Fandom Cyberpunk: Streets of Fire

[Midrick]

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Thornhill - Casanova

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Cyberpunk

Streets of Fire

01

In Character

Not backing down. Never backing down.

The Afterlife

Watson

“Hey Choom! I know you’re probably wondering how I found your email address, but that’s the beauty of having netrunners on the payroll right? Anywho, I heard from some chooms in low places that you’re in between a regular crew and fixer, luckily it seems we can both help each other out, I just so happen to need a group of talented edgerunners for a job that’s cropped up, real simple and easy eddies. If it sounds like something you’d be interested in, drop down to the Afterlife and ask for Eddie. We’ll be set for a respectable chunk of change (split fairly, of course) and if all goes well, this could be the beginning of a very profitable relationship.

I look forward to hearing from you : )”

"That E-Mail was too damn casual." Eddie thought as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Occupying a booth in one of the VIP lounges of the Afterlife, so far, the few potential mercs that had shown up in the early hours of the afternoon had been duds, junkies and fuck ups who were untouchable in terms of doing biz with. He idly nursed his drink as one of the crews that had recently come into Rogue's favor entered the bar, their raucous laughter and sounds of levity caused Eddie to frown. Memories of his past friendships and crew floated to the surface of his mind, but now wasn't the time or place to reminisce. Removing his suit jacket and suppressing the unwanted memories, he set the jacket beside him on the booth. Movement caught Eddies eye, a man with dressed in leather and adorned with the oh so familiar arachnidesque optics of a maelstromer slid into one of the adjacent booths surrounding the small table where a laptop and shard cases lay along with Eddies drink. "Konrad, how nice of you to swing by." Eddie's voice remained even, poised, some might even mistake him for a corpo with his preferred style of dress and professional attitude, and some might even call him a poser, but if there was one thing Eddie valued over anything, it was professionalism, in appearance and exection.

The afformentioned Maelstormer simply nodded and sipped from his drink. A David Martinez by Eddie's approximation, if anything the boosterganger had good taste in mixed drinks. Konrad was one of the more agreeable members of Maelstorm, still given to the extreme cybermodification and violent nature of Maelstrom, but Konrad kept most of his organics and rationality intact unlike some of his compatriots. "Didn't think we'd be seeing each other so soon again, But I hope your group of sorry-ass gonks has their shit together, because Richter is sliding off the edge. Hard." Konrad said as took another draw from the drink in his hand. Eddie's frown deepened at the mention of his and Konrad's shared problem.

Eddie had been made aware of a local gang of Maelstromers running a XBD operation in Northside, nothing out of the ordinary but enough to pique his interest, a potential client looking to shut it down could mean a sizeable payday for himself. What happened instead was that he was approached by an executive from Ronin Records, Kerry Eurodyne's personal label. Coincidentally one of said producer's hottest rising stars and meal ticket had disappeared after playing some dives in Watson. Being the smart cookie that he was, Eddie put his feelers out, and turned out Konrad, second in command and friend of Richter, head of the local collection of Maelstrom gangs and soon to be cyberpyscho if Konrad's report held any water. "How bad?" Eddie said as he nursed his own whiskey and silently began accelerating his timetable. "I known Richter a long time, guy's no angel, but the things he does recently is extreme. Even for me, to the point where the meatsacks the gang has been using don't make it past one recording session." Konrad shook his head as he continued. "Getting chipped multiple times damn near every week, tweaking the fuck out on his chooms, hell he even went on a rampage that killed two of our new guys a couple of days ago over a fucking scopdog. Now he's abducted that pop bitch and brought a shit ton of attention to our operation, and managed to piss off Dum Dum. He's gotta go."

Externally, Eddie's face remained impassive, but internally he was sweating bullets. Richter going cyberpsycho and skinning their girl alive would be disastrous for his rep, and a blow he doubted he could quickly recover from. Luckily, a ping from his netrunner notified him of more of his potential candidate approaching the Afterlife. A small smirk turned the corners of his lips as Eddie leaned forward and tented his fingers. "I believe the solutions to our mutual problem are on their way."

Code by Nano

 

[Karcen]

Madowasu (Aza) Azamuki
Mentions​

Earlier that day
" You sure about this job?" Isabella asked Aza who was laying face down in the ripper chair her back opened, synth skin peeled back and her cyberware exposed . the mess of cables and metal only making sense tot he practiced eye of a ripper and even more so just Isabella thanks to the custom bit that ran down her back that was clearly not the most polished piece of tech. This scene was not uncommon to any ripper shop. some client getting their parts checked and tuned up, it was even less uncommon given Aza was only able to use Isabella's services not just because she had made the special part , but the two lived together. That was why Isabella even questioned Aza's choice, normally a ripper shouldn't care what their client did, if they lived or died, but Aza was special. " What i heard Eddie got his last crew zeroed " She said while isabella was retired from the life of an edgrunner she kept an ear out and plenty of those that could afford her came to her clinic, being worked on by a former edgrunner was rather reassuring to many.
" The offer at least said it was a simple job easy eddies" Aza responded though she knew what was coming next as she knew what that actually meat.
" That's gonk and you know it kitty, remember a few months ago your last easy eddies job " isabella asked actually sounding annoyed
" Yes i remem..." Aza started but she was cut off

" You came home nearly missing a fucking arm do you know how much that cost ?" isabella asked poking said arm that had nearly been lost
" You gave me a bill so yes" Aza responded dryly, every job always seemed to add to her bill, there was no way she was ever going to get out of the debt like this. Aza sighed "[b] Listen i'll be carful Bell [/b]" Aza tried to start only to be stopped

