Cybernova, p.1
Cybernova, page 1
Cybernova
CYBERNOVA
Hunter Whitlow
Copyright © 2025 by Hunter Whitlow.
All rights reserved.
ISBN 979-8-9877967-0-2 (paperback); 979-8-9877967-1-9 (e-book).
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact neuralnetpress@gmail.com.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Igor Andrich.
First edition 2025.
Neural Net Press.
To Makayla
Ch 1
MY ears are ringing, and my head is throbbing. Waves of sound crash onto the shore of my mind, meaningless. After a moment, I can feel my hands and the semi-soft ground beneath me. Forcing myself to open my eyes, I immediately remember where I am. I’m also bombarded with a hot wash of anger, shame, and regret.
I see the announcer, the ring, and my opponent. I can also see the source of the noise, which is, unfortunately, not waves on the beach. It’s hundreds of screaming onlookers, thirsty for a brutal, dramatic fight.
They’re screaming at me to get up, but that doesn’t seem very likely in my current condition. No matter how hard I try, none of my limbs will move. I try just moving one finger, managing only to send razor-sharp pain coursing through my body. Then again, I know all too well what a behemoth-sized punch to the base of the skull will get you. I guess that’s what I get for signing up for another MMA championship. I may have ten years of martial arts training under my black belt, but actual skill is only about five percent of the fight these days. You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson by now.
I can hear the announcer counting down. I may not speak fluent Japanese, but I’ve been doing this long enough to recognize the countdown when I hear it. I listen to him counting, his deep voice filled with forced enthusiasm, while my hulking opponent looks all too willing to give me another dose of his blunt-force medicine. After a few of the counts, everything fades, and I give up on staying conscious.
***
I wake up who knows how much later with the worst headache of my life, and I’ve been hit in the head many times, so I know what I’m talking about. The good news is that I can move now, but that’s where the good news ends.
Usually, when you wake up after getting beaten half to death, you’d expect to be somewhere like a hospital or an ambulance, or at least on a bench with a paramedic in the back of the arena. Call me crazy, but I don’t feel like this abandoned, dark alleyway provides the welcoming, medically urgent environment I was hoping for.
That’s Nova City for you.
“You really fucked it up this time,” I mutter to myself, or at least I think I do. My ears are still ringing from being clocked in the head by three hundred pounds of adrenaline-fueled muscle.
I take the opportunity to inspect myself to see what I’m dealing with here. My electric blue skate shoes, faded black jeans, and leather jacket all look like they’ve seen better days, but what else is new? I’ve got my signature t-shirt underneath the jacket, a white shirt with an electric blue and gray design. It’s the face of a wolf, which fades from realistic into a series of increasingly scattered geometric shapes as you look from left to right. I designed the shirt myself. Since my last name is Wolf, it was easy to go as “The Wolf” in the fights. It’s basically the only outfit I wear. Why mess with a good thing? Plus, I’ve been told the blue brings out my eyes or whatever.
As for my own condition, I ache like I’ve been hit by a bus. At this point, I’m starting to think I’d prefer the bus. That guy was unreal, massive yet quick, throwing punches and kicks from all angles. My right shoulder isn’t moving normally, but that’ll probably be fine. As for my ear, I feel like bomb testers have better hearing than I do at the moment. Is that even an actual job position? I feel like it’d have a pretty high turnover rate.
After a few minutes of wondering why I keep finding myself in these situations, I force myself to stand up. I stumble over to one of those old-fashioned vending machines, seemingly one of the only things left from the great migration from Old Japan to here. This one is covered in an array of cute cartoonish characters eating extremely well-drawn food. The vinyl cover is peeling in places and faded in others, but the charming personality of its design shines through. The pictures of ramen, sushi, and mochi fill my heart with hope and my stomach with anticipation. The flickering neon lights inside the machine intermittently display what the machine is selling or what’s left of it, anyway. The machine is quite aesthetically pleasing, even with Nova City’s signature grime covering half of it. The bright colors and adorable characters are reminiscent of a simpler time. A time when which cute anime girl you liked the best and which flavor of bottled tea you were going to buy was the biggest concern on many peoples’ minds. It makes sense that they would’ve kept some of them around in Ritorujapan, aka Little Japan.
“So, what do we have here?” I ask, surveying the vending machine. In between flashes of neon lights, I can vaguely make out what’s left to buy from the machine. “Ah yes, a can of soup, a purse that looks like a cat, and a slice of mold with some bread on it.” Given the current selection, I choose the can of soup. It costs five CYBR COYN, aka Johnnies, the global currency. Everyone calls them Johnnies because John Nova’s stupid face flashes on the screen whenever you pay with them. This guy still got his face on every “bill,” despite there being no paper currency.
Egotistical, much?
I press the tip of my right pointer finger against the scanner, and the Johnnies get transferred from my account to the machine. Then, the system grabs the can of soup and brings it down to a little sliding door in the side, heats it up using an electric heating coil, and the door opens with a cheerful “ding!”.
I grab the can, open it, and start eating, using the spoon provided in the lid of the can. The can is extremely hot, but the soup itself is only lukewarm.
