#actg

Heavy and thick—he can't escape it. It sticks to the roof of his mouth as his eyes open, caramel sweet, optics hardly able to adjust to the dim lighting that surrounds him. All he sees is grey. Grey walls, grey floors, a void pulling him into its depths. That's what this city is, a colorless hell that's been waiting with its maw open wide to swallow him up and never, ever spit him out. Already, he feels consumed. Grinded up by greedy molars and left to rot.

Looking down at himself, Simon sees several tubes that don't belong to him. Flimsy, plastic things pumping nutrients and saline into him lest he waste away on this metal gurney. Without organic materials in his arms, the tubes are placed into his abdomen instead, nettling deep into some vein around his pelvis. When he reaches up to yank them out of him, he realizes he can't move his arms. They're dead weight next to him, deactivated cyberware nearly as useless as the flesh he got rid of long ago.

When he notices his legs are in the same predicament, Simon's head falls with a huff. He can see the vague outline of medical monitors and their coupled hums and beeps, allowing him to put together that this is more than just some simple scav ring yearning to keep him for parts. There's too much care, and not nearly enough blood or loud music.

He tries to put the pieces back together—the series of events that lead him to be where he is now. It's all fractured. TV static and augmented fuzz. If he thinks too hard, he can recall sticky blood on his face, bones beneath his feet, his back aching at the fall. Is this all that's left of him? The scattered remains that mirror his undesirable childhood?

Pneumatic doors hiss as they suddenly slide open, bringing with them enough light to blind Simon before they slam shut. The man who enters isn't the least bit familiar to him. Surprisingly organic—perhaps with the simple optic hidden deep in his skull—he struts through the room with bloody hands, paying Simon no attention as he rinses himself clean at a sink on the far wall.

A ripper. Simon can smell the antiseptic wafting off of him like cologne. It comforts him marginally, but not enough to trust the man who's most likely at fault for leaving him a disabled hunk of metal on a cold table.

"Mornin' doc," Simon greets, not at all friendly and far from sane.

Halfway through drying his hands, Kyle jumps at the beckon of the ghost rotting behind him. Towel clutched against his palms, he spins on his heels to find him exactly where he left him—half naked and motionless—but with his eyes now open and fully seeing him. It's uncanny. Ghosts aren't supposed to wake up.

"Fucking hell," Kyle hisses through his teeth. He regains his composure quickly, continuing to wipe his hands dry before tossing the towel onto the counter. "I took you off of that BD ages ago. Didn't think you'd ever wake up."

Simon's attempt to shrug is stunted by the uselessness of his limbs. "I like to sleep in."

Unimpressed with his blunt joke, Kyle opts to instead get to work. Swivel stool kicking around, he perches next to Simon, eyes focused on monitors, biometrics, scans and readings all beyond Simon's view. He can feel his jaw growing tight, body on edge, neurons frustrated in the way they're misfiring.

The longer Kyle taps away on his tablet, the more Simon's teeth begin to creak. Their cacophonous melody begin to grate on his nerves until his blood is boiling and he can hardly keep himself from lashing out like a rabid beast.

"Gonna tell me why the fuck I'm 'ere?" he demands, voice so severe Kyle nearly flinches.

His eyes rise from the tablet to rest on Simon, fingers hovering just above the faux buttons he was about to press. Instead, it flickers off, screen dying as he places it on a trolley next to a myriad of needles, syringes and bottles. Kyle's elbows rest on his knees, eyes staring at Simon with an uncanny knowledge he doesn't enjoy. His patience is impressive, but Simon always finds himself irritated with men as composed as him.

"What all do you remember from before your… deep sleep?" he asks.

Unimpressed with the way he's answered his question with another, Simon glares. "Can you just cut the shit and tell me what's goin' on?"

If Kyle is slighted by Simon's outburst, he doesn't show it. If anything, he looks relieved as he reaches over to retrieve his tablet once more. After wordlessly swiping along the screen for a few moments, he projects something up on one of the swivel monitors before twisting it for Simon's viewing pleasure.

His optics expand and contract as he focuses on the image on the screen. It's news footage. Annoyingly grainy despite the technology these days, filmed with shaky hands on rocking AVs. There's no audio, but it's easy for Simon to fill in the gaps as the video plays, showcasing electrical sparks and viscera flying through the air while hoards of people flee through the wreckage.

He sees himself—it's uncanny. A top down view of his own body, shoulders hunched over and fists curled as he hurls himself towards an NCPD officer. As he witnesses his own fingers pierce through bone, flesh, and metal as if it were nothing but butter, Simon swears he can still feel the sensation. The filth that even now seems to permeate and rot beneath his finger nails.

Pride swells in his chest. He knows it's wrong, but somehow it feels… good.

There are more videos. Kyle ensures to flip through them all in excruciating detail, showcasing each of Simon's violent crimes. He watches himself flip a car through a building with the help of the implants in his arms and legs while gunfire spits past him, and then next he's barreling through a wall with glass jumping off his shoulders as if it could never dream of piercing him to begin with. His fury knows no bounds. It does not discriminate. Bystanders receive shrapnel hurled at them via his bare hands. A man who attempts to punch him for ramming into his girlfriend is relieved of the use of his arm as he rips it clean from its socket and tosses it into the street. A taxi runs over the limb, leaving a streak of red in its wake.

