He was always told that "When he grew up, he would be good at something". There was no telling what that 'something' would be. Raking trash and slinging scop dogs in Arroyo a mile from where he was born wasn't what he had in mind as a kid. As determined and hardworking as his father was after finishing his service in the military, his efforts to get his family ahead in life never really got him anywhere. Any attempts... whether to start a business... build a portfolio... felt more like tires spinning in the mud of a fixed yet broken system. As time went on... those attempts became less and less frequent... the death of his wife bringing a dead stop to his motivation. His father... drained by his depression over the years... stopped leaving the house... barely even left his chair... a tattered lazyboy fitting for the street.
If he wasn't working or taking care of his father, he'd often find himself throwing a Broseph back with a choom or two; Every now and then tucking in for the night to dabble in some black market Braindances. Mind crippling memories played on a loop at your leisure... the traumatic, often violent experiences that go on to change or define a person... experiences that wither away at the psyche while never letting go. Everything from the brutal, personal death throes of an innocent victim... to the adrenaline rush of their cold hearted murderer... in their element fulfilling their darkest desires. Sold into a desensitized society by card carrying sociopaths for a buck... no different than an old time DVD. A thriving, well adjusted market with high demand... created on the backs of trauma and dismay.
With so much going on around him, there wasn't much left to do except... exist. Born into a life where all the cards are already dealt, none of which being good... forced to play a game with the winners already decided. He held spite for Night City in so many justified ways and yet, there was nothing he could do about it... and the city made sure he knew that. Whether it was luxury AVs flying by in the sky, or the occasional Rayfield parked in the neighborhood... conducting shady business surrounded by huscle; The opulence and power on display sent a clear message to him and everyone else around: Not For You.
He looked on at these occurrences as they happened with less spite and more curiosity over the years as he grew up. As a child, he'd often think "Who are these people anyway..? Why do they come here...? Why do they have... and I don't..?"
Night City... a living, breathing entity in it's own right. A town where order and chaos live under the same roof... dancing hand in hand in a whirlwind of violence, passion and hyper-stylistic allure. Where an endless cat and mouse game relentlessly permeates throughout all echelons of the culture and society. A place where the experiences you have and the relationships you make can be just as intense as they are fleeting.
It was a cold and foggy morning... the air was brittle... filled with the smell of folly and dejection... dorph heads skezzed out of their minds wandered the streets like zombies. After taking the time to get his father situated, he was out front getting his cart ready for the day while contemplating his route through the district. The blue collars are steadily heading to work... with the dirtkids being dragged to school.
With the city's morning commute well on its way, he abruptly hears the sound of screeching tires and gunshots off in the distance.
"Sixth Street" He immediately thought; And without much of a second one... he continued to get ready. However the distant sounds began to grow louder as the invisible conflict grew closer. Hell, people all over the block started to stop doing what they were doing to look around at where this was coming from. Almost like an impending wave they heard but couldn't see.
The gunshots and screeching tires suddenly come flying around the corner at full speed... burned rubber from skidding tires sends thick smoke and tire shrapnel flying. High and small caliber rounds blend together with the whirring zaps of tech guns creating a symphony of violence. Everyone on the block, kids included, either scattered for cover in back alleys, behind stoops, or reached for iron. It was so quick, he could barely react, diving and taking cover behind his small metal cart... barely dodging a volley of high velocity lead. As the two fighting cars pass by the front of his house, the exchange of gunfire lights up the pavement and his cart. Bullet holes the size of his hand riddle the area as he curls into a ball, covering his ears and head with gritted teeth bracing the heat. The cars continue flying up the road until one rams the other hard through a street pole... the momentum skids the pair of cars into someone's stoop toward the end of the block. A Chevillon Emperor turned a Quadra T sixty-six Avenger into a crushed soda can.
As the commotion up the street fades, and several of the vehicle occupants flee, he exhales heavily.. quickly checking his body for wounds before slowly standing back up. He glances down the street trying to get a look at the aftermath.
