Ruby

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

_{Collab with @Apollosarcher}

"Do you think he's a mole?..." For some reason, a reason she would never understand, the young woman lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned closer to her from the leather chair adjacent to the couch, "they do that kind of thing? They do, right?"

The young woman once too scared to do much more than apologize for nothing the first time they met was now sharing thoughts of espionage and conspiracies of the streets and the Corps that towered over them. Sora's response was a loud, loud, draw on a straw from a suddenly empty cup and the kind of look that could make Enstein feel like a fucking idiot.

"No, I don't think he's a mole. Would Wakako Okada try to plant a mole on me using an edgerunner of her own recommendation?"

Suddenly Emily looked less certain, withdrawing the few inches she had leaned forward just moments ago. "I guess not?...but like, why not?"

"You do know I'm more lethal than an entire small army of armed men, right?"

Emily's dark blonde brows furrowed, and her back shot up in straight-edged posture. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, yeah."

Sora didn't have to look to see the complex math going on in the blonde's pale green eyes. Am I safe? Just how dangerous is more dangerous than a 'small army of armed men'? She wouldn't hurt me, right? She'd just fire me, right? "You're safe, Emily. You're amusing, you're well meaning, relatively bright, and I like the way you look from behind when you bend at the waist." The young woman's face went from relief to shock and an uncertainty about the words she'd just heard in the beat of a heart, but Sora ignored it, stomping right past the moment, "If Wakako wanted to set a mole, she wouldn't be so obvious. Because obvious would be easily seen through and exposed, which would just make me angry, and after the warning I gave her...there's a reason the woman has outlasted every husband she's ever had, and it's not dumb luck."

"That makes sense. So this guy...this," Emily shot a look down at the datapad with a tilted look, "...Duston Rhodes...wow, Dusty Roads. If ever there was a Nomad name, right?"

Sora blinked, paused, and looked up at Emily as blank as an empty wall. "...huh, yeah."

The young woman blushed, even if for only a beat, "Not a mole? Can he be trusted?"

"I don't even trust you, why would I trust him?"

There was unexplained silence as Sora looked back down at the spreadsheets she studied, she didn't expect Emily to just stare at her in silence. "You can, you know? If you're that dangerous, that means being the only person in this building this close to you, I'm in some vague level of danger? That's fine. I accept that. You've already done more for me than anyone else in this company, ever, so you can trust me." But when the depth of emotion in the young woman's voice came through, Sora looked back up, but she wasn't done. Her green eyes danced, anxious, uneasy, up and down and back to Sora's brown-black eyes. "Do you have me followed?"

"No. I followed you last night. I stalked you the day before I approached you. I've been inside your apartment."

It hit Emily by surprise, but she didn't look shocked. She didn't look scared. Her green eyes just stared at Sora's with a new found intensity. "You can trust me. I don't have anything to hide...did you stalk him?"

"Rhodes?"

"Yes."

Sora's head gave a casual, little shake, as she unfolded her legs from underneath her body on the large leather couch and gave a lazy stretch in full black and white suit, long black hair reflecting the ambient light of the office, "No. I just found out about him. Nomads aren't office workers. I saw his car, I saw him, from vid footage stolen from NCPD servers. He's done it all, the legal, illegal, even driven celebs around. He moves around a lot. Seeing old contacts, getting his face seen, looking for work."

"Why wouldn't he want to work for you? I mean, you're both Arasaka and a big deal in Arasaka?...also what celebs?"

Her palms rested flat on the small of her back, and lightly pushed, the sound of a few pops and cracks sounding loud in the side lounge of the office. Again, Sora felt herself shrug. "He probably will, even the danger I represent is less important than a high level Arasaka contact for a 'Family' man. That kind of contact is worth more than Eddies to a Nomad family. He likely didn't find out it was an option until I had Wakako send him the message, and had you send the follow up appointment request to his phone. And...I don't know, the famous kind?"

"Is he dangerous?"

Sora's eyes narrowed, just a little, as her head tilted down and looked at the young woman. A hard, analytical, look. "He's an edgerunner. Yes, he's dangerous. Is he as dangerous as I am? No. Highly, highly doubtful."

Emily looked less than sure in that moment, pale green eyes flickering down, and back up again at Sora's applied gaze. "Do you like hurting people?"

"...sometimes," she said gently, lips in a faint warm smile.

Emily moved on quickly, tucking a strand of darkened blonde hair behind her ear, and going right back into the serious office worker, "I looked up the other name. James Vander...heiden, hayden? It's a hard name to pronounce--"

"--Vander-HYE-den."

Emily stared up again, the expression writ plain across her high glossed and artfully make-up applied face: Oh. You're kidding me. The tone wasn't quite as heavy as the look, some level of fear of Sora or unease about offering any real amount of sass to her new boss kept the young woman holding back, but there was enough trace elements to recognize, "So you've heard the name before. Yeah, him. So he's Canadian, or, well, was. He's dead."

"I knew he was dead, some people blame me for killing him."

"Did you?"

Sora sighed, deeply, as she retreated from the lounge section of the office back towards the office. Back towards the pack of cigarettes. With a light and a deep inhale, and lighter exhale, Sora's voice deepened from cigarette smoke finally voiced, "Depends. It was a rapid deteriorating orbit for both of us. Had I not been chasing, he wouldn't have died. Had they been better, had a little more luck, they would have survived. The other one survived, though I never did find her by the time I woke up after splash down. So was it my fault?" The sigh, this time, was much smaller and hidden in the act of the exhale of smoke, "Depends who you ask."

"...so, Canadian, worked for PetroChem as a Special Operator. Security. His record is pretty impressive. He disappeared from Canada, though he was still an active employee at that time. No real explanation as to what happened, Intel thinks it was inter-PetroChem politics he ran from. Shows up in Europe as a mercenary. There's a German marriage license, some work in Russia, then Europe again and shortly after that he's placed on an Arasaka-Europe watch list. I'm guessing that's when you come in?"

"Shortly after, but more-or-less. Any family?"

"None alive."

That, Sora thought, was deeply disappointing. "The other name?"

"The Republic of Texas responded with a non-response. I did like you said and used your clearance level to push them, but the Republic of Texas--"

"--doesn't care, yeah. Go figure, a bunch of Texans are the most stubborn and independent minded government left on the planet. They make Neo-Soviets look open-fisted, and make the Chinese seem trusted. Did they at least acknowledge the existence?"

"Uh...I have it, here," Emily shuffled a few datapads, and picked up her phone to read the screen, "they said, 'The Republic of Texas Attorney General's Office cannot comment on any entities, operations, or subjects that may, or may not be, included in the records sealed under the Sealed Records Act, Republic of Texas Congress. We apologize for any inconveniences this may cause our Arasaka friends."

"She exists, but we can't say she exists, and we can't say she exists because all facets of her existence have been sealed and classified. Great. But, hey, they called us pals. Cool. Thanks for trying, anyway...he's here."

Emily stood up, confused, "Can you...see through the door, or...nevermind. Should I go?"

"Yeah, invite him in."

Emily's heels were the only sound in the office as she walked across at a hurried clip, reaching the heavy office doors and slipping her slender frame in between door and frame so she minimized how much of the office was viewed as she exited. The blonde with the shoulder length, straight, salon styled dark blonde hair and the salon styled makeup in the white synthsilk blouse and leather black skirt, with black stockings and heels to match, smiled at the security escort before looking up at the man's face.

"Mr. Rhodes? Go ahead in."

She held the door open, and closed it behind him, as Sora leaned back against the front of her desk, staring at him, one arm over her chest, the other bringing the cigarette to her lips for another heavy drag, the modified Techtronika SPT32 Grad Power Sniper Rifle laid across the desk next to a cup of tea, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a computer terminal, and a few sheathed katanas.

Night City dazzled behind her, the entire back wall of the highly positioned office in Arasaka Tower floor-to-ceiling windows with an impressive view. She was little more than a silhouette with a tiny orange cigarette glowed face between his eyes, and the view.

"Hello, Mr. Rhodes. I trust you enjoyed the walk up." It was a rare thing, a walk from the front door of Arasaka Tower to the Senior Executive Level office suites. Few edgerunners had ever made the walk, the last one? V, maybe. "I seek a driver that I don't need to watch over my back around, which excludes everyone else that works in this building. Interested?"

Duston had just finishing rolling his own cigarette in the hallway. He hadn't been their long the call had come after he'd finished dropping off his smuggled goods. Cute little thing stepped out as the tall and well muscled Merc lit it before he stepped in.

Following towards the view he took a breath looking over the city. He couldn't understand how people saw this as beautiful. "If you want exclusive around the clock service its a heavy contract. But, it comes with the best driver and service next to Delamain. I don't talk about my clients work and I do all the service and technical work on the vehicles myself." He explained tipping the stetson to look into her eyes directly.

"Impressive rifle by the way... Now before we hash out our contract. You ask what you need from me. I know you did your homework, suits always do. But you ain't all corpo so you ask me the things that a file can't tell you. I'll give you that brutal Nomad honesty were all known for." He was to the point and focused, a small smile on his lips as smoke trailed out with it. Fresh real tobacco scent too as he leaned against the wall not sitting.

