The Desperate Path
The bunker felt like the underside of a dead city—forgotten, rotting, alive in all the worst ways. Through cracked window grates, the neon wasteland of Akihabara buzzed in garish colors. The glow slithered across grimy concrete like electric graffiti. Somewhere outside, a passing train rumbled the earth like a heartbeat. Inside, the Cyber Reavers were on their last legs.
Takeshi Nomura hunched over a workbench littered with junk tech. His cybernetic hand clicked faintly as he welded a circuit that refused to cooperate. Lines of unread notifications—overdue bills, failed transactions—rolled across his HUD. Takeshi’s jaw tightened, the pale blue glow in his retinas flickering as if his own systems were failing him.
Takeshi Nomura: We’re running on fumes. Wallets empty. Augments breaking down. Tell me I’m wrong.
Kyōki Piero snorted from the battered couch. She lay upside down, legs dangling over the backrest, her candy-red hair spilling like a bloodstain across the cushions. The faint hum of her cybernetic eye whined with an intermittent glitch—click. Click-click. She tilted her head, grinning upside-down like a Cheshire cat that had overdosed on bad wiring.
Kyōki Piero: Oh, Takeshi—sweet, somber Takeshi. You’re not wrong. You’re just so goddamn boring about it.
She kicked her boots up, balancing them like she was tightroping the invisible.
Kyōki Piero: I mean, ‘Oh no, we’re broke, the world’s a cesspool, and the train’s a-coming.’ Blah blah blah. We’ve been broke. We’ve been bleeding. Now you’re finally out of aspirin, and you wanna cry?
Takeshi paused mid-weld, leveling her with a look sharp enough to slice through steel.
Takeshi Nomura: If you’re done auditioning for a mental ward, I’m talking solutions here.
Yuriko Ikeda stepped through the doorway like a storm cloud rolling in. Her arms crossed over her chest, cybernetic leg humming faintly beneath torn leather pants. If Kyōki was chaos incarnate, Yuriko was it's calculated opposite—sharp, measured, always two moves ahead.
Yuriko Ikeda: Solutions? You mean selling ourselves to the devil’s butcher? That’s what Skirnov is, Takeshi. You know what he does to people.
Kyōki flipped herself upright in a sudden, disjointed motion—like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. Her glitching eye narrowed, and her grin widened, manic and sharp.
Kyōki Piero: Ooooh, I like it when we say ‘devil’ out loud. It’s got a nice zing to it. Skirnov, the devil. The cyber butcher. Madman in a lab coat with a God complex? Delicious!
Yuriko shot her a glare sharp enough to peel flesh.
Yuriko Ikeda: This isn’t a joke, Kyōki.
Kyōki mimed a gasp, hands flying to her chest in exaggerated horror.
Kyōki Piero: Oh no! You’re telling me the lunatic with the electric hacksaw isn’t a joke? Thank you, Captain Buzzkill!
She cackled—a high, grating sound echoed in the bunker-like a ghost laughing in a graveyard.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto, who’d been sharpening his knife in deliberate, rhythmic scrapes, finally stood. His size dominated the room—broad shoulders and steel in his gaze. He slid the knife into its sheath at his side and stared Takeshi down, a quiet storm brewing behind his eyes.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: You’re talking about giving him a cut. How much?
Takeshi straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his cybernetic hand. The servos hissed softly, betraying wear and tear beneath the plating.
Takeshi Nomura: Everything. Jobs, fights, Rumble winnings. He gets his cut. And in return, he fixes us. Upgrades us. Makes sure we can walk out of that Rumble with something worth having.
The silence that followed felt thicker than concrete. Yoshinobu’s jaw flexed. Yuriko looked like she wanted to punch something—maybe Takeshi, maybe the wall.
Kyōki broke it first, her voice whispering as she leaned forward, her eye flickering with erratic red light.
Kyōki Piero: And then what, Ronin? When we’re not worth the price of the screws he put in us? When we owe him more than we got?
Takeshi met her gaze—steady, unwavering, deadly calm.
Takeshi Nomura: Then we make damn sure we’re strong enough to deal with him.
The words hung in the air, heavy with the certainty of a loaded gun.
