Players Invade Cyberpunk-Chapter 774 - 249: Law? We Don’t Care About the Law

"You guys surely dare to use those."

The resident who followed into Dog Town marveled at the Wildman, socialite, and several players lying on the operating table who had used illegal or oversized cybernetic implants.

The Wildman wasn't too bad—just had high blood pressure from the engine causing several cybernetic circulation pipelines throughout his body to burst, a bit of maintenance and it would be fine.

But the shards of Masked Rider's thigh prosthesis were embedded in the pelvis, and the socialite's brain nerves were eroded, leading to facial nerve paralysis—she was just a step away from dementia.

"That's the cost of those numbers."

Masked Rider waved dismissively.

"Wasn't there always that super mode in novels and anime where you burn your life for power? What's so hard to understand?"

"If I backed down in the face of fate, why would I be called Masked Rider?"

When the cost of becoming a hero and doing good deeds is lowered to something everyone can bear, self-sacrifice is no longer out of reach.

Not to mention the opponent is just a Cleaner; even dying means bragging on the forum three days later.

"This time you're in luck; the Cleaner's base lacks everything except prosthetic parts and artificial blood, with all models available. They'll probably be ready in a few hours."

The resident was still not accustomed to behaviors that didn't treat one's life as life. He was a doctor, and although still a resident, he hoped, if possible, no one would die.

He picked up the scalpel to give these guys a tough go, muttering complaints as he went.

"The drug shortage is just too big. I didn't bring meds into Dog Town, but whatever, you guys are the same whether or not you use drugs, as you all turn off your pain receptors."

Masked Rider, resting his head, watched the surgeon use a scalpel to slice open the skin at the pelvis, searching for shattered parts among slightly misshapen steel components, asking curiously.

"I remember we just snagged a batch from the Tiger Claw Gang last time. Are the drugs still insufficient?"

"... Sigh... They've long been used up."

Chatting idly between surgeon and patient on the operating table might be rare worldwide.

The resident, engrossed in surgery, spoke somewhat emotionally.

"Drugs will never be sufficient."

"In this game's medical system, drugs are among the priciest. Pharmaceutical companies never intended to cure illnesses, let alone provide medicine for the poor."

"They'd rather you have several diseases—like fatty liver, gastric perforation, lung cancer—more so they can have you take out loans to pay for prosthetics. The most abundant and widespread drugs on the market are immunosuppressants and painkillers..."

Before people are full, they have only the worry of hunger.

Once they're full, countless worries arise.

The resident freed himself from the medical department's internal strain in the game, but the situation hadn't improved; pressure had even increased.

The deeper he immersed his emotions in this game, the more despair he felt for the world's needy.

The oppression and exploitation of people in this world are evident in all aspects. Players might punch out Cleaners, intimidate the Tiger Claw Gang, even have Huang Ban momentarily withdraw.

But fists and firearms can't cure poverty.

Fists can't eliminate the world's myriad ailments.

"ERO's pharmacies are nearly empty; previous free clinics depleted stock. Later, we've been covering the costs, but... it's nowhere near enough..."

The resident frequently conducting free clinics interacted with too many of Night City's underprivileged; each carried at least two or three diseases, gradually worsening, triggering more complications over time.

Ultimately, outcomes were either dying under the torment of disease or replacing original organs with prosthetics.

But even the cheapest prosthetics would be unaffordable for some, a reflection of capital market dynamics—without scarcity, there's no way to inflate prices, thus stripping value, like air.

Moreover, even replacing with prosthetics, how long would they last? Five years? Ten? Impossible for it to be better or longer-lasting than the original; machines don't metabolize or renew themselves, not to mention the array of complications prosthetics bring. As a doctor, the resident genuinely advised against normal people abandoning their original bodies for implants.

Excluding players—they weren't human.

In this situation, aside from painkillers, medications were astronomically priced, even more terrifyingly so than local pharmaceutical protective laws causing exorbitant costs.

Plus, there was no traditional healthcare company around; with Night City's employment rate at 10%, sustaining a sufficiently large insurance company wasn't feasible. Certainly, even if it existed, those seeking the resident for treatment couldn't afford it, ultimately dying amidst their ailments.

In this situation, the most painful wasn't illness itself, but realizing one's body, which could have held out longer, was gravely ill only after seeking the resident's help. With no money or medication, the person's spirit and body rapidly deteriorated in a short time.

The resident's benevolent actions inadvertently accelerated those people's demise.

Other players knew the medical department was lucrative, but few were aware of what the residents did with the money.

Other than essential medical prosthetics, they installed nothing for themselves. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

"..."

Masked Rider saw the resident holding the scalpel with trembling hands, his head lowered, masked, most of his face covered, even an eye technically altered, void of expression.