After a day like this, I'd usually light a cigarette, head to the store, grab a couple of beers, make some snacks, and sink into my favorite chair, thinking about how I managed not to die today.
But now, all of that is gone. No pleasures, just a body incapable of feeling anything. I've seen this world from all sides there should have been at least some emotions raging inside me. But instead, there was only understanding: everything remained the same. The same people, except now everyone was a walking death machine. At any moment, someone could snap and start killing everyone around them.
I didn't feel pain or fear when bullets hit my body. Just text notifications listing the damage nothing more, nothing less.
Incoming message from Demian Todd.
I opened the notification and saw that we'd been suspended for two days and fined 5,000 eddies, which would be deducted from our salaries.
Hmm. Strange. We weren't at fault. Technically, our report reflected the truth, and our actions were purely self-defense. I sent him a displeased response, asking:
"Is this how it's always gonna be?"
The reply came instantly:
"Forget about the shootout. The captain wasn't mad about that. You really decked that corpo, and he filed a lawsuit against us. This is just a small punishment plus, of course, the wrecked car."
I see. That's how it is. You save someone's ass, and in return, they blame you. A tale as old as time.
Before heading out, I stopped by a charging station my battery had nearly drained to zero over the course of the day. You could say I was treating myself to dinner, except now, I fed on electricity. The charging bay was near the med station, so I made my way there. The indicator showed that a full charge would take only 30 minutes. I didn't bother going into sleep mode and decided to browse the Net, trying to learn more about the future. I started with the point where humanity went off the rails.
Humanity had sunk deeper into capitalism, and even nations couldn't resist its influence. Massive corporations took control of their own spheres, becoming states within states. That's how the corporate wars began each one wanting a bigger piece of the pie, despite already having more power than they knew what to do with. Tech giants clashed, and each new war outdid the previous one in terms of casualties. The latest corporate war had only just ended. Countless deaths, unimaginable destruction… and yet, in the end, almost nothing changed.
Militech and Arasaka two megacorporations so powerful they could destroy the world, yet at the same time, the world couldn't exist without them.
Militech, according to some sources, specialized in military tech, including providing support to Night City's police forces. That explains why they put me back on the force.
Let's assume just for a second that they revived me out of the kindness of their hearts. There's only one thing I can't wrap my head around: why? Sure, bringing a dead man back to life is a noble act, but why me? I lived in 2030. My knowledge and experience are useless in this era. There's no one here who needs me.
If a great scientist or public figure had died, I'd understand bringing them back they could still contribute something meaningful to society. But me? Sure, I put a lot of criminals behind bars, but it never really changed anything. The next day, new gangsters would take their place. An endless cycle.
Now, let's look at it from another angle the corporate angle. No emotions, just profit. The essence of any corporation.
What if they realized they could control people who were technically dead? By law, I no longer count as a person. Let's say they can control me if they want to. That means I wouldn't be able to resist I'd have to follow every order. That would give them the perfect workforce: obedient, efficient, needing nothing, wanting nothing.
From that perspective, their actions make sense.
But one thing still bothers me why did they let me go? What's the point?
If they wanted an ideal worker, why give me freedom? Why let me work as I please?
So many questions, and not a single answer. I have no one to ask. I'm just a stranger in this world, alien to everything in it.
Energy: 100%
The battery was fully charged. I disconnected myself from the bay and glanced briefly at the other bodies standing in their own charging stations.
If I keep on living, I'll make sure to get a body that can feel.
Since I had two unexpected days off, I decided to visit a local implant shop to check the prices and figure out how long I'd have to work to afford what I wanted. From what I'd gathered, there were a few ways to buy implants. The simplest was to purchase them from official manufacturers, where the implant would be registered to you. The second option was going through private ripperdocs they checked the equipment before installing it, and there were no restrictions. You could get pretty much anything. The most dangerous and risky option was the black market, where buying an implant might come with a couple of nasty viruses as a bonus.
I settled on the second option since the official manufacturers' prices were at least one and a half times higher. So, I started searching for contacts of nearby rippers. I hesitated for a moment this would all be much easier if Sarah didn't treat me with so much suspicion, almost hatred in her voice.
Right. I should try finding George. He seemed more approachable.
After a few minutes of thinking, I wandered into the assault unit's department. They were always ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. Their uniforms commanded respect, as did their weapons. A few familiar faces were in the common area, which had a couple of ping-pong tables, a punching bag, and a pool table.
