Cyberpunk: Archangel

Chapter 1: Genesis

Night City, March 22, 2073

"Whatever you do, never stay in Night City. From the outside looking in, the bright lights and the towering skyscrapers might look pretty, but it's nothing more than a trap set to lure you in. The things that happen in that city will make you wish you never stepped inside."

Those were words of wisdom that Michael's father had once told him, a very long time ago. Sometimes, Michael would think about those words, and he wished that he listened to them. However, thinking about the past wasn't important at the moment, considering he was currently being shot at by at least a dozen Tyger Claws, vicious gang members who occupied Japantown, a subsection of Night City. The gonks had gotten bold, and decided to open fire on civilians in the middle of a club. The NCPD, apparently too busy to deal with an active shootout, sent out a request for mercs to take care of it, and Micheal was the first to respond. Solo work paid well, but it sure as shit was a pain in the ass.

Michael leaned out of cover, pointed his D5 Copperhead at one of their heads, and pulled the trigger. Dude's head popped like a balloon, getting blood and brains onto his nearby chooms, who were too tunnel-visioned to notice or care. With precision and swiftness, Micheal dispatched the gangsters, one by one. The last one left, after watching one of his pals drop to the floor and go limp, threw his empty gun to the floor in a panic, and began to bolt towards Michael with an old, worn out combat knife. He lunged forward, trying to slice open Michael's throat, but was unsuccessful, as Michael grabbed his cybernetic arm and slowly crushed it with his Gorilla Arms implant.

"If it wasn't for that damn armor, you'd be fuckin' dead!" The Tyger Claw shouted in frustration. Michael lifted him up in the air. "Consider yourself unlucky," he responded, before punching him and sending him flying into a nearby wall. The gang member slid down, and stopped moving. Or breathing, for that matter. Michael sighed as he wiped blood off of his helmet's visor. Michael wore a set of expensive prototype Militech armor that he once stole during a heist. The armor was one of a kind, and the Fixer who hired him offered up enough Eddies to buy a year's worth of groceries for stealing it. Of course, the Fixer, instead of giving Michael the money he was promised, decided they would rather try to flatline him. Unfortunately for them, Michael was faster on the draw, so their wall ended up getting painted with their brains. Not wanting to walk away from the job with nothing, Michael decided to just keep the armor for himself. The armor was light and sleek, and could still protect you better than any other armor on the market. Definitely something so expensive that anyone who wasn't a Corpo would never be able to afford it in their lifetime. In an attempt to keep the armor somewhat ambiguous, Michael wore a dark blue, high collar Kitsch jacket, decorated with a few neon green accents. It was a little small on him, but it looked good enough with his armor, so it worked. Michael called up the PD, letting them know that the job was done, and he smirked to himself as he saw a sum of about three-thousand Eurodollars get transferred into his account, enough to pay for this month's rent, along with a few nice meals. Wanting to celebrate his job well-done, Michael decided he'd go get a drink to soothe his nerves.

Michael looked up at the green neon sign as he approached the Afterlife, the club that most of the mercs in Night City who were worth their salt picked as their primary go-to hangout spot. Michael often stopped by to get a couple drinks after a job well done, and today was no different, it seemed. He casually walked through the door, down the stairs, and nodded as he walked past the bouncers. As he stepped inside, a few tables gave him quick glances before whispering to each other, but nobody made a particularly big scene. He walked up to the bar, and leaned on the counter, politely waving at Claire, the Afterlife's bartender.

"Well well well, if it isn't the Archangel!" she said in a playful tone. "What're you feeling today, big guy?"

Throughout his Solo work, Michael had never told a single soul his real name. While he had taken on various jobs, bounty hunting had been his strong suit. He was known to go after particularly nasty thugs and cruel Corpos. Michael wouldn't hunt down anyone he deemed innocent. Because of his particular method of vigilante justice, people throughout Night City's criminal underbelly had begun to call him, "Archangel", and the nickname stuck. To your average, everyday street-thug or merc, he was nothing but a myth, used as a scare-tactic to intimidate people. And to the big wigs in the Biz, he was an up-and-coming Edgerunner with decent potential.