I sat on the edge of my bed, rolling my right foot at the ankle. The new cybernetic legs, it had been 24 hours since the surgery, 20 hours since, and more than a day since I learned that Sasha died. I flexed my toes against the floor. My fingers plucked at the oversized gray shirt draped on my frame. It was Sasha's; Maine had dropped off a bundle of my belongings earlier, and her shirt was tucked in with the rest. What mattered was that it still smelled faintly of mint and that subtle electric tang of her neural perfume. I closed my eyes and inhaled. I hadn't even managed to visit the Columbarium in North Oak to see her niche, to say goodbye. Hell, I hadn't spoken a word to Stella since it happened. Sasha's older sister had tried to call this morning, but I let it ring. I wasn't ready to face the anger and heartbreak I'd hear in her voice. Not yet. Maybe not ever. My hand curled into a fist around a stray strap of the duffel Maine brought.
I needed out. Out of this silence, out of my head. If I stayed here much longer, I'd start punching holes in the wall. I reached into my system and picked up a shard between my fingers. Jonathan Crane. The Scarecrow. I snorted under my breath. Right. In another life, my old life, I'd heard the stories. About fear toxin, the bag-headed lunatic who got his kicks terrorizing innocents. And now a copy of that psycho was sitting right here in my hand.
Maybe it was the anger, or the restlessness, or just plain self-destructive curiosity, but I found myself sliding the shard into the neural slot behind my ear. I pressed it in with a click. Let's see what you've got.
For a second, nothing. Then the lights flickered, or was it just my cybernetic eyes that did? System interface engaged, blinked a notice in my HUD before static skittered across my vision. I sucked in a sharp breath. My apartment's corners grew darker, shadows pooling and twisting beyond the reach of the light that came from outside my apartment. It's just the shard booting up, I reminded myself. Don't freak out. But my heart was already hammering against my ribs. I stood up slowly. Where was he?
A low whisper drifted behind me. It was not okay or normal. "Yyyumi…" The way my name slithered out made my skin crawl. I whirled around, slapping a palm against the wall where I had heard that voice. In the far corner, the shadows convulsed, oily black against black. Something moved there, no, grew there. A tall, thin silhouette peeled itself away from the darkness, joints cracking into place at impossible angles.
My mouth went dry. "Show yourself," I said, or tried to; the words barely rose above a rasp. My right hand had instinctively dropped to my holster, only to find air—my pistol lay on the table across the room. Shit. I fought the urge to lunge for it and instead extended my clawed finger tips. Both of my cats stared at me but remained called and unbothered.
The figure stepped into the weak light. Scarecrow. I recognized the tattered noose around his neck, the burlap mask stretched over his face. He looked wrong—just like the hallucinations I'd seen in illustrations of his toxin attacks. Empty black eyes seeping smoke, a grotesque stitched grin, long needle-like fingers dangling at his sides. There was a faint sound of flies buzzing around him, and the air itself felt heavy with rot. My nostrils flared at the sudden stench of damp straw and coppery blood.
He cocked his head, jerking like a puppet on a string. "Well…hello there." The voice came out distorted and hollow, as if echoing from the bottom of a well. It was the same voice that whispered my name. I tried to swallow and found I couldn't. A wave of dizzying terror washed over me, instinct screaming at me to either attack or run. My back hit the wall; I hadn't even realized I was retreating.
This was wrong. I'd been shot, stabbed, and nearly died more times than I could count. But here I was, hands trembling like a leaf. My breathing quickened, chest constricting painfully as the room seemed to darken further. I could hear my pulse in my ears. Some logical part of me knew it had to be the shard flooding my brain with artificial fear, but that didn't stop my body from reacting. "Stop it," I hissed through clenched teeth, forcing the words out. "Enough!"
The Scarecrow's eyeless gaze regarded me, and I heard a dry chuckle. Immediately, the pressure in my skull relented, the suffocating dread easing just enough for me to suck in a full breath. I wiped cold sweat from my brow with a shaking hand. "Tsk, tsk," the figure tutted. "Poor little Yumi. Did I frighten you?" He drifted closer, each step jerky and accompanied by the creak of leather and rustle of straw. There was a cruel amusement in that horrible voice, and that voice reminded me of Fiddlesticks.
