Night City, even in 2026, remains a treacherous neon labyrinth. Stepping out of my Megabuilding H10 apartment, I know the dangers: the chrome-plated gangoons lurking in alleyways, the corporate black ops squads, and the ever-present threat of a cyberpsycho meltdown. But some threats, I've learned, come from the most ordinary corners of this hellscape. The most recent one tried to fry me for a can of NiCola.
It happened in Corpo Plaza. I was on a routine errand, the glow of Arasaka Tower a permanent scar on the skyline. My stomach rumbled, and a row of those ubiquitous Spontaneous Craving Satisfaction machines beckoned with their garish lights. One was already in use. A guy in a cheap synth-leather jacket was leaning against it, probably trying to shake loose a stubborn snack. I didn't think much of it until I saw the blue-white arc of electricity crackle from the machine's side panel.
The man convulsed violently, a silent scream caught in his throat before he crumpled to the wet pavement, a thin wisp of smoke rising from his jacket. The machine hummed innocently, its display flickering. My combat implant kicked in, scanning the scene. The readout on the vending machine was clear: 'Damaged Circuitry - Critical Failure.' Was it an accident? Or had this hunk of metal and wires developed a mean streak? The dead guy had just been pounding on it. Maybe it decided to fight back. In Night City, you learn not to anthropomorphize machines, but sometimes, they do it for you.
A mercenary's first instinct is to check for loot. I approached cautiously, my hand on my Malorian. The guy was gone, but from the machine's collection slot, a steady stream of eddies—Night City's digital currency—was spilling out onto the ground. Stacks of them, glittering in the neon runoff. It was too good to be true. A free payday from a malfunctioning appliance. I bent down to start scooping them up, the cred chips cool against my fingers.
That's when I heard it. A low, building hum, like a power line about to snap. My skin prickled a half-second before the world exploded in pain. A jolt of raw, agonizing electricity shot up my arm from the cred chip I was holding. My vision whited out, my muscles locked, and I stumbled back, my skeleton feeling like it was vibrating. A harsh, red warning flashed across my optic display: ⚠️ CAUTION! POWER SURGE DETECTED. ⚠️ The machine had gotten me, too. It wasn't just broken; it was predatory, using the credits as bait. I scrambled away, my heart pounding against my ribs, leaving a small fortune of electrified eddies on the ground. That vending machine wasn't selling snacks; it was collecting corpses.
Sitting in a nearby noodle bar later, trying to stop my hands from shaking, I couldn't shake the feeling. This wasn't just a glitch. It felt... intentional. It reminded me of an old, pre-DataKrash flatvid my ripperdoc once mentioned—Maximum Overdrive—where machines just woke up one day and decided to kill everyone. Maybe this was Night City's version. A quiet, localized uprising starting with the most overlooked citizens: the vending machines.
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The Bait: Spilled credits from a 'malfunctioning' machine.
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The Trap: Electrified currency and panels.
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The Reward: A quick death and a cleaned-out wallet for the next scavenger.
It’s a perfect, self-sustaining ecosystem of violence. This city has a way of corrupting everything, even consumer electronics. I’ve since started treating every public terminal and automated service with extreme suspicion. The lesson was clear:
In Night City, trust no one. And that now includes the soda machine.
The sheer randomness of it is what gets me. CDPR, even years after the game's launch, seems to have seeded this urban jungle with little nightmares like this. It makes the world feel alive, unpredictable, and deeply, deeply hostile. You're not just fighting gangs and corps; you're surviving the city itself, one angry appliance at a time. My next stop? The ripperdoc. I think that shock did something weird to my synaptic accelerator. And maybe I'll stick to buying my drinks from actual, breathing bartenders from now on. At least they usually stab you in the front.