Kyōki stared at him for a beat longer—long enough for her grin to slowly return, jagged and gleeful. She clapped her hands once, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Kyōki Piero: Ha! That’s what I like to hear. Madness with a plan. Fine, Takeshi. Let’s dance with the devil. Let’s see what happens when you pull a tiger’s teeth and give him titanium fangs.
Yuriko’s lip curled. She turned on her heel, pacing toward the shadows, voice low and bitter.
Yuriko Ikeda: You’re all insane.
Yoshinobu folded his arms, watching Takeshi like he was trying to see inside his skull.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: You really think we’ll make it out whole?
Takeshi’s face softened for just a moment—a flicker of humanity beneath the weight of it all.
Takeshi Nomura: No. But it beats staying broken.
Yuriko stopped pacing. Kyōki chuckled quietly, her glitching eye whirring like it might pop. Yoshinobu nodded once, resigned but ready, as always, to do what needed to be done.
Takeshi picked up his coat, slinging it over his shoulders. The faint whine of his spinal accelerators hummed in the still air.
Takeshi Nomura: We move at dawn. If Skirnov wants a piece of us, he’s going to have to earn it.
Kyōki leaned back against the couch, hands behind her head, her wild grin stretching ear to ear.
Kyōki Piero: I hope he’s got the good saws. I want mine to sparkle.
The lights flickered overhead. The old speakers hissed with static, drowning out the low rumble of a train far above. The Reavers didn’t say another word. They didn’t need to. The deal was made. And somewhere, deep in the shadows of Tokyo, a madman sharpened his tools and waited…
The Summons
The Shibuya industrial district was a graveyard of forgotten machines, a place where Tokyo’s neon glow refused to touch. Buildings crumbled here, their steel skeletons exposed like broken ribs, while shadows pooled unnaturally deep in the cold corners. A warehouse stood alone at the end of a cracked street, its entrance a gaping mouth of blackness. Something about it felt... wrong.
The Reavers stood outside. Even the air around the place was heavy, thick with the scent of rust, wet concrete, and something faintly metallic—like blood that had dried in the sun.
Yuriko adjusted the sleeve of her jacket, her cybernetic fingers twitching in restless calculation. She scanned the structure with sharp, discerning eyes, her enhanced vision flickering as it analyzed unseen patterns in the dark.
Yuriko Ikeda: This place shouldn’t exist. No power grid, no security feeds. It’s a black spot.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: (Cracks his knuckles, flexing his massive cybernetic arms.) A black spot where someone’s waiting for us. This Skirnov... I don’t like it.
Kyōki Piero grinned ear-to-ear, twirling on her heels like she was dancing on the edge of a cliff. Her crimson cybernetic eye pulsed faintly as she threw her arms wide.
Kyōki Piero: Oh, lighten up, Yoshinobu! He’s a mad scientist! We’re walking straight into a horror movie. It’s exciting! Maybe we’ll find monsters... maybe we’ll become monsters!
Yoshinobu shot her a glare.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: You’re already a monster.
Kyōki Piero: (Laughing wildly) Takes one to know one, big brother!
Takeshi Nomura—The Neon Ronin—stood apart from the others, arms folded as he studied the warehouse. His cybernetic eye glimmered beneath the hood of his coat, scanning for any movement. He said nothing, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable.
Without a word, he started walking toward the warehouse. The others followed silence draping over them like a funeral shroud.
Inside, the warehouse stretched endlessly into shadow. The occasional hum of old fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting brief pools of pale green light onto the dirt-covered floor. Machines that hadn’t run in decades loomed like dead titans, their rusting gears frozen in silent decay.
Then came the sound: a slow clink... clink... clink.
Takeshi stopped. The others tensed, looking around.
A figure emerged from the far side of the room, surrounded by thick shadows. Vaughn Skirnov moved like oil across the water—smooth, fluid, and unsettling. His coat trailed behind him, the hem just brushing the floor, and his face—pale and sharp—remained in shadow except for a faint glint in his eyes.
When he spoke, his voice didn’t belong in the warehouse. It was low and measured, almost melodic, each word sliding through the air like a blade.
Vaughn Skirnov: The prodigal children of Tokyo’s underground... The Reavers.
Kyōki tilted her head, her grin growing wider as she studied him.
