Semper Vigiles
Chapter 6
Rogue Amendiares sat in her booth at the Afterlife, her composure as steady as a rock despite the storm brewing in her grey eyes.
It wasn't every day that a towering figure in Spartan armor marched into her club and dropped one of her Mercs on the table like a ragdoll. The patrons' chatter, the clink of glasses, and the pulsating beats of music faded into the background. Her hands concealed beneath the table held a tremor only she knew was there. She had seen this kind of armor before, and the memories it dredged up sent a shiver down her spine.
She didn't scare easily; few things in Night City managed to send the ice pulsating through her veins.
But the man standing in front of her, Cyrus, was one of those rare exceptions.
She knew the stories, knew of ONI, of Spartans, and she understood the full scope of what he represented—she was painfully aware of the destruction he could unleash without so much as breaking a sweat. That knowledge alone spiked her pulse with an adrenaline she hadn't felt in years.
With a subtle nod, she dismissed her Mercs.
They hesitated, their senses primed for a confrontation, yet Rogue's authority was unchallenged. Without words, her command was as clear as the sharp edge of a knife.
The Mercs backed off, retreating to give her space; whatever was going to unfold, they sensed it was beyond their measure.
Her gaze drifted to Maine's crew, who still eyed Cyrus warily. With a level of nerve only Rogue possessed, she caught Maine's attention. The tension was a near-palpable entity hanging between them. Her stare was a silent yet explicit command for him and his crew to stand down. Even amidst the building storm, her presence exerted a pull strong enough to have them reconsider their stance.
Maine's crew exchanged glances, weighing their options. It was not a surprise when they, too, yielded to her silent demand, acknowledging her dominance in this particular chess game. Maine's icy blue eyes narrowed in understanding, and with a subtle shift of his shoulders, he signaled his crew to back off. Each member of his entourage, deadly in their own right, quietly reseated themselves, subtly detaching from the brewing confrontation.
Gravitas cloaked Rogue as she faced Cyrus alone. The usual buzz of the club seemed a universe away as she steadied herself to confront whatever it was that Cyrus had brought to her doorstep. Her hands rested calmly on the table now, the earlier tremor suppressed with the discipline that came from years of navigating the treacherous waters of Night City's underworld.
Across the table, Cyrus watched her, his stance non-threatening yet immutable. His arrival heralded inquiries deep-seated in secrecy and time, and in that moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath.
And for Rogue, every second that ticked by amplified what rested in the balance—answers to questions that shadowed them both, solutions that could unravel the tightly woven narrative of her life in Afterlife. She drew a slow, deliberate breath, steeled for the conversation that would swing open the doors to past ghosts.
Finally, with a quiet resolve that underscored the impalpable strength of her character, Rogue fixed her eyes on Cyrus.
"Follow me."
Rogue's eyes briefly studied the unconscious figure of Weyland on her table, the detritus of glassware and spilled drinks forgotten as she stood.
With a fluid grace and silent command begging no disobedience, she beckoned towards a nearby merc. The man had been lurking at the edge of her vision, a silent sentinel amidst the gathering whispers and anticipatory stares.
"Take care of him when he wakes up," Rogue instructed, her voice laced with a cool assertiveness that brokered no argument.
The merc gave a curt nod, cognizant of the gravity behind those words, and with a careful maneuver, he scooped Weyland up before Rogue's attention well and truly left this piece of the unfolding saga.
Rogue's heels clicked against the worn floor with deliberation, a tempo marking her intention clear to Cyrus. Her passage was a fluid sidestep; she navigated past him, her one-time adversary, a slender hand fleetingly brushing against the matte surface of his armor.
Her path led Cyrus away from the central hubbub, past the neon-lit bar counters and the cacophony of the club's rhythmic pulse. They moved throughout the din, a pair of specters threading silence amidst the noise, seeking solace in the shadows reserved for private dialogue.
The room they arrived at was sequestered from the club's neon chaos, a sanctuary of dark wood and muted tones shrouded in a deliberately crafted penumbra. The stark contrast to the club's blaring luminosity hinted this was a space for secrets; hushed conversations had undoubtedly shaped more minds and fates in this secluded enclave than whispering shadows along Night City's skyline.