" Don't think trying to be cute will get you out of a lecture " The older woman responded it was almost like a mother talking to her daughter and if anyone knew the ages they might think the same.
" Can we save it till after i come hurt half dead Bell " Aza asked still face down on the chair made table. She had gone through this so many times she didn't move which she used to and that would only annoy isabella more. " How does she expect me to pay her back if i don't take jobs?" Aza asked to herself unaware that in truth all she had to do was ask.
" if you come back hurt you are getting more than a lecture my kitty you are getting a new fur coat " Isabella said with an almost sinister tone.
Aza really did not get Isabella's desire to make her more cat like, but well it was their deal. She had to live with it and she had already grown used to what she had now. " fine fine i get it if anything goes wrong i'll delta asap " Aza sighed she wasn't really one to stay in a losing fight, but she tried to have some honor of not just ditching others.
Later at the after life

Aza walked down to the morgue made bar, outside were the neon lights that Aza always thought were so garish this place had once been a place for the dead and now it was for the soon to be dead. As always there were wannabies outside or just tourists, it didn't matter which but this place was famous and Aza always wondered just how such a place managed to exist with how much illegal activity took place in it. Well it wasn't her place to wonder what strings rouge had pulled to keep the corps out and the ncpd complacent about it to the point it was more an exclusive club over an elicit meeting place. She walked down the crowded entrance stairwell and to where the concrete gave way to sleek metal and neon as the music pounded in the background. it was funny to think how many legends walked through this way including the newest legend that already was inspiring a new generation of idiots to risk their life seeking to be a legend.
Aza moved to the bouncer who needed to only look at her for a moment his eyes lingering on her feline features as always. before he moved aside the two had met many times yet the animal turned bouncer never seemed to stop being amused by Aza's feline features. She had done enough jobs to have a minor reputation that had let her get into the afterlife awhile back, all you had to do was know someone that could vouch for you and you were in and well Aza had worked with several fixers that liked to show off by meeting here.
entering the afterlife proper Aza looked around scanning for the fixer that had messaged her. her face was a mask of stoic impassiveness keeping any emotions hidden deep inside. She had to play this cool. she wasn't a famous merc but she did try to make a reputation for herself. She tried to be the mysterious, but dependable ninja. She at least had the dependable part down the mysterious part not so much. she really wasn't exactly sure how to be cool and mysterious int ruth as well she had spent most of her life in a gang where cool was painting neon every inch of your body and sitting around . Well she also had the ninja part down in her mind so she just needed to do her normal trick to seem more mysterious. Speak another language, oddly it always seemed that if you spoke another language even a common one it gave you an air of mystery. she really did hope that that man wasn't here as if anyone else spoke your language you stopped having said air and it just became an annoyance. Then she saw him Eddie with some borged up maelstrom fucker, well it was better than a scav. Eddie stood out as much as the borg did, one looked like some corpo rat the other barely human. Well whatever the job shouldn't be to bad maelstrom rarely had the brains to think up complicated big plans. Likely they just wanted some rival gang member taken out.

" その問題とはいったい何なのか？" ( And what exactly might this problem be?) Aza asked as she walked to the table going to her act of speaking Japanese to sound more serious and mysterious her voice controlled not saying how she felt one way or the other. A fixer would of course have the software to translate what she said as did many people, if you were goign to wander the city you needed at least the most common ones ready to go. There was no telling when some gonk tyger claw would shout at you telling you this was their turf and you should fuck off, but never in English.

 

[Slowpokie]

Powder -★

Powder considered himself many things; a good singer, a great BD tech, and maybe an ok dancer - he had a long way to go there…

But being smart wasn't exactly in the deck of the cards life had so far dealt him. After all, many wouldn't take a job from a shady email some random person sent you. Much less actually come to the location they asked you to go.
His friends even pointed this out, that it could be a prank at best or a setup at worst.

But Powder had a gut feeling that this would be different. And his intuition never failed him… 50% of the time. This felt like it could bring him good things, could give his musical career the boost it needed - after all, a good rep can get you anywhere in Night City.

Sitting by the bar table with a Jackie Welles in hand, the young Rockerboy sips his drink, his eyes closed as he tried to psyche himself up for this ‘Eddie’ guy. It was dumb, feeling shy around people… and he never really is in any usual instance.

But tonight… Tonight feels different. His gut is rumbling, telling him that things won't be the same… and that, he's actually rather hungry at the moment.

 

[0stinato]

‘— ak regrèt J.J., but I must go. I have spent so long talking to you mezanmi dat I am missing my appointment! I have just seen a - uhmm - acquaintance walk by just a minute ago, oke, so you forgive me dat I am to leave now?’

Oscalie Clawette’s favourite Media guy cracked a grin with their rows of spiked teeth and waved their agent as Osca stood up from their booth.

‘I’ll make sure ta get a good pitcha’ of you all, just in case it’s the last time I see you. Don’t worry, I’ll be reeeal sly, like. Headin’ out into the badlands meself soon so, if you can’t contact me, don’t fret.’

‘Enben, make sure to get my good angle. Which is, naturally, all of dem.’

J.J. scoffed and waved her off with a good-natured insult and Oscalie left them, abandoning her empty glass on the table. Azamuki had arrived, her tell-tale - well - tail having caught Osca’s eye through the neon glow of the Afterlife bar. The fixer they were both to meet was unknown to Osca, so if they had come in at some point, Osca had missed them, but she could never miss Aza. Thus, she would navigate by Aza as she went, following the woman’s supposed direction to where the fixer likely was.

Aza had her finger on the solo pulse much more than Osca did. Until recently, she had been on the fringes of it all, mostly doing emergency patch-up jobs that were starting to become more frequent than her bodysculpting biz. They certainly brought in decent Eddies, and she could even get away with charging premiums if she assessed an injury to be particularly dire.

All that had got her thinking: instead of being a tertiary step in the chain of underhanded and sordid violence that underscored Night City’s economy, why not move closer? She had experience in defending herself at least, and with Aza’s training that defence had gradually been honed towards offence.

As the thought crossed her mind, she flexed her fingers. The Claws also flexed, each joint telescoping out to its full length before retracting again. Each finger was loaded with a Swiss army-knife of tools, each designed to either stop pain or cause it. For now, though, what tipped each claw was a SynthSkin fingertip, styled after her own hands (with painted nails), a necessity in a world run by touchscreens.

