[Other] Cyberpunk - The Edge of Glory

[psuedenim]

Well the problem is, we'll my problem is, I want the tiniest flimsiest reason to buy them. Seems I like to collect books first, read them second, and play them third but that order is more likely due to how I can spend my time. It's been a long time since I played 2020 (currently playing 2022 and its a big improvement over 2021).

Might be an app tunneling through a Corp backdoor to infect this datablock.

[TheDude4000]

Hey, I found a free Cyberpunk Red Character Creator! Check it out! I figure it might be useful to someone here.

[Marshmallow]

Ripperdoc lacks a number of roles available to players in character creation, just an FYI.

[TheDude4000]

Yeah, it looks like it's just for the Jumpstart kit.

[TheDude4000]

TheDude4000's App Name: Frank Beckham Handle: Flatline Role: Netrunner Personality: Quietly confident, stoic; hides his emotions Appearance: Young, clean shaven, long messy hair, wears large AR goggles that cover a good portion of his face   Backstory Frank does his best to forget his past. As a child, he spent most of the days avoiding his shi**y home life - running wild on the streets, getting into trouble and barely coming home in one piece. His mother was always checked out and eventually abandoned him to his alcoholic father who's cold, stiff body he found slumped against a wall one morning. Later Frank was taken in by his uncle, who was a hacktivist and early Netrunner. Frank learned everything there was to learn about computers from his uncle and started doing jobs for him. This typically would involve information theft and leaking sensitive data. One day Frank’s uncle disappeared. Their temporary hideout was ransacked and the computers were gone. Frank knew they targeted the wrong company. With only the clothes on his back and his cheap cyberdeck, Frank ran as far and as fast as he could. He spent the first few years lying low - living on the streets, barely getting by. He would later take on a new identity and alias and set up shop in a seedy motel room. Today he is a nobody Netrunner that goes by Flatline - taking any odd job he can find. Flatline strives to build his rep and make enough money to survive and keep himself ahead of those who might be hunting him. Who knows, maybe he’ll make it big someday. And just maybe he’ll finally find out what happened to his uncle.   LIFE PATH Cultural Region North America What are you like? Shy and secretive Style Urban Flash Hairstyle Wild What do you value most? Your word How do you feel about most people? People are untrustworthy. Don’t depend on anyone. Original Background Edgerunners - home was based on uncle’s job - bouncing from place to place, always trying to keep one step ahead of the execs Childhood Environment On the street with little adult supervision Background/family Crisis Your family vanished. You are the only remaining member. Your Friends Someone you know from the street Enemy A corporate exec is hunting me because I caused public humiliation by leaking data about him. Tragic Love Affair Like everyone else in his life, Flatline’s lover one day vanished without a trace. Life Goals Get off the streets - no matter what it takes - and maybe find out why people around me disappear.

[Effete]

