To Find Or Lose Yourself 1

"Who the fuck are you?!" the man holding the pistol demands as he stands in the midst of a drug den.

However, the man who has a gun to his head doesn't respond.

"Just shoot the fucker. I know those eyes. He might be cyberpsycho. Just zero him and be done with it," one of the other men says, taking another hit from his inhaler.

But just as the man turns his attention back to the seemingly vacant cyberpsycho, he realizes the kid has vanished.

The small gang of thieves tries to gather themselves, but some, standing up too quickly, immediately fall back down and barf their guts out.

"Where the fuck did he go?"

"Is he some kind of ghost?"

The confusion amongst the gang grows more apparent with every passing second, but as they continue looking around, none of them notice the younger man staring at them, still with that same vacant expression.

(One Hour Earlier)

Have you ever felt lost?

Have you ever felt pulled in so many directions, yet none of them seemed to lead anywhere?

Have you ever been stuck in your own head, thinking about what you could've done differently?

Maybe work a bit harder in school, or maybe work less and focus more on yourself and your social life.

Maybe you should've tried harder to fit in with the right people.

Or maybe… maybe the game was just rigged from the start.

A tired-looking man sits on a bench, staring into the sky. Yet he can't see the stars due to the light pollution. In fact, he can't even remember the last time he saw them.

The man holds a picture, reminding him of better times. A small smile forms on his face as he recalls when life still made sense.

It's a bit pathetic, he thinks, but he preferred the days when he had a schedule, when he knew where he was going and what to do next. It's sad, and he knows it.

But he doesn't know what to do anymore. He has no outstanding skills, nothing special about him—the epitome of average, if not below average.

As he continues to stare at the photo, trying to calm himself down, he remembers the one person who truly understood him, or at least cared enough to listen.

But old age doesn't care. Things degrade over time, it's inevitable, but it still sucks.

Now that he thinks about it, it was around the time she passed when the world started to look so gray.

Taking a deep breath, he looks up from the bench, expecting to see nothing but the sidewalk. Yet, inexplicably, there's a door standing in the middle of the street next to him.

He doesn't know why, but he feels like he needs to go through it, like he'll miss something amazing if he doesn't. It's ridiculous, like one of those horror clichés, but then again, you only live and die once.

So, for one of the few times in his life, he takes a risk. As he opens the door, he finds himself in one of the fanciest convenience stores he's ever seen.

Hundreds of different items line the walls, but that's not where the strangeness begins. It's what the items are. He sees things ranging from glowing rocks to swords that seem to stare back at him.

The clothes appear almost alive, writhing flesh, it seems. But before he can get a closer look, a chair materializes beside him.

Looking around, the man realizes there's no one else there. Reluctantly, he takes a seat, relieved there aren't any ropes binding him to it.

"Welcome to my humble establishment," says a voice, one of the smoothest the man has ever heard.

Sitting up straight, he looks toward the source of the voice, but he can't see anyone. It's as if the shopkeeper has no physical form, yet the man is certain he's right in front of him.

"I'd advise you not to focus on the details. You'll quite literally lose your eyes. Trust me, many have tried to understand, and very few have seen what I look like. Hell, I don't even know what I look like anymore. But that's just semantics at this point. I'd like to offer you a deal."

"What deal?"

"Straight to the point, I like that. I assume you've been wondering why it's just you and me here. That's because I am technically the only worker."

"So what exactly does this place sell?" The question is met with an amused chuckle from the shopkeeper.

"That's the thing, my friend, I sell everything. You want superpowers? I can give them to you. You desire companionship? I can send you anywhere. Anything you want, I can give you. And now, I understand this sounds like a devil's bargain, and ironically enough, it's probably close to that. But that's not why you're here. That's for the other customers."

The man begins to shake, though it's hard to tell if it's from nervousness, excitement, or the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

"You see, I've been running this shop by myself for centuries, maybe even millennia, it's hard to tell these days. But I've finally decided to start recruiting. Since you're the first, you'll get a special deal. In the event I am ever… indisposed, you'll act as my second."