Kyōki Piero: Oh, I like him.
Yuriko’s cybernetic fingers flexed again, a quiet metallic click betraying her nerves.
Yuriko Ikeda: We didn’t come here for games, Skirnov. What do you want?
Skirnov stepped forward, his figure cutting through the haze of shadows. The light hit him just enough to reveal his pale complexion, the hollows of his cheeks, and the faintest glimmer of something red in his irises.
Vaughn Skirnov: I want nothing. I offer. I’ve seen your enhancements—cobbled together, primitive. You’ve tasted power but stopped short of transcendence. I can finish what you started. Help you realize the true transhumanism you so desire.
Takeshi Nomura: (His voice is cold and measured.) What’s the price?
Skirnov smiled—a thin, humorless thing that stretched his lips but never touched his eyes.
Vaughn Skirnov: The price? Trust. That, and your willingness to embrace what you fear.
The room fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily, each plink echoing louder than it should.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: (Growling) You think we’re stupid? We’ve heard pitches like this before.
Vaughn Skirnov: (Fixing his gaze on Yoshinobu, voice smooth as silk) You’ve heard promises. I deliver results. You’ve already touched the edge of what I offer—metal under the skin, nerves wired to circuits. But you lack the vision to perfect it.
Skirnov reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, metallic sphere. He held it out, and with a flick of his fingers, it opened like a blooming flower. A holographic display erupted—images of cybernetic musculature, neural connections, and enhancements more seamless than anything Yuriko had ever seen.
The Reavers stared. The technology was flawless. Almost... unnatural.
Yuriko Ikeda: (Barely above a whisper) This isn’t Hammer Industries. This is... something else.
Vaughn Skirnov: (Softly, with that same eerie smile) It’s the future. I can show it to you. All I ask is that you trust me.
For a long moment, no one moved. Kyōki broke the silence with an unsettling giggle.
Kyōki Piero: Well, boys and girls, I’m sold! Take my money, take my blood—hell, take my soul! Let’s play, Skirnov.
Takeshi’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
Takeshi Nomura: Quiet, Kyōki. (Turning to Skirnov, his cybernetic eye locking onto him.) We’ll think about it. But we don’t make deals in the dark.
Skirnov inclined his head, that faint smile never wavering.
Vaughn Skirnov: Take your time, Nomura. But don’t take too long. The future waits for no one.
As he turned and melted back into the shadows, the flickering lights overhead buzzed louder, almost angry. A chill swept through the room, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the shadows themselves had closed in tighter around the Reavers.
Outside, as the Reavers stepped into the frigid night, the wind picked up—a low, mournful howl rattling the warehouse's loose metal. Kyōki paused, tilting her head to listen.
A faint laugh, like a whisper from the grave, drifted on the wind.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: (Muttering, fists clenched) I told you. He’s not human.
Takeshi Nomura: (Quietly, more to himself than anyone) We’ll find out soon enough.
The Reavers’ hideout wasn’t much to look at from the outside—a dilapidated karaoke bar buried deep in Shibuya’s underbelly. Its neon “CLOSED” sign flickered erratically, but those in the know would bypass the empty front and descend through the back entrance. Below street level, the air shifted—denser, quieter, tinged with faint electricity.
The den was their sanctuary and workshop—a cybernetic Frankenstein’s lab cobbled together with stolen tech, mismatched cables, and humming machinery. The floor was a patchwork of metal plates and cracked concrete, and the walls were lined with monitors showing glitching digital rain. A lone jukebox in the corner sputtered an old track from Daft Punk, distorted enough to sound ghostly.
Takeshi Nomura stood at the center table, lit by a single buzzing lamp. The holographic sphere Skirnov had given them hovered above it, its glowing schematics projecting into the room like an alien artifact. The others were scattered around—silent, tense.
Yuriko Ikeda leaned against a worn steel counter, her eyes narrowing as she studied the data with surgical precision. Her fingers twitched in small, agitated motions.
Yuriko Ikeda: This tech... it’s decades ahead of what we’ve got. Seamless muscle fibers, artificial nerves that learn. If this is real... (Pauses, eyes darkening) It rewrites everything.
Kyōki Piero was perched on a stool, swaying back and forth like a metronome of chaos. Her grin was wide, teeth flashing in the neon reflections.
