Chapter 6: The Bar Fight
POV: Tom
The Kabuki bar existed in that narrow space between legitimate business and criminal enterprise, serving alcohol to customers who paid in eddies they'd earned through methods that discouraged scrutiny. Tom sat at the bar nursing synthetic bourbon that tasted like industrial solvent, trying to convince himself he was celebrating rather than medicating. Regina's payment had transformed him from desperate refugee to someone with options, but those options came with the uncomfortable knowledge that he was becoming exactly what Night City wanted him to become.
The bar's atmosphere reflected its clientele—dim lighting that hid chrome scars and recent violence, music loud enough to mask conversation, and patrons who maintained careful awareness of everyone around them. Tom fit in better than he'd expected, his visible chrome modifications marking him as someone who'd invested in survival over aesthetics.
Three weeks in Night City, he thought, watching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. From software engineer to mercenary with adaptive cybernetics. That has to be some kind of record for career transition.
The bourbon burned its way down his throat, leaving an aftertaste that reminded him of the warehouse job's aftermath. He'd discovered abilities he couldn't explain, survived violence that should have killed him, and accepted payment for services that existed in Night City's moral gray areas. Each choice had seemed reasonable at the time, but the accumulation felt like steps down a path he'd never intended to walk.
The collision happened as Tom turned from the bar, synthetic bourbon making him slightly less coordinated than his enhanced reflexes preferred. He bumped into a man whose chrome modifications suggested serious investment in intimidation—subdermal armor visible beneath synthetic skin, optical implants that glowed with aggressive orange light, and the kind of stance that promised violence to anyone foolish enough to test it.
Bourbon spilled across the man's shirt in a dark stain that immediately drew attention from his companions.
"Watch where you're going, asshole," the man snarled, his voice carrying the particular edge of someone looking forward to violence.
"Sorry," Tom said, raising his hands in a gesture of apology. "Accident. Let me buy you another drink."
The man's optical implants focused on Tom with mechanical precision, analyzing threat potential and probably recording everything for later review. What he saw apparently satisfied his need for confrontation, because his expression shifted from annoyed to predatory.
"Accident, huh? Maybe you need to learn some manners."
Tom's enhanced awareness catalogued details with disturbing clarity. Three companions, all chrome-enhanced, positioning themselves to block escape routes. The main aggressor's subdermal armor would deflect small arms fire. His optical implants included targeting software. His companions carried weapons concealed but easily accessible.
Professional violence workers. Gang affiliated, probably Tyger Claws based on their chrome aesthetics. Not random drunks looking for entertainment.
"Look, I don't want trouble," Tom said, backing toward what appeared to be open space but was actually a carefully designed trap.
"Too late for that, chrome-job," one of the companions replied, using the derogatory term for someone whose augmentations exceeded social norms. "You got trouble whether you want it or not."
Tom tried humor, though his enhanced social analysis subroutines were already calculating failure probability at approximately ninety percent. "Maybe we could arm-wrestle instead? Winner buys drinks?"
The response was exactly what his combat protocols had predicted—derisive laughter that signaled the transition from verbal aggression to physical violence. The main aggressor stepped closer, close enough for Tom to smell synthetic alcohol and the ozone tang of active cyberware.
"You think you're funny, freak? Let's see how funny you are when you're bleeding."
The first punch came from Tom's left—not from the main aggressor, but from one of his companions trying to establish dominance through surprise violence. Tom's enhanced reflexes tracked the incoming fist with crystalline clarity, noting trajectory, velocity, and the targeting data his attacker's optical implants were feeding to his motor cortex.
Too slow. Way too slow. I can dodge this easily.
Time dilated.
Not metaphorically or psychologically—time actually slowed to honey-thick crawls of motion. Tom's consciousness accelerated beyond normal human perception, transforming the incoming punch into a glacial event he could analyze with academic detachment. He could see individual skin cells on his attacker's knuckles, observe the minute electrical firing patterns in the man's optical implants, track the microscopic adjustments in balance and positioning.
Sandevistan.
The recognition came with terrifying clarity. His body had activated time-dilation augmentation without conscious command, triggered by combat stress and survival instinct. But Tom had never installed a Sandevistan. His enhanced memories contained no record of the surgical procedures, the neural conditioning, or the weeks of physical therapy required to safely integrate temporal manipulation technology.
Yet here he was, moving between seconds while the world crawled around him.
Tom stepped aside from the incoming punch with casual ease, his movement appearing impossibly fast to external observers. The attacker's fist continued its glacial journey through space Tom no longer occupied, carrying its owner into an awkward stumble that left him exposed for counterattack.
Tom's enhanced reflexes calculated optimal strike points with mechanical precision. Solar plexus for respiratory disruption. Knee joint for mobility elimination. Carotid pressure point for consciousness termination. His adaptive cybernetics provided targeting data that transformed his opponent into a collection of vulnerable systems waiting for shutdown.
The counterattack landed with chrome-enhanced precision and force that exceeded baseline human capability. Tom's fist struck the attacker's solar plexus with enough impact to lift him off his feet and send him crashing into a table occupied by customers who immediately scattered.
Time snapped back to normal speed with jarring suddenness.
