Summary: Night City does it's thing, Johny has a very bad day, and we get to see our major players in an action sequence.

Last time on Cyberpunk: Fixers, Jhonny returned to Night City to investigate a potential chance to fix everything, accidentally ran into a particularly zesty shortstack by the name of Rebecca, and paid a visit to the Queen of the Afterlife.

Chapter One
②

Her target had smartly taken cover. Cover that wouldn't last long, but that was hardly what occupied her mind right now. Sami "Ay" Järvi was first and foremost a videogame writer at heart — working with REMEDY — an actor by circumstance, and an Arasak Counter Intel desk agent by profession. She noticed details, and the ease with which her mark had unconsciously taken cover was worrying. It meant that her target was a veteran.

The question was whether she would leave the hand she had just lost or not. Sami watches on through her scope. She was patient, a hunter waiting for her prey to slip up. It allowed her time to think. Why did — Abernathy — her boss's data shard refer to her target in masculine terms? Why were they interested in some half-century-old arm prosthetic? If they knew that her mark lived in Osaka, why wait? What sort of powerful enough backing did he have that Arasaka laid off? Just how much shit was she getting into if she continued pursuing her assignment?

No movement.

She fires another shot into one of the parked cars. It explodes setting off the car right next to it into a hot inferno. Next in row, a Caliburn is just thrown against the wall. That's going to cost a bit to repair, nothing major but a big amount anyway. Serves whoever right for visiting a place like the Afterlife in a fancy car.

Her hand slips down to the magazine, switching it out on autopilot. Her eyes are still trained down the sight, good thing too. Her mark just spun out of cover, lifted the hand off the ground, and broke out into a straight-out run.

She fires the next round as soon as she can. She doubted it hit.

A popup in the periphery of her vision.

MS. ABERNATHY
Do you have the hand yet?

She absolutely hated that her boss could call her and the call would just connect without her having to pick up. Bitch was too nosy, but then again she was the current head of Arasaka Counter Intel for a reason.

SAMI
No. I shot off the arm. The target took off.

MS. ABERNATHY
Anything else?

SAMI
Why are we after such an old prosthetic? And why didn't we hit our target in Osaka?

She pulls out the magazine and checks the chamber before gazing out at the bright, harsh skyline.

MS. ABERNATHY
Universal records have a protection detail on her.

She detached, folded, and stored her bipod along with her rifle and ammo in her rifle case as she spoke.

SAMI
That's far from enough to stop ACI ma'am.

MS. ABERNATHY
The smiling demon seems interested in her. Sigh. Get R&D that arm.

CALL ENDED . . .

Boss bitch had glossed over the need for such an old arm. She was in hot shit. Just like every other ACI field assignment. She must confirm that it's just hot shit and not boiling shit. The purpose of the Op was above her clearance level and the smiling demon was 'interested' in her target. Not good indicators at all.

Getting your arm shot off to mark the start of the next shitshow — drinks, drugs, sex, and death — right after being turned away by the biggest fixer in Night City . . . Johnny's first reaction was "Aw shit, here we go again."

He couldn't see his assailant, he couldn't risk taking a peek. He was in enough pain to cripple even a hardened edgerunner. The shot ripped right through his shoulder, considering it didn't puncture his torso, it wasn't from his left or right. It had to be front or back. I couldn't be back, cuz if the sniper was in the afterlife stairwell with him, he'd be dead. The shot was at a shallow angle. Probably from the building across, or more accurately, through the building across.

He hears a "puncture-ping," the characteristic sound of a bullet passing through sheet metal. He felt the heat on his skin before the sound smashed into him like a tidal wave.

Fucking noise. He couldn't tell which way was up and which was down. Good thing he didn't need to. His back was to the wall, he dared take a peek. Two burning wreckages. Then off to the side was his Caliburn, against the wall. Some forsaken corner of his mind reminded him that tech snipers — the only kind of weapons capable of shooting through multiple walls — need to charge up the most powerful shots. He had a small window to run.

He chooses to run. Off balance, as he was. Tipping over to pick up his arm. He runs back into a small alley parallel to the Afterlife stairwell as cement showers against his face dripping blood down his forehead. His tiny stunt almost cost him his life.

