Inside a half-ruined house, I stared into the abyss of emptiness through a broken window. The clock on the wall moved slowly in its circle, marking the passing time. With every minute, fragments of space seemed to return to their former state. And after eight hours, everything was back to normal.
All that time, I wasn't myself lost in a haze, unable to take my eyes off the clock-covered walls, sitting in a dissociative trance.
Mode: Active
Analyzing status...Multiple errors
Numerous damages detected
A list of all damaged modules and system statuses began to load. The logs showed I had been fully restored.
Physical condition: Acceptable
Launching...
The darkness in front of my eyes started to fade, revealing a concrete ceiling overhead. The heavy weight pressing down on me disappeared, and for a moment, I didn't even want to move. I just lay there, finally able to think freely. And there was a lot to think about.
Carlo de Vargo had survived and it seemed he was the one who had killed me. A quick net search and database check confirmed that Carlo de Vargo had been registered as deceased on July 7, 2030 killed by the police during an attempt to break through a checkpoint.
After reading that, I couldn't understand how it was possible unless the person I'd seen had been a double. Or something like that. But a forensic examination would've spotted a fake immediately.
Wait the tattoo.
Replaying it in my memory, I began scanning police databases for criminals who might have borne the same ink. Dossiers flashed before my eyes. No... no... different gangs, different ages, genders—none of that mattered. What mattered was the tattoo.
I stopped. A member of Maelstrom. Mad, chrome-junkie psychopaths. Plenty of tattoos among their ranks, but only a few matched what I'd seen. Due to limited access to the integrated databases, I couldn't dig much deeper.
"Hey, you alright in there? Haven't lost your mind or something?" came Santiago's voice. "You've been lying there for over eight hours."
"I'm fine," I replied at last, getting up and immediately pulling up my status window to check my vitals.
"You fixed me," I said, staring at him intently.
"Yeah. Not for free though. Had to track down some rare parts, wasn't a cheap fix. You owe me ten grand," he replied.
I rummaged through my pockets, pulled out a stack of casino chips I'd won, and handed him a chip worth ten thousand.
"Perfect. Now get out. You're taking up space and my shift's about to start," he said.
"Alright," I replied distantly, dressing and heading for the door. "Thanks. You could've left me to rot, but you helped."
"For a paying customer, any service," Santiago answered simply. But the truth was, he didn't know whether I had any money. We'd only known each other for two days. I'd made the right call not trying to intimidate him. Like they say if you want good, don't do evil. Or something like that. I was never good at remembering those kinds of sayings. Never been great at taking advice either, though maybe I should've been.
Once outside, I looked at the city with new eyes. My body felt different too. My hands felt real somehow, but there was no sensation no breeze, no touch, nothing. I didn't walk far before something inside me made me stop and sit down, staring up at the blue sky.
So why am I here?
I thought, watching the people go by with my new gaze. To live, a person needs a purpose. What will mine be? Final. Unshakable. The one I'll follow to the end?
I don't believe Carlo de Vargo survived forty years. But I have to make sure his corpse is in the ground. That's the first lead the tattoo. A secondary goal.
The primary one?
To find out why I was brought back… and what the Life After Death project is really about.
Today, I had no plan except to wait until someone contacted me. I had work tomorrow anyway.
Getting up, I headed to my temporary shelter. As I approached the building, I spotted a car marked with Sixth Street gang symbols, with a few people standing beside it.
Trouble had found me again.
Bracing for a possible fight, I walked up to them.
Whistle
"That's the cop," one of the gang members said as he noticed me. Oddly enough, no one drew a weapon they just waited for me to approach.
"Hey," said an African American man with a thick beard and a hard stare.
Name: Green Sullivan
Age: 38
Occupation: Mercenary, member of Sixth Street gang (discharged soldier of the NUSA Army)
Criminal record: Armed conflict, robbery
Marital status: Married, one child
Recommendation: Do not engage.
"What do you want?" I asked, keeping a close eye on their every move.
"There was an... incident here recently. You heard anything about it?" Green asked.
"If you're wondering whether I was the one who killed your people yeah, that was me," I said. No point lying too many witnesses saw me hauling the bodies of those gangoons, and I was the only cop still living in this building.
"No bullshit. I respect that. But what you did wasn't cool. Sure, their behavior was disgraceful but you still killed members of our crew. That's not something we can just let slide," Green said calmly.
"So what now?" I asked, tension instantly thickening the air between us.
"Don't worry. We're not here to put a bullet in you. You're coming with us to see our boss, Rick Morton. He'll decide what happens next," said Green.
"So why would I go with you to a place I know damn well I won't come back from? Where I'll probably end up stripped for spare parts? What's stopping me from killing you all right now?" I replied coldly.