Ah, there was her friend, the most feline woman Oscalie had personally ever seen. She was seated in a booth with three others, only one of whom Osca recognised: a BD editor for the Mox.

The other two there, however…

Oscalie put in a chirpy smile as she leaned into the booth, not caring whether she was interrupting or not. A strangely ordinary-looking man, and a Maelstrommer. Oh well, who was she to judge a man for his choice of chrome? She knew her claws drew as many stares as he was likely to get. Besides, as an ex-Doll, she knew a regular guy could be just as dangerous as a lone Maelstrommer given certain factors.

‘Alo, I take it you are de Fixer? One of you, at least?’

Without waiting for an affirmation or denial, she slipped into the booth beside Azamuki.

‘Alo Aza, ou byen? You are good? How is it said - bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, wi? I am looking forward to working wit’ you on something… more exciting than we have done in de past. And to the rest of you I extend de same.’

--
Mentions: Karcen Slowpokie Midrick

 

[ThaDruid]

AFTERLIFE WC
​

He is bent down over the sink, washing his hands of dry, flaky, maroon blood. Was it his, from cutting his fingers on the bass-tar's new Razorwire™ strings at the last gig? Or from the psychofan that climbed on stage pleading for a vial of his blood, or any fluid that he was willing to excrete. That one he had to personally skewer and kick back into the heaving crowd. Violence always drove them into a frenzy. They tore into the gonk like starving wolves. After all, he'd interrupted STRIGOI's solo. You don't fuck with a rocker's solo.

"Hrm." Paweł grunts, rubbing his hands raw as he raises his head. The man in the mirror's scarred, pale and fleshy face stares back, the blocky metal visor's small lights blink rhythmically, the main optic turns a deep, rich red mirroring the blood flowing into the sink. He smiles a toothy, sharp smile.

More security. He needs hired huscle, holding the crowd at gunpoint. It's growing bigger than a one-man operation can handle. Edgerunners could do the job. It's half the reason he came at the Afterlife. This "Eddie" fixer was putting together a crew, people with balls and the right amount of stupid to answer a jobcall for merc work by a complete stranger. People like him.

He dries his hands, takes a look around, fishing in one of the inside pockets of his jacket.
All clear.
Paweł slams an airhypo in the side of his neck, injecting a quarter of the contents in his body. A microdose of Jazz, combat pilot drug. Just enough to keep his energy up. It fires up his nerves nigh-instantly, an electric shock through every fibre, even the artificial parts.
Let's rock.

AFTERLIFE BAR
​

Shouldering the bathroom door open, Paweł heads straight for the bar. Slams down on one of the stools, gesturing for the bartender. It's close to rush hour, he waits, steadily tapping his knuckles on the counter. He leans over, orders his drink: "A Weyland 'Boa Boa'." The barlady nods, pours, mixes, serves. Eddies are transfered. He takes the squat, square glass, gives it a smell, then a sip. Bold, powerful: the dark rhum dominates his taste buds, dancing with bitter coffe liqueur without drowning it out. Perfectly balanced. Paweł slams the rest of it back, clinking the glass back on the counter. Finally, his blood's running hot again, heart hammering in his chest.
Let's see this fixer.
He lifts his ass off the stool, plodding along to the lounges, where business is usually done.

The dandy's there, as expected, speaking with a maelstrommer, which earns him some points. The joytoys at the table are a curious addition: neon flamingo, cat and scratchy. Freaky bunch, tastes you'd expect on a 'strommer. Curiously light on the chrome, but judging anyone in Night City is an easy way to hypocrisy. At least there's gonna be an afterparty.

"Got your message. Here for the job." He carelessly takes his seat, not even waiting to be introduced, letting gravity do most of the work to bring his weight down. He takes up space, feet wide apart and arms on the couch's headrest, putting the goods on display. His knee starts bouncing, restless. He didn't look forward to what was coming next. Easily the worst part of the job, details to grind though, too much waiting around. He frowns, involuntairly jutting his jaw out and giving everyone a good eyeful of sharp teeth.

 

[Avi2023]

Krasnyy Bereg, the Red Shore, at the waters edge of what was colloquially known as the West Wind Estate, appeared to be little more than an abandoned shipping district to any naked eye; cybernetic or otherwise.

If you had an invitation, or the unfortunate luxury of being dragged through the maze of rusting shipping containers, you would be given access to the only holding the Soviets had in the entire west coast. Within one of the many flat unassuming industrial warehouses was a hidden heavily reinforced bunker door. The Bratva didnt install it- no one remembers who did. But the miles of concrete tunnels that laid beneath had been within the Organiskaya's control for generations now. Passed the tripwire, automated turrets, hidden pinhole lenses, and floor laced sensors was a small army of heavily armed men and women with the sole goal of 'trade'. And nestled somewhere in the middle of all the muscled boyeviki and shestyorka was a flickering neon sign reading 'Медицинская помощь' flanked by a red cross with a faint glow.

The clinic was no bigger than a North Oaks standard kitchen. Lit in deep red neon, a mix of heavy metal and industrial sounds, packed with powerful riffs, pounding beats, and eerie effects plays in the background from an old speaker. At the front was a small open space with an old couch and a bookshelf stocked with yellowed texts. The wall just above it graffitied with a faded Soviet flag stylized with circuitboard patterns. The back of the room had a tucked away lab for mixing compounds and synthesizing drugs, separated from the rest of the space by a heavy plastic curtain. Scattered datapads and hastily scribbled formulas in Cyrillic clutter the surfaces of otherwise professionally maintained locked containers, chemical analyzers, centrfugaes, and a 3D bioprinter. Not to mention the shelves of compnents and ready made drugs that lined the walls of this place. Three rows deep of accordion shelves secured nearly all of Organiskaya's medicine; tradable or otherwise. All house made by their resident remontnik.

