Accommodation

Night City was the backdrop to many strange finds, from AI-worshiping cults set on disrupting the daily operation of the city to multilimbed cyborgs who roamed the streets looking for trouble.

Though, if you asked any of the city's inhabitants if they had ever encountered a rogue synth in their bedroom, asking them if it had been waiting for them, they would tell you that you were using too much of the local illegal drugs.

You had found your hotel corridor and even parts of the building eerily quiet and deserted, even though it should be bustling with activity at all times.

The lack of security personnel should have alerted you to the fact that something was wrong, or rather, right, as the scanners and other cybernetics around you failed to detect something out of the ordinary.

You didn't make a sound as your cybernetics injected you with a mix of adrenaline and a combat enhancer; until, after what seemed like an eternity, a metal figure with a skull-like face crouched in your dark room, its eyes glowing an ominous red as it allowed itself to be scanned by your cybernetics.

"Are you trying to fuck with me?"

"Not in this suit."

Even its voice was frightening; someone must have gone to great lengths to create this creature, and you could only thank your advanced implants for stopping yourself from succumbing to fear while maintaining what was left of your dignity.

Having ruined your bed and emptied your cabinets of anything with a stronger alcohol content than water (which is weird since he can't taste anything in this suit), the solo borg informs you of Saburo's directive.

"You are an able guard and fighter, the best in Arasaka by far."

Your compliments do nothing for the man, who is utterly indifferent to all things outside killing and brutality; at full height, he towers over you and is an able reminder of one's mortality since he could cave your head in with a swipe of his hand.

"But you aren't subtle, something I hope to possess for my activities."

You try to let the giant down gently, but his glowing red eyes, with his porcelain-white mask, which represents his destroyed face staring down at you, almost leaning over you, that grating mechanical voicebox of his opens up.

"Orders from Saburo, I'll protect you against bullets, not STDs; that's on you."

You can tell he's taxing himself with how cordial he's treating you; though your neural implants fail when trying to decipher clues from robotic voices, nevermind prosthetic faces, you're more than empathetic enough to tell that he is in no mood to argue.

You've heard stories and seen VR simulations of the man-turn-borg in action, slicing through Corporate Guards, bulldozing mercenary units, and obliterating gang-infested buildings in seconds.

And that was without fully utilising his cybernetics; you wonder what kind of creature could fight Adam Smasher at his fullest, perhaps a Dragoon? But isn't Smasher simply a better one?

"It isn't my place to tell you where you can or can't go; just know; when I bail you out, the networks will monitor it, and the Overseer will be aware of it."

Adam Smasher does not express fear, you doubt he can feel such emotion after he had been augmented with Arasaka modifications and artificial limbs, but even he knows who his master is.

"You needn't concern yourself with that; instead, focus on getting me a new bedroom and yourself different lodgings; I'm in no mood to wake up come morning to you peering at me."

"Michiko didn't mind."

...You didn't need to hear that.

You only needed to relocate to one of the neighbouring hotel rooms for a good night's rest, deciding that you would rather deal with the inconvenience of Smasher come morning.

Of course, sleep never comes easy; your reliance on different cocktails of drugs to keep your body and mind energetic for extended periods, without consideration for your internal clock, has made it challenging to have a good night's rest without the aid of even more narcotics.

So, after another thirty minutes involving a bedraggled hotel employee shuttling numerous over-the-counter medicines to your room whilst the captain of your escort detail has been pressured to hand over the harder stuff, that you can finally enjoy a restful slumber.

It's a shame that all you dream about is some loser's life stuck in front of a small computer screen of inferior quality as he browses what has to be the worst selection of videos and forum posts that you could possibly imagine.

You need to kick this habit; your dreams are becoming even more banal than they were during your youth.

Bright rays of light slowly drift across the interior of your room until, finally, one sliver rests upon your face, rays piercing your eyelids and slowly rousing you from the drug-induced slumber you had forced upon yourself.

Around your neck is a millstone - the desire to stay in bed. The siren call of sloth which all men hear, tempered with frustration and the chill of air conditioning you had neglected to turn off last night, only add to the temptation that is stagnation.

You remain immobile, prone limbs resting immutably atop one another–until your cybernetics and augmentations, those that have coopted artificial fibres and pulsing organs, excise the remnants of your very toxic drug cocktail; and slumber with it.

Your skin is numb to the cold, a single thought directing hair and unblemished flesh to ignore such sensations.

Intentional immunity remains until you stumble, half-naked off the bed, towards the AC control panel; before you remember you can just shout for it to turn off.

As expected, the noise you make is enough for you to receive an uninvited guest, the door to your hotel room sliding open as a familiar robotic giant crouches to fit through, his false eyes staring at your half-naked body and the silk brocade–reminiscent of those worn by Emperors of old–that hangs off pale and curled frame.

"She wore something exactly like that."

Now you know he's fucking with you; the slight grimace and disapproval on your face are all he needs for a short laugh to chortle from his synthesised voicebox, one of rusted metal scraping metal.

"Is this how you speak to your superior?"

You call upon hallowed rank, and as the borg contents himself standing in front of your now-closed doorway, he tilts his head to the side in a dramatic display of deep thought.

"Apologies, young master."

You don't detect any sarcasm in his voice, but it's hard to tell with the borg. The man bows his head for a moment before returning to his regular, looming height.

Inhuman eyes, embedded within an expressionless porcelain mask, race across the room, resting only at the colourful pharmacy sprawled across your nightstand.

"What's the plan? More drugs? Hookers? I know some flexible ones."

Net-linked implants fuel your imagination, conjuring the damage left in the wake of Adam's activities- shaking your head in minor disgust and greater annoyance, you remonstrate the man; you've got your own plan.