"Cyberpsychosis. I'm sure you're familiar with the term," Kyle says. He's paused the video on an unfortunate frame of Simon using the Mantis Blade of a MaxTac soldier against herself. "I've been working on you for the last couple of weeks. Or, months now, I reckon. Trying to reverse the effects of your hole punched brain. This is the most lucid you've been in a while."

Simon shakes his head. "I'm not fuckin' crazy."

"Well, maybe not anymore, but those vids weren't doctored up for pure entertainment. You leveled two city blocks like a toddler throwing a tantrum," Kyle refutes with a chuckle. "Besides, you're chromed out, mate. Titanium bones, a pump for a heart—reckon the only parts of you that aren't metal are your brain and cock. You fit the specifications for going barmy."

If it weren't for the absurdity of it all, Simon might just laugh. Instead, he shakes his head, willing his body to move and growling when it ignores him.

"Now what?" he demands. "Went and cured me for fun, did ya, doc?"

"Well, the challenge was fun, but I certainly didn't go out of my way to pull your crazy ass out of a scav hideout of my own volition." Suddenly interested in his monitors again, Kyle turns his attention to a polythene-esque tablet where his eyes focus on numbers. "You have John Price to thank for that."

He says the name as if it's supposed to mean something to Simon. "Who the fuck's that?"

"No one important." Pausing, Kyle shrugs. "Well, important enough for your brother to seek him out and ask him to get you back."

An ancient part of Simon's life comes flooding back to him. Sunlight pouring through church doors, he's nearly blinded with a splitting migraine as images of his brother flash before him. How long has it been since he's last seen him?

In his anamneses, it's raining. Blistering, reeking of ozone and polymethylene—this whole city is covered in it, sordid to the very bone. They were both younger then. Jaded by the world and this city that took everything from them. Thomas's lip was busted, rusty blood soaking down his front. Simon had the matching scrape on his knuckles to connect him to the crime.

He wonders if he's grown any taller.

"Biomon looks good, electrical activity has slowed since pulling you out of the BD, and I'd say you're lucid enough. How about this?" Kyle sets his tablet aside, shoulders curling forward and hands hanging uselessly between his legs. "I'll get you unhooked from these tubes and machines, and get your limbs working again, and we can talk all this over and get some real food in you. Sound good?"

It's the most bullshit Simon's ever heard, but he still nods. "Fine. Been cravin' real fuckin' meat anyway."

Kyle's lips crimp. "You don't say."

At the very least, he's a man true to his word, which Simon can appreciate. He regains control of himself with only minor issue. While synthetic nutrients kept the remnants of his organic self intact, the lack of movement has left him fumbling like a fawn on lubberly legs. Toes digging too far into the floor, he trips with each step, and it's enough to make Kyle chuckle. Though, he's smart enough to silence himself at Simon's deathly glare.

All Kyle has on hand is a pack of EEZYBEEF and some frozen burritos to split between the two of them, and though Simon has a strong disdain for such things, he doesn't fuss as he shoves the slop into his mouth. His burrito is still frozen in the center, and though the EEZYBEEF is seasoned well enough, the knowledge that it isn't the real deal makes his skin crawl. Hairs standing on end, eyes boring through it, like if he stares long enough he can see that viscera once more.

While they feast, Simon is caught up on everything. The damage he caused and how he was sold off for parts only to be thrown into a scrap ring instead. How his brother batted his blonde lashes and begged on his hands and knees for John Price to save him, and the wretched state they found him in when he was pulled from the wreckage of human filth and greed. Then, the braindance. The reversing of his psyche. The gentle cupping and saving of his brain of what they could before it deteriorated beyond recognition.

Before he became a monster.

"Glad it all worked out," Kyle admits. "Would've felt bad if we had to put you down."

Simon huffs. "You always take such an interest in your patients?"

"Nah. But your brother just seemed to pay a good amount of money to save you, and I guess I got a bit of a soft spot for that."

His chewing pauses. Molars melting together, fake meat stuck between his teeth, he can scarcely get himself to swallow before he speaks. "He paid to get me out?"

Kyle shrugs. "Nothing in Night City comes free."

"How much?"

"Dunno mate, I'm just the doctor."

"Can you fuckin' find out?"

Defensive, Kyle raises his hands before swiping the corner of his mouth clean of exxxtra hot sauce. "Easy mate. I'll call him. He'll probably stop by to see you, and I reckon your brother's gonna do the same. You can hash out the details then, just don't go looking at me for anything more than a bandage, alright?"

It's the only thing that comforts him—this promise that the man responsible for saving him and his idiot brother who got him into this mess will soon visit him. Kyle attempts to persuade him into resting on a proper cot, but he refuses. He has to get used to this body again. The weight of the metal in his bones and the sluggish neurons firing in his skull.

Instead, he studies the clinic. Each and every one he's ever visited has looked the same. He supposes that excellence can hardly be perfected upon. Cement or tile floors for easy sanitation, large open spaces to avoid splatters, swivel lights and screaming monitors.