"Okay then—"

"You're going to ask what happens next, right? I don't even have to read your mind—you're a very straightforward person. But that's neither here nor there. Another reason for this offer is that other members of my, let's call it a friend group, or bosses in some sense, are running a certain program. I want to try it for myself. You shall be the guardian of this store, and in return, I offer you wealth, power, excitement. I offer you a chance to jump."

As the shopkeeper speaks, the entire room begins to expand outward and outward. Within moments, the man can no longer see the end of the shop.

Swords, clothes, and items beyond comprehension fill the space. Yet, even as terror mounts, it's met with an equal sense of relief.

The man walks up to the table where the shopkeeper extends his hand. Without hesitation, the man takes it. The shopkeeper begins to laugh, and the man feels a brief surge of fear, wondering if this will turn out like some "princess and the frog" situation. But there's no blinding light, just a stack of papers appearing in front of him.

The shopkeeper laughs even harder, eventually saying, "I assume you thought this was going to be some kind of Faustian deal, but no. I don't need to torture you. This is your contract, and I'm not asking for much, just your loyalty and the understanding that, once your chain is finished, you will serve as the guardian of the store. It's all perks, really. Your freedom is never restricted, and in the very unlikely event I am killed, you'll take my place. The choice is yours."

The man almost laughs himself, realizing there really isn't a choice. It's either this or end up a vagrant, dead under a bridge.

Without hesitation, he signs the papers. Ironically, it's a surprisingly ordinary contract, it even includes vacation days and sick pay. After reading it over again, and finding no issues, he signs.

The contract rolls itself up and enters his body. A wave of exhaustion hits him, and before losing consciousness, he hears the shopkeeper's final words:

"This chain is yours, but I make all the rules. You seem a bit lost, but I know just the right place to find you. Have fun in Night City."

Laughter fills the room as his eyes close. When they reopen, there's a gun to his face.

(Back To The Present)

The gun at his face was cold, the barrel pressing against his forehead, and yet, all the man could think was how unreal it felt.

The buzzing neon lights overhead, the reek of chemicals and blood, the dull thud of bass from some distant club, it was all a haze. His vision flickered, like static on an old TV, and a dull pressure built behind his eyes.

"Where the fuck did he go?" the thug shouted, scanning the room frantically.

The main character, now the shopkeeper's apprentice, or whatever he was, stood motionless, still in the middle of the room. It was surreal, like watching someone else in his body. He stared down at his own hands, flexing his fingers.

The strange sensation crawled over him, as though his body wasn't quite his own anymore. His mind struggled to grasp the transition from the bizarre contract-signing to this chaotic den of low-life criminals.

The man with the pistol moved in closer, jamming the gun harder into his temple. "You deaf, psycho? I said, who the fuck are you?!"

A distant part of him recognized the threat, but the rest of him couldn't even muster fear. It wasn't shock, it was something else, something colder. Detached. His head felt light, thoughts drifting, like the world around him was just a game and none of it mattered.

"I don't even know anymore," he mumbled absently.

The gang leader cocked his gun. "That's it, you're fucking dead."

But the moment his finger tensed on the trigger, the man moved. He didn't plan it; his body just reacted. His hand shot up, grabbing the gunman's wrist with blinding speed, twisting it at an unnatural angle.

The thug let out a surprised yelp, but it was already too late. The gun fell from his hand, clattering onto the grimy floor. The man's foot lashed out, kicking the thug's knee sideways with a sickening crunch.

The gang leader collapsed with a scream, writhing on the floor, clutching his shattered leg.

The others snapped out of their stupor. One of them grabbed a rusted machete off a nearby table, lunging at him with an incoherent roar. The man barely had to think: his body moved on instinct. He sidestepped the swing easily, grabbing the thug's arm and pulling him forward, driving his elbow into the back of the guy's skull with a crack. The thug went down hard, face-first into the ground, unconscious or worse.

