Even if you spurn Cyberware with a passion, everyone and their grandmother knows direct neural interfacing without peripherals is a terrible idea.
This is especially true for the ever-popular third-party Otherworld™ spinal implants.
What had been originally designed to be an externally wearable piece of gear, now modified to provide a perfect simulation that played to your every whim and desire, directly doping your brain with heavy doses of dopamine, serotonin and endorphins that would keep you trapped in an endless loop of satisfaction and complacency. Who would be dumb enough to think that that's good for you?
Well, they also say it’s better than any drug, not even the sharpest cut of tinker dust, or the purest fairy tear able to compare. That it’s unlike anything else, any real-world experience, our puny minds could even begin to comprehend.
So, could you really blame yourself if you get a bit too lost in a fantasy? Carpe Diem and all that right?
–Unknown
***
The dying light of will-o-wisps ensnared by neon tubes barely managed to pierce through the darkness of the night, illuminating the streets in a faded glow.
The stench of decay and filth, while somewhat diminished, still lingered in the air. It clung to the atmosphere, an ever-present reminder of the rot seeping into the very fabric of this blighted district.
A dreamy haze of fog veiled the distance, shifting the tone of an otherwise ordinary street into something eerie.
The gutters echoed with a disconcerting scuttering, some manner of unknown, hidden creature they were probably better off not knowing about.
Unfortunately for Miles, his new vision managed to see through the fog.
Dozens of mangy rats skittered by their beady eyes fixated on them with unnerving curiosity. In an unholy alliance, the rare Blightroach scuttled amidst them, betrayed only by the tell-tale flash of a deathly green glow.
Even beyond the rats and plague-causing bugs, the symphony of the city remained dissonant.
An unnatural melding of the artificial and the natural, a discordant composition grating the senses, where the whirring of distant machinery interweaved with the rustling of illusionary forestry and haunting calls of otherworldly wildlife. A fairly common consequence of twisted essence leaking from subpar fae-tech.
This was Yumekuro in all its glory, the best or worst district in the outer city, entirely dependent on who you asked.
They continued to walk through the barely illuminated, hazy streets, when Miles cocked his head at the old butler, “By the way old Zhan, I never got to ask, how was your visit with the White Dragon Informant?”
Zhan Shen snorted, his voice dripping with frustration, “An absolute waste of time! That Hayama Ryoma was a no-show! No faetality booster, no gangsters, not even a fight! Just pure disappointment!”
Miles arched an eyebrow, “Hayama Ryoma? Are you serious? You mean Hayato Ryota, right?! It hasn’t even been a day and you’ve already forgotten his name?”
The old butler shrugged without a care, “Haya-no Ryo-show or whatever, the man never turned up. And what with your aethercrafts and explosions, I did not have the time to look more into the matter, or into the Hakuryuu, the so-called White Dragons.”
Miles could only heave a sigh of well-versed acceptance.
This was the same Zhan Shen that had informed him of the name Hayato Ryota in the first place, wilfully forgetting it the moment the particular individual failed to hold his interest. A quite annoying habit, he had gotten used to overtime.
Nevertheless, he was intrigued, ‘So the matter of the faetality booster was not a trap, but a failure? Was Hayato Ryota displaced or delayed due to the fae invasion? Or was it that he decided to turn tail and run at the last minute? Or a change of heart? Or the more promising case… silenced by the Hakuryuu?’
Should it happen to be the latter, the veracity of Ryota’s claim would be pushed to a whole different level.
‘A Faetality Booster…’
Miles was lost in thought, at least until a strange, colorful light appeared in the distance. It flickered and stuttered, barely visible through the faint fog.
Slightly brighter than the fading will-o-wisps, what made this stand out was the fact that it was placed less than a foot or so above the street, rather unusual compared to the neon banners or streetlights considerably high above.
Miles squinted, and once again he was able to just see through the mists of Yumekuro.
