061: Subdermal Armor Surgery

[Eden City - East District Underground Clinic]

"Welcome back, Superman."

Rian Randall pushed aside the shadowless lamp, revealing his familiar bald head, and flipped up his surgical loupes. "Do you believe in religion? Sorry to disappoint you, but a little angel certainly wouldn't be as reliable as an old man like me."

John tried to sit up, but he couldn't move; his entire body felt overwhelmingly weak.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, the vitals are jumping."

Rian's auxiliary mechanical arms were covered in blood.

"It's been a long time since I performed surgery all night. I'm not sure I could have pulled you back without chemical assistance... so stop fucking around. The propofol is still in your system, so feeling dizzy and experiencing phantom limb pain is completely normal."

"Why am I here?"

John's mind was gradually clearing.

[What the hell!]

His cybernetic eye plugin translated a burst of Russian.

Following the source of the voice, John turned his head and saw Tahlia sitting with her legs apart on a metal stool, half of her arm in a cast.

"Later, Nando brought a bunch of people to cover our retreat. Everyone in the camp who knew anything about medicine rushed to the scene to save you, and guess what?"

Tahlia lifted a liquor bottle and took a heavy swig.

"The first thing you did when you woke up was try to run, muttering something about going to the East District to find Rian Randall. How the fuck was I supposed to know who Randall is? Nando didn't agree to have you transferred either, but your injuries were extremely severe. I figured the surgical conditions at the camp definitely wouldn't be as good as the ones in the city..."

Tahlia had smuggled John out.

She used John's physical biometric data to bypass the biological lock on the Silver Knight 577, driving the supercar straight to the most prosperous area of the East District. With enough bullets and cash, any street-level junkie could guide them right to Rian's doorstep.

Hearing this, Rian sneered twice.

He snatched his liquor bottle back from Tahlia's hand.

"Sounds real touching, but the reality is ten thousand times more fucked up. I don't even know if this Russian beauty has a brain; dragging an intubated patient across half the city—do you know you almost died in the passenger seat of your own supercar?"

Tahlia had nothing to say in defense.

Her cybernetic eye blinked, seemingly responding to a callback from Nando. She pressed her lips together and left the room to argue in the corridor.

John had no memory of any of this.

He adjusted the height of the surgical chair and caught sight of the dense cluster of surgical incisions alongside piles of blood-stained cotton balls.

"How bad is my condition?"

"Plug in your data cable and look at the scan results yourself: burns, fractures, two shattered sniper bullet fragments extracted from your chest, disrupted device circuitry, and signs of disconnections in your nervous system..."

The doctor suddenly let out a dry chuckle.

"Back when I worked in Nocturne, I used to treat patients suffering from severe electrical overloads all the time, but you clearly played it much more extreme. Don't go poking at the gauze with your dirty hands; the skin underneath is badly burned, and I haven't replaced it with artificial leather yet."

"Why?"

"Because of this. I need your consent first."

Rian tapped the metal tabletop.

Sitting there was a massive sealed case bearing the Plato logo.

[Cyberware: Subcutaneous Armor (Plato UFP)]
[Slot: Integumentary System]
[Function: Experimental phase general-use finished product. Enhances skin cellular cohesion, making it exceptionally difficult to penetrate. Provides significant bullet damage reduction and vascular protection.]

Nando had been to the clinic.

He was genuinely terrified that John would be killed by Tahlia's reckless handling. After confirming with Rian that John was out of mortal danger, he had sent over this gift.

It was also the mission reward.

Rian had run diagnostics on the item:

It was a product from Plato Laboratories, a showcase piece intended to impress the board of directors. Generally speaking, this would be the highest quality and best-performing set of its kind. Even if it were eventually put into mass production for factories, corners would be cut later due to "various factors."

"It's certainly good stuff."

Rian remained calm. "Can your body handle it?"

The doctor didn't know John's exact background, but he was well aware that most cyberpsychos died from rejection reactions to implants.

John's symptoms were different from anything he had seen before:

His emotions were stable, and his vitals were normal.

There was no continuous proliferation of scar tissue, post-operative recovery was normal, and the surrounding tissue showed no abnormal pain or inflammation.

John decided to go through with the surgery.

His only worry was that a Blacklight runaway would drain his body dry. The symptoms of cyberpsychosis varied wildly, but he had never heard of anything like his own condition.

"I've taken enough losses over the years; I've wanted to install subcutaneous armor for a long time. The only thing that made me hesitant was the quality of the cyberware. I don't want to keep undergoing frequent surgeries, and plus... what was that thing you mentioned last time about the flesh?"

"Awe."

"Close enough."

"Indeed, use street trash less often, and certainly don't install implants of unknown origin carelessly. After all, Scavengers have no moral baseline. *'Gently used, looks brand new'*—ever heard of that? When they sell it to you, the original owner might not even be cold yet."

Rian had been a doctor for many years.

He had witnessed countless cases where replacing cyberware led to severe rejection, even resulting in blindness and paralytic disability.