Another thug pulled out a shotgun from behind a counter, but as he aimed, the man was already moving again. He ducked low, grabbed a nearby chair, and flung it across the room with inhuman strength. The chair slammed into the shotgun wielder's chest, knocking him off balance, sending him crashing into a stack of boxes.

The man stood still for a moment, surveying the chaos. Three of the gang members were either unconscious or crippled, their leader groaning in agony on the floor. Two others stood frozen in place, inhalers halfway to their mouths, stunned by the speed and brutality of what had just happened.

He barely broke a sweat. His heart didn't even race. Everything just felt… distant, as if he were watching this from somewhere else, like it wasn't even real.

Was it real?

He blinked, the edges of the room flickering like a broken hologram. The smells, the sounds, the pain in the thugs' voices, it all felt like it was slipping out of his grasp, like some dream he was trying to wake from.

The remaining two gang members exchanged a panicked glance, then rushed him at once, weapons drawn, one with a serrated knife, the other wielding a steel pipe.

Time slowed down again. The man barely registered their approach before his body was in motion. He sidestepped the first attack, grabbing the pipe-wielder's arm and twisting it behind his back, forcing him to drop the weapon. He shoved the thug into his partner, sending them both sprawling into a pile of debris.

They scrambled to their feet, blood trickling from a gash on one of their foreheads, but neither made another move to attack. They were terrified, backing away slowly.

"W-What the fuck are you, man?!" one of them stammered, wiping sweat from his brow.

He still wasn't sure of the answer. He felt stronger than before, faster, like his body had been fine-tuned to perfection. He didn't even feel human anymore. He felt… different.

The thug with the serrated knife took a nervous step forward. "You… you some kind of corpo experimental soldier or something?"

The man blinked, the question not even fully registering. His eyes drifted back to the leader, still moaning on the floor, cradling his broken leg. He knelt down next to him, staring at the man's bloodied face.

"What are you doing, man?" the leader groaned, trying to scoot away. "You want eddies? We got eddies. Just take 'em and go, man. We didn't mean nothin' by it."

The man just stared at him. Everything felt hollow, like the world had lost its meaning. He tried to muster some kind of emotion: pity, anger, even amusement, but it was like a switch had been flipped inside him. Nothing came. The thought of killing them flickered across his mind, but even that felt… pointless. None of this felt real.

"I don't care," he muttered, standing up.

The leader looked confused. "W-What?"

"I don't care," the man repeated, louder this time, turning to leave.

One of the remaining thugs, emboldened by the idea that he might actually survive, lunged at his back with the knife raised. The man didn't even bother turning around. His arm shot out behind him, grabbing the thug by the throat mid-leap. He slammed him into the wall, the impact leaving a dent in the plaster. The thug crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.

The last thug standing immediately dropped his weapon, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm out! I'm out, man! I ain't fuckin' with this!"

The man walked toward the exit, his footsteps slow and deliberate. The door opened with a creak, and the night air hit his face, cool and crisp. Behind him, the gang members were either dead or too injured to even give chase.

The main man stepped out into the neon-lit alleyway, his thoughts swirling. The noise of the city washed over him, the hum of traffic, distant shouts, the wail of sirens, but it all seemed so far away.

His hands still tingled from the fight. He looked down at them, flexing his fingers again.

Was any of this real?

The laughter echoed in his mind, the shopkeeper's final words ringing out, "Have fun in Night City."

He smirked to himself. Maybe this was a game. Maybe none of it mattered.

Either way, things were about to get interesting for him.

(Honestly this is probably gonna be a pretty cringe worthy snippet but honestly, I was just feeling a bit angry and lost today. That's probably why I started writing because I couldn't do what I wanted to do in real life so I just wrote it down.)

(If you guys are wondering what the timeline is currently it's a month before the beginning of the cyberpunk edgerunners anime.)