The radio coughed up static like a drowning rat, then Stan's voice sliced through, sugar-coated with the kind of cheer that only comes from a cocktail of stimulants and terminal optimism.
"Good morning, Night City! Stan 'The Man' here, live from the bleeding edge of your collective downward spiral. Let's kick things off with yesterday's highlight reel: a whopping four fatalities! Applause break—and let's take a moment to thank our ever-diligent NCPD for keeping this week's casualty count in the single digits. Bravo, officers! Who knew 'strategic disengagement' could be such a public relations miracle? Now, place your bets: Will today's top story be Maelstrom's avant-garde urban renewal or a Valentino siesta gone ballistic? Stay tuned!"
A wet cough crackled through the speakers, followed by the unmistakable ping of someone spitting into a metal bucket.
"In Watson, Maelstrom's latest 'community outreach' involved redecorating Kabukicho with hypervelocity polka dots. So avant-garde. Meanwhile, the Valentinos swapped their usual Día de los Muertos fiesta for a thrilling game of 'Neural Jenga' And Pacifica? Well, City Hall's 'Peacekeeper of the Month' award is now a certified mold incubator. Mushroom farming: the only growth industry this city's got left!"
The broadcast glitched into Trauma Team's cheap-ass jingle—"BRONZE TIER: WE'LL MAYBE SHOW UP BEFORE THE SCAVS DO!"—before Carl's consciousness crashed back into his skull like a botched quickhack.
Battery acid. Rancid soy-paste. The taste clung to his tongue like a bad BD memory. His cheek peeled off something warm and sticky with a sound like tape ripping off a wound. Above him, a dying neon sign spat:
~~LUCKY~~ UCKY DRAG
The missing letters glittered in the trash like broken glass in a gutter, mixed with takeout containers and spent hyposprays.
"Christ. My fuckin' head."
Every blink drove white-hot nails through his skull. The world resolved into a migraine's wet dream—strobing holograms, flickering LEDs, a Joytoy avatar blowing him a kiss before morphing into an ad:
"NUSA-APPROVED COMBAT ANTIDEPRESSANTS!
FOR WHEN THE WAR IS INSIDE YOU!"
His guts twisted. He was sprawled in a trash alcove on the 47th floor of some megabuilding, legs pinned under the carcass of what might've been a massage bot—if bots came with "vibrating attachments" and a used syringe jammed in its port.
Through the safety rails, the atrium dropped into hell itself—level after level of overcrowded misery. A cacophony of screaming matches, blaring BDs, and the ever-present hum of dying electronics thickened the air like smog.
Movement. A resident strutted by with the swagger of a man who'd traded 60% of his meat for chrome. His pants were less clothing and more structural support, straps straining against the pulsing blue rave in his crotch.
The man caught Carl's stare and grinned, teeth filed to points.
"Like the view, fleshie?"
Carl's mouth moved before his brain booted.
"That thing got a USB port?"
A laugh like a garbage disposal eating a fork.
"Nah, choom. Proprietary Maelstrom shit." He adjusted himself, the LEDs flashing a middle finger emoji, then sauntered off.
Carl stared at the space Neon-Dick McGee had occupied, brain still buffering. Back home, the wildest shit he'd seen was some drunk pissing on an ATM—not a chromed-up freak using his dick as a lightshow.
He hauled himself up, the stench of rancid soy and burnt wiring clinging to him like a bad rep. At the railing, the wind howled as an Arasaka AV screamed past—close enough to see the armor plating under its glossy black finish. The downdraft sent a crumpled energy-drink can skittering like a scared rat.
"Well. Fuck me sideways."
The "flying cars" back home had been glorified golf carts. This thing moved like a panther—all coiled menace and corpo swagger.
At least I didn't wake up in the fucking Warhammer universe, Carl thought, watching the AV vanish behind a tower. Could be getting my balls chewed off by an ork right now.
No UI chime. No glowing waypoints. Just the jackhammer in his skull and truths settling over him like a cheap synth-leather jacket—tight, uncomfortable, reeking of bad decisions.
The piss-puddle at his feet didn't lie. That wide-eyed teenage face staring back—all unmodified flesh and what-the-fuck expression—was undeniably his. Not some braindance glitch. Not a soulkilled ghost. Him. Younger. With a fresh bruise blooming on his jawline like a bad omen.
Above him, a flickering death-lottery ad scrolled the date in blood-red LEDs:
NOV 3, 2075.
The numbers pulsed in time with his headache, etching the year into his skull.
Two-thousand-fucking-seventy-five.
Back when Arasaka Tower still cast its shadow over Night City. Back when the Fourth Corporate War was just another corpo history lesson.
Then—the kicker.
The noodle shop sign across the way. The Korean characters swam, then resolved into perfect English. The Japanese ticker tape under a Trauma Team ad unscrambled mid-sentence. Even the drunken mutters of the junkie pissing on a vending machine snapped into clarity:
"Fuckin'...ripperdoc sold me...kidneys from some...sixth-floor rat..."
Carl pressed fingers to his temple. The translations weren't in his ears—they rewrote themselves in his mind, smooth as a silent ICE hack. His stomach lurched. Of all the superpowers in this chrome-and-gutter world, his brain had downloaded fucking Google Translate with a side of existential dread.
Across the atrium, a wanted poster flickered to life—some chrome-junkie mid-rampage, bounty counter climbing as corpo sponsors tossed eddies into the pot.
No phone. No eddies. No fucking clue why he was here.
But hey—when the bullets started flying, at least he'd understand every last scream.