Chapter Text
Hontou ni utsukushii mono no tameni shinitainda
Datte ikiteiru dakede yogoreru kara
Shinette kimochi wo nomikonde
Uchigawa kara zutazuta ni naru
Chini mamireta kono tamashii de nani wo suru?
The Cherry blossom market was pulsing with life even in the early morning hours. The bustling area was full of people hollering about the goods they´d offered, yelling their good mornings in several different languages, or just shouting over the stalls in mostly friendly quarrels. The smell of spicy food in the air was mixed with the thick scent of burning incense laid at the feet of a newly erected statue of Senju Kannon, the goddess of mercy.
In the white neo-Japanese traditional dress she had worn since the opening ceremony, the thousand-armed goddess overlooked the market and the surroundings with an iron gaze. It was a good spot to hold a shady meeting because no one would dare to draw a weapon under her watchful eye. All gangs respected her presence and the protective hand she held over this part of Japantown.
It was a place that most reminded him of home, as it once was, in the corner of his mind, hidden behind the romanticised veil of childhood memories. In there, the cherry blossom trees bloomed in pink hues the holo projection couldn´t even fathom. And each year during the Hanami, the people dressed their best, though they scarcely had money to support themselves, and they joined the long procession of sakura tree admirers.
It also meant a fair full of lights, smiling faces, bright fireworks at night, the best food in the world, and a lot of charitable people who would spend a dime on the poor and sick.
A lot of pockets to steal from, too.
These were the less fond memories—the shameful ones he didn´t recall very often. These were the “humble” beginnings he seldom talked about, even when he was wearing a fine suit and bore the Arasaka sigil on his chest.
Takemura Goro was back to square one. To his “humble” beginnings. A man with no name, no honour, no meaning and no path in his life. Merely a shadow of his former self unleashed and reduced to a tool. A weapon others paid to wield in order to do their bidding and low deeds. Bitterly, he had to thank for this fate to a woman he once secretly deemed a worthy companion and an honourable person before she left to selfishly pursue her own goals and vanished from his life.
However, it is said that Bakemonos usually have the biggest impact on one's life once they disappear. He recalled the time they sat on the construction site overlooking the Arasaka Industrial Park for the recon before the dashi parade heist. He should have known that the cat that suddenly appeared was no Bakeneko. The animal was simply drawn to the creature next to him, for V was no mere human.
In the legends of old, the spirits and demons brought misfortune to simple people or helped them on their path. Goro wanted to hate her for abandoning him and bringing him back to the gutter, but somehow, he knew she was there to show him the way of the world.
In her trembling hands, covered in blood, V held the keys to his cage. And as a parting gift, she left the cage open for him to come out. It was both a blessing and a curse because she left a mirror there for him to see what he used to be and what he was turning into. The rigid, stoic man of honour who served the cruel gods of avarice slowly disappeared, replaced by an evil spirit people feared.
They called him the Akuryō. He was more of a ghost than a man, a spirit roaming the streets of Night City endlessly without a goal until given one. He shed more blood in these past three years than in service to Arasaka—bathed in it, really—turning himself into one of the most ruthless solos in the NC.
There was a huge bounty on his head for the alleged murder of both Saburo and Hanako, but the headhunters learned pretty quickly he was a prey they were simply unable to catch. He left a trail of bodies for all to see as a clear message that he was not to be trifled with.
The Tiger Claws honoured his presence in their territory, and if he answered to anyone, it was Okada-sama who offered him salvation when he was truly lost. She was his benefactor when it came to replacing his Arasaka–made chrome because she'd seen a well-trained man who could have been useful to her.
Takemura knew better than to let this offer slide. Wakako Okada was a woman of principles who kept her word. They struck a deal - she´ll help him, and he´ll pay his debt by being her number one solo. That was two years ago.
He was free of the debt now, and she called him her most trusted associate. Given her ruthlessness and his efficiency, it was a match made in hell. In a city overflowing with newcomers and Militech-contracted mercs, Okada-sama quickly rose into being a top-tier fixer, sharing the imaginary throne with the Queen of Afterlife herself and the elusive Mr Hands, whose power stretched over Dogtown and Pacifica, having both Barghest and the Voodoo Boys under his thumb.
The smaller fixers either understood the food chain or vanished into thin air. This was a new law now that kept the tip of the scale slightly tilted in favour of the lowlifes of Night City. It was still a free city, and those who lived in the shadows waged a slow and silent war against the dominance of the corporations.
The Arasaka Rónin was on their side, as this godawful gutter they called a City of Dreams became his home, his road to perdition and redemption alike.
He passed by several stalls, securing a strong cup of tea, which he accepted with a grateful bow. The woman gave him a bright smile, as always. He helped her a year ago when she was caught in a crossfire between the Valentinos and the Claws. Offering tea every time she saw him was her way of repaying him for her life. And he politely accepted and bowed, for in him she saw an honourable man who selflessly saved her from harm.
And it would be rude to tell her otherwise.
The mornings in the Cherry blossom market were hectic. Not so much in the vicinity, where most of the bars still slept quietly, dreaming about the next adventures in this city of the night. The proximity to Jig-Jig Street guaranteed full occupancy almost each and every night. The proper and esteemed citizens wanted to mingle with the underbelly of the city, drinking till the early morning hours with the rowdy crowd, leaving eddies, dignity and sometimes life behind as the bar owners thrived.
Strippers, dancers, BD clubs, simple pleasures to satisfy the lowest basic needs - it was all crammed together under neons, loud ads and the shadows of skyscrapers, where the rich and famous retreated to the safety of their homes just to visit again and again.
Most of the streets were quiet, just kids running back and forth - the lucky ones being late for school. The adults were either already working or sleeping off yesterday's plumes of smoke and alcohol to be able to start anew when dusk crept into the streets. The few passersby who have seen him either abruptly changed their course or quickly looked away. Seeing the Akuryō during the day spelt trouble, as he usually stuck to the shadows. And while this behaviour usually amused him, he didn´t care for it today.
He had a long night behind him - one of soul-searching and determining the next steps in his future. His instincts screamed to pack what was left of his life and dignity and leave. The code of honour he used to follow dictated that he dive head first into the offer and seek revenge, even if it meant death.
In the middle of it all, the wise man in Takemura observed the bug he planted on Miss Dorsett, watching her every move and creating a mental image of her whereabouts.
She was an early bird, that was for sure. He followed her, with occasional stops across the Glen and Vista del Rey to Japantown. She stayed in one place for the past half an hour, and he decided to confront her and talk with her.
Unlike other places, this one was open with loud music greeting him in the foyer, walls painted pink as the falling digital leaves created a haunting yet beautiful image of a plum orchard.
Behind the counter, sitting cross-legged in a comfy olive green vintage armchair, was a petite girl with most of her body covered in colourful tattoos. She donned an oversized tank top with the US CRACKS logo that left very little to the imagination and bright red tabi. Hidden behind a curtain of jet-black hair were high cheekbones of silvery colour that made her look almost alien.
She was buried in the tablet when he entered, and it took her several minutes before she noticed him. But Takemura was a patient man - he had his cup of tea and a firm conviction of his next course of action. Therefore, waiting a little longer simply did not bother him.
