The advertisents kept rolling.
At first, Aden watched with mild amusent. He chuckled at the over-the-top inforcials and even made ntal notes of a few deals. There were ads for synthetic at brands, retro braindance packages, discount prosthetic clinics, and everything in between. The Umbrella chip didn't just show you ads—it made sure you felt them. The audio was imrsive, the visuals crisp, and the offers temptingly personal.
Still, after the novelty wore off, Aden started to notice the flaw.
The ads covered only about 60% of his visual field. He could still see the world around him through the uncovered sliver—but the countdown tir for the hour-long "activation sequence" had stopped. That was strange.
He narrowed his eyes and turned his head slightly.
The countdown didn't move.
Only when he focused directly on the ad again did the countdown resu—ticking down one second at a ti. The mont he averted his attention, the tir froze again.
Realization hit him like a slap in the face.
You had to actively watch the ads for the chip to work.
If you so much as blinked wrong or let your mind wander, the tir paused. It wasn't enough just to keep the chip running in the background—you had to engage. To absorb.
Aden shouted a string of curses that would've made a scavenger blush. "You dirty Umbrella bastards! This is how you get us?"
His neighbors probably heard, but no one cared. This was Night City—everyone scread into the void once in a while.
But he had no choice. He focused back on the ads, clenching his jaw and reading aloud to keep himself from drifting. One hour. That was all he needed.
Sixty minutes later, Aden walked out of his tiny apartnt with the sa dead-eyed stare he'd seen in war docuntaries—like a soldier returning from the front lines. He was clutching his work uniform in one hand and buttoning his shirt with the other, walking like a puppet on strings.
He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just kept walking.
Not far away, Bud was still hanging out with a few of his gang buddies, smoking and trading jokes. He noticed soone approaching and instinctively turned to look.
At first, he didn't recognize the figure.
But then he looked again.
"Wait... Aden?"
He squinted and quickly excused himself from his crew, walking toward his friend with concern. He could see sothing was off—Aden's posture was stiff, his eyes unfocused, his whole vibe... wrong.
"Hey, man," Bud said cautiously, "You alright?"
Aden slowly turned toward him. His mouth twitched, and then words ca out—but not like normal speech.
"Nothing... Bobo Chicken... nothing, just a little bit hungry, Mister Arasaka Saburo Arigato... Crystal Palace tours available now, book early for limited-ti pricing..."
Bud stared.
It was like watching a broken braindance loop glitch in real life. Aden's voice was monotone, robotic. The phrases didn't connect. One sentence advertised chicken, the next ntioned a gacorp CEO, the third was a tourism promo for a place he couldn't afford to dream about.
"...Bro?" Bud asked softly.
"I'm fine..." Aden replied, but even that was followed imdiately by: "Militech drones—your best friend for ho defense! Order now and receive a limited-edition holographic decal!"
Bud winced. "You're not fine, man. You're a walking comrcial."
He gently grabbed Aden's arm, trying to guide him toward a nearby bench. "Let's get you to a doc. I got a guy, cheap rates. Works with the Scavs—don't ask questions, but he's good. Maybe he can remove that chip."
Aden shook his head. "No need... I'm okay. Just a little tired. Umbrella Suppression Chip... the solution you've been waiting for!"
"Jesus..."
Bud watched in disbelief as Aden drifted off toward the food stall down the block, mumbling about product warranties and limited-ti offers.
The fried rice noodle vendor—one of the few Dragon Country-style stalls still surviving in the district—greeted Aden like usual. He didn't notice anything wrong. People in Night City zoned out all the ti. Could've been fatigue, drugs, or trauma. Who knew?
Bud stood frozen, fists clenched. He had no idea a chip could do that.
Sure, he'd heard rumors. So said the Umbrella Company's suppressors were creepy. So ntioned side effects. But no one had said it was this bad.
His friend was gone—hollowed out, filled with corporate slogans and soft jingle lodies.
But then Aden turned and spoke again, his voice low and eerily calm.
"Brother Bud," he said slowly, "this chip... it works. Even the non-mber version. Much better than inhibitors. Fewer side effects. You should talk to the old captain. Get in early. Sell so units. Might make you rich."
Bud blinked.
He wanted to scream. To grab his friend and rip the chip from his skull. But a darker voice whispered in his head:
He's not wrong.
The chip did work. Aden wasn't groaning in pain or puking from overusing inhibitors. He looked dazed, sure, but he was functioning. Walking. Talking. Working. Kind of.
In a world where survival was often about picking the least bad option, maybe this was... acceptable?
And the price... dirt cheap.
You buy one chip, and you never need to pay for inhibitors again. The only cost was your attention—and maybe your soul.
Bud hesitated.
He thought about all the broke rcs and sick factory workers who couldn't afford suppressants. This chip could sell fast.
He could sell it fast.
The umbrella logo burned in his mind, and for a mont, Bud saw himself rolling in cash, his pockets full of credits, his boys driving chro-plated speeders down Santo Domingo.
He snapped out of it. Looked around, cautious now.
Was anyone watching?
No.
He reached down and pulled a keycard out of his shoe.
Santo Domingo had gotten dangerous lately, but Bud didn't care. Word was that soone in the district had been robbing Sixth Street Gang vehicles. He had no idea who—but he wasn't planning on sticking around long enough to get caught up in that.
This was his shot. His hustle. His future.
He muttered to himself as he climbed into his car. "Yeah... Umbrella's onto sothing. The people are desperate. And when people are desperate, they'll put anything in their heads just to make it through the day."
The engine roared to life.
As he pulled away, a distant ad echoed in his mind like a ghost whispering through static:
> "Umbrella Suppression Chip—Your Peace of Mind. Streamlined, Simplified... Subliminal."
Bud gripped the wheel tighter, heading straight toward the old captain's corner.
There was profit to be made.
And in Night Cit
y, if you didn't grab it first, soone else would.
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