Polyphony | Glowfic Constellation

Nov 23, 2025 2:09 PM

Isekai into Cyberpunk 2077, but without any setting knowledge.

Sam loved Shadowrun, it was his favourite TTRPG setting. He loved the future dystopia full of cool cyberware and corporate intrigue. He loved the critique of late stage capitalism it was. He loved the slightly grimdark vibes the setting had but how individual Shadowrunners stories still had hopeful moments. He even loved how the fantasy elements really weren't actually that important, that despite there being elves and orks and dragons around, the real threat was still greedy corporations and the people ‘just following orders’. He loved the anarchist themes to many characters. He loved that his name coincidentally was in the shadowrun videogames!

Sam had just finished a 4 hour online tabletop roleplay session, his street samurai had just uncovered an Aztechnology plot to agitate and summon more insect spirits in Chicago to throw off a product reveal by Ares. He goes to bed excited by how the plotline is progressing, and how his character might be able to save the city. He gets himself comfy and drifts asleep….

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Night City

mercy-upon-ourselves

Vega

And then he’s standing in the night on a foreign street, the air thick with the scent of city grime and a faint chemical rot.

The night isn’t dark, Night City never really is, its shadows drowned beneath a constant wash of pink-blue neon. And he isn’t alone; there are always people out, no matter the hour. But in this moment their eyes are turned inward, lost in their own noise. And so, like this, only one person in the whole world notices when Sam flickers into being, as if pulled straight from thin air.

Gerald Winkler, Garry the Prophet, meets with wide eyes the miracle that is Sam Watts.

Sam Watts

Flareonflare

“Bwuh?” Sam was in bed, and now he is not. His eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the light. He’s in an alley? What? How? What? He’s in a trash filled alley lit up by neon, and a guy in a trashbag tunic is in front of him. What?

What the actual fuck? He didn’t even fall asleep! This is not a dream. His continuity of consciousness is unbroken, one moment in bed, the next in this alley! “What the fuck?” He mutters to himself aloud this time.

Night City

mercy-upon-ourselves

Vega

Well, specifically, he’s standing in front of a narrow nook in a trash bag filled alleyway. And in that nook there’s a man in a garbage bag tunic, a bare stained mattress shoved against a wall, and a vending machine of some foreign make, an orange, industrial-looking thing crusted over with a layer of filth.

Garry The Prophet

it’s-alien-werewolves

Vega

There are no safe places left in this world, nowhere that one can truly hide from the watchers. People carve away their own flesh, they pare down their souls to fill themselves up with the machinations of petty corporate gods. Their eyes, their hands, replaced with cold metal. They call it improvement, not seeing that they bind themselves with puppet strings. That they turn themselves into twisted idols that their new masters may gaze through.

There is always a watcher. Always. If not the corporates, then the alien tyrants who peer down at us from their elsewhere thrones, feasting on our joy and our tears. Those twisted, elongated things that make show mockery of us, those things that’ve hollowed themselves out so completely that they may only salve their suffering by gorging upon the regurgitated remnants of another’s life.

Garry The Prophet, the man in the garbage bag, stares. And then he speaks the words that feel appropriate. "Welcome to Night City."

Total: 4

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