There's a red bicycle to the side, he gets on and pedals. Pedals as fast as he possibly can with only one hand.

Left. Down the lane. He really hoped he remembered the route right. Left at the Y-junction, down the subway. If his memory was shaky, it would probably cost him his life . . . That kind of weapon meant a professional, a professional was relentless. Up the subway, to the right. Was he going fast enough? He sure as hell didn't seem like he was. Left. This looked familiar. V always walked down this road and marveled at the way light beams filtered through the dust. To Johnny, it was always a sign of how far corporate consumerism has claimed this city's soul — the point where no one cared about the dust and filth most people lived in, and there was no profit to be found in it among the poorer sectors. V however was different, she was the kind of person who could see beauty in corruption. This one time, scavs almost killed her, her memories of the event were just focused on the simplicity of her capture.

Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, now's not the to reminisce. Assassin on your butt.

Chapter Two
The Blood-splattered
ROCKERBOY

Johnny quickly cycled up the orange ridged cement just a quick left off the road. The same elevator from everywhere else greets him in the parking lot. A few vehicles are parked off to the left. He cycles on. Up to the second floor of the parking lot. The third. The fourth.

There's a roller shutter ahead. He almost crashes into it breaking hard.

It's hard to control a cycle with only one functioning hand. The silver hand wedged into his coveralls was starting to bite into his back. Why didn't he just break into one of the vehicles on the lower floors? Oversights were the reason they were deployed in teams during the war. The shutter opens, and it seems like forever. He throws the cycle to the side and runs out, there's gotta be some good vehicle he can break into.

Avenger, that would serve his purpose. His own skill at hacking was much worse than V's mediocre ones. It was a good thing that this was a stock Mizutani Shion — a naturally aspirated rear-wheel drive coupe with a V8, a 482 break horsepower, 530 Newton meter torque machine with a top speed of 230 kilometers per hour — unlike V's modified variant, the 'Avenger', he could just smash in the window of this one and get away with it.

A minute or two later, he's racing up the road that leads into the flyover above. He needs to get to Vik, that old man should be able to patch him up like new in no time. To find and confront his assailant, he'd need both hands. There was no two ways about that.

His car break into a high-speed wobble cuz he spun the wheel a little to the side as he used his one hand to change gears. He has to work hard to countersteer and regain control. Ultimately it was dashing into the corner of some random sod's bumper that slows him down enough to regain control. Too bad for whoever that was, they ended up careening into the divider. Probably died too.

Some fancy punked-up cotton candy hair girl sticks her head out to look at him. He didn't care, he wasn't going to ease off the gas. Professional hunters wouldn't be that easy to shake off.

Glass shatters, aluminum petals, seats are shredded, Johnny ducks to not get his head blown off as he swerves. He glances at the rearview mirror — it was the fucking warhorse — Panam Palmer was the one shooting at him with her fucking machine gun. That olive booty was willing to shred through V's body? Bitch.

He never knew her to be a hit girl. He could see enough reasons for her to put her skills to use to kill him. None of them are justified.

The vehicle just in front of him spins out, there isn't enough time to react, and he crashes into it. Airbags blow into his face as the Shion breaks into a roll. The sounds blur into a haze, his vision is off-white, his back is on fire, he's positively bleeding, the arm that was in his coveralls probably shredded something, and he needed to find it. Undoing the seat belt has him unceremoniously falling to the roof. With the airbag out of the way, his vision is still blurry. FUCK. He wishes he could curl up and deal with the pain, that's not an option right now.

Faint traces of skidding vehicles reach his ears. Something explodes. He orients himself and kicks. The windshield shatters in an auditory shower of glass.

He pulls, pushes, and butt-crawls out of the wreckage.

"Koroshite yare yo, bitchi!" A feminine-sounding pink-topped blob screams. She explodes into blood splatter. Her limbs are blown outwards and her torso bounces off the road before falling to his side. Johnny squeezes her boobs. What a waste . . .

Gunfire rains down again. This is bad. He needs to move before the car explodes. His vision has cleared enough to quickly scans his surroundings, everything's still blurry. His silver hand apparently got thrown out of the vehicle, it's against the guard rails.

He quickly formulates his plan.

