Polish Republic. Warsaw.
A spacious underground room filled with rows of beds was silent. The uniform beds with shelves, the cold glow of lamps, and the gray indifference of concrete walls seemed to mock the children's tragedy, emphasizing it even more. Death. Few children ponder the simple truth that people are mortal. Worse, they are suddenly mortal. But today, they had confronted this terrifying truth firsthand.
Lucy sat on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, staring blankly at the wall. There was no spark of life in her eyes, no shadows of emotion, no flashes of anger—only despair. Despair, and the question: When had her happy life turned into a nightmare? And, to her own horror, she knew the answer.
A year ago. The day a curious kitten had hacked into her father's computer and found something she shouldn't have. That was when it all began.
Excluding the past year, Lucina had been happy. She lived in a big, beautiful house. She had a loving, if somewhat absent-minded, mother; a father who was often away but caring; her favorite older brother Tony, who spent almost all his free time with her; and her reliable older sister Omnissia, even if she was a robot. Despite the minor rough patches in their relationships, Lucy genuinely loved her family. She was fed, loved, happy, and engaged in what she was talented at. She could spend all day tinkering with computers, building herself a more powerful and reliable model, then proudly present her creation to Tony. He would critique it, show her how to improve, but always smile, ruffle her hair, and tell her she'd done well. She could spend weeks writing code for a new program, polishing every tiny flaw in her creation until Omnissia nodded respectfully and patted her head. She had even done something terrifying—learned to cook—just so her mother would pat her head too. Her father praised her for academic success. Yes, she had no friends, though she truly wanted some. But... all her peers were so stupid, so slow, so poor at understanding even the simplest things that she couldn't bear it and stopped talking to them. And they didn't mind.
"It's the burden of a smart person, Lucy," her brother consoled her when she came home upset again, genuinely thinking something was wrong with her since she couldn't make friends. "It's hard for us to communicate with someone less intelligent, and most kids, frankly, aren't exactly geniuses."
"And I'll never make friends?"
"You will," he said confidently, remembering something. "You definitely will, sooner or later. You just need to be in the right environment, with people like you."
As always, her brother was right. Lucy did make friends—first at the Arasaka Academy for netrunners, run by her father. She didn't befriend everyone there, but those who understood her became her friends for years, just as she did for them. Characteristically, almost all her friends completed the training program and, at just ten years old, secured jobs alongside Lucy at Arasaka. It seemed like a fairy tale! Children working for one of the world's most powerful corporations, earning a corresponding salary—what could go wrong? As it turned out, everything. From the start, it had been a mistake—not a fairy tale, but a cunning trap set by a monster luring naive little children into its lair. And yesterday, that had become painfully clear.
A year. An entire year Lucy and her friends had worked on an especially serious project, forbidden from calling anyone, making contact, or even leaving the complex to see their families. To say this had devastated the affectionate little girl was an understatement. Every chance she got, she begged her father to let her see her family, only to receive a cold, indifferent stare and a dismissive "No." No seeing her brother to cook him a snack when he lost track of time in a creative frenzy. No poking Tony with a stick to rouse him, alongside Omnissia. No discussing the latest news over tea or a talk show with her mother. No, no, no!
First came fear—the fear of never seeing her loved ones again. Then the fear gave way to emptiness; the little girl burned out from daily torment. And after emptiness came apathy. Lucy did things, said things, but only out of inertia. Losing her family, she realized only then how much she loved them all. And then... then Arnie died. Killed by a wild AI, devoured right before their eyes. His scream still rang in her ears.
When Lucy had found photos of her father and his "exploits" from the corporate war, she had thrown a fit. The little princess, raised in love and sheltered conditions, had reacted sharply to the revelation that her reliable, kind father could commit such atrocities. Though... now she understood it hadn't been a reaction to her father's actions, but to the first serious cracks in her rose-tinted glasses. The stinging, painful slap that day had been sobering, as had her father's cold, indifferent gaze.
"Shut up," he had said then—short, irritated, as if speaking to a pesky fly rather than his daughter. "Take her away," he ordered Alicia, who obediently led Lucy to her room, fidgeted uncertainly, unable to comfort her, and then left. Only an hour later did Tony burst in, hugging her tightly and assuring her everything would be okay. But... nothing was okay.
