Cyberpunk: XYZ

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Chapter 46: Little Monsters I

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It's his voice... The same body but acutely different voices. M has a significantly different tone, pitch, accent, speech patterns, and even vocabulary, "It's... It's really you."

No one responded, as if no one was really there. M seemingly wasn't there, didn't want to talk, or maybe X was just making stuff up in his head.

That's why mental conditions such as Dissociative identity disorder and Schizophrenia are so dreadful, you don't know what's real or false.

Yeah... It's happening again... My biggest competition isn't AIs. It can never be something else. My biggest competition will always be my brilliantly broken mind.

The world made you into what you are, someone with a broken mind, thus you became your worst enemy... Just how horrifying is that?

Many people, they suffer from real-life issues, financial issues, and family issues, and you can not even begin to face such issues because the first hurdle is your own mind.

X clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath to calm the delirious space that was his mind.

His mind raced, pulling at the threads of memory, trying to make sense of it all.

Why hadn't he noticed sooner? The answer was disturbingly clear. Z had been compromised.

Z, the voice responsible for organizing X's mind, had likely been twisted under M's influence.

Memories had been muddled, suppressed, or erased entirely. The lack of pain should have been the first clue. It wasn't normal. Not even in a body augmented with chrome.

But X had ignored it. No, he didn't ignore it. He couldn't. Z made him ignore it. M coming back is the only reason he can not feel pain anymore.

'Z... Show yourself.'

Z did indeed show himself, standing right by X's side. X opened his eyes and glanced at him from the corner of his eyes.

He looked no different, the same as before. He was a mirror copy of X, so what changed?

'Explain,' X instructed, glancing at him with eyes void of emotions.

Z was stoic. He was born to be that way, 'I don't understand it myself... But I've been compromised.'

The unknown... There has never been anything more frightening than the unknown. How did M corrupt Z exactly? X was confused.

However, he couldn't dwell on that for too long. He readjusted his focus and instructed, "Shut down... You too, Y."

X was alone... It's been a long long time since he felt this alone. His imaginary partners are gone... Gone until he figures out what the fuck is wrong with his mind.

The headache settled, and X focused on the screen before him, Little Monsters. It's now his biggest avenue to retrace M's actions throughout the past months.

The first section, titled "The Abyss," laid bare Night City's worst truths. Stark black visuals paired with images that pulled no punches.

There are many versions of sites such as the Internet Archive, and they allowed him to see how the Little Monsters site looked when it was first created.

The Abyss at first was empty, but it slowly filled up with new Little Monsters that shared their situation and the things they see.

From a simple street child digging through a dumpster, a corpo exec stepping over a bleeding body, and homeless figures huddled under neon signs flashing ads they couldn't afford.

To a pregnant homeless woman crying her heart out as she begged for help with the delivery, such a simple necessity that she couldn't afford. Then left there to die out.

 The wife that shared her story of how her husband sent her out with her underage daughter for prostitution to afford his addiction.

She attached a picture with the story, one of a man's dead body, knife wounds all over his body, his dick cut off into parts and splattered all over him... It was horrific.

There were more stories, endless stories. It was eerily similar to the endless abyss, thus the name of the section.

There were captions throughout the sire, each cutting and raw: "They left you here to rot." "Do you see the chains they gave you?" "Who built this nightmare, if not them?"

X scrolled further, his wonder mounting as he reached the section called "The Light."

This part was almost tender in comparison, a calculated shift in tone. It opened with a softly glowing animation of a figure walking down an alley, finding a door bathed in crimson light.

Clicking the door led to testimonials, each one raw and heartfelt:

"Monster saved me."

"I thought I was nothing. Now, I belong."

"They took everything. Monster showed me how to take it back."

The testimonials were accompanied by hauntingly hopeful imagery, glowing graffiti tags, and masks styled after twisted creatures, taken straight out of Lovecraft.

There were red-threaded tattoos that seemed to pulse with life. The stories weren't just stories, they were calls to action.

Every testimonial ended with the same chilling line: "They made us monsters. Now we'll show them what monsters can do."

X's chest tightened as he delved deeper into "The Pack," a forum locked behind layers of encryption.

Access required answering one simple question: "What have you lost to the abyss?" Once inside, the posts were relentless.

Rage-filled confessions bled into threads of revenge and solidarity. Every interaction seemed guided, shepherded by unseen hands into something darker, more focused.

"What did you lose? What will you take?"

The Little Monsters asked questions, many similar questions, seeking to understand their pack.

There seems to be as much anger in the forum as there is empathy for they understand each other's despair.

He could feel M's influence in every post, every reply. The responses weren't chaotic venting; they were deliberate. Channeled.

Each message redirected anger and despair into loyalty and purpose. M had built more than a gang; he had created a movement. A cult.

There seemed to be no more sections. Yeah, X didn't believe that. He read and looked through the site again and again.

It was by M, and M is one of his personalities. He should understand him more than anyone else.

It still took hours to find the section hidden beneath the cracks. M was simply too messy, so impulsive, and unpredictable that even X found difficulty following.

The final section was titled "The Mark." Here, M's intentions were laid bare.

This was where Little Monsters came to claim their identity, to wear their darkness as a badge of honor.

Tutorials on tagging graffiti in gang territory, DIY cybernetic modifications, and even 3D-printable mask designs filled the page.

One particularly striking image showcased a map of Night City, dotted with glowing red markers.

Each represented a place where Little Monsters had "struck," whether through sabotage, protests, or outright violence.

There was another, dotted with glowing green markers. There lied what seemed to be safe zones for Little Monsters.

X didn't quite understand what that meant, and the site didn't explain much except for the word 'Home' beneath the map.

X's fingers hovered over the mouse as he stared at the word. He could see how easily someone desperate for belonging would latch onto them.

But this wasn't just about belonging. This was a machine of indoctrination, an engine that turned suffering into service for M's twisted goals. Whatever they are.

At the bottom of every page was a glowing button: "Join the Pack." Clicking it led to a carefully designed recruitment form. Each question was simple but surgical in its purpose:

"Who hurt you?"

"What do you want most?"

"What are you willing to do to take it back?"

The final screen bore only one line: "When the world calls you a monster, remember: The world is right for it created us."

X leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as the site flickered before him.

M had framed himself as the inevitable product of Night City's horrors, a monster born from its corruption, its darkness.

His victims were carefully chosen: corpos, gang enforcers, the worst of the worst. To the desperate, this wasn't villainy; it was justice.

But X could see the deeper truth. M's creation wasn't just about offering a hand to the broken.

It was about weaponizing them, turning their pain into tools for his own ends.

M had built a movement, and worse, he had built it using X's clinic, his patients, and his resources. The betrayal was as personal as it was terrifying.

X exhaled slowly, his mind racing. Little Monsters wasn't just a name; it was an army.

And now, he had to face the interesting truth: the army was his, even if he hadn't built it himself.