Looking back at his cart, the amount of sudden damage and bullet holes perplexes him... grateful to still be alive as the thick smell of burned rubber and gunsmoke begins to subside. He turns back to see his home riddled with bullet holes and blown out windows... shrapnel, scattered debris and blackened singed spots covered the front porch and face of the entire house.
A look of shock combines with disbelief as he frantically rushes back into his home... stumbling over his own feet. "DAD!!!" He screams as he struggles to yank open the shredded front door.
He enters and sees his father sat... as he did for quite some time now... in his chair. He slowly walks toward him in the darkened house shrouded in morning gloom.
He sees his lifeless father... leaking blood streaming out of several gunshot wounds... one being the head.
The man stared... frozen in disbelief... hyperventilating as emptiness and fear overwhelm him. The very air in his lungs is yanked out of him... a high pitched ringing in his ears silences the commotion of the aftermath going on outside as he stares at his father.
The room begins to slowly spin... his light headedness sends him to his knees... he collapses into his father's lap as he starts to weep.
The distant sounds of the aftermath and commotion outside among the neighbors fade out of focus... offering a rare Night City moment of silence.
Just another soul... claimed by Night City. The staunch callousness of an environment that's already moved on.
He sat with his dead father in an emotionless trance all day... never leaving his side... various scattered memories of time spent with each other blur together in a haze of broken emotions.. numbed by the day's events."
Finally... as evening approaches... he hears the growing sounds of sirens off in the distance getting closer. He raises his head to glance in their direction as he hears a quick, subtle crash behind him in his backyard.
Instinctually... he quickly gets up and darts to the backdoor kicking it open.
He gasp startles a woman kneeled down near his garbage cans... making some very quick observations: Shes injured... blood running down the side of her head and face... holding her arm and masking pain... her eyes wide open in shock. Shes fairly tall and lanky... wearing a modified Kuomori black leather trench coat; but the most important observation he makes: Shes Not From Here.
As he opens his mouth to yell at her, she pulls her iron while clicking the safety off... a jet black, modified Nue with an extended barrel. The look of fear and desperation on her face is clearly visible in her eyes... even with a black leather facemask on. Her bloody hand pointing iron shakes under the weight of the pain. The two of them exchange an extremely tense stare at each other... neither wanting to make first move. The sounds of the approaching sirens arrive and the tires screech to a halt.
With his hands in the air in surrender he glances back in the direction of the siren sounds. The woman takes the opportunity to turn and run... jumping fences and suddenly fading into the light starved neighborhood. He looks back towards her in the direction she ran before being startled by what's left of his front door being completely smashed in.
"NCPD! HANDS IN THE AIR!! NOW!!!"
Two badges storm the house clearing it. With his hands still up, he stands in disbelief... unable to find any words with the accumulation of the day's events.
"WHERE IS SHE!? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?" One of the badges shouts with iron drawn, pointed directly at him as he slowly moves closer.
"SEARCH THE BACK!!" He yells to his partner before yanking the man by his shirt and pinning him to a wall with force.
"I said.. WHERE is she and the WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!!?"
In this moment... a spattering of emotions run their course through his mind. The daily risks of Night City have found their way past his front door and into the very living room of his life.
Whether it was his traumatic upbringing... the traumatic day... the pig having his hands on him... or the very nature of Night City itself, feeling more determined than ever to drive him to his knees.
It made something click in his head... giving him a numbed feeling that laid dormant for so long. Numbed... but with fire... an undeniable energy behind it.
Snapping out of it... the man looks up at the cop as his partner re-enters the house from the back.
"Name's Brian... Brian Varga... and I don't have shit to say to A FUCKIN PI-" Before he can finish, Brian is pistol whipped in the face with full force, sending him to the floor.
As the two badges proceed to beat Brian down... the woman who fled stands with her back pressed against the side of his house. With an emotionless gaze on her face... she walks away into the night.