Oh well, can’t exactly send it back to the chef.
Once I’ve downed a can of what can only questionably be passed as food, I stumble to the nearest charging station. My battery is critically low, as usual. I rest against the station while waiting for my battery to get enough charge. My legs are starting to move like normal again, so at least I can get home tonight. My ear is still ringing, so I guess I’ll get that looked at tomorrow.
***
I wake up in my shitty studio apartment bright and early, by which I mean 15:00. I didn’t get back until 03:00 since the Economy Housing District, affectionately titled “The Dump,” is a far ride from the Entertainment District, naturally. I wander toward the small window and crack open the dusty, outdated curtains, immediately blinded. My apartment is on the forty-eighth floor of a fifty-floor building in the heart of the city. Every apartment is the same shitty one-room studio, which is definitely toeing the line between an apartment and a walk-in closet. But, hey, at least it has electricity and running water. Usually. Besides, it’s all I can afford. It’s all most people in this city can afford.
As my body starts to wake up, I’m painfully reminded of what I need to do today. I have to get myself a checkup after last night’s fight. Luckily, the clinics are open on the weekends, so I throw on some clothes, grab a protein bar, and head down for a checkup.
When I hit the pavement, it’s a short walk to the Hyper Rail, which is one of the only ways to get around this city unless you’re rich enough to own a car. It’s like the old light rails that used to be in many major cities, but it uses magnetic levitation and moves incredibly fast. It’s also a piece of shit at this point, but it works.
During the ride there, I can’t help but think about last night’s fight:
All I can see in my mind is the image of an enormous right arm headed straight for my left temple, and knowing there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve fought some unnatural dudes in these fights, but that guy was a whole different level of inhuman.
I mean, really, what an idiot! In what world am I ever going to come even close to winning one of these fights? I can’t quit, though. It’s the only thing I know how to do anymore.
Despite my efforts to put it out of my mind, I keep replaying the fight over and over again, working myself up more each time. It’s not just the weight class discrepancy, either. There were countless unfair and infuriating things happening in that fight: the hecklers telling me to give up before the fight had even started, the money changing hands while pointing at my opponent, the announcer bringing me in to approximately three claps while my opponent got thunderous applause and cheers. I could go on and on.
I just, that was such, it’s just…
“That was such bullshit! It’s all a load of bullshit!” I mutter under my breath, catching some lethargic side-eye from the guy sitting next to me. The fire in my gut turns to heat in my cheeks as embarrassment grips me. I flip up my hood in shame and face the dingy window, keeping my rage internalized for the rest of the ride.
Nice going, idiot.
For quite a while, there’s nothing to see except for the deplorable inhabitants and grey, dingy skyscrapers of The Dump, as far as the eye can see. Drug dealers and thugs patrol their little slices of nowhere while others are smoking and injecting whatever they can get their hands on, wandering around under the flickering streetlamps. In the darker corners, VR junkies sit and drool the hours away. Most of them don’t even have a place to live. They just sit there and waste away, watching VR porn or whatever the hell it is they’ve got blasting into their shriveling eyeballs. Everyday people, hourly workers scraping by, parents providing for their children, and the like, all bustle through the streets, staring at their shoes as they make their way through the throng of miscreants. They don’t want any trouble. The last thing any of us poor schmucks needs is to catch the wrath of a gang member on the way to work.
My gaze wanders upward, and there, up above it all, police patrol vehicles and unmanned drones circle the tops of the buildings like starving hawks circling their prey, waiting for them to slip up even a little bit, waiting for their time to strike. It may seem counterintuitive to have such high levels of debauchery happening directly under the police’s eye, but they stopped giving a shit about that sort of thing a long time ago. Busting junkies doesn’t earn you a bonus. It’s not worth the time it takes to file the paperwork. No, it’s not about doing their jobs. They just don’t want you to forget for even a second that you are literally beneath them.
After a few minutes, we break through the concrete jungle to the literal landfill. I bring a mask from my neck to my mouth and nose, breathing shallow breaths. Mountains of garbage stretch for miles in either direction. What else do you do with trash besides force the poor to trudge through it to get anywhere else in the city?
Another couple of minutes go by while my mind is occupied by how stupid and unfair everything is.
Finally, I see the city rising as the Rail passes the landfill. First up is the Affordable Shopping District. Much like the Economy Housing District, the cowards that run this city are too afraid of their image to call this place what it is: The Black Market.
Chop shops of all, and I mean all, kinds can be found on every corner. One particularly shameless shop showcases cybernetic arms, legs, eyes, and anything you can think of right in the front window, some still covered in blood and who knows what else. In between the chop shops are a dizzying selection of brothels, smoke shops, casinos, netrunner cafes, VR sex lounges, you name it. Red lamps decorate every corner, the rest of it dimly lit by long-broken streetlights.