Application Character Name: Chloe Reid Handle: Scraps (formerly Amber Arcane) Role: Fixer   I already had a general idea of what kind of character I wanted to play before I started, but I decided to introduce some randomness and let the dice fill in the blanks. Results followed by a "(R)" are randomly selected by die roll while those followed by "(C)" are purposefully chosen to fit my concept. Cultural Origin: North American, with English as a primary language (C) Personality: Fun & Outgoing (C) Dress & Personal Style: Urban Flash, with a classy twist. (C) ... Hair is Long & Ratty (C) ... wears Spiked Boots or Heels (R) What Do You Value Most: Your Word (R) Feelings About People: I Stay Neutral (R) Most Valued Person: A Teacher or Mentor (R) Most Valued Possession: A Recording (R) Original Background: Megastructure Warren Rats (R) Childhood Environment: In the heart of the Combat Zone, living in a wrecked building or other squat. (R) Family Crises: Your family was exiled or otherwise driven from their original home. (R) Friends: 1 (C) ... Like a younger sibling (R) Enemies: 1 (C) ... Estranged relative (R) ... Turned down the other's offer of a job or romantic involvement (R) ... Just themselves and even they won't go out of their way (R) Sweet Revenge: Backstab Them Indirectly (R) Love Affairs: 1 (C) ... Lover Committed Suicide (R) Life Goal: Get What's Rightfully Yours (R) Fixer Path Type: Procure rare or atypical resources for exclusive clientele (C) ... Work Alone (C) Office: Don't have one; keep it mobile. (C) Side Clients: Local Rockerboys or Medias who use you to get them gigs or contacts. (R) Who's Gunning For You: Enemy of a former client who wants to clean up "loose ends"—like you. (R)   Early Life Scraps—or Chloe, as she was known then—has many fond memories of the place she grew up. It was one of those newer mallplexes: a self-contained terrarium designed to provide residents with everything they ever needed without ever having to leave. All courtesy of the corporation holding you hostage! There was actually a pretty nova clothing shop in the far wing, a ten-minute tram ride away, where Chloe klepped a lot of her preemo threads from. The apartment was a one-bedroom deal, which felt cramped when the whole family was home, but Chloe and her brother usually only came back there to sleep. The living room had one large window that overlooked a courtyard, which was typically full of children during the day and full of wastoids and dorphers at night. Security only got involved if there was violence, which happened often enough to not be alarming. There was a school, of sorts, but attendance was loosely regulated and the biased curriculum was obviously corporate sponsered; gotta bring up that new generation of sales clerks and wage slaves, neh? Dad was adamant about Chloe and her brother, Nathan, attending. Something about never turning down the opportunity for a free education. It sounded stupid at the time, but it would be years before she acknowledged her father had been right about that. The move had been jarring. One day, when Chloe was about fourteen, dad just said to pack up whatever they wanted and leave whatever they didn't. By evening they were on a bus traveling away from the complex. It was the first time Chloe had even been "outside," and she stared in awe at where she had been living her whole life. The massive concrete and plasteel monstrosity stretched on for miles, but was still somehow dwarfed by the wider world around it. They stayed at a filthy motel that night, with bullet holes in the wall and stains everywhere. Chloe hardly got a wink of sleep since the neighbors—likely huffers—were either shouting or stuffitting all night. Motels, hotels, and even the occasional Container were just facts of life at this point. Dad bounced from job to job while mom did her best to keep the kids from running off. Eventually the eddies ran low, and the family found themselves shacking up in an old warehouse with about a dozen other squatters. As the newcomers, they received a lot of flak. If something went missing, the kids stole it; if something broke, the kids did it. It only became true once it was clear the accusations wouldn't end. This was how things were for about a year. Then, one day, mom and dad where just gone. No one in the squat knew what happened to them, and no one really cared. Growing Up After that, things started to happen fast. Nathan fell in with one of the local gangs, which incidentally provided the first real stability the kids had in a long time. They moved out of one abandoned building into another, but this time under the protection of Nathan's new friends. For Chloe, a young pretty girl in the Combat Zone, there were really only a few realistic options available. She knew it would have happened eventually, so she decided to do it on her own terms. The marketing lessons Chloe learned in class turned out to be useful afterall, and once she started to actually enjoy the experience, the scratch rolled in. Amber Arcane ("Because I'm magic, baby!") became a local celebrity. Chloe's ambitition, however, exceeded her present enterprise. As her clientele grew over the years, she attracted more wealthy, more well-connected, individuals. Big players on the Streets! Piggy-backing off her clients, Chloe expanded into the field of information brokering. You see, men have a tendency to talk after busting, and over the years, Chloe had all kinds of scraps of juicy dirt on people. There are those who will pay well to know it, and others who will pay well to keep it buried. Personality: Scraps is a witty, fun-loving girl. The kind who loves to eat greasy food and laugh at stupid jokes. She enjoys the occasional drink or huff, but prefers to remain sober most of the time. Her line of work holds no hours, and she must always be "on" at a moment's notice. Her professionalism is often accompanied with a playfulness that can sometimes seem flirtatious. Appearance: Scraps has a elven beauty, with soft features in a heart-shaped face. She prefers ostentatious colors for her hair, but shifts to natural tones for certain clients. She doesn't sport any tats, body piercings, or overt chrome, with the one exception being her Kiroshi cybereyes. She favors comfortable—yet classy—clothing accented with a stylish flare, and she is almost always seen wearing stiletto heels (likely to make up for her short stature). STORIES FROM THE SPRAWL A couple narratives I put together to address the parts of the Lifepath that didn't make it into the general background above.   "Ambeŕ, dahŕling. Come heŕe and geev me a keese." Lady Nightingale reminded Chloe of a vintage movie star. She looked like Anjelica Huston and spoke like Zsa Zsa Gabor. She could silence you with a look and cut you down with a word. She was old skool, from back when Night City was still in it's prime. Now she was a relic, just trying to stay ahead of the new wave of technoshock. The two greeted each other warmly and Lady N wasted no time engaging in gossip and small talk. Finally, she got around to asking. "Soo... how's this new business of your's doing? Are you ready to give up and come work for me again?" Lady Nightingale ran a fairly upscale dollhouse called Słowik (from which she got her name) in one of the older sections of Night City. The area hadn't see much action during the Fourth Corporate War and so it stayed relatively unchanged during the reformation. A few years ago, one of Lady N's "talent scouts" had found Amber and plucked her out of the Combat Zone before the place could wear her down. It didn't take long for the mistress to warm to the girl, becoming a mother-figure to her. She was like a mother to all her girls, but to Chloe she showed a little extra attention. "Things are going good," Chloe lied. She had actually been having a hard time making the connections she hoped for. Blackmail and information brokering was a dangerous game, and for a virtual nobody like herself, not many wanted to get involved with her. She wanted desperately to shake things up, make things harder for the real scumbags on The Street, but the danger was very real. For her and anyone else. "You're feet are too big for you're shoes," Lady N quipped. She had that look in her eye that said she already knew everything. Of course she did! Her girls where never far from her sight. Especially not her Amber. "You like the dance clubs, yes? They are always looking for new bands to play." She was right, of course. Chloe needed to take things slow; she needed to build up some loyalty at the local level first before going after the big fish. "You need to be patient. Take your time. You know what I mean. You go too fast, and it's over so soon." Though she spoke in innuendo, Lady N's warning was clear. "Wait for the real juicy things, not these..." she waved her hand dismissively, "scraps." The side of Chloe's mouth turned up in amusement. "Scraps... I like that!" Lady Nightingale merely raised an eyebrow. A soft rap sounded at the door and a small mousey girl popped her head in. Lady Nightingale waved her in. She wore a transparent vinyl miniskirt with a neon green thong underneath. Her white tubetop left her middrift exposed, revealing a navel piercing, and she had EMP threading on her arms. She couldn't be older than sixteen. She entered the room somewhat sheepishly at first, but then seemed to regain her confidence as she strolled in. "Now, don't be rude girl. Say hello to Amber." The girl offered a shy greeting, then informed Lady Nightingale that something needed her immediate attention. "Ach! It never ends," the proprietor of Słowik complained. "You, stay here and keep our guest company." The two girls stood in silence for a little while before Chloe asked, " So, how long you been here?" "Almost three months. You're Amber Arcane." It was part question, part statement. "Ohh, yeah," Chloe laughed. "What a stupid name." "I like it." "Well... I was about your age when I came up with it. What's your name?" "Becky." "Is that your real name?" When the girl nodded, "Find a new one. Stalkers. My real name is Chloe... but I'm thinking of changing it to Scraps." "Well that's a stupid name." After a hearty laugh and some playful banter, the two girls chatted for a bit. It turned out they had a lot in common. Aside from a mutual interest in the same bands, Becky grew up in the old Airport Sector, now a notorious Combat Zone, before being picked up by one of Lady N's scouts. It seems the old bird had an affinity for rescuing young girls. After that, the two became fast friends. They'd go out for soykaf or to a rocker show, or just hung out watching sappy romcoms. Becky was like the little sister Chloe never had. Chloe gave her clothes that didn't really fit anymore, and Becky—who now went by E5E (pronounced "Eve")—was the first to start calling her friend "Scraps."   