He cut a clean figure, a deep brown duster hung over a flannel button up shirt and a pair of white washed blue jeans. On his head a stetson of similar deep brown like that of fresh soil. "So basics, Contract, details, and all stay secret... I work for you, not Arasaka." He made the distinction himself which meant he knew something about her at least. He'd done homework too it seemed, even if he didn't have her resources.

"So... How long’s the gig and what all do I need to plan for? Picking you up in mornings? Safe houses? Gunfights? I gotta know to plan for expenses." He spoke after the assistant had left finally moving to sit.

"Have you ever fought a top tier Arasaka Ninja?"

"Top tier? No. I don't deal in 'big leagues' affairs. I move things, I do odd jobs between farm work, and I don't piss off people who got armies under their command. As for if I've gone up against more than common Arasaka goons. Yes. I'll leave it at that, I don't know what separates one ninja from another. So I can't comment on your definition." He reached into his jacket producing a flask taking a long drink.

"That a problem?"

"We're in true hell when the Nomads start litigating meanings and side-stepping questions. You're not from Texas, are you?" She flicked the cigarette after the wry joke, grey ash fluttering to the pristine waxed and treated maple hardwood floor. "Fair enough…gun fights? Maybe. Picking me up in the morning?"

Sora chuckled with her next exhale, entirely amused by the mental image. "My schedule isn't so standard. How long is the gig? Until my job is done, or I'm done with you, whichever comes first. The pay is sensational. You'd be a body man; whatever odd request. Mostly driving, waiting. I used a Nomad for this last time I was in town. Aldecaldo. Wakako recommended you because she arranged the odd marriage that was between that Aldecaldo and myself," and because she was trying to save her life. "I'm odd for a Corpo. I prefer to work outside the established procedure and policies of the corporate culture, but my job is my priority…I wouldn't recommend interfering with my function. Any more questions? Or do you want to tell me your special retainer fee now so we can get going?"

"Right, well two things. One my ride isn't gunned up, its armored so shooting starts we aren't focusing on shooting back. Two, no I'm from a traveling clan range across the Northeast to Midwest, sometimes further out. Texas isn't really my thing..." He spoke sitting on the table looking over at her again.

"If you wanna get to work I'm on the clock when you need. But I am more than a driver, not saying you need it but I can help anyway you need. Your paying I'm working however you want letter of the contract doesn't mean I stop." A Merc with a work ethic a strange thing but not bad. "That said, if things get crazy I'll stay with ya but I will speak my mind. You're the boss but I ain't the quiet type." He explained letting his ashes fall of his duster from his cig.

"Other than that happy to work. You seem like a right peach for a corpo killer." Chuckled Dusty as reached into his jacket for a flask.

"Let's pay Little China a visit, then, I've got a medical appointment that needs keeping."

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

"Start from the top," Eddie sighed, the Crypt ran cold and heavy with the scent of and smoke of sage, the hot black coffee in the black and bronze cup steaming as she took another sip. Of the four present, only Nix was at the main monitor, datapad in hand. With a flick of his wrist, they indeed started, Crispin and Dino settled in the center of the room on stools. Eddie stood, leaning her ass against the edge of what had once been used as an autopsy table.

The woman's image came up, first; her last official headshots for Trauma Team identification, as well as video captures from all over town. "First up, Connie Zhu. Her official status with Trauma Team is a bit murky, but it seems they've moved on and are just processing the departure according to their stricter than most corporate guidelines for termination. Father recently died, mother still alive, lives in a MegaBuilding. Seems to be in something of a spiral going off recent vid captures, but she is capable."

"She doesn't know we're watching her?"

Nix's mouth tightened as his head gave a quick shake to Dino's question. "No, she is one of the ones on this list that Eddie has not reached out to. But it's fair to say she needs the money and the resources. If accepted to this job, Eddie can make sure she gets every last bit of resources Trauma Team has cut her off from back into her life. That, plus the overwhelming financial reward, seems a good bet. Whether she's a team player, not my department, that's all you, Ed."

Eddie sipped at the black coffee with a touch of synthhoney, and shrugged.

"Right. Next up: John Brown." Brown's image came up, as well as a picture of a recent kill from a vid capture and a picture of the man looking downright peaceful in a diner. "A Militech trained killer, no other way to put this. No longer works with them, and it wasn't the most ideal of separations. This is a blunt instrument who may very well enjoy the Armory the job provides. He's an insight into Militech, and that's helpful enough, although Eddie has her Militech moles. Couldn't hurt. This seems black and white; Brown digs cash for kills, and we offer both the kills and more cash than anyone else. Record suggests a decent team player. Also, Dino, another one we haven't reached out to yet."

"That's you, Dino, if you don't mind?" Eddie asked, eyes shooting over to the other resident Afterlife Fixer.

Dino gave a wry crooked lips smile, and nodded with arms crossed over his chest, "Yep, I got you, I'll reach out to both and tell them job of the lifetime, come to Afterlife at such-and-such time."

"These two Eddie's worked with before, John Valentine and Abby Etienne. These also two work as a team, and frequent a Ripperdoc we know well enough in Straid."

"I asked him," the large Solo with the ocular cyberware broke in with his light accent, Crispin Weyland, interjected, "Says they're likely to agree and they're pretty good. Wanted to tell me why they'd be good for Afterlife, I said nothing more."

Dino chuckled, "Professional to a fault, Squama."

"I can see why he pushes them," Eddie said before another sip, her eyes on Nix. Nix brought up their images, although there was some hesitation in the man as he redistributed his weight between feet and brought in air with a heavy sound.

"Yeah, well, Etienne is slightly concerning despite your endorsement. Might be V.B. connections, Valentine is another former Trauma Team with Euro military experience beyond that. I did talk to your guy from Brussels, Eddie, and the military service was good. Seemed Trauma Team was a stake out for a different kind of life because of a wife and wanting a family...obviously that worked out for shit, but he's got skill if you're saying so, and Etienne is legit good in a number of facets, so that's a positive."

"Couple?"

Nix shrugged at Dinovic's question. "I dunno, hard to tell in this city, especially among Mercs who's an output, but I wouldn't rule it out. Think that overcomplicates it?"

Dino's answer was to turn his head, and look at Eddie.

Blue eyes widened, and Eddie smiled into her coffee for a second, her voice sounding the slight amusement she felt, "No. If their Ripperdoc is hyping them for an Afterlife gig, and if I didn't notice a problem before, I just have to doubt it will become one. People like to talk about that kind of thing," and she knew it, too, as word had gotten around about Etta and James, married Mercs that complicated their hiring status to far too many corpo Euro fixers at the time. "So yeah, I'll send them a message. The others are like these two, we've all met?"

"Yep," Nix brought up images for Conrad, Silvain, Qiara, and Mac. "Let's start with the Netrunner. She's corpo, NightCorp. Why they put her on the open market like they have, I don't know. She's paranoid, she's careful, she hates all of us before she's even met us--"

"--but I'm so charming--"

"--and she doesn't give a shit, Dino. But, and I say this with some expertise in the field, she's very good at the sort of deep Netrunning you'll want her to do. She uses other tricks to be present, but her physical situation...she's be a holo-presence, a ghost in their machines, and not much else. That's probably not a bad thing. Silvain is a tech and I'm...actually impressed with their work."

To a solo of renown like Crispin Weyland, what mattered more was, "Do they fight?"

"No idea. Eddie?"

She shrugged, "Is 'Bluejay' a solo like you, Squama? No. Can they handle some fireteam work if they're mixed in with some of the others? Yeah."

The dark skinned solo seemed less than warmed by the information, but it didn't stop Nix from rolling on, "Conrad. NetWatch. Fuck that, but Eddie...well. We all witnessed the madness of a Blue Glass job interview, didn't we? Claire mentioned he held himself pretty well considering Emmerick had to help him up the stairs, and he never noticed you left the table? Wow. Skilled, comes with a reference we've discussed before, and Eddie seems confident in him. A frontline, in the shit, Runner to go along with the deeper system attacks and monitoring of Qiara. It's actually a pretty good team if it works out. The last one..."

"Yeah," Eddie put the now empty coffee cup down, "former Clan, Euro military of a sort, prison. Turns out that blank spot in his timeline was time spent with a group that were Raffen Shiv. Not true Wraiths, but a group that started very much going down that line. There is a location in Rancho, there is someone present in their life, though I didn't pry that much, and it seems they bounced on the Shiv when they realized the kind of group they really were."

"Just curious, Fixer to Fixer, what about the Sixth Street 'Fixer' who sent him on your job?"

Eddie just snickered, "He, uh...he won't be doing anymore jobs in an area that isn't directly Sixth Street controlled anymore."

Dino's eyes widened, lips curled at the corners, head nodded, tone sounding as surprised as his face looked, "Interesting. I'm just shocked he can still offer any jobs after you visited him. Sure on this guy? He seems like a lightweight."

"Maybe he is, maybe he's seen more shit in Europe than we can quantify here in the Afterlife. Maybe it's just a gut feeling on my part, either way, he's in. I'll send him a message, Dino. Tonight, 10PM? Right here, in the Crypt? Have Emmerick and Claire tell them to head down as they arrive?"