"Since you've made up your mind, let's get started."

Rian began the pre-surgery preparations.

"The implantation area is quite large this time; it's going to involve grafting most of your skin. Since you want high-end, I'll use the best artificial leather available on the market. By the way... do you want to swap out your gun while we're at it? I stole a few nice models from Nocturne."

"Go fuck yourself. Are you addicted to playing the ripperdoc?"

"Heh, if you don't want it, I'll just sell it to someone else. Surgery takes time; I'm going to inject you with propofol again. It'll be over in the blink of a sleep—if you have any last words, say them now. I don't sign any guarantee agreements for my patients."

"Do emergency trauma insurance clauses actually do anything?"

[Eden City - East District Underground Clinic] (2/3)

John asked earnestly.

The doctor sneered twice. "You certainly have a sense of humor."

He peeled open the sealed case, took out the implant inside, and dropped it into a buffering solution for pre-surgery soaking.

"You've got implants from all sorts of different companies in your body—some good, some bad. Long-term use of specific brands creates organ adaptability; after a while, you're locked into using products from that particular company only."

"Is there a fix for that?"

"Upgrade the organs too, I suppose. Oh, and over time, that has side effects as well—long-term reliance on synthetic replacement organs alters the chemical balance in the brain."

"Did you really have to scare the shit out of me?"

"If you're a coward, just stay a normal person and keep your distance from the big players."

"And then end up like you? Working as a lapdog for the wealthy, locked in a pleasure den drowning in booze and wasting time, passing out the second before the night shift broadcast switches over, getting your brain fried in braindance chips while reminiscing about missed dreams and opportunities from your youth, regretting that you didn't have the courage to pick up a gun that night?"

John vented for a long time.

In truth, these words were meant for himself; long-term pressure and a deep-seated dread of modification and upgrades had always lingered in his mind.

Rian stood with his back to the surgical chair, saying nothing.

He quietly adjusted the tools in his hands—a high-precision nano-surgical kit, Gaia cellular antibiotics, intravenous probes, and other mechanical equipment.

"Hoo—"

John shook his head.

"Sorry, Doc. I'm not taking it out on you."

"Done running your mouth? While your head is still clear, have you thought it through? Anyone who walks this path is destined to come to a bad end."

"I just want to live freely..."

Before John could finish his sentence, a wave of vertigo struck, and his consciousness seemed to be shattered by a hammer blow.

"Safe travels."

Rian put on his white gloves, turned around, pressed confirmation on the tablet, and stepped forward to strap the oxygen mask over his mouth.

Many terrifying stories flickered through John's mind.

He had seen crime scenes where ghouls had carved out hearts and lungs, operating tables stained with blood crust and rust, and corpses with eyes wide open in unresisting death.

The doctor raised his scalpel.

"You brought this on yourself, John. You've developed an immunity from overusing chemical stimulants; you aren't going to fall completely under."

Rian leaned down and began to cut into him.

"Don't worry, the pain blocker is already active. You won't feel anything when the blade slices through, it's just going to be... well, how should I put it? Creepy, I suppose. I can only imagine what it's like, since I've never experienced it myself."

Hoo—

John was heavy-lidded, his pupils unable to focus.

He could feel the mask fogging up with his breath, the scenery before him constantly shifting between clarity and haze.

Drowsy.

Every time John regained consciousness, he saw the doctor performing different tasks: lifting bloody metal cutting tools, extracting uninstalled cyberware, and pulling charred artificial leather out from between bullet holes.

He tried to lift his head.

The liquid-filled bags hanging overhead shifted from clear to deep crimson.

Fear gripped John, and he wanted to close his eyes, but whenever his consciousness plunged into darkness, every sound around him became extraordinarily sharp.

He had killed people with a blade.

He could even imagine the sensation of an edge slicing through artificial leather, followed instantly by a boundless wave of phantom pain striking his mind.

In reality, when high-precision surgical tools passed through skin and other tissues, the friction noise was extremely faint.

The human ear could not possibly hear it.

Fear, however, made everything tangible.

When John woke up again, the scene before him had drastically changed:

This time, his head was facing downward, buried in a circular cutout, staring longingly at the tiles beneath the base of the surgical chair.

A mask muddled with condensation was strapped to his face, yet he seemed to smell the pungent odor of Lysol. Filth in the crevices and seams seemed to writhe and claw, and a bizarre, damp chill enveloped him.

John intermittently caught fragments of Rian's voice.

"This is a precision surgery, don't complain about the time."
"The nerve connections in the skin are extremely complex; high-end artificial leather implantation won't ruin your original appearance, and it's definitely not as simple as laying down turf."
"You've got so many subcutaneous bleeding points, and your vascular condition is kind of weird."
"How the hell did Iron邦 Logistics operate on you? Your vitals and data don't match any patient I've ever hosted."
"Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."
...