The room was minimalist in furnishing, with a sturdy table anchoring it, surrounded by chairs that promised little comfort to those who sat in apprehension. A lone bulb suspended above offered a diffusion of light—a dim halo that crowned Rogue as she made her approach.
As she slid into the chair with the grace of trained muscles, Rogue reached for a crystal decanter and a glass. The sound of liquid stilled the room's unspoken tension. She poured herself a drink; despite the steadiness of her hands, the golden swirl in the transparent glass revealed the semblance of calm she fought to maintain.
"Do I make you nervous?" Cyrus's tone broke the silence, frank curiosity underpinning his question, his voice echoing off the room's unadorned walls.
Cyrus observed Rogue from his chosen spot, his back resting against a nondescript wall. He was the epitome of Spartan repose: armored and uncannily still, he seemed as much a part of the room as the fixtures themselves.
It was then, in the stillness that followed his question, Rogue's eyes met Cyrus's gaze, and she offered a truthful acknowledgment, a simple "Yes."
She masked it with a smirk and a shrug of her leather-clad shoulders, yet the affirmation hung between them—a rare admission from a woman who had seen her fair share of fear and faced it down.
The way she held onto her glass, however, suggested a need for something solid, something real, to anchor the moment.
Rogue tilted the glass and watched as the amber liquid swirled within, hiding the tremor in her hand. She heaved a sigh, one that fluttered through the still air between them, carrying a lifetime of decisions and consequences.
"Don't be," came Cyrus's reply, the deep resonance of his voice steady and assuring. "If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
His words, spoken with such certainty and calm, were not a threat but a plain statement of fact. They carried the weight of his intentions, starkly clear and devoid of malice, imprinting upon the silence that otherwise might have hosted doubts and fears.
Rogue looked up from her drink, locking eyes with the Spartan. "I know that better than anyone, believe me," she responded, her voice carrying the rough edge of hard-earned experience.
The moment hung suspended, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. It was clear she understood the caliber of the man who stood before her, knowing if Cyrus had wanted retribution, it would have been swift and absolute.
Cyrus's gaze upon her didn't waver; there was an intensity behind those eyes that saw through facades, an unflinching stare that demanded transparency.
"Tell me about Eliza," he said at last, his request slicing through the room's hazy tension.
Rogue paused for a moment longer, her thoughts churning. She exhaled quietly, the sound barely audible above the distant throb of music reverberating from the club beyond.
She put down her drink, fixing her posture to face him squarely. Her eyes bore into his, sharing an understanding that some stones are turned with grave hesitation, aware that what lay beneath could change everything.
Eliza was one such stone.
Rogue leaned back slightly, her posture one of veneration as she began to tread on memories both revered and intense. "She was the best solo I ever worked with," she pronounced, each word a testament to Eliza's skill set forth in a tone that echoed through the dim room.
A reminiscent gleam ignited within Rogue's eyes. The formidable woman before Cyrus softened if only for a moment, reflecting on a presence that had greatly shifted the tides in Night City.
"Legends have a way of carving a path," Rogue continued, "but Eliza did more than that. She didn't just walk the walk or talk the talk. She was a force - relentless, exact, and absolutely lethal."
Rogue paused, lost briefly in a memory of firepower and adrenaline. "You needed the best at any job that required a gun. She was what you went after, second to none."
If there were awe and respect to offer to another within the mercenary world of Night City, it was reserved for the very few who rose beyond mere capability. Eliza had secured that perch with skill and finesse, securing herself a headspace in the chaotic metropolis as a coveted asset.
"She had the kind of reputation that had every megacorporation on the planet seeking her services," Rogue elaborated on the halo that surrounded Eliza's professional prowess. "And she worked for the highest bidder, no questions asked, no ties lingering post the job. Clean, decisive work - she was excellence personified."
Cyrus maintained a steadfast silence as he absorbed Rogue's narrative, musing on the decorated path that someone he barely remembered from childhood used to walk.
His imposing figure still leaned relaxingly against the wall, his quiet demeanor giving nothing away of the machinations turning within his strategic mind.
As the dialogue paused, allowing the dust of formidable history to settle, Rogue's gaze returned to Cyrus, preparing herself for his contribution to their exchange of words.