"Sounds good. Need any thing concerning this?"

"No, thank you, Dino."

The Fixer tipped an invisible cap, stood from the stool, and made his way out. Once the door closed, Nix's discomfort came forward. "I've looked at the details on this job, I poked around a little at this warehouse we've got setup for it...this some serious fucking shit, Eddie. Rogue never touched anything like this. I know Crispin is stone cold, hell he stormed Arasaka with Rogue and V, I KNOW he's batshit insane. Are you sure about this? You know exactly what you're getting into? What they're getting into?"

There was no hesitation, no pause for thought, nothing but a stare from the blue eyes of the Fixer. "Yeah, Nix. I appreciate what you've done, and I'm not cutting you out of it. Qiara and Conrad aren't as trusted as you, I'll still need you in support just like I will Crispin. Just like I will the Nomad, and the Yakuza. Rogue didn't do something like this, but she stormed Arasaka on little more than a whim. This is planned, we're being careful as we can be, and if it blows up, then it blows up on all of Night City, not just the Afterlife. Dino went to make the calls, I'm gonna send messages to the rest. Be here at 10. You will, the both of you, make enough money to buy your own Afterlife after this so long as nothing fucks this up, so let's not fuck this up, chooms."

And me, she thought, I'll buy a chance to escape.

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

Everyone should be heading to Afterlife as of my last post. Read the post so you know exactly where in Afterlife, and exactly what time. You'll either get a call from Dino (if you never met Eddie in the Prologue), or you'll get a message from Eddie (if you did meet her in the Prologue).

This starts Act I, so we've entered a more linear storytelling section of the RP. Questions? I'm always around.

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

The cigarette lit in a brief orange blaze of butane lighter as she shouldered her way through the threshold of the Jig-Jig Street NCART platform. The immediate exhale was the heaviest and freshest of the entire cigarette; it was pure fire and chemically laced tobacco. The chemicals were largely filtered by her internalized systems, and the tobacco was one of the few things Sora found herself grateful about regarding NUSA's existence. A few looks were tossed in her direction, but she had waited until she was outside the designated no-smoking section of the platform and surrounding station itself--so the looks bothered her as little as ants passing in front of her as she walked in the direction of the market.

The main drag of the market changed, over time, but not enough. Though the names of the businesses changed, their purposes hadn't since she spent more time than she would have liked in the area as Danger Girl duties had required her. Being back in Night City was a nuisance, but at least it was the familiar kind of nuisance. The irritants weren't fresh and mysterious, even the signage was largely the same; blue and pink hearts, BD lounges, Joytoys in cramped, tiny sex clubs, and rent by the hour 'hotels' there were little more than fuck cubbies stained with sweat and blood and cum. A Joytoy tried to approach, but Sora's vision stayed transfixed, the thousand-yard gaze that saw through and past people, not at them. Even the vocally aggressive were walked past like they didn't matter.

The ground was cracked painted cement, the walls of the market seeming to lean overhead, like they might just collapse in on it all, as signs and cables and unofficial and unapproved add-ons to buildings were crowded into an already claustrophobic location. The pachinko parlor was still passed the slurp shop, now manned by a different cook than she recalled, around the corner, over the foot bridge spanning the small drainage ditch now protected by a metallic grating, and across from a window front of black mannequins modeling bondage suits and strap-ons. A plastic red chair was just outside the door, the same beat up old public terminal that had been there the last time Sora was still on the other side of the doorway.

It was in a back corner of Jig-Jig Market, the other buildings alongside it had no entrance, not that they needed to be--they were all just extensions of the same pachinko parlor. They were all property of the 'Fixer' that Sora had come to see: Wakako Okada. Okada had been wary around her even back during the Danger Girl days, but that had more to do with the connective tissue between Danger Girl and Arasaka, of which there had been precious few, than anything Sora had done...until one of the Danger Girl clients complaints led to the doorstep of one of Okada's sons. The favor Sora had done for the old woman, even then, hadn't gone forgotten by either party. The son still lived, still thrived in their little gang.

Sora had simply satisfied the client's thirst for revenge and need for safety in other words, with the blood of others, and a simple warning to Okada's involved son.

Even in the height of the afternoon the interior of the pachinko parlor was dark, moody, as if the negative energy of the past and current deeds of it's proprietress infected the very air of the place. The sounds were classic pachinko, and like every classic pachinko parlor Sora had ever been in, including the ones she would cut through as short-cuts on her walk home from school as a teen schoolgirl, were heavy with cigarette smoke with walls yellowed by it. Sora hadn't begun smoking cigarettes then, but even now she could smell it's toxic light-grey suffocation like she was still the same fresh-faced teenage schoolgirl from her past.

These walls were metallic, hued blue with neon, the floor black and white checkered tile also shaded blue with the blue neon strip under the gaming counter at the back of the parlor, under a wide advertisement screen, manned by a Tyger Claw. Sora never seemed to look at him, but she noted every line on his face, the way he favored his left side, the likelihood of which weapons he had on him, and a general guesstimate on just how capable he was as a combatant. Instead she stopped at an empty machine between two glass walls separating the empty machine from two occupied machines, and reached into her blazer pocket to retrieve some tokens she still had from the parlor dating back to her last visit, black spots of dried blood still on the token from that last visit.

She played the rigged game for a few minutes before the man behind the gaming counter disappeared. He needed to because the cameras got nothing but a dark blue from Sora's image. Where some optics blurred faces with surveillance blocking lenses, Sora's cyberware went farther, on more technical levels. She might as well had been a blurry wraith to optical surveillance systems. Sora began the count the moment the man behind the counter disappeared. He came back to his seat behind the counter after four minutes and eleven seconds.

The old woman wasted no time. The man behind the counter announced the parlor would close in five minutes. There was a sound of discontent by an old spotted man, but the rest of those at the machines just gathered their tokens, and left then and there. They knew the reputation of the parlor, and weren't going to end up dead because of Tyger Claw business. Sora stayed where she was, never looking up. Just token, game buttons, and wait for the screen to give her the cheated result of the loss. Sora got a win, just to keep her on the line, shortly before the five minute mark hit and the man behind the counter saw the last patron out, and locked the door behind them.

The old woman had been standing in the back doorway for a few minutes, staring a hole at the Arasaka operative.

"Sora Hayami. How is it you haven't aged a day in thirty years?"

Sora's response was no more than a shrug. After the win, she was straight back to back consecutive losses. She allowed a small sigh, putting the cigarette out on the cheap little aluminum ashtray that sat on the machine near it's buttons. "Your games are still rigged."

"They most certainly are not."

Sora stopped, and her head finally turned towards the woman, "I'm doing the math in my head with each turn, Okada. You never did know when not to lie to me." When she moved her body on the padded synth-leather stool, updated since the last time Sora was here, to follow her head in facing the old woman, the man behind the counter now standing sentinel at the front door tensed. The old Fixer shot him a look, Sora smirked.

"You can leave, Ryuin. She'd kill us both without breaking a sweat if she was here for that."

He left, but Sora didn't move, "Who says I won't?"

"Why would you?"

Sora's head nodded, her eyes dropped, and a deeper kind of sigh slipping past her lips, "Wakako, did you think we wouldn't know? Takemura. V. Hanako was kidnapped because of you."

The old Fixer remained steel-faced, stubborn, emotionless. "I can't say I know what you mean, Sora."

"I see your anger towards us never waivered...where's the sword?"

The old Fixer shrugged, "Not here. I gave it away a while ago."

Some of part of what Wakako said wasn't true, Sora was sure of it, but somehow Sora doubted the part about the sword being gone wasn't a lie; that was just how Sora's luck had been with good blades lately. "That's a shame. I liked that sword."

"If you're here to kill me, th--"

"--don't, don't do that," it wasn't anger, it wasn't a reaction of pride, it was...boredom. Sora was just plain tired of the same old dances, the same old dares, the same old attitudes. "Where is she, Wakako?"

The Fixer was, as far as Sora could tell, genuinely confused, "Who?"

"I know she's in town. I know she's active, in some way, and I will tear this city apart down to the irradiated bedrock to find her. So, Okada..."

"...I really don't k--"

Sora's eyes dropped, her eyelids shutting hard, tight, angry. Her fists shook so hard Sora didn't even realize they were clinched until she pushed off the pachinko machine she sat at and stood, unclenching her fists and regaining her composure. "Fine. You don't know enough to know, I'm honestly a little disappointed. So then let's discuss this betrayal."

"I am not an Arasaka pawn, Sora."

"Your precious children are, all of the little Tyger kittens. Should I go visit them, instead?"

The hidden anger filled the creases and wrinkles and spots of the old woman's face at the threat to her children, and grandchildren. Sora hadn't threatened her grandchildren, but Wakako knew the danger Sora Hayami represented better than most. "Do not bring them into this. I did what Fixers do, would you murder every person who touched anything V touched?"

"I would burn the city just to watch it burn, Okada, and you know this."