Not even a twitch of his brow.
"Nothing. You're free to try. But let me tell you what happens then. You might pull it off maybe you kill us. But the Sixth Street gang will put a bounty on your head so fat that every trigger-happy merc in the city will be gunning for you. Sooner or later, you'll be just another corpse in a dumpster."
He paused.
"My proposal you come with us. We talk it out and settle this like men. I served in the army. I want this city safe, clean. I'm grateful you exposed the filth at our doorstep. So as long as you're still breathing and wear that badge, you're doing something good for Night City. So, what's your choice?" Green asked, staring me down.
"I'll go with you," I said. He seemed reasonable and they weren't acting like the scum I'd taken down earlier. These guys were different. Disciplined. Tight. They carried themselves like soldiers. Facial recognition confirmed it.
"Good. Get in," he said, nodding toward the open car door.
I had no choice but to follow. They pulled out the moment I was in. The map showed we were heading out of Heywood crossing the bridge into Santo Domingo.
"What about Katherine?" I asked.
"She's fine. We apologized for our people's behavior and gave her an extension on her payments," Green said.
"Why'd you take in psychos like that in the first place?" I asked.
"Heywood's not exactly secure territory for us. We had to work with what we could find," Green replied simply.
"Right," I muttered. That explained a lot.
The car pulled into Arroyo. According to the data, this was where their main base was located. Once we stopped, no one tried to cuff me or disarm me they simply surrounded me and led the way. As we walked through a neighborhood of houses, I noticed flags waving over every cottage patriotic symbols everywhere. And weapons. Not just any weapons the latest, most expensive, military-grade tech.
Not surprising. Ex-military always had an arsenal.
We arrived at what could only be described as a fortress built of concrete and steel. In a city where the cops didn't even have decent rifles, this place looked like it belonged in a war zone. Watching drones circle overhead and turrets tracking every movement was... unnerving.
"Impressive, isn't it? A true stronghold of safety and freedom our pride and joy," said Green.
"Yeah," I replied, though what I really wanted to say was: This shouldn't exist.
They led me inside, guiding me into a wide office decorated with hanging flags and a panoramic window overlooking the district.
"General, we brought him," Green said.
"So this is Matthew Carrington, huh?" asked Rick Morton, dressed in a full military uniform adorned with epaulettes, patches, and medals that jingled with every movement.
Name: Rick Morton
Age: 43
Occupation: Leader of the Sixth Street gang (former NUSA military)
Criminal Record: Armed conflict, robbery, assault, extortion
Marital Status: Single
Recommendation: Do not engage.
[image]
"Yeah," I answered simply.
"Alright, let's get to it. You admitted to killing our guys, and for that I thank you. You rid our city of some real trash. But what kind of general would I be if I didn't avenge my own? It's a dilemma I'm having a hard time resolving. So tell me what should I do?" he asked, lighting a cigar.
"They were doing harm. Dragging your name through the dirt. So I'll put it this way: if you truly want to do right by your country and this city then just thank me," I said. No point playing weak with a guy like him. It was better to speak clearly, directly, and not flinch under his stare.
"HAHAHA! You've got guts. I like that. Alright then from now on, you work for me," Rick said, dropping into a wide chair behind a massive desk.
"I already serve the law and do my duty," I replied.
He fell silent. Lifting a 20th-century revolver, he spun the cylinder and leveled the barrel at me.
"Now that I don't like. The choice is simple: a bullet or you work for me," Rick said, cocking the hammer.
"A bullet," I said calmly. Not some sudden burst of bravery my analysis suggested the rounds were blanks.
"You chose your fate," Rick said, pulling the trigger. The gun snapped empty. "Not bad. You've got steel in your spine. Alright you've earned my forgiveness. But you'll carry out a few jobs for me. Do that, and we're square. The woman's debt will be wiped clean," he said.
"Deal," I replied. It was the optimal solution. Resolve the conflict, and help a single mother. I knew damn well how hard it was to raise kids alone. My wife had gone through the same while I was always at work.
"Good. I'll contact you when something comes up," Rick said.
Just as quickly as I was brought in, I was back outside. Sixth Street turned out they were a gang with a purpose: to protect their country and city. But, like it often goes, things spiral out of control. The goal becomes the excuse, and the actions get darker. Loan-sharking, for example: they lend money to those who can't get it from a bank and take it back with more than words if the debt goes unpaid.
I had to get back on my own. Quick trip on the metro, and I was back in Heywood.
I needed more info on Maelstrom. My database was lacking. Time to hit up my partner pass it off as a regular investigation.
