Chapter 2 — Soft Persimmon
"2070?"
Xeno's first thought wasn't shock. It was dread.
He'd arrived too early.
Way too early.
The timeline didn't add up.
The world's events hadn't caught up with the Cyberpunk 2077 plot yet.
Even worse — key NPCs might not be the same people he remembered.
Like Victor, for example.
In the game, he was a retired ripperdoc.
Here, he was still a boxing champion.
"Yeah, man," said the dreadlocked fighter beside him, puffing up his chest. "Unification War ended less than a year ago. Arasaka Tower just got topped out. Mayor's still Lucius Lesser, and—"
The guy just kept talking. News, gossip, politics. Stuff Xeno recognized from game lore, but hearing it spoken aloud was surreal — like the wiki pages had come alive.
Still, one thing bugged him.
Why was this guy being so… friendly?
If Xeno met someone who didn't even know what year it was, he'd assume they were on synth-dust or suffering a neural crash. Yet this man was practically giving him a city tour.
Before he could ask, a voice bellowed down the corridor:
> "Who's up first? We need fighters — now!"
The dreadlocked man's grin widened. He grabbed Xeno's wrist before he could react.
"Perfect! Let's do it!"
"Wait, what—"
Too late. The man shoved through the crowd, dragging Xeno along like a trophy, and stopped in front of a ref in a crisp white shirt and black bow tie.
The referee barely looked up. "Names?"
"I'm in!" the dreadlocked man barked, thumping his chest.
"And my buddy here's joining me."
Xeno blinked. "What? No, I—hey—!"
He yanked his arm free, realization hitting hard.
This wasn't an exhibition — it was a selection match for new fighters.
You fight, you win, you move up.
You lose… well, you get carried out.
No wonder dreadlocks had been so chatty.
He wasn't being nice — he was baiting an easy opponent.
"Please wait," the man told the ref smoothly. "My friend's just… shy."
Then he turned to Xeno, his friendly grin melting into a snarl.
"Don't be stupid. Get in that ring, or I'll break your legs right here."
His pupils dilated. Skin flushed red.
Xeno recognized that look immediately — chemical enhancement. Combat stims.
The kind that turned nerves into fire and made people very unpredictable.
"...Fine," Xeno said quietly. "I'll fight."
The last thing he needed right now was a crippled body in the middle of Night City.
"Good," dreadlocks hissed, pushing him toward the ring. "Try not to cry."
---
At the far end of the corridor sat a basket filled with worn-out gloves, soaked with sweat and age. The smell alone could knock someone out.
The ref pointed. "Grab a pair."
Xeno hesitated, grimacing as he reached for a set.
> ['SPEED MK.I' boxing gloves detected. Blueprint scan complete. 10 R&D points obtained. Recycle materials?]
His eyes widened. Even this counts?
Before he could react, images and sensations flooded his mind — thousands of fights, every punch, every dodge, every split-second of muscle memory burned into his head.
The system wasn't just copying the gloves.
It was copying the experience of the fighters who'd worn them.
It felt like he'd lived through hundreds of hours of championship matches, absorbing the instincts of legends — Ali, Tyson, Mayweather — all blended into his body like data uploaded straight into his nervous system.
When the visions cleared, Xeno flexed his hands.
They felt… lighter. Faster. Alive.
He grinned. "Now that's my kind of patch."
---
When Xeno stepped back to the ring, his dreadlocked opponent sneered, shoving him hard in the chest.
But Xeno's body moved before his mind could — a smooth sidestep, a pivot, and a quick sweep of his foot.
The guy stumbled, barely keeping balance.
"What the hell—!"
The ref snapped between them, annoyed. "Save it for the ring."
The crowd gathered, restless and hungry for blood.
No flashy introductions, no walkouts — just two men, a ref, and a cage humming with anticipation.
"Touch gloves," the ref said.
The dreadlocked man slammed his gloves into Xeno's with enough force to rattle bone. "I'm gonna break every piece of chrome in you."
The bell rang.
---
He came in fast. Big, wild swings — power over precision.
But to Xeno, it was like watching slow motion.
His instincts took over.
He dipped left, tilted his chin, and let the man's fist graze harmlessly past.
Then — snap! — a counter jab to the cheek.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The sound of leather on flesh echoed like gunfire.
> Philly Shell Defense, Xeno thought. Thanks, Mayweather.
The dreadlocked fighter roared, charging in with heavier blows.
But Xeno's body weaved like smoke — duck, roll, counter, repeat.
He felt every ounce of his borrowed experience syncing with his muscles, like his body had been built for this.
"Stop running!" the man shouted. "Fight me head-on!"
"Alright," Xeno said with a smirk.
He bent his knees, spring coiling in his legs — and launched forward.
> BANG.
A perfect leaping hook.
The punch connected clean with the man's jaw.
His feet lifted off the mat, body twisting midair before crashing down hard.
The room went silent.
The ref hesitated, eyes wide.
"...One! Two! Three!"
The dreadlocked fighter groaned, spit blood, and somehow got back up.
His glare burned with rage.
"I'll tear you apart!"
Xeno cracked his neck and grinned. "That's the spirit."
What followed wasn't a match. It was a lesson.
Xeno cycled through every move he'd absorbed — the Butterfly Step, the Pendulum, the Death Swing — chaining styles that shouldn't even be humanly possible.
Each strike flowed into the next. Each dodge was a whisper ahead of impact.
The crowd lost it — roaring, cheering, swearing.
At ringside, a man with a cybernetic eye leaned forward, fascinated.
Victor — the Victor.
The boxing champion watched the newcomer with genuine awe.
"See that?" the selection manager whispered beside him. "He's not even fighting seriously. Look at the transitions — Ali, Tyson, Mayweather, Dempsey — hell, I think I even saw one of your hooks in there."
Victor's mechanical eye zoomed in.
"Yeah," he murmured. "That punch. That's mine."
The ref raised Xeno's hand as the dreadlocked fighter slumped unconscious behind him.
The crowd erupted.
Victor smirked. "He's a monster."
---
"Then I'll talk to him," the manager said eagerly. "If you help me sign this kid, we'll both get rich."
Victor nodded, eyes still fixed on the young boxer in the ring — chest heaving, sweat shining under neon lights.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"I'm interested too."