The girl looked up and blinked several times, looking like a ridiculous alien doll with long neon lashes that cast shadows on her face.
“Yoooo, you are that guy, right?” she hollered, tossing the tablet aside with a wide grin. “The evil spirit guy, amirite?”
Takemura nodded. He probably needed more than one cup of tea to deal with this.
“I am looking for a tall blonde woman. She entered this establishment some thirty minutes ago. Have you seen her?” he asked politely, clenching his jaw and fighting the urge to roll his eyes.
With a gracious swing of her legs, the girl got up and swiftly grabbed him under one arm. “Imma show you around, mkay?” she chirped. “You lookin´ for Sandra, amirite? She´s been huddled with boss the whole time. They´ve been at it for the last twenty-somethin´. Dunno what´s the biz about.”
Before he could protest, she dragged him through the beaded curtain deep into the shop, hanging on his arm more like a child or a very animated character. “Yo, you been an Idol or whatnot? You so handsome,” she exclaimed. “Well - must have been once. No offence! You like - ancient now! But you were, hm? Idol…”
The urge to roll his eyes got the better of him, and he sighed, looking down at her and trying to formulate a coherent answer that would stop the overly enthusiastic chirping.
“Got any mom-moms?” she continued, reaching with her other hand under his trenchcoat, which made him jump. He brushed her hand aside and gave her a stare. It usually helped.
But she was apparently immune. She gave him a proper pout and sighed dramatically: “Come oooooooooon! Any paint? You should look the part, no? I can take care of you if you´d like. I am like reeeeally good at it, look.” She stopped, lifting the oversized top to show her stomach. Fiery snakes slithered down her navel and hugged her right thigh. They made their way through a serene valley straight from an old Japanese painting, and if it was not a picture on a very childish body, Takemura would actually enjoy the sight.
“Adequate work,” he mumbled, eyes darting away from her. “Thank you for your generous offer, but I do not enjoy this form of art. Can we - continue?” He gestured awkwardly in front of them, taking a step further to get her moving. From afar, he could hear two voices shouting, but it might as well be just another piece of music blasting from the speakers.
The girl pouted a little but finally moved, dragging him with her. She stomped like kids would when they were angry or offended, pursing her lips in a disapproving grin; however, those were tactics he was impervious to. He was hellbent on talking to Sandra Dorsett and not entertaining a child who saw him as something exotic to play with. It's better that she learns she can´t have her way every time, and she learns before she gets hurt.
They passed several doors and turns, heading down to the cellar and following the angry shouting that was now more audible. The girl grinned cheekily as she stopped before a massive sliding door covered in the same pink falling blossoms as the foyer.
Leaning against the wall, she chuckled and gestured to the door: “Dunno whaddya expect, but hope you calm their tit*. Boss be calm most of the time, but this is just gonk. We have peeps commin´ in some hour, and she been showin´ potential for some serious gewalt.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave her a simple nod.
“After you then,” he gestured and took a step back. He was wary of entering the room unannounced when he didn´t know what was behind the door.
Takemura expected quite a lot but not a well-equipped netrunner´s nest. The many monitors covering the farthest wall of the room showed one flat from many angles, different rooms, different places, the bathroom included. The chair at the desk was occupied by Sandra Dorsett, who was sitting comfortably with her arms folded in her lap. This morning, she was dressed head to toe in a fine golden suit with high heels, oozing corporate superiority.
Pacing around in a short neo-kitch yukata was another woman whose long pink hair curled down the small of her back and to her waist. The same as what Takemura assumed was a receptionist, this one was also covered in tattoos; however, hers he could well translate as Yakuza and Steel dragons symbols. Her face was contorted in anger, and currently, she provided most of the shouting, switching from English to Japanese and back again.
She paused only to catch a breath when the sliding door opened, and she stopped mid-step, hands resting on her hips, looking like a regular oba-san. But as with any oba-san , Takemura would not dare to call her that. She was far too young for that and apparently an owner of this place; therefore, a bit of politeness could go a long way.
He bowed and took a breath to greet her, but she was much quicker and shouted: “For f*ck´s sake, Becks! Who that? You just bring some stranger down here?”
Becks—the petite pouting girl—frowned and dramatically sighed, grabbing Takemura under his arm again and squeezing hard to get his attention.
“Stop being a meanie,” she shouted back, partly hidden behind Rónin´s arm. “Sandra told me he´ll be commin´. I did what she said. So quit hollerin´ and calm yo´ tit*!” She turned to Goro and sulked: “See what I must endure? She bein´ horrible, that is.”
In the midst of her pulling faces, the other one taking a deep breath to start another round of shouting, and Sandra Dorsett apparently ignoring all of it, he had seen enough.
“Stop,” he barked, making Becks jump and quickly retreat. “I am very sorry, but I have no patience for this childish behaviour.” Turning to Sandra, he bowed.
“I´ve come to give you my decision, but this is apparently the wrong time.”
“Oh no, you´re on time,” she almost purred, standing graciously and walking to him. Apart from yesterday, she had this sure, steady walk of a corporate employee who knows how to command people. She changed personas with her clothing, a thing Takemura decided to observe closely.
She extended a hand as a greeting and handed him a small silvery disc, her face genuinely amused: “You did not disappoint, Takemura-san,” she told him with a hint of appreciation. “But I believe this is yours, and I don't like to be under surveillance. We are not that close—yet.”
The Rónin raised an eyebrow but accepted her small victory with yet another bow. “Keep it, Miss Dorsett,” he replied to her, “In case you get lost again.”
Oh, he did his job well, combing through her past. And it was cruel of him to say that, but he needed her to know. He connected the dots and was well aware of her associations. Almost four years ago, one Sandra Dorsett was lying in a tub full of ice-cold water and bodies of the same unlucky bastards as her, waiting to be dissected and stripped of her chrome. And if it wasn't for V and her friend Jackie, she wouldn't be standing here now.
As per Okada-sama, it was one of V´s first bigger gigs that led to the Konpeki Plaza heist, bringing her the attention of the fixers around the city. A relative newbie cleared a whole nest of Scavs, saved a high-profile client, and managed to keep her alive against all odds before the Trauma team reached her.
That´s a life debt.
Sandra didn't flinch, locking her gaze with his, a cold smile lighting up her face. She reminded him of Hanako.
“I love that you fit into our little family of misfits so well. I shall keep it, then,” she replied, pocketing the bug. “Because you are here to say yes, right? Otherwise, I don´t think you would have bothered coming in person.”
He held her gaze, unbothered and resolute. He was far from accepting another corporate leash, even though it was well-paid. But curiosity was eating him alive.
“Are… are you two havin´ a moment? Shall I leave the room?”
Takemura turned to the other woman and bowed his head in apology: “I am very sorry. This is your house, and I am an intruder. Please continue.” This statement had a hidden biting undertone, but no one could ever accuse him of inappropriate behaviour.
The woman scoffed and then threw her head back in laughter. “You and your ancient ways! But I like him - can we keep him?” she uttered, giving Sandra a serious side eye. “Anyway, the name´s Tachibana Momoko. You can call me Momo if ya want!”
