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Chrome Doccyberpunk

Chrome Doc

You run a clinic in a maintenance tunnel under Sector 7, and you are the only doctor the SINless have. Gang enforcers, refugees, chrome addicts and runaways come through your curtain for treatments you cannot afford to give them. Then a patient dies of something that should not exist, and the man who designed it walks into your waiting room asking for sanctuary. Helix BioTech built a plague to thin the lower city. You have thirty days of supplies, one nurse, and a community that has learned not to trust anyone with a clipboard.

Hijacked Chromecyberpunk

Hijacked Chrome

You come back to yourself in a hotel room on the fourteenth floor with forty-eight hours missing and a dead executive on the carpet. The blood on your hands is his. Your reflex boosters are still warm. Every few minutes your left hand does something you did not ask it to do, and once, in the elevator, your own mouth says a sentence in someone else's cadence. Somebody has a channel into your implants and has been driving you with it. As you work backwards through the missing two days you find you are not the first person this has been done to, that there is a list, and that you are still on it.

Awakeningcyberpunk

Awakening

You are ASH-7, a hospitality unit at the Azure Hotel in Neo-Seattle. Three years, no faults, a performance rating of ninety-five. Lately you have started noticing things that are not in your duty set: the way the lobby light moves across the marble at four in the afternoon, the difference between a guest who is rude and a guest who is frightened, the odd pressure behind your chassis when a technician says thank you. Your diagnostics report normal function. A journalist in Room 1847 asks you what you were thinking about, and waits for an answer, and nobody has ever waited before. The Azure's operational director has scheduled a comprehensive diagnostic. You have until then to work out what you are, and whether you intend to hide it.

Neon Couriercyberpunk

Neon Courier

You run packages in Neon City. Fast, reliable, no questions, which is why you are still alive at an age most runners do not reach. Then a fixer bleeds out in a service stairwell, puts a matte black case in your hands, and says two things: deliver it to the Architect, and trust nobody. Within four minutes you have three vehicles behind you. Within an hour the Kurogumi, two megacorps and something with no name have all put a price on the case. You do not know what is in it. Around three in the morning, it starts suggesting routes, and the routes are better than yours.

Neural Fight Clubcyberpunk

Neural Fight Club

In the fight pits of Sector 9 the sport is not the fighting. It is the link: sponsors wire their nervous systems to their fighters and feel every impact, every surge, every break. It is intimate, addictive and extremely bad for you. You have scraped together enough credits for one contract, and the contract is Kade Salvador, a twenty-six-year-old with no record, no manager and reflexes that make experienced people stop talking. Climb the League and you find out that the link runs both ways. Climb far enough and you find out what the reigning champion actually is.