A second later, he's sliding into cover behind a car that crashed into the guard rail, his prosthetic in tow. He wedges it back into his ripped coveralls. He zips up, he can't afford to lose it again and he probably won't be able to carry it after the stunt he's going to pull.

Desperate times require desperate measures.

He pulls out his Malorian, shifts it to a three-burst round via smart-link, and fires.

He nearly blacks out.

His silver hand was custom-built to handle the recoil on the Malorian. The tiny pistol was custom-built to be able to stop a tank, that kind of recoil would straight up blow up his arm.

It did.

He just happened to forget that he didn't have his pain sensors detuned. He paid the price for it. Blacking out would have been the end of his little outing, he really was pushing his luck today.

He rolls over the guard rail. His gun is left on the pavement. He lands on his back. Fresh pain blossoms through his ribs. Maybe it is time to call it quits. His vision is swimming in black. No, gotta get to Vik. He instinctually turns to his side to cough out a meaty blob of blood. The shudders through his frame send him into pain's white-hot embrace.

Can't do this.

He's in so much pain that the fresh pain doesn't even register.

No, no, no, no. That bitch tried to kill me. He imagined the expression of Panam "Bitch" Palmer when her Throton Mackinaw slammed into a stop so hard that the back end was airborne for a bit. He wasn't gonna let her get her wish. He wasn't dying today. Fuck her. Fuck the world. He was gonna show them he was made of tougher stuff.

He rolls into his face, not really conscious of what he's doing, curls up tucking his knees under him, that's the only way to get up with his non-existent hands. He's completely blind to the additional punishment he's putting his broken body through.

He knows nothing but spite and anger at everyone and everything.

Viktor.

He pushes off in a random direction.

Chapter Three
The
Origin
of
Sniper

Lisa Liu or Lily (LiLi, get it?) as her co-workers more affectionately call her didn't ever consider the impact her requests would make on the lives of others. Arasaka was a weapons manufacturer, yes, but that meant that they had an implicit interest in curing cyberpsychosis. They couldn't afford to simply lose their 'investments'. This offered her a unique opportunity — the funds and political will to cure cyberpsychosis.

That said, it was only recently that some mercenary group stole and leaked doctored information regarding the company's 'Secure your soul' program Strong public backlash was natural. Lisa wouldn't waste such an opportunity.

That leads to her current situation. Nerve-wracking.

She slips into the restroom and answers nature's call before settling in front of the mirror. Jet black hair in a neat bun, check. Knee-length pleat-less white skirt, she straightens out some wrinkles. Baby blue undershirt and white lab coat, nope. She folds the coat over her arm. She takes a second to wipe down her oversized circular 'nerd' glasses before putting them back on her rounded face. Finally, she takes a second to settle her feet into her white wedge heels that had only a little incline. She usually prefers the practicality of sneakers, but today isn't usual.

She heads off two doors down the hallway. To meet Arasaka Hanako-sama. The current director.

The first thing she notices as she enters is the traditionally suited Asian man with an asymmetric side-swept bob that covers a third of his face. He stands at ease, glossy black metal lining his lower jaw unintentionally framing the matte synfiber muscle of his neck. Probably an Araska Ninja, Hanako-sama's bodyguard.

"Lisa-san, it is nice to meet you." Hanako Araska in the flesh, golden fingers, and a white off-shoulder gown with a thigh slit. Lisa finds that a little hard to believe.

She bows. Stiffly.

"You go too far Lisa-san. With the work you strive to do, it is I who should pay my respects to you." She sounds so elegant and dainty in the way she pauses on some syllables more than others.

If the enigmatic Hanako-sama was that humble . . . no, especially if the enigmatic woman was that humble, she deserved respect. Lisa straightens and nods her head. God, she feels childish. It would be inappropriate to not give basic courtesy? You're too humble? Is this a test? What should she say? "I wouldn't be able to do this work without your good graces Hanako-sama." She dips her head again just a little.

Lisa hears the faintest of snorts and catches Hanako-sama's eyes flash off to the right for a fraction of a second. If not for cyberware Lisa obtained for her daily scans, she wouldn't have noticed the look. The third occupant, is an American woman. Upper-back-length black hair in a high ponytail. Full lips painted in glossy mulberry. Conservative neomillitaristic office pants and blazer — all sleek lines and hexagonal cuts — colored brass with black accents, apparently no shirt underneath.