Chloe lay on the bed, partially curled in a fetal position. The left side of her face was buried in a tear-soaked pillow as a video replayed on her cybereye's chyron for the umpteenth time. The vantage is from high above the ground, overlooking the ocean. A sliver of sun peaks over the Pacific horizon, scattering brilliant shades of red striae across the sky. The faint sound of merriment and music drifts up from somewhere below. The view pans to the right, and Night City could be seen glittering and sparkling across San Morro Bay. The panning continues, bringing a man's profile into frame. He has a long, thin nose that oddly fits with his delicate handsomeness. Strands of dark brown, almost black, hair sweep over his brow past his eyes... clear, sparkling eyes... blue, but for the vermillian haze of the setting sun reflected in them. Thin lips with a slight overbite part slightly as he wets them with the tip of his tongue. He turns suddenly, and looks directly into the camera. Abruptly, the vantage shifts to high above the ground, overlooking the ocean and a red sliver of sun on the horizon. It pans the right... Chloe inhaled a slow deep breath. The pillow she cried into belonged to her mainline, and the smell of him lingered on it. Another shuttering sob shook her body, and a whispered plea escaped her lungs. "Oh, David..." Chloe was introduced to David by his street handle, Banks, at a Night Market a little over a year ago. She had kept things professional at the time, but couldn't get him out of her mind afterward. He was slender, not very tall, but his eyes would penetrate right into your soul when he looked at you. And his smile made your knees so weak, you'd think you'd collapse and melt into the asphalt. At least that's how it felt for Chloe. Being a joytoy in her youth meant she shared many intimate moments with others, and she even thought she'd been in love a couple times, but this was... Wow! The next Night Market couldn't come soon enough. When it did, Chloe showed up a little fancier than usual, digging out that Anne Calvin blouse she loved but always thought was too bourgie for The Streets. Although she had never found it difficult to talk to men before, she was horribly awkward around David that night. She either spoke too much or too little, and she just knew she was blowing it big time. It came as such a shock when he asked her if she wanted to go out sometime, she practically shouted her response. For their first date he took her to Playland By The Sea, and the ferris wheel ride was one of the most joyous moments of her life... when they had their first kiss under the sunset. Ten months later David killed himself. He had gotten in deep with some powerful criminal elements and couldn't make good on his promises. Things snowballed and word came down the wire that his life was forfeit. Chloe tried to be as supportive as possible, suggesting even that they leave Night City. "I hear Florida is nice," she chimed, but David remain placid, withdrawn. That night he ate lead. His body was found in the Hot Zone, picked clean by scavvers. The door buzzed as someone carded in and a man's voice shouted. "Clo? Clo, you here?" Chloe brushed at her cheeks with the back of her hand and sat up. Moments later a short, well-muscled man pushed open the bedroom door. He was built like a fire hydrant. "Nate, I gave you that card for emergencies only." Chloe managed to keep the grief from her voice. She and her brother had remained in touch over the years, but he had become increasingly unrelateable, partially due to his rampant addictions. She didn't want to have to explain anything to him now. "This is an emergency. What are you doing?" Nathan's eyes drifted over his sister's bare legs, lingered upon her chest, almost as if he was trying to see through her tank top. She shivered under the scrutiny, hugged her arms. "Wh... what do you want?" "I need a favor." "You mean you need money." "How much do you have?" Nathan spun toward a dresser, began rummaging through the items on top. Chloe could see the jittery hand movements, the lack of fine motor coordination. He was high right now—likely on dorph, maybe synthcoke—and from the looks of it he was coming down. "Nate... this isn't a good time. If you need scratch, pull a job. I hear Nine Ball is looking for someon—" "I don't have TIME to pull a job!" His fist pounded the top of the dresser. Chloe remained quiet and calm. She had never needed to be afraid of her brother, and she wasn't afraid now. As she knew he would, he apologized. "Sorry. Look, I can make it up to you. What do you want?" She shook her head. Nate took a step closer to the edge of the bed. His tone picked up in pitch and speed. "I can make it up you. I really can! I can... I can..." He launched himself onto the bed, pawing at his sister. "Yeah! I can give you this. Is this what you want?" "WHAT THE F—!!! Get the frack off of me!" Chloe struggled as she continued her protests, but even without his grafted muscle implants she was no match for her brother's strength. She sent the mental command that would activate the monofiliment edge on her scratchers and swiped. Once. Twice. Nathan reared backward, stumbling off the bed. His shirt was torn, already dark with wetness, and a welling of blood from the left side of his chin up across the bridge of his nose ran rivulets down his face. "GO! Get out of here! NOW!!" Chloe reached toward her bedside table, picked up her pistol chambered in .45 ACP. Nathan grasped at his cheek, wincing as he smeared crimson across his face. "Why? You've given it to half of Night City, why not me?" "Why not—!! Are you frackin' insane?! Get help, Nathan! No, seriously!" She pointed to the tear across his face. "That needs stitches, and you! You need..." She couldn't bring the thought to words. Had he finally gone over the edge? Will he end up in one of those psycho wards, where they scoop out your brain with a spoon and make you sit in a circle reading children's books? Or will he get gunned down by C-SWAT after trying to eat someone's face? Before she could say anything else, Nate grabbed a jewelry box off the dresser and stormed out the room. The apartment's entry door slammed open, then hissed softly as it shut itself. Chloe didn't stop shaking until she cried herself to sleep.

