Right then, be warned. I'm currently working on a different story, meaning this one can and will get side-lined in the future.


"Alex! It's been so long! Good to finally hear from you." Ben spoke with that distinct, thick phlegm voice of his; and a southern accent.

Alex shifted in his car's seat, it was cold, bitter cold and miserable. The toxic smoggy air made his antiquated air conditioning worthless. All he'd accomplish by turning it on is a quick death by asphyxiation.

"You too Ben, how're things?"

The jolly man heartily laughed "So, so. Just made a big sale! Make a few more like these I'll set myself up for life. You should really invest while you can!"

Invest. Alex never thought of being a stock-broker or stockholder, whatever.

"Can't reel me in Big Ben, I prefer hard; honest work." That ought to tilt him.

"Hard-honest…" Ben mockingly gasped, "you insult me!"

"Takes more than that to get under your skin."

"Fat jokes, oh-hoho brilliant... might I remind you who was the real pig?"

"Alright, you got me there. But fuck LA, how you been?"

"Kinda good... Huh? Say what now?" A female voice over the holo called out for him, Alex couldn't figure out what the person was saying but it was urgent. "Right, right. I'll be right over."

"Anyway, must be wonderin' why I called eh? Actually, you on the job now?"

Alex looked over to his left, across the street where an apartment block was. No one has come out or in since 5 pm. Some random people were smoking and chatting out front and the odd car passed him. But nothing out of the ordinary. "Sort of in the middle of something. But so far so quiet." He trembled from the cold, rubbing his hand together.

"Uh-huh, I'll be quick I promise. So, that thing that came up? Midnight, gloves are off."

"Have us a match. Impressed."

"Preem! I know right? Couldn't believe it myself you know, what with these bad looking dudes, scarred and tattooed. Real menacin' and scary. Sheesh, it's a damn miracle they took me seriously. Got to our pretty little bird and she is on baby!"

"Details Ben, details. Talk my ear off later."

Someone called out Ben again. "Be right there I said! Okay, listen. The match is on February the 4th, Paradise suburbs. Send you coordinates later?"

"Paradise? Where's that?"

"Tell you later, gotta run, OK?"

'Paradise', Alex not being native to the area didn't know where that was. What a pretentious name.

"Run? Gee, don't exhaust yourself."

"Real funny Al, bye."

"Be seeing you."

Getting off the holo, Alex checked the time on the dashboard. The man he has been tracking has been a solid hour inside, doing nothing it seemed. Alex had hoped it wouldn't turn out to be a night stake-out but by the look of things, that was a real possibility.

Reaching for a glovebox, glued again somehow. Alex forced it open causing its contents to messy up his car. "Ah, typical." He grabbed documents of the floor -random assortments of paper-, ammo -calibre .45- and a bottle of pills. He grabbed it, opening the lid, taking one pill out – an oblong reddish-brown capsule – and downed it, gulping hard on a dry throat as he'd drunk all his water. It pounded in his throat, slowly sliding down to his gut. He breathed in hard and got ready for a long evening.


Time passed; the sun had set. And our conman was on the move. Oliver Jackson a fake name – one of many more he used to cheat unsuspecting victims into relationships – with a faker persona. In short, he travelled from place to place, merging bank accounts, taking out all the money and scampering off to find a new victim to swindle.

The trail of broken hearts and empty wallets led him straight into someone's scope. In this case, Alex was hired by a new husband of one of the women Oliver had conned. He wanted him for himself, to what purpose wasn't Alex's business.

"Where are we going?" he mulled to himself.

Jackson had gotten into his car and began driving towards the centre of town. Alex kicked his Thorton into gear and began following him down the road, the car groaned and squealed before setting off.