Wakako's head tilted right, then left, as her mind worked over the problem before her. "I did what I had to do, Takemura represented a connection I could not ignore cultivating, and V...a Fixer that neglects opportunities to put top Mercs in their debt are not successful Fixers for long, Sora, I know you do not understand this world. If I had the sword, I would give it to you, but I do not. When you were operating out of Night City last, you had an associate named Jonathan. A Nomad."

This time, it was Sora's turn to look slightly confused. "I remember. I liked him. He didn't die because of me."

Wakako let out a low breath, something close to frustration, her old slender shoulders deflating, "I don't mean to suggest you did, last I heard he had children and ran away with the Aldecaldos. This was months ago. I mean to suggest, however, that there is another Nomad that recently came looking for work. His name is Dusty. Perhaps history repeats itself in this case? If I recall, that is how you met Jonathan."

Sora's face had lost all the life and passion it had held when demanding an answer on Etta Autry. The former spy and lover was in Night City, but Wakako didn't know anything that could help with the limited information Sora had on the subject. Instead she just looked bored again, retrieving the lighter and a cigarette, putting the cigarette butt between her lips and staring at Wakako as she sparked the light, and took the first, freshest, drag to light the cigarette and start the smoke.

"How do you look like you haven't aged in thirty years and yet smoke those things? I had to give them up decades ago."

Sora never answered, just pocketed the lighter in the same blazer front pocket the tokens were retrieved from, and exhaled a tendril of pale gray cigarette smoke in the blue and pink neon tinted darkly lit parlor. "Sure, Okada, send me the Nomad. Why not. Betray Arasaka like that again, threaten the safety of Michiko, and, well...you know exactly what I'll do."

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

Duston Rhodes Jodes

'D U S T Y R H O D E S'
'D U S T Y R H O D E S'

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^{_{"The roads are home, Night City never will be."}}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y Duston Rhodes Jodes _________________________________________________________ 23 | ♂ | Bi-Sexual _________________________________________________________ Unmarried | Smuggler/Solo | Jodes Family P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E [+] ▼ P H Y S I C A L T R A I T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Build - Tall, broad shoulders, well muscled ► Ethnicity - White suntanned ► Hair Colour - Auburn hair and beard ► Eye Colour - Brown eyes ► Other - Cuts, marks, and burns dot his body, mostly healed. - C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S [+] ▼ C H A R A C T E R I T E M S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Custom Quadra Type-66 Avenger "Clydesdale" - Custom tuned Nomad Cruiser, faster and more durable, it's been armored more than average. Built for border jumping, ramming Shiv off the road, and out running anything that it doesn't like though it eschews onboard weapon systems other might enjoy. Hand built and tuned by Dusty. Milspec ► Nomad .44 Magnum Revolver "Sam" - A rebuilt and retooled Colt fourty-four, old and tested with modern actions and equipment onboard it's as lethal as anything you'd pay an overblown gun store for. Basic ► Nomad gun kit - This kit carries the part for two unfinished guns, a grenade launching platform and high end anti-vehicle rifle. As well most tools to service and strip guns even basic spare parts for many fire arms. Expensive ► Nomad .44 Magnum Lever-Action Rifle "Henry" - A common rebuild these shorted rifles are more commonly seen on the bike holsters with cut down barrels for Outriders. Featuring stronger lever with a larger ring allows Dusty to spin it forward then back. Basic ► Jodes Leather Jacket and Bullet proof vest - Nomads gotta Rep there families, their rides and their looks are designed to do just that. Jodes especially take care of their own who range far from the family, as such Dusty has a proper Kevlar vest in with the heavy leather jacket. Basic ► Grafted Muscle - Grown muscled implanted into the body, increasing strength basically undetectable. Basic ► Muscle & Bone Lace: - The result is that the tissue is both stronger (physical strength is enhanced) and more resistant to damage. Muscle and bone lace will enhance overall strength and durability, but not to the degree of an actual artificial cyberlimb. Expensive ▼ K N O W N A S S O C I A T E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Name - Description/Relevance ▼ S K I L L S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Nomad Mechanic - From guns to cars to generators or more, Dusty has fixed them all time and time again. Life among Nomads means everyone has to help however they can, Dusty found his talent for gunsmithing and automotive work early and quickly had many fast friends among the convoy. Guns, Bikes, and Cars are what Nomad life revolves around, thus Dusty's skill meant he became someone they depended on greatly. Nomad mechanics are often asked for in town and cities, the Jodes have some of the best from mostly farming and rural background they know how to fix and keep things going long after the corps have intended them to fail. ► Tire Squeal'n Smuggler - Most of the best drivers have to chip in and run the car with their chrome and if you knock systems it out suddenly their as shit as they come. Manual control, hands on the wheel shifting it up and down at just the right moment. A symphony of engine whines and gear changes or quiet long hauls across empty highways, Dusty can do it all and happily. ► Jodes Cowboy Charisma - Charming and none to easy on the eyes, Dusty has the Jodes backing for his job and knows how to sweet talk his way through. Unlike many others he is really that generous, polite, sensitive about how he makes others feel. The Jodes are more welcoming than most other nations, many link to the remnants of their southern hospitality in trying to make everyone comfortable and welcome over fretting over little things. ► Fast hands, strong hands - The Bioware isn't just for bar fights and mechanic work, his increase strength of hands means his well practice lighting draw is backed up the strength to it on target if they prefer to get closer a mean bash to the skull with three pounds of steel in hand. Practiced in brawling with his siblings and family back home he knows how to throw hands. Shooting and brawling are things you learn growing up, though he's made more friends than corpses in bar fights. ► Pic'n and Grinning - Music is something else that differs between nomad tribes but with their roots firmly placed the South and agriculture. Jodes have loved the sounds of guitars, mournful songs, and other sweet melodies played in that old classic country style. So the music that Dusty brings with him is often different to much of the Night City life, almost alien yet he finds many with Noamd connections or true lovers of sound are quick to ask him about it. He'll sing and play a song a too from his own ability on occasion if asked by a friend. He prefers Blues, Bluegrass, and just about any variation of older country tunes. -

C H A R A C T E R H I S T O R Y C H A R A C T E R H I S T O R Y Born North West territories Duston's earliest memories is of the open road, endless fields of crops, cows, chickens, pigs and more. Early years were spent moving around, as his folks moved between the harvests and the job sites. Taking work everywhere, he never lacked for company and his mother under his constant pestering during their time trapped in the RV together would teach him about how guns worked. The middle child of five his mother was realized when he would sit quietly as watch her work on repairing and servicing the guns of the clan. By the time Duston was ten he had started to repair and build guns right there next to his mother when they were on the road. When they were in camp he spent his time learning about the vehicles they operated, he was incessant so soon when ever vehicles were getting repaired you'd find Duston right next passing tools and asking questions. His siblings took to farm work, gunslinging, and ranching like he did to cars and gunsmithing as his parents proudly watched them all grow up. The other four still with the clan, when Duston declared he wanted to become a smuggler for the clan. By sixteen he was learning to tear rubber and shoot Shiv out windows, he'd taken to riding shotgun in convoys like many of the younger members he was eager to take of the Raffen Shiv. Learning to throw grenades, shoot guns, and lead targets while moving at more than a hundred miles per hour. When he wasn't on the road, working on guns, or tuning up his car, he was singing music around the campfire or helping herd cattle. Duston was fast tracking his career after they had taken Quadra Avenger off some Wraiths he'd set to work trying to get it running. It took him nearly two years, more parts, swearing, and whacking the damn thing with a wrench when it wouldn't listen to him than he ever thought it would. However when it was his baby, his pride and joy "Clydesdale" he called it after the big fucking charger horses Knights to bear down on people with, this beast of a car could matched the name. While a normal Javelina is refined for speed, combat, without losing it's racing pedigree Dusty took the car to it's logical extra adding extra too in the interior for rear seating/storage, increasing truck space, and up armoring it. Of course if you increase the weight you need more power, so adding two turbo chargers to the Avengers much more massive engine. Finally changing out the automatic gearbox for a manual and getting a proper old school wheel in the thing. The Clydesdale is one of those nomad vehicles where people look it and drool, with it's better shocks, fuel economy, and ride comfort it has become the perfect mile muncher for Duston to cruise between home and Night City. Of course, opting to run without weapon systems and targeting computers like others meant that he had to depend on speed and armor to make up the difference. Or whatever weapons he brought with him, as he modified the passenger windows to be able to open up, mostly for being able to pick up fast food but shooting is good too. As such before he set out on first run to night city, his mother presented him with a Militech Cowboy Grenade launcher they had acquired for him to defend himself. Taking his older sister with him on his first trip to Night City they were moving shipment Nomad made firearms for the city's gun dealers. As restored older firearms are fairly popular on the second hand market, especially among those not looking to pay corporate prices for guns they don't have the chrome to handle. The goods made it safely across with no issue, during his first trip he got the bioware upgrades he wanted turning an already well built farm into an impressively muscled and strong young man. His sister spent most of the trip in the Aldercado's camp trading news and gossip while Duston got to work making contacts in the big city. It was during his first trip he met 8ug 8ear, or as he would to know her Bea, a good Netrunner with a penchant for merc work. Though he would meet a few others over the years T-Bug and Jackie Welles a pair of mercs who worked with on separate occasions during the coming years. Panam was another he remembered from the Afterlife and her partner Nash, in reality though he found himself around the middle of the rung for mercs and that was where he liked it. He came into town to make cash and send it home for when times got back they had a stash to rely on. Over the years, he drifted in and out of the city, but found himself working for just one fixer more and more, Rogue. Rogue lied that she had someone who kept a low profile, who did the job the right way and if it went bad got out of the city for a few months. Dusty was someone she could depend on to handle problems and never bring any to her door. Unfortunately the problem with a seasonal Merc is that they aren't always here when you could use'em and the problem when you go in and out, is that when things get really bad and you go back your never quite sure what you're walking into. However, Duston didn't stay away long, making yet another trip in to the city chatting with 8ug 8ear most of the way in only to find out most of his contacts were missing, dead, or gone. So... He got in touch with the Aterlife's bartender Claire sent her over a his Resume, namely a list of completed jobs, NCPD reports, payment records, and more on his previous jobs smuggling, solo work, and driving jobs. This Eddie character, he knew nothing about her or really if they even carried that he was one Rogue's regular Mercs. Most of the people who could vouch for him weren't around anymore and Bea wasn't gonna be able to help she was more on the info gathering side than anything. Especially after her close encounter with the Tyger Claws, he'd need a new Net Runner backing him up at least. Maybe he could look up some of T-bug's friends she was the best he'd met in the business, hell maybe even get answer on what happened to her from someone. Whatever happens next, Duston has what a nomad needs to survives guns and his ride. D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E Duston stands around six foot six inches, well muscled from years of labor combined with his bioware has made him strong as an Ox, with broad shoulders to match he's handsome in the classic way tall, broad, and strong. Along his face a well trimmed auburn that matches the slightly shaggy short hair he keeps bundled up under his broad Stetson hat. Moving down across his chest is usually a plain black T-shirt with a kevlar vest over it. Over his shoulders a heavy set brown duster of leather with the Jodes symbol emblazed across the back for all to see. As his hip sits his revolver and on his back rest the lever action both ready for use at a moments notice. A pair of heavy steel work boots with worn syn leather adorns his feet, if you watch him long enough you'll him produce a cigarette and twirl it between his fingers, he's trying to quit smoking again. A flask hidden in the pocket over his heart holds whiskey in it for when things in the city weight him down to much. Occasionally he'll tap the wood finished handles of his pistol just to occupy himself also like a nervous tic. Regularly running his fingers through his beard he is often slow to start a conversation but sincerely interested and intent once he does speak with someone. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) Duston has a handful of goals at the moment, one rebuild connections here in the city, two find out what happened to all the folks he used to and give them a send off, find a new Netrunner to run support for him someone whose not gonna sell him out either, make good money to send him to the folks and earn some good will from other mercs and fixers once again.

