Cyber Nurture: Welcome to Night City
Albert Einstein once predicted the fall of civilization; that all battles after World War III would be fought with sticks and stones. He was half right. Civilisation fell; technology survived. At the Moscow Conference, where the final meeting of the United Nations took place, it was agreed that not a single world government could be identified, even among their own number. It was with that that the Age of Nations ended.
The year is 2032X. Due to the decimalisation of the calendar, it is more than 300 years since the year 2000. Today, the world is tribal by nature. With luck, people identify with a neighbourhood or a family. More likely, they identify with an alt-cult or one of the massive mega-corps.
In between these megaliths, which keep their secrets as close as does a lioness her cubs, are the mercenaries, criminals and netrunners. In short, you.
You are on the edges or completely outside of the tribes to which most denizens of Night City pay tribute. You group together those on the same pay cheque, but avoid betting your life on the honour of thieves whenever you can.
Since the fall of what were once The Americas, Night City grew and involved into a megacity unlike any which the world has ever seen. To the North is the nuclear wasteland of what history books call “the Breadbox of America,” but that most punks know of as “The Crater.” To the South is the Great Latin Wall and what has been arrogantly named “The New Mayan Empire.” Little more than rumour escapes through the wall, though you’ve heard tell of great mechanical gods and human sacrifice. Probably just racist nonsense, but no worry of yours so long as it stays out of the City.
Of Europe and the East comes some immigration, though talk of one’s home continent is somewhat taboo in this new tribal age. Besides, unaligned foreigners rarely last long.
Baring those alt-cults who live on the water, only the poorest of the poor live in contact with the earth, scraping a living in the ways the poor have always done so. Above them are endless highways and the Babylonian heights of the corporation towers and housing blocks.
Though there are levels above the decades-old smog, they are reserved for the biodomes, apartments and offices of the corporate fat cats, or the solar farms of particularly affluent Cee-Metal tribes.
The Night City that you know is in the innumerable meters between the two extremes among the filthy spaghetti of tangled highways, dive bars, floating diners and the apartments of aspirational corporate drones and mercenary scum such as yourselves.
For one reason or another, you find yourselves sitting around a reserved table in the back. A high-end holo player entirely out of place in the sticky booth sits in the middle of the table. Currently, it displays a ring girl holding a sign: “Play me.”