However, they each smell different. It's the true mark of a ripper, in Simon's opinion. He can smell their skill from a mile away based on the gangrene and rot that lingers in the air after they work. Doctors work on the living. Iron and salt, chlorine bleach to kill the gore. Morticians work on the dead. Putrid, rotting flesh. He won't allow a scalpel to touch him in the presence of offensive redolence.

Lucky for him, Kyle Garrick's clinic is the best they come.

Three hours later, John Price arrives with the unceremonious sillage of tobacco clinging to his jacket. He's an interesting man. One that Kyle regards as nothing more than a nuisance in his vicinity. Simon is pacing around the operating room when John first finds him. He eyes the brute with curiosity, eager to see what the butcher of Night City will do now that he's regained his humanity.

"I'll be honest, I didn't think you were going to pull through," John admits. "Was thinking about telling Garrick to pull the plug on you and scrap you."

Simon Riley's stature should terrify him, but it doesn't. He's not the least bit intimidated by the spine implant that peeks out along the back of his neck, widening out at the base of his skull and cutting into his hairline like scraped flesh, nor the uncanny twitch of his fingers as he appreciates the vials of drugs lined up for augmentations in the cabinet in front of him.

Slowly, Simon turns. John is met with piercing blue optics that flicker with memory, an algid flame in the distance, before it sputters and dies into dark ash. Simon's shoulders square, posture tall and baronial—unable to be moved by timid meat.

"Why didn't you?" he asks, both in curiosity and as a challenge.

"I didn't think your brother would appreciate me tossing aside all his hard earned eddies," John deadpans.

Simon steps forward with a hum, heels knocking against the floor, seeming to shake the room even with his bare feet. Somewhere underneath his skin, there's electricity buzzing. It sounds in time with each step, as if every hinge and joint within him as been overwritten by wires and code. "Yeah? How much does the wazzock owe you?"

"I don't discuss client's personal information," John says flippantly, arms crossing over his chest.

"Bullshit, you don't give a shit about your clients."

"No, but I care about what they think about me." His tight lipped grin gets Simon's blood boiling. "Being untrustworthy is bad for business."

A vicious whisper sinks its teeth into Simon's brain stem. Snake venom and honey. It seeps through him until it's swallowed his brain whole, grey matter and all. It's hot. Like fresh metal from fire, or new implants beneath his skin. Once again, he tastes blood, but this time it isn't his own.

A faint memory, a cloudy dream; he'd smile if it didn't make him so angry. He stands there, looking at John Price, thinking about all the ways he could kill him. How slow he could make it. He questions how many bones he could shatter before he'd lose consciousness. How many of his own teeth could he swallow before he pukes them back up?

"If it means that much to you, you can always ask him yourself," John shatters the silence. "I invited him over once Garrick told me you were awake. Figured a brotherly reunion was in order."

As if speaking his name alone was enough to summon him, Simon hears Thomas's voice. It's hushed. Annoyingly polite. Kyle responds with something short, and then there's approaching footsteps. Dress shoes on a floor made for grunts, it sounds out of place. More so, Thomas looks out of place.

Simon tries to recall the exact details of what happened the last time he saw his brother. It didn't end well. Things rarely ever do for the Riley family. He's changed a considerable amount. Thomas looks older—not just in the sense of time passing, but in how heavy the weight of the world has grown on his shoulders. Worry lines and cavernous crows feet. The cut on his lip healed nicely, at least. Simon can't even make out the scar.

"Fuckin' hell," Thomas breathes. Waltzing forward, he adjusts the loose tie around his throat, pale eyes unable to move from his ghost of a brother. "You really are awake."

"Paid good money for it, didn't ya?" Simon bitterly quips. "How much did you cough up?"

Thomas is close enough to properly study now, but Simon is well aware the way his scrutiny is being mirrored. Brothers now strangers, unknown entities to one another, both frustrated and scared within their own rights.

"Fuck's sake, it's been nearly a decade, Simon. A simple I love you or how have you been never hurt anyone," he chastises.

"Not in the fuckin' mood for this, Tom, how fuckin' much? How much money?" Simon demands, unmoving.

"Enough to save your arse," Thomas says bitterly. His fingers curl into his palms before his hands raise to his face, running through his hair, messing up the strands that were hardly holding together to begin with. "I told you this was gonna happen. Christ's sake, I hardly even recognize you. You just had to keep doing it, didn't you? Go under the knife so you could pretend to be in control, now you've turned yourself into some freak."

Simon nearly rolls his eyes. "I don't need you fussin' over me."

"Obviously you do, because if I hadn't, you'd still be a mindless half-borg prick fighting for the entertainment of the scavs who klepped your body!"

Seemingly entertained with the conversation unfolding before him, John sneaks a cigar out of his pocket before shoving it between his teeth. He knows better than to ignite it, but it doesn't stop him from sucking out the flavor as his stance widens. He looks ready for a game. Ready for blood.

"I never asked you to do anythin' stupid like that," Simon grunts.

"Well I did it anyway. Wanna know why?" Thomas steps closer. His height doesn't measure up to his behemoth of a brother, but he doesn't shy away from the challenge. "Because you're my brother. Because I love you."

Thomas's mawkish words leave Simon feeling nauseous. Before he can spew anymore vitriol, he turns to find John instead who appears to be sickeningly content with the conversation unfolding before him. "How much does he owe you."

