The first batch rolls out.
Ten drop points. Ten brown paper bags were set at hidden corners beside ten back-alley clinics across Night City. Minutes later, ten ripperdocs see the same message arrive on their clinic systems, signed with the same unfamiliar name.
[ Cooperation Invitation ]
[ Sender: Ascension Technology ]
[ Recipient: *** ]
[ Hello. This is Ascension Technology, an emerging pharmaceutical technology company. We are interested in introducing our latest product to Night City and invite your clinic to serve as our sales agent. A sample pack has been placed at a marked location near your clinic. Please test and share feedback. For orders, reply to this email. ]
[ Attachment: Power Stimulant Type II – Product Manual ]
…
Watson District.
North Industrial Zone.
A basement black clinic, humming with cheap compressors and old fluorescents.
The ripperdoc—thin face, nicotine fingers—reads the mail and gives a sandpaper laugh. "Ascension Technology? Where did that crawl out from? If it were a real company, it would sell through legal channels, not whisper to rats like us."
Still, his hands move before his mouth stops. He opens the attachment.
[ Product Name: Power Stimulant Type II ]
[ Description: A combat stimulant developed by Ascension Technology. After intramuscular injection, the user's overall action speed increases by 35%. Onset is immediate. The user enters a heightened state, where thinking and reaction improve, for a duration of 60 seconds. No harm. No side effects. ]
[ Order Price: €150 per dose ]
He leans back, thinking. If the effect matches the sheet, the price will move on the street. His regulars are mercs and gangers. They already bleed eddies on immunosuppressants. If two hundred buys a minute of real speed, many will pay.
"Look at the sample first," he decides.
He follows the map to the alley behind a noodle stand, fishes a taped parcel from under a vent, and returns with a paper bag holding three syringes. The liquid inside is bright green and very clean, unlike the cloudy, unappealing substance he expects from backyard chemists.
"Maybe some mole brewed it in a bunker," he mutters, but his attention stays on the hardware.
He walks past the operating curtain and opens the basement door.
The space below is big and cluttered. Lockers and parts bins line the walls. A second operating table sits under a harsh lamp. Half a body lies on it, opened and harvested to the rib. In the corner, a man is tied to a chair. No visible chrome. Not a soldier. Not even a ganger. Just unlucky.
The ripperdoc draws a different vial first and puts it into the captive's arm. The man wakes slowly, blinking through the pain.
"Who are you? What are you doing? Let me go!"
His eyes find the open corpse on the table, and everything becomes clear at once. Alcohol fog clears into bright panic. He tugs against the ties until his wrists burn.
"Scavs… please, don't kill me. I can pay. Please."
The ripperdoc's throat cracks on a dry laugh. He does not answer. He holds up one of the green syringes instead, grabs a fistful of hair, tilts the man's head, and drives the needle home.
Heat rushes through the captive's veins. His skull feels light, his limbs ready to spring.
Before he can process that new electricity, the ripperdoc reaches down and cuts the rope.
The man stumbles up. His half-numb legs betray him, and he goes down, palm landing on the dead man's cold shoulder. He does not look. He runs.
The basement is a box with too many corners. He sprints anyway. He hits a door and rattles it; sealed. He tries another; sealed. He lifts his arm to call for help and finds no signal at all. He keeps running because stopping is worse.
Under the influence of the stimulant and survival instinct, speed continues to build. He becomes a blur in the lamp glare, but he is still in a maze he does not know, and every exit fights him.
Finally, he slams his back against the main door and slides to the floor. The footsteps behind him are slow and unhurried. He understands he is not getting out.
"Fine. I will fight you," he says to the empty air, and looks for anything with weight or an edge.
The door behind him unlocks from the other side.
He turns, hope flaring too fast.
A crew of Scavs crowd the doorway, one with a body slung over his shoulder, the rest carrying tool rolls and stained cases. The leader blinks in surprise to see yesterday's catch sprinting around his basement like a rat.
A single shot pops in the low ceiling.
The fleeing man's skull opens in a neat hole, fear still written across his face as he crumples.
"How'd he wake up and get loose?" the shooter asks, holstering the pistol. "Move the meat before the organs go bad."
"I let him out," the ripperdoc says. "Wanted to test a new drug."
The Scavs shrug it off. Dead or breathing is bookkeeping. Runaway is the problem, and that did not happen.
The ripperdoc looks down at the body and nods once to himself. "The stimulant works. We can deal with them. Ascension Technology… interesting."
He climbs back to the clinic floor, sits at the terminal, and begins to type a reply.
Across Night City, similar scenes play out in different basements. Different ripperdocs, same email, identical green vials, and the same decision to verify value by using whoever is already tied to a chair.