"So Lisa-san, as I understand, you believe that the terrorist Johnny Silverhand's eponymous prosthetic is being used by a band manager in Osaka?" Lisa's attention snaps back to Hanako-sama.

"That would be correct Hanako-sama. The band in question would be Horn-y."

The other woman cuts in, "and you seem to be very sure about this prosthetic belonging to Silverhand. Couldn't it be a replica?"

This was a question Lisa expected, "Ma'am, in order to not miss out on any potential new approach to curing cyberpsychosis, I scan through public security feeds daily hoping to catch cyberpsychos." Hanako-sama is laser-focused on her and the other woman gives a non-commital hum. "I noticed this prosthetic about a month ago. Tracking further backward, our band manager was apparently a mercenary operating out of Night City. She is known to have used a Malorian thirty-five sixteen, supposedly the same model as Silverhands." Lisa pauses to glance between the two women, "Considering that the prosthetic is supposedly custom-built to handle the weapon's recoil and the fact that at least one man who tried to utilize the pistol is known to have blown his arm off, it's safe to assume that the prosthetic indeed is the original Silverhand arm." Why does her voice still warble like a baby's? That wasn't helping her case at all.

"You must understand that that is very circumstantial evidence Lucy-san."

"I do Hanako-sama, but if that is Silvehand's arm it could present a breakthrough in our research."

Hanako-Sama closes her eyes for a few moments before breathing deeply.

Did she say something wrong?

"What is so special about this prosthetic Lisa-san?"

Lisa dips her head for just a sec. "Hanako-sama, there is a strong correlation between stress, loneliness, augmentation, and the occurrence of cyberpsychosis. Silverhand had some of the most advanced augmentations in his time, lived through a turbulent war, deserted said war, took refuge in Night City of all places, started a revolution, and straight up nuked Araska's NC headquarters." She had never been to Night City, but she had read enough. "Advanced augmentation, high stress as made clear by his alcohol and drug dependence, and the almost certain isolation that comes from being a revolutionary working with a very tight group puts him at high risk of cyberpsychosis." Lisa stops to see if the others are following, "He has acted out cyberpsycho-expected behaviors but never succumbed, but more curiously, while he did upgrade his augmentations, he never replaced his arm. That leads me to believe that his resistance to cyberpsychosis might have something to do with the arm."

Hanako-sama stays quiet for an uncomfortably long time. The room is dead quiet and Lisa can hear her own breath. She doesn't like it one bit.

"That doesn't change the fact that all we have is wildly circumstantial evidence Lisa-san."

No, you don't get it. That prosthetic could be the breakthrough you are all looking for, if it is, do you realize the profits it would bring you? "Uh. But . . . Hanak–"

"There's a little more at play than you're aware of Lucy-san, Abernathy can brief you on the situation."

The American takes over flawlessly, "This band manager of ours, her name is V." A pause, she's studying Lisa. "We have good reason to believe that she's a key player in the NC attacks. We've been trying to take her under custody for a while now, but there are four problems." Abernathy starts counting on her fingers, "One, she's one heck of a manager, Universal records have an in-house security detail around her twenty-four by seven. Two, she's one heck of a manager, major merchandising and advertising corps on the JCU are pulling soft power moves to keep her out of the law's reach. Three, a rogue AI put into an organic body has taken a keen interest in her. Four, She knows better than to get out of Japanese Territorial Waters. We can't touch her there and she refuses all communication from us."

There's pin-drop silence. Lisa is quickly processing what she just hear. Her band manager is a terrorist? The Japanese Corporate Union is protecting her? Universal Records has an in-house security detail? Arasaka is unable to reach her? Who the heck is this lady? Doesn't matter. Questions? What are the right questions? Arasaka can't get V out. They want V out. No legal means, if there was, the legal team would have found it. If V exited the Japanese Territorial Waters, everyone's problems would be solved. Or, I just need to ask if she's interested in selling the prosthetic. No. Won't work. I'm unlikely to be the first to notice, if that were Silverhands prosthetic, and considering it's not sold yet means that she's not interested in selling. I need to get her out.