Before John can reply, Thomas is grabbing his shoulder in an attempt to pull him back. "Don't answer that."

Shouldering him off, Simon doubles down. "I'll work for ya. I'll pay back double what he paid you to do this job. That's what you do, yeah? Pick up jobs? You've seen what I can do, 'n it's not like I can go back to a normal life anyway after what I did. I'll pay Tom's share back and more."

It's an easy answer for John. Brows raising, his chuckle fills the room with smoke as he removes his unlit cigar from his mouth. There's a plea written on Thomas's face that nearly makes him reconsider.

Nearly.

"Deal."

Protest erupts from Thomas like a sputtering volcano, magma flings into the air, fumes suffocating his own vocal cords. Simon proves he isn't afraid of the burn as his fingers curl into Thomas's shirt, silk threads groaning at the pressure, threatening to rip as Simon spins him around until his legs are crashing against the operating table.

Simon's blood sings. A choir buzzes in his bones as a familiar sensation washes over him like his mother's kiss after a long day of work. A flicker of fear illuminates Thomas's eyes for a split moment before he's smothering it and wrapping his fingers around Simon's wrists. The two brothers stare at one another, now merely pale imitations of their past selves.

"The fuck are you doing?" Thomas demands.

"I don't need you savin' me. Don't need some fuckin' babysitter. I told you to fuck off 'n leave me alone. Stop tryin' to fuck up your life to save mine," Simon seethes between clenched teeth.

Something shuffles behind him, sending Simon's guard spiraling. He glances over his shoulder to find John chuckling as he slinks out of the operating room, seemingly content with what he's earned from the whole fiasco. Thomas uses this moment of weakness to his advantage and shoves Simon's arms to the side.

"I tell Joey 'bout you all the time," he shares.

Brows furrowing, Simon shakes his head. "Who the fuck's that?"

"Your nephew. You'd know that if you ever checked your fuckin' messages. That's the life that's waitin' for you, Simon. A real life. There's more to it than suffering for pain's sake."

With that, Thomas seems done. He turns on his heel, dress shoes clacking on the floor like gunshots echoing in shattered memory. Before he reaches the door to leave the operating room, he pauses. A slender finger points at Simon as if it were a knife.

"I'm not giving up on you." His lips start to puff out, frustration pricking the corner of his eyes until they're bright red. "You might be ready to throw your life away, but I'm still here, Simon."

With that, his brother leaves. Everything is quiet except for the faint conversation in the room next over—a few choice words by Thomas, chuckles of indifference from John Price—and Simon can finally think. He mulls over his choices and the way flesh feels beneath his fingers. He knows he's made the right decision. Cyberpsychos are hardly able to re-assimilate back into normal life, and he's never been a family man, anyway.

Huffing, he returns to the cabinet full of medicine. There's nothing but a thin pane of glass that separates him from the bottles. On the surface, he can see his reflection. His father's eyes stare back at him.

Without hesitation, he shatters the glass. Deep down, he knows that anything that bears a semblance of his father doesn't deserve to live—himself included.

It's a bad party trick that gets him strange looks. He always chalks it up to the optic implants he has shoved in the dark sockets of his skull, mutters something about never wanting to forget anyone. He's got a database of faces and names to go with them, connotations he can't ever truly wash away, all easily accessible with a simple thought to retrieve them. Really, he could memorize every face on brain power alone. A snapshot frozen in his psyche. All mushy flesh and neurons. Normal people call him paranoid. Paranoid people call him smart.

It's how he knows to be wary of the face approaching him through the haze of stumbling drunks and the smoke of the cigar he puffs away on like Black Lace is too good for him. The kid walks through the room with squared shoulders, towering over most with shining shoes and a half done tie around his neck that might as well be a noose; he stands out like shattered glass in the sand—a hardly refined version of the trash that surrounds him.

Corpo. John once used to worry about them. Now he realizes they're just a little higher on the pecking order with a lot more height to lose before the noose snaps tight around their neck.

Before he's even approached the table, John has pinned a name to the heavy eye bags and tight fists that march his way. Thomas Riley. He knows for a fact he's never met the kid before, but he recognizes that tight jaw and curled fists somewhere. It's filed back in his mind in the section that makes his stomach churn with unease. He can't quite retrieve it yet, but he knows it'll bubble up when it needs to.

"John Price?" He stands so far from the edge of his private booth that John can hardly hear him over the pulsing music, even with his augmented hearing.

"Thomas Riley." The kid's mouth opens as if to question John's knowledge of his name, but being the clever boy that he is, he stays quiet. "Well? Just gonna stand there 'til you piss your pants? Little corpo-rat too afraid to play with the grunts?"

He doesn't flinch at the verbal abuse. People who do don't often last long around here. Calmly, Thomas slides into the booth, ensuring he's chosen the side furthest from John. "Just Tommy is fine."

"Alright, Thomas," John says, clearly uninterested in familiarities. "Spill."

John flicks the ash of his cigar onto the table, not caring about the warped finish staining black with soot. He owns the place—Terminus. The end of the line. For many people, it nearly is. As if he's very well aware of this, Thomas lets out a shaky breath as his head falls, exhaustion peeking through the hard exterior he attempts to fabricate.