Visibility was poor, the huge cloud of industrial smog had fallen over Carson City and Alex had to squint to see 5 feet in front of him, the car's brake lights glared right back into his face. Nearby Militech factories churned out guns, machines of war on a daily basis, sold to the highest bidder. Alongside was Petrochem, with one of their biggest in-land refineries to date. They were mercilessly chocking the city with each added smokestack whilst aggressively increasing their profits by luring in low-wage unskilled unsuspecting labour. But the flow of money still went both ways and workers kept the manufactories alive; well even. The pay was horrendous, but the amount of gullible, desperate folk thought it worth risking life and limb to work for these uncaring industrial behemoths. Despite the circumstance's life went on, that and people who had nowhere else to go, sort of didn't. Reno these days wasn't an attractive alternative, Los Juegos was more of the same, just shinier. Arcadia was the middle-class heaven, no room for "lowlifes". Vegas was a shithole. So, everyone stuck to their guns, riding out the storm that never wanted to end. Militech practically owned the city, the CCPD, full of Militech people.

Despite its faults, Carson City was out of its way for almost everyone. Corpos, nomads, gangs. No one came of their own volition. This suited people who didn't want to be found, it has sure suited Oliver, and now he's overstayed his welcome.

Alex saw his targets car indicating right; he stuck behind him to follow, not too close not too far. He was led into what was once a suburban district, populated by hastily built ugly, cheap concrete apartment blocks irrecognisable from one another if it weren't for the graffiti. Random garbage littered… decorated the sidewalks, which were eroding away because of the equally cheap materials it was built by. Militech goons… dutiful policemen on patrols checking people's SID numbers, the usual. "God's speed officers." he sarcastically saluted.

Everything was PR managed, to the extreme. Almost unbelievably laughable was such a case with trash, an ad would tell you that a surplus of trash means a thriving economy, people buy stuff but simply don't have the facilities to dispose of said trash. A genius though to make thrash positive.

Garbage was garbage no matter how Petrochem spun it. Ridiculous lies, but there are always bound to be some poor gullible idiots willing to fall prey to them.

Jackson was now headed outside of the city, hopefully, this wouldn't be the case.

He stopped at the next traffic light; Alex pulled up right next to him on the double two-way. No other cars were around as it was closing midnight. And places one could hang out in Carson City were few and far in-between. But Jackson just happened to choose a fine establishment. Acid Shelter, a half-bar, half-strip club.

Alex in pursuit, parked outside the bar right on the curb, while Oliver headed for the back entrance car park, employee-only car park. Assuming he was to meet someone here Alex didn't waste time and jumped out of his seat. Slamming the door that refused to be shut.

"Stupid piece of junk."

Entering the bar, he was blasted away by ear-bleeding electronic, generic club music. Blinded by bright than needed blue and white neon lights pestering every corner of the building's walls. Assaulted by a stench that could only be described at drunk sick. And piss, definitely piss. It simply couldn't do without the stereotypical party aroma.

Like any self-respecting bar, it had a bouncer, drugged out of his mind, muttering angrily in the corner of the entrance. Naked and bruised. Blood flowed down his brow, head between his legs; sitting in a fetal position. Shivering uncontrollably.

The place was a mess, the deeper Alex ventured forward into this scummy place the more he felt out of place. Skimpy women, half-naked men, crawling over each other like vermin. They wore, practically nothing, but from what he could see it was mostly underwear. He almost tripped over a junkie shooting some sort of drug up his veins, just lying on the floor completely schussed out of his mind. People were dancing like robots, mindlessly flailing from side to side, crashing into one another over on the dance floor which was surrounded by the weirdest of gangs. Alex recognised them before, called themselves Crypt, a bunch of cyber-enhanced thugs – commonly known as boostergangs – who stole occasionally from corps and praised themselves as rebels for the common folk, fancied even. It was laughable to Alex, that they thought that highly of themselves. No self-reflection he figured.

And as a gang, they had their own assortment of identifications, tattoos; most visible of all was a capital yellow C on their necks.

Some girl lazily bumped into Alex from behind, spilling her drink on his coat, "Watch it white boy!" she slurred out before disappearing into the crowd again. Inching forward through the crowd, Alex tempered himself for all sorts of morons he might encounter, luckily none bothered him.

Finally, Alex reached the most trusted source of information in these places, the bar itself. It had mostly an assorted stock of pre-prepared cocktails for its equally fruity audience.

The bartender went over to him, she had a gold-plated left hand, three lines zipping up her wrist going along the length of her arm and reaching her neck where she had some sort of strange port. Her eyes were augmented with old kiroshi optics, irises shining bright silver as they scanned him.