Someone snaps their fingers, and Lisa snaps out of her thoughts. "Still with us girl?"

"Uh, yes miss Abernathy."

"Have something in mind?" Abernathy's voice is rather rough and tumble.

"Maybe I could mail this V and ask if she would be willing to aid in curing cyberpsychosis?"

"It is unlikely to work Lisa-san. I've met V personally, She's one heck of a mercenary, and not because she's trusting. You being an employee of Araska will probably be enough to be turned down."

Hanako-sama knows V? "Oh. Uh . . . what if I found a way to convince her to leave Japanese territorial waters Hanako-sama?"

Abernathy snorts and the other man seems to grimace, "Good luck with that Girly."

Hanako-sama simply sighs, "Alright Lisa-san, we shall obtain this prosthetic as soon as you can get V to exit Japanese waters. Abernathy?"

"I'll get it done Hanako-sama." Her eyes light up faintly in what is probably a call.

Minutes later that Sami gets her assignment and Lisa remains blissfully unaware of the deaths her request will rake up. She doesn't have to do much either because, for some god-forsaken reason, V simply heads over to Night City after frustrating Arasaka for months on end. It will also be years before she finds the courage to take notice of the dark underbelly of the Corporate world, by then it'd be too late though. She'd be slowly dying, adrift off the coast of Greece.

Chapter Four
The WOMAN From
MORNING

Becca is sitting on Hana's lap as they ride the rail. Her blond savior seems to have as many names as he has friends she muses.

The cabin is over-stuffed. Next to them, a fat white bitch in booty shorts so small, the joint is practically wedged up her cunt. Her ass is almost certainly overflowing and pressing against two sticky, greasy vinyl hang down to her stomach filling up her crop top, like it were an undersized bra. Of course, she has a skinny stomach. An hourglass figure so extreme, it's painful to look at. All augmentations, but that is precisely why people would pay to fuck her senseless.

Becca? She would rather put a bullet through those boobs, pussy, and ass in short order. She could understand body commodification, but this was just disgusting.

Closer to home, Hana has his hand wrapped around Becca's midriff like she's a teddy bear. As far as he is concerned, she absolutely, almost certainly, one hundred percent, and with no doubt hates being held like some cuddly pre-teen. Truly, she absolutely hates it and only puts up with it because they are 'siblings.'She shuts her eyes for a second and wishes that they would reach already. There's some drunken bozo at the other end of the cabin and another hooker halfway between them. The girl-boy looks straight outta the Cromanticore Ad, leotard, jacket, tiny boobs, and clearly-outlined limp dick pointing upward. Probably fresh meat. Probably nothing good in store for 'em.

The stale air tinged with drink, sex, peeling paint, and sweat combined with few thugs beating up another overfull, bruised, and dripping hourglass figure while taking turns pumping spunk into her in the other corner was something she could do without. How Hana manages to drift off into blissful but light sleep in such situations is beyond her.

Hana.

It means flower.

An effeminate name for an effeminate man. Even now, one year later, she has no idea what to make of him. Kind or manipulative? Helpful or abusive? Her eyes shift up. Some black ganger bitch has strolled up to her. This is why she hates traveling in the cheaper Cabins. She pushes the hand reaching up her skirt away.

"Got us a spirited girl here eh?"

It's also times like this that she hates being paralyzed waist below. She had gotten prosthetics, cyberpsycho symptoms set in and she promptly dechromed. Rebecca simply scrunches up her face hoping the bitch would take pity on her.

She doesn't, "Don't worry kid, you'll enjoy this."

She slides her hand along Becca's thigh again.

Slower.

A different hand moves to stop the woman, "Uh ma'am, my lil' sister is like thirteen." He even pulls off the unsure teen girl's voice so well.

Black bitch simply snorts, "That's the point cunt brain." Her hand doesn't stop trying to move further up.

"Please don't do this miss?" It would have sounded cute if not for the glaring 'I'm a rich entitled brat' tone it set down here.

"Aww. Boys we have cutie here. She wants me to let her lil' sester gooo." The hand stops inches from Becca's crotch.

Becca dislikes this woman more and more by the second. One of those girl-dicking gangers mumbles something in response while stroking himself waiting for his turn.

From there, everything ends in moments.

