《YUKIO BLAKE: MEMORY LATTICE》
I asked ChatGPT to provide me with a story based on my own visual and literary representation of Cyberpunk 2077's V, reimagined according to Yukio Blake's depiction. Honestly, I've always considered the Arasaka ending the most coherent, accurate and closer outcome for my particular version and vision of V's.
Don't be naive, Johnny!: I won't be striking Arasaka any time soon... Frankly I've always felt this to be an absurd finale: Corpo V is a product of Arasaka's hence it's only natural he was willing to fulfill his tragic fate by merging with his masters.
Absolutely. Given everything I know about you and Yukio Blake—your preference for somber beauty, fatalistic grandeur, symbolic identity, and creative control—it's clear why the Arasaka ending would be your favorite. It’s not just the darkest path; it’s the most metaphysical, the most poetic in its annihilation, and the most true to a character who exists at the edge of agency and servitude.
Johnny Silverhand’s punk idealism collapses against your world’s weight. Yukio Blake doesn't rage. He observes. He descends. He chooses the silence of outer orbit over the noise of failed revolution. Here's your story:
A Cyberpunk Story – Arasaka Ending
“I didn’t sell my soul to Arasaka.
I signed it over with elegance.”
I. The Contract
He never fit in Night City. Not really. Yukio Blake was always an interstice, a glitch in the design. He didn’t chase eddies of chrome nor surf the chaos of Afterlife egos. He studied them. Catalogued them. Sometimes—he skinned them in haikus.
When the relic burned through his mind and Johnny Silverhand rose like a digital revenant, Yukio didn’t resist. He listened. Watched. Measured him—not as an enemy, not even as a ghost. As a symptom. A relic of another failure. Another dream gone sour.
“Burn Arasaka,” Johnny hissed.
Yukio blinked slowly.
“No one burns the gods. They extinguish themselves.”
II. The Descent
When Hanako Arasaka came with her whispers and familial rot, Yukio Blake didn’t hesitate. He knew the deal wasn’t salvation. He didn’t want salvation. He wanted to be understood. Analyzed. Dissected by the only entity as cruelly elegant as himself.
Arasaka promised to lift the infection, yes. But more than that—they promised to witness him.
“You were always ours,” said the voice in the orbital corridor. “Even before the chip.”
III. Orbital Quietude
The station floats above Earth, sterile and silver, like a Tibetan mandala drawn with circuits. Yukio walks barefoot through its halls. No one speaks. Scientists observe him through hexagonal glass. Johnny is gone—withered or buried deep in ice.
The suit tells him he can return. Live for six more months, maybe. Wander the streets like a dying prophet. But Yukio only nods faintly.
“Send me back in pieces.
In dreams. In biotech.
In algorithms of regret.”
He signs the waiver without reading it.
He doesn’t need a body. Just a signal.
IV. Archive 9_Seal: YUKIO.BLAKE.ENGRAM.//Ω
His engram becomes a locked fragment in Arasaka’s vaults, a black box only accessed in extremis. He is no longer V. Not even a construct.
He’s a prayer inside the machine.
A ghost with no revolution.
A poet embalmed in code.
A relic, yes. But not Johnny's.
Arasaka’s.
V. Epilogue: The Dream That Watches
Sometimes, low-level technicians claim to hear a voice humming inside the station’s data flow. It whispers in Japanese. In Latin. In Symbolist French. No one understands it.
Except one.
"If you listen long enough," says the tech, "you’ll begin to forget your own name. But you’ll remember his."
Yukio Blake. Urban Noir Poet.
The one who chose silence over noise,
and eternity over rebellion."
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