What is Punk? A Hardcore Fan's Reincarnation
What is a new story punk? It's a world where technology like science and magic has advanced so far that human dignity is worth less than a single bill. A world where intangible values like love, religion, and truth aren't even a punchline. Stories set in such a world are called punk genre.
A dystopia with advanced steam engines is steampunk. Diesel engines? Dieselpunk. Mechanical engineering? Cyberpunk. Just sprinkle some SF flavor on a dystopia, and you've got punk. I love this genre. Our world is increasingly obsessed with money, even quantifying emotions in monetary terms. Seeing myself slaving away just to survive for that cash makes punk feel all too real.
Of course, my world hasn't devolved that far yet, and tech hasn't hit a singularity. But watching the trajectory year after year, I figure by the time I kick the bucket, it'll be cyberpunk or biopunk one way or another. Call it punkpunk if you want, but my all-time favorite game series is hands-down Punk City.
It burst onto the scene ten years ago with jaw-dropping open-world quality, introducing a fresh genre to gaming. It sparked a rush of every tom, dick, and harry dev jumping on the open-world bandwagon—but none came close to its glory. "Punk City's only rival is past Punk City" wasn't hyperbole.
The backdrop, as the name suggests, is pure punk lore. SF punk as the base, fused with magic and genetic engineering for that "fusion punk" claim. I'm a diehard fan, solidly in the hardcore lineup. Anywhere I go, I can say it with pride. Not the god-tier controller wizard, but the type who pulls off wild strategies through meticulous planning.
After getting a job, playtime dropped to about an hour a day, but before that, I was clocking 9+ hours daily, hitting a cumulative 20,000 hours before I knew it. (Though the community thinks I'm a noob pulling Hawaii and NewbieO vibes.) Even as a superfan, I have one gripe with the series.
After exhausting every ending and concept, replaying so many times I lost count—getting sick of 3 and revisiting 1 and 2 for over 4,000 hours each—the devs still haven't dropped 4. Originally on a 2-3 year cooldown per installment, when 3 years passed without a peep, my first reaction was understanding. "Games aren't widgets; it might just take time."
Then depression: "Are they broke? Lost love for the fans?" Bargaining: "I'll pay more! DLC if needed! Please, 4th game!!!" Rage: "You bastards! How could you? After all my love!" Now, denial: "Heh heh. Nah, 4's out. I'm just too dumb to find it."
Problem is, I'm 2.5 years into denial, and the whole fanbase is there. Five years post-3 with zero news, "Punk City" is a collective berserk button.
Pretty much that vibe. I was right there in the trenches, pining for 4, when my angel appeared out of nowhere.
Like always, got home from work, showered, fired up the PC. While Punk City 3 loaded, I alt-tabbed to check the community as routine. First thing: top real-time hot post.
Figured it was bait, clicked half-heartedly. But the images and videos screamed legit—not troll bait. By the end, I bought the leak hook, line, and sinker, ready to whoop in joy.
Then the kicker at the bottom:
Disclaimer: This is all fake.
"..."
That's why it was top post. You bastards... couldn't let anyone suffer alone.
Normally I'd upvote to join the troll parade, but after two straight night shifts, I had zero chill. Blood pressure spiking. Neck cramping. Chest tight. Then a splitting headache.
Ah. Something popped in my head.
Dropped like a sack right there. Shitty way to go.
Luckily, God had mercy—woke up alone next morning. Real lucky. Living solo, no one to call for help; pure providence. Better take sick leave today and tomorrow, hit the ER.
As I moved to stand, spotted something weird on the still-on PC screen from last night's collapse: Punk City official YouTube trailer.
"Huh?"
Forgot the hospital, instinctively went to play it—but my right hand wouldn't budge. No sensation. And it spread: left hand, legs, even face. Body going numb, vision fading.
Came to still on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling light. Forced my sluggish brain: Fuck. Bright ending even in death.
God really hates me. Can't even die clean.
Senses fully ebbed. True end.