She spread her hands in a grand gesture, in which she encompassed the whole room, and stated: “I am your techie, Mr. Bad spirit. Your eyes and ears inside your mark´s house. Your gear provider, if ya will.”
With her hands on her hips, she turned around, mimicking the behaviour of the much younger girl, Becks. She added: “And the owner of Plum Petal Ink Parlour. If you ever need a tattoo, I bet the broad shoulders just beg for some traditional mountain view.”
Turning to her fully, Takemura bowed deeper in another greeting, which she mimicked. “Are you of the Tachibanas,” he asked curiously, to which she only winked and shrugged.
“Maybe someday I´ll tell you. But it would cost you your shirt off and me atop of you. You know—you´re a pretty big canvas.” She giggled and practically pranced back to her seat, her shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.
Takemura paused and looked to Sandra for any help, but her own face was almost bright red from grinning.
“Come on, lovers,” Momoko yelled from the chair, her bare legs folded under her. “Lemme show you what I´ve got, and then you can be on your merry way! I have a client at nine, and I need to prep the room. Chop, chop.”
Stronger tea.
Next time, he´ll need a stronger tea, he thought to himself.
And perhaps to start meditating.
*******
There was something soothing about sunrise in the desert. The cold seeping into your bones was slowly replaced by the shy warmth of the sun, the shadows chased away by the colours running across the planes like a holo show projected from above. It was peaceful.
And V loved it.
Of all the things from her past life, she missed the mornings on the road with the Nomad family. Her stay in Badlands with the ´caldos gave her a sense of belonging, which she thought she'd never have. When she lost Jackie, she distanced herself from Mama Welles out of guilt and fear she would chase her away. V´s parents were out of the picture long before she even left for Atlanta, and she always relied on herself for comfort. As Padre used to say, she was the lone sheep in his flock that wasn't afraid of wolves and relied on no one.
But the more she was alone, the more she strived for company and closeness. And the more she longed for these things, the harder it hit her when she lost them: the Nomads, River, Judy, Panam, Vick and Misty, even that douchebag Kerry.
She fought for them, tooth and nail for them, as they were her reason for staying alive. And even though part of her understood why they moved on, the selfish part of her wanted to scream about how unfair it was. She was a f*cking bundle of issues, PTSD, nightmares and various conditions stemming from being shot to death, buried and waking up in the landfill, being shot again and chased by f*cking borgs from hell (on more than one occasion), having her ass dragged beyond Blackwall and back again and again, and slowly but steadily dying from a well-read rockerboy terrorist tapeworm, who not only used her body on several occasions as he saw fit but drilled a hole into her, that didn´t seem to heal even after his demise.
V was crippled, scarred for life, thanks to all those things that happened to her. And none of her so-called family was there for her after she woke up alone and scared.
They f*cking moved on. The world moved on and forgot her.
This is why you don’t bring back fallen warriors; sooner or later, they’re going to see everything they fought for’s turned to sh*t!
With a muffled shout, V tossed her hands above her head, nearly falling from the cliff she was lounging on. A few rocks under her feet got loose, falling in the trickle of dirt and rolling stones, cascading down into the deep shadows still reigning over the valley.
“Ow!”
A male voice came out of nowhere, startling V and making her almost jump out of her skin. A head covered in dreadlocks slowly emerges from underneath the right side of the stone formation.
“Taco, the f*ck?”
The Nomad groaned with effort before he finally clawed his way to her, lying on his back and fuming. “How—how did you get up there?” he mumbled, his voice coarse and heavy with exertion.
V shook her head and carefully lay beside him, her gaze fixed on the sky. “Slowly,” she replied after a few pants from him. “And through the trail on the other side. You took the steep one.”
He laughed bitterly: “How come you´re better at the Nomading than the Nomads? We've passed through this valley several times, and I´ve never noticed the trail?”
She turned to her side—the good one—and shrugged, smiling. “It's my job always to find a way,” she explained cheekily. “Yours is to drive well; mine is to find a way into every place and out of every situation. Get it? You can´t be good at everything.”
Taco laughed - yes, she was not.
After they left the main camp in a hurry, a few cars only to get her and Reed to Night City, V politely asked him to let her drive sometimes. She said she was rusty. He would call it a disaster on the wheels. Not that she was beyond bad, but her driving style was more suited for demolition derby or a high-speed, high-stakes chase. How she used to own some of the most preem cars and bikes available in NC was beyond him. Once, he even saw her driving a 1977 Porsche Turbo, and he dreaded how the vehicle would end up.
However, she was a very studious pupil when it came to listening to his advice. She improved tremendously during their road trip as much as they allowed her to sit behind the wheel because she was still sore and bruised after their last encounter with Militech. In the small convoy of cars, all the passengers were hellbent on keeping V well and sane. The short stay with the Aldecaldos had almost done more harm than good, which she wouldn´t admit, but it did.
Taco thought it was unfair how the family treated her and voiced his opinion on several occasions. While Mitch generally agreed with him, no word was uttered to either Saul or Panam about why they had to move the main camp in a hurry. It apparently took its toll on the ex-merc, and in the family full of army vets, it was hard not to notice her shaking hands and panicked breathing on several occasions. He'd seen people like this, family even. How they shook and gasped for air like they were suffocating. Every day was a little bit harder, and it was getting more and more problematic to get up from the bed because the outside world was just too heavy a cross to bear. Until one day, the weight of simply living was too overwhelming, and swallowing lead was the easy choice.
Taco saw this happen on several occasions - at home even. And while Jeff was able to somehow brush it off, he still remembered the oddly serene look on their father´s face before he took his life.
He wouldn't want V to share the same fate just because people were angry she did something for herself. She was selfless for as long as he knew her; she deserved more than she got.
He turned to face her, folding his hands under his head to find a comfy spot. “Whaddya doin´ ?” he asked. “Couldn't sleep?”
AGAIN?
It was an oddly intimate moment that reminded V of her nights spent with River. Taco had a lot in common with him. The caring persona, the broad shoulders, and even his laughter reminded her of the ex-cop. Somewhere in her gut, she knew well the Nomad had some feelings for her, but she wasn´t able to bring herself to tell him to f*ck off for the sake of both of them. And it was nice to have this fleeting moment of normalcy.
“I am making a list, you know,” she whispered. “Building my crew for the job.”
He smiled. “And who's on the list right now?”
She propped her head up with her hand, chewing on the inside of her cheek in a gesture that made her look much younger than she really was. Her hair, now permanently back to the sunset pinkish hues, was falling down to her chin in the sharp cut she made with a razor blade two days ago. It was to feel more like herself, she said.
“I dunno,” she replied after a pause. “Me and Reed. Not many chooms waitin´ back in the NC. Most seem pretty mad that I delta’d on them.”
She regretted her answer instantly because, in the light of the new day, she saw the hope in his eyes and felt horrible. Because she knew he´d ask her to come with her. And she also knew she was in no position to say no.
Create a crew if you need to, and be prepared to drop them if you must. Finish the job, make the most of it and disappear.