[Palliven]

Cyberpunk Red Application Character Name: Kriz Stacker Handle: Zek Role: Media Appearance: A dark-skinned man in his late twenties his hair is styled in grouped together short twists on top with a fade below. A ruggedly handsome face is augmented by a cyber implant around his right eye socket and as one looks lower a series of slots and jack ports along the left edge of his neck are seen. Standing just under six feet tall and lean of build, he wears a trench coat of fine red leather (based on the original that was too worn and ragged for use in the city) over tight grey shirt and black leggings of the latest style. His coat is lined with fiber optic threads that allow him to light points along its length that make a great visual effect on the dance floor. More importantly, he can use them to have headlines – his own being the most common he chooses to share – run across the coat from left to right shoulder.   Funny how things tend to remind you of what you want to forget. Zek hadn’t expected to be brought back to his childhood – a very unhappy one to say the least – while following a lead. He hadn’t broken a story in weeks though, losing one of his best sources to the rusty blades and weak lasers of a ripperdoc had set him back some. So here he was, standing in an alley across the street from some dirty noodle shop waiting for a low-level Corp flunky to stop in to get his low-rent fix of glitter before heading home. Zek needed an angle and being able to put the weight on a Dynalar corporate drone could get him an inside tract that could lead to a story - if he was lucky. He knew the truth of it though. Luck was a two headed hound that always took its pound of flesh sooner or later. Let the rubes take what they got blindly. The smart man did what he could to make his own luck, taking charge to feed both maws to keep it from tearing out its chunk of flesh. He'd always been called clever and resourceful as a kid, and he guessed those traits were as good as any to survive growing up in the wastes. Outside the cities and fortified towns life was one constant search for what you needed in hopes of making it for one more day. Back then Kriz would have preferred 'tough' or 'strong' be added to that list of descriptors, but he had always been more wiry than muscular so wasn't mad at anyone for leaving those off. 'Half as resourceful as need be, twice as clever as should be' was the mantra his father laid down every time he came back light from a scavenge run or with someone looking to take out of his hide what he stole or swindled from their haul. Yeah well, if I'd been a little less clever, and a lot less wanting, I'd be flatlined along with the rest of you. It was that day on which he learned the cold truth about luck. After a lengthy berating about the worthless slag he was bringing back and how it was his fault they had been kicked out of the commune for not contributing he had left the rusted out, falling apart building they had holed up in. A place he had not been in a hurry to get back to. One more day searching became one more day to scavenge another wreck and before long the days have become weeks. By the time he decided to head back he had little to show for all that time. He could tell himself it had all been picked over already but he knew it was more than that. He was tired of this life. Tired of getting by on food that rats thought twice about stealing from you. Tired of scraping enough bits and scraps to trade for a pair of dirty, hole ridden socks so you wouldn’t get blisters as you sought bits of old tech that maybe, just maybe, could get you something good but more-often-than-not would just hold off a beating or worse from some raging Nomads that saw you as nothing more than cheap labor. He wanted more. He was better than the scum that roamed the wastes satisfied with the scraps the world had littered about for them. Not him. He deserved more. Food you actually [b]wanted[b] to taste. Clothes that weren’t riddled with lice that made you itch but that showed the world you mattered. Being able to buy what he wanted when he wanted. What it came down to was that he was tired of who he was and wanted to be someone else. The patch of red amid the browns and greens of the hillside near his family’s hideout that caught his eye. Thinking it was too obvious to be a trap but not willing to take the chance he made his way slowly through the knee-high wild grass. What he found was a dead body draped in a dark red leather trench coat. Dead bodies where nothing new so with barely a pause for empathy at the man's fate he went to work. The coat looked expensive, so his hopes were high he would find things of value. All he found in the folds of the coat was disappointment. The implants – one over the man’s right eye and one in the palm of his left hand – looked valuable but he didn’t have the slightest idea how to remove them properly and the thought of butchering the man to take them for scrap was not too appealing. So that left the trench coat (as nice as it was) and a micro card set in a slot implanted into the man’s neck. There could be information