Kyōki Piero: So let’s take it! I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?
Yoshinobu Koshimoto glared at her from across the room, his massive form casting a shadow against the monitors.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: (Growling) We end up like lab rats, that’s what. You trust that freak? He doesn’t want to help us. He wants to own us.
Kyōki Piero: (Laughs wildly) Own us? Oh, Yoshi, don’t be so dramatic. We’re already half-owned by him— (Jabs a finger at Takeshi) —and half by the streets. What’s one more share of the pie?
Takeshi slammed his palm against the table, silencing the room. The holographic image trembled in the air before stabilizing.
Takeshi Nomura: Enough. We don’t trust him. Not yet.
Kyōki tilted her head like a curious bird, her cybernetic eye glowing faintly red as it scanned Takeshi’s expression.
Kyōki Piero: Oooooh... someone’s scared.
Takeshi shot her a cold look, his cybernetic iris narrowing like a targeting reticle.
Takeshi Nomura: I’m cautious. There’s a difference.
Yuriko pushed off the counter and walked to the table, her voice low but sharp.
Yuriko Ikeda: He’s not wrong, though. We’ve hit a wall. Our enhancements? They’re holding up for now, but give it another year, maybe two, and they’ll start failing. We’re pushing what our bodies can handle—this... this might be what we need to survive.
Yoshinobu folded his arms, his jaw tight.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: Or it’s what’ll break us. You saw that place. Skirnov’s not normal. He looked like he crawled out of a grave.
Kyōki’s voice dropped to a whisper, sing-song and teasing.
Kyōki Piero: Maybe he did... (Grinning wide) Vampires don’t need graves, though. They just sleep wherever’s coziest.
The others ignored her, but Takeshi’s expression tightened. He remembered how Skirnov moved—like smoke, like something outside the laws of flesh and bone. There had been a chill in that warehouse, something unnatural that clung to their skin even after they’d left.
Takeshi Nomura: (His voice colder now, steadier.) We need intel. Skirnov’s offering us something, but nobody gives this kind of tech for free. He wants something back.
Yuriko Ikeda: (Nodding) We dig deeper. I’ll start with the files. Whoever this guy was before Hammer fell apart, there’ll be something out there. A trace.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: And what if we don’t find anything? What then?
Takeshi Nomura: Then we walk away.
Kyōki laughed again, the sound sharp and sudden.
Kyōki Piero: Walk away? You’re kidding, right? Takeshi, you don’t walk away from guys like Skirnov. You either join them... or you bury them.
The room went still. Takeshi turned to face her, his gaze hard.
Takeshi Nomura: We’re not joining anyone.
Yuriko’s voice cut in, measured and calm but tinged with warning.
Yuriko Ikeda: And if we can’t bury him?
Takeshi didn’t answer. Outside, the sound of rain began to tap against the metal ventilation pipes, a slow rhythm like a heartbeat. Kyōki stretched her arms above her head, breaking the silence with another unsettling laugh.
Kyōki Piero: Well, I’ll play along. You want intel? Great. You want caution? Sure. But if Skirnov’s telling the truth... (Her grin widened unnaturally) ... I call dibs on being the first Frankenstein.
Yoshinobu glared at her but said nothing, his fists still clenched. Yuriko turned back to the hologram, studying its intricate details as the light from the projection danced across her face.
Takeshi stepped away from the table, moving toward the dim hallway that led deeper into the hideout. He paused in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the pale neon glow.
Takeshi Nomura: (Quietly, almost to himself) We don’t bury anyone until we know what we’re up against.
As Takeshi disappeared into the hallway, the holographic image flickered erratically as though glitching. For the briefest moment, it displayed something new—an image of a pale, red-eyed face, grinning like a predator in the dark. The light from the monitors dimmed, and the faint sound of a whisper swept through the room—just quiet enough to leave them wondering if they’d imagined it.
Hours Later
The Reavers’ hideout was steeped in shadows, the only light coming from glitching monitors and the occasional spark of a malfunctioning circuit board. The rain outside hadn’t let up, drumming a relentless rhythm against the crumbling walls of the underground den. It was a sound that somehow made the silence inside heavier.
