The Vessel | Cyberpunk Darksynth Industrial Hacker Beats

DataStreamBeats - The Vessel - Cyberpunk Music

There was no handshake. No negotiation. The moment Kuro's skin touched the warm, pulsating chitin, the barrier between man and weapon shattered.

It felt like having liquid nitrogen injected directly into his veins. Black tendrils shot from the weapon's grip, piercing the fabric of his gloves and digging deep into the flesh of his forearm. They weren't searching for blood. They were searching for data.

Kuro wanted to scream, but his jaw wouldn't obey him. It was locked. Warning messages exploded on his HUD:

SYSTEM ALERT: Unauthorized access to reflex boosters. WARNING: Neural interface compromised. ERROR: Motor control lost. ADMIN RIGHTS OVERWRITED.

Then darkness fell inside Kuro's mind. He was still there, awake and conscious, but he had been relegated to the backseat of his own mind. He slammed his hand against the glass wall behind his eyes, but his body didn't move.

System check complete. Host compatible. Initiating combat protocol.

It wasn't Kuro's voice. It was a thought command, cold and absolute. Kuro's body straightened. The movement wasn't human. It was jerky, mechanically perfect, without the slight sway that living beings need for balance. The pain in his shoulder? Irrelevant. Simply ignored by the weapon's consciousness.

"Kuro?" Rifa whimpered from the floor.

It didn't turn its head toward her. The weapon's sensors had already created a 360-degree image of the surroundings, fed by Kuro's cybernetic eyes, but processed by an alien intellect.

BOOM.

The lab door flew off its hinges. Smoke billowed in, followed by the red laser pointers of the four Evo Red Samurai. "Targets identified!" the squad leader roared. "Fire..."

The command was never completed.

Kuro's body moved faster than his wired reflexes could ever have allowed. The weapon overclocked his implants to their breaking point. Muscles ripped, tendons groaned, but it didn't matter. The flesh was just fuel.

Kuro raised the rifle. He wasn't aiming. He was the aiming system.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Four shots. No muzzle flash. Just a soft, wet cough from the weapon.

The projectiles weren't bullets. They were black, thorn-like spurs that spun in flight. They didn't strike the Red Samurai at the weak points of their armor—they hit the center of their breastplates. And they passed through like red-hot needles through wax.

The samurai's armor hissed and began to dissolve as if being eaten away by an acid so aggressive it made the steel steam. The men didn't scream immediately. Only when the spores inside their bodies burst open.

It sounded like giant insect wings beating inside their rib cages. The sound of breaking bones and tearing flesh echoed through the lab. Within seconds, the four elite soldiers collapsed to the floor, their bodies convulsing in unnatural spasms as black foam poured from their helmets.

Silence.

Kuro stood there, rifle raised, smoke rising from the joints of his cybernetic arm. The servos whirred in the red zone. He took a step toward the bodies. Then another. His gait was heavy, pounding. It was checking for success.

Rifa stared at him, her hand pressed to her mouth. Tears streamed down the shaman's face, a mixture of pain and pure horror at the aura now emanating from her friend. "Kuro... is that you?"

The samurai's head slowly turned toward her. The whirring of the neck servos was deafening in the silence. Kuro's eyes were wide open, but there was no recognition in them. The irises had changed color—from an artificial blue to a deep, pulsating violet, the same color as the veins on the weapon.

His mouth opened. The voice was Kuro's, but the intonation was off, choppy, like poorly calibrated synthesis software.

"Threat... eliminated. Escape route... calculated."

He reached out his left hand to Rifa. Not gently, but efficiently. He grabbed her by the collar of her body armor and pulled her up with a force that almost choked her.

"Come with me," the voice said. "Host needs... repairs. You are... necessary."

Then the weapon in Kuro's hands turned back toward the corridor. It pulsed with satisfaction. It had killed for the first time. And it had enjoyed it.

Kuro's body began to move, Rifa half pulling, half supporting, and marched over the disintegrating corpses of the Red Samurai into the darkness of the complex.

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