"How did you meet her?" Cyrus inquired, his voice laced with curiosity yet devoid of urgency. It seemed that to ask was to unravel layers of a past that had bound legends to ordinary lives.
The corners of Rogue's lips twitched, the ghost of a smile born from a time inked in gunmetal and shaded in streetlights. "I met Eliza on a routine gig in Santo Domingo," she recounted, her voice painting the backdrop of the industrious district known for its hardscrabble streets and rampant violent encounters.
"It was supposed to be a clean data heist. In and out, no muss, no fuss," Rogue detailed, her hands gesturing the simplicity they had presumed the job would entail.
"But when does anything go according to plan in our lines of work?" She offered a rhetorical smirk, the wisdom of lived experiences weaving into her rhetorical rhetoric.
"We had barely cracked the ICE when Maelstrom decided to crash the party. They came down on us hard; iron and lead rained from every street corner," she described the pandemonium, the danger palpably enunciated in the rough cut of her voice.
"Then she stepped in — like fate fashioned in flesh, steel, and ammunition. She turned the tide with finesse and ferocity I'd only ever read about." Rogue's description bordered on poetic, an honor to a fellow warrior whose legend deserved to thrive beyond her absence.
"She saved our asses that day and asked for nothing but an extraction point in return," Rogue said, a mix of gratitude and nostalgic respect tempering her words.
Rogue's smile broadened, a rare glimpse into her less guarded self as she reminisced further. "She was good. So, fucking good." The embellishing expletive didn't sound harsh coming from her—it was a form of high praise in the language of the mercenaries.
Lifting her glass, she took a measured sip, the liquid warmth rushing down and igniting a fire in her belly, the familiar sharpness bracing against the swell of memories.
"After that Santo Domingo Op...we just clicked, you know?" Rogue leaned forward, her elbows on the table, as she painted the beginning of an unforeseen camaraderie. "She didn't talk much, but when she did, her words counted. Her code wasn't just about the job. It was about respect, loyalty - things money can't buy."
Her gaze grew distant, the storm clouds that usually shrouded her now parting for a hint of sunlight. "Started as a professional respect, but that op...it laid the groundwork for what became," she hesitated, searching for the right words, "an unlikely yet unshakeable friendship."
Cyrus remained a sentinel across the room, his attentive silence presenting the canvas upon which Rogue felt free to relay her past without judgment.
"She fought like nothing I'd ever seen. Could read the field, anticipate every move," Rogue continued, a touch of admiration mingling with the hard facts. Her voice dipped into a quieter register, a level just above the whisper, betraying her reverence for the fallen femme fatale.
Rogue loosened up a bit more, the drink and memories thawing some frost around her edges. "We'd hang out after high-profile jobs, you know? Celebrations at the Afterlife. She liked whiskey. Neat. Said it was the only thing that felt real in this godforsaken city."
She chuckled then, a sound tinged with both fondness and sorrow. "The first time I introduced her to Johnny," Rogue's smile turned wistful, "damn, you should've seen the look on his face."
Cyrus watched as Rogue's demeanor shifted at the mention of Johnny Silverhand.
"Johnny was a charmer, a cocky rockerboy who thought he owned the world and everyone in it," she remembered, the softness in her eyes hardening with the latent sting of love long past. "Always hitting on Eliza every chance he got."
"It never worked," she added, shaking her head with a snort. "Eliza wouldn't so much as blink. She'd roll her eyes and steer the conversation back to business. Practical as hell. He respected her for it, though. We both did, in our own ways."
Rogue's eyes caught the reflection in her drink, her gaze lingering there a moment longer than necessary.
The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly as Cyrus posed his next question: "When did she tell you about me?"
Rogue's hand paused with her glass halfway to her lips, a flicker of uncertainty momentarily disrupting the mist of memories. She set the drink down, took a deep breath, and answered with a gravity that altered the air around her.
"It was after a particularly nasty gig," she began, her tone taking on an edge as the recollection filled the space between them with its shadows. "A human trafficking sting revolving around orphans caught in the most twisted web you could imagine."
Her gaze darkened, and the storm returned to her eyes with a vengeance. "That op was personal for her," Rogue continued, her voice dropping to a hush. "She had this inherent rage— an anger that I had never seen before."