"I need a favor," he admits bluntly.

"Hmm, sorry kid," John hums. "I don't do favors."

Thomas reaches his fingers into the breast pocket of his vest. His movements slow at John's curious brow raise. He reveals a chip—a small slip of plastic perfect for a neural port. "Do you do business?"

Cocking his head to the side, John bites into the filter of his cigar. "For the right price."

"Doesn't everyone?"

Cautiously, Thomas taps the corner of the chip against the tabletop like a dealer with a deck of cards. His tongue rolls in his mouth like he's shaping the words he wants to say out of clay and he can't swallow the slip down. Sculpting something that will get the infamous John Price to bite.

"I need help saving my brother," he finally admits.

Unsure if this revelation is supposed to make him feel sorry, John only laughs. "Too much of a wuss to do it yourself?"

"Too smart to do it on my own," Thomas corrects. His hand stills, chip pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "About a month ago, my brother was dispatched by NCPD. Thought he was dead, but it turns out they sold him off to scavs. I wanna get him back home."

Having smoked his cigar to the end of the filter, John presses the smouldering remains into the tabletop. "If he was sold to scavs, I'm afraid there's only bits and pieces of him to save. If he's not already shoved inside of someone else, anyway."

"He's alive, and in one piece," Thomas assures. "They're using him as a dog to gamble on. Forcing him up against others to fight to the near death like some fuckin' animal. I need to get him out of there before he gets killed."

This description of humans being pitted against one another brings an odd vision into John's mind. He sees a concrete coliseum with glowing optics focused on machine-made men. Big brutes of metal and iron, wires for veins and synthetic neural links for brains.

Cyberpsychos, they're called. People who have forsaken their flesh for the comfort of computers, replacing their hearts with CPU's and limbs with hydrologically powered joints until they go insane. Unsure where the machine ends and they begin, they renounce humanity and turn violent—not in control of their actions.

It's only then that John realizes just who Thomas really is.

"Fucking hell. You're Simon Riley's brother."

All it takes is Thomas's gaze to fall for John to know he's right. That's why the kid looks so familiar—he's related to the most dangerous cyberpsycho Night City has seen in years. Standing off with MaxTac, he destroyed a whole city block in the mere days it took the tactical force to put him down. His face was all over the news, every billboard, every watch list. Blue-eyed optics and blood slathered skin. Everyone knows that face. Everyone fears that name.

He's been gone for a month but the scars still remain on the city. Craters where people used to stand. Empty buildings gutted of occupants. Even now, John can still hear that bitter cackle drowning in ichor. Simon Riley was more than a cyberpsycho—he was a monster. A bitter amalgamation of human and machine that never should have been created. Proof that whatever god there is has truly turned their back on the world.

"The only way to save your brother is by putting him out of his misery," John says bluntly.

"That's what I'm trying to do. Non-lethally putting him out of his misery by saving him from those freaks," Thomas clarifies.

"I think you'll be better off with a bullet for that one," John chuckles sourly.

This is getting to him. John can tell by the way Thomas grits his teeth and his fingers run through greasy blond locks. Corpos always have a way of coming out on top, but John knows he's nothing more than a chained rat. Rat kings can often do little else but grovel.

"Look, these scavs, they've found a way to sedate cyberpsychos. Dunno if they're shutting off his cyberware or what, but they keep them off only to wake them up when they're wanting to fight. Rinse and repeat. You go in when they've got him deactivated, it'll be easy lugging him out of there."

"And you know this how?" John asks, palms up on the table with raised brows.

Pausing, Thomas looks down at the chip in his hand before sliding it across the table. It's a datashard, he realizes. Perfect for sliding into his neuroport like the bastard isn't trying to kill him.

"I've been there," Thomas reveals.

It'd be a lie to say curiosity isn't gnawing at the tips of John's fingers. He eyes the datashard, weighs his options, then decides to take it when he reasons that his firewalls are stronger than anything this kid could ever throw at him.

Without any further hesitation, John slots in the shard into the side of his skull. His vision flickers as his optics read the data, swallowing his sight with something new—a video. The editing is obvious. Thomas has removed the fluffy bits, the walking and talking of his memory, gotten down to the nitty gritty of what a scav den is really like. Crumbling cement, rusted iron, and an empty swimming pool.

Inside of it, just beyond the wired cage that keeps the mutts separated from the men, he sees Simon Riley. He doesn't look much better in Thomas's video than he did in the news. Wide eyes, toothy grin, and built up with cyberware like the Tower of Babel—precarious and ready to collapse. His limbs are not his own, joints marked with metal hinges, iron carving deep into what was once flesh, the bulk of his muscle filling out. If he didn't know any better, John would almost believe he was a Maelstrom lackey, but his face is still too human.

The video warps, and Simon is straddling a man, bulky shoulders flexing with synthetic flesh as he raises his fists in the air and brings it down on the unsuspecting nose of his opponent. Deafening cheers erupt from the crowd as Simon brings his fists down over and over again, blood splattering as his face caves in, a hole where a mouth once resided. The only thing louder than the crowd is Simon Riley—laughter cutting through the noise like a knife, ichor turning his teeth pink with gore.