"Did I just stumble into an ongoing orgy?" Alex asked himself more than the bartender.

"Seems to be that way." She replied they had to shout over the crowds of zombies freaking out behind them, "Crypt have the place for the night. Celebrating some sort of deal or heist for all I know, thinking they're hot shit."

If so… "Why was I let in?"

"Eli got beat up probably." Alex noticed her raspy voice, likely from a life of smoking.

"Chubby guy in the corner?"

"That would be him, he'll be fine. Not that anyone cares you're here. So, welcome to Acid Shelter."

Alex looked around for some normal alcohol but struggled to find any that piqued his interest.

"Listen uh, this isn't exactly my kind of place—"

"Woollen long coat, combat boots, sober, packing heat... No need to tell me twice. So, what will it be officer?"

"No-no-no," Alex laughed, "I'm not with Militech or Petrochem. I'm an independent investigator, Alex Nielsen, need to ask a question or two."

"Call me Betty, ask away."

Suspiciously quick was the bartender ready to answer him. Normally a small fee or persuasion was needed, people like this either traded in gossip or buried it once heard, not wanting trouble.

"Okay," said Alex, "Betty then." He sent her a photo of a man, Oliver. "Know him?"

Betty struggled a bit, looking like she was about to say no. "I think." She paused.

"Yeah, I think I saw him once or twice, chatted up some girl, one who used to work here before me." She said with complete disinterest.

"Hmm, don't suppose you know where he is? Name's Oliver Jackson."

"No."

Weird considering, he was out back, maybe she didn't know. Why in the hell would she even cover for him? No, no lie there.

"OK, last question. The girl, know her? Where she is or lives."

"As I said, used to work here. No clue where she might be, don't care right now."

"Work for who, and what as?"

"An accountant to the boss, once he died the place was pawned off to the city." Alex waited for more and Betty noticed, she sighed and leaned in closer to the detective, "They didn't know what to do with the place so they gave it to her, she tried to sell it but didn't find a buyer. Hired me anonymously just to take care of the place. Now I'm the owner in all but name, and I'm trying to sell it to these Crypt psychos. Once I can, I'll call her up, she'll sell it, split the money and everyone can go on their merry way."

And there he had it, one well-placed question to get the full picture. Oliver likely wanted this place to himself, or the money from the sale, either way, all would be done through this girl she mentioned.

"That'll be all, thanks for your time."

"Sure."

She walked off to a drunk pestering her for another round.

It was crystal clear now. All he needed was to wait.

He'd be sitting in his car for another six hours, beginning to dose off even though he shouldn't, his suspect could walk out of there any moment now. To keep himself busy he turned on the local radio, hoping it'd keep him awake.

"Welcome to The Star one-oh-one radio, I'm your host Jeffery Adams and boy oh boy is today going to be busy!"

"News segment, joy."

"Remember Washoe Lake up North? Of course, you don't! You haven't been here even a year, none of you! All migrants from down South looking to make yourself useful, well now's your chance. Petrochem bought up the land from Nevada's government as part of an expansion between Carson City and Reno. With plans to one day unify the cities. The now-abandoned Washoe City will become a part of a new complex system of fully-automatic refineries, the bonus? Waste disposal. That's right, that shrivelled up puddle what was once a lake will be coming back in spectacular but stinky fashion. You know who to thank."

"All of this means a lot of heavy equipment will be moving through the city, so be wary of those rackety roads of ours."

"In other news, acid rain. Today might be your last day of snow folks, enjoy it while you can. In the following days, we'll have a soaring 51 degrees after a bitter month of cold and freeze. But with that comes a storm front over from Texas, predicted to melt not just the snow but your face as well!"

"NUSA had unveiled its plans to revitalize its maglev network alongside Planetran Inc., promising to unite America once more. We all know the story and how it ends, either money or the workforce trickle out, slowly but surely. I can't think of anyone who would unite this once great country, and if so, infrastructure should be the last on their to-do list!"

"We've got some roadworks coming on the US-395, mainly patchwork. Mayor's office will be prioritizing the main roads for ease of access for our local Petrochem trucks."

