《2600 code》


 Chapter 1

    Send your mind back to the grimy streets of Night City, circa 2045. What do you think you''ll hear from goons lounging in a dingy, neon-bathed bar about how they envision life today? Here are the chrome-plated fantasies that you''ll hear filtered through the haze of synthia smoke. "We''ll all be zooming around in flying cars!" they''d slur. Or, "Servbot butlers will bring me breakfast in my choomba pad!" Typical meatbag dreams, choom.


    But flash forward to 2600, and the reality is as shocking as a cyberpsycho''s killing spree. Who could''ve predicted the Corps would orchestrate a bloodless global takeover? Their slick socialism smoothly seized total control. Under the shield of China, Kang Tao now steers everything. From the cheap plastic kibble we spoon into our mouths each morning to the scratchy synth-fiber socks on our feet. Gotta hand it to their collective cunning.


    Still, not every citizen enjoys the fruits of this chrome-plated paradise. Poverty and squalor fester in the back alleys for those outside the system. The tech may be the slickest chrome, but human misery still seeps through the cracks. As the decades dragged on, the Corps consolidated their creepy socialist credit system. While nominally private companies still exist, they''re puppeteered by the iron fist of state oversight. Most times, profits get carved up collectivist-style. Choomers call it "prosperous sharing" with a choked laugh. The GovCorp skims a cut off the top, using it to control the global real estate market. See, individual ownership still drives the economy. No future without entrepreneurial innovation, right? But all the choicest ideas belong to those who can afford them. Namely, the chrome-plated elite living large on Kang Tao Station, a massive orbital habitat as big as old Venezuela. Gonks like them never taste the grimy life, crammed into a filthy 6 AM smartbus to the factory. At night, they get serviced by the slickest pleasure droids. They''ll never know the danger of losing a limb to some outdated robo, like down on the streets. Who cares about the little people right! As long as the corpo-citizens can wrap their bionic arms around their perfect synthetic lovers.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Trapped in a constant state of turmoil and upheaval, Brazil devolved into a strained mixed economy by the mid-21st century. Before the fall, the fractured nation faced countless political and social flashpoints. The delicate balance between tech, freedom, and sustainability collapsed entirely. Now distinct strata carve the country. The upper class dwells in sleek arcologies patrolled by corporate security. Meanwhile, the rest fester in decaying favelas down below.


    Each night, Brazil''s orbit fills with illegal waste dumps from off-world colonies. The corporatocracy dumps tons of hazardous trash onto the surface, treating their airspace as a cosmic landfill. This deluge creates catastrophic security and environmental hazards for the people. Radiation, pollution, and the constant threat of a debris impact. Amidst the mess, daring edgerunners find valuable chances amid the wreckage and the hidden black market. They risk lives gathering dangerous treasures, selling to survivalist groups illegally.


    Hyper-globalization has led to a world without borders, plugging everyone into something bigger than themselves. The heads of the 6 remaining megacorps formed an elite council they pretentiously dubbed the "Global Celebration Team" - as if running the world was a game. Those who think rigid socialism controls this new world order are dead wrong. Arasaka and Militech, the Japanese-American tech giants, still dominate exports. Stars and stripes intact, Uncle Sam clings to capitalist ways, even as corporate cabals pull the strings.


    Brazil navigates this tangled web through the Guiding Party, helmed by Chairman Silver, preventing outright corporate wars. To many he''s an icon, but techno-terrorists see Silver as a puppet, propping up corrupt regimes while the planet burns. As corporations, camouflaged as countries, divide the last resources, one thing is certain - the old world of nations is never coming back. Everything is connected now, choom.

 Chapter 2

    Andr¨¦s jacks into his augmented reality glasses, seeking stimulation. Paired with a neural implant, the tech has replaced cyberdecks. Few choombas sporting this chrome, and some might take Andr¨¦s, with his slick and sharp looks, for a netrunner. His style is like an evolved character from "Revenge of the nerds. Those without the ware might be hiding optic camouflage contact lenses. Swiping through the feed on his deck during lunch is a regular thing for him. He likes checking out articles on ripperdocs and family.