Currently, the center of this small clinic was dominated by a large operating chair heavily lit by bright white light and decorated in hundreds of serial numbers. A crescent table was positioned nearby, housing a diagnostic screen and serval trays of instruments. The diagnostic tablet was currently propped up against a bust of Lenin, carved out and repurposed as a cybernetics and syringe dispenser, glowing outwards towards the ongoing operation between two members of the Bratva and Voodoo Boys. One looking not so well.

A boyeviki had came in ten minutes before, escorting two blindfolded Voodoo Boys into their medical facility. The remontnik, a broad man with tired eyes and a heavy rebreather perpetually fashioned to his face, only peered from behind the plastic curtain of his lab when a rough "Vrach?" came from the armed Organiskaya solider by the couch. One of the Voodoo Boys was bleeding all over his floor. With a heavy sigh, he got to work.

Zakhar had the wounded affiliate gang member on his chair and diagnosed in seconds. It wasnt exactly difficult to tell what was wrong, even passed the ramblings of the Voodoo Boy who had brought him in:
Infect wound, contracted sepsis. Foreign bodies present.
They treated the arterial bleeding with a bandage before coming to him.
No gangrene.
Opiate withdrawal. Wont give pain killers because of it. Argument.
Rib fracture.
Liver damage.
In short, the kid had been shot in the lower gut. Zakhar made quick work of it, administering antibiotics for the sepsis, naloxone for the withdrawals, and morphine for everything else. Only the liver was damaged, so he threw in thiamine as well. And an hour later, three bullet fragments had been extracted, and the Voodoo Boy was stitched up and patched. As if they had never been there in the first place, the boyeviki escorted the two Voodoo Boys out of his clinic and back out into the world where they belonged. Because of the 'neutrality' between the Organiskaya's, the Voodoo Boys, and even the Animals, Zakhar was expected to treat anyone who stopped by with a clear inspection. In exchange for future favors. A waste of supplies in his opinion.

The remontnik had but sat back down and ran his tired hands through the scalp of his tied hair before there was a knock at his door. Without pause, a man entered the space, wearing a dark purple shirt that turned nearly black in the red light. Zakhar recognized him immediately as Victor, his krysha. He stood to meet his fellow Bratva, removing his gloves to greet him, but Victor took it a step further after clasping Zakhars hand, bringing him in for a strong hug before rattling in his ear in their mother tongue.

"[You're looking paler than ever, Iron. Youd be happy to hear the news Ive got for you! Youre going outside!]"

--

And that was how Zakhar ended up standing in front of The Afterlife. Dressed casually in a thin black hoodie- though it appeared a bit thicker due to the material hidden beneath his jacket- the only thing that made him stand out was his mask. Not all too odd in city. But paired with his height, he drew some attention. So, he had a few sedatives primed in his sleeve cuffs should anyone feel like picking on a crippled giant today.

It wasnt difficult to find the fixer who had been intercepted by his krysha. At the moment, he was the only corpo looking man surrounded by a cast of netrunners who certainly didnt look like they had ever so much as laid eyes on one another. Except for two of them. He recognized Pawel 'STRIGOI' and Osca 'Clawz'. Zakhar stopped a few feet away as he made eye contact, and held up a gloved hand in a subtle greeting before looking to the apparent fixer.

"Eddie."

He said this both as if he was greeting the man as well as establishing he was in the right place. Voice rough from scars and passing through his rebreather. Regardless of any warranted answer, Zakhar remained standing with his heavy hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

 

[StormWolf]

Tetsuro Kincaid

Ronin // Life is cheap/Living costs a fortune

>//: Minami’s Apartment, The Glen_

You don’t shit where you eat.

It’s a simple rule of thumb, basically scripture in the Streets. You leave your baggage at the door, you take your shoes off before entering so you don’t track blood into your home; you plaster on the liar’s face when you go to work. Clock in, clock out; be the one that cranked the handle on the Night City meat grinder, or be the one going in…

”Where are you, onii-san?”

Minami’s voice tore Tetsuro out of his train of thought. Wherever it was going, he was thankful for it. Blinking a few times, Tetsuro looked to his sister, one angular brow arched incredulously. Minami’s chopsticks clacked at him like an accusatory crab claw, drawing Tetsuro’s eyes to the wad of noodles and synth-tonkatsu that had hung cold and forgotten in his grip,

“Ah…” Tetsuro said, dropping the food into the bowl with a plop, his utensil following in short order. “Sorry, Mimi. Just work. Not much of an appetite.”

“But plenty thirsty, huh?” Minami flicked her eyes to the two empty bottles of kirrin by Tetsuro’s elbow. “We don’t work at Arasaka anymore, onii-san. You don’t need to pretend what you do is legitimate.” There was a venomous bite to her tone as she reached across the table, setting Tetsuro’s chopsticks across his bowl, as was proper.

”The eddies spend all the same,” Tetsuro said with a shrug, taking the last swig of his kirrin. Out of habit, he reached for his pack of yeheyuans, but the knife-sharp leer from his sister stayed his hand.

“Blood money,” she muttered.

“And you still spend it.”

Silence fell over the dining table like a funeral shroud, disturbed only by Minami’s kids playing Elflines Online in the other room.

“They look up to you, onii-san. I don’t want them to pick up any bad habits… or poor table manners.” Minami picked at her food, hiding her eyes behind the black opal tones of her hair.

”Right,” Tetsuro said with a slow nod and an even slower sigh, pushing himself up from the low table. The pack of yeheyuans was in Tetsuro’s palm, cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Wait-“

”No, you’re right. You’re right. You’ll get your share of the blood money on time, don’t worry. They won’t know where it comes from.” Tetsuro said, grabbing his jacket and stepping into his shoes by the door. Suit, tie, ballistic jacket, and combat boots. The more things change the more they stay the same.