Eyes opened again. Standing in white void, fully aware. Reality check: not another bright ending, not a dream. Fingers and toes responsive. Nose caught my familiar scent. Hearing sharp, voice too.
And finally, the big-breasted beauty right in front of me, crystal clear.
...Huh?
"Who might you be?"
She spoke.
"I'm the goddess of the world you loved."
*
Summing up my chat with... well, the Goddess:
I was dead. She was Punk City's goddess. Asked how a game hit our world: she was bored, wanted to brag about her beloved creation, no one to listen. So she haunted game devs' dreams for years with visions, nudging their subconscious to make it.
'Sorry for calling you baldy.' Felt pity for devs gaslit via dreams for decades. Moment of silence over.
Why me? She was moved by my deathbed montage fixated on Punk City—my love for her world—so summoned me for reincarnation there.
She wanted nothing in return. Just to see how I'd live in her world. No pressure; if I noped out, back to Earth for afterlife. (Revival off-table, though.)
Two portals: Earth afterlife behind me, Punk City reincarnation ahead. Pick freely.
Heart screamed dive into Punk City. But reason balked. Made no sense—reincarnate just for loving her world? Hidden agenda? Boredom? Overinflated pride warping her into naive goddess? Or some isekai twist with horrors lurking...
Panicked she might read minds, reined in thoughts. But she smiled at my rude brain farts—more merciful than any I'd seen.
"Does boasting my beloved world to someone who loves it just as much need explanation?"
Like a genre otaku showering another with endless kindness. Hardcore carrying a newbie. Pure, no-strings love.
"That's all," she said with maternal grace, embracing my doubts. Instead of rebuke, she soothed: "Must've been tough living in suspicion."
Then: "That world might differ from the game you loved. But know this: however the series went, you loved it—and whoever you are, you're worthy of love."
Her warm hand stroked my head, melting doubts like snow. Finally:
"Have confidence. You're the protagonist of your life, no matter what."
Tears streamed. Born alone, never knowing love—her boundless affection was too warm; returning love just for mine, too radiant. I vowed right there.
"I'll live happily, I swear."
Born anew as her child, my second life began.
*
The reincarnator plunged through the portal and vanished. Alone in the white space, the woman sighed toward where he'd gone—before he even finished listening.
"Did I burden him too heavily...?"
Peeking into his heart pre-jump, she saw duty rooted deep. Not her intent—yet his mind brimmed with protagonist(?) obligation to better the world.
"Sigh..."
No need. She just wanted him to experience the world firsthand. A rare second chance, but crushed by responsibility, blind to surroundings? Worry gnawed.
Wanted to reveal via oracle: don't get swept by duty. But stopped. Post-civilization boom, she'd vowed non-interference for her children's independence—via prophets only.
Special revelation now? Favoritism, breaking her word. He'd descended; her child, but independent soul. Respecting that, no oracle.
Shoved worries aside, started crafting his body. Why not tailor to his desires for reincarnation?
No specific requests, but people project wishes onto avatars. Most-played character = ideal look.
Checked his characters. Top one...
"Wh-what is this?"
3,000 hours: fist-sized eyes, protruding cheeks, purple skin monster. Bald, armed with one dildo. Nick "ProstateGoBrr"—she cut off.
Seen millennia of madness and evil, but that nick rivaled—or surpassed—them. Good thing she knew humans; no mistaking gag for truth.
Next: 2,000 hours. Sunnies, bunny ears, reverse bunny girl on hairy-legged beer-gut uncle. Hypno-hacking concept.
"Rejected."
1,400 hours: rainbow-glowing bombhead, bushy beard... girl(?). Magical girl turning heads bomb-shaped with cartoon mallet. (Ambiguous gender.)
"What in the..."
Kept checking. This guy's brain was busted—SAN check failing per character. Excluded ruthlessly.
Finally, a kindly-looking man's face. Approachable; 10/10 strangers trust on sight. "Likeable guy" archetype.
Phew...
Work done, she sighed relief. Satisfied with the result, gazed back at the lower world.
Anticipating the tale the reincarnator would write.◇◇◇◆◇◇◇