    Three metallic clangs reverberate at the steel hatch. "You''ve been in the head for 10 minutes straight! I want to interface with you." The unmistakable gruff voice is Ricardo''s. A mix of endurance and unhappiness comes through clear. The Independent Netzine employs Andr¨¦s in its editorial division. He exits the bathroom, acting surprised. He wipes his hands on his pants and readjusts his glasses and styled hair. Next, we detect the constant hiss of the brewer. It sounds like a cat''s piss hitting a sofa. It was Ricardo pouring two small cups, one for each of them. Those wage slaves in the hallway opposite the head. With determination, Andr¨¦s steadies his breathing and makes a quick stride forward.


    "Got a minute, choom?" Ricardo asked, his chrome-plated optics reflecting the harsh LEDs overhead.


    "What''s up?" Andr¨¦s leaned back in his fraying chair, raising an augmented eyebrow.


    "Grab yourself a stim," Ricardo said, nudging over a small cup of synthesized caffeine.


    "Hard pass. Tweak makes me glitch."


    "Right, right. Gotta respect a virtuous worker." Ricardo''s face relaxed into a robotic smile. "Corps value responsibility."If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "So what''s the deal?" Andr¨¦s asked, drumming his cyber fingers on the metal desk.


    "We treat all our wageslaves well here."


    "No complaints."


    "But I got some. Anyone looking for you just needs to hit the head."


    Andr¨¦s'' optics widened.


    "Once in the AM cycle, once at fuel break, once after." Ricardo scratched his chrome cranial plating.


    "And don''t forget once at clock-in, again at clock-out."


    "I have issues with peeing myself."


    "That''s a lot of splash time for a bladder issue." Ricardo''s brow furrowed.


    "What can I say choom, sometimes I get distracted scanning the darknet feeds while draining the lizard."


    "That''s drek. You sit down to take a leak?"


    "It''s for a good cause! I''m mining for news nuggets."


    "Like I said, we treat our workers chrome here. But everyone''s got to punch the clock."


    "Right! I just combined my breaks is all!"


    "Section 42 of the Corporate Constitution says every wageies should feel cozy without disrupting standardization.''"


    "But Section 41 says: ''Productivity before leisure.''¡±


    "Weak synth-sauce argument. That line''s about spacing out on the job."


    "Trust me choom, when I''m on the clock, I outhustle any widget pusher here."


    "Speaking of that choom..."


    "What?"


    "You''re not an intern."


    "Whoops! Did I miss a deadline?"


    "Try getting your facts straight for once. Quit dropping the ball."

 Chapter 3

    Twenty-four years since the Zaibatsu took over. Alongside China, they set up the Corporate Congress to take control of everything. Now everything is choomba - government, media, culture - all puppeted by the Corps'' agenda. Kang Tao''s 76rd Corporate Constitution demands execs'' absolute loyalty to corporate Benefactors.


    In a tiny housing unit, lazy Jim, eighteen, lounges, flipping channels on his device.


    "Put on something choomba, Agent," he drones.


    The screen displays an interview with Lily, a famous transgender street artist, now Corps'' darling. Draped on a pretentious divan, she smiles coyly for the camera lenses. The middle-aged talk show host leans forward, his smile as artificial as Lily''s custom body.


    "Well choom, look who it is - the hottest new chromestar! Welcome to ''UnImpartial Focus,'' darling!"


    "Hey hey, thanks for having me," Lily purrs, fidgeting with the platinum band on her digit.


    "Of course! It''s an honor to have you in your esteemed position."


    "Oh please, so many preem artists are ignored by the Corps." She smiles.


    Jim quickly sketches Lily''s features - the almond eyes, sharp nose, full lips.


    "So tell us choom, how do you handle toxic hate?" The host rests his palm on her hand.


    "Like a queen, love! And if that fails, my ripperdoc prescribes oxy."


    "Wow, elegant! And your thoughts on the Corporate Congress economy?" He retracts his hand, suppressing a smirk.


    "Simmer down now! My fans are in the American Quadrant. That''s all that pays the bills."


