He turned his head, wincing, and saw a grimy room, flickering lights casting jagged shadows on stained walls. A fan spun overhead, stirring stale air, ozone stinging his nose. His fingers brushed his forehead, finding a jagged scar, hot and tender. Pain flared, and he froze, breath ragged. Who am I? A name surfaced—Kai—his, but this body wasn’t. He’d been lean, weathered, not this frail, too-young frame. The scar burned, tethering him to a life that should’ve ended.
The door hissed open, and a girl stepped in—eighteen, maybe, with short black hair under a patched cap, one eye glowing red, mechanical, impossible in the world he knew, the other brown, sharp with worry. Her jacket was worn, hands calloused, a lotus tattoo peeking from her wrist. She froze, breath catching, then rushed to his side, stopping short, hands hovering. “Kai,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You’re awake.”
He stared, her red eye jarring, whirring softly, like tech he’d never seen. Nothing clicked. His head throbbed, but no memories came—just mountains, gaming tables, late nights with a controller. Clear as stone, sharp as the pain. Years of drills and deployments steadied him, but this was beyond training. “Who are you?” he rasped, throat raw.
Her brown eye flinched, pain flashing, but the red held steady. She sank onto a stool, twisting her cap. “I’m Hana, your sister,” she said, soft but firm, like she’d rehearsed it for months. Her brown eye searched his, raw with fear and hope. Sister. The word didn’t fit, not with the void where this life should be, but her hands, her voice, tugged at something.
“I don’t remember,” he said, truth hiding a deeper truth—he wasn’t this Kai, not really. He’d died, hadn’t he? Yet here he was, scarred, in a body too young, a world sharp and alien. Hana’s cap twisted tighter, knuckles pale, but she didn’t look away.
“Okay,” she said, forcing calm, though her red eye lagged, dimming. “You were in a bad accident, Kai. Been out for six months.” Her hand reached out, then stopped, curling back, fingers fidgeting with a worn holo-charm, lotus-shaped, like a nervous tic.
Six months. Accident. The words didn’t spark memories. He nodded, pain spiking. “This place?” he asked, glancing around—chrome tools gleaming, monitors humming, a holo-ad flickering red and blue, Arasaka glowing in kanji. The name stirred something, familiar from late-night gaming and dice rolls with friends, but here it was real, sharp, looming. His gut twisted, the world feeling wrong, but he pushed it down, too raw to grasp.
“Ripperdoc clinic in Watson,” Hana said, voice low. “They fix people off the books. Kept you alive.” Her brown eye darted to the door, like she was tallying a hidden debt.
He tried to sit up, arms trembling, and a blue-holographic display flickered into view, uncalled:
GUTS: 1
REF: 2
COG: 3
COOL: 3
TECH: 2
Skills:
-
Athletics: 1 (15/1000)
-
Stealth: 1 (0/1000)
-
Blades: 1 (0/1000)
-
Electronics: 1 (0/1000)
The numbers glowed, crisp, like stats tracked in a tabletop game. Athletics: +5 ticked up as his arms strained. He blinked, and it held, tied to his eyes, itching like new wiring. Progress through effort, maybe, like grinding in a campaign. The display vanished when he relaxed, reappearing with focus. A tool, he thought, like a Marine asset or a game system. He’d learn it.
The ripperdoc—a burly man with a chrome arm—stormed in, muttering, “Bed’s for paying customers.” His tools whirred, scanning Kai. “Out, or you’re street chum.” Hana’s red eye flared, but she stood, helping Kai up. His legs wobbled, the display pinging: Athletics: +6. Each step burned, his body too weak. I died, he thought, the void pressing, but this world was real, pulling him in.
They left the clinic, stepping into neon-drenched chaos. Signs blazed, kanji and English tangled, holo-ads flashing optics and guns, rain slicking the pavement, reflecting reds and blues. Synth-meat carts steamed, vendors shouting over drone buzzes. Men with glowing tattoos—katanas sheathed—moved through the crowd, their eyes cold. Two argued near a pachinko den, one with a gleaming cybernetic arm, the other’s tattoos pulsing. “…shipment’s late again,” one growled. “Boss is gonna be pissed.” The words washed over Kai, too much to grasp, just noise in a world too sharp.
Hana’s grip was tight, steering him close. “Stay close, Kai,” she murmured, red eye scanning, lagging slightly. “This place eats strays.” Her body tensed, cap low, humming a faint Japanese tune, then stopping herself. He matched her pace, head down, the display flickering: Stealth: +4. The numbers felt like a lifeline, strange but grounding.
