Insurance is Common Sense in Cyberpunk
In the cyberpunk world, death was far too commonplace. If you asked just how common, consider this: when a report came in about a body being found, the police didn't bother dispatching officers. Instead, they'd just give out the number for a cleanup crew. Ever since the police department went private, they avoided investigating violent crimes that weren't profitable. Even if they did look into something, it was only for cases involving corporate bigwigs. No one wasted time on bottom-rung mercs like that.
Of course, there were a few instances where these so-called cops actually showed up for a murder. One was when the killing happened right out in the open on a busy street—like that gorilla Amon had tangled with. Another was if you ran into the rare 0.001% true-blue cop in this city. Amon had never met one. And the last? When the "investigation" was just a cover for some ulterior motive. That was exactly the case with the cop trembling in front of Amon right now.
Blood dribbling from his mouth instead of spit, the cop begged Amon. "Please... just let me live..."
Amon looked down at the man on his knees, groveling pathetically. What a dog-eat-dog city... By the standards of his past life, this kind of raw deal was everyday life here. Amon loved this captivating world, but the occasional bullshit like this was hard to stomach. He swallowed the rage bubbling up from deep in his dantian, forcing it down as he recalled that morning's events.
Sonia had headed off to school, leaving Amon alone at home when the cops showed up. The reason? A murder investigation. As a twentieth-year veteran gamer from his past life, Amon knew right away it was bullshit. He heightened his guard and opened the door.
He wasn't armed. Opening the door packing heat would've given them justification to shoot, claiming self-defense. Luckily, the cop tried talking first thing.
"Amon Perfumrose. That you?"
"Yes."
"Humph died yesterday, so we're investigating. Where were you after your party disbanded?"
The cop grilled him with a heavy-handed tone. Amon's eyes flicked to the man's shoulder. No body cam. This wasn't official.
They came prepared for trouble. Out of all the suspects in this case, Amon probably looked like the easiest mark. According to police databases, he was just an orphan kid with no backing. Perfect for throwing weight around—a prime social weakling in their eyes.
Funnily enough, the young man standing before the cop wasn't weak at all. He had unofficial ties to the Vatican and the 3 Dollar Group. But this time, he wouldn't even need those connections.
At first, Amon played the part of a scared everyday citizen, cowering under police authority. He meekly got into the car. Up until then, the cop thought he'd won.
But when the patrol car pulled into a back alley behind a clinic center—not the station—and the cop opened the rear door, Amon flipped the script.
"You even human?"
With those words, Amon—who'd already slipped his cuffs—smashed the cop's jaw.
He'd gone along just in case it was a one-in-a-million true cop, but parking behind a rundown clinic? Yeah, that screamed corrupt. No good could come from cops dragging you to a spot like this.
That's when Amon's merciless beatdown began.
"What's the difference between you and a scavenger?"
As Amon stomped him relentlessly, the cop screamed for mercy. But no help came. He'd turned off his radio and body cam to avoid evidence, picking this blind alley where no one would see. His choices were backfiring spectacularly.
Realizing no backup was coming, the cop tried fighting back. At first, he went for his baton or pistol. But Amon had crushed scavengers modded head-to-toe with implants. Some half-assed cop stood no chance.
Pull a baton? Amon took it and beat him with it. Draw a gun? Amon snatched it and kneecapped him. The more he resisted, the worse it got. Eventually, the cop gave up and begged instead.
"Plwease... just let me wuv..."
Blood pouring, slurring through a wrecked mouth, the cop groveled. He thought mercy might come when Amon looked away.
But—
Slash.
"Gurk?"
The cop's eyes dropped to his neck. Hot blood gushed out.
To avoid splatter, Amon circled behind and kicked him down. A red pool spread across the pavement.
Amon gazed coldly at the fallen body, then walked away. On the way, he pulled out his phone and texted the merc office boss.
He finished the text, tossed the bloody glass shard into a dumpster, and triple-jumped through an open clinic window.
What's the difference between a hospital and a clinic? Plenty. Both have doctors, nurses, and treatments—even the exact same ones. Big clinic centers could match any major hospital's services. And cheaper, too.
So what set them apart? Trust.
Amon sneered as he hacked the center's computer. Clinics lacked government approval and certification marks. In this shitshow of a world, you might think that didn't matter—but it did. Stats showed a 10% chance of getting screwed over at a hospital, versus 45% at a clinic. Hospitals didn't need to rip you off when you paid top dollar anyway. Point was, they had more scruples.
That was why Amon had taken Paul’s party to a hospital, not here. This clinic—where Humph’s brother had been admitted—was filthy by comparison.
Human experiments, organ trafficking...
Amon uncovered the full story of this center's crimes. A megacorp lurked in the shadows. He couldn't ID which one, but they sponsored periodic human trials here. Afterward, they'd strip every implant and organ from the corpses.
Why the hell did Humph stick his brother in a dump like this...
Humph’s brother had been part of a brain-upload experiment. It went sideways in every way—his consciousness was gone forever. But the sponsoring company wasn't satisfied. Short on samples, they demanded more, fast.
So the clinic got desperate. They targeted Humph—the brother’s guardian—and his contacts. Amon was the juiciest first pick.
This world just won't leave me alone.
In cyberpunk, though? Pretty standard. Orphans without family had it rough. Hop in an ambulance uninsured? They harvest your organs by default. Maybe Amon had been too complacent enjoying the peace.
Why pick a shithole like this...
Not entirely Humph’s fault, of course. He needed to save his brother, and being broke wasn't a crime. Still, Amon wanted someone to gripe at.
He rubbed his throbbing forehead. The computer had pre-loaded report forms for incoming test subjects. Orc tank, elf mage. Both seemed like Humph— no insurance, no family.
But one entry he couldn't ignore.
------------------------
Sonia Perfumrose
Personal Information – Spouse of Amon Perfumrose
------------------------
He'd never planned to let this slide anyway—but now? No chance in hell. Right on cue, the boss replied.
Green light. Amon powered off his phone.
Tap-tap.
He shut down the computer, grabbed the doctor's apron from the wall, and slipped it on. Medical mask and surgical cap in place, he checked the mirror.
Not bad.
He stepped out of the room.
"Take the day off, Doc."
No reply. A curtain cord dangled from the slumped doctor's neck. Amon set out on rounds in his stead.
No one batted an eye as Amon wandered the halls. This world was indifferent to strangers by default, but more than that—this place wasn't legit. He headed straight for the OR.
The patient was already dead, implants being harvested mid-procedure.
"Ah, you're here, Doc?"
Amon nodded silently. He scanned the room. No CCTV, as expected. Not for a chop shop like this. It wasn't surgery to save—they were just stripping parts. The staff didn't give a damn about hygiene as they yanked out components.
Amon picked up a bone saw and took position. Before anyone questioned it—
Slash!
Blood sprayed from multiple necks. Thud, clunk, splat.
As heads rolled in discordant rhythm amid the raining blood, Amon crossed himself with mournful eyes.
"May the departed rest in peace."
He pocketed two bone saws and several scalpels, then slipped quietly from the room.