It was a rusted, steel-edged glass cube where a rainbow of dust swirled within, an opening from the upper face spewing clouds of the very same dust into the air. This cloud was what was most magical about the device, being the medium, upon which manifested the unnervingly realistic scenes of a grandiose battle, like scenes out of a vivid dream.
‘Holograms upon faery dust? A Mirage Caster?’
One that was heavily busted and barely working, if the constant flickering of the images were anything to go by.
An amused grin spread across Miles’ face, “Well well old Zhan, it seems that you’ll be getting your fight sooner rather than later!”
Zhan Shen’s brow furrowed in confusion, “A fight? What for? They seem to be the good folk of outer city, enjoying some barely decent entertainment! Why on earth would they resort to violence?”
Miles raised an eyebrow, “Good folk? It’s the middle of the night! With the orc invasion, even the ‘never sleeping’ streets of Yumekuro are deserted. Tell me old Zhan, what kind of ‘good’ folk would be standing out in the streets?”
Zhan Shen waved his hand in dismissal, “Haiz, you have misjudged them, Master Miles. What if they happen to be a neighborhood patrol? Friends drinking a couple cold ones while they enjoy some good old violence? Or even night owls, or insomniacs?
Miles did not dignify that with a reply, simply raising an eyebrow.
Eventually Zhan Shen huffed in disapproval, “Fine, fine, they might start some trouble, but that would only be in the spirit of outer city tradition! Maybe try to force out a street tax, steal a coin or two, but that would be it!”
Miles chuckled and proposed more in playful jest than seriousness, “Is that so? Care to bet on it then, old Zhan?”
The old butler was unexpectedly quick in putting forth his right hand, “Good. The defeated must fulfill a request of the winner, no matter how stubborn they may be. Do we have ourselves a deal Master Miles?”
Miles narrowed his eyes, “I will not be refusing being a Vampire over a— bet.”
Zhan Shen clicked his tongue, but continued to hold out his hand, “And I did not expect you would Master Miles. We already have an agreement with regards to your potential future of being terrified of garlic. This will be different,” and with a rising grin, “Only thing is, is the big bad Vamp too chicken?”
Miles refrained from falling for that cheap ploy.
But it did send him into deep thought.
If this wasn’t about Vampirism, it didn’t take a genius to guess what old Zhan would have him do.
He stared at his own hands, feeling the blood pumping through the veins, despite the unbeating heart in his chest. His newly gained senses remained novel, but just as natural and– familiar, as it had felt the first time.
Even if his faetality were to stagnate due to being forced into using a Fae Serum, Miles no longer felt like he would have no hope.
So, while he had not expected to be taken seriously about the bet, he grinned back, clasping the offered hand.
It would be fun to hold one over the annoying old butler.
“In that case old Zhan, we have a deal.”
Bet, nay oath made, Miles and Zhan Shen continued forwards, the casted mirage growing ever closer.
The mists gave way, revealing the ‘good folk’ of outer city.
A group of rowdy, disheveled individuals dressed in the same white long cloak, each decorated with what appeared to be a child's attempt at drawing scales in black ink.
The rather obvious gangsters were laughing and cheering, swigging down gourds of gutter brew in merriment, as they huddled around the scenes of the dream cloud.
The busted hologram distorted and deformed with each flickering stutter, but it was still more than clear enough to reveal what was being mirage casted.
A twisted field of gnarled trees and unearthly fae foliage that had claimed the ruins of long abandoned construction back to nature. The lush foliage was unsettlingly saturated, the bright viridian green casting terrifying shadows where the darkness itself seemed to come alive.
Prowling underneath were monstrous forms clad in mystical armor, engraved with grotesque symbols that writhed with sickening energy. This was the orcish armada, unperturbed by the hidden horrors of the forest, wreaking havoc through the comparatively miniscule human army.
Yet, the seemingly out-classed humans faced the orcs, a small group of soldiers and mercenaries perfectly capable of holding their own against one or two of the raging orcs.