She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her thighs. "Eliza was methodical, almost to a fault. But this time, it was different. There was this... fury. A storm under the surface that was frightening to watch."
Rogue sighed, fingers running around the rim of her glass. "She bulldozed through every defense, dismantled every layer they had set up. They didn't stand a chance against her—none," she emphasized, her words painting a vivid picture of Eliza's relentless pursuit.
"But it was more than that," Rogue mused further, her voice dipping into contemplation. "She wasn't just dismantling a trafficking ring— she was fighting a war. Each child she pulled from that darkness lit a fire in her that I'd never seen."
"And when we were out when every last one of those bastards had been dealt with," Rogue recounted, her eyes glinting with something akin to pride. "That's when she talked about her siblings."
A heavy silence descended then. Cyrus, his back still against the wall, regarded her, noticing the slight tremor in her hand as she finally lifted her glass to her lips.
Rogue lifted her glass once again, her movements slow, almost reflective. She took a notable sip, the liquid's fire tracing down her throat as if bracing for the gravity of the story she was about to divulge.
"She started talking after we wrapped up the operation," Rogue's voice cut through the quiet, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond Cyrus to a point in time that clearly haunted both of them. "Eliza had been drinking heavily, which wasn't like her. So heavily that I heard her words slurring for the first time."
Rogue set her glass back on the table, shifting her gaze back to Cyrus. His quiet observation had not faltered; he had the air of a man braced for impact.
"She told me about how you two first met," Rogue revealed, "how, as kids at Camp Currahee, she stumbled through the forest, clutching nothing but a knife, a determined kid thrown into a world she didn't understand."
The room's silence echoed this tension as Rogue leaned back into her chair, the story rising within her like a long-held breath finally escaping. "She described it almost like a dance, meeting you and Cassandra."
"You were her family, as much as anyone could be in that...place." Rogue's sentence drifted off, a subtle shake of her head conveying the thoughts she did not wish to voice.
"She never mentioned it before—we didn't talk about personal things usually. But that night, after seeing those kids...something in her broke open. The mask broke."
Rogue's demeanor grew more contemplative as she delved into the dynamics of the trio that Eliza had been a part of. "Cassandra was the leader. That much was clear from how Eliza spoke of her," Rogue said, the intonation of her voice painting a picture of respect and hierarchy that existed within their unit.
"She had an assertiveness about her—the kind that's rare and instinctual," continued Rogue, describing the strength Eliza admired in Cassandra. "Eliza spoke about her with a mix of reverence and sisterly affection, which always struck me as powerful coming from someone as strong as Eliza herself."
Rogue paused, collecting her thoughts together like shards of a delicate memory she was afraid to handle too roughly. "For Eliza, Cassandra was a beacon—an unwavering presence that pulled them through the darkest of times."
Her hands lightly tapped against the glass, a rhythm to accompany her words. "She mentioned how Cassandra didn't need words to lead. She just did it. Even when they were kids, fighting through simulations and training, Cassandra kept you all aligned, kept you all together."
Rogue sighed softly, her gaze wandering to a corner of the room as her mind sifted through the poignant memories Eliza had shared. "Eliza trusted her implicitly," she added. "It's no small thing, trust like that, in this city. But that's how deep their bond ran."
Cyrus watched Rogue as she portrayed a side of Eliza he had never known. The warmth in Rogue's voice spoke of a bond formed under fire—a bond that had clearly moved Rogue, who had perhaps seen fewer, if any, like it in Night City's cutthroat climate.
Rogue shifted in her seat, her body language an artful blend of nostalgia and reverence as she traversed deeper into the contours of a past shaped by loyalty and brotherhood.
"And then she talked about you," Rogue said, her eyes settling on Cyrus with an unwavering gaze. Each word was selected with care, chosen to uphold the sanctity of a bond she had only witnessed from the outskirts.
Her steady stare remained locked on Cyrus, assessing his reaction, gauging the depths of his response to her revelations.
"If she was the heart and soul of your trio and Cassandra, the unspoken leader, you, Cyrus, you were the rock," she continued, imbuing her words with a gravity that adorned him in a mantle he may not have realized he wore. "Eliza called you the balancer—the one who always kept them in check."
