As I sit here in 2026, reflecting on the evolution of the cyberpunk genre, I can't help but feel a deep connection to the gritty, neon-drenched worlds that shaped my gaming life. Mike Pondsmith's bold move to name his groundbreaking tabletop RPG after the entire subgenre feels prophetic now. Was he just defining a game, or was he claiming an entire artistic movement? Cyberpunk 2077, after its turbulent launch and remarkable redemption, stands as a monumental pillar in the genre—a living, breathing city I've spent countless hours navigating. But my journey into its depths always makes me think of the trails blazed by earlier, rougher visions. One film, in particular, feels like a forgotten ancestor whispering from the analog past: Albert Pyun's 1992 cult classic, Nemesis. It's a film that, despite its B-movie sheen, shares a surprising amount of DNA with Night City's sprawling narrative.
The late, great Albert Pyun operated in a different realm than CD Projekt Red, but his mission was similar: to translate the core anxieties of cyberpunk into a visceral experience. His was a world of video store shelves and practical effects, a world that forever altered my teenage years. Nemesis wasn't just a movie; it was a artifact from a time when cyberpunk was raw, unfiltered, and often gloriously cheap. The story follows Alex Rain, an LAPD hired killer—a concept that immediately screams "dystopian enforcement." Sound familiar? It's the same institutional cynicism that paints the NCPD and Trauma Team in Cyberpunk 2077 as morally ambiguous corporations. Alex's world is shattered during an ambush by the cyborg terror group, the Hammerheads. This moment—a human body broken and deemed fit only for reconstruction—is the central, horrific promise of the genre. Isn't this the very fear that defines every 'ganic in Night City looking at a chrome addict?
What happens next is pure cyberpunk tragedy. Alex undergoes reconstructive surgery, emerging with less than 15% of his original body. He becomes a product, a weapon. When his boss, Commissioner Farnsworth, forcibly recruits him for one last job by revealing a bomb implanted in his new cyberheart, the theme of bodily autonomy is completely obliterated. This isn't just a job; it's remote-controlled slavery. How different is this, really, from the Relic slowly overwriting V's consciousness in Cyberpunk 2077? Both protagonists are living on borrowed time, their very selves becoming battlegrounds. Alex's mission—to stop his former lover, Jared, from leaking data—twists into the genre's favorite paranoia: who do you trust when anyone can be replaced?
Here's where the parallels become uncanny. Alex discovers Jared's physical body is dead; only her digitized consciousness remains on a memory drive. She's an engram—a digital ghost fighting the system. My mind instantly flashes to Johnny Silverhand, another radical terrorist engram living rent-free in a protagonist's head. Jared and Johnny are two sides of the same coin: digital revolutionaries preserved in code. The film's conspiracy deepens, revealing that Farnsworth himself has been replaced by an advanced android, part of a hidden AI takeover. The "man vs. machine" and "who is really human" questions are the bedrock of cyberpunk, from Blade Runner to the rogue AIs beyond the Blackwall in Cyberpunk 2077.
The tone may differ—Nemesis opts for straight-ahead action against a clear evil AI, while Cyberpunk 2077 bathes in moral grays and anarchic philosophy—but the mechanical heart of the stories beats the same rhythm. Consider these shared cyberpunk tropes:
| Trope | Nemesis (1992) | Cyberpunk 2077 (2020/2026) |
|---|---|---|
| Protagonist's Body | Alex: >85% replaced with cybernetics under duress. | V: Constantly modified with implants; body hijacked by the Relic. |
| Digital Ghost | Jared's consciousness on a memory drive. | Johnny Silverhand's engram on the Relic chip. |
| Conspiracy | Androids replacing key government figures. | Corpos (Arasaka) and AIs manipulating society from the shadows. |
| Bodily Control | Remote-detonation bomb in Alex's cyberheart. | The Relic's countdown, biochip controlling V's fate. |
| Aesthetic | Grungy, practical cyborg effects, urban decay. | Hi-tech, neon-soaked Night City with visceral "chrome." |
Watching Nemesis today, with its 71% critic score but harsh 41% audience rating on Rotten Tomatoes, is a lesson in genre appreciation. Modern viewers, myself included, don't see a cheap '90s thriller. We see the raw blueprint. We see Alex's gritty, grounded combat—all practical squibs and mechanical whirring—as a direct ancestor to the visceral feel of plugging a shotgun into your arm cyberware in Cyberpunk 2077. The film's legacy is one of late reevaluation, much like the game's own journey from a shaky launch to a beloved classic. It's a fun, bizarre sci-fi romp that, entirely by the shared language of its genre, ends up in a conversation with one of gaming's giants.
So, why should a fan of the latest immersive sims or expansive RPGs look back at this film? Because it's all connected. Nemesis is available to stream, a time capsule of cyberpunk's adolescent years. It has the clunky dialogue, the low-budget charm, and the uncompromising vision. To play Cyberpunk 2077 is to experience the genre in its most polished, expansive form. But to watch Nemesis is to understand its roots—the fear of technology, the loss of self, and the fight against an invisible, systemic enemy. In 2026, as games become more immersive and films more digital, there's a strange comfort in Pyun's analog grit. It reminds me that the heart of cyberpunk isn't just in the shiny chrome, but in the vulnerable, fighting human soul trapped beneath it—whether that soul belongs to Alex Rain, V, or any of us staring into a future that feels closer every day.