Then, it's as if a switch is flipped. Unforgiving blue optics flicker, then power down. His arms become useless, his legs go stiff, and then he falls. Goliath taken out by a pebble, Simon lands on his side, seizing and sputtering with the memory of a smile on his lips. The crowd whines. Even those who have won the gamble are upset their show is cut short.

With the datashard spent for all it's worth, the video cuts and John is left looking at the tense face fo Thomas Riley. Humming, he presses against his neuroport and tosses the still warm shard across the table where it clatters through ash and grime.

Thomas doesn't know it, but the video is good. Useful, anyway. Even edited, he can mark several weaknesses in the building. Nothing a few quickhacks and a brute of his own couldn't solve. Scavs aren't exactly well known for their security and wits, after all.

"So?" Thomas asks, patience wearing thin.

Taking his time, John sucks in a deep breath through his nose before rolling his hips along the faux leather upholstery of the booth, scapulas hitting the cushion at his back as he rolls his shoulders. "I think this is the stupidest job anyone's ever given me, Fixer or otherwise."

"I thought John Price could get any job done," Thomas eggs.

A dangerous glint flickers in John's eyes, and it worsens as his optics hum with a dull glow as he leans forward. "So I go in and save this psycho brother of yours, then what? Gonna let him free? Let him eat the other half of Night City?"

"Already ahead of you," Thomas says, nearly gloating. "Pulled a few favors and got a braindance from MaxTac fitted with a cyberpsychologist. A few weeks in there should get him to be less machine and more human."

"Should," John repeats. Thomas's lips grow tight, and the lines in his face are only growing deeper the further the conversation wanders. Deciding to cut the kid a break, John taps his fingers on the table with a sigh. "You good for the eddies?"

This is where Thomas begins to crack. The shiny exterior of being a corpo begins to flake away, gilded suit revealing itself for the tattered remains it truly is. "Not… not exactly."

John's scoff comes with a chuckle. "Taking the piss, you are."

"I can make payments," he insists.

"I'm not running a fucking charity."

"Okay, look, look." Thomas is begging now. Hands up as if asking for forgiveness, head shaking as if it's on a swivel. "I can make payments. I can. You'll still get your money. Fuck, I'll even do it with interest, but come on. Are you gonna wait for these scavs to fuck up and set him lose again?"

Raising his brows, John hums. "Trying to tug on my heartstrings?"

"I figured anyone could with enough eddies."

John thinks for a long, long while. Long enough to make Thomas squirm in his seat, hands fighting with the cloth of his pants. Then, he nods. Fingers running over his facial hair, he scratches an itch on the side of his face.

"The mere moment I think this brother of yours is going haywire, more than he already is, I'm putting a bullet in that metal skull of his. Least that way you'll have a body to bury," John says as his final stipulation.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you gotta do," Thomas bitterly agrees.

"Good. We've got ourselves a deal then." Finally over with the worst of it, John slaps his hands against the table as he stands up. The metal implants in his fingers coil for a short moment just to stretch out as if they're upset at the lack of bloodshed this deal offered. As he walks off, he pats the side of Thomas's shoulder, but there isn't an ounce of friendliness to be found in it. "Your arse is mine for the next two years, Thomas."

The legend himself wanders off, and Thomas is left alone in the booth. His persona begins to crumble, shoulders slouching forward, head leaning back against the seat. He presses his hand over his eyes, middle finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose as he huffs.

"Beth's gonna kill me."

It took Jesus Christ three days to rise from the dead, but John Price feels nothing like a false god performing miracles during the three days it takes for him to prepare for the single most absurd job he's ever agreed to take.

On the first day, he sleeps. It's a long slumber aided by automatic blinds that block out the sun's harsh rays and the city's even harsher neon signs, as well as a couple of beers which rot on the floor by the foot of his bed. Whenever he closes his eyes, all he can see is that metal monster with his crooked nose and snarling grin. He is a dog. A mutt gone feral waiting for the bullet that will put him out of his misery sooner or later. He curses his quiet liking of kicked puppies.

On the second day, he fucks. Pretty little corpo thing, all glitter and guts—Aelin Gilroy. It's a secret arrangement that keeps the two of them on edge, tip-toeing around hotels, scrubbing camera footage, and keeping moans to a minimum. He traces her spinal implant with his middle finger while he's got her face first into the mattress, blonde hair a mess as she paws at the sheets that smell vaguely like the sweat of the last couple who growled the ways animals do. The nape of her neck, all the way down to her tailbone. The implant saved her life and allowed her to use her natural legs after an AV accident nearly killed her and her father in a failed assassination attempt of NCPD's commander and chief. That's the red tape keeping them apart. Princess and pauper left to rot as nothing more than a fairytale.

Then, on the third day, he plans. Datashard replaying in his neuroport, he marks points of entry, weaknesses, firepower. Scavs are dangerous in their brutalism and cruelty—wicked butchers of metal—but they lack the sharp edge that mercenaries hone. They've never had to bite for their food, or gouge out eyes to swallow. No more than anyone else in Night City has. They don't know how to erase scars, to kill for the thrill, to own the ace up every sleeve.

