Midnight Fries After Lab-Grown Boy Sides for Dinner Again
After wrapping up another dinner where Punk City's lab-grown human boy meat showed up as a side dish yet again, french fries emerged for a midnight snack. The kids devoured them eagerly, thrilled at the rare treat.
"Hiiing... I might gain weight."
Sonia eyed the fries, then her own belly fat in turn, fretting. To Amon, it sounded like the cutest little whine. Kids in their growth spurt could eat all they wanted—no harm done. That was his firm belief. Besides, with her metabolism, she had nothing to worry about from a bit of this. Her belly fat tended to gather just a smidge higher up...
'Stop right there.' Amon reined in the wandering thought. He piled some fries onto her plate and grabbed a handful for himself. The potatoes in these fries were real potatoes. Sure, there was some genetic tweaking involved, but as far as he knew, no side effects. That made french fries one of the few foods in this world he could eat without a second thought.
"Nom nom."
Sonia picked up one or two, then promptly forgot her weight worries and tucked in with gusto. Sure, it meant blowing nearly all the cash he'd earned yesterday and today, but Amon felt a swell of pride. Seeing the kids this happy? Not a single credit regretted. He shook the last crumbs from the plate straight into his mouth, polishing off the snack with satisfaction.
* Chick-chick. With midnight snack time over, it was bedtime. Amon brushed his teeth at the sink, replaying the day's events.
'Shooting near Howard Side. That's a full week now. Gangs are the same as ever, fifty years ago or today.'
Even as he lived this daily orphanage routine, Amon knew exactly where he'd reincarnated. And why. To see the wider world, experience more, have fun. And if possible, become a legend. In game terms, maybe achieving his own true ending? Vague goal, sure, but the image in his mind was crystal clear. He gathered intel daily, preparing for the day he'd dive into it all. Current timeline, locations, faction layouts. And where he should jump in next. Delivery errands paid middling but were safe—and perfect for info-gathering.
Summing up what he'd learned: First off, he'd reincarnated in America. Timeline: fifty years after the Punk City 3 ending. The city got a series number per era, so technically, Amon was living Punk City 4 in real time. Fifty years post-3, and the world had changed more than expected. The mind-numbing neon signs? Still there. Well, technically upgraded to mass-produced LED screens now that tech had advanced, but same vibe. The depressing cityscape, money over human rights, toothless public authority—all unchanged. Skies were a tad clearer, though. Not from sudden corporate conscience on eco-fuels, but because they'd found more efficient, less polluting energy.
That new renewable? Entities.
Ghosts, cryptids, urban legends, creatures—plenty of terms, but standard was "Entity." When Amon first learned this, chills ran down his spine.
'They actually pulled it off, those bastards...'
This twisted world had commodified the supernatural. Secure endless-walking red shoes and an infinite descending staircase, hook 'em up to a generator? Boom—infinite power! Ideas that'd make Satan fold, executed like it was nothing. This was the era Amon had been born into.
'Genre's cyberpunk... nah, with magic and genetic engineering, fusion punk?'
Renewables screamed eco-punk, but he shot that down quick. Exploiting anomalies and ghost stories for "green" power? Felt... off. His verdict: middling fusion punk. Base of cyberpunk, spoon of magic, spoon of biotech, pinch of urban fantasy. That was the world.
His orphanage's spot was nowhere near 3's map. Expected, since locations shifted each game. But news of past protagonists trickled in fine. True endings flipped world history, after all. 3's true ending was canon here. Other endings peeked through too, mixed in where they didn't contradict.
'Blended on the edges, probably.'
Example: An ending that reshaped gang culture entirely.
Legendary gang boss's final words, executed live by a megacorp in California. Gangs scoured the U.S. for the treasure after. Spread so wide, Jimmy's new crew, Children of the Snake, spanned two states and reached Amon's city. That era-spanning gang age? From the normal ending "The One Treasure." Wild—normal, not true.
Other normals and bads cropped up too. Multiple endings compounded into this world.
'Maybe each of 3's endings was someone's real life.'
Amon scoured papers and history books for them. Canon vs. apocrypha—that was his intel hunt. Ten years of digging, nearly sorted.
"RRRRRR~ spit!"
World-lore and history filed away, Amon spat toothpaste and pondered his weapons. No future knowledge—his era wasn't out as a game yet. But past knowledge? Richer than anyone's. People lived one timeline; his head held countless playthroughs, parallel worlds. Forgotten lore, hidden secrets—all in setting docs. He trusted that as his edge.
One gripe, though.