Well, wielding state-of-the-art weaponry, armored with ballistic nanofiber, and the use of superior tactics, of course.
But what gave the humans a truly distinctive edge were three lone individuals. They were wrapped in distinctively shimmering silver steel, carrying the bearing of Knights.
Stolen novel; please report.
As they danced through the forest, purple lightning cracked, and whirls of unnatural green winds howled, but were incomparable to the gigantic bursts of golden flames that charred orcs by the dozen, despite being smothered by the forestry, unable to truly set the foliage ablaze.
The Orcs were decimated, exploded, burst or ripped apart, wherever they went, while they themselves remained pure and pristine.
And anytime any of these Knights did anything even remotely interesting, even if it was to shake their weapons clean of green blood, the gangsters would rise in tandem to cheer and hoot in excitement.
Some, overlooking the violence, may have considered this to be a heartwarming scene of camaraderie. Where all differences and divergences, even those of class, gangs and wealth, were transcended by patriotism and unity against a common enemy.
A gathering that cheered for the protectors of the city, the brave soldiers, mercenaries and knights, in their war against the abominable Orcish Invaders.
A moment that defied individuality, a rare flash of light in the darkness of Yumekuro.
At least that could have been true, had it not been for the almost lifeless, corpse-like people scattered in the dirty streets around them.
The smell was absolutely horrid, somehow managing to be worse than the alley way they had arrived at.
Miles could not help but wrinkle his nose in disgust, one glance at the Otherjunkies wallowing in their own filth being sufficient enough answer.
How could one forget?
The characteristic Otherjunkies of Yumekuro, the ominous blinking of jailbroken Otherworld™ spinal implants distinct on the back of their necks.
They cared not for the ongoing orc invasion, not that most of them had a home left to return to, probably having been forced to poverty and homelessness courtesy of their addiction to the virtual.
They knew not that these gangsters who had no place to rest, while they cheered for the Knights in the dream cloud, used their physical bodies as human cushions and seats.
They were unaware that the particularly sadistic used them as mats to stand upon, treating them as trash or garbage on the wayside, not reacting even to the pain of crushed fingers and broken bones.
They cared not that their meager belongings were being looted, that even clothes were being stripped off to be sold for a fraction of a bit.
Why would they, anyway?
Their fingers and bodies twitched, eyeballs dancing behind closed eyelids, as they fought deadly battles in physical safety, gained victory over virtual competition that had been designed to lose, and achieved all their dreams and desires with little to no effort.
They were so lost in this fantasy that they failed to notice their hard-won otherworld wealth (from the actual Otherworld™, not the jailbroken illusion they were being force fed) was being discreetly woven away by the gutter net weavers that had made the perfectly curated illusion in the first place, to be sold off for a tidy profit.
All of that could be considered mild, for a group of men surrounded some of the more unfortunate otherjunkies, using their barely moving bodies to relieve themselves.
Even worse were those Otherworld addicts that humped their hips, grabbed and pulled at virtual appendages, far too lost in the fantasy of carnal bliss to remember– or care that their physical bodies were out on the streets bearing witness to the rest of the world.
So blind to reality they were, they had unknowingly become active participants, performing their virtual actions in reality as well, much to the delight of the leering gangsters.
Some of the worst cases were simply drooling like leaking faucets, their nervous systems on the brink of failure owing to excess utilization, their bodies sickly and malnourished.
And yet, despite all of that, despite being treated as less than people, despite being reduced to mindless husks of what it meant to be human, the absolute worst fact was that all of these addicts were chillingly… happy.
Satisfied.
The same weak smile and laughter persisted in them all, looping like broken records on blank faces lost to imaginary bliss.
Once upon a time, they may have dreamt of bigger and better things.
Of escaping Yumekuro, of carving their own place in the Inner City, of escaping the corporate slog and seeing the world (or what remained of it), to provide for those they cared about, to live proud and well.