    "Of course, of course. Our queen stays divisive! Speaking of division, your take on political polarity?"


    "People choom love watching folks fight in the extremes! It''s so fun."


    The host and artist share an awkward grin.


    "To the stage!"


    The camera shows cheering fans as a neo-soul singer takes the stage, eyes closed, clutching the chrome mic like a baby bird in her hands. Her expression is pure zeal and feeling, her soul seeping into each note. Her voxbox voice pierces the cheers, silencing the room.


    "You¡¯re my charm, the black stone on my chest


    You¡¯re my secret, the yellow hidden sun


    You¡¯re the burning fire, red flame of passion


    You¡¯re my nurture, the white milk of breast¡±


    The singing continues as Lily''s persona fades. The host''s voice stirs the audience.


    "Thank you Vanessa!" Lily claps. "Bravo!" The crowd joins her applause.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "As someone openly non-binary, can true objectivity exist?"


    "Please choom, ''unImpartialness'' just feeds egos."


    "Ha, yes indeed. Chairman Silver sure has the gift of gab too."


    "Oh Chaz? His place is behind bars, right? Justice will take its course."


    "Yes, of course. Shall we cut to ads then?"


    "Sure choom, life''s just one big ad anyway."


    He slides off his bunk, leaving his agent streaming as he dashes to the bathroom. The shower hisses on, steam fogging the dingy mirror. Over the drizzle, he can still discern the saccharine talk show banter. Cranking the audio, Jim returns, ready to take off his top. But he pauses, gazing fixedly at his reflection. He runs a finger across his mouth, noting how it mirrors Lily''s shape. On impulse, he grabs his mother''s lipstick tube and paints the mirror''s lips crimson.


    "Preem? More like perverse,"


    Jim mutters. "She''s chrome, I''m just...gross."


    He stares into the mirror as the talk show¡¯s praise and platitudes still blare. On screen, Lily soaks up applause as the host prods her about the next product drop. Jim examines his imperfections under harsh LEDs¡ªa zit here, patchy stubble there. His gaze drifts down to the curve of his chest, concealed by his wifebeater.


    "Yo, Agent, patch me to the Unbiased channel."


    "Connecting to the Unbiased channel," the AI chirps.


    "Crank up or down the volume?"


    "Crank it."


    He strips, exposing his bare bod.


    His reflection reveals a mug begging for changes. Juice, slicin'' and dicin'', chrome¡ªoptions await to reshape his ideal self, piece by dope tweak.


    Chairman Silver''s soothing baritone echoes from the agent. A GovCorp campaign ad blasts on screen, trumpeting Brazil''s profitable pact brokering between Kang Tao''s Pacific Prosperity Sphere and the remaining Western quadras. Among the megacorps jousting for control of Brazil''s media silos, the Guiding Party has emerged on top. Though officially governed by Militech''s Progressive Union, the Guiding Party holds the real power. Their leader''s role as middleman between East and West has secured the Guiding Party to loyal followers.


    "You, my displaced choom who defies labels - I''m with you. In this cycle, vote for a party that governs all people. A party that''s neither Outworld progressive nor Inworld traditional: The Impartial Party!


    Jim grins, feeling aligned with his identity. The city''s cruel peepers will learn to accept, or go obsolete. For now, self-love is the first upgrade. Perfection will come, choom. Baby steps.


    Jim chuckles at his reflection. As he mimics Lily''s features with crimson lipstick, the front door slides open. His mother Rosa trudges in, reeking from a long shift at the algae plant.


    "An eighteen-year-old choom playing dress up? Shameful," she sneers.


    "Just experimenting with my look, nom," Jim explains, hiding the lipstick tube.


    "While the shower and Agent run wild? Typical waste."


    "They were just on, nom."


    "Do you know how much I sacrifice for you?"


    "One day I''ll be known as Lily, choom."


    "Ha! Ideology won''t get you chrome and warm synthmeat."


    "Talent helps too, nom."


    "Elections are coming, and assistance won''t increase."


    "Gov corps never help us."


