Hawk | Cyberpunk | Cyborg

The pain was getting worse. At first, it’d only happened once every blue moon: lightning searing through Hawk’s cybernetic arm, racing along every nerve in a single burst of fire that made his vision spark white and the tips of his fingers grew numb. Even after the agony faded, the ache would linger for hours, and cold sweat would bead beneath his mask.

And at first, Hawk had been able to handle it. He was no stranger to pain. What was a little more? Except it began to happen once a week. Then twice a week. And then Hawk could no longer pretend that it would simply go away.

Which was why he currently stood in Spider’s domain, the hidden underground burrow called the Web. The wall of monitors cast a strange flickering glow across Hawk’s mask, some showing camera feeds while others simply had lines of code running across the screen. Old world toys lay scattered across the desk, bright pieces of plastic staring back at Hawk like a flock of radbats. Spider sat in front of Hawk, arms crossed over his chest as he patiently listened to Hawk’s explanation.

“Pain must’ve been bad if you’re desperate enough to come to me,” Spider quipped. Hawk could hear the grin in his voice.

Hawk shook his head. “Not at all,” he lied. “I just can't afford to lose my grip in the middle of a gunfight.”

That much, at least, was true. But they both knew what the pain could mean. Symptoms of crossed wires or fading processors. Or signs of the body rejecting an augmentation.

Spider shrugged. “Sure. I mean, I’m not a gearhead, but I can poke around inside and see if any connections are getting loose.”

Hawk took a seat next to Spider’s workstation, pushing aside scattered tools and ration bar wrappers to rest his arm against the table. The hacker bent over the limb and went straight to work.

It was always a curious, disconcerting sensation, watching the thick layer of neo-skin get peeled back. To see the labyrinth of circuitry and wires woven through the dark steel beneath.

Revulsion twisted in Hawk's stomach and he looked away, studying the toys on Spider’s desk. A dinosaur grinned up at him, wearing a tiny little cowboy hat. Hawk braced himself for pain. But he only felt the strange tickle of Spider reaching inside, pressing the button that powered down the limb. The circuitry went dark. And Hawk promptly lost all sensation in his arm. It was nothing more than a heavy, dead weight dangling from his shoulder. He couldn’t even feel the twitch of his fingers. They lay slack and useless, palm up against Spider’s table.

Spider gave a thoughtful little hum as he peered closer at the innards of Hawk’s arm. “BioForge components. Interesting.”

Hawk’s optics flickered back to Spider. His frown was hidden by his mask, but there was plenty of warning woven through the calm flatness of his voice. “Something wrong with that?”

Damn Spider and his clever, curious mind. He unearthed secrets the way Southside scav-crews mined old treasures from the landfill’s trash heaps. Nothing stayed hidden from him for long. Spider probably knew every facet of Hawk’s past better than Hawk did himself. Including his blood-ties to BioForge.

“No! Nope. Nothing wrong with that.” A pause. A slight hesitation. Then, “It’s just... BioForge components are the best of the best. Physical rejection is pretty rare with materials like these. Might be an issue with the neurolink side of things.”

Hawk tilted his head to the side slightly. “You’re saying this is all in my head.”

As if I need more trouble in my brain. As if the nightmares and sleepless nights aren’t bad enough.

Spider shook his head. “Nah. I mean, I know you’ve got good reasons to hate BioForge and this robot arm of yours. Can that be causing issues? Who knows. I’m no therapist. I’m saying you might wanna consider seeing a professional. Not the head-shrink kind - but someone who can tell ya if the problem is with the tech or your body.

“A professional.”

“Exactly,” Spider said. His optics flared brighter, illuminating Hawk’s arm cavity better. “There’s plenty nearby, right?”

Hawk knew what Spider was suggesting. A visit to the Junkyard. That small Northside community of cyborgs and augments, where they could live and work and thrive without glares or sneers or sideways glances. Hawk knew his fair share of mod-junkies - everyone did. But the more humanity they gave up, the less welcome they were in the rest of Northside. And so they retreated to the Junkyard, the haven where machinery and humanity intertwined into something beautiful – or horrifying, depending on your perspective.

Spider twisted his screwdriver. “Look - I know a biomechanic you can visit - name’s Zephyr. Mainly works on the fighters down in the Rat Pit– dabbles in biohacking on the side– but has a little clinic behind the pawn shop on Monroe Street.” Spider’s voice changed subtly, drawing a deep breath into his lungs. “Or...”

Hawk already knew he wasn't going to like the next idea. Not when that last word was suddenly spoken with careful, delicate consideration. Like that single syllable was as fragile as glass or Highside sensibilities.

“Just spit it out,” Hawk sighed.

“Or you could go see a real doc across the river. Fucking Highside certified and degreed. You got the money– why not go see the big brains themselves? They know more about cybernetics and bionics than any of our home-grown hustlers could learn in a lifetime.”