But Capital City, and the world beyond, happened to be a merciless, selfish thing.
Beaten down over and over, these once hopefuls had ceded victory to despair.
All that was left of those that had once dared to dream was… this.
Zhan Shen remained unaffected by the sordid scenes around them, but Miles couldn’t help but take a moment.
‘What a waste.’
He knew for a fact that he was not a good samaritan in any sense of the word, but the sheer waste of potential here, the ruined lives, raked him in all the wrong ways.
A sharp glance from Zhan Shen dragged Miles out of his thoughts, and with a sigh he turned away.
They continued forth, seemingly blind to the dozen or so gangsters and the travesties around them.
But it didn’t take long for some of the more watchful white cloaked gangsters to notice their presence, even with their engrossment in the mirage-caster and… other proclivities.
Miles scanned through the streets, the gangsters, the nearby constructions and even the distant, barely visible rooftops.
In the end, he simply ignored them all and continued, followed by an even calmer, actually whistling a jovial tune, Zhan Shen.
More and more of the gangsters began to pay attention, observing with intrigue, curiosity, and greed.
The bet in mind, Miles was expectant.
‘An old man and a young kid, dressed in suits that scream “Corporate”, walking alone through barely populated streets. Even with the identity distortion, which of these greedy gutter rats could hold back?’
And to the surprise of absolutely no one at all, something happened.
A sudden, surprised shout rang from the side.
Even before Miles heard a sound or discerned the flash of white cloak, what he felt first was the wind rushing into him.
The air was unusual, carrying an unspoken, unfelt connotation. It was no mere breeze, but a chilling whisper on his skin.
To feel the wind is a simple thing, but the clarity of what Miles sensed here was far too much.
‘A powerful gust of wind, roughly two dozen km/h? And judging by the fact that the wind covers my entire right torso, the source should be rather large. A meter and three quarters in vertical length?’
It wasn’t entirely different from an ordinary wind, or that which he had felt when dashing through the rooftops. But the sheer extent of information he garnered from merely the blowing of this wind was staggering, and, hence distracting.
It was almost as if every single air particle was tapping on his skin in warning, as if the wind was entirely biased to him, whispering the secrets of anything that dared to travel through the air.
Then, the wind became agitated, now striking with increasing, frantic fervor.
But so lost was Miles in this novel sense, of seeing through the wind, that before he could comprehend what this actually meant, a powerful force collided into his side.
It was a jarring impact, but one devoid of pain, just making him shift a few steps to the side.
The wind, his senses, the impact, everything left his mind.
Instead, what consumed his attention was the unnatural heat emanating from the object, whatever it was.
It was a familiar yet beckoning warmth, a seductive allure of a forbidden flame, the value only realized after one had grown numb to the sub-zero temperatures of a frozen wasteland.
Thump. Thump.
A beat, a hypnotic pulse born from the very source of the heat, rumbled through that which had crashed into him. It was a sound of absolute enticement, the call of a seductive siren, fanning his yearning for a warmth that he had missed unknowingly.
Miles instinctively knew that the source of the heat was within arm’s reach, having crashed right into him.
So, so, conveniently close.
His head turned, mouth opening instinctively to reveal perfectly ordinary canines that seemed to glint in the neon light…
When it hit him.
The smell.
The overpoweringly rancid stench of rust, leaking from overused and cheap cyber-ware, boiled together with stale sweat, months of what could only be presumed to be an allergy to bathing, piss, and festering flesh.
Whatever strange allure had influenced Miles was kicked in the nuts by this gagging smell, snapping him back to reality.
And the moment he did, his reaction was instantaneous, noticing and grabbing onto the intrusive arm that had dared to prod inside his suit pockets while he had been distracted.
Though the warmth, the body heat, of the potential pickpocket remained tantalizing even to the palm of his hand, the foul smell helped maintain his control.