Tetsuro waited until he was in his car before lighting up, taking a long drag, letting it hang there until his lungs ached. Synching his Agent with his car console, Tetsuro started scrolling through his messages. Spam, phishing scheme, spam… ah, some gigs!

Repo, wetwork, bag and tag… dirty deeds all done dirt cheap. Tetsuro needed something with a little more oomph. Something that’ll replace the month-overdue milk in his fridge, pay his rent, and put a drop in the family bucket. But what?

[Hey Choom! I bet you’re wondering…]

Normally, whenever Tetsuro saw a message like that from a non-mutuals contact, he tossed it in the digital shredder, but something made him hesitate. He gave it a read, the car cabin growing hazy from the cigarette.

“This email is too damn casual…” Tetsuro muttered to himself, ash sprinkling onto the breast of his jacket. Well, not like he had a leg to stand on for etiquette. Afterlife, mystery job, supposedly easy pay.

It was a gamble. Tetsuro liked being informed upfront, seeing the pieces on the board so he could keep a few steps ahead. Going in blind made his palms itch. Drawing his iron from the glove compartment, Tetsuro chamber-checked the Liberty before holstering it, pocketing the spare magazines at the slots on his belt and in his jacket pockets. There were some constants that would stay in Tetsuro’s control.

“Afterlife it is. Sorry, ‘wako.” He jabbed a few keys to send off a reply to this Eddie. Like the currency? Ugh.

[Ronin//> I’ll be there_]

***​

Neon glared sharply off of the mirrored glass of Tetsuro’s shades as he stepped out of his car. It was a bet up hunk of junk; hardly worth the parts, and it would take a special kind of gonk to boost a car from the Edgerunner bar. Still, Tetsuro could only hope that the carbon fiber and blackened silver of his sword would be enough to keep even the dumb-fucks at bay.

He held the familiar heft the the kendachi-III loosely in his left hand, thumb rolling over the hexagonal tsuba, ready to free the blade latch with a simple flick as he descended the stairs into the Afterlife.

The fridge in mirrorshades manning the door held one shovel-sized hand in front of Tetsuro’s face, the Solo clenching his teeth to chew swallow the urge to bite off a finger.

“I’m here for Eddie,” Tetsuro said through his set jaw. The bouncer’s eyes glimmered with a cool fiber optic flare, then he nodded and stepped aside.

Necromantic green neon muted all other colors. Bodies twisted hypnotically to the low pule of music, dancing within their repurposed cryovats, breasts pressed flat against the curved glass. Tetsuro passed them by to lean at the bar, waving down one of those tending,

“Sake bomb, Kirrin,” he said, leafing out a crumpled bill from his jacket pocket. Nothing fancy. A pint of japanese beer with a shot of sake dropped in it. Normally it would involve balancing the shotglass on a pair of chopsticks, slamming the table and slamming the drink back in a race with your chooms, but with celebration and chombattas in short supply, Tetsuro soberly savored his drink.

The irony.

The small crowd gathering near one of the booths was hard to miss. Crooking one sleek eyebrow, Tetsuro pushed himself up from the bar and stalked closer. It was quite the motley crew, the borghead notwithstanding. Tetsuro drummed an itchy trigger finger against the Kendachi’s scabbard, letting is slither lower in his grip, upended until he was using it like a cane. His head turned as he heard his mother tongue, arching his split brow at the modest exotic,

“この場所で文明的な人に会えて嬉しい” <Good to see someone civilized in this place>, he said over a sip of his drink.

“So, the gig? With a full crew, no less?” Tetsuro leveled his stormy blue eyes at Eddie, taking a measure of the young man. Fixers were always more than they seemed. It came with the role. At least, Tetsuro hoped so. He wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to do wetwork for a neo-nepo, but with the alternative being breaking knees and collecting fingers in Japantown,the Ronin was at least willing to listen.

 

[Karcen]

Madowasu (Aza) Azamuki
Mentions​

Aza was careful not to let her durpeiseshow as Osca appeared and seemed to be on the job. Aza had trained her well enough, but sge still thought of the ripper as a friends of Isabella. Well that meant this job couldn't be the most demanding, Osca wasn't the greatest merc in Aza's mind. She had a nickname, but everyone got them only those like Aza already going by a fake name, with her's being very blatant, has no need of one. Besides if she got a nickname then it would end up being something stupid.

Then someone else spoke in Japanese abd Aza was annoyed, yeah people could speak it and plenty did, but two people seemingly on the sane team made it less of a thing. It became less of a stand out feature a mysterious thing and more just an annoyance. It didn't help that Ronin was not the silent serious type. Him being him ruined the vibe of the character Aza was trying to build up. So now she didn't feel like doing it right now.

" Isabella is threatening me with a new fur coat so there is that " aza said to Osca who would know the situation Aza was in with Isabella. She would also know the older ripper would make good on her word. Those listening would notice tgat now that Aza had switched back to English there was no accent she spoke both well enough to sound natural.

 

[Teh Frixz]

Amaryllis

Half burnt, fully baked
Karcen Slowpokie StormWolf Avi2023 ThaDruid 0stinato Midrick
​

Amaryllis was lost. It wasn't a stretch to say that yeah, most of the time she was lost in some philosophical sense, but it was happening more and more that quite literally, she was lost. Ironic too, as she'd actually been to the Afterlife before. A few times actually, working a different sort of gig each time. As huscle for a desperate rockerboy, as a joy toy for a chromefetishest scrounging around for BD material, and the last time she'd been in, as a courier hiding data in her ratnest of a brain. It wasn't glamourous but when you lived on the perpetual edge of chemical starvation, you didn't say no to much.

She didn't say no at all really, that pattern of behavior extending to her inbox as well. Usually resulting in her getting flooded with spam, occasionally viruses but street-net level crap like that didn't do much to her. Half her systems were perpetually out of date and consequently, difficult for script kiddies to actually understand what was going on inside her head. Just muck and scopware all melded together by heat and an unwillingness to go easy into the beckoning darkness.