    "At least they tried until the Corporate Congress coup of ''76!"


    "I''ll get a private education, choom."


    "For what? Some useless art degree?"


    "Fine arts, nom. The world needs people like me."


    "I won''t pay for fantasy. Grow up Jim."


    "But for people like us, this city''s a cage."


    "Picasso had real talent, not like you," she ridicules.


    "What''s that painting called nom?" Junior points.


    "How about ''Misadventures of a Sewer Rat''?"


    "It''s abstract, choom."


    "And worthless data clutter."


    Jim sighs, hiding his lipstick-smudged reflection from view. ¡°One day you''ll see me for who I am nom. Until then, I''ll keep dreaming.¡± he thinks of saying.

 Chapter 4

    In the last few days, Andr¨¦s has experienced disturbing emotions, like a balloon that burst. As if it were a sieve, his mind is full of gaps. Wrapped in a sensation comparable to a butterfly trapped in a small cocoon. He wants to talk about his contradictions, and it makes him interested in a stimulating place. Where people can access information without a filter defining its nature. Even if it''s an escape. The belief is that breaking some rules is necessary.


    At the end of the workday, he takes a Smart Bus home. He pauses, looking at the busy city outside the window like an anthill. The vehicle is still crossing the industrial area of the city, far from his home. He presses the button. He has fifteen seconds to decide whether he will get off. There''s no arguing with technology. Bourgeoisie occupy the sidewalk outside with their second-generation androids. They hover next to their automatons with the "Levitating Personal Transport System." Everyone wastes money on frivolous trinkets, such as smart clothes with monitoring capabilities.


    For a moment, he examines how possibilities trap everyone more than limitations. Unlike those assistant androids, he realizes he has a choice. In the last few seconds, he decides to descend. He can''t glide in the air over the magnetic conductors. He is stuck on the ground, but others have obstacle-proof systems, so it''s not a problem. Andr¨¦s walks with speed. Curious, he walks past big flashy buildings with modern ads, tempting consumers.


    Andr¨¦s walks a few meters ahead and comes across an everyday scene he has never seen up close before. A technological waste ship lands beside a dead-end street. The vehicle unloads a heap of discarded androids from Aurora. The rich had used those robots as luxury or amusement items, but now they were throwing them away as trash. Andr¨¦s sees some policemen around, armed with hidden laser pistols. He wonders if it''s ethical and decides to approach it and understand what''s going on.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    The safety lock restricts the robots'' intelligence, disallowing any questioning of their owners. Andr¨¦s contemplates the androids'' worth and dreams of a world like his own. For a moment, he suspects he sees some movement in the pile of rubble. Something stirs, awakening from a deep slumber, bewildered and unsure of its surroundings.


    Andr¨¦s is aware that some of these androids can be dangerous if hacked or modified. Crooked smugglers are trying to swipe these automatons to sell on the illegal trade or use them for crime. They hang out at secret bars in the city, like Santana Bar, where tech skills are limitless. That''s his destination. He is careful not to draw attention as he crosses the warehouse towards the bodega.


    After a quick walk, he''s facing a dingy and rundown spot hidden behind a rusty metal door. After knocking three times on the door and sharing the password he got from a hackers'' forum, "2600 code," the passage opens up, letting him in. He walks into the bar, greeted by a dim and grimy space with neon lights and computers lighting up the area.


    Loud electronic music thumps from the speakers, making your chest shake. Alcohol, cigarettes, and synthetic drugs The journalist feels dizzy and disoriented. While looking around, he sees people sitting in armchairs and bean bags. They all dive into their own virtual world, whispering and fiddling with their digital devices.


    In a short moment of staying at the place, Andr¨¦s becomes aware of the unequivocal lack of desire for his company. Hackers and smugglers glare. The place is strange, dangerous, and mysterious. But Andr¨¦s remains willing to risk everything he has and put himself in dangerous situations. His primary goal is to probe the hidden secrets behind the hazy veils of that dim bar. He asks for the Wi-Fi password and gets an indifferent look. While scanning the surroundings, he looked for information about the cyberpunk world.