Rogue's hands fidgeted with her glass, the clear liquid dancing with the movement. "You never lost your cool," she said, "never lost sight of what mattered. In the midst of the chaos, you were the steadfast one, unshakable and absolute."
She leaned back, allowing herself the luxury of a pause, her eyes reflecting the seriousness of her words. "You were everything to her, Cyrus. In the world she lived in, you were the constant."
"When she spoke about you," Rogue continued, a softness permeating her usual hardened tone, "there was a look in her eyes. Different. As if she were recalling the most beautiful thing in the world."
It was a look Rogue understood—it was the light of someone remembering something precious, something pure and unwavering in the face of all else.
A muscle in Cyrus's jaw tensed at her words, the gravity of his own emotions a subtle shadow against his stoic façade. "She would smile that rare, genuine smile when your name came up, and the fierceness would melt away. For just a moment, she was not the feared solo, but rather someone who had found her bastion of serenity amid chaos."
"That woman loved you both—loved Cassandra, without doubt," Rogue said, her voice maintaining its steady cadence despite the emotional undertones. "But when it came to you, Cyrus, there was a different level to it. She loved you with all her heart, with a love that was more than familial—it was unyielding with a loyalty and devotion that I envy to this day."
Her gaze never faltered, meeting his visor-covered eyes as if seeking to bridge a connection that spanned through eras and silence.
"Heaven help anyone who got in the way of that," Rogue concluded, her words a quiet vow that echoed in the room, a stark admission that bordered on a whisper of awe.
Cyrus remained quiet, absorbing, and analyzing.
He didn't know what to say.
"After that night, it's like a switch flipped back," Rogue began, her voice drawing lines through past conversations now solidified into the foundation of who Eliza had been. "She went back to her normal self. Closed off, professional; never spoke about what we discussed ever again. We just... moved on. Life in Night City waits for no one."
Rogue took a breath, allowing the silence to fill the room, thick with the remnants of memory and the passing moments.
As she continued, her words wove a narrative of the life that Eliza returned to—a life dictated by the rhythm of contracts and the pulse of gunfire. "She was always looking for the next big job, the next challenge. And then, after a militech contract, she got cozy with another solo. Morgan Blackhand, ever heard of him?"
The reverence with which Rogue spoke the name indicated the solo's status within the annals of Night City lore, a legend much like Eliza herself.
"Blackhand was a legend in his own right, virtually unmatched at the time," Rogue said, each word adding to Morgan's fabled stature. "He had this presence, an authority that made him respected or feared, depending from which side of the barrel you were facing him."
Rogue's eyes grew distant as if she could see the scenes she described playing out before her. "Eliza and Morgan were like two sides of the same eddie. Where one went, the streets whispered about the other. They were...a good match, professional and personal."
She paused, the rumble of music from the bar seeping into their secluded conversation, underscoring the rhythm of her tale.
"They worked together on a few gigs and then started showing up together more often," she reminisced, a subtle smile at the thought of two titans finding a comradery amidst the city's chaos. "And even though Eliza never talked about her private life with Morgan, it was there for anyone with eyes to see."
Rogue's gaze snapped back from the distance of thought, landing squarely on Cyrus, who remained the stoic spectator to her deep dive into Eliza's history—a history he had asked to hear about and which Rogue was obliged to relay.
"Whatever they had," she concluded, the curiosity and affection in her tone overshadowed by a hint of loss, "it made the impermeable Eliza seem almost...human."
Cyrus absorbed the word 'human' as Rogue let it hang in the air between them. For a brief moment, it seemed to linger like a solitary note.
He pondered the implications, how strange and dissonant the word sounded when framed against the narrative of his existence—a Spartan.
In his world, 'human' was a term laden with vulnerabilities, a descriptor often foregone for the likes of 'soldier' or 'weapon.' The Spartan program had stripped away much of what it traditionally meant to be human, honing him into a particularly pointed edge on humanity's spear.
Yet, Eliza had been human to Rogue in all the ways that mattered and in all the ways that transcended the expectations her title had imposed. Eliza had managed to hold on to something that Cyrus often felt was just beyond his reach, something he could mimic but was unable to firmly grasp within his gauntleted hands.