Giving in, Amaryllis looked up from the ground. Her slouched posture hung her head over the concrete beneath her feet, her eyes kept on the ground as she wandered the city while waiting for the next source of money to present itself. Her neck creaked and she could feel chrome pressing against the underside of her skin, nodules slipping back into place as she straightened her body up. A flickering image broke through the interference in her eyes, coordinates playing out for her to see. She grinned, guessing something had worked itself loose in her head, brought back into the fold as she stood straight. Afterlife wasn't as far away as she'd been expecting, merely a half mile back the way she'd come from. Turning on her heel, Amaryllis started the hike back towards the morgue turned bar. Another offer for work, probably fake but it was a good story and she needed a hit of something. If anything it was a good story for the bouncers.

--------------​

Half an hour later, Amaryllis felt a spark inside her shoulder. A small singe of pain that travelled up her neck and settled in her ear. Scratching violently, like a flea bitten dog, she kept unblinking eye contact with the bouncer who had stopped her at the door.

"Amaryllis, you ain't coming in like that."

"Yes I am"

"No you aren't"

"Tell me again why?"

"Because half-psych'd fodder don't sit well with Rogue in here Choomba. You could short-circ, if you aren't already"

"I'm chill, full preemmmmm-" Her voice scratched, rolling with an electronic hiss "Got a meet anyways, Eddie?"

"Offering?" His eyes met hers before shifting to focus on the spot between her eyes, just above her nose. He wasn't looking her in the eye. It meant he felt guilty, she supposed. But then again, it could all be gonk thought.

"Token, give ya ride later?" She tried to smile, but with her eyes maxed open it came off more worrying than sexy. The bouncer shuddered but it must have been enough for him. He didn't say anything, just nodded. "Preem." She started past him, patting his cheek. Her chrome was already warm, hot to the touch but she didn't linger long enough for him to possibly reconsider. Afterlife once again accepted her.

---------------------------------------
​

She could have been a looker, that sort of pretty enough to make passersby stop to consider their situation in life and if they should risk a shot at her but the way she walked now, the way she twitched and her face didn't react. Looker she was, but more so in the sense now of what the fuck is keeping her moving. She had something of a rep at this point, for what it was worth, a dangerous, expendable dependable asset that just hadn't died yet. Somehow.

For her part, at least she hadn't been huffing today, her systems couldn't take it. She needed to vent soon so that meant no drinking combustible liquids today. Last time she did that, she set her hovel on fire. No no, despite what the bouncer thought, she was dressed in her best. Showered and as clean as one got in NC, that sort of chemical clean that despite killing all the germs didn't feel quite right. Her apparel, a jumpsuit folded down to the waist, tied off and in one piece. It probably didn't look it but Amaryllis was wearing her best.

The flickering interface in her head switched from hugging the floor to pointing straight towards the booth where it seemed most likely the recipients of that email were gathering. Amaryllis half clawed, half pushed her way closer and took stock of the individuals awaiting the words of their fixer.

"Eddie with the eddys..." She grinned and announced herself to the Fixer. feeling that spark finally diminish, floating away from her ear and settling inside her in the good sort of way that chrome malfunctions did. A growing flame that led her from one job to a deal to a job again. She glanced at everyone, taking in the crew of gonks that had shown up. "Cat exotic, rockerboy, some sort of ripper, saka' washout, Rocker-man, and that must be a fixerrrr..." She pointed at Eddie, guessing he was the source of the gig by how everyone was sitting around him like altar. "Getting worked up, ready to party." Amaryllis' pointing industrial claw turned into a wave, a gesture of hello. "You all get offer too? Must be good gig."

Being this close to a job, it felt like someone lit a fuse in her. She was starting to feel explosive, lethal, a building pressure as her internal systems started firing off. She wasn't going to freak here but she'd need to soon.

 

[Worthlessplebian]

Art by Kobe Sek
Siegfried "Sigi" Koning
The V0lk of NC
Interactions: Teh Frixz (Amaryllis) Avi2023 (Zakhar), Midrick (Eddie) ; Mentions: Everyone else;
​

A harsh wind groaned through the old, shunned district. Winnowing through the aging, towering buildings that cast a multi-hued brilliance in the pale, polluted darkness as neon-holographic advertisements winked and flickered, their searing surfaces snatching the attention of the churning mass, as technicoloured as the glinting lights above, that passed between the monoliths of steel and glass below. It wound through locale until it reached the abandoned warehouses of the Northside Industrial District. The faint pulse that underscored the fading life elsewhere had been silenced amidst the desolate warehouses, the burning wreckage of heavy machine scrap, the creak of rusted pipes whose contents long ago drained. A haven for the squalid criminals and their recidivism. It was a haunt for ghouls and the souls unbound.

Siegfried toiled and worked in the weak illumination, the grease pit resounding with the whir of well-machined tools and the clang of metal, it was noise that often blunted the hard edge that lined his thoughts, he was accustomed to it as the tattoo of his heart. A peace he so seldom relished years ago beneath the yoke of unending greed. He breathed, palming his cheek as his cyberarm fell away from the vehicle's undercarriage, face slick with sweat, crusted with oil. He turned and made for the steps, wiping his hands with the cloth tied to his waist. His head shifted, grey eyes on the client seated by the ribbed garage door, affecting an inexpensive, black suit, attention solely devoted to his phone's screen. The Engineer-turned-mechanic rounded the sleek steed's form, approaching a terminal. The shop had been his safehouse for years now. It was a small repair station for the multitudes of transport haulers moving through the subdistrict. The location, the state of its disuse, but the security of its walls proved to be an attractive claim. It took him five grueling months to renovate by his own hand.