Went back through and finished things up.

@Apollosarcher

Approved as a non-Merc team character.

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

"Hello."

The sound caught the woman mid-bite, startling her into momentary paralysis as her eyes slowly climbed from the holo-agent on the table next to her plate to the sight of the black slacks standing unsettlingly close to her little lunch table, and to her. The woman's pale green eyes ascended more up the black suited figure that surprised her with the kind of greeting that cut in like a dagger from a dark corner.

Those pale green eyes were still the size of saucers from the surprise as they finally locked onto the gaze of the person standing over her. The tone of the voice was sing-song, playful. The way those pale green eyes didn't immediately relax upon seeing the person's face was proof enough the face attached to that melodical voice didn't match the light, playful, tone.

A few large, likely slightly uncomfortable swallows of the ham-and-cheese-and-lettuce sandwich she had just bitten into before the voice interjected, and the woman finally got a chance to respond, "Uh, hi, I'm sorry...did you need something, or...does Frank need me?" The woman's voice was as full of puzzled curiosity as her large pale eyes. The eyeliner around the big pale green eyes was thin, subtle, and whatever the brand the quality of it whispered of mid-level makeup. Very expensive, for sure, but nothing special. Exactly the kind of makeup expected on an Administrative Assistant like the woman.

"Do I need something?" There it was, again; that playful ping-pong of tone and pitch from the suit, mixed with an action of deliberate and, to the woman just trying to scarf down her sandwich and enjoy a rare moment to herself during a truncated lunch break in an otherwise painfully long corporate work day, unsettling intent: the suited figure reached over and took hold of the top the back of a metal legged, rigid plastic chair at an adjacent small table in a low level employee cafeteria, and dragged it the three or so feet from it's designated table to the small circular table that the woman with her sandwhich was seated at.

The metal legs of the chair making the kind of metallic screech on polished floor that draw nearly every pair of eyes in the mid-sized cafeteria.

If the woman was uncomfortable before, she was now in low-grade anxiety attack mode. As if just now realizing how uncomfortable the woman was being made, the suited figure offered an exaggerated, awkward, ill-timed smile that would have looked more at home, more genuine, on a pre-teen girl embarrassed at the ruckus she made than the suited black haired woman that gave it to the woman who still managed to be holding the remains of the ham and cheese sandwich in her all but white knuckled hands, "Hiiii."

"...uh, hi." The woman wanted to look. This way, that way, every direction in which there were curious and nosy sets of eyes peeking in on the scene that was shattering the every day routine of the low-level cafeteria and the poor drones that used it as some kind of escape, some kind of refuge.

"...yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I do need something. Are you eating those?"

"I am, I was," the woman answered, blinking, even as the thin figered suited woman stole a few chips from the snack sized open bag of chips next to the sandwich. It broke something in the woman, the sandwich was set down and for the first time there was more than perplexed bewilderment to the woman with the mid-level makeup that probably cost an entire paycheck or the mid-level blouse and slacks that probably cost less, gussied up with a silk scarf tied and ruffled around her neck in a rather impressive creative fashion touch. Now, there was the barest hint of real irritation, "I'm sorry, if Frank needs me I'll be right up, I don't think my lunch is--"

The suit stole another chip, smiled big, and CRUNCHED on it, all while sitting so close to the woman that they could've been confused for best friends, co-conspirators, or two girls on a lunch date. "Frank's an asshole. Good for you, speaking up, getting a little irritated. Who am I, right?..."

The woman waited, but nothing came. The irritation just flamed higher in her pale green eyes, her back straightened, she quickly dismissed the holo-agent screen to dim dark deadness, "I didn't say anything about Frank, and I don't know WHO you are, maybe you should tell me because--"

"Sora, you're Emily? You help scheduling for procurement audits and transcribe results, along with helping process reimbursements of expenses? Work with Kathy, Zoe, and Teddy? The...snake, the slut, and the snark, as you call them? Worked here for three years? Got embarrassed by your ex-boyfriend at the Christmas party? Crazy we still pay for Christmas parties, right?"

This time as Sora snuck a chip, there was only fear flooding in those pale green eyes of Emily's. "I didn't...um, who are you?"

Sora's salty sour-and-cream flavored grin couldn't be helped; she liked Emily. "I already told you, Sora."

"What department?"

"Oh," Sora laughed, breathy, casual, care-free, "I don't have one of those....you white-knuckle that ham-and-cheese anymore and you'll send mayo flying out both ends."

Emily immediately went into the panic of recovery mode, of fixing it, of saving her job, her ass, both? Emily didn't seem to know. "I didn't call Frank anything, Ms. Sora, I promise. I'm really, um, I apologize if--"

Sora waved at her, took her now empty bag of chips, and rolled it up between the palms of her hands until it was nothing but a small ball of packaging trash left on the table. "Cool, I don't care. Frank IS an asshole, and the other three's labels seem rather appropriate. You're the quiet try-hard who's overlooked and underpaid...and THIS, Don't-fucking-call-me-Ms., Emily, is your lucky day...if you can perform."

"Perform?"

"Yes, I do need something. Do it for me, do it well, and you go home tonight with five times your yearly salary as an immediate bonus. Now...are you gonna finish that?" Pale green eyes regarded Sora for a long, long moment...before Emily rather matter-of-factly, performatively, finished the last bits of her ham-and-cheese, never once breaking eye contact with the suited, suddenly smiling, Sora. "I knew I liked you. Come with me."

She sounded the perfect cocktail mix of bored, and annoyed, "Holy shit, guys, take fucking longer to get to a meeting. Is this really how Night City Arasaka rolls?" The judgment, the disgust, none of it was far from the surface even if it could just as easily be laughed off and called 'a joke.' But then, the guys didn't seem to find it funny. They stopped as they approached the limo in the parking garage's Executive Level, at the woman with the sunglasses and the heels and the fancy neckware.

"Ummm," the tallest one gave a bitter, harsh, kind of sarcastic half-laugh as they approached the car. "Sorry. We just got the meeting pushed to us from Abernathy's office, I'm guessing at Michiko's authorization? Where is she?"

She smiled big, bright, and with enough air of superiority to float a blimp all the way to the top of Arasaka tower from the underground parking garage. "You just assumed she was going to be here? Yeah, sorry, Abernathy was a Night City based employee and the concern comes from the home branch. Her principle assistants and deputies were called for.......are the three of you not 'principle'? Or do you want to get in the car and stop wasting so much time?"

