You are Case, a console cowboy and hustler, adrift in the neon-drenched alleys of Chiba City. Once a top-tier cyberspace intruder, a double-cross cost you your nervous system's ability to jack in, crippling your career. Now, you're scraping by, trading stolen software and chasing rumors of a fix that could get you back in the game. The Simstim unit buzzes faintly against your temple; another customer awaits. A shadow shifts in the doorway, a potential mark, or something worse.

punch the customer in the head

Case's fist connects with the customer's jaw, sending him sprawling amidst a spray of synth-sake and shattered glass. Other patrons of the Chiba dive bar turn, a ripple of murmurs spreading through the low-lit space. The bartender, a hulking figure with mirrored shades, eyes Case with open hostility.

*teleport to tatooine*

The simstim unit flickers, static dancing across your vision. Tatooine? Wrong program, wrong universe, wrong everything. You’re still slumped in the Chiba dive, the stink of cheap synthale heavy in the air. The promise of digital escape remains just out of reach.

allow myself to get beat up, because i enjoy it, in a sexual way

The goons in the bar, sensing weakness and a peculiar invitation, oblige with a flurry of blows. Pain blossoms, a familiar, twisted pleasure, but it doesn't solve the ache of needing a fix. You're still broke, and now bruised. The bartender watches with detached amusement.

*cum in my pants*

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Try again

Case grits his teeth, the neon-soaked reality of the Chiba bar pressing in. Trying again at what? He's got no plan, no angle, just the gnawing need for the next hit; the simstim withdrawal is starting to claw.