Obsidian, metal digits danced across the keys, low clicks soft on the silent floor. The light that emanated from the screen shifted as a new tab scrolled across the display, the detailed schematics of the car spun before the updates from the modification registered. Siegfried nodded, then glanced up at the client whose focus remained undisturbed. He tapped a single key and a roar slashed through the dead, dim silence of the shop. The man started. "Shite," he called out, voice tinged by a foreign cadence. Siegfried was staring at him over the top of his monitor, grin cleaving his angular features. "You should pay more attention." He cautioned, tone lent a flint-edged roughness by the accent of his lineage, almost at odds with the location of his residence. "Yeah, seems easy to be zeroed." The client allowed, hand tearing from his chest. "So, has the ownership transferred?" He looked to the car. The Engineer glanced beyond the car, then back to display. "Fully authorised ownership, you're free to drive to your heart's content." "Preem, preem."

As the man paced to Siegfried, his eyes caught the tarpaulin-covered shape inset in the back. "What's that?" He pointed. Siegfried's moon-jeweled eyes followed the man's gaze to the shrouded form. Suddenly, his muscles bunched, a tension rippling through his muscles beneath his pale skin and subdermal flex-plates. His hand clenched tight, before he breathed. "That? Restoration project, hit a standstill, can't find the parts I need." He answered, voice smooth. "Really? But you're a mechanic, shouldn't you find some?" "So few enjoy the fruits of fortune." "What—" The man began to say. But got no further as Siegfried's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "Nothing. Look, the night is young so why don't you go out there and party, perhaps visit Moxie's with your new ride. If you need anything, you'll know where to find me." The customer jutted his chin, eyes wandering to the car's inky black surface. And the garage doors clattered slowly upwards, leaving an exit for a nocturne of opportunity. With glee overflowing, the customer turned to Siegfried. "Thanks, Sigi!" Sliding another roll of eurodollars across his workbench, a bonus for rendered services.

With his client departed, the door rolled shut with a crash. Siegfried waited, counting the seconds, his eyes on the security cameras, breath chained in his chest. The car disappeared around the corner, along with its vibrating engine. His lungs whistled, muted relief spreading through his mind.

He turned to the obfuscated vehicle, his left arm went up, sleeved rolled to expose the inky black sheen of his cybernetic. His finger played across its length. There was a lowly crackle as a surge traveled through its omnichromatic coating, a crimson shade dripping, overtaking the darkness. And then, beneath the tarp, it came to life with fury and scorn. Its engine hollered, reverberating 'round the room like a tiger to its meat. Beneath the veil, its headlights smouldered like twin suns in a starless night. A sharp, wrathful gaze that seemed to glare, though they were only motionless objects. "I should find a better place for you, but then I can't get to you, you old lady." The brief stab of paranoia abandoned him, as he cut his bike's engine, the burning red of his arm melted away into the glassy obsidian once again.

He cleaned up the clutter of his latest job, then sat down at his terminal to peruse the current events of Night City. When a notification blinked on his screen, its fuzzy outline hard on his eyes. It was from an unfamiliar email. Siegfried grunted, his expression darkened. He read the message and clenched his hand, metallic fingers scraping. He rose from the chair, preparing himself for the rendezvous unwarranted and unneeded.

He threw off the dropcloth, the light gleaming wickedly from the motorcycle's scarlet frame, reflecting the stare of Siegfried's helmet. He mounted the bike. It was the Idisa. A bike untouched by spoils of the megacorporations, an apex predator refined through careful modifications and success, a stalker that prowls through Night City's dark depths.

Siegfried guns the engine, blazing past the doors, dust kicked up in eddies as he leaned hard into the corner. The howl of his engine carries across the barren subdistrict until it fades into the growing night. Soon, he will ride into the Afterlife upon the valkyrie's back.

----

He rode down the street, hemmed by the buildings at flanks, a carmine blur dodging around the traffic that almost matched his speed. As he neared the bar of legends, his speed ramped down. He eased on his brakes slowly, rolling to a stop against a waste container. He placed a boot on the concrete, glancing up at the seafoam green symbol — the peak of a heart's beat. Its entrance bathed in the soft glow. He dismounted, gloved hands going to the pockets of his bright red long coat.

And soon, Siegfried found himself in the pit of vipers. Across the floor, he noticed the eclectic gaggle of individuals; from the mundane to the unexpected. He went up, just as another had joined their number, espousing the irregular nature of their appearances. He stopped behind her. "And a badger with no dachshund around." He adds his comment into her description. The stylised, charcoal skull bore down on her, before stepping beside the augmented woman. His helmet shifted, gaze focused on the fixer. "Edward — Eddie, then. I don't much like these types of invitations. So if you may, elaborate on the details now."

And in the corner of his periphery, he thought he saw someone familiar. He did not address him directly, but merely nodded his recognition to Zakhar, the Iron Lung.

 

[americanCaeser]

Michael Smith
"Descending into Sin, a Fish Out of Water."
Mentions: Everyone Assembled in the Afterlife so far.
​

The bouncer looked down at the alcohol stained piece of paper and up at the Bennie standing patiently in front of him, hands in his pockets. He was visibly anxious, but only in the way a guy like him would be in an unfamiliar environment, like how a beaver would act like any other basement bar in Night City. Except in this case, it was an out-of-town 'ganic in the least nova clothes he's ever seen in his life. And when he said 'ganic he meant it, the gonk didn't look like had a single piece of chrome or circ at all. That alone wasn't totally unbelievable, it was a big town, but everything else about the guy made him stand out as someone who didn't have the context to understand the gravity of his situations. To him, it was probably a tough looking hole-in-the-wall bar and not one of the most infamous and sought after holy sites of the cities Legends. Anyways, the big man lowered his hand holding the paper and stared at the guy.

"You're sure this is the right place, choom?"

"I mean, this is The Afterlife, right?" He pointed up towards the sign to make his point. "I was told an Eddie hung out here sometimes? Is he in?"

"Yeah, he is, just-" The bouncer shook his head and looked back down at the note.