worth something on that, but he’d have to go back to use his Aunt Mattie’s portable reader. A piece of old tech but it was all that he could think of. Pulling the card out, the first thing he noticed was the word ZEK on its tiny grey carbonite sleeve. Not a word neatly engraved by the laser pen of a production robot but written by hand with a black marker. The rest of that day wasn’t something he could recall too clearly, the details after he found his family dead being rather hazy. He remembers the radiation burns evident on their skin. He remembered staring into the dead eyes of Aunt Mattie ’s gear and panicking, not at the state of her soul but at the realization he didn’t know where she kept the reader. He must have found it though because his next memory was scanning through the files and images on the cypher key. The man was a reporter, not someone he had recognized from the occasional broadcast they received this far out of the city, so not an on-camera personality but an investigative reported most likely. Seemed a stupid choice to make to him. Why would you want to do all the work without getting the fame and recognition? Whatever his reasons, it looked like he was good at his job. There were no less than five stories he was working on, one of them being of great interest to him. A corporation carting the waste, nuclear and otherwise, from their manufacturing plants to dump outside the city. Cheaper than storing and disposing the right way. Luck had started a new game with him, bringing him this cypher key and the chance to create his new life. The cost to play its game though was high but something he was willing to pay. Losing his family had been hard but leaving their memories behind had been surprisingly easy. In addition to the cypher key containing five breaking stories, he claimed the red leather trench coat and the new name of Zek. He had no idea what it meant or why someone would write it on a cypher key but it sounded good. With his first step into Night City his old life was forgotten, and he became Zek. Now years later, he stood in an alley taking pictures of a corporate shill with his camera implant to store on his own data card slotted neatly in one of three ports on the side of his neck. It wasn’t the life he had imagined but it was better than the life he had been handed so he wasn’t complaining. Still, it would be nice to get back on track to the rise of fame he rode when he first broke those stories. He had two more he was holding onto, not because of some grand strategy but because he didn’t have enough information to break them and truth be told, he wasn’t as good as an investigator as his long dead benefactor. So for now, he did the grunt work and planned his return to the vid camera’s that waited him. It wouldn’t be long before Zek was trending again.   To the world at large Zek is an outgoing, witty man who lives a fast-paced life and talks just as fast at times, particularly when trading information in service of a story. He holds little in confidence and excels at putting a spin on things to make them larger and more interesting. He does enjoy being the center of attention and is comfortable with the hangers-on and sycophants following the party that go along with making that happen. He’s a man with many acquaintances, more than a few sources and less than a few friends. Zek is a man living a lie. It’s one he has finely crafted and believes himself but a lie nonetheless. Living in the moment and never remembering who he was and where he came from takes a lot of his effort, but it is a cost he willingly plays. Finer clothes, better implants, nicer apartments, better stimulants are the rewards he gets for his effort. Above all of these is the promise of fame. With his family dead and his before life meaningless to anyone he is confident that his secret is safe, even when in front of the cameras. The shame of his past is something he could deal with should it ever come out that is a fraud – and not being the star reporter that the world thinks he is – that would be hard to overcome. He won’t admit to himself he is not as good as his dead benefactor but knows it deep in his heart. When facing this reality, he gets angry and irrational. He has begun to obsess over implants and is worried he may becoming addicted to upgrading and obtaining new ones.   I used some of these more than others but could always flesh things out more as move forward if that helps. Cultural Origins – Middle East/North African Personality – Friendly and outgoing Dress and Personal Colors – Nomad leather dress, short and spiked hair Motivations & Relationships – Value Most = Power. Feel about most people = People are tools. Use them for your own goals then discard them. Original Family Background – Nomad pack. Environment – In a deserted town taken over by Reclaimers Family Crisis – Your family was killed, and you were the only survivor. Friends – One, someone know from the Street Enemies –Estranged Relative, Boosterganger Tragic Love Affair – A personal goal or vendetta came between you and your lover Life Goals – Live down your past and try to forget it.