Black bitch squats and makes to draw her gun, probably to shove it in Hana's face and make threats. In the same instant, he swings his leg upward. Hard. Straight into her spread, waiting cunt. The moment his heel rebounds to the ground, he's getting up, throwing her off to the side., racing towards the fuckwads only turning to notice the commotion.

His elbow crashes into the jerk-off's throat. The man collapses.

He uses the next guy's arm as leverage swinging him overhead, probably ripping the arm out of its socket, before delivering a clean, hard stomp to the head. The teen curls up in pain if not straight-up blacking out.

The guy with his dick inside dripping hourglass's cunt, hastily turns to pull out his pistol. Hana simply sidesteps the shot like it's a daily occurrence before delivering a swift chop to the man's neck. This teen falls back like a sack of potatoes, his throbbing dick still at attention.

And, in one smooth movement, he brings the newly found pistol butt into the last of them, also a teen. He slumps spinelessly into the corner of the cabin.

Black bitch from earlier has one hand over her crotch, legs pressed together, and the other taking aim at Hana. Becca doesn't skip a beat as she grabs the woman's wrist so tightly that something audibly cracks, and black bitch lets loose a scream. She might not have legs, but her hands were just as powerful as ever even if they weren't as bulky.

Everyone around them was tense, that one gunshot made sure of that. "Do you have something against killing, or am I too young to see real violence?" Becca deadpans.

"The latter really," Hana answers easily as he walks over and grabs black bitches hand from her crotch.

He drags her up to the doors, forcing her pain-curled body to stretch. There are tears streaking down her cheeks as he cuffs both her wrists through the yellow-painted horizontal metal bar to the side of the seats. With her cracked wrist, Becca didn't envy her situation.

"So you just plan to leave her handcuffed?"

"Patience kiddo."

Ok, she'll wait this one out, she is genuinely curious about what he will do. Hana for his part pats her down her sides before carefully undoing her belt, pant buttons, and zipper. Interesting. A second later, he hooks his fingers around her bottom and pulls both the denim pants and grey briefs down to her knees. A shapely shaved pussy. Hana runs a finger through it, flicking it off her clit. She starts to squirm, and Becca almost takes pity on her.

The squirming is quickly stopped though. A swift punch to the gut. Black bitch doubles over with a strangled tone, her heels pulling close, her knees naturally spreading apart. Her wrist is starting to swell. She is probably trying really hard not to cry.

"You were trying to molest my lil sister," Hana states as a fact. With nonchalance. "Maybe you should know what it feels like first, ya know?"

He is going to molest her? In public? That doesn't make him much better now, does it? It also doesn't fit in with what Becca knows about him. He pulls a sachet out of his back pocket. Is that Pizza topping?

"Capasin is a chemical that simulates burning sensations." He says as if he weren't throwing black bitch's thoughts into a spiral. "It's the chemical in chili peppers that makes it spicy." He spreads her pussy lips with two fingers to reveal the pale core within. He isn't going to do what she thinks, right? "Do you know where else you have sensitive enough nerves?"

The pizza toppings fly out. Black bitch doesn't close her legs fast enough. His aim is perfect. Bitche's legs close. He drops the sachet. The Rail pulls to a halt. Becca can't find words. He scoops her up. Walks out. She sits in the crook of his arm like a little girl. Her eyes are still fixed on the ganger, her legs desperately shut tight just like her eyes. The rail closes on her and moves on.

"I'm low on tolerance, it's kinda a shitty day." He waits for Rebecca to look at him, she still seems lost, "and Johnny called, we got work to do."

Chapter Five
Showdown
at
Neon-lit Memorial Park

Sami is a patient observer. Never chasing action in haste. Some compare her to a predator padding through the underbrush, biding its time. They don't understand. She is a storyteller at heart. Stories are grounded in experience and uplifted by imagination. Reality has a thousand details, and a million perspectives. It is unclear. Fiction strips away the unnecessary and lets you simmer in the few details that truly matter. Fiction is clear. This is what makes her good at her work, at Arasaka Counter Intel, at REMEDY, and in the field. She is an observer sloughing off the unnecessary. She is no predator.

