The lone figure walked through the rainy wet streets. It was about 1 AM. He was done. He was tired. The human walked by other homeless, trolls, orcs most of them, huddled in mucky puddles on the corners of the slums of Hartford. The figure was moving south, to the zone of the slums full of insects, and worse. Why? He was done. When he was born, his birthgivers did not even decide to name him. His hair was long and black, the rain making it stick to his face. Rough stubble surrounded his cold, shivering lips as he shuffled on through the mud, now up to his ankles. He was walking on empty water bottles made into sandals. He was traveling from Hartford, the biggest city in Connecticut. He was born there, in 2050. Lived there all his life. Now he was 22, it was the year 2072, and he was done with this. He knew not how he lived for so long.
And even in the past two years, he had tried to fix himself. He had worked out, gone to a playground every night to work his body. His body was very ripped, and he had trained himself to fight. Though, that was it though. He was done. Nobody spoke to him. He did not even have any money to buy implants for his disease.
His disease. Fibermyalgia. A troll doctor in the slums had diagnosed him a few weeks prior, and he had been hunting for a name to it for so much longer. But, there was no cure. He was done. Yes, up ahead, he saw the gate reading DANGER, TURN BACK. Signs written by other homeless and poor filled the wet street. Water splashed around. He pulled his shawl tighter around him, and, tears streaming from his eyes, passed the gate.
It did not take long. Fifteen minutes of wandering through swarms choking the hot air in the narrow streets. They surrounded him, wrapping him in an annoyingly loud buzz. This was it. He could not afford cyberware. What was the point. He could not speak to people. What was the point. He could not get work. What was the point.
He would be dead in a few years anyway.
They began to land on him now, their tiny mandibles biting into his flesh. He felt his cloth shawl being torn away, but he realized he had dropped it into the muck. They landed on his face, and he felt pain. Fear. He felt fear. Did he not want to die? No, he wanted to. He was sure of it. Then he lost the feeling in his left arm. Taking a look, he saw it drop to the ground, covered in insects. He opened his mouth to scream but they only swarmed in. And then he blacked out.
* * *
When he awoke, he was on a table, in a bright white room. His left arm was replaced by a cyberarm. He ran his biological hand through his hair, and felt that most of what he had used to have was replaced by fiberoptic hairs. What was this? He couldn’t afford anything. “Your skull is also cyberware, and I am not finished covering your arm in synthetic skin and completing the muscle augmentation. I’ve also given you a Handblade. You’re not finished, so lie back down.” He heard as a man in a black suit stepped in. He was pale of skin and had long black hair. “Just chill out.”
He did so, lying back. The pale man stepped forward, pulling out a syringe. “This’ll knock ya out again. Don’t bother why I did this, everyone needs a new life, and I followed you for some time, I knew you were going to commit suicide. I don’t stand for that kind of thing.” He smiled, flashing a pair of fangs at the nameless, homeless cyborg. “You’re gonna be my street samurai now, bud. You’re gonna do some work for me. I’ll feed you, I’ll shelter you. You just need to go bring me some blood. Second chances!” He injected the man, who fell back asleep.
It was a dark, dark sleep.