The cyberware of Cyberpunk.
Cyberware is the signature of the genre: implants that replace an eye, an arm, a set of reflexes, and hand you what talent alone never will. It is also what sets Cyberpunk apart from every other game, because each piece fitted costs something you do not get back.
Here is how that mechanic works, what implants really bring to the table, the most striking pieces, where the surgery happens, and what waits for those who go too far.
Metal and Humanity.
Every character starts with a Humanity pool worth ten times their Empathy. Each implant fitted takes a share of it, rolled at installation: a few points for interface plugs, far more for a full arm or armor under the skin. That loss does not come back between sessions.
As Humanity drops, Empathy follows, and the character reads the people around them less and less well. That is the heart of the game: metal makes you more effective and moves you a little further from everyone else with each operation. The only way back runs through long, expensive therapy that few mercenaries make time for.
The main families of implants.
A processor grafted to the spine, without which half the other implants do nothing. It is the first purchase for almost every character.
Thermal vision, magnification, recording, targeting: the eye becomes a platform you fit out like a camera body.
Radio, translation, amplification, lie detection. Discreet, cheap, and often what saves a negotiation going the wrong way.
It hits harder, carries more, and conceals a tool or a weapon in the forearm. Impossible to hide, unless you pay a great deal for it.
They lengthen your stride, absorb falls and clear a storey in one jump. Decisive in any rooftop chase.
Filters, an upgraded heart, reinforcement plating, an air reserve. Nobody notices them, which is exactly the point.
The implants that turn a scene.
It accelerates the character violently for a short burst, then needs to cool down. Across one combat round, that is enough to flip everything.
A permanent booster that improves initiative, with no cooldown. Less spectacular than a Sandevistan, useful in every single fight.
Blades housed in the hands, out in a fraction of a second. They clear every detector and every check at the door.
Plates slid under the skin, protecting you in a suit as well as in pyjamas. The price is paid in Humanity points.
Two ports at the wrist or the neck to jack into a deck, a vehicle or a weapon. Essential to the netrunner and the driver alike.
The netrunner's computer, loaded with attack and defence programs. Without it, no architecture opens and no camera goes dark.
Where the metal goes in.
A corporate clinic works cleanly, guarantees the part and files the operation in a record anyone can pull with enough money. A neighbourhood ripperdoc operates in a back room for half the price, with no file and no guarantee. Choosing between the two already says something about the character.
Either way you pay for the part and the procedure, rest before using it, and accept the Humanity loss that comes with it. Second hand gear costs less and brings its own problems: a badly calibrated part, a questionable origin, and sometimes a previous owner who would like it back.
Cyberpsychosis, the breaking point.
When Humanity falls far enough, the character stops seeing other people as people. That is cyberpsychosis: they leave their player's hands and become a problem the city settles its own way. In Night City that way has a name, a police unit trained to put down what medicine can no longer reach.
The Humanity counter is not a punishment then, it is a clock. It forces every player to weigh immediate power against the character they still want to be playing in six months. The best campaigns are built on that tension, not on the list of implants.
Cyberware at your table.
A neural link and one piece that serves your role. The rest is bought in play, job after job, and plays out far better that way.
The part, the procedure, the downtime: it all costs. A player who knows the bill actually chooses, instead of swallowing it afterwards.
The roll happens at installation, not three sessions later. A counter kept current makes the slide readable for the whole table.
A recurring surgeon becomes a character in their own right, with rates, rumours and debts. It is a free source of plot.
An operating table, rough anaesthesia, a difficult waking up. Those three minutes of play beat a crossed out line on a sheet.
Skills, contacts and preparation make up for a great deal. Leave room for the one who refuses to be opened up, they will get their moment.
Tracking the metal online.
Cyberware adds a list that never stops moving: the pieces fitted, their cost, the Humanity going down, the armor wearing out. On a paper sheet, that column is unreadable before the first job ends.
Tomeus brings the sheets, the dice roller, the backdrop and the music into one window. Everyone keeps their character current, the game master sees where the table stands at a glance, and your players join from home with nothing to install.
Frequently asked questions.
How much cyberware does a character start with?
Not much, and that is deliberate. A neural link and one or two pieces tied to the role are plenty to begin with, within the starting budget. The rest is bought during the campaign with money from jobs, which gives every new piece the weight of a real decision.
Can lost Humanity be recovered?
Yes, through sustained therapy, long and expensive, returning a few points at a time. Removing an implant gives nothing back. That is why heavily chromed characters rarely end their careers quietly, unless they spend the time and money on getting treated.
What happens when a character goes cyberpsycho?
The character passes to the game master and becomes a danger to everyone, teammates included. In Night City a specialised police unit handles those cases and usually puts the target down. Some tables prefer to play the tipping point as a scene rather than a flat ending.