Songbird´s words echoed in her head, and she knew the netrunner was damn right. She needed a crew of reliable people. And you can´t find them on the street, just waiting to be picked from the crowd.
There was only one Jackie Welles, and the world took him from her.
Taco frowned and reached to touch her chin. A movement she didn't expect and was not able to dodge. “Listen, I’mma join your crew if you need me. How many times were you in the NC past three years?”
Slowly reaching for his hand, she brushed him off and shifted uncomfortably. The quiet magic of the moment was gone and her stomach turned upside down with the many possibilities how this could have ended. And boy, did she manage to create as many scenarios as possible.
If overthinking was a sport, you´d win a medal…
“Once,” she admitted, voice cracking like an old radio. “Wasn't nice. Not the place I was s´posed to be that time.”
He let his hand fall awkwardly, picking up a few stones instead and kneading them in the palm of his hand before tossing them away. “I've picked up some contacts over the years. See - they were looking for you at the beginning. Saul and Panam.”
His voice was silent, and if it dropped any lower, she might not have heard him over the wind sweeping down the valley. It made a lump down her throat, and he sounded similar to her when he continued: “Combing through the city back and forth in order to find you. To find anything of you.
Thought some corpo flatlined you. She even got to talk to that Ward guy to see if he knew something. The - the ex-cop pal of yours.”
He explained like she didn't remember, and it felt like an awkward attempt to brush it off quickly to not cause her more pain. She didn't know.
She didn't know they were looking for her rigorously. She thought they'd just stopped calling after she didn't pick up. This was more like Panam, turning heaven and earth upside down just to find her.
Clearing his throat, Taco sat up, reaching to her to help her up.
“Listen, I´m not saying this to make you feel guilty,” the Nomad explained. “It might not be much, but you are loved. People are just hurting, y´know. They´ve searched for you, never giving up.
Helped the family a lot - contact-wise and sh*t.
I´m - I´m trying to say, I can utilise all that to help you now. I´m more used to the city now than I was before.
And you need a driver anyway.”
She burst into a fit of laughter, holding her wounds to ease the strain on them. As sad as it was, it was true - she needed a good driver.
“Ow! f*ck - you´d be soo bad in any job interview, Taco,” V chuckled. “But alrite, driver it is. But I´ll kill you myself if you do something stupid. Are we clear?”
The Nomad nodded, and with a grunt, he helped V to her feet before getting up himself. “Don´t worry, I´ve thought this through,” he reassured her. “I have Mitch´s blessing.
You´re family, V. And we, ´caldos, do take care of our own.”
*******
Night City panorama was full of bright neons and the ever-present light pollution that created a vivid aureole around the buildings and gave the impression that the city never sleeps. The streets were always noisy with the screeching tires, loud ads and music, even in the calmer parts of the city. If you wanted a quiet evening or even a silent night, you had to be rich and have soundproof windows high up in the expensive apartments or live off scraps on the city's outskirts. There was no in-between; you were either filthy rich and had a good night's sleep or poor and hoped for the following day.
The good thing about being filthy rich was that people usually chased fun Downtown and had well-secured flats in even better-secured locations.
Which was currently showing as an issue.
Takemura was sitting behind an AC on the roof of one of the expensive residential buildings in Glen adjacent to the city centre and watched a sandstorm brewing on the horizon. Dressed in black from head to toe with hair in a bun to go under a hood, he was supposed to wait patiently for the green light to go down the building and into the office of one Hugh Arjan Youngblood, psychiatrist, therapist and self-proclaimed neo-Buddhist life coach.
The part where this plan was just in and out was hindered by the fact that simultaneously with their clandestine mission, several blackouts in Heywood restarted all systems and turned them on high alert.
Watching the storm's ominous glow, he crossed the roof to the emergency exit, which was still locked, and growled: “I will find another way. We are wasting time with this nonsense.”
On the other side of the open channel, furiously trying to beat the many security protocols in place, sat Momoko, hidden in a black van parked at the corner of the neighbouring block of buildings. She was as sour as Takemura, mainly because of his repeated commentary on her skills and abilities.
“Gimme some time, Goro,” she growled back, her Japanese accent as thick as his. “There´s literally no other way in. We´ve been through the schematics several times. Even you can't make the jump to reach the balconies.”
“You have fifteen minutes tops to open that damn hatch. Otherwise, I´ll be swept off the building by that sandstorm,” he replied, rechecking the horizon.
This was a foolish plan to start with. The building was one of the newly renovated in Glen, with silken smooth features and glass walls that, especially on the top floors, opened into the serene shades of the greenery next to the Richard Night Ring and the Corpo Plaza. As one of the more high-profile residential areas, the building was hard to scale, with all emergency exits behind the glass, making it impenetrable if you didn't want to break any panels. The balconies were mainly situated on the same side with the marvellous view of the holo Koi fishes swimming over the Corpo Plaza Roundabout.
They were somewhat accessible from the top of the building or the roof of the next one, both being a deep and distant leap that maybe could cost Takemura both of his legs. And with the pressure-sensitive security panels installed, rappelling down was out of the question.
Momoko promised to guide him through the twenty floors down the doctor's office, but the blackout scrambled her carefully installed daemons, and she was trying to salvage what she could.
“You should abort,” came another voice through, this time Sandra´s from her nest in Downtown. “I will pull Becks back, and we´ll think of something else. The doctor is not that important right now.”
She had a small flat rented for this occasion, being a spotter for the young girl, who currently sat in the BD bar crosslegged, waiting for her mark to appear, to keep him busy.
That was another part of the plan - one Takemura very verbally disagreed with. The honeytrap laid in front of the doctor consisted of very scantily clad Becks because, of course, that guy liked his girls young. He was against using her as bait, but even she insisted she´d help.
Takemura was about to agree when the emergency door victoriously hissed and opened. It was about time. He could feel the sand in the air as the first wind swept through the city.
“You´ve fifteen minutes before I´m blind once the storm hits,” Momoko announced, re-confirming the timeline. “I have looped the cameras above the emergency stairs, but once you´re in the residential area, you´ll have to be careful.
I´ll walk you through it; just trust me, ´kay?”
“The escape route?” he asked as he skillfully slid down the emergency hatch, landing soundlessly in the maintenance area. He pulled the hood over his head, donning a scarf over his mouth. If anyone saw him, they would think Takemura stepped out of an old ninja movie.
The holo overlay shimmered silver in the room's darkness, and the hum of air conditions and elevator engines muffled his steps. The primary grid had a server room downstairs, but the secondary electrical wiring was located here. Takemura reached into a hidden pocket for a bug he had planted into the grid between the elevator towing cables.
“I´m in, nice work,” Momoko chirped. “I can get you through the service lift to the garage. The security down there is almost non-existent; you just have to avoid the cameras. I´ll unlock the service entrance - I hope.”
“You hope?” he repeated after her sardonically.
“Well, you can trust me. Or just go through the building guns blazing - or stabbing whatever moves to your heart´s content.”
