“FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
The Universe had done it again.
“Why am I still here? Why the fuck am I still here?” he sobbed into his hand, the Militech M-10AF Lexington still pressed to his chin.
All the hate, the pain, and the sorrow washed over him one more time like gasoline. He relived every trauma and mistake in the span of a few seconds. This was a part of the process of suicide. Living, however, was not. He had heard people say that in Night City, your life didn’t just flash before your eyes the moment before you flatlined, it punched you in the balls. Fact check: true.
Slowly, carefully even, Will removed the gun from his skin and looked down. Jammed. It fuckin’ jammed. In five years with the NCPD, it had never jammed. Not once.
His hands shaking, he put the gun down on his cot. The shakes weren’t from the adrenaline, though there was plenty of that; they came from the bargain-bin Mk. 1 Dynalar Sandevistan that he had stupidly let a 3rd-rate ripperdoc install. The used Sandevistan had never fully synced up with his neural link, and now his body wanted the junk out of his system.
Will Scrap was supposed to be dead. He didn’t have a Plan B. Hell, his Plan A was to push a bullet through the ceiling by way of brain tissue and bone. Now he was at a loss as to what to do. Squeezing the trigger had taken everything he had in him. He stood there dazed, a million thoughts running through his mind.
The sound of yelling stirred him from his stupor. He didn't care much for his neighbors. Upstairs, directly above him, lived a spongy-looking pimp who played porno so loud it shook the walls, said he didn't trust brain dances. His other neighbors were an assortment of the kinds of people who you would expect to live in a Kabuki slum. Joytoys, burnouts, and glitter addicts. Will himself was a burnout. Ex-cop. The job had left a bloodstain on his soul. Now here he was living (if you could call it that) in a six-by-eight hole in the wall. Room 1 at the luxurious Motel Hello. The ‘O’ had burnt out before Will had moved in—a rare case of truth in advertising.
PING.
It was a voice message from the landlord. Will considered the gun again, then opened the message.
[NEW VOICE MESSAGE]
Sender: Shinkichi Yoneda
Time: 23:47
[Kabuki Motel Hello Landlord]
[PLAY ?]???[TRANSCRIBE ▼]
Will tapped Play with his brain, and Yoneda’s tired voice began, “Scrap.” His Japanese accent made it sound like he was saying ‘Screw Up’ whenever he addressed Will. Appropriate, he thought.
“Your rent is past due. You owe me another four hundred for that kuso heya. I would normally throw out someone immediately who was three months behind in payment, but you are the only asshole in Night City who would live in such conditions. Regardless, you have until the end of the week to pay,” the ‘or else’ got left off and was simply implied.
Will owed a lot of people eddies, but didn't have an enny to his name. His bike had gotten totaled by a drunk driver months ago (him), and because he had lapsed on his insurance, he owed the full amount. He was in it for €11,200 at an interest rate that all but guaranteed he would never pay it back. Then, there were the debts to old friends who had tried, unsuccessfully, to keep him afloat after he had quit the NCPD. Will didn't just burn bridges, he nuked them from orbit.
For a moment, Will looked back down at the gun. He considered trying again, but the will was gone. Lost my nerve again, typical. What kind of terrible luck did a guy have to try to catch a bullet and miss? It was shit luck, even for Night City. What else was there to do? He couldn’t sleep, he had no food, and still wished for death. The answer came to him. He decided to go for a walk.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
[KABUKI – Cortes-Kennedy Residential Block]
SUNDAY | 06 JUN 2077 | 23:56
[WARNING: RENT OVERDUE €1,200]
Will wore a black “puncture-resistant” coat as he stepped out into the rain. Weather report said the acid levels were minimal. Might tickle if he stood around too long, but otherwise, he was safe.
He stumbled outside the Kabayan Foods just in front of his squat apartment. He could smell the scent of cheap fried ramen in the air, but it didn’t matter since he couldn’t afford it. His mood was dark, and the night rain wasn’t helping, but that was okay. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to die bleeding out in the streets of Night City. It was a wish you would think would be easily granted.
The kaiken in his back pocket felt like a contradiction to his death wish. Suicidal? Yes, certainly. He had prayed for death, obsessed over the thought of himself passing on and escaping all the pain in the world. But, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that there weren’t worse fates than death. In Kabuki, a Claw or a Maelstrom psycho could considerably drag out the process. Gangers weren’t known for mercy or empathy, and he had seen the kinds of heinous things that could happen to someone while still alive and fully conscious. That was one reason why he concealed his M-10AF Lexington, the one that had failed to zero him at the apartment. It would at least deter the average scav walking down Cortes Street around midnight.
“Stupid bitch, you lost another client tonight.”
Pimp. Standing over a cowering joytoy out in front of the BD Shack. Will hated pimps. They filled him with disgust even under normal circumstances. Watching him berate the girl, chromed up, barely seventeen years old. Anger mixed with despair pierced the numbness in Will’s head.
“Please, Jumbo, I won’t let it happen again. Just give me a second chance.”
“You think I’m made of money? This is Kabuki, not Jig Jig street.”
Will stared, seething. The pimp wasn’t dressed like a ganger. He wore a long nightrobe, crimson red, with gold lining. He didn’t look affiliated with any group that Will could recognize. Tall, skinny, elongated neck, shiny chrome face. Must have cost a fortune. A fortune earned off the backs of joytoys. Will pulled the kaiken from his back pocket and concealed it with his coat sleeve, handle out. For just a second, he forgot his own troubles. The second passed, and the crushing depression rolled right back in.
The pimp became alert, noticing Will standing across the street. “You fuckin’ want something? Huh? You got money, choom?” he asked before taking a harder look at Will and deciding he was a threat. “You think you’re hard, huh? Iceman?” Will didn’t answer, just watched and tightened his grip on the kaiken. When the pimp pulled out a pink Constitutional Arms Liberty power pistol with a long barrel, Will noticed that the word ‘Compensating’was stenciled on the side.
Will’s hands were shaking, his head was pounding, and his stomach was screaming from hunger. What did he have to lose? So he took a long breath of the dirty Night City air and said his goodbyes. The pimp seemed startled when Will started walking slowly toward him. “Are you psycho? I will zero you, motherfucker,” the gun was up now, pointed at Will. Death was calling.
The Sandevistan came to mind. It was cheap, poorly maintained, and would give him maybe 3 seconds of heightened reaction time. What was the point, though? Die fighting? No. The gun and the knife were only for provocation. He wasn’t playing hero tonight. What he wanted was someone to end his misery. To end his pain. He closed his eyes and continued walking forward.
“You ARE a psycho! Holy shit!” and the pimp and the joy toy both turned and ran down the street. He listened to their feet slap against the wet pavement as he thought to himself. What the fuck? Will could not understand what had just happened. It wasn’t until he looked down and caught his reflection in a puddle that he saw it. The reflection from the water showed a man who looked like a walking corpse. He was pale, sickly, and, yeah, he had to admit, a little scary. In Night City, you never know who you're messing with, so the pimp psyched himself into making a tactical retreat. It left Will utterly crestfallen.
Can’t even get myself killed in Kabuki. He thought to himself right before the Delamain cab sent him flying into the darkness.