She didn't wait for a response. She just dipped her shoulders, ensured her heel wouldn't get caught on the bottom of the door, and got into the back of the Rayfield Limosuine, the kind of ride the three men staring wide-eyed at the woman with the attitude and the heels to match it and a subtle flair of eyeliner to command respect, not just eyes. They were quick to follow her, all three; Eric Walsh, a tall and broad-shouldered Night City native who survived the Abernathy purges before surviving Abernathy, herself. Close cut brown hair and a well groomed brown beard, black rimmed serious minded eyeglasses. He cut an impressive figure with a deep, authoritative voice.

He got to the car first of the three, but let the other two go first, exchanging looks and mouthing unspoken words to each other man as they got in and ignored the driver standing sentinel on the other side of the open door, awaiting for them to close it after them, like any good Arasaka Japanese attendant worth their salt. First in after the woman was Matt Suzuki; an engineer transferred to the working management group trying to clean up the mess of both the Tower assault and Mikoshi's bust, doing what he could to appear intimidating when he spent more time chasing Anders Hellman's shadow than Peter Pan going after his own shadowy image. He was typical engineer in personality, not bad, not great, definitely a bit up his ass, had been what Sora thought.

Crispin Urich was the pure money-man, the accountant that rubbed two eddies together and got eleven. He was a master of brutality and hated nothing more than he hated for Arasaka paying for a Christmas party on any level. Arrogant was a life pathway, his corner office a Princedom that was threatened only by the shifting foundations of Arasaka that was leaving it blind-sided. He had been part of the group that blamed Abernathy for much of what went wrong, if for no other reason than that was politically safer than blaming an Arasaka, even if everyone was pretty sure it was an Arasaka's fault.

He gave a lingering look to the driver, but stared harder at the woman already helping herself to a stiff drink in the limo. Urich was shorter than the other two, thinner than Walsh, but not as skinny as Suzuki, making it an odd fit when the three of them were pressed into each other on the bench seat opposite the woman's bucket seat. The driver closed the door behind them, quickly sliding into the driver's seat. The woman told her to drive with a hanging sigh, dulled eyes watching the men as if she was already tired of waiting for them to make the first move. The driver gave a quick, "Yes, Ma'am," from the open small front window leading to the front cab.

The woman with the Salon fresh cut and the black seamed hosed long legs that peeked out from the pencil skirt in the bucket seat took another sip, before Suzuki broke first, "Listen, Ma'am, the investigation is still ongoing as to the reasoning behind the attack, an--"

Ruby painted lips smirked at the lip of the Scotch glass, "You need an investigation to tell you self-preservation is a mother fucker?"

Walsh tried not to roll his eyes. He failed. "Due respect, c'mon, do we really buy the Merc was just out to save their life? They unleashed a freakin' AI on the Tower's systems that we're still scrubbing clean from quarantined systems. This takes time, I would think Japan's Devil-come-down-to-Night-City would know that, at least."

Her head tilted, another sip and the ghost of a smirk passed with the authentic whiskey, "The engram of Silverhand is problematic, but Mikoshi was at the heart of this issue, but not the largest lingering issue."

"Mikoshi, the engram...these were all errors of execution, not judgment," Urich allowed, carefully, measured, like he was watching market analysis in real time and divining where the currents would take Arasaka next, "surely you're not suggesting otherwise?"

"Mm, that's interesting. Focusing on what happened before and during the attack, not after."

Walsh gripped his left forearm with his right hand as he leaned forward in the seat, voice lowering, tone intensifying, "Abernathy left Arasaka exposed from within and without. Palace Intrigue left all of us, even up to Hellman, scrambling. We understand how these things usually work, heads roll, strict oversight is implemented to 'clean up' what's going on--"

The woman cut it off like it was her job, "--and you think that's what this is? Strict Oversight? Is that what Michiko has already provided?"

Walsh just stared, voice deadpanned, "She called you in for that, I assume, we're just trying to keep the plates spinning so they don't all go tumbling down. The biggest issue we have now is possible overreaction, no offense."

"Not MiliTech?"

Suzuki twitched. "You know something we don't? Do share."

All three of them were staring at her, now, and it...or the whiskey, kinda made her smile. The car came to a careful, smooth, stop. The door opened shortly after, the driver providing a black gloved hand to help the lady out as she finished her drink and left it on the small table in the limo. "The depth and breadth of what she knows that you don't, I'm told, would worry me more than anything if I was in your shoes."

The three followed, ignoring the driver's offer of a hand as they climbed out, staring confused first at the blonde, before blinking at where they were...at the very same spot of the very same Arasaka Tower parking garage they had started at. "She? You mean Michiko? The hell is this? Is Michiko playing some game by sending you? We're happy to play ball, but we're not going to get put on the chopping block for this shit. We dealt with Abernathy, we'll deal with anyone else to make Arasaka in NightCity survive you, MiliTech, whoever." Walsh sounded like he spoke for them all, but the other two's silences made that seem less absolute.

The blonde smiled as the driver closed the door behind them all, and got back into the driver's seat, "Oh, not me. My name is Emily, I'm just an administrative assistant. The person you're worried about and giving a talking to is driving away after hearing all of that, she; Sora. I'd say she got a pretty good read on all of you...doesn't seem like you got any kinda read on her, though. She's very nice. She bought me this new skirt suit, new hair style, and a nice bonus if I became her desk assistant during her time here. Need anything, let me know, I'm happy to help set up any appointments you may want with her, sirs!" Emily smiled sweet, big, and turned for the elevator.

The three didn't see, they were too busy staring at the limo driving away, before exploding in a hushed huddled discussion with each other.

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

IC is open for posts.

Many thanks to @Sad Ogo for letting us start out with a neat scene between his Mac and the Fixer Eddie.

The beginning of the IC begins the first of the 'Intermission' stages of the game (although I guess this is more of a prologue at the moment); when the game is more-or-less in sandbox mode, open for whatever kind of posting you'd like. If you want a scene with one of the GM NPCs, give us a shout. We'll see if we can make it happen.

This period of posting will end when Eddie calls the Mercs together at Afterlife to form the Merc group, and begin the first of their jobs.

Happy posting, chooms.

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

_{Collab between @Sad Ogo and @Ruby}

The call on the holo was brief, and hardly satisfying. The woman found herself standing in the hard glow of thin pillar lights; tubes of light affixed on metallic stands, each running off a battery that would last far longer than need required, giving a bright white light to the cavernous concrete surroundings filled with non-descript metallic surfaced desks holding various keyboards, cyberdecks, and the odd gun, shard, or coffee. The only other light came from the glow of the monitors mounted on the concrete walls above the desks. That's where her eyes rose once they recovered from the unsatisfactory call. Progress was being monitored from the cameras in the small North Watson warehouse. It was closer to the Arasaka Waterfront than she would have liked, but targets were targets, and deep down she knew she'd leap at Arasaka Tower itself if that's what the job called for.

Certainly, she'd done crazier shit in her lifetime.

"Where is Braddock?"

The netrunner had been in the underground den all last night and all morning; three day old growth on his dark skinned cheeks and chin as he rubbed at his face with his hands. Trying to rub away weariness, trying to rub away the soreness of staring at screens as long as his eyes did. "Not as far along as he should be. Dino said this guy checked out?"

Nix's question and subsequent turning back to read Eddie's reaction was as telling as the tone of his voice: Nix didn't think very highly of the solo Braddock. All Eddie could offer the man seated at the desk was a tiny roll of her shoulders and an even smaller smile, if you could call it that, "You know what I know, if you read Dino's notes on the guy."

"That's what the fuck I'm afraid of. Since V left and Dino moved in, we haven't had the manpower or time to properly vet all the Mercs banging down our doors for work. Emmerick does what he can, but...what the fuck. Right there."

Nix pointed to the top right hand monitor's camera feed. The back side of the warehouse, ground level. Braddock had gone in from the east, hopping to the roof and going in that way. The back ground-level had a door that was high in security, but it was often left unlocked so the gonks running the lifts and doing inventory for the cargo courier shop illegally acting as a pass-through and safehouse for Maelstrom stolen goods could slip out for a quick smoke, as smoking inside the warehouse wasn't a great idea. The unlocked door allowed for a figure to slip in, weapon drawn.

Eddie's face collapsed in momentary grief. "It's another fucking Merc." She was calling up the client within the moment, but this time, of all times, they didn't answer. Grief turned to steely-eyed resolve quick enough, "I'll send a message to Braddock. The client double-dipped the contract to another Fixer." Nix turned again, slower this time, his expression closer to shock than irritation. "No, I didn't know. No, I'm not thrilled about it, but I need that data."

"You need it, or the client does?"

Nix was too smart for his own good. The question just hung there, ignored, as Eddie watched Braddock hit the warehouse manager's office. "Why is he...the data we need is probably in the basement." A quick glance down to the holo told her Braddock hadn't responded, despite the camera in the office showing him looking down at his own holo.

The moment Braddock hit the warehouse manager's terminal, the video feed went black. Nix was cursing, angrily, before she could even ask, "Stupid fuck tripped an alarm. It'll take me a minute to find the port and track the remote access."

