Arasaka Counterintelligence moved fast. V issued orders; handlers, field agents, netrunners, and strike teams rolled in sequence. The target list centered on one name: Ascension Technology. To V, a "mysterious company" would not beat him. The only variable was interference from rival corps, and the clock was already running. Outwardly, nothing looked unusual. For Arasaka, this was routine work. Night City stayed as chaotic as ever.
Afterlife Bar, night.
Bass shook the ribcage, and neon rinsed the walls. This was where mercs came to pick up contracts and fixers came to post them. Employers watched from the shadowed rails, looking for a pair of steady hands.
"New face. Name first if you want in," the door security said, stepping into a man's path.
He filled the doorway. Tall and heavy. A hard mask hid most of his face. All four limbs were naked chrome, housings peeled back to show the weapons inside. The guard at the Afterlife was big by any standard. Even he had to tilt his chin up.
"I am Barom," the mask buzzed.
The guard stared for a beat, recalibrated against his memory, then nodded. "Damn, it really is you. You changed so much I almost missed it. Go on in."
Barom was a regular. He had taken contracts out of the Afterlife for a long time. The face never looked like this. He used to be huge, sure, but not exaggerated. No mask on his face. Flesh legs, not chrome. The upper half of the face and the eyes finally sold the recognition.
Barom stepped into the light, and the conversation changed shape around him.
"Who is that monster?"
"Looks like Barom, right? Is it?"
"No chance. I saw him days ago. This one is not the same person."
The talk drifted to a nearby table where Maine's crew waited on a lead. Rebecca slouched with her boots on the table and her hands pillowed behind her head.
"What an exaggerated big guy. Who is Barom?"
Maine touched two fingers to his shades and looked across the room. "Barom? I know him. Name's known at the Afterlife—chrome addict. If a piece fits, he installs it. I half think he crawled out of Maelstrom to begin with. I saw him before, but I do not think that's him. People say his head went wrong. —suspected cyberpsychosis. There was a job where his team died because of him. Back then, he was not even this deep into chrome. If that really is Barom, he should already be a full-blown psycho, not sitting here having a drink."
If Rocky were here, he would note that Maine was not qualified to call others reckless. Rebecca snorted at that thought before it even got said.
Eyes kept drifting to Barom: bored mercs clocking a curiosity, fixers gauging risk and price, employers wondering if this was the kind of hammer they needed.
Barom noticed the attention. With his boosted hearing, he could pick individual comments from the crowd, but he did not care.
He ordered a drink and lifted the glass. His hands did not tremble. His body thrummed with power that felt endless. A smile found his face.
Maine's call was correct. Barom was a transformation maniac. The strength that chrome brought had become his drug. If a prosthetic could be bolted on, he wanted it.
That used to be the limit. His body could not carry any more. His ripperdoc warned him again and again to stop installing. The tremor in his hands, the fog behind his eyes, and the dead teammates said the same thing: you reached the edge.
Two days ago, that changed.
Barom's ripperdoc brought him a vial and said a dose would raise his physical capacity and increase his tolerance for chrome. Barom paid without blinking.
The doc was telling the truth. He became stronger. His body felt like armor over a reactor. His mind cleared. He was not excited because he no longer had to fear cyberpsychosis. He was excited because he could keep installing prosthetics.
He was gone now, past any help. He had pushed himself to the edge again, and this time, no medicine would pull him back.
"Hello. You must be the famous Barom."
A man in a suit slid in at the edge of the table. A few mercs around the room rolled their eyes. Show strength, and the work finds you well.
"It is me," Barom said. He did not ask how the man recognized him through the mask and the new bulk.
"I have a commission. Interested?"
"Tell me."
The man set a shard on the table and tipped his chin. Barom picked it up and slotted it without ceremony.
Data scrolled. The job sketched itself in his head. He looked up.
"Too simple. The reward is light. I do not take small work."
He flicked the shard back. After the serum, his perspective had shifted. Only big contracts were worth his time. Small fights were wasting his night.
"Then I will not bother you."
The man smiled, not disappointed at all, as if refusal was the result he wanted. He turned away through the crowd while the buzz of Afterlife rolled back over the table.
Barom drained his glass and listened to his heart drum, which was heavy and perfect against the chrome. He had stopped shaking. He felt stronger than ever. Somewhere, behind the noise, the night moved on without comment.