I sent a message to Demian Todd:"Hey. I've hit a snag. My database is incomplete and I need to dig into something."
Didn't have to wait long.
D: "What's the issue, partner? What are you looking for? Don't tell me it's about illegal braindances?"
Braindances? A quick search said they were recorded fragments of someone's memories complete with sensory input.
M: "No. I need info on Maelstrom. Specifically, everyone with that tattoo."
No quick reply this time.
D: "Don't mess with them. One wrong step is all it takes. I'm sorry but I won't get involved. And I don't want you getting mixed up with them either. They're psychos completely unhinged."
M: "I need to know if one of them's still alive."
D: "Still no. Sorry I've got too much to lose."
M: "Understood. Talk tomorrow."
D: "Tomorrow. Database is at the station Herman will let you in."
Reading that last part, I almost smiled but couldn't. Demian was a good man. He didn't want to take the risk, but he still tried to help. That's the kind of partner I respect more than those who swear they'll stand by you 'til death, and then stab you in the back at the first chance.
Guess it'd have to wait 'til tomorrow.
**************************************
The next day, I got to the precinct a bit early before the shift started so I could access the database. Walked past everyone and headed toward the evidence room. This was where they kept not just all the case files, but also various data drives and hardcopy documents.
Some things, you just don't trust to digital protection. Strangely enough, paper had always been the most reliable source. For all its flaws, it had one major advantage it was physical. Destroy it, and no trace remains.
A guard was sitting right by the entrance. That was Herman. He was a big guy, his body packed with implants most of his limbs replaced by chrome. His gaze landed on me. He stared for a moment, then stood up and walked over. Towering above me, he just walked past, silently letting me through. Looked like Demian had given him a heads-up.
Inside, I immediately spotted a terminal with data ports. Pulling out my own connector, I jacked in.
Connecting to Night City Police Department database.
A ton of search categories popped up in front of me. I was looking for just one name Carlo de Vargo. The data started streaming in from every state and city across the U.S. There found him. But the info had been wiped from the main system after the synth uprising. A backup exists, but it's locked away in the city archives. Damn it, another dead end.
Alright, let's try visual search criteria bingo. Tattoo match. Data flooded in again. My screen filled with Maelstrom gang members, most missing their faces, replaced with cybernetic modules. Names, last known locations it all synced to my database.
Unauthorized user detected. Disconnect or face consequences.
Looks like I'd been spotted. I jacked out quick. Got what I needed good enough for now. Stepping out of the data vault, I passed Herman again, heading toward the assault unit's wing. I hoped Mike was in. Lucky me, he was.
"Hey, Mike," I said.
He was sitting at his desk, cleaning his weapon.
"Oh, it's you. Good to see you!" he said, grinning as he stood up and offered a handshake. "You're practically glowing what, polish your ride or something?"
"You could say that. I came to ask something. Why does Sara treat me like crap?" I asked.
"Ah, didn't exactly roll out the welcome mat, huh? Don't take it personally. She's solid knows her stuff. But she's had a rough life. Like a lot of us here," Mike replied.
"You gonna tell me the story?" I asked. I wanted to know if it was worth trying to build any bridge with her or just stick with Santo.
"Sure, I will. But stories like that don't go down well sober. I've got the day off tomorrow meet me at the bar in the evening. Our crew'll be there too. We'll hang, drink, maybe play a few games," Mike offered.
"I feel like I'd be out of place," I said. This body doesn't really get any joy out of anything.
"Don't worry, we'll find a way to surprise you. You're not gonna be out of place, trust me," Mike said.
"Alright. I'll come by. See you later I'm about to start my shift," I said.
"See you around," Mike nodded, going back to polishing his weapon. For people who put their lives on the line, their gun is their best friend. If it fails, it's game over.
Message from Demian: "Come down to the parking lot. Our ride's fixed."
I didn't waste any time. Headed down. Samuel was working on the car, rubbing it down with a cloth and mumbling to himself. Demian was standing nearby, looking kind of bored. He noticed me right away.
"That's enough, Samuel. My partner's here we've got patrol duty," Demian said, clearly not for the first time.
"Just a bit more. I really worked hard to get her back in shape. You're not planning on driving her into bullets again, are you? She won't survive another mess like last time," Samuel pleaded as he finally shut the hood. Weird, but kind of sweet how much he cared.
"Can't promise you that," Tod said wearily, catching a death glare from Samuel. "I'll try and I owe you a case of beer."
"Deal. Alright, goodbye, my precious. Come back in one piece," Samuel whispered, gently patting the car goodbye.
Demian and I exchanged a glance, shook our heads in sync. Time to roll. I got in the passenger seat, and we headed out.