‘What the hell was that?!’
Miles shook his head, refusing to believe that he would’ve gone through with… that.
Thankfully his anger took precedence, bubbling out from something within him, trumping whatever desire he felt for the enticing heat.
Only now properly looking, the one whose hand he had grabbed, the one who had come crashing into him, the daring pickpocket, turned out to be a reedy, thin man.
He was significantly or very terribly teched-up going by the rancid smell of rust, but not on anywhere obvious, as his skin seemed to be perfectly ordinary on cursory glance.
‘Subdermal or Internal implants then?’
The pickpocket's lips curled into a mildly surprised yet relaxed grin, revealing yellowing teeth coated in cheap gaudy chrome, “Sorry kiddo! My bad, my bad! That glitch brain over there thought it’d be funny to push lil ol’ me into you good folk. Budding white dragons, you know how they are!
Or not? You fellas seem awfully new around these parts, and I hate to say it but this definitely ain’t the time to be seeing the sights of beautiful Yumekuro!”
Zhan Shen laughed out loud, his reaction fitting the response, but entirely at odds with the situation, “I told you, did I not young master? Just some outer city tradition! And with that, this wise elder has won the bet!”
Miles didn’t bother to answer either of them. He… just stared at the gangster in his grip.
That anger that had bubbled from within, was growing, expanding, finally reaching a peaking crescendo.
He did not know what it was, but something that had been silent so far, had awoken, and it was roaring in rage.
VIOLATIO.
The falsehood in the words, the deception lurking behind the pickpocket’s grin, the eyes that dripped with contempt.
Something in Miles’ eyes must’ve spooked the man, because his grin fell apart, crumbling into a forced and ugly thing. His discomfort only grew as he realized that Miles’ grip was molding iron, becoming tighter every second.
The pickpocket began to struggle, trying to escape, “Haha! An accident! An accident! But don’t forget, my fellow dragons here will–”
The man screamed.
Miles' grip had tightened, and the man's arm bulged, red and purple flesh pushed out, deforming like moldable clay due to sheer force. But the fact that the limb continued to remain intact, revealed the source of his Cyberware.
A skeletal enhancement.
Helped with durability, not much with the pain.
“L-Let go! FUCK! LET GO YOU CORPO RAT!”
The gangsters in the street began to react, finally noticing that something was wrong.
Miles cared for none of it, for all he knew was the blazing rage that consumed him.
He could feel it.
From the one in his grasp, from the ones that surrounded him.
An overwhelming feeling of wrongness.
Being considered prey, by… PREY!
Miles’ lips curled into a snarl, and the next thing he knew, his other hand had grabbed the man’s fist, and…
Simply bent, bringing them together.
There was no crack of the bones, no sudden break or easy pain, because whatever was inside this man’s bones was inorganic.
Dirty black blood, polluted and poisoned by whatever lesser faery alloy had been used, splattered like vomit onto the streets below.
The cyber-tech bone sparked and spluttered, burning flesh and skin.
The alloy must have been trash, and the enhancement job even trashier, if it had bent so easily under Miles’ rage fueled by not even 20 Strength points.
Either way, what had once been a single arm, was now a deformed oval, where fist touched the elbow.
And the man screamed like a banshee.
He collapsed onto his knees, howling, grasping at what remained of his now loop of an arm.
The pickpockets sobbing howls pulled Miles out of the rage that had overwhelmed him.
The emotion still threatened to bubble out, but it was now satiated, at least partially.
He let out a breath, one he had not even known he had been holding and stared at his two hands.
Two hands now marred by congealed black blood, and yet with blood pumping through, despite the deathly still heart.
But where there had been hope and confidence, now there was a modicum of doubt.
‘W-What was that? Did I lose control of myself?’
The screams of pure agony hammered down on his thoughts, echoing through the streets akin to a blaring alarm, rousing and awakening every single street gangster to their feet.