017: Ballistic Coordination Processor

Dr. Ryan wore a complex expression.

Out of habit, he poured a glass of liquor, but just as he was about to drink, he stopped and handed it to John instead.

“Have a drink… You nearly scared me. Your vitals were perfectly normal a moment ago, then suddenly you looked like you were on the brink of death. If you had collapsed on the operating table, I’d probably have some serious psychological scars.”

“It’s not the prosthetics. Just an old ailment,” John replied, downing the drink.

Alcohol in the cyber era often carried an industrial taste—augmented bodies could tolerate stronger stimulants and more extreme excipients.

Dr. Ryan hadn’t modified his digestive system.

His stock was all original, unadulterated spirits—like the crystal-clear vodka in front of him.

Light and refreshing, neither sweet, bitter, nor astringent.

“It’s been a long time since I had a proper drink.”

“Of course, you have to trust my taste,” the doctor said, his expression softening as he offered reassurance. “I suggest you wait until you’re feeling a bit better before undergoing augmentation.”

“Let’s do it now, Doc. I know my own body.”

“Heh, every cyberpsycho says that to their augmentation doctor before losing control. Without exception, they all go insane, rampage, end up on wanted lists and news broadcasts, and finally get turned into mince meat by the special forces.”

Ryan tried to comfort John.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go back on my word. Even if you’re walking to your death tomorrow, I’ll fit you with the most suitable prosthetics. I just hope you live a little longer.”

John was silent for a moment, then smiled and looked up at him.

“Thank you, Doc. In Eden City, there’s no such thing as a slow decline. Every day is a fight for survival.”

“Silly lunatics never listen to reason.”

Ryan Randall sat down expressionlessly.

John watched him silently ticking boxes on the tablet, sensing that the doctor was lost in some memory. Reflecting on the dossier’s description of his background, John refrained from asking.

Unable to explain his own database, he just stared at the screen and couldn’t help but ask,

“Doc, are you really that good?”

“A retired has-been, barely scraping by. But fitting you with a few prosthetics is easy—don’t worry, I won’t break you.”

“Every respected prosthetic doctor in Eden City, every renowned clinic, has fitted one or two big names that caused a citywide stir. Do you have any famous clients you can name?”

“Legends live in the bottles. They don’t even have graves. The raging fires and explosions take the bodies away. If they’re unlucky enough to die at the hands of the special forces, high-caliber guns turn them into bloody chunks. The corpse recovery teams strip off their top-tier prosthetics through every channel…”

The doctor removed his macro lens, fatigue showing in his eyes. “In the end, what’s the point of leaving behind a little fame?”

John was puzzled. “What for, then?”

“Ideals and goals are bullshit. Anyone who talks about those words gets a gun barrel shoved in their mouth… By the way, John, why are you getting prosthetics?”

“To earn money on missions. Being unemployed without insurance is a miserable life. Now some say I might have been tampered with. Once I get my footing, I’ll find out exactly what happened.”

“That’s the path you walk.”

Ryan Randall said calmly. “Come on, put your hand on the armrest. The anesthetic needle will prick lightly. Don’t scream—I don’t have candy to coax you.”

John complied.

Ryan connected to the system, sat opposite him, and placed a semicircular black machine over John’s arm. Dozens of precise mechanical arms emerged and began operating on his hand.

It felt like giving a girl a manicure.

The doctor cut through the industrial skin, exposing the original company-made prosthetic. The sounds of welding and electric current buzzed steadily. After a brief modification, the skin on John’s palm was replaced with a black implant.

John activated the scanner and saw more accurate information.

[Prosthetic: Kingston Laser Grip I3]
[Location: Palm]
[Function: Connects user’s optical implants with weapon systems, providing real-time data tracking and kinetic weapon coordination.]

“Phew~ all done.”

Dr. Ryan removed the mechanical arms and rubbed his eyes. “Let me give you a quick rundown of the new prosthetic. Draw your gun—the one with the scope in the holster. Don’t grab the wrong one.”

John pulled out his Rongsaw short-snouted crocodile rifle.

He noticed touchpoints on his black palm that could sense the weapon system on the grip.

[Ammo: 55/165]

The ammo count appeared at the corner of his eye.

The chambered bullets were detected, and even the magazines on his body transmitted Bluetooth signals. He could see operations like chambering and safeties.

Dr. Ryan explained in detail.

“Your upgraded arm detects weapon operation data and displays it on your cornea.”

“Besides the usual magazine system, there’s a miniature outline of the weapon at the bottom right corner. You can see the status of every modification part. If the magazine, barrel, or scope overheats or fails, it’ll alert you…”

Cyberworld firearms generally fall into two categories.

The first kind: kinetic weapons, traditional firearms using gunpowder.

They are stable and reliable. High damage means strong recoil and require a certain prosthetic grade.

Companies like Rongsaw and Kanmer specialize in kinetic weapons and dominate the market. Some focus on mid-to-low-end clients, others target corporations and elites, each with distinct series and traits.

The other kind: tech weapons, primarily electromagnetic guns.

Highly technological and precise, these are smart firearms.

Common features include charge penetration, electromagnetic strikes, non-lethal mode switching, and even AI integration.

Their downside is obvious:

A weak firewall leaves them vulnerable to remote hacking.

Eden Weitz used a tech rifle, and high-tech firms including Plato Corporation have produced similar weapons.

Ryan Randall glanced briefly and immediately identified the weapon model John used. When he learned it came from a secondhand dealer, he expressed surprise.

“Not bad modifications. Your choice of parts isn’t bad either. The premium you paid for the original parts wasn’t wasted.”

“You’d been wasting them before. Now that you’ve upgraded your palm and eyes, you can truly unleash the weapon’s power.”

The doctor pointed at the weapon’s electronic scope.

“The palm prosthetic connects to the weapon system, synchronizing scanned info projected right onto your cornea. With practice and some time, you’ll shoot exactly where you point.”

He disinfected his own arm and, for the first time in a while, raised his glass.

“If you go back to the old district warehouse again, as long as you don’t want to die, those few thugs you ran into tonight won’t even be enough to make a side dish for you.”

“That good, huh?”

“Who spends money on prosthetics if they’re not badass? Both your prosthetics are discontinued, rare top-notch gear.”

“Then why aren’t they made anymore if they’re so good?”

“Good stuff gets monopolized. It’s not that they’ve stopped making them—just that they’re no longer available on the common civilian market.”

The doctor had done all he could.

Before John left, he pointed at the red-marked data on the screen.

“Don’t waste these prosthetics. From now on, as long as you can walk into this clinic alive, I’ll do my best to save you…”

“Upgrades and modifications get you a 20% discount with me.”