The escort from the Tyger Claws narrows his eyes when Rocky returns from the back room with the forearm. "Why'd you sneak in there with the Chrome? You pull a swap?"
Rocky doesn't blink. "You can question my skill. You don't question my character. I'd have sent you out if this weren't Wakako's referral. If by 'tampering' you mean a full refurb, then yes, I did that."
He ignores the man's scowl, sets the repaired Mantis Blades forearm, and begins installing. For a practiced ripperdoc, it's as simple as swapping a SIM—disconnect, align, lock, handshake.
The limb links. Parameters stream across the patient's HUD in a quick sequence.
[ Prosthetic ID: Match Confirmed ]
[ Nerve Link: Stable ]
[ Actuator Response: PASS ]
[ Blade Housing: PASS ]
The patient flexes. "No problem. It's mine. Why does it look so new?"
"My clinic runs on clean work," Rocky says evenly. "Repair includes a full maintenance package."
The client glances at the escort. The price was fair, and the service was better than expected—no reason to push.
Rocky grafts fresh synthskin and closes the torn sections. The arm reads as factory-tight again. He receives the transfer, walks them to the door, and adds the pitch without changing tone. "If you're satisfied, send more. Fair prices, solid work."
Silence returns after they leave. Rocky moves to the production room and studies a finished vial. Pricing matters if he wants this to live in the market.
Type I's punch is worth more than €500 a dose on paper. Selling to black clinics at €300-plus is ideal. But there's a catch. Type I hits too hard for low-endurance users. He tested it only on himself, and without counting Chrome, he's tougher than most mercs and gangers. What reads safe for him might harm others.
Mercs fight to make money. Burning an expensive consumable every run isn't realistic; most will keep one for emergencies. That crushes volume. Drop the price too far and he dents the whole street-drug market and invites corp attention.
Better answer: reduce the effect, extend duration, lower the burden.
He starts experiments. The alchemy table's system recipe is a preset, not a law. Two secondary potions plus a fusion agent, with ratios he can change. He cycles batches and lets the analyzer speak.
[ Useless Stimulant ]
[ Creates a sense of speed with no measurable effect ]
…
[ Contaminated Mixture ]
[ Drinking causes diarrhea; injection not recommended ]
…
[ Deformed Stimulant ]
[ Twisted formula; boosts movement speed by 80% briefly, induces overexcitement and inability to stop; suppresses self-healing; repeated use risks multi-organ failure ]
He snorts. "Garbage, garbage… this one's at least interesting. Save the formula."
More trial. More error. Then—payoff.
[ Weakened Stimulant ]
[ Adjusted formula trades self-healing for longer duration and lower drug load; increases action speed by 35% for 60 seconds ]
He wanted the balance: lower threshold, longer window, useful speed.
Cost per dose drops to €30. He can wholesale at €150, but expects the market to be around €200. That lets a merc justify one shot per fight. Bullets cost money, too; spend to earn.
He brews 100 doses, then engraves each tube and fills the autoinjectors.
[ Ascension Technology Manufactured ]
[ Power Stimulant Type II ]
He shelves the stock, flips the clinic sign to "Closed," and heads home.
He sleeps well. One client on day one is still a start, and the stimulant plan moves to stage two: market entry.
Early next morning, he doesn't open the shutters. First comes distribution. Partnering with back-alley clinics—quietly—takes cautiousness.
He splits thirty bottles into ten sealed packs, pulls on a hoodie, and puts on a mask. His ocular jammer beats cameras, doesn't hide from human eyes; the mask helps.
He kicks the bike to life and rolls out, delivering across Night City.