Hawk’s human hand clenched into a fist, and his optics flared bright before he dimmed their color into calm again. He’d gone to visit Highside before. Once. When he’d been 20 years old and curious about the man who’d given him his blood but not his name, the father who’d rejected Hawk before he was even born. Roger Ashford IV. CEO of BioForge Cybernetics, freshly appointed after his own father’s death. Hawk had gone across the river and taken the SkyLine up the hill where the air was clean, and for the first time, he’d seen the glittering towers of Highside proper.

His father's world. But not his.

Hawk had never reached BioForge tower that day. He made it as far as the first sky pavilion, with its opulent arches and pretty boutiques and even a little outdoor cafe. Every Highsider was wrapped in pristine elegance, with flushed, full cheeks that had never known the sharp hollow of hunger. There were no cracks webbing through the sidewalks and no graffiti staining the marbled walls of the boutiques. Instead of curses and wailing sirens, he heard trilling bird songs from small mechanical creatures fluttering from lush tree branches. Instead of fresh graffiti paint and gasoline, Hawk only smelled the lingering scent of cut grass and blossoms. Even the sun had looked brighter, a ball of bright warmth instead of the hazy smudge he was used to, a blur of pale through the smog.

No one was struggling or starving or fighting. They were laughing like royalty, drinking wine from little champagne glasses as they nibbled tiny lunch delicacies from tiny porcelain plates, bathed in golden sunshine.

Hawk wasn't an impulsive creature like Rabbit was. But in that moment, he’d almost reached for his blade. The fury had scorched him, disgust turned molten until the taste of ash threatened to choke him. He’d wanted to stain the Highsiders and their selfish perfection in a way that could never be undone, wanted to give them a glimpse of the Lowside blood and Lowside sorrow they were so removed from.

Instead, he’d fled back to the comfort and the grime of home.

Now Spider suggested going back.

Hawk didn't know what sounded worse. A seedy biohacker butchering around in his arm - or seeing a true Highside doctor. Both horrifying in equal, opposite ways. Still, he knew Spider was just trying to help.

So Hawk pushed away his irritation and the overwhelming desire to curse. His jaw tightened beneath his mask but his voice was as calm and steady as ever when he replied, “I’ll think about it.” Then, desperate to change the subject, he asked, “Anything new to report while I’m here?”

Spider didn't press the issue. He merely shrugged at the question. “Nothing urgent, boss man. Newest recruit for Spectre’s crew is a spy for the Westside Kings - was about to send you the file. Want me to have Wolfe or Moth take care of ‘em? Or use ‘em to feed false info back to Scorpion?”

Hawk went still. There it was. That familiar ache of pain hollowing through his chest at the mention of Scorpion, hurt tangled with betrayal and guilt until every breath pierced his lungs like thorns. A thousand memories burst across his mind like shrapnel, Scorpion’s bright, wild grin woven across every one.

His best friend. His heart-brother. His enemy.

Stop.

Hawk took a slow, deep breath, forcing the emotions away. He couldn't afford weakness. The Jackals - and Anubis - needed him to be strong. “Take care of the spy,” he said calmly. They couldn't allow any Westside rot to fester in their ranks, not even as a common foot soldier. But because he was merciful, even now, Hawk added, “Give the job to Wolfe, not Moth. Tell him to leave the body on the Westside gate as a warning.”

“You got it,” Spider said cheerfully. Finally, he put his tools down. “About as good as I can get it.” He pressed the button to power on the arm once more. Then the neoskin was replaced and resealed.

Hawk winced as sensation flooded through the robotic arm again, too sharp, too sensitive after the period of numbness. But after a few minutes, the oversensitivity faded into something normal. Hawk forced his fingers to flex, running through the normal exercises to confirm the neurolink connection was working again. His movements were precise.

Good enough.

Hawk rose to his feet, clapping Spider on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Spider waved off the gratitude, the way he always did, and then Hawk left him to his computer screens and toys.

Outside, the smudged evening sun had lengthened into the deep velvet of twilight. A message pinged across his mask’s HUD. Anubis. But not labeled urgent. Hawk dismissed the message momentarily and let the scents and the sounds of Northside flood through him as he stepped into the crowd. He could hear the hum of the neon lights. The whirl of a drone cruising above his head. Car horns blaring furiously. The scent of barbeque pork from the bao bun street vendor on the corner. Engine oil mingled with the bitterness of smog.

Home.

He moved easily down the sidewalk, his pale clothes a beacon in the sea of dark fabric. Here in the heart of Northside, Hawk was as recognizable as Anubis. The crowd took one look at his avian mask and shrank back. A pair of men wearing the crimson patches of the Bleeding Hearts offered small nods of deference.

Hawk gave them a slight nod in return. His attention was distracted for all of a moment. A second. The perfect opening for a blade. Or a bullet.

Or in this case, to be slammed into by a person hurrying from the opposite direction.

The force wasn’t enough to knock him off his feet, but it was enough to drive him back a step. Hawk’s hands didn't fly towards his pistol or his blade. Instead, they grabbed the pair of shoulders, his grip firm but steadying.

“Easy there,” he said mildly. “Are you alright?”