Chapter 1: CALM BEFORE THE STORM

There’s no such thing as a convenient prologue in this world.

Especially not for those living in Night City—this gaudy, grime-coated metropolis. In a place where your birth, background, and family shape your entire future, the moments that make you appreciate your privileged circumstances tend to be the most fatal.

Wakako Okada, the fixer of Japantown—who, by the way, is actually the "Big Mama" of the area. My home was near Jig-Jig Street, in what used to be a pleasure club before it got repurposed. Not like there were many other places willing to take in a ripperdoc of Japanese descent who drifted in from out of town.

My old man was a dead-serious, intellectual ripperdoc. For whatever reason, he seemed hell-bent on making me take over the family business, so he’d drag me along to work whenever he could. My mom? She was an Avazbrevich who worked as a joytoy at a mid-tier brothel on Jig-Jig Street… or so I’ve been told. How the hell a corpo and a street kid—two polar opposites—ended up together is still a mystery.

A glance at the digital flip calendar—paper’s long dead—showed the year 2074.

…Yeah, if you’ve got sharp instincts, you’ve probably already guessed. I’m what you’d call a reincarnate. Not some godly rebirth, not a prototype personality construct either. Just a regular death in my past life, only to wake up in a female body, reborn in a city even worse than Roanapur.

In this life, my most loyal clients were the Tiger Claws—gangsters everyone knows. Being a Japanese ripperdoc’s kid meant business was good. NCPD incidents at our doorstep were a daily occurrence, and since repairs came out of our own pockets, I armored the place up like a back-alley gun shop—chain-link fences, steel bars, and a homemade electromagnetic barrier to turn the whole house into a shelter.

Thanks to that, the place became a refuge whenever trouble broke out nearby. Between emergency patches and ripper jobs, my skills sharpened real fast.

Jig-Jig Street had a junker Fingers-style clinic on one end and a gun-nut woman’s shop on the other. Mine? Somewhere in between. Most of my work came from Wakako’s referrals—Tiger Claws gigs, mostly. At this point, I might as well be their in-house doc. Saves those future Arasaka fucks a trip all the way to Watson.

"…Told you already, old man. I ain’t setting foot in Arasaka Academy."

Midway through inking a Tiger-brand tattoo on some mohawked racer punk, I brushed off my father’s words. His left arm was in a cast—courtesy of a desk flung his way when a client went cyberpsycho. Now I was the one handling the procedures.

My old man, ever the black-suited corpo type (despite not being one), watched me with sunken eyes, exhaustion plain on his face.

"But Jugra, you’re sharp. Skilled, too. Look at this work—flawless. Half the clients come just for you."

"That’s ‘cause your bedside manner’s stiff as hell. How many times’ve people mistaken you for a corpo suit, huh?"

When the punk I was working on tried lighting up in my non-smoking clinic, I sliced his cig in half with the monowire from my med-grade chrome arm. He froze, then nodded with a cold sweat.

Plenty of built-in implant weapons out there, but gorilla arms and mantis blades need raw strength—something this girl’s body ain’t built for. And projectile launchers? Disgusting. No thanks.

That’s why the monowire—light, wrist-mounted, no bulk—fit me like fate itself.

"Besides, look at this body. You really think I’d make it through without getting mistaken for Johnny Silverhand’s long-lost twin?"

I waved my left arm, the motion accompanied by a hard, synthetic clink.

This body’s already more metal than meat. Ripper-spec chrome arm on the left, biomonitor, backup heart, bio-conductor, and the crown jewel—a Tian-SS Mk. IV, aka the Sandevistan Mk.4.

With its heat sink, I could push perception to 25% for twelve seconds, cooling down in just three. Fast-attack specs.

In this life, I’m "special," like some kinda David Martinez wannabe. Meta-wise, guess that means my Reflex stat’s 15-plus.

Looking back, the original game’s protagonist was a freak—spamming Sandevistan and Kerenzikov like it was always their turn. If that’s the standard, David must’ve had at least Reflex 6. Maybe even 10, given how long he kept going. Hell, if it was a military prototype, maybe higher.

"Alright, all done. Now get your ass to Wakako’s."

"Y-Yes, sis! Thanks!"

"Save the thanks. Next time, come as a big shot. Go make it, cat boy."

I flashed him a grin as I sent the tough-looking rookie on his way. Only the droning of some trashy TV ad filled the silence now.

A glance at my father showed him bowing his head like a guilt-ridden Buddha.

Yeah, no shit he’s speechless. What kinda parent wouldn’t be, seeing their twelve-year-old daughter like this?

But in this city? If you’re not prepped, you die. Doesn’t matter if you’re a woman or a kid. Weakness equals death—that’s Night City’s law.

"Actually… it was Wakako’s idea."

"…Hah?! Bullshit. No way. One of her sons got rolled by Arasaka—you really think she’d recommend me for their academy? Spit out the rest, old man."

No shot Wakako—who, in the original story, held a grudge over the parade leak—would ever push me into Arasaka’s next-gen training program. Only other explanation? A takeover.

"Just checking—did Wakako herself say this? Holocall? In person?"

"…No. One of her underlings."

"Edmond Honda?"

Wakako’s public face was as the owner of a pachinko parlor in Jig-Jig Street, with Edmond—a sumo-esque bodyguard—standing watch. He kinda looked like some Street Fighter reject, but apparently, he was just a half-Japanese karateka.

"Nah, the guy called himself Hiromi Satou."

