[This chapter is written from Johnny Silverhand's first-person perspective, covering the origins of "Soulkiller" — a key element in the 2077 storyline. For readers who've only seen Edgerunners and haven't played the game, this provides background context. It doesn't affect the main plot of this novel.]
1988. The year I was born.
Even as a kid, I was convinced I'd give my life for this country. Contribute something to this world.
When I came of age, I enlisted. Or maybe I should say — I was always meant to be one of them.
...
First year in the service, the squad leader — real piece of work — slapped me on the head and told us to die for the NUSA.
The silver tag on my chest had my name and birthdate. On the battlefield, when bodies were too mangled to identify, this was all that told anyone who you'd been.
[ROBERT JOHNNY LINDER]
That's the name on the tag.
They liked calling me Johnny. I was a natural fit with those rough-edged soldiers. Because I was the same.
"Johnny! We're going to war tomorrow — got any words of wisdom?"
See? That asshole always loved mocking me.
Because I liked talking about what I saw, what I thought. They called me a "philosopher who swears like a sailor."
"Go fuck yourself!" I flipped him off and lay on my bunk, staring at the tag in my hand.
...
Dog tags. That's what we called them.
But we didn't think dogs were bad. Dogs are loyal.
It was 2003. I was about to march into the yellow sand and tumbleweeds of the Mexican wasteland with these idiots...
Cowboy showdown. Meat grinder.
War was always described the same way.
The Central American Conflict. That's what they called it.
We didn't know if we'd win. Those soldiers forcing themselves to drink and play cards didn't look scared, but they were chain-smoking one cigarette after another.
Night fell quiet. No snoring like usual. Just restless tossing and creaking bed frames.
...
I remember how brutal that battle was.
But I can't recall the details. All I know is the bullets were so dense nobody could lift their head to check the situation. Nobody told us which direction the enemy was.
"Shit, you're gonna die here, Johnny!"
The squad leader looked into my eyes. His face was black with grime. He reeked of sweat and gunpowder.
My left arm was gone. Empty. Hurting like hell. All I could do was curse. Keep cursing.
"You're fine, big philosopher... but can you fucking kick your legs? I can't drag you anymore!"
The guy saving me wouldn't let go.
Wind in my ears. Screaming bullets. Burning sun. Ragged breathing.
I pushed myself up. Grabbed a gun. All I could think was: resist. If I didn't resist, I'd see them on the other side. And I sure as hell didn't want to see that bastard there.
"Where's the medic? Dead?"
The gun in my hand clicked empty. Couldn't reload easily. I knew just being able to shoot at all was impressive enough.
Because of one shell. Just one.
I never saw that bastard again. He'd shielded me with his body. Face unrecognizable.
...
I closed that memory away. The graffiti and slogans in Night City's underground tunnels surrounded me.
"It's all because of those deserters!"
Not far away, a veteran was getting kicked around by a crowd.
Someone had lied to me and that old soldier. Lied to the people beating him too.
I swore I'd never die for this broken country again.
Now my left arm wasn't empty anymore. New chrome I bought in Night City. Silver-white. Same color as the dog tag.
This powerful hand could pick up an electric guitar.
It could also pull a trigger.
Our cause was on fire. Millions were captivated by us.
But then Nancy got in trouble. 2008. Samurai reached the end of the road.
But my believers were still there. I'd keep being a "philosopher."
Those music corporations wearing human skin tried every trick to take me down. Make me shut up. Stop writing their scandals into songs.
They even threatened me with the deserter label.
I only ever texted them one thing: Go fuck yourself.
Then I wrote my story into a song. Everyone knew what really happened. We were never deserters. The people manufacturing scandals and covering up the truth — they were the cowards!
...
Later, I met a girl.
Alt. She'd often come backstage after shows to see me. We'd talk for hours.
She was into netrunning or something. I wasn't interested in that stuff. Never asked.
2020... right, the Fourth Corporate War.
I'd seen through this country and its corporations. I hoped they'd all destroy each other in their feeding frenzy.
Just like I sang about.
Until Arasaka took Alt from me. Everything changed.
This beautiful girl with blue eyes — she'd created something terrifying: Soulkiller.
I wanted to save her. I was even willing to level that tower for her!
That concert was right outside Arasaka Tower. My believers and everyone fed up with this world started losing control.
What was inside that tower? Was Alt still alive?
We watched the bomb counting down. I didn't know.
For only the second time in my life — after that day on the battlefield — I prayed.
Until the bomb went off. Until I saw Alt. I thought I was too late.
Her hand hung limp and lifeless. Fucking Arasaka. I didn't hesitate — put a bullet in that bastard.
I swore I'd get revenge.
...
Until the tower fell.
I knew it was all pointless.
You don't want to know what happened — that massive bomb detonated in Arasaka Tower.
There was another badass on that run. Morgan Blackhand.
Our two teams wanted to end this goddamn war — the Fourth Corporate War.
Back then, I still thought I could get Alt back.
Until Adam Smasher stood in front of me and ended my life with his gun.
And somehow... I didn't close my eyes. I even watched a brilliant "fireworks show" through the window of Arasaka's escaping shuttle.
Where was this place? I didn't know.
All I knew was endless gray void.
[Am I alive or dead?]
Nobody could tell me.
Note: All years mentioned in this novel are from the Cyberpunk 2077 game universe, not real-world dates.