'Proficiencies are game-free, can't be helped...'
Hoping for freebie levels, he'd tested: spin in place for stamina? Whack a dummy with pipe for sword skill? Conclusion: This was reality. No free rides, no stat screens. But testing yielded fruit.
'Talent system definitely exists.'
No UI, no point-buy at birth, but he knew. Functioned game-like. Heading to his room, Amon recalled Punk City's talent stats at character creation. Talents boosted proficiency in routes/skill trees, even ceilings. Not set-it-and-forget; grind or lucky breaks could surpass. But Amon preferred efficiency—no detours.
Last decade, he'd hunted his talents. Listed all from 1-3, tested and crossed off. Charm? High. Strangers were 40% nicer.
'Makes life way easier.'
Charm seemed useless? Nah—game-mandatory minimum. Low charm? Baseless hate: "You seem shady. Deal's off." NPCs sulk, merchants gouge, "Stay back!" Zero charm: 10% politeness, 90% armed on sight. Negative? Auto-arrest (skin color irrelevant). Timed quests? Fail to bad end. Minimum charm essential.
Story-skip rampage? Lowball it. Or freak looks + max charm for comedy. 'Ah... not nostalgic, Mr. Purple Blob Dev.' Max charm on grotesque purple monster? Everyone swoons. Hilarious—Amon always maxed it on weirdos.
Reality? No game scaling, and no thanks to purple birth. Charm checked; rest? Zilch. Low magic, rhetoric, crafting. Crossed. Hacking pending. Left: weapons, guns. Test day tomorrow.
'Early bed tonight.'
Thoughts off, covers up. Drowsy shooting? Disaster.
A day later, the moment Amon awaited arrived. Thanksgiving. America's Chuseok. Day of feasts, fun filling streets!
...Yeah, no. Self-preservation first in cyberpunk—no overflowing street kindness. Thanksgiving here? Citizens loosen wallets happily; corps don "goodwill" masks for extra exploitation.
Not total sham, though. Black Friday sales, special events. Amon eyed those. No orphanage funds for kid guns or blades. Hence, no prior tests. But Thanksgiving? Different. Unaffordable gear gets free trials. Ranges/dojos host prize tournaments.
Even sans tourneys, loosened purses mean freebies. At 15, with Orphanage Director's okay, Amon finally pulled a trigger.
"Top Sharpshooter Amon, deploying~"
He muttered, stepping out cheerfully. "Fu hut." Sonia trailed. He'd said no need, but she wanted a go too.
Holiday crowds navigated, they hit the range. Bang bang! Ear-splitting shots echoed under "U.S. Constitution."
"Here for the tournament!!"
Amon yelled over noise. Armorer gestured from bulletproof counter, feigning deafness. Closer: "Tournament!! Entry!!!!" Nod. Rules sheet handed. Amon skimmed—prepped already—pocketed it.
Simple: Max score in time. Moving targets, gun-specific scoring. Rented beat-up pistol, rifle. Into lane. Speaker crackled.
> Get ready. 3, 2, 1. Go!
Bang! Pistol recoil thudded shoulder, stung wrist.
'Oof. Hurts more than expected.'
Made sense. Targets here: thick-skinned beastkin, steel-skinned cyborgs. Calibers, powder loads worlds apart from past life. Amon, strong for his age cross-species, still struggled full control. Hands numb, he kept firing. Pistol done, switch rifle. Single-shot only: pop-pop-pop, steady pulls. Recoil scattered some. Final: 1100. Most 10s, some 9s, one 7.
Range boss clapped. "Won't starve on the street."
Amon agreed. Merc work viable. Internally: 'Guns? Nah.' Decent, but no ceiling-breaker. His foes: neural-amped, tank-busting beam mages. Needed full 10s on dual-auto. Verdict: middling. Hold for now. Triangle on list.
Waited for Sonia. Her turn. Serious grip, trigger pull. Rat-tat-tat!
"???"
Unholy burst. Judge moved to DQ for auto-mode in single-shot tourney. But—
"It's single-shot, though?"
Proved innocent: finger blurred, single-mode burst. Du-du-du-du!
"Uh? Wha...?"
Judge: "Finger implants?"
"Nope? No mods."
Pure human? Stunned judge relented. Show resumed. Single "bursts" shredded centers. Muzzle steady as a rock—cup-on-barrel steady. No recoil, like budget shooter.
'What? Four cushions absorbing kick?'
All dead-center. Crowd mesmerized. Score: 3500.
Amon clapped her shoulder. "Looks like you've got a clear career path."