John's preferred gun for hire accepts the job remarkably fast. It's what he's good at and enjoys doing, as the street name Soap suggests. Cleans house until it's sparkling like the tallest Arasaka buildings. All it takes is a quick phone call—the man's out of breath, giving short answers, yet purring like he usually does at the idea of quick eddies and interesting work. In the background, he can hear Soap's favorite joytoy cooing in his ear. The kid might pretend like he isn't head over heels for the girl, but there isn't any amount of money he isn't willing to spend for a quick get away with her.

Sweet girl, pure sugar rotting in the streets, Soap says. Always buzzing around like a bee needing to stick to some honey. John reminds him to make sure he doesn't get stung.

By the end of the week, the two men find themselves in front of the location Thomas provided them with—an old pool house that hasn't seen a proper polish in the last five decades, give or take. It doesn't pulse like it did in the video. People aren't packed like sardines with paper cash crushed in their hands begging for their lucky day. It's quiet. The building rots in the filth of Night City without so much as a sputtering breath.

Getting in is easy. Soap disables cameras with a single thought—malware, upload, execute. Each time he runs a command to unlock a tricky door or brick a faulty turret, the cyberware along the shaved sides of his skull flashes aqua, as if he's got blue blood running through his veins.

Long hallways twist and turn like a labyrinth, each wall reeking of old chlorine and blood. In some rooms, there are bodies. Old dolls that got played with a little too hard hang from meat hooks, heads cracked open, optics gouged from their eyes, limbs missing, blood splattering the ground as if trying to paint the floor red. The only discrimination these poor souls receive are based on their cyberware—scavs will take in anything that makes them money.

They find Simon Riley in a storage crate with nothing holding him back besides flimsy doors and a chained padlock he could shatter with one nasty look—the very same one he gives John and Soap as they enter.

Dark eyes stare the two men down from where Simon sits on the floor, back against the wall, chin touching his chest due to the awkward angle. Leaden limbs lie around his torso, useless hunks of mass seemingly magnetized to the ground. They're impressive things. Faux skin so lifelike John would believe it was his own if it weren't for the obvious joint lines glaring at him. Shirtless, his chest is free to display the way they tenderly burrow into his body, deep enough to root and fester where they can only be excised with dull teeth; the same kind of teeth he flashes as he snarls at John and Soap.

"Meat." His voice is hoarse—soft with the pressure on his larynx. "Nothin' but meat."

"Creepy fucker," Soap mutters.

Simon attempts to move, and it's enough to throw Soap on edge. Fingers twitching for the gun at his hip, eyes ready to burn him alive from the inside out, but the once great terrorizer of Night City can only throw his head forward and then back again, skull echoing dully off the wall. He growls, then laughs that same eerie cackle that has haunted John each time he replays the vid Thomas gave him.

There's something different about him. Pathetic, even. He reeks of body odor and stale sweat mixed with the sour tinge of iron. Dark hair sticks to his forehead where poorly washed blood keeps it glued—he's skinnier. Eating less. The bulk of his implants are the only thing keeping his mass, but John notes the way his skin pulls tight around it.

"Stupid fuckin' meat. Gotta shred it. Gonna shred you."

"Ah, they've got a neuroblocker," Soap concludes, hands relaxing once he's finished with his preliminary scans. "Crafty shit. Arms and legs are all cyberware, so they shut it off."

"Good. Makes things easy," John hums.

Eyes narrowing, Soap gestures to the muttering mess of a man. "Easy? We still gotta lug this big bastard out of here!"

Nonchalant, John digs a cigar out of his pocket. He chews on the filter, but doesn't light it. "Thought I hired you for a dance? Get on with it."

Ten minutes of pure hell is all Soap has to endure, but it only takes two for him to start complaining. Huffing and puffing, his knee joints audibly strain trying to lug the cyberpsycho out of his prison. Simon Riley is considerably bigger than him in all aspects. Bare feet scrape through filth behind him, and through the entire slog he can mutter nothing more than the word meat into Soap's ear over and over again.

When they finally extract him to the AV, Soap tosses him to the floor where he rocks the vehicle with his weight. Simon laughs at the pain, dark eyes brimming with fire.

"Stupid fuckin' meat!" he howls, spit flying out between his teeth. "Gonna get a taste of it!"

"Fucker'll alert the whole city if we don't leave soon," Soap notes.

Unbothered, John loads himself into his seat and impatiently motions for Soap to follow him. The door hisses shut behind him before the vehicle lifts into the air, effectively silencing the cyberpsycho's rambling. Soap can't help but stare at where the squirming pile of metal writhes at his feet, disgust seeping into the back of his throat.

"Crazy to think some sod wants this psycho back," he muses. "Bastard's gotta be half crazy himself."

Finally, John allows himself to light his sweet treat. Smoke fills the AV where it swirls in the airtight container, nicotine buzzing through the organic parts of him, slithering all the way to his fingers until they stop twitching. Soap breathes deeply, spine settling back against his seat while Simon's teeth click against each other.

"I'm taking him to Garrick," John shares.

Soap raises his brows. "He's good, but I don't think anyone can fix the insane."

"Client doesn't need to know that," John shrugs. "If worse comes to worse, we'll scrap him. Make our money back that way."

"Meat." Once more, their unwilling company interrupts their conversation. Both men look down at Simon where he hits the side of his head on the floor, eyes locked onto John. "Stupid fuckin' meat."