I bared my teeth, anger welling up to smother the leftover fear. I pulled him out of my neck port and took a moment to breathe, shaking. After a moment, I slid him back in. "Try that again and find out how fast I can rip this shard right back out again," I snarled. My fingers twitched near the port on my neck, ready to yank the chip if I had to. It worked; the looming shape halted a few feet in front of me. I could almost make out features beneath the mask's eyeholes: hollow pits with a faint pinprick of orange light deep within.
"Feisty. Very well." He inclined his head in a mock bow. The tension in the air thinned slightly; the shadows in the room receded to their normal shapes, and the nauseating smell faded. The shape before me seemed to shrink, going from a towering specter to merely a tall, ragged man in a mask. The corners of my vision cleared. I straightened up, forcing myself to stand tall even though my heart was still drumming.
"Better," I said, my voice rough but steady enough. I studied him warily. He slowly clasped his spindly hands behind his back, observing me in return. "Now… perhaps you can explain what exactly is going on, hm?" he said. "One moment I was—" He paused, the sewn grin of his mask tilting. "Actually, my last memory is rather fuzzy. No matter. I know I'm certainly not in Gotham anymore. This city…" He glanced toward the grimy window where distant neon signs flashed red and blue. "It's brimming with vice and fear—from what I can see from your mind..." A note of disdain crept into his voice. "Where have you brought me, and why?"
I pushed off the wall and took a cautious step forward. The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by a familiar emotional numbness. "You're in a place called Night City," I answered. "The Year is 2075. Whole different universe, if that makes any sense. Think of it like Gotham's meaner cousin in a way, same wicked heart, but dressed in neon and chrome." My words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "The people running this city are worse than the gangs and crooks back home in some cases. Here, the real villains are the corpos—corrupt mega-corporations bleeding the city dry. They're the crime lords, the puppet masters." I gave a hard, bitter shrug.
Scarecrow was silent for a moment, those blank eyes focused intently on me. I wondered if he could read the truth in my expression. "Interesting," he murmured at last. "Another cesspool of greed and fear. And you, Yumi… you say 'back home.'" A soft, scratchy laugh. "You're from Gotham too, aren't you?"
I felt a slight tightness in my chest. "Yeah," I admitted. "Born and raised. Though my Gotham was probably not exactly the one you remember." I wasn't about to get into the cosmic details. I pressed on. "Point is, I know exactly who you are. Jonathan Crane." My eyes narrowed. "And I didn't bring you here by accident. I installed you because I need something from you."
He tilted his head the other way now, curiosity evident in his body language. "Go on."
I drew a slow breath. The last thing I ever imagined doing was striking a deal with a monster from Gotham's rogues' gallery, but here we were, probably the first of many. "This city's overflowing with scum who think they're untouchable," I said quietly. Images flashed through my mind unbidden: gangsters laughing in a dingy alley, a corporate suit's cold eyes as he watched me bleed after getting shot with a shotgun, a jar sliding into a vault with Sasha's name on it. I forced the tremor from my voice. "I plan to make them pay, make them afraid. To terrify them, the way they terrify and torture others." My hands curled at my sides. "And who better to help me do that than you?"
Scarecrow's mask seemed to grin wider. "Flattery will get you everywhere," he purred. "You want to wield fear as a weapon. Admirable… and prudent. Fear is the most powerful tool of all, my dear. Guns and blades are crude." He took a step closer, and I held my ground this time. I could smell that faint straw mustiness clinging to him. "But tell me, why should I assist you? I have no love for innocent people, or for anyone, really. What's in it for me if I lend you my expertise?"
I expected that question. Crane was always self-serving. Fortunately, I had an answer. "You help me, you get a front-row seat to a whole new stage of fear, something you could never get back home," I replied. "Night City is bigger than Gotham, and trust me, there's an endless supply of victims who deserve to have the fear of death put in 'em. You'll get to see your work unleashed on an entirely new scale. Through me." I raised an eyebrow. "Besides… you don't exactly have other options. You're a ghost in my head. You cooperate, you get to play. If not…" I let the implication hang. I didn't need to say that I could shove him back into cold storage or worse.
His head bowed in a shallow nod. "A symbiotic arrangement, then," he mused. I could almost hear the gears turning in that digital mind of his. After a beat, he gave a raspy chuckle. "Very well, Yumi. You make a compelling case. This city of yours will have its nightmares." He spread his arms slowly, theatrically. "How would you like to begin?"