[Effete]

Does anyone else feel that the cyberware in CPRed is completely borked?

The HL costs seem way too high. What am I missing here?
I think I actually prefer the low cost bloat of CP2020. At least it felt like it put the "cyber" in cyberpunk. The punitive HL costs in Red just makes me want to go full meat-mode.

[Marshmallow]

Feels fine to me.

[Effete]

Originally Posted by Marshmallow

Feels fine to me.

Curious as to why though.

Just to put some coxtext to it, a single cybereye fully loaded with options is going to be over 10 HL, dropping the Empathy stat by 1. Considering that many options require two cyberoptics to function, AND double the HL cost, you're looking at around 20 HL just for a pair of eyes. Adding a cyberaudio suite for hands-free radio, a neural processor with chipsocket, and a cyberarm will push you over 40 HL. Considering that the average statistic is between 4-6, just this "basic" setup is teetering the runner on the edge of cyberpsychosis. And further considering that drugs or even just horrifying sights can take off a chunk of Humanity, and it seems like the game is actively pushing you away from investing in cyberware.

Seriously, what am I missing here?

[Marshmallow]

Originally Posted by Effete

Curious as to why though.

Just to put some coxtext to it, a single cybereye fully loaded with options is going to be over 10 HL, dropping the Empathy stat by 1. Considering that many options require two cyberoptics to function, AND double the HL cost, you're looking at around 20 HL just for a pair of eyes. Adding a cyberaudio suite for hands-free radio, a neural processor with chipsocket, and a cyberarm will push you over 40 HL. Considering that the average statistic is between 4-6, just this "basic" setup is teetering the runner on the edge of cyberpsychosis. And further considering that drugs or even just horrifying sights can take off a chunk of Humanity, and it seems like the game is actively pushing you away from investing in cyberware.

Seriously, what am I missing here?

It's almost like some sort of... Commentary.

Edit: I think it's also worth noting that you're looking at this from purely a mechanical standpoint rather than a narrative one. Nobody is forcing you to take that particular setup, the system is flexible enough for you to do a fairly large number of different things with it. You don't need all that gear. You don't need to take any of this gear to survive. You want this gear, you want it just like someone might want a cigarette. They know it's bad for their health, they've seen the ungodly amount of PSAs and all the health warnings, and maybe they've even known someone to die due to the side effects of frequent smoking. That doesn't change the fact that they want it or that they're an addict.

Power is an addictive thing, cyberware equates to power, you're all fine and good until you notice someone with more cyberware or you encounter a situation where you lost someone or you barely made it out alive. That extra bit of cyberware? Sure, it's dangerous. Sure, it could push you over the edge into Cyberpyschosis... But if it doesn't? Well, what's so wrong with another bit of 'ware? Or upgrading what you have even more? Why stop at two cybereyes, get an Optic Mount and have eight: You've got enough for just about every piece of optic 'ware there is, including two eye-mounted dart launchers. You don't need it, but it sure would have helped two weeks ago when someone pulled a piece out and shot your teammate in the face, right?

[Effete]

Originally Posted by Marshmallow

It's almost like some sort of... Commentary.

Edit: I think it's also worth noting that you're looking at this from purely a mechanical standpoint rather than a narrative one. Nobody is forcing you to take that particular setup, the system is flexible enough for you to do a fairly large number of different things with it. You don't need all that gear. You don't need to take any of this gear to survive. You want this gear, you want it just like someone might want a cigarette.

This has nothing to do with any "commentary" on the dangers of cyberware or drugs. It's about bad design. The mechanics are actively disrupting the narrative. The game pushes players away from cyberware and toward more mundane equipment, killing any conceptual ideas the player may have had. There's no functional difference between an implanted radio and a wearable headset except that the implant might be less likely to get lost, stolen, or broken. That's a fairly specific and uncommon element of play that simply does not justify the implant's high HL cost.

Unlike in previous versions of the Cyberpunk rules, you can't just buy a radio implant as a stand-alone piece of gear; you need to buy the "foundational" cyberaudio suite first, which has absolutely no function other than to allow other pieces of tech to work. So you are paying a high Humanity cost (2d6) solely for the privilege of adding options, which have their OWN Humanity Loss on top of that. It's almost insulting in how poorly conceived the mechanic actually is.

So you're right: I want certain types of gear to fit my concept, but you're wrong about your statement that the game is flexible because it pushes me away from taking it.

[Marshmallow]

Originally Posted by Effete

So you're right: I want certain types of gear to fit my concept, but you're wrong about your statement that the game is flexible because it pushes me away from taking it.

I just think you're wrong and salty that this isn't a 2020 game, tbh.

[Effete]

Originally Posted by Marshmallow

I just think you're wrong and salty that this isn't a 2020 game, tbh.

Stop pretending you can read my mind.
Red has many improvements over 2020. The changes to cyberware just isn't one of them.

[Drifter One]

The way I see it, and personally think it is better than 2020, is that getting chromed up is a gamble. As Marshmallow alluded to, you can have it, but it comes at a cost. Why wouldn't it? if it didn't then we would all just slam on 'ware after 'ware until we become that invincible killing/hacking machine, which just makes any game become shite.