Ryu Kusinada, abruptly dropping the act of a loving father, had eventually shown his true colors, forcing his own daughter into a program to extract knowledge from the Old Net. It was like throwing a talented but still child into waters teeming with sharks. A whole year without deaths... that was an achievement for a group of kids. But now, they had lost their first. They were weakened. The next life taken was only a matter of time, and Lucy understood that all too clearly. It might even be her.
"Brother... help me," she whispered, unable to bear the storm of emotions raging within her.
Polish Republic. Warsaw. Stark Family House.
A tall, statuesque eighteen-year-old dressed in combat gear. Nothing special—just fabric with non-Newtonian fluid properties, good for stopping small calibers and allowing the body to breathe, plus Kevlar plates with graphene nanotubes. There was nothing technologically advanced about his armor—just reliable, brute-force mechanics. By Tony's standards, this was a decent solo operator's kit for the streets of the Polish capital, accustomed to relying not on armor but on chrome. The only standout was the helmet: full-face, covering the back of the head, housing a crystalline nano-computer with impressive processing power, most of which was dedicated to analysis and hacking programs. But Tony's weapons were far more interesting.
First, the war hammer. Stark admitted to himself that as a fighter, he was below average. He lacked Steve's reflexes, where every event passed through the subconscious, producing an instant response. He thought too much. He was an engineer, a technician, a machine specialist—and that was his greatest strength. In hand-to-hand combat, he lost to almost everyone he knew, but in ranged combat, where quick calculations of dynamics and ballistics were required, he excelled. If forced into primitive, losing brawls, he had devised a simple formula: brute, armored, unstoppable force. The Hulk would confirm it was an effective approach. And as the embodiment of this idea, he had created a hammer—a simple hammer embedded with a low-frequency vibration emitter that disrupted atomic bonds, turning almost anything it touched to dust. A terrifying weapon, albeit with an extremely limited range. He would have made full-fledged guns on the same principle, but he lacked the necessary materials and funds to acquire them. For now, he settled for a blunt, primitive, but reliable hammer. One hit, and the enemy wouldn't get up again.
Next were the wrist-mounted submachine guns. Accustomed to keeping his hands free, Stark had no intention of changing his approach. In a couple of days, he had repurposed smart guns into wrist-mounted weapons, rewriting their software to improve hacking protection, speed up auto-aim, and increase magazine capacity to a couple hundred rounds. The little guns weren't particularly powerful, but with smart programming and helmet integration, they targeted the most vulnerable spots with millimeter precision, guaranteeing the enemy's death if not with the first shot, then the tenth, twentieth, or hundredth.
Then there was Asura, a smart sniper rifle with terrible fire rate but devastating damage—enough to make even a cyborg queasy. It was bulky, and its target acquisition range was inferior to classic analogs, but Stark didn't need that. He needed a powerful, precise caliber, and he got it by dismantling a monstrous attachment, studying it, and reassembling it for back-mounted use. Activated, the short barrel emerged from behind his shoulder and instantly fired a smart, self-guiding rocket. Originally, he had designed the helmet for this very purpose—the guidance module simply wouldn't fit in the repurposed structure, forcing him to improvise, which led to new ideas.
The final piece of his arsenal was a light machine gun modified to use his homemade thermal rounds. While the base version was designed against those with heavy subdermal armor, Tony's creations melted tank armor. Not much, but for city streets, it was overkill. Add a backpack power supply, and you had a walking firepoint that required heavy support to assault.
It might seem like an odd loadout for someone with Tony's intellect, and in many ways, it was. Stark had always preferred maneuverability, but not at the expense of protection. His first suit model had withstood a tank shell and a fall from hundreds of meters, leaving him with nothing but a impressive bruise. His invention—a system for dissipating behind-armor force, distributing the remainder across the body—was, without exaggeration, one of his most brilliant creations, alongside the arc reactor and repulsors. It allowed him to ignore many battlefield threats, becoming a flying nuisance capable of appearing in different locations in seconds. But the new world dictated its own terms, where well-armed, armored enemies were the minimum standard. Under such conditions, it was better not to dodge like a fly evading a swatter, but to drown the enemy in so much lead they couldn't stick their nose out. And with Tony's physical stats, gained from his old adventure, it was entirely possible.
"I must inform you of the high risks and extremely undesirable consequences of your actions, Master Tony," the ceiling spoke in Omnissia's voice.
"And what do you suggest? Try yelling at that spineless amoeba again?" Tony grimaced at the mention of Alicia.