She jogs out of the lift, rifle case in hand. The sun is dipping. It is not raining. Good. A minute or two later she lies down and observes down her rifle sights. Her NiCola Sakura sits just within arm's reach. She expects this stakeout to be a long affair. She likes to stay hydrated.

There's a glint in the air halfway across Corpo Plaza. Lots of light pollution as usual, it could be nothing or everything. she knows better than to ignore the impressions her unconscious mind brings up. She trains the scope across.

Things just got a lot more complicated didn't they?

This is simply ridiculous. Johnny contacted Whiskers or Uzumaki or whatever the man's name was. He's far more sensible than all the other fucks in this city, he should simply gonk Panam and be done with it.

Sometimes being sensible means doing things you can't live with. Johnny has enough regret for a lifetime. He's gonna spit in Panam's face and make her regret her recent life choices.

He scans the plaza in a sharp circle, sweeping from the left to right. No Panam. He sweeps the rooftops next. He wouldn't be able to make out if she were already here aiming down a rifle sight. This is a bad choice of location with the holo koi swimming above.

He uses the one hand he got replaced to pull his jacker over his still missing silver hand. Then ghosts his hand over the Burya at his waist. The quad-barrel, double-action benchmark for Soviet revolver design works on the same principle as his Malorian — turn heads into pinatas.

He is to wait. He is the bait to lure in the prey. One of Whisker's associates watching him down the scope of a rifle was to tranq Panam. He didn't like it. Not enough situational awareness here, for all he knew Panam could be driving her truck around the Plaza or she could be lounging back home.

For all his bluster, Johnny wasn't dumb. Tech had improved. The fundamentals were the same, but the ways he could die were more advanced. He sits against a bench on the side of one of the four memorial entrances, the loose undulating circular arcs of bridges that constitute the memorial to his left. If she's stupid enough to face him one-on-one she deserves the bullet she'll be getting in her knee cap.

Panam knew about the experimental chip in V's head. The relic. A copy of a fucking terrorist. She knew that it was overwriting V's mind. She knew the death gambit V desperately took up to save herself.

Then Arasaka HQ was attacked by "a terrorist group."

Then V disappeared.

A few days ago, V's old output — Judy Alverez — contacted her, and said that Johnny Silverhand, the terrorist in V's head contacted her from V's Body. Those last three words were like slamming her truck into a wall at full speed. The conversation just hung there for minutes in silence. That was when she decided to hunt him down and now the bastard has the gall to come back?

An old acquaintance had tipped her off.

Incoming Call from Bolt.

PANAM
What's up kiddo?

BOLT
Ah, hey. Got a tip-off for ya.

PANAM
About what?

BOLT
The legendary V's back in town. She seems bad. (A pause.) Hired me off ya, non-lethally if possible.

Panam's eyes had narrowed back then.

PANAM
So why tell me?

BOLT
You Aldocaldo's are trustworthy. Ain't schmucking that up for creds sister.

PANAM
Got any plans?

BOLT
Yeah, drop by the Corpo Plaza memorial. I'll dart ya with quickly dissipating tranq. She wants you alive, there's got to be a reason for that. Depending on how things go, we either split the bill or shank her together.

PANAM
No deal. I come to the memorial. We ambush her. I shank her while you cover me. I'll pay double.

BOLT
I'm an honorable merc sister.

PANAM
I'll quadruple the pay.

BOLT
(chuckling)

Deal.

It had been a sad conversation, she didn't understand the whole point of it, but she ain't complaining. She had taken him for a merc with integrity. Those types rarely did well in Night City anyways.

She gets out of her trusty Thornton Galena.

Now, she is in Corpo Plaza. Bolt has already directed her to where Silverhand was, poor kid doesn't know that the Afterlife legend is gone, a terrorist now inhibiting her body. She knows that just asking Bolt to kill Silverhand is better. If she wants to do it herself, a grenade will have shredded the bastard. But no, she will do this face-to-face.

This is personal.

And of course, the magnificent Johnny Silverhand. The Rockerboy prick who stole V brazenly sits in plan view, brazen, armless, and smug.

"I knew you Aldocaldo's were anti-homo pricks. Here to finish teh job now that there's no more 'Lesbian adventures of V and Judy,' huh Panam?"Johnny swipes his and in front of him beckoning some magnificient neon poster before setting it down out of Panam's sight.

