The air stank of ozone, oil, and blood.
He gasped, not because he needed to breathe, but because muscle memory still told him he should. Eyes flickered open behind a red-tinted HUD. The sky was a sickly orange, smeared by neon and pollution. Sirens wailed in the distance always in the distance.
He lay in an alley, half-crushed under a rusting trash compactor, sparks hissing from the side of his exposed cybernetic right arm.
"...No way this isn't Denver..."The thought wasn't his. Not entirely. The voice in his head sounded like his, but sharper, colder. Brazilian accent still there Sam's voice.
He sat up slowly. The exoskeleton on his body sleek, red-accented, familiar hummed to life with each motion. Internal diagnostics pinged across his vision.
Right Arm: Cybernetic (Active)Neural Firewalls: OnlineMurasama HF Blade: SheathedVital Signs: Stable (98%)Location: Night City, Santo Domingo DistrictTime: [REDACTED]
He flexed his right hand, watching as the servos in his fingers responded with surgical precision. It wasn't just a replica. This was his arm now Jetstream Sam's body, or close enough.
And yet, his memories cramming Metal Gear lore at 3 AM, laughing at memes, his mom yelling at him to get a job those were intact too.
"I'm... me," he muttered, standing. "But I'm also..."
He reached on his left hip. A satisfying magnetic click as his hand closed around the hilt of the Murasama. It pulsed faintly, hungry for violence. He sheathed it again.
Three hours later…
The streets of Santo Domingo were alive with tension. Gangs patrolled rooftops. Civilians stared at their feet. Drones buzzed like flies.
He walked with purpose now. The suit attracted attention people whispered, some photos in their cybernetics, others bolted. One ganger tried to stop him for a shakedown.
The ganger lost an arm.
No one tried after that.
He didn't have a name yet, but word spread fast: Red Devil in the Spine.Chrome Ronin.The Blade of Nowhere.
It was near a food stall in Rancho Coronado that he first saw them a woman with white hair and sharp blue eyes, a hulking chromed-out man with a glowing arm, and a green-haired netrunner with goggles too big for her face. Maine's crew. They were arguing with some merc who owed them eddies.
He didn't care.
Until the merc pulled a pistol.
Vrrrm - click.
One red blur later, the pistol clattered to the ground cut in half.
They all turned to stare. Rebecca giggled. Maine raised an eyebrow. Lucy blinked.
"...Who the hell are you?" Maine asked.
He looked at them, expression calm, almost bored.
"Someone just trying to survive."
Later, at the Afterlife…
"You're insane," Rogue said, leaning forward in her booth. She lit a smoke, never breaking eye contact. "Cutting down a guy mid-draw in front of Maine's crew? That's one way to get noticed."
He leaned back, arms crossed, helmet off. Long hair, sharp jaw. Eyes that didn't flinch.
"I didn't want to fight. I just didn't want to die."
Rogue studied him. "What's your name?"
He thought for a second. "Sam."
"That it?"
"...Jetstream."
She smirked. "Well, Jetstream… you keep making noise like that, you'll be more than a survivor. You'll be a legend."
Something flickered in his eyes. That same part of him Sam's part smiled faintly.
"Then I'll be legendary."
To Be Continued...