Takemura scoffed but didn't reply. The pink-haired techie smiled victoriously on the other side of the neural link. Her pale complexion had almost an eerie-like tinge in the monitor's glow. She joked they should officially call themselves a Ghost crew; now they were runnin´ with the infamous Akuryō , to which the former Arasaka employee just sighed resignedly and refrained from any comments. He thought it was all a joke for her and her little ward, but it was a life-changer for him. Takemura would bet his money it was just for the thrill of the adrenalin rush for her. The Plum Petal Ink Parlour was apparently a self-sufficient and well-established place run only by her. No front for gangs, no money laundry or a secret drug den. Tachibana Momoko managed to run a clean business amidst the gang-run fronts and easy money made on the collection of ransom for so-called ‘protection’.
It definitely helped that she was a renowned techie and a netrunner, hiding under the ridiculous nickname xxlilpeachxx . That, and the fact that she and her small tattooed devil of a friend both sported high-end combat implants.
Takemura managed to collect as much data as possible in case he ever needed it. Know thy enemy, right? He had skipped sharing this with Wakako-sama, even though she voiced several times she didn´t need to know all his deals. She was dying to know what he was up to, but this was the only time in their short and fruitful collaboration where he really decided to leave her out in the dark.
“You good to go. There´s some commotion four stories below you. Jacking in the CCTV feed to help you out if needed. The lights are on, so watch out with the optical camo. I am still having trouble with the building control, so slow pace, ´kay?”
“I always take my time,” he whispered. To which his comms exploded in ringing laughter so loud he had to turn the sound down. He didn't wait for her witty comeback, which was surely inbound, and moved.
The building had two sets of emergency stairs on each side, which were also used as maintenance areas and thus scarcely used by the residents. He made sure to move around the walls to avoid the cameras, just in case, taking slow and steady steps. The Rónin could move silently as a cat with his fast reflexes and stealthy moves. Before he was handpicked by Saburo Arasaka himself, he was training for the Black Ops, a top of his class performer.
They were trained so no one saw them coming, no one saw them leaving, and no one knew about them being there at all. Like an ancient sect of warriors, they trained their bodies and minds to be as sharp as a blade, and thanks to the wonders of modern medicine and warfare, their bodies became a veritable one-man army with a variety of combat implants that enhanced their natural abilities.
He was the best, Takemura knew. He trained the best and was yet to be surpassed by the best.
The second and third flights of stairs were quiet; the fourth one was booming with loud music and yelling. Takemura leaned over the railing to closely inspect the situation, only to find - to his disgust - a group of semi-naked kids throwing a rager right at the exit from the emergency stairwell. There were bottles of expensive liquor rolling around as two boys in NCU varsity jackets tumbled over girls, making out right at the corner of the handrails, making them fly down face first. One of them landed under their feet, and the other one took a tumble down the stairs into the mezzanine, yelling obscenities in Spanish.
The whole floor was thick with purplish cigarette smoke and the occasional whiff of weed. And the unmistakable exotic smell of Glitter they were sharing.
Takemura counted seven people in the stairwell, including the fallen girl who tried to stand up and now dragged one foot at an odd angle - to her great amusem*nt. Upon quick glance, there were at least eight others in the residential area, a fact that Momoko confirmed shortly without him even requesting.
“You gotta be kiddin´ me,” she hissed. “f*ckin´ rich kids!”
He had no time for this. Time slowed around him as he jumped down to the opposite handrails and then two more down, his optical camo active so to the naked eye, he´d seem just a glitch. If you blinked, you´d miss him completely.
One girl yelped as he brushed her arm and turned down the stair shaft, but the only thing that could reveal his movement was the occasional vibration of the railing.
Leaving the party behind, Takemura stopped six floors below, landing in the mezzanine like a cat, crouching. This part of the building was bathed in the gloom, as very few of the lights were on both on the stairs and behind the emergency door. He saw movement in the hallway in the residential area and froze for a second, waiting for a couple to leave for the lift.
“Hey, was that a Sandy just now,” Momoko asked. “You literally vanished from the sensor for a sec. That´s a neat trick.”
Sneaking around the door, he moved down the stairs and hidden behind the scarf; he grinned. That sounded like high praise from the ever-nagging woman.
“I take it as a compliment,” he replied.
“You should; I´m all about positive affir- whoa! Stop right there; there's a janitor coming your way.”
Before she finished her sentence, the door beeped on the floor under him. The clanking of the cleaning trolley mixed with the horribly out-of-tune version of La Bamba echoed down the shaft, soaring up only to be met with the over-loud Kerry Eurodyne song and drunken hollering from above.
The clanking stopped, only to be replaced by a Spanish swearing addressed to the party-goers.
“Goro, you gotta get out of there!”
He didn´t have any time to come up with any witty comeback. The camo was still on cooldown, and so was the Sandevistan. The way up was out of the question; the way down meant meeting the man who switched to even more colourful swearing and started to drag the cleaning trolley up the stairs.
With a grunt, Takemure jumped up on the railing and pulled himself upwards to the stairs above, carefully crouching in the negative space of the arch, his hands firmly planted in the concrete and body stiff with effort. There were times during his youth when he was hanging down the ceiling in between the steel beams of the Arasaka training grounds for hours to show his resolve and strength to the teachers. And while he still saw himself as an able-bodied man, he was silently very happy with the newly replaced tendons in his forearms.
The janitor - a small, round man with a balding head, dragged himself and the trolley up the stairs, taking careful steps, one after another, cursing the kids and the maintenance elevator out of order, which made him take the stairs.
In the dim light of the monitors, Momoko sighed: “Yeah, that´s on me. You hangin´ there, Goro?”
He had to bite his lip not to growl. He watched the man taking agonisingly small steps, taking breaks as he moved below him. Goro checked for the implant's readiness and hoped he wouldn´t need to dispose of the man because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.
The clanking of the garbage bin stopped directly under him, and Goro held his breath, straining against the walls to hold himself horizontally. The man under him huffed and reached into the pocket to wipe the sweat beading on his brow, looking up to count the floors.
Through the CCTV camera, Momoko stared directly at the back of his head, the quickhack ready in case she needed to drop him. But there was literally nothing. The negative space of the stairs above the janitor´s head was dark and blank.
“ ¡Me cago en todo lo que se menea! ” the man mumbled, grabbing the handle of his trolley and continuing.
In the van, Momoko sighed with relief as the man passed, and from nothingness, Takemura slipped down, landing on one knee, hands before him to steady himself. “You are a horrible lookout,” he informed her.
She swallowed a reply and hummed disapprovingly, jumping from one camera to another. “You are good to go. Time´s tickin´- you better run.”
She didn´t need to tell him. Takemura was on the move the instant he landed, even though his muscles protested and ached for a bit of relief. In the virtual space of his neural link, a clock was ticking as the sandstorm approached - one of many this time of the year, as the mostly barren Badlands around Night City spread thanks to ongoing drought and chemical pollution spitting from the many new corporate factories that sprung in the vicinity in the past three years. He could have willed himself to move faster, shortening the time spent on the move - which, in hindsight, he should have done, but right now, he decided not to in case he needed the combat implants later.
The fortieth floor was brightly lit and had a view directly into the greenery. The one perfect place for a corpo-run office for the tired and weary corporate employees. Based on the schematics of the building, doctor Youngblood´s office and flat took most of the floor and balcony.
