off such claims.

Honestly, until recently, I felt nothing towards my biological parents, as if they were complete strangers to me, and I sensed that something about this was fundamentally wrong. It was as if things shouldn't be this way and, for some unknown reason, my brain refused to dwell on this topic for long, as if it were some kind of protective response from my body. Initially, I indeed felt lonely without them, but then my feelings began to fade, and the faces of Mikhail and Hirako gradually faded from my memory. With this issue, I turned to our staff doctor, Mike.

After visiting the doctor, I only had more questions. I indeed had a rather strange psychological disorder, subconsciously shielding my mind from unpleasant memories, in addition to diminishing my perception of reality. If you think about it, my selective memory from a past life could also be a result of that same disorder. Such a condition is treatable, namely through special memory exercises and extended meditations, allowing the brain to break down the self-imposed block. That's what I had to spend my free time on over the past year.

After several months of practice, I almost thought it was futile, but Mike's encouraging words gave me confidence. A month later, I saw the first results. I began to vaguely remember the outlines of people from my past life, as well as some of their names. After this breakthrough, my enthusiasm soared to unprecedented heights, and progress became much faster. I never thought that treating my mental "bugs" would be such a challenging task.

Despite the success of this process, one important question still haunted me: How did I end up with this problem? I had two working theories about my condition: either the fact of dying and ending up in the body of a half-dead child or the factor involving Alex himself. Recalling past events, I felt terribly nauseous in the first moments, and my thoughts were scattered. Perhaps it was the shock experienced by the child when his mother was killed. Even though the body was delirious at the time, after delving into my mind, I could vaguely recall the dialogue between Hirako and the bandit who eventually killed her. Then came a painful blow to the head and another loss of consciousness. Eventually, this moment imprinted itself in the child's subconscious, leading to the protective reaction I'm currently experiencing.

I think one phrase fits my situation perfectly - "If you can clearly identify your problem, you are halfway to solving it."

The rest of the time was spent trying to reconstruct all the events of my life in my mind. Eventually, I succeeded, but it brought me no joy. Instead, I felt a certain emptiness and loneliness. My body clearly resisted this, but I managed to force it to accept the harsh reality, even though it was very difficult. I think it will be a long time before I want to repeat anything like this, if ever something similar happens to me again.

After this incident, along with the memories of the days lived, I also began to feel a serious desire to punish those responsible for the death of my family. It didn't take long to find a candidate for this "honorable" role. Valentin Astra and his direct superiors, as well as Adam Smasher himself. A lot of time has passed since then, but I cannot let them go without consequences. The former decided to get rid of my parents to use their knowledge as they saw fit, while the latter is just a deranged cyborg with an endless desire to kill anyone he is pointed at. I don't know how much time I'll need, but I can say for sure, they're all in for an interesting life...

Of course, the year wasn't just filled with problems concerning my head. I finally managed to create a full-fledged chest plate resembling kinetic armor, capable of withstanding several sniper rifle shots. Unfortunately, then I had to wait for the electronics to cool down before the shield could be used again. Despite my surplus of energy, the problem with conductors and other electrical components remained unsolved. Due to a lack of resources, I had to use cheap wiring, which wore out too quickly.

It was a miracle that anything worked at all, which Rick pointed out to me during one of my loud complaints in the workshop. Well, the guy can be understood, but it still hurts a bit. There's so much more to do before I can finally return to the city. Still, I haven't given up on the idea of settling in Arroyo, where I could open a small workshop in one of the two Megabuildings. It would be a good cover for me, and at the same time, I could find the people I need to help me obtain various parts for my future projects...