Despite myself, I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I hadn't noticed the tension in my shoulders until it started to ease. Part of me still hated the idea of letting this thing loose, even in a limited way, but I needed what he knew. I steeled my voice. "I want a synthetic version of your fear toxin. Something I can aerosolize and load into grenades or tear gas." A flicker of surprise crossed his stance, and I rushed on. "Non-lethal and Lethal would be ideal, I'm not out to massacre civilians, this is why I'll need both versions. I want it to make the toughest gonks in this city curl up and squeal." My lips pressed into a thin line. "Like you said: fear is a weapon. I want to wield it when I go up against the people who killed my friend."
Scarecrow's shoulders shook with a brief, spine-chilling laugh. "Revenge served via fear gas. How poetic." He folded one arm across his chest, the other hand coming to tap a clawed finger thoughtfully at where his chin would be under the mask. "It's feasible." He began to pace slowly, trailing wisps of shadow. "We'll require a few key components to brew our little nightmare cocktail. In this world, I suspect we'll find analogous chemicals if not the exact ones."
"Name them," I said, watching him carefully.
His voice shifted, taking on a clinical tone that reminded me he'd been a scientist once. "First, we need a potent hallucinogenic base. In my original recipe, I used a derivative of fear-inducing mycotoxins—basically a super-concentrated psychedelic compound. Here, you might find something akin to a military-grade drug or an experimental neuroplasticity med. Something that causes vivid hallucinations and sensory overload."
I nodded curtly, committing it to memory. Hallucinogenic base—like the street drug "glitter" or whatever new cocktail the gangs cooked up to scramble minds. I could find that.
"Second," he continued, ticking off a finger, "a neuroactive agent to stimulate the target's amygdala… the part of the brain that controls fear response. In Gotham, I used a specific adrenal compound. We'll need an equivalent that significantly boosts panic—perhaps an artificial adrenaline or a cortical steroid. Anything that makes the heart race and the mind primal."
I thought of the combat stims the psychos here adored—"synth-adrenaline" boosters that Maelstrom gangers pumped into their blood to feel invincible. Scarecrow wanted the opposite effect, but the biochem principles should overlap. "Got it. Something to hijack the fear center."
He wagged a long finger for the final item. "Lastly, a binding agent to merge these components and aerosolize them effectively. In simpler terms, a chemical stabilizer that can turn the mixture into a fine gas without degrading its potency. Ideally, something that clings in the air, so the victims can't just wave it away."
I pressed my tongue to the inside of my cheek, thinking. Industrial binding agents… I had no idea what the street would call that, but surely the gangs making drugs or the tech-heads cooking synth-narcotics would have vats of some polymer or nanogel for this. If not, a corporate lab certainly would. "Hallucinogen, fear stimulant, aerosol binder. Alright." I met Scarecrow's gaze. "I'll find them."
He loomed closer again, and though my nerves tensed, I held firm. His voice dropped to a soft croon. "I do hope you're resourceful, Yumi. These ingredients aren't exactly sold at your local corner store."
I gave a short, humorless laugh. "Good thing Night City has plenty of places that traffic in illicit shit, then. If I have to tear through every scavenger den and gang lab in this city, I will." In fact, the idea of venting my fury on some scavs right now was more appealing than oxygen. I glanced at Scarecrow's form. "You've got what you need from me for now. I'll get your components. In the meantime, stay quiet unless you've got something useful. And no more theatrics."
"As you wish," he replied, spreading his hands in a pacifying gesture. The flicker of defiance in his tone wasn't lost on me, but he made no move to assault my senses again. "I'll be observing. Bring me what I asked for, and I'll guide you through concocting the toxin. Do keep in mind: precision is key. We wouldn't want you accidentally immunizing our targets to fear by dosing them wrong, now would we?"
The corners of my mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile despite everything. The fact that this nightmare had a sense of humor—dark as it was—felt strangely in line with Night City's own twisted personality. "Noted," I said simply. I reached up and tapped two fingers behind my ear, accessing the shard's interface. With a thought, I lowered Scarecrow's active presence to a background thread. The looming figure before me flickered and then evaporated into black smoke, dispersing into the dimness. I was alone in the room once more.
Alone, except for the constant quiet rage coiled in my chest. That, I doubted I could mute. I drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to dispel the last of the adrenaline shakes. My eyes fell on the rest of my gear piled in the duffel. Enough planning. I needed to move.