Goro waited a few seconds before entering the finely furnished corridor, which was well-lit in the warm yellow light of brass lamps in vintage decor. The walls were deep rust-coloured stone panels adorned with the same thick brass rims that complimented the rich green carpeting. The hallway screamed rich and comfortable for the rest of your life.
Unlike the lower floors, this one had fewer tenants, and the apartments were significantly larger. And unlike the lower floors, this one had several cameras on the corners of the hallway. Takemura had to zigzag between the blind angles to reach the door on the far right. From there, he had a straight twenty-second window to open the lock before the camera behind his back did another sweep and caught him.
The door beeped as the bypass daemon unlocked the magnetic lock, and he slid inside almost like a shadow, closing the door behind him manually. There were cameras in the office, too, but it took him a few seconds to disable them with a slotted quickhack Momoko prepared for him. Takemura rarely used them, relying mainly on good Self-ICE and skills that he honed over the years and that made him almost invisible.
“I´m in,” he announced, voice low.
Momoko hummed in reply. “Jacking out from the maintenance area. You´ve got less than three minutes before the sandstorm reaches us. From there, it´s gonna be a little glitchy.”
He nodded, more for himself, and straightened up.
The outside glow of neons was dimmed by the wall of tinted glass that opened for the view of Corpo Plaza. The office and the apartment were separated by an elegant black marble wall with brass sliding doors that were now open. Behind them, the apartment was decorated in an art deco style that didn't match the cluttered lobby or the office, which opened onto a glass conservatory adjacent to a spacious balcony. If Dr. Youngblood tried to inspire any semblance of deep spiritualism in his patients, Takemura believed he fell far short.
The office itself resembled a private collection of all sorts of votive objects, statuettes, bowls, vases and paintings that were meant to evoke a sense of peace, belonging, deep spiritual enlightenment and understanding. Instead, the whole room seemed like a feeble attempt at an attractive façade, designed to assure wealthy clients that here they would receive not only a path to enlightenment but also competent medical care, as shown by the medical diploma and practice certificate hanging proudly on the wall next to framed Vedic scrolls.
Upon closer examination, someone with at least half a brain who hadn't been overwhelmed by the doctor's feeble display of enlightenment must also have realised that Hugh Arjun Youngblood was actually named Karsen Poole Jr, which was the name on his diploma and license. And hailing from Nebraska, he had very little to do with his Hindu and Native American descent, as he claimed - based on the huge photography of him and President Myers shaking hands, where Hugh Arjun Youngblood looked like an average middle-aged white male with artificial tan, perfect white teeth, the posture of a suburb dad and sense of fashion from what he deemed was a well-balanced mix of business professional and ethnic.
Staring at the picture, Goro sneered in disgust.
The outside world dimmed when the storm swallowed the building, and he could hear Momoko cursing as the wind shook the van.
With a few steps, he crossed the spacious office, dominated by a comfortable Indian sofa and an extended table of solid wood, where the good Dr Youngblood sat. The two curved screens were made of thick glass, while the computer itself was hidden in a cleverly disguised compartment in the desk.
There, behind a password and a firewall, lay all the information they´ve been looking for. It was Sandra who decided that she needed to pull her targets' status records from the doctor's database. Kai Foster, 38, manager in Militech's Counterintelligence Department. It was her plan, and so far, it had only worked out with luck. And it was very convincing proof of why Takemura liked working alone.
Jacking the prepared datamining daemon into the computer, he let the program work and wandered around the room and beyond, absorbing information about the man who lived and worked here. The office was meticulously cleaned, and all things had their own place like it was maintained by a third person. The apartment was where the difference hit the most - the doctor was anything but neat and tidy. Food wrappers and dirty clothes littered most surfaces of the tastefully decorated apartment, accompanied by the occasional dusting of a white powder that may or may not have been a synth co*ke.
The piles of datashards were stacked across the living room, tossed under the low glass coffee table together with the digital copies of books and medical reports. The whole kitchen was in disarray, looking like somebody thrashed it recently while looking for something.
Whatever was going on in the doctor's life was turning his home upside down.
The outside world slowly turned into a set of a desert movie, with the wall of reddish sand and dust swallowing the city. In Arabic, this phenomenon was called samum - poisonous wind. It brought sudden high temperatures and killed people who were not seeking shelter fast. They used to be a rare thing back in the day, but not anymore. The Badlands around Night City, the infertile land that used to be California, slowly turned into an unforgiving desert that waged war against the city and its people. After such a storm, the temperatures dramatically dropped and brought heavy rainfall and a cold front.
Looking outside the window, Takemura searched for the flashes in the storm, musing how long till it passed.
The static cracked several times, and his face contorted. A loud whistling sound almost tore his ears off. He cursed, turning away from the window.
Another crack of static, this time accompanied by a faint voice, stopped him in his tracks.
“Yooo, chooms! You gotta delta from there! The doc´s headin´ back!”
The voice came out of nowhere without a warning. Static cracked several times before Becks´ face showed in holo, looking uncharacteristically serious. Behind her, the neon lights of the city were dimmed in a haze of windblown sand as she huddled under a roof in a diner.
“Ya copy? You gotta delta! Fuuuuck! Ya, copy?” she almost yelled, looking more distraught than he thought was possible.
Over the raised voices of both Momoko and Sandra, Takemura barely registered the girl´s trembling voice.
“Tell me what happened,” he commanded, pausing in his steps, his shoulders tensed.
In the darkness of the room, his holo lit up with the young girl´s face, frowning: “That guy of yours appeared all sh*t and sizzle, yanking the doc from the BD and almost beatin´ him to a pulp.
´Twas pretty gonk, he was yellin´ some sh*te about him bein´ in a wrong body and whatnot, trashin´ the place like is a rock concert.”
“You alrite, baby?” Momoko whispered, distressed.
The girl nodded fervently and pulled the collar of her short jacket closer to her chin. “Wasna able to raise you up earlier; the five-oh´s were all over the place. Some gonk called cyberpsycho sighting - and mah dudes, it kinda looked like that.”
“Stop right there,” Sandra paused her. “How long has it been since this happened?”
She sniffed: “Ten?”
“Ten minutes?”
“Maybe? I couldna called ya from there,” she whined. “The f*ckin´ satsu were everywhere; I needed to delta first!”
He reached the desk and bent down to the computer. The daemon was still running, showing the 90 per cent.
“Goro, you need to leave!” Sandra barked. “Momoko, plan B. You gotta drive him; I´m picking Becks. Meeting you at the Parlour.”
“I can walk,” the girl protested. “Or grab the NCART. Listen - I dunno what that was about, but they are dragging him with him. The doc and the woman who followed that gonk-ass salaryman. Tall, dark, looked like a corpo-bicth.”
He shut them down. The last thing he needed was them bickering back and forth. This is WHY he worked alone. This is why he kept to himself. Most of the half-baked plans ended in disaster. The last time he actually worked with someone -
The screen flickered, and the monitor went live with popping screens. “I´m in,” Takemura announced. “I can download the files.”
“You f*cking need to listen and get the f*ck outta there.”