The acknowledgment that Eliza found something resembling normalcy—a comradely or perhaps more with someone—was a peculiar thought.
It was a facet of life that, for Spartans like Cyrus, seemed allotted to others. To those not molded into the living armaments he and his fellow Spartans had become.
And in that silent reflection, Cyrus acknowledged the vast divide between what the world saw and what lay beneath the surface of those like Eliza and himself—soldiers all too human at their core.
Cyrus could feel the weight of history upon him, a heaviness he needed to shed to press forward. "Tell me about this picture," he requested, his tone dispassionately neutral. Yet, within, curiosity clawed at his restraint, desperate for the roots of the story that had shaped so much of his present.
At his cue, Chamber transferred the image of intrigue—an old, weathered photograph with crinkled edges and a faded hue. It appeared within Rogue's cybernetic enhancements, flaring to life momentarily before her gaze.
Rogue's eyes adjusted to the ghostly overlay of the image, her senses alternating between the cybernetic display and the memories flooding back. "That was the beginning of the end," she stated, the words heavy with dual meaning.
"This picture," she began, pointing to the figures poised on the brink of history-making, "was captured on October 15th, 2023, the calm before the storm of the 4th Corporate War." Her recounting took on an elegiac quality as she outlined the context of the ancient snapshot.
"We had been pulled into a whirlpool bigger than ourselves," Rogue explained, "Eliza and I, along with a few other solos, were contracted by Morgan Blackhand to join his 'Task Group Ocean.' It was a unit formed under Militech spec for Covert Ops—cutting edge, off-the-book missions against Arasaka."
Rogue's face hardened with the sharpened edges of regret and loss at the mention. "We were effective, a highly skilled unit working as one—until we weren't. Everything hinged on a critical assault on Arasaka Tower."
She hesitated, her facade betraying the cracks of her crumbling resolve forged from years of mercenary austerity. "That op," her voice faltered but held steadiness from nosediving into sentimentality, "it tore the team apart."
"Johnny... and Morgan, they led the charge, and it cost us," Rogue breathed out, the bitter abrasion of the past etching raw lines across her weathered expression. "The assault was our masterstroke—it was either going to make us legends or ghosts."
Her silence fell again like a heavy cloak, and each fold laden with what-ifs and if-onlys. "It made voyeurs of us all in the end," she concluded, sorrow and bitterness intermingling in the hoarse whisper of her delivery, "gave us front-row seats to witness the disintegration of everything we had worked for."
Only when Rogue's recounting tapered off, her energy expended with the telling, did Cyrus nod.
"And here we are," he murmured, almost to himself. "Picking up the pieces."
"What happened to her?" Cyrus asked, the question concise and loaded with a gravity that riveted Rogue's attention to the here and now.
"She left the city," Rogue disclosed, and in that revelation, Cyrus could sense the arc of an entire life unfolding. "And became a mother," she added, her words dropping like bombs in the silent standoff.
Cyrus was momentarily taken aback, an emotional surge that echoed his disbelief. "Mother?"
"Yeah, old Morgan knocked her up," Rogue's voice was rough and dipped in a harsh truth. "Then he had the gall to go and die in the Corporate War, leaving Eliza to be a single mother in the aftermath."
It was evident that pregnancy had been a tumultuous chapter in Eliza's already stormy life. "The pregnancy was hard on her. Hard on the baby," Rogue continued, her eyes clouded with the vulnerability Eliza had faced. "The transhuman nature of Eliza's physiology... it wasn't kind."
"Eliza had to step away from the merc life and get serious medical help. Something Night City wasn't safe for," Rogue explained with a solemnity that reached deep into the trenches of their shared profession's reality. "I exhausted every resource I had, ensuring she got the care she needed. If there's one thing the mercenary code did well, it's teaching us how to hide."
Time passed in a blur, a landscape changing beyond recognition, "Fifteen years went by without a word," Rogue's voice rose and fell with the currents of time. "But about five years ago, I received a communique. She's in South America now."
Cyrus remained silent, absorbing the pieces of a puzzle he never knew he was part of.