John felt something lightly brushing against his spine, his skin sensation completely disordered:

A mix of icy cold and searing heat. It felt as though he couldn't feel anything at all, yet simultaneously as though he had become hyper-sensitive, to the point where even the light shining on his back had weight and temperature.

John woke up countless times.

Eventually, he was lying on a clean bed.

Swish, swish, swish—

Drawn by the sound of running water, he turned his head and saw:

Rian, holding a liquor bottle in one hand and a flexible metal hose in the other, washing down a blood-stained surgical chair.

John shifted his gaze and saw his own naked body.

Along both ribs, his thighs, arms, and chest, there were symmetrical seams—the spliced joints of the beautified artificial leather, which also served to vent heat for internal cyberware. During repairs and maintenance, they had to be torn open from those exact spots.

He was still hooked up to an IV.

[Eden City - East District Underground Clinic] (3/3)

The screen beside him was filled with incomprehensible data.

"Oh, you're awake. How does it feel?"

"Fuck! I've never experienced anything so terrifying in my entire life."

"That just means you haven't watched ghoul braindance chips—immersive experiences of various torture processes, quite... never mind, don't you dare vomit on my computer!"

Neural recovery took time.

Rian had prepared corresponding medications to help him adapt to the phantom pain and sensory recalibration caused by such a massive graft.

Then, he pushed over a bill.

"Hiss!"

John frowned deeply, his eyes widening. The payout from the mission had been completely wiped out, leaving only a tiny fraction for daily living expenses.

"Fuck you, running a clinic pays way better than doing fieldwork."

"Who calculates accounts like that? Just look at your cyberware manifest—the Scavengers would catch your scent a mile away."

Rian nodded with satisfaction.

"A guy like you could get wiped out on the street by a random firefight or a bomb any day now; what's the point of hoarding cash? The numbers in an account can't compare to the cyberware bolted onto your body."

John couldn't deny it.

"A peaceful lifestyle is no longer an option for you."

The doctor's eyelids drooped, his expression deeply complex.

"Subcutaneous armor suffers from wear and tear too. The cyberware on your body requires regular maintenance, and the costs for repairs and replacements are exorbitant. Legal business can't support this lifestyle; you have to keep moving forward, all the way until the day you die."

Despite his words, Rian actually handed John a chip loaded with vital statistics, a cyberware maintenance guide, and medical recommendations.

The doctor pressed the pouch against John's chest.

"Take responsibility for your choices."

He turned back around to continue sterilizing the operating room.

John tried to explain: "Hey, what I said earlier was just venting bullshit, there's no need to take it to—"

Rian didn't turn back, merely raising a middle finger.

[Eden City - East District Commercial Street]

The moment John stepped out of the clinic fully dressed, he spotted Tahlia lingering in a crowd.

"What are you... wait, is that stuff medicine?"

"Brand new inhalable kind, give it a try. It gives a nice boost to reaction times."

"You want me to die?"

"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't be waiting here."

Tahlia stood up, drew her revolver from the small of her back, and handed it over. "I blew this gig. I underestimated those scumbags' strength."

"If I actually bit the dust, wouldn't you feel guilty for the rest of your life?"

John crossed his arms and forced a smile.

Mercenaries were bound to live and die by the sword; there was no such thing as owing anyone.

Tahlia pressed her lips together and nodded earnestly.

"Then I would have gotten a tattoo of you on my ass."

"..."

"My chest is already taken, and limbs work too, but artificial leather breaks pretty easily, and you know how it is—I can never resist starting a fight."

Tahlia explained with total sincerity.

John said nothing, taking the gun without the slightest psychological burden.

[Weapon: Vodka (Technical Revolver)]
[Mod: Advanced Armor-Piercing, Electromagnetic Blast Shells]

"Take good care of it, alright? I spent half a year modifying it; it's way better than that little peashooter suppressor of yours."
"Will you just shut your mouth."

[Mission: Crispy on the Outside, Tender on the Inside (Completed)]
[Rewards: Payout, Subcutaneous Armor (Plato UFP), Vodka (Technical Revolver)]

John carried his jacket out onto the main street.

With the mission settled, his cash reserve was actually lower than before he took the job, having lost it all to emergency rescue and full-body cyberware installation fees.

Tahlia had provided a pleasant surprise, though.

The revolver was indeed quite impressive.

At that moment, the Isenberg Silver Knight slowly pulled to a halt in front of John.

His expression twisted through several emotions as he stared wide-eyed at the smashed headlight and slightly dented hood.

[Unread Message [Tahlia]]
[You saw it, right? Don't get excited, buddy—I drove a little in a hurry to save you. Make sure not to tell Nando, thanks. That revolver is something you can't buy with money; you made out like a bandit. If you're still pissed, next time I'll take you to Sakura Cross Street to find some babes, or give you free drugs. Guaranteed to blow your mind...]

Frowning, John pulled his jacket off his shoulder.

He tried to scan the crowd for Tahlia's figure, wrapping the fabric around his fist again and again.