"Look who it is our very own Robocop," one of the guys playing ping-pong said.
Yeah, I really did look like him. The only difference was, he still had some of his original body parts. I had none except for a brain in a jar.
"Am I really the first borg?" I asked.
"Nah, MaxTac's got plenty of guys like you. But you're the first recruit to actually make a name for yourself. The hero of the Heywood Police Department the robot with a human soul," the guy replied with a grin, still focused on his game.
Name: Cal Thompson
Age: 32
Occupation: Heywood District Police
Position: Special Forces Officer
Criminal Record: None
Marital Status: Married, one child
Recommendation: Do not engage.
"I'm looking for Jones. Any idea where I can find him?" I asked.
"He's off today, taking a break," Cal replied.
"Got it. I won't bother him, then."
"Alright, but drop by sometime. You helped us out big time last time you seem like a solid guy. We'd be happy to have you around," Cal added.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, then said my goodbyes and decided to walk to the nearest ripper's place.
I found a public transit line, but as I reached it, I realized something I was basically broke.
It's a weird feeling in moments like these. I should've figured that out beforehand and not even bothered trying. And yet, I still act against my own logic. Maybe it's something to do with the strange way my memory works.
I'd noticed an anomaly: when I was awake, I felt like I was only Matthew nothing else. But the moment I entered sleep mode, it was like I split into two halves. The world inside this robotic body felt different. In there, surrounded by my own memories, I almost felt… human.
I needed to look into that more closely tonight.
It took me nearly half an hour on foot to reach the place. The entrance was tucked between two buildings. Stepping through the open door, I found myself in front of a terminal with a client call button. Pressing it, I glanced at the camera mounted nearby.
Looks like being a ripperdoc is dangerous enough to warrant this level of caution.
I tapped the panel and waited. After just a few minutes, a voice crackled through the speaker.
"I haven't broken any laws. What does a cop want with me?"
"I'm here as a customer," I replied.
"Oh yeah, I've heard that one before. I open the door, and next thing I know, I'm face-down on the floor while your guys storm in and turn the place upside down," the voice said, full of distrust.
"If you're a law-abiding citizen, you'll open the door and let me in. Otherwise, I might start suspecting you of illegally distributing restricted implants," I said flatly.
"Shit," the voice muttered. A second later, the door unlocked, letting me inside.
Stepping in, I was met by an unremarkable-looking man with slicked-back black hair. He wore a plain tank top, and at first glance, there were no visible implants on his body.
A quick scan confirmed he really didn't have any.
[image]
Name: Santiago Molina
Age: 32
Workplace: "Doc Rider" Clinic (Heywood)
Position: Ripperdoc
Criminal Record: None
Marital Status: Single
Recommendation: Do not engage.
"Everything's clean. Our network doesn't deal in illegal goods," Santiago said.
"Maybe. But I don't care about that. I'm here as a client. I need up-to-date pricing information for your clinic," I said, glancing around. The place was spotless, everything neatly arranged. That spoke volumes about his professionalism. A good doctor always keeps their workspace in order.
"Yeah? Why? You cops have plenty of your own ripperdocs," Santiago said, clearly reluctant to do business with the police.
"Maybe I should check your storage, then?" I asked.
I noticed his reaction immediately slightly elevated pulse, a faint sheen of sweat, fingers trembling just a little.
"A client, of course. Here, take a look this is our full list of available equipment and pricing," Santiago relented, handing me a tablet with the information.
I opened it and started scanning through the names and costs, memorizing as much as I could. I'd go over the details later. After quickly scrolling through the list, I moved on to another question.
"How much do your services cost?" I asked.
"The price of the implant includes the procedure," Santiago replied.
Convenient, but it still didn't give me a clear idea of how much the implants were really worth on the market.
"How long do your surgeries take?" I asked again.
"Not too long. I'm not some hack. Our network doesn't take guys like that only professionals. No more than two hours, including calibration," Santiago said.
"Is there a way to restore all human sensations taste, smell, touch?" I asked.
"Yeah, there is, but I don't know much about it. It requires custom-made skin, a tongue, and other organic replacements. From what I hear, only corporate clinics perform those procedures. Regular ripperdocs don't have the equipment for it. I'd guess it costs around a hundred thousand eddies, if I'm not mistaken," Santiago answered.
The look on his face said it all Why replace your entire body if you just want it back?
"Got it. Thanks for your time. I might come back later," I said, taking my leave.