The holographic sphere Skirnov had gifted them hovered above the table like an alien sun, its light casting eerie reflections across the room. Detailed schematics spun lazily in the air—cybernetic musculature, neural links, ocular systems more advanced than anything they’d ever seen.
Takeshi Nomura sat at the center table, his hands steepled beneath his chin. The faint hum of his spinal accelerators ticked softly, his breathing measured but heavy. He hadn’t moved in minutes, his glowing blue cybernetic eye locked on the schematics like they might answer some unspoken question.
Yuriko Ikeda leaned against the far wall, her arms crossed, her fingers drumming against her forearm with agitated precision. She wasn’t looking at the tech anymore. She was staring at Takeshi.
Yuriko Ikeda: This isn’t like you, Takeshi. You don’t gamble unless you know the odds.
Takeshi didn’t respond. His eye flickered faintly in the dim light.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto, slumped against a steel support beam, let out a low growl as he slammed a fist into his palm. The sound reverberated through the room, shaking dust loose from the ceiling.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: The odds are shit, Yuriko. We all know it. That freak is hiding something—something worse than we think.
Kyōki Piero perched herself on the table's edge, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her cybernetic eye pulsed erratically, glitching red and returning to its usual glow. She tilted her head, watching Takeshi like he was the most entertaining thing in the room.
Kyōki Piero: C’mon, boss. Say something. Are we doing this or not? Because I don’t know about you all, but I’m starting to itch.
She dragged a sharp fingernail across her forearm for emphasis. Her smile was razor-edged, but there was something in her tone—something beneath the chaos.
Takeshi finally moved. He exhaled slowly, then stood up, the motion smooth and deliberate. His cybernetic eye flared brighter as he turned to face them, his voice calm, steady.
Takeshi Nomura: We don’t have a choice.
Yuriko pushed off the wall, her jaw clenching. The sharp click of her boots echoed like gunshots across the room.
Yuriko Ikeda: We always have a choice.
Takeshi met her glare, his expression unreadable.
Takeshi Nomura: And what? We do nothing? You’ve seen our numbers. We’re not lasting another month. The Rumble? It’s our shot, Yuriko. We're done if we don’t go into that ring at our peak.
Yoshinobu shook his head, his voice low but steady.
Yoshinobu Koshimoto: And if we take his deal? What then? You think Skirnov gives us power out of the kindness of his cold, dead heart? He’ll own us. Just like I said.
Kyōki clapped her hands once, breaking the tension like a bomb going off. The grin on her face was manic, her tone sing-song and teasing.
Kyōki Piero: Oooh, Yoshinobu’s scared. Big man, big fists—tiny little trust fund. (Laughs) Skirnov’s creepy, sure. But isn’t that what makes him fun? I say we roll the dice.
She leaned closer to Takeshi, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
Kyōki Piero: Don’t you wanna know what we’ll become?
Takeshi ignored her and turned back to the hologram. The schematics spun silently, their details sharp and haunting in the dead air. He stared at them for a long beat before speaking.
Takeshi Nomura: We don’t trust him. Not completely. But we use him. He wants us upgraded? Fine. We take the upgrades. We walk into that Rumble, and we tear it apart. We win. And if Skirnov thinks he owns us after that?
He looked up, his gaze cold, unrelenting.
Takeshi Nomura: We show him he’s wrong.
The room went still.
Yoshinobu released a slow, measured breath, his massive shoulders sagging slightly. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue.
Yuriko stared at Takeshi, her voice quieter now but edged with steel.
Yuriko Ikeda: And what if we can’t? What if his hooks are in deeper than we think?
Takeshi held her gaze.
Takeshi Nomura: Then we rip them out.
Kyōki let out a delighted cackle, clapping her hands again as she hopped off the table.
Kyōki Piero: Now we’re talking! Blood, guts, and cyber-demons. I can’t fucking wait!
Yuriko turned away, her fists clenching at her sides as she muttered under her breath.
Yuriko Ikeda: We’re walking straight into hell…
Takeshi didn’t disagree. The quiet acknowledgment was there in the faint twitch of his jaw and his posture's tightness. He turned off the hologram with a wave, plunging the room into a deeper shadow.
Takeshi Nomura: Get ready. At dawn, we go back.