In spite of his unlucky encounter, Lorenzo didn’t leave the alleyways out of fear, but rather kept walking through them until he got home. He– well, the past him, lived in Heywood, more specifically the Glen.
Sadly, he didn’t have the good fortune of living in the wealthy part of the Glen, but rather the southern part of it. The poor part of it. Lorenzo was a construction worker for the Valentino’s, because every construction company based in Heywood was Valentino enforced.
He didn’t dabble in the illegal bits of the business, the few that did had closer ties to the gang, and helped set up hidden meeting points or facilitate business meetings for them. I’m just a blue collar, he thought, no influence and no connections. No one to ask for help.
Eventually reaching his home, a crappy residential building for workers from the time when Heywood was a development area, Lorenzo hopped in dirty and injured. The elevator didn’t work, as it hadn’t for many years, so he resigned and grunted every step upwards through the stairs until he reached his floor, the last one.
Space was tight, and each floor (of which there were seven) had two apartments, the door of each awfully close to the stairs with barely enough space to open wide. Lorenzo walked to the door marked 702 with scratched up lettering, but the thing didn’t budge.
''Fucking hell, really?'' He banged on the door with his left hand. ''Again?''
He stuck his ear to the door to listen for the mechanism. It sounded stuck and greasy. There was a very obvious bump on the metal from the many years of angry strikes at it. I really should clean this, it’s getting stuck every damn time.
Taking his ear off the door and positioning himself slightly to the side, he put his uninjured shoulder against the metal and used his weight to push until the door creaked and slid open, Lorenzo stumbling into the floor of his apartment.
Pushing himself off and the entrance closing behind him, he took in the place where he had apparently lived for nineteen years. Memories came back to him, of his mother by the window, with that vacant look in her eyes. Of his grandfather, stout and strong, sitting in his old rocking chair. Of his father, fat, angry and wasted, face down on the dirty red carpet.
It was a tight fit then. Too many of us in this tiny dump. He snorted. Now that I’m alone, it somehow looks even smaller.
He headed to the tiny corner that passed for a kitchen, and crouched to look for what little he had in terms of first aid. Out came a few old bandages, his mother’s forgotten collection of bent needles, and some thread. He had the vague, uncomfortable impression that his little emergency treatment was going to be rather painful.
Inwardly grateful that he wasn’t dripping blood onto the floor, he limped into the small bathroom and sat on the closed toilet, reaching for the scissor on the kitchen cabinet and cutting the leg off his work jumpsuit. It’s already trash anyway, with the hole those little shits made on it. He stared at the bullet shaped hole in his leg, before patting his calf, noting there wasn’t an exit wound.
''...Ah, that’s, that’s just great, isn’t it…'' He took a deep breath, doing his best to relax before he had to dig into his wound for the bullet. Something in the back of his head gave him a queasy feeling, but when he paused to think, it passed as if it was never there.
He dug in his finger, sucking in air through his teeth. ''Fffffffuck me. God. Oh, God above. Holy shit.'' He cursed, and kept cursing, and felt gross and like he was about to shed a few manly tears, but no matter how much his body told him he should be freaking out and that it hurt, his head kept him cool.
The bullet came out eventually, and fresh blood spurted from the wound in small streams. He held up the bullet into the light to stare at it, and he noted that despite his vague sense of discomfort, his hands didn’t shake. He chucked the small piece into the bathroom sink and lifted his foot with it to wash off the wound before stitching.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
After making sure he washed properly and disinfected with soap, Lorenzo readied himself once more as he lifted a bent needle to thread it. Should I even stitch it up? I don’t know if the bullet hit something important. Knowing he couldn’t afford getting checked out by a doctor, he steeled himself and passed the needle through his skin.
It hurt. A lot. The needle didn’t pass clean through because it was bent, old, and the tip was rounded by use. Even though he felt like he was gonna pass out every time the little needle broke skin, he remained steady and worked without stopping or hesitating.
When it was done, he took the bandages and tied them around his right thigh firmly. The knowledge came to him naturally, as if he had done it a million times before, but Lorenzo didn’t have any memories new or otherwise about ever having tended a wound like that.
He sniffed his jumpsuit and gagged immediately. ''That’s rancid. Ugh.'' It reeked of blood and sweat, and whatever dirt or mysterious liquid he had laid on when he was dead. He frankly preferred not knowing what it was. Taking off the ripped, ruined clothes, he stood up and put some weight on his injured leg.
It didn’t hurt as much now. He tensed his leg muscles. They responded. There was a vague itch and burning on the wound, but now it didn’t impede him anymore. That’s absurd, no one heals like that. That’s not… normal.
That was entirely new, and had never (as far as he knew) happened to him before, in this life or the other.
He jumped into the shower and washed with cold water. He expected to feel confused or stressed, but somehow he couldn’t muster up the will, as if something were blocking out intense emotion. He was closely aware that he was in a frankly horrible situation. He didn't remember that ‘past life’, nor understand how he’d woken back up. He died. He knew it.
No matter how he thought about it just wasn’t normal, and yet he was calm. His heartbeat was steady and strong, he wasn’t sweaty or shaking. He just was.
He closed his eyes.
No point worrying, if I’m actually incapable of worrying. I have better things to think about. He concentrated, making a mental list of important information.
Okay. I’m Lorenzo Velasco. I live in the Glen, Heywood. I’m… nineteen, soon to be twenty. I work for Piedrapilar Construction as a bricklayer. He got out of the bath, dried himself off and stared at himself in the small bathroom mirror. No living family, no savings, no friends in particular. No… skills worth mentioning other than some melee training.
He had black and short-ish straight hair and a slight widow’s peak. His eyes were gray and clearly cheap off-the-rack opticware. …I’m missing an arm, and can’t afford a new one. He patted himself and checked his body on the mirror. A good bit of muscle with some chub on it, decently athletic. He stared at his calloused, thick hand. Not too graceful. Nor particularly smart. Barely literate. Thankfully free of addictions.
If his memories were anything to go by, also easy to scare, but it seemed that particular trait didn’t matter anymore. Okay. That’s that. He thought. Hardworking Night City nobody with no dreams. Chump. He went out to dress himself in sweatpants and a tank top, and then rested himself on the window, staring out into the vibrant city neon.
He wondered if it was worth it having dreams in Night City of all places, if he should even bother to aspire to anything instead of simply give up and ‘live’ Lorenzo's life. Vague memories of other people in Night City crawled into his mind, people he didn’t know but somehow remembered, none of them ended up well. A phrase popped into his head, uninvited. There’s no happy endings in Night City.
But I don’t want this. Survival isn’t enough. The new part of him refused. The inkling that things could be better, should be better, remained. He wanted more, for him, for others.
He stared out the window and saw a city rotten through. One he had lived in his whole– literal– life. The desire crawled out of his chest in a burst of emotion that the coolness from before could not block, swarming through his chest and making his blood boil. He’d do it. He swore he would.
He’d burn it all down and build it back up, every wish, every impulse, every want of his own, he’d fulfill it. Two lives of peace had been enough. He’d light himself up and leave behind a blaze of glory.
The first thing he needed, he decided, was a whole set of arms. And then, some old fashioned revenge– served cold and edgerunner style.