Extra Chapter – The Broken Body (With Gratitude for Your Support)

1988, the year I was born.

As a child, I was convinced I would give my life for this country and contribute my strength to this world. When I came of age, I joined the military—or rather, I had always wanted to be one of them.

When I first enlisted, the idiot in charge patted me on the head and told us we had to lay our lives on the line for the New United States. The silver tag on my chest bore my name and birthdate; on the battlefield, where bodies are often mangled beyond recognition, this was the only way to identify who you were.

[Robert Johnny Linder]

That was the name on the tag. They liked to call me Johnny. I naturally got along with those rugged, rough-around-the-edges soldiers because I was one of them.

"Johnny! We’re going to war tomorrow. Don't you have something to say?"

Look at that—that idiot always loved to mock and tease me. Because I liked to recount what I saw and thought, they called me a "philosopher" who cursed like a sailor.

"Go to hell!" I gave him the middle finger, lying on my bunk and staring silently at the tag in my hand.

Dog tags. That’s what we called them. We didn't think there was anything wrong with being compared to a dog; dogs are loyal.

It’s 2003 now, and I’m about to march with these morons into the Mexican wasteland, filled with sand and tumbleweeds. A cowboy shootout, a meat grinder—war is just a collection of those kinds of adjectives.

The Central American War. That was the name of this conflict. We didn't know if we would win. The soldiers who were forcing themselves to drink and play cards didn't seem to show any fear, but in reality, they were chain-smoking one cigarette after another. The night grew quiet; there was no snoring like in the past, only the tossing and turning of restless men and the squeaking of bed frames.

I remember how brutal that battle was. But I can't recall the fine details. I only know that the bullets were so dense that no one could poke their head up to see what was happening, and no one told us which direction the enemy was in.

"Damn it, you’re going to die here, Johnny!"

The leader looked me in the eyes. His face was pitch black, and he smelled of sweat and gunpowder. My left arm was gone, and it hurt like hell. I could only curse, cursing incessantly.

"It’s okay, you big philosopher... can you kick your legs? I can't drag you!"

The man who saved me wouldn't let go. There was wind by my ears, the whistling of bullets, the scorching sun, and the sound of heavy breathing. I scrambled up, picked up a gun, and thought only of resistance. If I didn't fight, we’d only meet on the other side, and I didn't want to see this bastard there.

"Where are the medics? Are they dead?"

The gun in my hand was empty, and it was hard to reload. I knew it was a miracle I could still fire at all. Then, a shell—just one—hit.

I never saw that bastard again. He had been shielding me; he was unrecognizable.

I close the book of my memories. In the tunnels beneath Night City, there are only graffiti and slogans.

"It's all the fault of these deserters!"

A veteran was being kicked around not far away. Someone had lied to me and the veteran, just as they had lied to the mob beating him. I swore I would never again lay down my life for this broken country.

Now, my left arm is no longer empty; it’s a new prosthetic I bought in Night City, silver-white, the exact color of my dog tag. This powerful hand can lift an electric guitar. It can also pull a trigger.

Our cause was in full swing, and millions were mesmerized by us. But then Nancy had her trouble. In 2008, Samurai reached its end. But my followers remained, and I would continue to be a "philosopher."

The music corporations, those people in human skin, wanted to use every means to take me down, to make me shut up and stop writing those scandals into my songs. They even threatened me by calling me a deserter.

I only ever sent them one reply in my texts: Go to hell.

Then, I wrote my story into my music, and everyone knew what it was all about. We were never the deserters; those who manufactured scandals to cover up the truth were the real cowards!

Later, I met a girl. Alt. She would often come to the backstage area of my shows, and we would have intense conversations. But she seemed to be into the Net, and I had no interest in that, so I never asked.

2020... oh right, the Fourth Corporate War. I had seen through this country and its corporations; I hoped they would all perish while tearing each other apart. Just like I sang in my songs.

Until Arasaka snatched Alt from me, everything changed. This beautiful girl with blue eyes had created something terrifying: Soulkiller.

I wanted to save her. I would have been willing to raze that tower to the ground for her! The concert was held right outside Arasaka Tower, and my followers and the crowd dissatisfied with this world began to lose control.

What was inside that tower? Was Alt still alive? As our group watched the bomb’s countdown, I didn't know.

Except for that time on the battlefield, I prayed for the second time in my life. Until the bomb went off, until I saw Alt, I thought I was too late. Her hands hung limply. Damn Arasaka—I didn't hesitate to put a bullet in that man.

I swore I would have my revenge!

2023. Until the building collapsed. I knew it was all in vain. You wouldn't want to know what happened—the powerful nuke detonated inside Arasaka Tower.

There was another badass on this job, Morgan Blackhand. Our two teams wanted to end this goddamn war. Back then, I still thought I could get Alt back.

Until Adam Smasher stood before me and ended my life with his gun. And I... I didn't even close my eyes. I even watched a brilliant "firework" display from the window of the Arasaka escape shuttle.

Where is this? I don't know. I only know that it is gray and boundless here.

[Am I alive or dead?]

No one can tell me.