Cyberpunk stopped being science fiction

Neuromancer is over forty years old. Almost everything it invented has quietly stopped being a premise: the network you live inside, corporations with more standing than governments, ambient surveillance nobody voted for, and a person who is extremely good with computers and cannot afford somewhere to live.

That last one is the tell. The genre didn't get less relevant as its predictions arrived — it got less fictional. Which changes what a cyberpunk graphic is doing on a person. It used to be a picture of a possible world. It's closer now to a position on this one.

What makes something cyberpunk rather than just sci-fi?

High tech, low life — and the second half is the part that gets dropped.

The technology isn't the subject. The arrangement is. Space opera asks what we could build; cyberpunk asks who ends up holding it once it's built, and what it's like to be one of the people it happened to. That's why the imagery is so consistently street-level: a cyberpunk image almost always has somebody living badly in the corner of it, and the miracle in the background is somebody else's.

Strip that out and you get chrome, which is just design. A gleaming city with nobody in it isn't cyberpunk, it's an architectural render.

Why does the aesthetic feel different now?

Because it reads as documentary, and the writing about it has caught up — the standard line in 2026 is that the genre's premises have become descriptions of an ordinary Tuesday.

There's a consequence most people miss, and it's the useful part. The classic look is now the nostalgic one. Endless rain, saturated Japanese neon, chrome, the flying car — that's a specific visual canon assembled between the early eighties and a few years ago, and it has become a period piece. Wearing it is a memory of a future rather than a claim about the present, which puts it much closer to weirdcore and liminal imagery than to anything predictive.

That's a completely legitimate thing to wear — the canon is beautiful and it's not going anywhere. It's just worth knowing which of the two you're making, because they read differently on a person. One says I love this world. The other says look where we ended up.

Do I have to write the whole thing myself?

No. A sentence is enough — "a phone repair shop under a flyover, three in the morning, everything lit by the sign" — and it comes back as several fully-specified directions, each betting on something different, with a note on how it read you.

What follows is what that expansion is doing on your behalf, and it's worth reading if you want to take the wheel and push a version somewhere specific.

What does the version that isn't nostalgic look like?

The present, rendered slightly wrong.

• The objects are current ones. A rider bag, a delivery app's colour, a rental scooter on its side, a biometric gate, a phone shop, a payday-loan sign, a data centre's cooling stacks behind a fence. Nothing in that list needed inventing, which is the joke.
• The camera sits at the eye level of someone who lives there, not above the city. The wide skyline shot is the tourist's angle and it's what nine out of ten of these look like.
• One system is doing something to somebody. A queue, a scanner, a rejected payment, a screen facing the wrong way. That's the difference between an atmosphere and an argument.
• The light comes from a named source. Sodium, a phone, an LED strip in a shop window, headlights through rain — naming it does more than any amount of moody, cinematic, dystopian.

The future arrives unevenly

That's the thread under all four. Everything genuinely science-fictional in a real street sits next to something that has been broken since 2011, and the image is more convincing for it.

How do I make one that isn't the same street as everyone else's?

Give it a jurisdiction.

The canon works are all fiercely local before they're global — a particular city, a particular decade's anxiety about a particular thing. Generic cyberpunk has no city, which is why it all converges: ask for the genre and you get the average of the genre, an alley that could be anywhere and is therefore nowhere.

The strongest version usually comes from naming a real place, a year, and what specifically went wrong there. Your city in 2049, with the industry it actually has, failing in the way it's actually already failing. That's an image only you would have made, and it doesn't require inventing a single new object.

The most common reflex to avoid is pasting Japanese signage onto a street that has nothing to do with Japan. It's the single most worn-out move in the genre and it reads instantly as borrowed worldbuilding — someone else's specific city, imported as decoration.

Can I use characters or scenes from cyberpunk films and games?

No, and this genre is the worst offender for it, because the canon is so few works.

The films, games and books that built the look are owned. A character, a mask, a piece of trade dress, a logo, a named city from one of them — printing any of it is that studio's problem to have, whatever a model was willing to draw, and "in the style of" prompts reproduce that material more often than people expect. (Ours is the same rule — the content policy.)

What isn't owned: the genre itself, and everything general in it. Rain, neon, chrome, prosthetics, megacorporations, the aesthetic of a street at night. Nobody owns a mood or a colour cast. Build a city of your own — there are more of them than there are studios.

Where does a design like this go on a garment?

Usually the back, because these are scenes rather than marks.

A dense street with depth in it needs room; at chest size it compresses into noise, and the detail you chose it for stops being visible from more than a metre away. The back gives it the whole panel. The front then works better with the small counterpart — a mark, a serial number, a line of signage, set high and quiet, so the two sides read as one object rather than two designs.

That's a decision made per image, not a rule. The preview composites it on the actual garment at the actual size, which settles it faster than an argument does.

How do I actually make one?

Describe the street on JustOG, or bring an image you made anywhere else. It gets composited on the real garment before you order, and each piece is printed to order.

Or start from the shop and move an existing design somewhere else — same treatment, same camera, your city. The corridor of somebody else's future is a decent place to begin, as long as you don't stay in it.