"Another netrunner from the other Fixer?"

Nix's hands blurred across the heavily modified Arasaka cyberdeck he'd brought for the job, his eyes blank as he saw data from an internalized feed, "...nah, I think this is a Maelstrom runner." Tense moments followed as Eddie allowed herself a sigh under her breath, followed by a darting of her eyes back to the monitors on the wall as Nix got the feed back up. "Fuck."

Braddock was on the top middle monitor, now on the first floor, hugging the wall just inside the stairwell, holding his right side and bleeding. "Set up a link with me."

"What? You serious?" Nix asked to the back of Eddie as she walked away to the elevator of their temporary underground lair, just in time to watch her check the M-76e Omaha and return it to its holster at the small of her back. "...alright. G’luck.”

The interior she emerged from below into was an old shuttered slurp shop, nothing left but old booths, counters, stools, and a thick layer of dust covering all of it. The night air of Night City hit her, warmer and thicker than it had any right, dense with the last remains of a dust storm. The fog clinging to Night City's streets had that orange-brown hue under ragged and abused Watson city street lights. Between buildings Eddie felt shadows glancing at her, though nothing in the back of her mind gave any danger signs--these were the shadows of the hungry and homeless--none of them dumb enough to see a mark in a woman wearing a padded black coat, tight black pants, and polished leather black boots with a slight heel.

The smarter ones would simply watch her walk, and just know better.

The warehouse was on a corner lot down the street and around the corner. It had a cement wall surrounding the warehouse yard, multiple bay doors along the front of the building, a side office entrance, and the second layer that housed the manager's office, a bathroom, and the cat-walk that went from the stairs to the manager's office, railed in with thin strips of aluminum and little more.

So far the job was going alright for Mac. Or at the very least not FUBAR like work involving Maelstrom had a tendency to do. He’d parked his truck a couple of blocks down from the warehouse, scouted a decent access point from across the street he knew wasn’t covered by the warehouse's numerous cameras and hopped a wall into the compound with no one the wiser.

From there he had to make his way past several armed sentries to get to the back entrance the workers left unlocked. He’d spent the past few days following several of the places non-gang affiliated denizens to the dive bars they liked to spend their wages at after work. After enough whiskey and small talk Mac was usually able to get at least a little something useful out of them.

Gang-bangers pissed the wage-workers off simply by being there and acting like they owned the place so it wasn’t hard to get them bitching. Didn’t take long to find one who’d been especially affronted by them. In this case it was an older bloke who’s nephew had been found with his gorilla-arms sawn off, hooked up and left to bleed out in a known Maelstrom controlled apartment block.

Just going into work and seeing them there was enough to get the man seething. The offer of a few eddies was more than enough for him to give over much needed specific intel on the warehouse, especially to a Solo who’d no doubt leave at least a couple of Maelstrom corpses behind.

Mac had already proven a good bet on the latter, using his kukri to slice through one neck, almost in its entirety and pierce through the back and into the heart of another gangster. The blood from the arterial spray spattered his face, arms and clothes, feeling hot on his skin in the early morn’ chill. He quickly dragged them out of sight, hiding them behind the many stacks in the compound. Thankfully he managed to avoid more sentries than he had to kill and continued on his way to the back entrance, getting there without any more trouble. Sheathing his blade and pulling his Overture, he slid open the door and crept inside.

Now all he had to do was make his way to the basement the old worker had mentioned the gangoons having completely taken over and find the tech-looking bullshit. The data was almost certainly where the regular employees, even the managers had apparently stopped being allowed to go. He ducked behind a stationary forklift and took a few seconds to look around, trying to spot the entrance to the basement. The place was mostly empty, with just a few Maelstrom assholes hanging around, just as Mac had hoped. The morning shift didn’t start for another hour and he hoped to be long gone by then, with only corpses and the lack of data proof of his being there.

His eyes suddenly caught movement in what he guessed was the manager's office, not that he had much experience identifying such in places like this. He watched through the glass windows as a barely visible shadow crept towards the room's computer. The way the figure moved Mac assumed they weren’t exactly a welcome entity here either. He had to hope that his assumption about the basement being the right location for the data was correct and this other asshole was wasting his time, otherwise Maxson was going to be pissed.

The figure in the office must have seriously fucked up whatever tech wizardary they were trying to pull off, because suddenly every Maelstrom in the place stopped what they were doing, pulled their various armaments and started towards the office.

“Come on out with ya hands heat free, raised high and maybe we’ll only put you in a coma!” One of the gangers shouted, his compatriots giggling at him as they slowly walked towards the office, weapons aimed at it. “Though we should probably flatline ya outta respect for ourselves. Such a shit netrunner trying to hit-”

The metal-faced speaker was interrupted by automatic fire coming from the other side of the office windows, several rounds catching the man to the left of him and leaving his chest wide open, a cavity where flesh used to be. Mac made a split-second, possibly gonk decision, raising his own iron and headshotting the former spokesman, turning his dome into twisted metal. The singing of automatic fire apparently drowned the bark of Mac’s own hand cannon out because the last Maelstrom asshole didn’t even glance in his direction, instead simply continuing toward the office and unloading his own Copperhead through its windows. Mac raised his revolver again, squeezing the trigger and blowing out at least one of the man's lungs.

On the other side of the warehouse double doors burst open, with four more Maelstrom pouring through. Three of them fired off handguns and SMG’s, this time at Mac. Deeming the forklift inefficient for this kind of sustained fire he dashed right, heading towards crates he could use as cover and the manager's office even further down. Popping out from behind the first crate he reached he shot one of the aggressors through the thigh, watching him tumble as more fire came through the office windows and splattered what was left of him on his friends. Mac damn near smiled, grateful that he hadn’t taken such a risk to save an ingrates life.

He used his new found comrades fire as a distraction whilst he moved down further towards the office, firing off rounds himself between crates. He was stopped in his tracks when he caught a blur of a person in the corner of his eye. Before he could even turn to fire on them he felt a blow to his stomach that completely toppled him, his breath caught in his chest and he felt like there was suddenly no more air to breathe in the world. It almost felt like the couple of times he’d caught bullets except there wasn’t the wet feeling of blood seeping out, or the searing-fire like pain inside him.

He tried to get to his feet but was lifted via the throat before he could, what little breath he had regained being choked out of him. He looked down the arm of a metal creature he imagined once resembled a woman. Her arms, legs and even face were now chrome. Raising his Overture up with great effort he shot her once in the stomach, once in the chest and finally aimed at what he guessed acted as her mouth. Before he could fire his third shot he was thrown, as if weightless across the room. Time seemed to slow down as he flew through the air, then suddenly go in fast-forward as he hit glass, going straight through and tumbling into a dark room.

“Fucking… Gorilla… Arms.” He panted between deep, struggling breaths.

“That’s one tough bitch, alright.” A male’s voice responded out of the darkness. The clanking sound of a magazine falling to the ground sounded as he slid another into place and once again took to firing out of the windows.

Mac slowly got to his feet, picking up his dropped Overture and pulling his Lexington. Glancing out of the window he saw even more enemies than before, now taking cover and firing sporadically into the manager's office. He ducked and looked around, noticing both that there was an entrance to some stairs in the office and that his fellow merc had been hit and was bleeding rather profusely from his side.

“It’s too fuckin’ open in here!” Mac shouted as he fired his Lexington, catching a ganger moving between cover several times. “I say we delta up those stairs, one of us holds the choke point while the other flanks these half-’borg cunts!”

The other merc simply nodded, gritting his teeth as he held his wound and fired out the window one-handed, moving across to the stairway door all the while. Mac quickly followed, providing further covering fire with his auto-pistol.

“Wish I had a mine or two.” Mac spoke under his breath, covering the door as the wounded man slowly made his way up the steps. He watched him reach the top and quickly went up after him.

“Alright. You hold here. Don’t let any of those fucks get up these stairs breathing… I’ll go out on the catwalk and see how many of them I can kill from above. We good?” Mac asked, slotting another few rounds into the Overture all the while.

“Good.” The man replied weakly, leaning against the wall and gripping his Saratoga tightly.

Mac nodded and headed straight out the door, crouching slightly to make himself a smaller target he headed towards the first bit of concealment he saw; a bunch of boxes stacked on the catwalk, either being taken to or from the office. Before he could reach them he clocked a couple of more Maelstrom coming out a door on the opposite side of the catwalk to him, both carrying shotguns.

He swiftly raised up his pistols and opened fire, the Overture barking aloud even over the rapid spitting of the Lexington. He caught both men alike in the narrow space, with numerous rounds from the auto-pistol hitting both of them and at least one from the heavy revolver blowing open one of the gangsters' heads. The victory was short lived however as the sound quickly drew the attention of those below and the catwalk was suddenly alight with the sparks of gunfire. Mac sprinted across it, diving into a doorway for cover as rounds barely missed his legs.

“Guess I’m going back around.” He mumbled to himself.

"None on the bottom floor?"

"No, they're holed up on the top floor."