"Ah, that's right! The abandoned airport will include new mass housing projects for an influx of workers for the new industrial zone at the lake."

"What else, what else..."

"Nomads! Everyone likes to hear from our roving bands of raiders coming for your wallets. Sometimes even lives. No? Not a soul to speak out for them? Strange, very strange. So, I'd advise you to avoid Elko County, the Lazarus Group had a big juicy convoy full of goods travelling to Los Juegos, nothing out of the normal when bam! Some Aldecaldos thought differently, deciding to hit it while travelling along the I-80. Militech is already on its way there to find them. Drones have been deployed along the interstate, so if you're travelling along there. Which I'm warning you now, have your papers in order."

"Shootout near Sonora! Biotechnica had some trouble when a cyberpsychosis stricken worker blew up their CHOOH2 reserves, some do say—"

He had heard enough blabbering; it was looking to be another bleak, boring day in a corporate world.

Coffee, he needed some coffee.

It would be daylight in two hours, hopefully, his target wouldn't come around while he was out.


Oliver was back at the place Alex started at, they did a loop with the car and ended up at the same rundown, crumbling 3-story apartment building. He went inside with a young woman, likely the accountant mentioned from before. If so, it would be best to move now, Alex did exactly that.

Getting out of the car onto the street he reached into his coat, stealthily cocking his Unity. One mag being sufficient enough for the con artist. He was alone but could be armed. His implants were limited to a personal link, eye implants; so danger was still limited. Alex crossed the road at a steady pace looking for oncoming vehicles, passing under a street lamp he met the locked door to the apartment. Soon he'd have to contend with rush hour, he'd have to arrest him fast.

Activating his scan, he saw that the door had the usually outdated firmware still on. Running a quick unlocking process the doors swooshes open with a flimsy flickering light hanging from the ceiling by a thread. Stairs flanked the right side of the hallway with trash bags clogging up space to the left of it, haphazardly thrown there for someone else to deal with. Floors were dirty, walls had paint chipping off. Lovely establishment Alex thought, he had hoped the apartments themselves at least didn't smell so bad. Moving up to the first floor the looks almost copied, crappy lights, the smell, just less of those garbage bags. The second floor had the decency to mop their floor it seemed and the third floor was more of the same. Door 443 was in sight, first on the left, the flat his target lived in. Rented and due, the landlord was aware of his plans to 'kidnap' Jackson, wasn't much of a bother to him. Actually, was glad about it, Oliver apparently had many noise complaints.

As of now, the flat was near dead quiet. So, either Oliver had decided to take a nap or he wasn't in. Either way, Alex did the same. Outdated firmware, easy pickings.

Door opened and flashlight turned on; the insides were actually pleasant, clean if a bit spartan in looks. A hanger had a fur-collared winter coat, a size too small for a man. The entry hallway was small, containing the wardrobe and shoes. High-heels were among the sets of sneakers and boots. Someone coughed in the room up ahead, Alex turned the flashlight quickly off. Unless Oliver liked cross-dressing both of them were still in the apartment.

The apartment – aside from the main entrances – had swinging doors.

Alex carefully nudged it open, centimetre by centimetre as to prevent it from squeaking or hitting something loudly. A dark room illuminated by a tv screen, which sat opposite the door a silhouette of a head was visible with the tv not playing anything, it was just static. The noise was muted and Alex heard a faint snore.

"Is that imbecile sleeping?" he mouthed.

Jackson was indeed sleeping, passed out on the couch. Alex walked slowly over to him, seeing the bottle and stacks of some powdery substance. Next to it were empty needles. Imagination sorted out the rest.

Tired, drunk, drugged up, Alex would be surprised if Oliver hadn't just induced himself into a coma. But he wasn't about to test it either. He walked around the couch, grabbing zip ties from his coats pocket, he carefully grabbed Oliver's left arm, currently slumped on the cushion seat and brought it over to his leg, he then took his right arm, placing it on his left one. He slipped the zip tie under the arms, securing them tightly. He still hadn't woken up, no reaction apart from him frothing at the mouth all of the sudden.