They passed a braindance parlor, windows showing virtual worlds, kids loitering, eyes glazed. Hana tightened her grip. “Stay away from that,” she warned. “It’ll fry you.” He nodded, the warning sinking in, another piece of this jagged world. A holo-ad loomed: Kiroshi Optics—See the Future, the red lens like Hana’s, stirring a faint echo, but he couldn’t place it.
The megabuilding loomed, its facade scarred with graffiti and flickering lights. Inside, the elevator creaked upward, groaning. “This thing ever get fixed?” Kai asked, voice hoarse.
Hana chuckled dryly. “Here? You’re lucky it moves.” The elevator jolted, and they stepped into a narrow hallway, walls tagged, paint peeling. A group of kids loitered near the stairwell, eyes tracking them. One, scarred with a shaved head, stepped forward, a faint limp in his step. “Kai, you’re up?” he said, voice rough, familiar, like he’d known him forever. “Didn’t think you’d make it, choom.”
Kai stared, his head throbbing, no recognition. The boy’s eyes held something—guilt, maybe, or relief—but it didn’t connect. Hana’s grip tightened, her voice sharp. “He’s back, Taro. Needs rest.” She stepped between them, protective, her red eye flaring.
Taro nodded, scratching his scar. “Yeah, alright. Good to see you, Kai.” He turned to his friends, some with faded bruises, and they scattered, their glances heavy.
Hana locked their apartment door, movements quick. The space was cramped—two cots, a kitchenette, a tiny bathroom, a window showing the neon sprawl. Holo-pics on the wall showed a young boy and a girl, maybe Hana, with faces he didn’t know. A small shrine held incense sticks, holo-charms on a shelf. Hana helped him to a cot, where he collapsed, exhausted.
“Rest,” she said, firm but soft. “I’ll get food. You must be starving.” She worked the kitchenette, prepping synth-ramen, the smell filling the room. Kai lay back, the display glowing when he focused: Athletics: 1 (25/1000). Steps had added points, maybe rest would too. Slow, but progress.
Hana handed him a bowl. “Eat slow. Your stomach might not handle much after so long.” He took a bite, artificial but warm. She sat beside him, tired, dark circles under her eyes, but her posture held strength. Her fingers fidgeted with the lotus charm, edges worn, like a tic.
“What was the accident?” he asked, cautious, sensing her tension.
Hana’s expression darkened, her voice low. “It was… a bad crash, Kai. You got hurt bad. I don’t like thinking about it.” Her fingers tightened on the charm, guilt lacing her words, her red eye dimming as she looked away.
He felt the weight, holding back more questions. “And now? What do we do?”
“We survive,” she said simply. “I work the market, sell what I can. It’s not much, but it’s enough. You recover first. Then we’ll see.”
He nodded, catching the unspoken: survival was day-to-day. But Kai felt a spark beyond that. After finishing the ramen, he felt stronger. He stood, testing his legs, the display showing Athletics: +4. It was slow, but progress. He walked to the window, looking out at the neon lights pulsing like a heartbeat, the city alive with danger and opportunity.
Hana joined him, her presence a comfort. “It’s a lot to take in,” she said. “But you’ll get used to it. You always were quick to adapt.”
He glanced at her, wondering about the brother she knew, the one he was supposed to be. “I hope so,” he replied, voice steady.
Inside, he was already planning. The Interface seemed tied to his actions, rewarding exertion with progress. If he could grind skills—Athletics for mobility, maybe Electronics for tech—he could adapt faster. His past life’s Marine discipline, cybersecurity expertise, and gaming strategy would help. The city’s dangers—tattooed men, holo-ads, this Arasaka shadow—were real, waiting. He’d died once, stone and void, but he was here, wired, determined. This was his second chance, and he wouldn’t waste it.
That night, after Hana fell asleep, Kai lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The display glowed when he focused: Athletics: 1 (35/1000), Stealth: 1 (10/1000). He’d gained points from walking and moving quietly earlier. It was slow, but he was learning. He tried leg lifts, raising one leg at a time, muscles protesting. Athletics: +2. Encouraged, he continued until exhaustion hit, reaching Athletics: 1 (45/1000).
He also thought about Electronics. The holo-terminal was flickering—maybe he could fix it, gain skill. But for now, he needed rest. As he drifted off, the neon lights outside cast shifting patterns, and he dreamed of dice rolls and neon streets, ready to carve his path.