So, only corporate clinics could do it and it would cost a hundred grand. That was a steep price. My monthly salary was ten thousand, and with my fine cutting that in half, I'd need a full year assuming I didn't spend a single eddie on anything else.
I could check prices later. Time to head back to my apartment.
The return trip took almost as long.
Sinking into my chair, I entered sleep mode.
Sleep Mode.
A sudden darkness, and once again, I'm hurled through a tunnel until I wake up in my chair. The TV is still on, playing a distorted movie. Picking up a pack of cigarettes from the table, I take one out and light it, inhaling deeply. My mind struggles to grasp how this is possible. It feels like a dream I can sense everything as if it were real life. But it's just a figment of my imagination. The question remains unanswered: how?
Everything feels different here. I don't feel crushed under the weight of concrete, I'm free of shackles, yet restrictions remain. I try changing my surroundings, but nothing happens. It seems my mind has crafted an illusion to keep me from going insane. All I can see is my house's yard and the living room I've never gone beyond them.
Getting up, I head to the kitchen, where everything looks the same, except for a painting on the wall it's distorted. I barely remember what it was supposed to depict.
Approaching the fridge, I hesitantly grab the handle and squint. A flood of light washes over me, and as my vision adjusts, I see food neatly arranged on the shelves. Reaching out, I grab a beer bottle. With a single motion, I pop off the cap and take a sip. The cool, refreshing drink slides down my throat, bringing blissful relief. Even though I know this isn't real, just an illusion it feels good.
Beer in hand, I decide to explore other parts of the house. As I reach the staircase leading to the second floor, I stop by the basement door. Driven by curiosity, I place my hand on the handle and try to open it, but it won't budge. I push harder.
And then, as if a sledgehammer strikes my skull, searing pain explodes in my head. I collapse to the floor. A high-pitched ringing fills my ears, and I feel like everything is spinning.
Finally, the pain fades, and my senses stabilize. I decide not to mess with the door again. As I get up, a thought lingers: Maybe that door leads to the darkest corner of my mind.
Heading upstairs, I recall how often I used to tuck my kids into bed exhausted, reluctant, but fulfilling my duty as a father, reading bedtime stories, kissing their foreheads. A wave of sadness washes over me. In another life, I died young, without children. And yet, I envy that peaceful existence.
A dim light shines from behind one of the doors. Curious, I step closer and peek inside it's Maxim's room. Everything is exactly as I left it: clothes scattered across the floor, an unmade bed, and his computer, almost always left on.
Huh. The computer.
I glance at the desktop, where most icons appear faded, except for one "Cyberpunk 2077."
Clicking on it, I watch as the screen flickers and the game's logo appears. After a moment, the menu loads. Only one option remains available: Continue.
"This is getting weird," I mutter.
Two save files appear: one labeled "Matthew Carrington," the other "V, Street Kid."
Who's V? Oh, right the main character of the game.
I click on the V save. The screen flickers a few times, and in an instant, I find myself on the neon-lit streets of Night City. But just as quickly, the screen goes black.
"Save file error."
A strange feeling washes over me. Is everything around me just my imagination?
Maybe I'm in a coma, and this is all just a fever dream.
"I don't understand any of this," I growl, frustration boiling over. My fist slams the keyboard, sending it flying into the wall, shattering into pieces.
Slumping into my chair, I try to collect my thoughts.
"Calm down. Are you a coward or a man?"
Analyze the facts. Find the connections. Get to the truth. That's the formula for solving any mystery.
First Matthew Carrington's death is suspicious. I don't remember it, which means I might not have actually died. Maybe my body was preserved in some kind of capsule, leaving only my brain the one I saw in the lab.
Let's say they extracted Matthew Carrington's mind from that brain and implanted it into this body. When the body activated, my soul my true self, Max was shoved into the farthest recesses of my consciousness, while the robotic systems forced Carrington's identity to take over. That's why I remember my past life in my mind, but in the real world, it's just fleeting fragments.
And what if… someone created a game that perfectly replicates this world? If you entertain the crazy multiverse theories, it could make sense. But even that seems far-fetched.
I know the basic plot of Cyberpunk 2077. The protagonist receives a second personality, and the struggle revolves around controlling the body, with everything tying back to the Arasaka Corporation.
What if Militech has similar technology?
Except I wasn't supposed to be here at all.
I need data on Project Life After Death. Everything depends on it.