He had been wary of Ryu Kusinada's strange behavior from the start, but over the years of living under the same roof, he had let his guard down. After all, Ryu's oddity was limited to cherished photos of a massacre, which he occasionally reviewed, while for the most part, he was a model family man, a hardworking father, and a caring parent. Few parents would push their child into a cutting-edge project to unlock and expand human potential, risking their own career. Too bad he was wrong, as always—the details mattered.
What had Tony expected Ryu to do? Send Lucina to the academy he built, let her complete her training, and secure her a cozy position under her father's wing in network security. Yes, Arasaka would lose a valuable specialist in a key role, and some of Ryu's ill-wishers might exploit that, but his daughter would gain tools to survive and thrive under any circumstances. In Tony's view, that was more than enough reward to take the risk. But he was wrong. Ryu had never planned to take risks for Lucy's sake. On the contrary, he intended to advance his career at her expense, sending her straight after training to a closed base to work on some highly classified project. Tony had been uneasily aware of Lucy's prolonged absence, which he found completely unacceptable. When all gentle methods failed, he resorted to force, blatantly and without regard for written or unwritten laws.
Yesterday, he had made one last attempt to resolve the matter peacefully—by involving Alicia, Lucy's mother. And what could be said? Total failure. The woman was completely under her husband's thumb, not daring to utter a word in defense of her own child. She didn't even seem particularly upset by the long separation, easily accepting her daughter's absence from the house. When Tony finally understood the situation, he acted. Fortunately, he still had access to the Kusinada house even after turning eighteen, when Ryu had asked him to leave. A couple of synthesized powders on Ryu's comb, toothbrush, and towel had yielded remarkable results: lost teeth, hair, and skin sores. Overnight, Ryu's appearance had deteriorated significantly, which couldn't help but alarm him. Ryu Kusinada knew how corporations dealt with their enemies, and he was especially attentive to his health. Chemical weapon poisoning, radiation exposure, or slow-acting poison could end his acquaintance with his body in the most unpleasant way possible.
This was necessary to lure Ryu out of his usual haunts—home and work—both well-guarded and close to rapid response teams. A private clinic wasn't the best place for an ambush, but Tony didn't need to storm it. He just needed to wait for Ryu on the way there or on the way out. That was what all his gear was for—to properly surprise Ryu's security, without which he never left the house.
"You could act more subtly," Omnissia replied.
"And slowly," Tony countered. "Do you really think nothing will happen to Lucy in that time?"
"She's stronger than you think."
"Maybe," Tony nodded. "But that doesn't mean she should suffer while I sit here worrying about my own ass."
"Even in the best case, you'll turn all of Arasaka's European branch against you. The corporation won't forgive the kidnapping and elimination of a division head within its own conglomerate. You'll have to flee and abandon everything you've built over the years, then go into hiding."
"Not a great loss," Tony scoffed.
Over the years in Poland, he had accomplished a lot: earned a full medical education with practical training, designed new implants for himself, built a workshop, and established connections. He was ready to start his own business—the arms factory was almost complete. The factory would have supplied Poland with reliable, high-quality weapons, reducing its dependence on external sources. What Tony called a "factory" was, by normal standards, a full-fledged corporation that mined raw materials for weapons and ammunition, processed everything itself, delivered, and ultimately produced high-quality firearms that quickly filled the niche of reliable yet affordable weaponry. Demand was insane—it was like a new AK-47, only more pleasant to shoot.
"I'll change my appearance. Problem solved."
"You've invested millions—almost all your money—into this enterprise."
"I'll earn more," Tony shrugged dismissively. "Besides, my main funds have long been moved to hidden accounts, so I won't be starting from scratch."
"You wouldn't have to start from scratch if you were more patient."
"Maybe," Tony agreed easily. "But you know what, Omnissia? Fuck Poland. Fuck Warsaw. Fuck Arasaka. Just fuck it all."