I quickly threw on the essentials: my mask, then my jacket—black, reinforced at the elbows and shoulders. I caught a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror by the bathroom—messy dark hair, steely eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, face drawn and pale, but my hands were steady now. Busy, focused. I looked like a woman about to head out on just another gig.
I flexed my legs one more time and dropped into a low squat, then sprang up in a single fluid motion. The artificial muscle fibers in my new limbs coiled and released, launching me upward almost faster than I expected. 100% synchronization, indeed. I landed lightly, balance perfect. A faint hiss of hydraulics and the impact-absorbers in my soles barely made a sound. These legs were strong. Fast. I'd need that for what was coming. Satisfied, I grabbed a faded baseball cap from the bag and pulled it low over my eyes—it wouldn't do to advertise my face to every camera, not until I found a spot where I could put on my gear.
At the apartment door, I paused. My gaze drifted back one last time, to the rumpled bed where Blitz and Halo were resting and the depression in the pillow where I hadn't been able to sleep, and to the corner where Sasha's bloodstained jacket hung on a peg. My throat tightened, but I forced it down with a hard swallow. Later, I promised silently. I'll visit your grave. When it's done. Without another word, I killed the light and stepped out.
The hallway of my megabuilding was its usual self: flickering fluorescents barely holding back the gloom, walls stained with time and graffiti. A couple of neighbors were arguing in muffled voices behind a closed door as I walked by. The smell of someone cooking with too much chili and the sour odor of garbage formed the nightly perfume of my floor. It was comforting in its normalcy, in a twisted way. The world hadn't stopped turning for Sasha's death or my pain; Night City kept churning, oblivious and indifferent.
I took the elevator down, I wasn't ready to test my legs by leaping the height of my floor quite yet. The ride was slow and jerky, the speaker droning out a tinny advert for Nikola drinks between bursts of static. I tuned it out and tapped into the police scanner feed through my internal comm. At the edge of my hearing, dispatch chatter crackled: reports of a suspected cyberpsycho sighting in Vista, a hit-and-run in Japantown, a domestic disturbance somewhere in Wellsprings. My system had a habit of flagging certain crimes—especially the bloody, senseless ones—for me to step into. Unfinished revenge, delivered by proxy. I wasn't about to turn off that option. If some bastard out there was about to hurt people the way I'd been hurt, I wanted to know.
The elevator juddered to a stop at the lobby. I walked down the steps out onto the street. A blast of cool night air hit my face. Above, gigantic holo-billboards flickered and glared, painting the boulevard in shifting colors. It was past midnight, but the city was wide awake. Night City never sleeps, after all.
I stood for a moment at the edge of the megabuilding's entrance, taking it in. A group of loud drunk Tyger Claws stumbled out of a pachinko parlor across the road, laughing and shoving each other. A couple of joygirls smoked under a flickering lamp, eyeing a potential customer. Far off, sirens dopplered toward Corpo Plaza. Under my cap's brim, my eyes tracked a pair of Maelstrom gangers cruising by on their growling maglev bikes, their red optics glowing in the dark. My jaw tightened at the sight, knuckles brushing the pistol at my side. Maelstrom. Those psychos were exactly the kind of target I had in mind tonight. Them, or any other scavs I could find lurking in the alleys, kidnappers, organ thieves, predators. There would be no shortage, not in this town.
"Where to first, I wonder?" came a quiet rasp in my head. Scarecrow's voice curled around the edges of my consciousness. He sounded positively eager. It was strange how quickly I was learning to separate his thoughts from my own. I ignored his question; I'd let him know when I had something useful for him. For now, I just let the anger guide my steps. One of the Maelstrom bikes took a turn toward an industrial block west of here, old warehouses and chemical plants. That was as good a direction as any. With any luck, I'd find a stray goon or two to interrogate about drug stashes. And if not, well, I could still vent some of my rage.
I pulled the brim of my cap a little lower and started walking, falling in with the rhythm of the night. A police report crackled in my ear, something about a firefight in the Watson docks. I felt a spike of interest, but no; one mission at a time. Tonight, I reminded myself. Chemicals, then carnage. The rest would follow. I kept my pace steady, my ears open and eyes scanning the glow of Night City's skyline ahead. I found myself whispering under my breath, "Soon… you'll all know fear."
I stopped at the corner of the block. The night stretched out in front of me, deep and dark and full of possibilities for violence. With a final breath, I stepped out from under the awning and found a stop to put on my mask, with my hoodie covering it from proper view.