He didn´t. It was her plan, after all. Sandra was hellbent on getting into the doctor´s files. The old-fashioned recon wasn´t enough. The spy-cams and bugs in the apartment were not enough. The need-to-know basis condition just changed. Takemura wanted the files. He wanted to know who Kai Foster really was and why he was that important.
His hands flew across the keyboard as he dove into each patient's work files. As messy as Dr. Youngblood could be in his private life, he kept his work files perfectly organised.
His patients included the majority of Militech's corporate office in Night City, mostly by corporate decree. Militech liked its employees, poised, calm, and happy, as the amount of antidepressants and stress hormone blockers prescribed seemed to indicate. He had a similar experience with this as a former Arasaka employee.
Except he avoided that sh*t.
“Would you f*ckin´ listen to me, Goro?” Sandra yelped. “You on your own if you don´t leave stat.”
“I-can-get-the-files!” he repeated, eyes fixated on the screen.
On the other side of his link, Sadra howled, severing her connection, and Momoko bit her lip. From around the corner, she spotted Villefort Cortes V5000 Valor heading for the underground garage, sporting a deep pine green colour and golden rims, a licence plate registered to Hugh Youngblood.
Reaching for the data port, she cursed and jacked herself directly into the system. On the flickering screen in front of Takemura, several pop-up windows appeared before the bleeding datastreams swallowed it whole.
I´M GOIN´ TO HELP! YOU OWE ME A DRINK! Appeared on the screen in vibrant pink hues. YOU BETTER GET YOUR ASS FROM THERE STAT, OR I´LL SUCKERPUNCH YOU MYSELF, BAKA!
The time slowed around him, liquid like honey. He yanked the shard from the computer and ran for the door. As he touched the handle, Momoko´s voice stopped him: SECURITY GUARD OUTSIDE THE DOOR! She informed, her voice resonating with the digital notes. YOU BETTER FIND ANOTHER WAY! THE HALLWAY IS A NO-GO.
In the digital void of cyberspace, she materialised the building schematics, as in real-time, the residents, maintenance and security formed from the red particles. A silent alarm was triggered in the doctor´s apartment, an oversight that fell on her head; of course, he had one installed.
Apart from the sleeping residents, the ongoing party on the top floor, and the maintenance and service workers, there were three security guards en route to the apartment and three people in the lift heading for the same floor.
I CAN STOP THE LIFT, BUT NOT THE GUARDS. YOU BETTER HIDE.
“Give me the ventilation schematics,” he ordered as he quickly turned from the door and backed away. Unfurling in front of him were the many ducts and shafts that were sending cold air through the building. The glass panels generated heat that would be unbearable without proper AC.
Most of the ventilation shafts were too narrow for him, and the entrances were barely reachable.
The elevator stopped. Red particles moved with the movement of the people that entered the hallway, two standing upright, dragging a third one barely standing on their own. From behind the closed door, Takemura could hear muffled voices arguing.
THERE´S A WINDOW IN THE OFFICE BATHROOM.
Just great -
A deep female voice cut through, abruptly stopping all of the discussion at once.
GORO -
*******
The door opened with a hiss. A harsh light flooded the hallway as a man covered in blood entered the room, supporting a taller man in a dirty suit and torn shirt.
He, too, was covered in blood, but most of it was on the knuckles of his hands. His cybernetic arm hung at an odd angle, dislocated from his shoulder, while he tried in vain to push off with the other to gain any stability. He looked high, smelled of cheap tequila and blood, and was mostly out of it.
Trailing behind them, like a film star, strode a tall, dark woman in a perfectly fitting shirt dress that opened in a daring slit on the right side, revealing the perfectly smooth curves of her thighs.
Her eyes darted around the room like a beast, and she wrinkled her nose.
"You shouldn't leave the door unlocked," she retorted in a deep voice, closing it firmly behind her.
The computer screen went blank as if on command, but she didn't miss it. She crossed the room with long strides and stopped in the doorway of the study.
It was empty.
The curtains in the greenhouse windows billowed slightly in a blast of cold air from the air conditioning, while outside, sand and hot dust rolled over the city like long fingers.
Whatever the security guards spoke about must have been a glitch in the system. The previous blackouts did a number on the building security and the inner circuits, they said. She didn´t see any imminent danger, nor a trespasser.
The other man winced in pain and let his companion fall to the ground, reaching towards the wall for stability. His face looked as if a child had stomped on a modelling clay and tried to rearrange it. His nose was definitely broken, his right brow was split, and his eye was swelling heavily. He felt his jaw clench in pain as he tried to assess the overall damage. That son of a bitch cracked him a few ribs and tried to crack his skull open, too, while swinging a tequila bottle and yelling something about being cheated out of his body.
This was exactly how Doctor Youngblood didn´t expect his evening to go. Being almost mauled to death by a crazed corpo wasn´t on his tight schedule.
“I owe you one, Miss Jacobs,” he whined. He tried to stand straight in her presence, but the pain was like a hot poker under his ribcage, making him crouch to relieve it. Instead of standing somewhat tall and broad-shouldered, he squirmed and whined, staggering from wall to wall.
“Would you… would you be so kind, there´s a - ah! - painkillers in the cabinet,” he pointed to one of the artfully carved cabinets, where behind stained glass stood several bottles of Donaghy's and an archival Dom Pérignon that should have been kept in the dark and not on display.
She looked at him with one perfect eyebrow arched and smirked. “I am here to take care of Mr. Foster, not babysit you,” she sneered coldly. Turning on a heel, she entered the office, scanning every inch of the room with a hawk-like gaze. The computer was humming silently under the table, and the room looked undisturbed. She reached for the keyboard to bring the monitors back to life, smacking her lips in displeasure.
Mr Foster´s file was open, the last page reading how he was advised that, due to frequent nightmares, he should refrain from his usual dose of medication for the time being until his doctor decides on an alternative treatment. The patient was informed of this procedure and agreed.
A fact that Dr. Youngblook failed to mention at the weekly meeting.
No wonder he snapped like that. The man was making her job a lot harder than it needed to be.
“Be a dearie; get Mr. Foster under a running shower. I have something to discuss with you.”
There was no place for arguments in the world of this woman. She commanded the much older man with a seemingly iron will, and he obeyed. It spoke volumes about his character and resolve, but he was far from judging. His face hurt like hell, and he needed - really, urgently needed - a whiff of something stronger to relieve his pain and, ideally, pass out.
Hugh Arjan had many qualities, but decisiveness was not one of his strengths. That's why he decided to accept the corporate job and, with joy, danced as they whistled. It was an easy life, he believed. No harm in having fun here and there and then returning back to his prescribed procedures as the company wanted.
No harm done, right?
He grabbed the black-haired corpo under his arm and, with groaning and straining, moved him across the room to the small bathroom. He was far from dragging him all the way to his own luxurious bathtub in case the f*cker puked all over his place.
With a smirk he tossed him into the shower and straight under a cold stream of water, clothes and all. The man jolted and swung his cybernetic arm in a futile open punch, the rotors in his shoulder joint whirring in the blank.