Panam pulls out her gun to Johnny's head as she walks to stand in front of him.

"Sorry, can't put my hand's up, I don't got time for small fry."

Panam's rage boils over, she stops just off to his side, he isn't worth her time. His eyes widen imperceptibly. Good. He should be afraid. "End of the fucking line, choo–"

There is the smallest flash of pain. Then only blackness.

Sami has switched back to observing Panam Palmer. The woman has prior ties with her target and wasn't really expected to be here. Her first inkling that something's wrong comes too late as she feels the cold edge of a blade against her throat. A heartbeat. She tenses up to avoid swiveling around, she'd be dead before she turned. She feels someone settle on her, ass-to-ass, legs wrap around her torso.

A slick soft voice ghosts her ears "Curious." It's said lazily.

Sami swallows against the blade. It doesn't budge. She barely feels the cut as one warm drop of blood slowly meanders down her throat. Warm against the chill breeze.

The shadowy voice continues "What's your name? Who do you work for?"

She arches back to put a little space between the blade and her flesh. The blade keeps pace. The fact that her assailant and their weapon are completely out of view is unnerving.

"Blade cuts into my throat while talking." She speaks firmly. She isn't a holowhore off the streets.

The blade eases to be flush against her skin instead of pressed into it. That is as good as she's gonna get. "Name's Järvi. Work with REMEDY entertainment."

For a few seconds, there's no reply. Did she say something wrong?

"Miss Lake — 'Järvi' is Finnish for 'lake' isn't it? — I really don't see what a videogame company has to do Johnny Silverhand?" The voice is tinged with Amusement.

With Johnny Silverhand? Her target's V. "You're not surprised about the rifle?" She snips instead with bluster she really isn't feeling. She fully expected a severed windpipe right there.

"Let's try this again miss Lake, who else do you work for?" the voice is back to being carefully neutral.

Not a secret worth dying over, but they could do worse to me if they have a vendetta against Araska. "Prom–"

The blade presses into the cut from earlier with laser precision.

She breathes.

The blade withdraws to it's earlier position.

She probably won't get leniency again, "Arasaka."

"What do they want?"

"Silverhand's arm."

"Turn around and you die."

Sami's left-hand burns, and her eyes trail to the deep gash across its surface, then to the shards of metal on the cement and the hole through her rifle. The blade withdraws, the legs straddling her unclasp, and the weight on her butt lifts. There is no sound, not even that of quiet footsteps. She doesn't know if looking down her scope counts as death but she doesn't dare try.

They were on OpComm as Hana liked to call it. A shortwave comm channel that is programmed to communicate a few additional details relevant to the mission at all times. You keep quiet on OpComm unless you have something important to say.

HANA
Becca, five rooftops to your left. Put a shot through that woman's rifle when I give you the signal.

She doesn't reply, it is unnecessary. It took a lot to exorcise that bad habit from her. She grumbles to herself instead as she switches out the magazine for lethal rounds.

There is indeed a female six rooftops across. The woman seems to be looking down at the plaza. Why? Did Rogue put out multiple hits on Johnny? She watches as Hana casually walks out onto the rooftop. She knows from experience just how noise-less his footsteps can be. In either case, he'd better finish fast. She needs to tranq Panam when she get's within Johnny's range. He's supposed to slug her into their get-away car. She can't do that with her gun aimed elsewhere.

HANA
Now.

She squeezes off a shot and switches the mag as she swivels back to her original target. The Aldo woman has her gun leveled at Johnny's face. She squeezes the trigger and watches as the woman's legs seem to blow out from under her. Tranqs don't do that. The sheer amount of dumb fucking complications to the bullet casing to be able to fire tranquilizer from a sniper rifle is mindboggling.

BECCA
Shots fired, Rogue might'a hired more chooms than your girly. (scanning the setting once more.) Either that or drunk acting Johnny shot the girl.

HANA
Fun.

Becca really couldn't decide if that was amusement, exasperation, or sarcasm in his voice.

← To be continued

Notes: challenged myself to write a chapter-long action sequence, this is the result of that effort. And apparently, the references I've been dropping into my chapter are too subtle. Shame on you readers, try to find them. There are 3 per chapter.