Tom staggered as his consciousness readjusted to standard temporal flow, disoriented by the transition from accelerated perception to normal human awareness. The sensation was like stepping off a moving walkway—reality felt sluggish and improperly calibrated.
The bar had gone silent. Customers stared at Tom with expressions ranging from impressed to terrified. He'd moved faster than humanly possible, struck with force that exceeded his apparent muscle mass, and demonstrated combat capabilities that suggested military-grade augmentation.
"What the hell..." one of the remaining attackers whispered.
Tom looked down at his hands, still glowing with the faint blue tracery of active chrome. His Sandevistan systems were powering down with mechanical satisfaction, leaving behind the lingering sensation of having touched something vast and responsive within his own nervous system.
I moved like a machine. Fought like a machine. Felt like a machine.
The second attacker rushed forward with desperate aggression, probably hoping to overwhelm Tom before he could activate whatever impossible technology had just made their companion irrelevant. The man's chrome-enhanced fists moved with professional competence, backed by subdermal armor and targeting software that should have made him a formidable opponent.
Tom's enhanced reflexes processed the incoming assault with crystalline clarity. He could see the attack patterns, predict the follow-through, calculate optimal defensive responses. Without conscious decision, he activated his Sandevistan again.
The world slowed to amber crawls of motion.
Tom moved between the attacker's strikes like he was dancing, each dodge perfectly timed to minimal necessary effort. His counterstrike caught the man in the jaw with enough force to spin him completely around before depositing him unconscious on the bar floor.
The third attacker drew a weapon—a pistol with smart ammunition and targeting assistance that should have made him dangerous even to enhanced opponents. Tom's Techno-Sovereignty reached out and convinced the gun's electronic systems that ammunition was unavailable.
The weapon clicked empty without firing a shot.
Tom gestured at the main aggressor, who stood frozen in shock at the sudden elimination of his companions. "Still want to discuss manners?"
The man backed toward the bar exit with the expression of someone who'd just witnessed something that contradicted his understanding of reality. "What are you?"
Good question. What am I?
"Someone having a bad week," Tom replied, his voice carrying harmonics from his active chrome systems. "Someone who just wanted a drink."
The surviving attackers fled, leaving behind unconscious companions and customers who continued staring at Tom like he'd just performed magic. The bartender emerged from behind his reinforced counter with the expression of someone calculating insurance claims.
"You need to leave," the bartender said, though his tone was respectful rather than hostile. "Nothing personal, but whatever you are brings attention I can't afford."
Tom nodded, understanding the economics of Night City survival. He left payment for his drink and walked toward the exit, aware that every customer in the bar was recording his departure for later analysis. By tomorrow, security footage would be circulating through Night City's intelligence networks, carrying images of impossible speed and adaptive technology that shouldn't exist.
So much for staying out of corporate sight.
Tom called Judy from Betty's driver seat, his hands shaking as delayed adrenaline crashed through his nervous system. His chrome systems were powering down with mechanical satisfaction, leaving behind the unsettling awareness that his body contained capabilities he'd never consciously learned to control.
"Tom? You sound terrible. What happened?"
"Bar fight. I moved too fast. Way too fast. Everyone saw."
"How fast?"
Tom struggled to find words for what he'd experienced. "Sandevistan fast. Time slowed down, I could see everything, moved between seconds. But I never installed a Sandevistan. Never even had basic reflexware."
Judy was quiet for a moment, processing implications. "Where are you?"
"Betty. Parked outside the bar. Judy, I need help. I need someone who understands what's happening to me because I sure as hell don't."
"Stay put. I'm coming."
Twenty minutes later, Judy slid into Betty's passenger seat with a tablet displaying security footage from the bar's surveillance system. Tom watched himself move with inhuman speed, striking with force that exceeded his apparent mass, demonstrating capabilities that defied every classification in Night City's extensive database of human augmentation.
"Tom," Judy said carefully, "what the hell are you?"
Tom stared at the footage, watching himself become something that moved like liquid chrome and struck like industrial machinery. His reflection in Betty's windshield showed chrome tracery covering forty percent of his visible skin, patterns that pulsed with soft blue light in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"I don't know," he thought desperately. "I don't know what I'm becoming. I don't know how to stop it. I don't know if I want to stop it."
"I don't know," Tom said aloud, his voice barely a whisper. "I woke up like this. Everything's changing and I'm scared."
Judy reached over and took his chrome-covered hand without flinching. "Then we'll figure it out together. Whatever you are, whatever's happening to you—you don't have to face it alone."
Tom looked at their joined hands—her warm human skin against his cold chrome enhancement, flesh and machine trying to bridge an impossible gap. For the first time since arriving in Night City, he felt like someone genuinely wanted to help him rather than use him.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Thank me when we find answers," Judy replied. "Right now, we just have more questions and bigger problems."
Through Betty's windshield, Tom could see Night City's neon promise stretching toward a horizon painted in corporate logos and automated surveillance. Somewhere in that maze of steel and ambition, people were already analyzing security footage of impossible speed and adaptive technology. Soon, they would come looking for him.
But for now, he wasn't alone. Judy's hand anchored him to humanity while Betty's systems hummed with mechanical contentment around them.
It would have to be enough.
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