War without End: J. E. Davidson's Final Confession
"War without End: J. E. Davidson's Final Confession" – email from Cyberpunk 2077. (...) the AV drops even lower. So low I can see every inch of the transporters rumbling over the open Arizona plains. We land behind enemy lines, a cloud of dust our momentary cover.
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(...) the AV drops even lower. So low I can see every inch of the transporters rumbling over the open Arizona plains. We land behind enemy lines, a cloud of dust our momentary cover. We crawl our way over to the NUSA position; we're close enough to smell their sweat. At the signal... it's fucking showtime.
I take a few guys by their humvee. They reach for their guns – too slow. I unload my whole magazine into them, turning them into a smoking bloodstain. Good start. I reload. Just as I turn to run, I glimpse an Ajax barrel pointing right at me.
A fucking kid. It's a fucking kid holding the gun. Skin and bones with a mass of non-regulation curls shoved under his helmet. I don't like my chances, but hell, you only live once. I fire up my synaptic accelerator and lift my rifle. Not quick enough.
I'm hit three times - leg, lung, collarbone. The fourth bullet nearly rips my head off, throwing me back like a ragdoll. I tumble into darkness.
My own scream jerks me out of my chair. Instinctively, I reach for the titanium threads they fastened to my head. The bartender stares for a second, blinks, then goes back to wiping down the bar. I calm down. I'm where I'm supposed to be, in some smoke-filled dive on the outskirts of Night City. That fucking dream again. But Arizona's far, far away. No wonder I fell asleep right here.
I check the time. Fifteen minutes till the bus arrives. I down the rest of my foamy beer, grab my jacket and head out.
The neon signs blaze against the overcast night sky. Somewhere on a corner, a cab driver reams out a corpo who barfed all over his seats. Gangoons play night ball on a flickering court. I stop by the depot and wait.
The bus arrives on time. Tourists pour out on the sidewalk. He's among them. Young guy, just as unassuming as before. He shifts his backpack, scratches under his curly head of hair, clutches a city guide.
I wet my lips and shift the knife in my pocket. As he walks off, I'm right behind him. Through the alleyways and streets, step by step, inching closer.
There are wars you never return from. That's what I tell myself. Or maybe I say it to him? I don't even know. Only thing I know is: it's gonna be a real good night. (...)
I take a few guys by their humvee. They reach for their guns – too slow. I unload my whole magazine into them, turning them into a smoking bloodstain. Good start. I reload. Just as I turn to run, I glimpse an Ajax barrel pointing right at me.
A fucking kid. It's a fucking kid holding the gun. Skin and bones with a mass of non-regulation curls shoved under his helmet. I don't like my chances, but hell, you only live once. I fire up my synaptic accelerator and lift my rifle. Not quick enough.
I'm hit three times - leg, lung, collarbone. The fourth bullet nearly rips my head off, throwing me back like a ragdoll. I tumble into darkness.
My own scream jerks me out of my chair. Instinctively, I reach for the titanium threads they fastened to my head. The bartender stares for a second, blinks, then goes back to wiping down the bar. I calm down. I'm where I'm supposed to be, in some smoke-filled dive on the outskirts of Night City. That fucking dream again. But Arizona's far, far away. No wonder I fell asleep right here.
I check the time. Fifteen minutes till the bus arrives. I down the rest of my foamy beer, grab my jacket and head out.
The neon signs blaze against the overcast night sky. Somewhere on a corner, a cab driver reams out a corpo who barfed all over his seats. Gangoons play night ball on a flickering court. I stop by the depot and wait.
The bus arrives on time. Tourists pour out on the sidewalk. He's among them. Young guy, just as unassuming as before. He shifts his backpack, scratches under his curly head of hair, clutches a city guide.
I wet my lips and shift the knife in my pocket. As he walks off, I'm right behind him. Through the alleyways and streets, step by step, inching closer.
There are wars you never return from. That's what I tell myself. Or maybe I say it to him? I don't even know. Only thing I know is: it's gonna be a real good night. (...)