"I'm not entirely sure what she's gotten herself into recently, but one thing's for sure," Rogue's voice grew firmer with the conviction of a person privy to a significant secret. "She went and created a Mercenary Corps. Calls it Eclipse."
From the depth of her pocket, Rogue produced a data shard she placed delicately on the table, a digital emblem representing a lifeline across distances immeasurable. "...And in that communique," she said, her hand lightly touching the shard, "was this."
She locked eyes with Cyrus. "She knew you'd be searching for her one day, and she made me promise—promise to tell you the truth if you ever came asking," Rogue's words bore the gravity of an oath sealed in blood and allegiance.
With the weight of unspoken sentiment, Rogue slid the shard across the table. "It's a personal message meant for you," she concluded, her tone solid yet edged with the softness of sentiment, the echo of a promise shared between soldiers, between souls who had borne witness to each other's darkness and light.
The data shard lay between them on the table, a conduit to a past, a present, and a family he never knew he needed to find.
Cyrus's fingers enclosed around the data shard with a deliberation that underlined the weight of revelations waiting within the tiny crystalline rectangle. He lifted it, his cerulean gaze reflecting off its sleek surface as he examined it—this fleeting portal to what had once been his family.
"Anything else?" Cyrus's voice cut through the gravitas of the moment, his attention shifting back to Rogue, who sat across from him, shrouded in the backroom's dim ambiance.
"No." Her response was simple, final—nothing more to add to the narrative she had carefully constructed for him, brick by brick, with the mortar of shared experience and the heavy stones of truth.
With the shard now sequestered in his grip, Cyrus rose from the wall, his towering presence casting a long shadow that reached out to the recesses of the quiet room. He moved towards the doorway, his path unwavering, his exit imminent.
As the threshold of the doorway beckoned Cyrus into its maw, Rogue's voice anchored him once more to the space of dark wood and solemn bargains.
"Cyrus." Her call was firm, reaching for him across the chasm of club noise that crescendoed beyond the back room's sanctuary.
He paused in the doorway, his stature a monolith against the light that tried in vain to penetrate the room's gloom. Unspoken words lingered in the air, a connection momentarily rekindled as he inclined his helmeted head toward her.
"Give me a call if you need anything. Anything," Rogue offered, her declaration lofted high above the tumult of her daily life, signaling a bridge built upon the understanding they had fostered in the solemnity of their exchange.
With a silent nod that conveyed acknowledgment and the faintest vestiges of gratitude, Cyrus stepped out of the room and left the ensconced haven of the Afterlife. His mind churned with the tidal currents of newfound knowledge, with the aches of the past and the stirrings of a path yet to be taken.
He had a lot to think about.
I==I
Perched on a rooftop high above the ceaseless heartbeat of Downtown Night City, Cyrus sat alone, his gaze spanning the glittering expanse. The chaos of the streets below seemed distant from this height, their turbulent rhythm muffled by the wind whispering through towering skyscrapers. In his gauntleted hand, the data shard caught fleeting reflections of neon; it held a certain gravity, almost as if it contained a slice of his very soul.
"Are you okay?" Chamber's digitized inquiry broke through his ruminations. Her holographic form shimmied into existence, casting a spectral light that played across his armor's reflective surfaces.
"Yeah." His response lacked conviction, a spoken word betraying the inner turmoil that prevailed within. Shadows from the city's luminance danced across his visor, highlighting the shard's mocking gleam as it lay in his palm.
"Are your scans done?" Cyrus asked, his query diverting from his introspection to seek confirmation from his AI companion.
Her holographic form wavered, shimmering in the illuminated cityscape. "It's clean. The only thing on it is an audio file with some attachments embedded within."
Cyrus couldn't keep his gaze from returning to the shard, his fingers curling tighter around the crystalline object. "Hm." The contemplative sound echoed his internal uncertainty.
His hesitation hung palpably, reverberating through the silence shared between man and machine.
Chamber observed him. Her queries were silent but ever-present.
"Why are you hesitating?" she finally asked her voice a gentle nudge amid the cold clutches of inaction.
Cyrus turned his visor towards her, the cityscape carving a jagged silhouette against the stark blackness of his helmet. "I don't know what's waiting for me in that audio file," he admitted, a rare glimpse into his vulnerable thoughts.