But the most intriguing thing about this part of the city is that anyone can be seen here if you know where to look. A shifty-eyed man in rags steps out of a chop shop. A cybernetic heart is clutched in his greasy hands, blood-stained rags poorly concealing their contents. I focus my vision for a second, and I swear I can see the heart still beating. A few doors down, a woman dressed far too nicely for this part of town sneaks through the door of a VR sex lounge, her face entirely obscured by a mask and hat. That one makes me chuckle to myself. Like the people of this city would think any lower of her for visiting a place like that. Hell, a lot of people might even see it as a positive thing. The rich are so cut off from reality here. It’s truly remarkable. Interestingly enough, police patrols seem to steer clear of the area. Convenient.
Finally, after another few minutes, I arrive at the Maintenance District. This is the first part of the city where it’s not explicitly apparent that I might be stabbed or robbed at any moment, so I always feel happy making it this far into the city. I get off the Hyper Rail at the next stop, side-stepping a drunk person wearing a VR headset as I pass to the sidewalk. Clinics, mechanics, and tech repair shops occupy most of the Maintenance District's real estate.
Bootleg chrome and stim peddlers sit in the small alley spaces between buildings. Some sit there, glaring at passersby, while others are hawking their wares. One of the chrome peddlers is shouting about the miracles of chrome, those cybernetic wonders, for a steal of a price. Another, with racks and buckets filled with various vials, syringes, inhalers, you name it, all stacked precariously high on a rickety folding table, is clearly high on their own supply. I don’t make eye contact with a single one of them. I know better than that. It doesn’t stop a particularly enthusiastic stim peddler, a middle-aged guy with more than half of his head replaced with cybernetics, grabbing for my shoulder as I pass, shouting, “Come on now, you sure look like you could use a little something to take the edge off! What do you say, amigo?” He shakes a bright blue vial of fluid with a syringe at the end in my face. Without a word, I knock his hand off of my shoulder and walk a little faster.
I turn the corner, winding my way through the crowd past a few more buildings until I come up to my destination. I step up to the squealing automatic door, straightening up and putting on a fake smile to hide the pain as I step into my favorite clinic, Zeke’s Fixer-Upper.
The clinic is a small, one-room space, which costs a fortune to run, given how costly it is to run a business in this city. When I come in through the door, I’m facing a small desk to greet people, but no one is sitting at it. There’s a reception area to the side, made up of about six mismatched lawn chairs along the wall. Past the reception area, the rest of the clinic is taken up by a pair of raised steel operating tables, various computers and pieces of equipment, and shelves filled with supplies, recycled cybernetics, and even a few new parts. Standing among the shelves, dressed in faded blue jeans, a wrinkled grey collared shirt, and a lab coat, is the man I came to see.
“Yo, Zeke, my favorite medical professional, I need a favor!” I say in the most upbeat and convincing way possible for someone who feels as shitty as I currently do.
“You always need a favor,” replies Zeke, his light New Yorker accent adding an emphasis to the word favor, “If I keep helping you, it’s gonna put me out of business. I don’t care if you saved my life!”
Zeke and I go way back, back before things…changed. We used to play video games and eat junk food for hours, thinking there was nothing more to life. Boy, we were wrong. Let’s just say things didn’t go as planned one night, and he’s owed me ever since.
“So, what did you break this time, you dumbass?” Zeke patronizes me. He’s about my height, maybe an inch taller, and a few years older as well. Both of those things have been used against me in the past, multiple times.
“Look, man, nothing is broken this time, at least I don’t think so. It’s just my ear—"
“Hahaha, yeah, and I’m a real doctor!” Zeke bursts out at my statement, admittedly not without reason to do so. I break myself a lot. “Look, man, don’t waste my time. Just lie down, and I’ll get you scanned,” Zeke replies after calming down a bit. He has kind brown eyes which reveal wisdom and hardship beyond his physical age. His short, dirty blonde hair is a little unkempt, as usual.
I want to reply with a punch to the arm, but I’m starting to think something really is wrong with my shoulder, so as usual, Zeke’s right. I lie down on the exam table, and Zeke connects me to the scanner. His tech may be old, but it works, and I don’t have to pay for it. The scanner runs for a few seconds, then plays a much-too-cheerful tone to let us know it’s done.
“Holy shit, dude!” he exclaims, causing me to feel a combination of fear and shame. He adjusts his glasses as if to imply he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “You think nothing’s broken, huh? Well, if you consider your right shoulder, left ear, and your nose to be nothing, then you are absolutely correct! Who were you fighting this time, the Incredible Hulk? Jesus, man, I swear one day even I won’t be able to put your Humpty-Dumpty ass back together again.” He counts on his fingers dramatically with each new broken body part of mine that he lists.
“I know, man, but I just want to win once, to prove a point—"
“Yeah, yeah, prove that you can win a fight against an inhuman monster, that somehow you, Oliver Wolf, will be the one to break the system, to show everyone that things don’t have to be this way. You know I support you, but we both know how that’s been working out for you so far. Just stay there while I get my stuff, alright?”
“Alright, you don’t have to rub it in,” I reply, knowing he’s right as usual. After a few seconds, Zeke comes back and drops a large bag of “doctor’s tools” on the table next to me, accompanied by a loud clanging sound.
