Chapter 3 : Get Started

This mask hides a body that doesn’t age.
Immortality is a gift, sure, but it makes me a prime target for corporations.
A body that doesn’t grow old, wielding world-shaking power—if an individual has that, every group out there would hunt me down.
Without this “strength,” I’d have been nabbed in a heartbeat, turned into a lab rat.

No matter who comes at me, I’m not afraid of losing.
But getting jumped while taking a dump, waking up in some random place, every human approaching with an agenda—this maddening reality greets me like it’s only natural.
So I hide my identity, my appearance, my very self.

Lucky for me, the corporations don’t want a lone figure who could topple their system exposed to the world.
By some coincidence, our interests aligned, and my existence was swiftly erased from public view.
Whispers remain—where to find the White Old Man, how he grants power, takes jobs—urban legends, nothing more.
The only truth? I do take jobs.
A few know I exist, but to mercs, I’m just a myth, like Morgan Blackhand.
The difference? I’m a rumor that might not even be real. Or maybe I am.

“Gulp”
“Should we chase him?”
“Only if you’re dying to die.”

To some, I’m just a weirdo in an old man’s mask, a cultist obsessed with ghost stories.
But they saw, heard, felt what I did here.
Yet even this chaos can be erased with a corporate word or a news broadcast.
Like I’m a ghost.
That’s the world, the masses, the corporations.
No complaints—I’m fine with it.
Attention’s fun once or twice, but after decades, it’s just a hassle.

Getting hyped about landing in a cyberpunk world, drunk on power and running wild—that got old fast.
In a bout of boredom, I once thought about trying cyberware just for kicks.
For someone who’s lived a normal life, chopping off limbs for machines sounds insane, but curiosity tempted me to try an implant.
Then I saw my skin shrug off a laser blade without a scratch, and I gave up.
This body doesn’t get drunk, doesn’t get high—just buffs and debuffs applied like a game.
If you’re not sick of a world screaming its absurdity, maybe you’re the psycho.

At the center of this unfair world, where game and reality twist together, I look at the NCPD with endless boredom and calm, my distorted voice sounding like an old man’s.

With a flick of my hand, I toss back the mangled pile of machinery.
No trace of organs—just oil-soaked metal mixed with scraps of skin.
It’s not a warning, just a fact.
Chase me, bother me, and you’ll end up as scrap in an instant.

A warning to the world, a carved proverb.
One of many, tied to the enigma of my identity, floating like a ghost story.

They say, follow the Old Man, and it’s over.

“Don’t forget.”

How the world sees me.

“Don’t chase.”

My existence. What I am.
It’s just a hassle.

“Forget.”

Who I am. That I was ever here.

I turn and head for the motorcycle.
I hop on a bike like any other, leaving as if nothing happened.
My job’s done.
The stench of oil and blood swirls in the wind, brushing past my head.
Makes me wanna puke.

“Job’s done clean, huh? Well, no surprise there.”

I snort at the voice coming through the screen, not hiding the awkward grin behind the White Old Man’s mask.
As always, the job ends with the sweet sound of payment, and I can’t help but admire the fixer’s skill.

“No issues, as usual. Send the cash to the usual account. This much should do.”
“That’s… reasonable. You sure you’re okay, though?”

I send the account and amount through the device.
The voice on the other end carries concern—not for my safety, but for side issues.

“They cover up my rampages just fine. Works for me. Just don’t spread rumors—I don’t need the hassle.”
“Hah, obviously. I’m not dumb enough to cross a fixer as good as you. I’ll call again, so pick up on time.”
“Hanging up, hag.”
“Look who’s talking, old geezer. Same as ever.”

I close the device and head somewhere no one comes.
Plenty of human-like figures pass by, but none care about the masked weirdo.
A job with no profit? Just some oddball obsessed with occult nonsense.
Times like this, the cold indifference of this harsh society shines.

A world where money is the ultimate value, where corporations pulling its strings rule.
The extreme end of a capitalist dystopia.
That’s my reality.
The only thing remotely beautiful is the fading sunset, and that’s a damn shame.

Brrring—

Just finished a job, and another call already?
I earn money, but no time to spend it with these constant calls.

“What, Rogue? We just hung up.”
“Sorry, but it’s another job, right away.”

F*cking hell.
My body’s tough, but my mind’s wearing thin.
The constant sighing lately isn’t just my imagination.

“F*ck—fine, what’s the job?”
“Cyberpsycho. Ex-soldier this time.”
“Goddamn, feels like one pops up every day of the week.”
“Social phenomenon, I guess. You in?”
“…Only ‘cause it’s you.”
“Haha, thanks.”

Turning down a job from a fixer this big?
I’d end up with no work, forgotten.
Rogue knows it, hence the confidence.
She’s changed a lot, but that cautious, cunning streak remains.

“Target?”
“James Norris. Former soldier, now just a cyberpsycho.”
“Location?”
“Santo Domingo, Arroyo, main road.”
“Situation?”
“Worse than last time. No clue what he did, but MaxTac’s struggling.”
“Every damn one’s a sh*tshow. Hanging up.”
“Good luck. Oh, leave the body—”

A cyberpsycho overpowering MaxTac?
What, is Adam Smasher going berserk or something?
Even a full-machine body shouldn’t stand a chance against MaxTac, the pinnacle of force.
For him to pull that off—it’s impressive.
No day without stress in this sh*tty city, and I’m almost impressed by how fitting it is.

Frustration bubbling, I pull out a cigarette and bite down hard.
Thick, heavy smoke fills my lungs, then escapes, cold air sharpening my mind.

I scratch my head and look up at a sky turning black.

“No one mentioned this guy’s got an EMP.”
“And no one said he doesn’t.”
“Shut it, you’re full of sh*t.”

Even as NCPD, old cyberpsycho habits die hard.
Naturally, their minds burn with the same madness, itching to slaughter.
They have to.
But this time, MaxTac’s filled with irritation, anger, and a touch of annoyance.
Bullets whizzing overhead don’t spark fear—not a trace.

As former cyberpsychos, their bodies are mostly machines.
An EMP is their kryptonite, the deadliest kind.
One graze, and the machinery driving them shuts down.
In a situation like this, they know better than anyone it means death.

“So, backup?”
“Called it, top priority.”

Yet, no fear in them.
Sure, being ex-psychos plays a part, but that’s not the main reason.
It’s coming—soon.
A tactical nuke, a human disaster in all but name.

And it lands true.

BOOM—!

A sound beyond any bomb, a massive vibration kicking up thick smoke.
Something with impossible mass emerges from the dust, its form slowly taking shape.

“Let’s wrap this up quick. I’ve got a classic Tom and Jerry marathon waiting.”

The playful tone and quip, so out of place in a fight, don’t faze anyone.
But the fear of death, invisible moments ago, now spreads thickly through the air.