Tony was fed up. Eighteen years he had lived in this country. The first few years, while his parents were alive and the Forerunner was active, had been relatively good. But with their deaths and the collapse of the only force keeping crime in check, the situation had turned outright rotten. The Polish government had never been independent, acting as a kind of referee, harshly punishing violations of its laws but daring not to change them. Now, the state had become nothing more than an appendage serving Europe's black market, its sole function to ensure the comfort of buyers and sellers. Skalka retained some resources, but they were only enough to keep the most critical projects running and his own ass in the presidential seat. Meanwhile, gangs were increasingly pushing boundaries, beginning a quiet expansion from the slums into the cities. Corporations grew bolder, pushing through favorable laws and testing raw prototypes on the citizens of the Polish Republic. And the clergy, with each passing year, rocked the boat harder, regularly organizing demonstrations and rallies that turned into riots. Clinging to such a cesspool? Possible, but unnecessary. Stark had never been stingy with money; what he spent, he could easily replenish by selling some technology. The damage compensation system, for example, would be snatched up by any military in any country. He could also quickly offload his little factory to Skalka at cost. The old man wouldn't refuse to formalize everything officially, happily ridding himself of the hassle with hungry jackals over such a tempting morsel. Even for today's Poland, such expenses would go unnoticed. But for now, he would keep that option as a last resort, in case he needed to flee Poland—and Europe—quickly.
Frankly, Tony felt stifled in Europe. He had long considered moving to America. After the collapse of the USA, free markets had emerged there where he could rise, with room for creativity and building his own structure—perhaps even subjugating one of the states to his will. Night City, in particular, looked attractive: a city-state at a crucial logistical hub of global maritime trade, drawing the attention of all the world's megacorps and thus poorly controlled. The intelligence agencies of corporate giants were too busy clawing at each other's throats in an unending shadow war, blinding themselves to everything else. With its business-friendly laws, Stark was confident he could acquire power comparable to a small but full-fledged corporation, even without officially entering the market, relying solely on shadow and gray schemes.
Honestly, Tony was quietly enraged by life in a cyberpunk world with apocalyptic undertones. Heroic by nature, responsible, and compassionate, he seethed every time he remembered what was happening on the streets of modern cities, beyond them, and in the world at large. Stark never cut slack to bandits, criminals, or marginal elements. He understood their psychology, methods, and principles, seeing them as parasitic leeches on the bodies of ordinary people. And yet, he tried not to kill them. Not everyone was lucky enough to be born into a loving, wealthy family. Some were driven to crime by need, others raised in it, others had no choice. Stark had no right to judge, with his loving parents and billion-dollar inheritance. That was why he always tried to turn criminals over to the authorities, where competent bodies would uncover the full truth about a person and deliver fair punishment. Until recently, the exception had been terrorists—he didn't even consider them human, just rabid animals that needed to be put down before they attacked innocent people. But now... in this new world and new life, local criminals exceeded Tony's worst expectations. Most were inhuman monsters for whom a bullet to the head wasn't execution, but mercy. For their atrocities, a quick, painless death was too lenient a price.
Several times, he had snapped. He would devise a plan and, with all the power of his intellect, wipe out entire gangs of hundreds. But the worst part wasn't the blood on his hands or seeing their victims—it was the understanding. He couldn't cleanse even Warsaw of such filth. The Forerunner, an organization of thousands of highly trusted and well-trained agents under the president's personal patronage, had failed. What chance did he have? And he never would. The soil was too fertile for such things; too many powerful interests intersected in this city, turning it into a magnet for criminal elements. Even if he performed the impossible and cleansed Warsaw of organized crime, he wouldn't live long. The true masters of the gangs—those who profited from them and used them as tools—wouldn't forgive some insect for disrupting their plans. They would exert enough effort to finish off Stark. This helplessness... it wasn't new to Tony. He was used to feeling it every time he, a man in armor, faced something mystical. But in his past life, he had tools to deal with it—people to cover his back, comrades to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. Here, he was alone, without his tools or resources. His only ally was a concerned AI, and his enemy was a system that had consumed humanity and was leading it to ruin. And what to do about it... Tony knew.
He knew, but he feared his own thoughts. Feared them, but step by step, he moved toward his goal, shedding old principles and adopting new ones. Lucy was the final straw—a girl kidnapped by her own father, betrayed by her own mother, unprotected by the law. She had become the
embodiment of this world. In the past, Stark would have mobilized his connections, stirred up a scandal, called journalists, unleashed an army of lawyers, and saved the little girl.
Now, even with the means to do all that, he realized with painful pragmatism: it would change nothing. If the old methods of the old world no longer worked, he had to adapt, change, and adjust to the new conditions. Not just to save an innocent soul, but for a far more significant goal. A goal that would justify any means to achieve it.
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100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}