Eddie walked into a side door, all eyes and attention on the two Mercs thoroughly fucking up a simple job. It was pretty easy, taking a few grenades from an inside pocket and tossing them at a few crowds. Maelstrom was geniuses like that, nicely grouping up so they could be taken out en masse. By the time of denotation Eddie was already right behind Madam Gorilla Arms, the last sound the gangoon would ever hear was a fully charged M-76e before Eddie blasted it right at the base of the skull where skull and spine met; it was a weak point for a lot of Borgs. The smell of cranial fluid and blood and coolant was immediate, but not nearly as quick as the next three shots from the Fixer.

The difference in true shooting ability wasn't just accuracy, but precision. A gifted shooter had both, and they had it with reflexes that could make a lightning bolt spark in jealousy. Forehead shots hit three fellow Maelstrom that turned at the sound and sight and smell of their lady boss getting her front faceplate blown clean off with a charged shot from the M-76e. Dead, dead, and dead. She presumed Braddock and Merc #2 could, probably, maybe, hold the rest as she all-but-casually strolled to the railed staircase hidden behind a stack of metal crates that led down into the basement of the warehouse.

For a job that had gone so quickly and horribly to complete shit Mac couldn’t deny that he was also getting pretty damn lucky. Just when he was pinned down and his only real option left was to go and fight his way back through the main warehouse some lady-solo that made the myths he’d heard about Morgan Blackhand seem believable came in and started absolutely fucking annihilating the remaining Maelstrom. He watched from the catwalk as near every ganger on the warehouse floor got turned to red smears. Mac hadn’t seen shit like it since watching a squad of S.A.S troops in action back in his Legionnaire days.

Of course this meant he wouldn’t be completing the job, which meant he wasn’t getting paid. Better unpaid than dead as a fucking doornail though, which is what he’d be in two seconds flat if he went up against that woman. Very quickly deciding against that, he instead tried to quietly make his way back along the platform and towards the other merc. Least he could do was try and drag his ass out of here. He’d likely saved his life, even if he had fucked up the job first.

Walking back into the stairway Mac found the merc slumped on the ground, still clutching his wound and breathing shallow.

“Fuck me mate, you’re not looking your best.” Mac spoke quickly, leaning down and pulling a Bounce Back MK 1 out of his jacket pocket. He took the cover off and jammed the syringe into the man's thigh, pressing down on the injector.

“The job’s a no-go. There’s a woman out there who makes us look like cuddly toys. It’s time to delta… Can you stand?”

There among even more crates and discarded, broken, lifts was the terminal she was looking for. Multiple screens on an aluminum frame, though no cyberdeck. So either the resident netrunner wasn't here, never was here very often, or it was a simple setup that didn't require a netrunner to baby-sit it. The big cyberdeck sized empty space at the edge of the table used as a desk for the setup, and the racks of servers on either side of the table itself, pointed at the netrunner in residence had ran at the first sound of danger.

Eddie plugged in her link, and was immediately greeted with a white light and the kind of heat that only came from being kissed by fire. Her lungs didn't have enough air to scream, her body dropping to one knee from it's standing position immediately and involuntarily. The voice came into her head just as quick.

It will be alright. They set a trap for the link, in your haste you failed to check. You will need to see a ripperdoc, you are not in immediate danger. The others are.

"...EDDIE, TALK TO ME MS. FIXER, C'MON..."

Wincing, blinking, ears ringing and vision filled with dancing spots as Nix’s voice finally started to bleed into her conscious mind, she managed words in a low, gritted, tone. "No need to yell, Nix, I'm here. Data downloaded. I'm fine."

"Fuck you mean you're fine? You might have just gotten hit with a--"

"I'm fine, relax. Monitor the other two." She nearly killed the comms link to the Netrunner, but she didn't want to be disrespectful. Nix muttered something the ringing and swaying vision made hard to concentrate on, maybe, something about a 'fucking freak'? She didn't care, she quickly decided, as she went back to her feet and tightened her grip on the M-76e to the point where her knuckles went ghost white.

Now she just wanted to kill something. If no more Maelstrom were left, she just might kill Braddock for being such a gonk. And a liar. She hated liars. She found the two Mercs at the bottom of the stairs. It took Eddie a few moments of studying Braddock to realize he wasn't going to make it. Her temper and the anger that fueled it became a little devil on her ear, whispering in her ear to just end him quickly, dramatically. The other voice was no devil, but it was no angel, belonging to the man with the easy smile and the dirty blonde hair, with a voice that always sounded so amused, so full of energy and joy.

"C'mon, Etta. That's not the Ranger girl I know..."

The kind of smile that only appeared at the corners of her lips pulled at her face, pulled her mind away from the anger. She never looked at the direction of the man's voice. He wasn't there. She lost him years ago, holding him as he died, bled out in her arms. "You," her glassy blue eyes blinked up at the mystery Merc, her voice softer than it had any right to be in that moment, in that place, "watch the front of the building. Yell if anyone else comes."

Mac stared into the woman’s blue eyes for a second, simply standing there dumbly, distracted by thoughts of possible actions in this scenario. His merc friend was barely standing, Mac doing more to hold him up than his own legs were. That alone told him the medicine hadn’t done much for him. He quickly realized his initial realization was the only correct one.

“Yes ma’am.” He spoke quietly, slowly lowering the man to the ground and leaning him against the wall. “Thanks for covering me mate. Won’t forget it.” Mac gently squeezed his shoulder before standing and taking his leave. On his way out he saw the pure carnage they’d left behind. Blood, bodies and spent ammo casings all over the place.

Her eyes stayed on the other Merc as he went off, gun in hand, breathing fast. That hint of a smile slid across her lips to become a full, gentle, sight as she holstered the M-76e and lowered her body in a crouch until she was face to face with Braddock, the dying man that rested on the last few steps of the stairs from the second floor to the main warehouse floor. "Sorry...didja get, the, uh..."

"Yeah," Eddie nodded, slowly, "Yeah, I did. It's okay, Braddock. I'll make sure Joe gets enough money to get out of Night City without you. She'll get a new start somewhere else. No one's hurting her in this city." The smile widened as Braddock began to do what dying mean do; come to terms. She could offer only last comforts and a light touch. When he used the last of his strength to ask if he'd get a drink at Afterlife, she was kind enough to lie to him. And she hated liars. She took the man's weapon, and the Militech dog-tags from his corpse.

She found the other Merc standing out front in the yard, head going back and forth along the wall and the gates. He turned when he heard steps, his eyes stuck on the sight of her with Braddock's M221 Saratoga in one hand, down by her side. Gone were any hint or kindness, gentleness, or forgiveness in the woman's blue eyes. "Who's your Fixer?"

“James Maxson… Ex-6th Street turned small-time fixer after gaining something of a rep in prison.”

"Do you know what your pay was supposed to be?"

“Two thousand eddies. I charge more for Maelstrom related work due to them being such annoying bags of shite.” Mac smirked. “May have to up my rates even further now, didn’t consider the embarrassment of being thrown through a window before.”

She watched but didn’t find any sign of exaggeration or lie on his features, or body language. And he was quite forthcoming about the Fixer, Maxson. A name Eddie filed away for later, after visiting Braddock’s partner, Joe, tonight.

“My name is Eddie, Afterlife Fixer. Who are you?”

“Huh. Your position explains your skill. Or vice versa... I’m the son of Kieran, of the Iceni clan, but since Kieran is dead along with most of my people and its ways, folk just call me Mac. Mac the merc.” His broken half-smile was the only indication of sadness behind the otherwise monotone-voiced words. “Thank you for saving my life, Eddie. I’m sorry I couldn’t help him more.” Mac nodded at the Saratoga in the woman’s hand.

“He was dishonest about what he could do, Mac, otherwise I never would have put him in this position, and he never would have died. I did warn him to be honest. First Merc I’ve lost since I’ve come to Night City. Hopefully my last for a long time.”

It was a sad, frustrating thing, to lose a Merc. It also left a trail that she would now have to clean up, starting with the person the dead man cared for. But for the living…the idea rolled quickly from her mind to her lips, with the certainty of instinct behind it, “I’ll pay you five thousand. You keep what happened tonight to yourself. You don’t answer the calls of Mr. Maxson, while he can make calls, anyway. You want work? Come to Afterlife, I’ll give the bouncers your name. Shouldn’t be hard, with the face…uh, ink. I’ll be in touch. Use the money to get ready for work, Mac, son of Kieran, clan of Iceni.”

“That’s very generous. I accept, gratefully.” Mac nodded, smirking at her with a certain amount of uncertainty. Jobs like this rarely ended on such high notes. As he watched her walk away his smile grew a little and he thought on what to do next... Ash. He should go check on her.

That hint of a smile on her unpainted lips returned at the last flourish of his name, and titles. A reminder of what life was like in Europe for the Edgerunner Etta Autry. Whatever it was that became of her, anyway. When she was out of earshot of the young Merc she told Nix to pack it up, they were done. Job done, data secured.

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

Opening post is likely to be a collab between one of the players and myself as Eddie. It's already two pages of written words into it, and HOPEFULLY done no later than end of week.

Cyberpunk2077: 5th Corporate War

@Stitches and @Bazmund your characters are approved. Please move them over to the Characters tab at your earliest convenience.