"The fucking Cloud kingpin? …Ah, got it. If we go under thanks to Wakako’s wrath, he’s planning to scoop up two young ripperdocs for himself. Like hell I’m playing babysitter to dolls. I’ll patch a call straight to Wakako."

"O-Oh. …Sorry, kid. I’m not deep in the biz, so I just left it to—"

"S’fine, s’fine. Just focus on fixing that arm and showing off those top-five-in-the-industry skills of yours."

Hmm. Ever since Mom died, Dad’s been teetering on the depressive side, barely held together by some high-grade psychotropics. That’s why I kept him buried in ripper work—no room for other thoughts. But the injury backfired.

I’d swapped my left eye for a Kiroshi, so holocalls were no issue. Yeah, smartphones are nice, but you gotta use what’s convenient.

Wakako picked up, her voice the picture of a sweet old granny.

…Course, you could never trust a fixer past a certain point.

"Ah, Jugra. That young one of mine all patched up?"

"Yep, just sent him off. Straight talk—did you really recommend me for Arasaka Academy?"

A heavy silence. Then Wakako spoke, her tone hardening.

"Some idiot’s been whispering lies to your old man. ‘Wakako says send your girl to Arasaka Academy.’ Name’s Hiromi Satou."

"…Hah. Figures. That brat’s always scheming. Guess the rumor ‘bout some prodigy ripper girl who could waltz into that academy got embellished. Must’ve slipped out when I was drunk."

"So… not a plot to wreck us and snatch me up for Cloud?"

"…Ahahaha! What a riot—almost killed me laughing."

…Yeah, she’s serious.

The holo glitched—Wakako had another line open. I’m no netrunner, but my mechanic chops let me tweak gear well enough to catch eavesdropping. Noise filters flagged the intrusion.

"Jugra’s my favorite ripper. Why would I hand her off?"

"Hahaha—r-right! I’m basically Wakako’s in-house doc anyway, haha…"

"Exactly. Since you’re so keen, I’ll have a sign made for you. ‘Official Wakako-approved.’"

"Oooh, make it bulletproof and blast-resistant. Gonna stick it right out front."

…Fuck me.

Wakako’s favor came with strings—cross her, and it’s seppuku time. Guess I’m her permanent ripper now.

Not that a sign’ll stop every trigger-happy gonk in this city. "Peaceful life"? Doesn’t exist here.

"Take care, Jugra," Wakako crooned before cutting the call.

"Dad, turns out that ‘offer’ was just Wakako’s underling running their mouth. No academy."

"O-Oh. The tuition’s exorbitant, and the entrance requirements… I’m ashamed to admit I’m relieved."

"Duh. You think I could rub elbows with those corpo eggheads? Look where we are—Jig-Jig’s a cesspool of vice and filth."

"H-Hahaha..."

Seriously, though—how the hell did a working girl and my straight-laced old man end up together?

Well, nothing’s too strange to happen, I guess. Not in this town. It’s just the usual around here.

It was evening, and the already thinning stream of customers had petered out completely, leaving behind a rare stillness in contrast to the usual nightlife racket.

Japantown—nicknamed the city that never sleeps—was a red-light district modeled after the ultimate tourist spot, Japan. Known for its aesthetic charm and thriving sex industry, this place had its own twisted kind of appeal.

Some folks who would’ve otherwise ended up dead in a back alley were now joytoys turning tricks around here. If they had the right "potential," they'd get implants and be reborn as pleasure dolls—customized flesh puppets for sale.

Sure, Finn Garstadt's Fingers was the only ripperdoc on Jig-Jig Street, but by the time someone ends up there, their price tag might as well already be stamped.

This was where people who couldn’t afford legit meds and were rotting their minds on black market brain-dances came when they had nothing left. Desperation clinging to desperation.

But this place—Glacker—was something else. Officially backed by Wakako, queen of Jig-Jig Street herself.

The shop's name was a mashup of her last name, Kagura, and "cracker." She launched it with the attitude of “go big or go bust,” and despite being located not on Jig-Jig Street but on the main road, she could still call it the only one of its kind without lying.

"Mmm, looks like we’re done for today. Aand—click."

An emergency patient might show up, but who cares?

Ripperdocs get a reputation for being well-paid because of the "products" they handle, and some idiots even come gunning for the gear itself.

That’s why closing up tight during sleep hours was an iron rule.

The motion-sensor mines and turrets—bootleg Militech gear—would kick in now, locking down the entry points tight.

To guard against tech-weapon wall breaches, I’d installed three layers of walls. It made me living space a bit cramped, sure, but safety came first.

Even the windows had been flattened out, stripped of any handholds, so nothing—no gorilla arms or brute force—could pry them open.

...I knew it was probably overkill, but from the perspective of someone who once played as V—the original protagonist—even this felt like it wasn’t enough.

That’s why keeping things smooth with Wakako, who I had a decent relationship with, was nothing short of essential.

"Thanks as always, Jugra. Dinner?"

"Yeah, let’s."

To a palate that remembers real food, Night City’s cuisine is trash.

"Yakitori" made of lab-grown mystery meat. "Vegetable X" fertilized with industrial runoff. Corp slop marketed as "70% real ingredients!"—this city eats lies.

So at home? Synthetic grain cereal, not that corpo gruel.

(Fucking poultry ban three years ago—blamed on some virus. Now even fake chicken tastes like victory.)

I shovel cereal with powdered milk, chase it with stewed synth-potatoes.

…Pacific’s black market sells real bird meat, though. Maybe risk a trip for proper yakitori?

—Then again, wading into that slum-turned-warzone’s suicide.

"Living’s exhausting," I mutter, pushing the bowl away.