'Hey, whatup choom? JSYK, this guy's a good egg and needs some help, so I figured I'd send him Eddies way. Gonk still owes me, so I figured he could sort this Bennie out. Point him wherever that Gato is stuffin' it these days would ya? -No Dick Nick.'

No Dick Nick was an Edgerunner a few years back before suffering a wound that gave him his unfortunate handle. Tried his hand at being a fixer, and when that fell through just settled for selling cheap booze to anyone willing to scratch up the Eurobucks. He was an idiot, but the type people were happy to drink with every now and again... and that meant his word meant something. The bouncer had half a mind to tell him to ghost it, and he would've if it weren't for this Bennie's perfect timing.

"Yeah. Eddies in, talking biz with a crew right now so... I don't know, don't do nothin' stupid. Got it?"

"Yes sir."

The bouncer couldn't help but chuckle.

"Ain't no fucking sir." The doors opened up, and the few gonks that hung around the entrance almost gawked as the guy who had zero preem walk into The Afterlife. But any who wanted to grumble kept it in under the Bouncers intimidating stature and stare.

~ ~ ~ ~

"And he'll help me out?"

The older guy behind the bar cackled, his false eye glinting menacingly in the poor-lighting despite the owners mirthful nature.

"Fuck no! Eddie would tell you to fuck off before runnin' a charity case, 'specially for me." He grabbed the dished that remained from Michael's lunch. "But the idiota owes me one to give you a job, any job, and from there you can work off whatever agreement you come up with. Probably just doing the little crap he's too lazy to do himself."

Michael frowned, looking down at the message scrawled on the dirty napkin.

"I'm not gonna lie, I'm surprised you're going out of your way to help me like this." Michael looked up and smiled. "Thank you, I mean it."

"Ah it's nothing. Not like I was ever gonna use that favor for anything anyways, 'sides... ah, never mind. You oughta Delta. The Afterlife's a short walk from 'ere, Eddie will either be around or one of his chooms will be. Good luck findin' your bro!"

'Thanks', Michael mentally gulped as he walked into the lions den, 'I'm gonna need it.'

The bar looked like someone cleared out a Morgue (Oh, Afterlife. Morgue. Clever.) and converted it into a bar specifically designed to cater to probably some of the most dangerous people Michael has ever been in the presence of. Sure, most had the most bizarre augmentations and prosthetics imaginable grafted onto most of their bodies, but mostly it was their attitude. He was an outsider, and a lot of them knew it.

Okay, breath, you're fine. No one is going to kill you... probably. Okay someone might but no one is doing it now, so it'd be best to stop standing in the middle of the floor like an idiot where all of these very dangerous and intimidating people were staring at youandgettheheckoutofdodge-

Michael's eyes suddenly focused on a particular table, hosting an eclectic mix of individuals. Of those, he noticed one who matched the vague description Nick gave him. So that was Eddie...

Michael debated going over and talking to him right now, but he looked busy. So he walks over to the nearby counter and sat down to wait for Eddie to finish up his meeting. Was he acting like an indecisive weirdo? Yes. But this was a rather unusual situation for all parties involved, and it felt weird that he felt like the odd one out somehow. The bartender approached him, giving him an odd look.

"What can I get you?"

"Oh, uh, just a water, please."

"Ha! Oh wait, you're serious." The bartender shrugged. "One water, comin' up."

 

[Slowpokie]

Powder -★
Mentions: americanCaeser . Everyone else.

With a little bit of time and liquor in his system, Pow's nerves steadily dissolve, and his usual relaxed persona comes back in full force. He notices the people piling up in the booth.
Amongst the sea of strangers was a body sculptor he recognized, although the two hadn't really interacted properly, having spared a few words here and there at Lizzie's.
It's nice to know there's one familiar face here.

As he sits at the bar table to finish his drink, he notices the stool beside him grow heavier. Turning his orange eye to the side, he sees a brown-haired man order a cup of water. It made him mildly amused.

“You know, if you ever wanna dabble in some of the drinks here, I'd recommend the Jackie Welles. It's pretty tasty! You can really taste the dash of love... and a little something else.” Pow chuckled softly as he sipped on the brim of his cup, savouring the taste.

He focuses his gaze back onto the man, his head resting on the palm of his hand. “How long have you been doing this kind of work for?” The BD tech asked Micheal, his attention focused on the man beside him.

 

[americanCaeser]

Michael Smith
Mentions: Everyone Assembled in the Afterlife so far.
Interacts: Slowpokie Powder
​

Michael was looking around the bar curiously when he heard someone speaking to him. He turned and blinked in surprise as he saw the extremely colorful individual. Seriously, colorful eyes, colorful hair, colorful clothes, and these ridiculously long eye lashes. But unlike the vast majority of this places occupants, he seemed nice and friendly. Michael felt some tension bleed from his shoulders as he turned to face the multi-colored individual.

"'Jackie Welles'? I'll take your word for it, but I'm trying to keep my head right now. Maybe I'll try one afterwards!" It was an odd name for a drink, but most bars he encountered were like that.

But Michael was taken aback by the follow up question. Did he really think Michael was some sort of... gun for hire? He wasn't offended by the insinuation, just surprised. He figured out of everyone here, he'd be the last person someone would pick to be hired muscle. Honestly, it was kind of flattering but he waved the question off.

"Oh, no. I'm not... I don't do jobs like this. I just wanted to talk to Mr Eddie over there, but he seemed busy so I'm waiting. I'm hoping he can help me out." He blinked and reached into a pocket inside his coat jacket. "Actually, on that note..."

He pulled out a photograph and placed it on the counter between them. It had three people on it, one was a younger Michael by about a few years, as well as another guy of similar age standing on either side of an old, balding man. All were smiling.

"Have you seen this guy on the left around at all? His name is Gabriel Smith, maybe just goes by Gabe?"

Michael flinched and lightly smacked his head.

"Oh, stupid-" He held out his hand for a handshake, smiling nervously. "My names Michael. I'm from Montana, looking for my brother Gabe. What's yours, friend?"