[OPEN] ADOPT ART WORK - Cyberpunk Neko-12

Cyberpunk Neko: From the Ashes of Flesh and Code

From the Ashes of Flesh and Code

Excerpt from the forbidden Codex: “Nytherra – Age of Pulse and Paw”

“They called them beasts. Then weapons. Then shadows. Now, they are simply the ones who remain.”

When the Worldskin tore — when the veil between blood and byte burned to cinders — the ones who adapted weren’t the purest, nor the strongest. They were the wild ones. The misfits. The in-between. Zverolyudi — beastkin. Born of spliced genomes and old magic, tempered in chrome and rebellion.

No two of them are alike. Some wear the sleek anonymity of catlike helms, others move bare-faced beneath towering neon ruins, eyes glowing with lowlight sight, teeth bared not in rage, but readiness. Where once their kind roamed forests and fens, now they stalk through megacity deadzones, breathing smog, thinking in code, and living by old instincts wrapped in synthetic skin.

They are not a race. They are a revolution.

And they come with many faces.

Some are signaljackers, devourers of encrypted minds. Others run the undercircuit courier lanes, weaving through kinetic highways where drones won't dare. There are those who call themselves whisperkillers — ghosts trained not only to kill, but to erase the idea of death itself. Entire castes of bio-smiths, dreamcoders, neural augurs, and ether-scavengers work under collapsing domes, their fingers more wire than flesh.

Their society has no central order. It is an ecosystem. It thrives not on law, but on balance. Each beastkin tribe defines its own code, some guided by lunar cycle-like data pulses, others by memories passed through implanted dreams. For them, emotion is code. Pack is family. Territory is network. And death… is just a data point waiting to be rerouted.

They live in the Shattergrid, a broken city built on top of forgotten ages, where corporate pantheons play god, and corrupted paladins of steel enforce impossible purity laws. Yet the beastkin do not war like humans do. Their fight is patient. Intimate. Precise. One message stolen, one syndicate collapsed, one data-core cracked open, spilling truth like blood in the snow.

To outsiders, they are feared.

To megacorps, they are anomalies.

To the last dreamers of the world-that-was, they are myth.

But among themselves, they are simply called:

The Remaining.

Feral not in violence — but in freedom.

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