Ripperdoc

What? It's, um...

It does, you know, there is some gore in this game, which is all well and good, but I'm glad you don't see a third-person perspective of any of your Ripperdoc stuff.

No.

Gross, gross.

Corporate enclaves sealed behind biometric glass.

Ripperdoc clinics glowing blue-white in alleys too narrow for two people to pass without touching.

The smell of ozone and synth protein and something metallic that you learn, after a while, not to identify too closely.

Citizens move through it all with bodies laced in cyberware, boosters beneath the skin, dermal plating along the forearms, optical implants that catch the neon and scatter it like prisms.

The mega-buildings were fully established now.

The Watson district's layered residential towers, the Westbrook corporate enclaves, the city center's assertion of glass and steel dominance, the Haywood neighborhoods where the Valentinos maintained their particular kind of order, the developing Pacifica region that promised resort luxury and would deliver, eventually, abandonment and Barghest territory.

The Ripperdoc economy was thriving.

The proliferation of cyberware options, the expanding catalog of modifications available to anyone with sufficient eddies and sufficient tolerance for the specific quality of risk that Ripperdoc surgery entailed, had produced a culture of augmentation that had moved from edgerunner subculture to something approaching mainstream aspiration.