“f*cker,” he mumbled. “You in on it with ´em…”
The psychiatrist paused, catching a glimpse of his reddened and beaten face in the mirror. “You owe me for the facial, you psycho!” he spat at him, carefully touching the edge of a torn eyebrow and lip.
In the shower, still half-folded like a broken doll, Kai Foster, corporate manager and a very bland man, started to laugh. It was laughter that belonged to a different man, who was hiding behind the shattered glass of his aviators, that slid down his nose and frankly made the doctor back away, shuddering.
“You corpo-lickin´ c*nt,” he bellowed and swung his arm again, this time losing control and sliding to one side, resting on his elbow. The cold water soaked his stained white shirt and pants, making him yep with the sudden sensation. “I´m gonna get you good, you insignificant f*cker - “
With all the might he had left in his body, he pointed the finger at the doctor like it was his judgement day and snarled: “You already dead, pig. You just don´t know yet. Your brain didn´t process that sh*t yet. You´re a walkin´, talkin´ corpse!”
The doctor hurriedly left the laughing madman in the bathroom, leaving him cackling like an old witch, writhing in the shallow tub under the ice-cold water until he managed to sit somewhat upright. He tossed the aviators to the corner of the room and squinted his eyes a little before starting to laugh again.
“Oh, f*ck! It is really you,” he uttered, his tongue heavy. He hit his head on the wall.
One, two, three times.
It made a hollow sound.
“Fuuuck! I never liked you, you know?”
In the corner of his blurry vision, a shadowy figure hung from the ceiling, slowly moving towards the window like a careful spider in the presence of his prey.
“f*ckin´ ´saka dog… Colour me surprised…”
*******
In the room next to the bathroom, a muffled, surprised scream died in the plume of smoke as a small pistol with a silencer carved a perfectly round hole into the head of Karsen Poole Jr., and his brain painted a picture just like from the Rorschach test on the wall next to his medical diploma.
Donning a well-fitted shirt dress, the dark-skinned woman raised her head and sighed. “We´ll need a more competent psych,” she stated bluntly to the now empty room. “Oh well…”
She was like something from a noir flick: the dame who spelt danger, the femme fatale, the least suspicious woman in the room.
The secretary.
In the dimmed light of the street, one pink-haired techie yanked a cable from her neural port, her eyes wide with the vision of a man shot point blank after begging for his life on his knees. She had seen people die in some horrible ways, but watching it happen from up close through the lens of the computer camera was too much for her.
Outside the building, the hot wind swept through the city, promising rainy days and a cold front and leaving behind several dead bodies - be it from the sudden heat wave or thanks to those who used it for misdeeds.
In the dark of the night, the swirling dust covered most of the things that happened. Murders will be set aside for the lack of evidence, and a hefty sum will be paid for property damage to cover illegal underage drinking in one of the better residential buildings. The newspaper won´t touch the subject of the ugly suicide that will be discovered sometime in the next morning.
The dust will blanket all under a rusty coat that will cover the city before the rain comes.
Even a trail of footprints appearing from thin air on the roof of the opposite building, leading down the emergency ladder, across the street and to the parked van.
On the other side of the town, a car stopped to a halt with the screeching of the tyres. A grey Herrera Riptide Terrier parked next to a small Japantown alley, the front lights slowly dying in the setting dust.
Behind the steering wheel, Sandra looked over her shoulder to the sleeping bundle of fabric that was the young girl entangled in her coat and silently sighed. That wasn´t according to the plan.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling an oncoming migraine. She reached over the seat to fish a bottle of pills from the coat pocket and immediately swallowed two, waiting for them to kick in.
It´s getting worse…
Reaching for the phone, she dialled Momoko. No holo; otherwise, her head would split open. The phone rang several times, making her chew on her lower lip before the techie finally picked up.
“Hey,” Sandra whispered, not to wake the sleeping girl up. “You okay? Is Takemura with you?”
Momoko´s face appeared in the camera, pale and tired. She had bloodshot eyes, and her hands trembled. Next to her sat the ex-Arasaka bodyguard, cradling one of his arms close to his body, face bloodied from an open wound on his forehead.
The feeling of relief Sandra felt was almost overwhelming. It was, however, completed with rage rising up her throat. “Next time f*ckin´ listen to me, alright? I run the show, not you,” she admonished them. “This might have cost us everything. How did you go out?”
Instead of Takemura, Momoko moved closer to the camera. “He jumped. He just jumped onto the next building. He´s a fokkin ninja!” The techie chuckled with visible relief and crashed next to him, voicelessly apologising when she hit him, and he winced in pain.
“We will require a ripperdoc,” he announced slowly.
Sandra chuckled. “There´s one coming to join the crew,” she stated, sliding down the car seat as the adrenalin rush slowly disappeared from her body, leaving her numb and exhausted.
“I mean now,” Takemura corrected her. “I need a ripperdoc now. And then we talk.” He paused, only to gently lift Momo off his shoulder, where she slowly made her bed, exhausted from her exertions.
“That was no clone I´ve just seen. He recognised me.”
*******
There was a storm raging on the horizon.
The crew of Nomad cars parked on a distant ridge had a good view of the sand and dust swirling around the city's luminous silhouettes, swallowing it and returning it to the material world like smoke from a genie's magic lamp.
It was an unprecedented sight, at least for V and Reed, who had to quickly get used to the inhospitable badlands around them. Langley suddenly looked like a beautiful and expensively irrigated garden.
“You were gone for too long,” Taco teased, lounging on the roof of his old Galena and watching the light show. V was next to him, chewing her lower lip til it bled, frowning. SoMi was right; the city felt different. Bigger, menacing. Different kind of animal since she left it.
Reed popped up from the other car, carrying a thermos with a strong-smelling coffee. In the past few days on the road, Reed had adopted the persona of a caring fatherly figure and hovered a bit around the ex-merc. He fit into his old shoes right in, just like old times. He spooked Taco by climbing up the roof of his car, handing the cups with the hot brew. Otherwise, he made no sound, just like V remembered from their first encounter.
“We rollin´ in or what,” he asked, snickering at Taco, who was faking a heart attack.
The younger man grabbed the coffee and shrugged: “Nah, don´t wanna fry the engine. Get comfy; we´re staying the night.”
V gratefully accepted the mug of steaming liquid and took a silent sip. She stared at the city and contemplated her next steps. She needed to connect with SoMi, find a hiding place, get a feel for how the streets were now, and maybe try to contact some of her old fixers.
Surely, Reggie still hadn't left NC -
No! All of this could wait.
She should visit an old friend first.
“Looks like a cage of light, amirite?” Taco interrupted the trail of her thoughts, pointing at the holo beams towering over the city like fingers raised in warning. “The city always felt more like a prison. I dunno, never fit right in.”
V absentmindedly smiled and leaned backwards, overlooking the silhouettes of the preem and fine free city, with all its dirty streets, shady side alleys, unfinished buildings, and ruins of once fine examples of architectural novelty. It was a gutter, but it was her gutter.
“Naah, choom,” she whispered, lips curled into a soft smile.
The horizon brightened as the storm slowly passed, the city emerging from the grip of the natural occurrence that reigned even over the mightiest atop of the ivory towers.
“ It´s home. I´m coming home…”
