Pain.
Light.
Voices.
Memories.
"I… I was born in Night City. 2050. Streetkid origins.
Joined Militech. Corpo life.
Hated it. Left it.
Became a Nomad with the Bakkers."
Everything rushed into his skull like raw data through a broken port.
"I'm… V. I'm V!"
He lay on cracked desert concrete near a rusted car.
"Yo, choom, you okay?"
A mechanic leaned over him, and a cop stood nearby.
"You blacked out for like five minutes."
Angel — no, V — opened his eyes. Kiroshi optics kicked in. His modded eyes scanned them instantly:
Names
Gigs
Affiliations
Weaknesses
"Holy… the mods work. Everything. Works."
His reinforced arms glinted under the sun. The monowire ports, the ripperdoc seals — all real. All his.
He stared at his arms — the cybernetic lines glowing beneath the skin. He flexed. His fingers clicked. He checked his HUD. Everything he installed was real.
And somehow… this wasn't just a game anymore.
"This is real. This is Night City. I'm V.
...Oh my god."
V blinked hard, systems syncing, memory stabilizing. His new brain — part flesh, part silicon — clicked into gear.
The mechanic leaned over him, brow furrowed.
"You alright, choom? Looked like you flatlined for five minutes."
V sat up, scanned the car automatically — an old Thorton Galena "Rattler."
A ratty Nomad workhorse. Reliable. Loud. Ugly.
The mechanic sighed and pointed to the engine compartment.
"Couplin model's fried. Shit's barely holdin' together."
V's Kiroshi optics lit up. He accessed the internal specs instantly.
With Engineering at 80, and Technical Ability maxed out at 20, the diagnostics unfolded like blueprints in his brain.
"Negative. Couplin's fine. The problem's in the filter distributor," V said, already reaching inside the hood.
The mechanic blinked.
"Huh?"
V tapped a few loose wires, adjusted the alignment on the intake module, and replaced a corroded connector using a spare part he had in his car. The system hissed back to life.
"Fuel pressure was jumping because your impulse regulator's out of sync with the intake filters. Bad grounding, too. Done."
Less than two minutes. No tools. Just raw skill and brainpower.
The engine purred like a jungle cat.
The mechanic just stared at him.
"Damn, choom… You a wizard or somethin'? Shit. You want a job? Seriously."
V just chuckled, wiping his hands.
"Not today."
And that's when the sheriff showed up.
Sheriff Andrew Jones stepped out of his car like he owned the whole desert. His hat sat low, voice lower.
"Heard there was a stranger messin' around with tech that ain't his."
V turned slowly. He already knew the man's full Militech history, discharge papers, political opinions, arrest record — all thanks to his modded Kiroshi.
"It's my car," V said calmly. "I fixed it."
The sheriff didn't care.
"We don't like outsiders sniffin' around out here. You nomads think the world owes you something."
"I'm not lookin' for trouble. I'm leavin'."
"You better. Don't let the dust settle on your wheels in my town again."
V's jaw twitched. But he let it go. For now.
He got in the car. The old Galena roared to life — smoother than ever.
"Let's ride."
V drove across the cracked asphalt, dust spraying behind him. The telecom antenna station shimmered ahead like a dying monolith.
He parked beneath the rusted tower, grabbed the Militech-grade walkie-talkie — a custom encrypted comms unit — and jacked in.
The unit crackled.
"...This is Nomad V, broadcasting from border sector A. Do you copy?"
A voice came through after a short delay — a fixer contact.
McCoy, probably. A gruff nomad handler from the Bakkers.
"You're late, V. Heard there was trouble at the border."
"Sheriff's an asshole. We're square now. Car's fixed. I'm movin' on."
"You ready for Night City?"
V looked at the horizon. Neon glowed faintly even from here — the City of Dreams, crawling with corps, scavs, chrome-junkies, and mercs trying to buy one more day of life.
"Born ready."