For the entirety of the ride to Kyle Garrick's clinic, Simon mutters this sentiment over and over again. The mumbling grinds on John's nerves. An ice pick to the ear canal. Too-warm wires sliding beneath his skin, nettling deep, cauterizing the better parts of him. Still, he can't get himself to look away from this man-turned-creature that lies at his feet, helpless to do anything but curse humanity and all the flesh and blood that resides in it.

Beneath the layers of it all—faux skin, metal bones, synthetic heart—he sees the pain. It collects in the foam on the corners of his mouth and dribbles onto the floor by his face. Something fights. He's staring at a man cleaved in two; the pitiful bifurcation of humanity.

Once again, Soap is stuck with the flashy job of lugging a cyberpsycho around like a purse from the landing pad down several flights of stairs until they reach Kyle's clinic in the mid-gullet of Terminus; an old dance club turned sour by the stench of mercs and fixers hanging around the joint. He's found tinkering with something at his desk beneath neon signs while music quietly plays on a speaker—an old analog wristwatch. It's gutted, gears splayed out in ascending order of size. A cotton swab brushes at the gentle interior of its face, yellowed-white turning into pristine ivory.

It's not the insane mutterings of a mad man that catches his attention, but the sound of a body hitting the operation chair that prompts Kyle to look up from his work. He stretches his legs out, chair pushing away from his desk as he crosses his arms, curiously eyeing the new patient bequeathed to him.

"Are we ripping this one apart?" he asks.

John is tempted to praise Kyle for his astuteness, but he guesses anyone would be able to take one look at Simon Riley and see the unstable insanity that resides within that thick skull of his. "Our client would prefer if you put him back together."

Chuckling, Kyle stands, clearly under the impression that this is a joke. When John doesn't join in, his arms only tighten around his torso. "Do I look like a miracle worker?"

"No, you look like the best ripperdoc I know. Unless I'm mistaken?" John challenges.

Kyle's lips roll together and his arms fall to his sides with a huff. For a ripperdoc, he has a severe lack of cyberware. The only trace that can be found are the optics hidden in his eyes and the nerve stabilizers in his dominant hand. He says he got it for work—doctors need to have a steady hand, after all—but simultaneously boasts about not truly needing it. Just something to calm the shakes his patients get at a fleshy doctor.

Deep breath in, then harsh exhale. "What do you have for me?" he asks.

"Thought you'd never ask." Slipping his hand into his pocket, John retrieves the braindance program that Thomas claims will magically fix his brother. "The scavs we got him from have deactivated his limbs, so the bastard shouldn't be an issue. I need you to keep him healthy, non-combative, and on task while this plays out."

For a moment, all John gets in response is an incredulous raise of Kyle's brows. "This is MaxTac shit, isn't it? Price, a psychoshrink isn't gonna fix someone this far gone. This is Simon fucking Riley we're talking about, isn't it? Didn't this prick get caught like a month ago? Maybe two? This BD might fix someone who's freshly converted, but not someone like him."

Sighing, John rubs at his eyes, fingers pinching the BD chip impatiently. "I'm not asking for your opinion here, Garrick. This is a yes or no proposition. Either you say yes or I find someone else."

The snap in John's tone is enough to make even Soap hum. Suddenly, he seems more interested in the insane mumblings Simon Riley spews than he does eavesdropping.

"Alright. Fine. Yeah, whatever you want." Kyle swipes the chip out of John's hand before wandering off to find the necessary tools. "No, it's fine, what do I know, I'm only a fuckin' doctor."

Setting up the braindance feels like loading a weapon, but instead of using it to dispatch Simon, Kyle's using it to arm him. There's a ticking time bomb sitting in the middle of his clinic, muttering about flesh beneath the harsh operation lights. He sets up the wreath—an electronic crown to wrap around his head—and he notes the redness that webs throughout Simon's eyes. There is deep repressed anger lurking beneath the layers of this monster. An unspeakable pain that Kyle is too smart to attempt to name.

Wordlessly, he dresses Simon in the BD wreath, wary of his snarling. Bright rectangular lights illuminate towards his eyes, and then—

—Everything is white.

Pristine. Sterile. Simon squints through the haze as his eyes focus on the glitching that swarms his vision. Colorful fractals build and solidify into objects; walls with impressionistic paintings, a desk that looks like real wood, a chair, and a woman. Her skin is golden, touched by Midas himself, but the metal breathes life as she smiles and tilts her head, hair static and attached to her skull as she taps her fingers against a clipboard.

Cotton restrains keep Simon pinned to a chair as if he's being interrogated. Even his head is bound, strap leaping across his forehead and keeping him still. If he must look, he does so with his eyes. His fists clench. This wretched body of his feels ten times smaller than it should.

"Oh, you poor thing."

The woman speaks, gilded lips dancing on the syllables but the sound doesn't come from her mouth. Her words emanate from inside his skull, reverberating through the bone until it stops dead at the metal parts of him. There is curare in her words. She inhales, chest expanding beneath her gossamer blouse, and he feels compelled to listen.

"This isn't you at all, is it?" she asks. He doesn't answer, and her smile only widens. "Let's fix that."