Chapter 2: Cause and Effect
Kay's pulse quickened.
Sure, he'd transmigrated into Night City and somehow become the leader of a gang called the Destiny Church—but there was one glaring problem: he couldn't even recognize the cyberware model attached to Riko Vega's arm, much less repair the high-precision chrome embedded in the rest of his crew.
And he was supposed to be a Ripperdoc?
He felt the cold sweat building. Should he bolt? If they found out he couldn't fix chrome, wouldn't they flatline him on the spot?
Forget hitting the clubs with chrome-clad girls. That was a dream—this was survival.
"Kay, what's up?" Riko's tone was casual, oblivious. "These chrome pieces? You installed every one of them. If it weren't for you, I'd have been corpse-ware in a gutter months ago."
Kay stiffened.
"And didn't you say you wanted to hit Cloudtop over in Japantown? It's pricey, yeah, and we're running low on eddies... but screw it. Let's splurge. Give you a break for once."
Kay forced a smile. "What happened to the crew we fought yesterday? They make it out?"
Riko's eyes narrowed. "You mean those Scav trash? We wiped out most of them, thanks to your planning, boss. Even saved over twenty nomads they were keeping locked up in the basement. If the NCPD hadn't shown up so fast, we would've cleared 'em all."
Scavs? That word triggered something deep in Kay's borrowed memories.
Organ thieves. Cyberware butchers. Bottom-feeders who'd cut a man open for a black-market optic, then laugh about it over noodles.
He shuddered.
On the ride back to their hideout, the battered minivan rattled like it was stitched together with duct tape and bad luck. Riko drove; Kay sat shotgun, wrestling with a storm of doubts.
"You good?" Riko glanced over. "I know taking down those Scavs won't bring Vik back, but don't let it eat you alive."
Vik…?
Kay's breath caught. "Tell me more."
Riko studied him, brows furrowed, then started talking.
Vik had been the first leader of Destiny Church, their big brother, the man with a vision. He wanted to be the Godfather of Night City, no less. And Kay—his predecessor—had been his right hand and the crew's main Ripperdoc.
Vik was born from nothing, raised by a doll, orphaned after his mother was torn apart by a Tiger Claw going Cyberpsycho. That was the spark—three years of relentless gang warfare followed.
By the time Kay found him, Vik was half-dead in a trash heap, waiting for the Reaper. Kay dragged him back to his ripper clinic.
Back then, Kay hadn't modded himself with any serious chrome. Typical for beginner Ripperdocs—too much hardware too fast, and you risked flipping into full-blown psychosis. He kept it low-profile, clean. Safe.
But Vik had fire in him. As he recovered, he started talking about becoming a legend, someone who'd rewrite the rules of Night City. Only one problem: they were both broke.
Kay needed practice. Vik needed chrome. It was a match made in a gutter.
With nothing to lose, Kay installed everything Vik scavenged—odds and ends, black-market mods, even some sketchy military-grade gear.
Most people would've flatlined after the first few installs. Vik? He held out. Grit, tolerance, and pure obsession.
Eventually, Kay gave in and began upgrading him with experimental, high-end combat tech. Against all odds, it worked.
Two kids from the slums, trying to punch through the ceiling of a city built on corpses and steel.
And it almost worked.
But then Vik got stupid.
He bought into Scavenger bullshit. They told him about "Black Dream"—some shady neuro-booster that could grant instant mastery of close-quarters combat and marksmanship.
Vik took it. And on a stormy night, he never came back.
He died in a Scav den before his legend could even begin.
Kay's predecessor lost it. Maybe not visibly, but inside—he snapped. Lost his best friend. His masterpiece. His moral anchor.
To the world, he told a different story: Vik was his brother. And the Scavs? They'd pay with blood.
He emptied every euro he had and walked into Rogue's Afterlife, dropping enough to hire a team of second-rate mercs without middlemen. No questions asked.
By morning, the Scav den was ash. A few survivors fled, but they heard who'd put out the hit. The attacks on Kay began not long after.
Still, Kay didn't quit. He built up Destiny Church by modifying nomads and misfits, giving them chrome they never dreamed of affording. And in doing so, he survived.
Yesterday's street fight?
That was Destiny Church's first offensive strike since Vik's death.
And afterward, Kay—new Kay—had collapsed behind a trash bin.
No idea how he got there.
No memory of how the Tsutomu-grade arm cannon got bolted to his arm, either.
He sighed.
"So now I'm not just a displaced soul in a chrome-drenched hellhole. I'm the boss of a gang, being hunted by cyber-sadists, and expected to be a legendary Ripperdoc?"
In a game, he could just boot up V, steamroll Scavs, and be done with it.
But here?
Every Scav foot soldier might have enough modded muscle to pulp him bare-handed.
"We're here," Riko announced, pulling into the lot outside a grimy bar with flickering signage: Puff Pub. The digital clock read: December 31, 2074.
Kay looked at the date and exhaled. He wasn't getting out of this. Not now. Not ever.
"Alright. Let's get some grub first."
He was stuck in this world. And if the story was going to unfold in 2076, he had two years to get his act together.
David Martinez didn't get a happy ending. V's fate wasn't much better.
Kay narrowed his eyes. His fingers twitched.
A voice—metallic, cold, uninvited—echoed in his skull.
> [DING]... Mechanical Overlord System successfully loaded.
His breath caught. His new life had just begun.