Alex looked on him in disgust, smelling of cologne and probably about to barf he put his arms around him quickly yanking him over his shoulder. "Damn, oof. Aren't you heavy?" He proceeded to sneak out the way he came, carefully not wanting to wake up the woman.

Oliver groaned, and Alex felt his saliva dripping down his spine. He could do nothing but cringe and slowly crawl towards the door.


The sunrise always cheered him up, skies were clear and the day was hotter than usual. 49° F, just the other day it was still freezing cold. These weather changes were unfamiliar to him, they just felt a little off, just this feeling of it not being right, climate changes aside.

Alex looked at Carson City or the shrivelled-up centre. The rows of buildings stretched some distance, mostly abandoned family-style suburbs, overgrown and left to rot. He saw the smokestacks peeking over the horizon of a hill to his right side, with black monolithic structures beaming their corporate logos across the flatlands, Petrochem stood out the most. While yes, Militech had a presence in the city, they didn't bother buildings themselves a hovel, the factories they had were small, built on existing structures, unimportant compared to other facilities. However, their partner in crime Petrochem – those things were atrocious.

He was situated atop a hill, near Ash Canyon, the view was best in the area. The refinery almost spanned the entire width of Carson City, and it was planned for an expansion. He couldn't bear to look on the industrialized mess before him. It contrasted with the beautiful landscape so badly you could easily see the plague corporations brought with them. Black colouring didn't help.

Over that same horizon an AV appeared, the AV of his clientele. This was their meeting place, the husband wanted Jackson for himself. Originally Alex wasn't going to bother with this job, beggars can't be choosers was the motto he ran with afterwards. The AV flew past him, slowing down. It then spun around looking for a place flatter and less rock littered. Oliver lied on the snowy path next to him, still mindlessly snoring away. Not even the chilly air up in the hills could wake him up, it'd be best for him if he never had to wake up ever again, Alex didn't know what this man planned to do with him. Somehow, this was destined to become emotional.

The AV had landed, Alex lightly kicked Jackson in the side to no avail. He wasn't going wake up.

He heard footsteps, "Detective Nielsen, a pleasure to meet you." And then two men came into view.

"Pleasure is all mine Mr Werner; package is all nice and wrapped up."

"Wonderful." Werner's 'cheery' voice monotoned.

Werner had a beefy bodyguard along with him, or hustle as they are called. Without a word or a blink of an eye, the guard picked Jackson up and began hauling back up to the AV.

"What do you plan to do with him?"

"I've not decided yet, think I'll ask my wife."

Okay. "Remember I'm not a merc for hire."

"And I appreciate working with someone more… professional." Werner had an attitude like most high and mighty corps do. He works for the EBM branch in Night City and is considered a top dog in the company. Out here it didn't mean much.

He was all dressed in a black, some sort of synthetic bullshit suit, with attire completely unsuited for the terrain, stupid haircut and unnecessary remarks.

"Seems that all went without a hitch."

"Really wasn't that hard, but I do have a responsibility to the city as well as to my clients. If word gets out—"

"It won't," Werner stated, he transferred the sum agreed upon, 10 000 eddies. "Not from my side anyway, if you did your job well and left no traces…" He then opened up a cigarette case, "than you did your job well." He lit up a smoke, turned on his heel and began trudging along to his AV.

Alex so wished this asshole was a 'man of few words', it sure suited his bodyguard. "Fine then, I'll be on my merry way. We can both forget this transaction ever happened Mr Werner."

"I concur, goodbye Nielsen."


Not much to say, the game itself is a miserable sack of shit. The gameplay is boring, open-world features are practically non-existent and that's even the basics. Bugs, glitches, false advertisement, completely void of anything that makes it an RPG. Truly a devolution in gaming. At least they didn't fail in the story department, got me actually interested, enough to write a story of my own.

Anyway, I digress. The story, what to do with it… I have a plan where it'll go and guess we'll see if the end will be satisfying enough. If not, I'll continue it. Not much to add since I'm still figuring out the details of the story progression. But something coherent has already popped up in my mind.

And since I see everyone doing a V continuation story or something along those lines. Let me tell you straight up, this is not that.