Chamber's form swayed ever so slightly, a digital manifestation of understanding. "But that's what you came here for. Answers," she reminded him judiciously, tilting her head in a mimicry of human comforting gesture.
He knew she was right.
Cyrus breathed deeply, the sound of it mechanical within his suit.
Cyrus, the embodiment of discipline and resolve, allowed himself a moment of vulnerability as he inserted the data shard.
In the expanse of silence that followed, he almost doubted if Chamber had been mistaken about its contents.
But then it came—a voice that had lived in echoes and stories for so long.
"Hi, Cyrus," Eliza's voice broke through the static, a sound he hadn't heard in what seemed like lifetimes ago.
The voice was both foreign and familiar, a paradox that pulled and tugged at him. A flurry of rustling armor betrayed his steadying breath as he processed the reality of her voice, gentle yet enduring, reaching out to him across the years and the silence.
"If you're listening to this, that means... you made it. A little later than I would prefer, but you're here, nonetheless." There was a warmth in her words, a touch of humor laced with relief that resonated within.
Cyrus listened, his stance unmoving, as a pause in the recording left a deafening stillness in its wake.
"A lot has changed. I have a daughter now; her name is Acadia," Eliza's voice resumed, softer now, imbued with an emotion he could scarcely grasp.
"She's the spitting image of her mother, and she's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," Eliza confessed, and for Cyrus, the depth of her sentiment shone a light on a side of her, he had not known existed.
"I spent years looking for you after she was born. I wanted to be sure. Certain that you weren't locked away in some vault or getting dissected by any of those corporate bastards."
The vulnerability in her voice, barely masked by the crackle of the recording, was an unmistakable testament to the years weighed down by uncertainty.
Cyrus blinked against the emptiness. His gaze was lost in the neon-tainted skylines as an AV screamed overhead, momentarily shattering the quiet. The crimson and gold trail the vehicle left behind burned against the night, serving as a reminder of the extravagant chaos that was Night City.
"I know that you'll come looking for me, but I don't want you to—not yet, anyway. Don't tear apart the planet trying to figure out where I am, not while you're in Night City."
Her message lingered over the districts sprawling below, a poignant touch upon the landscape of trials and tribulations that comprised her former hunting grounds.
"I do not doubt that you've gotten a glimpse of what this place is like. But it's so much worse than you think," Eliza's voice continued. "I tried so hard to help people, but that place is a vacuum of despair and darkness. Every step forward was met with ten steps back."
The playback filled the gap with her sincerity as Cyrus stood sentinel over the city's hypnotic allure, his mind threading through the intricate narratives weaved and fumbled in the concrete beneath him.
"You're probably wondering how you can do any better, and I only have one answer. Chamber."
At the mention of her name, Chamber's holographic form coalesced alongside Cyrus, her digital presence flickering in the dark like a beacon.
"I'm hoping that she's still with you. And if she is, then I'm asking you, begging you to give Night City the one thing it has never had...Hope."
The word flitted into the night like a solemn vow.
"That city, those people deserve a chance. A chance I couldn't give." Eliza's voice resonated through Cyrus's helmet speakers, the weight of unfulfilled duty resting heavily in each word. Her tone conveyed an ocean of regret for the forsaken city she left behind and for the battles she had lost.
Eliza's message continued earnestly as rogue data flowed into Cyrus's HUD, each byte carrying an untold story, "Rogue's probably told you what I've been up to; she's good like that." A faint smile touched Cyrus's lips, acknowledging the bond between the two warriors. "If you decide to come to South America looking for me, I won't deny you or try to hide."
As he listened, Cyrus's visor flooded with images being uploaded—one after another—attachments included with the audio. They painted a life unfamiliar yet intimate, showcasing a land vastly distinct from the urban decay of Night City.
"But, if you stay in Night City. If you give them that chance..." Eliza paused, her silence thrumming with hope and expectancy through the digital expanse. Cyrus's gaze lingered on one image that stood out amongst the rest—a photograph of a vibrant girl with hair as wild as the South American land she stood upon.
"I'll come find you myself, and I'll bring my daughter too. Lord knows she wants to meet you," Eliza promised, layering the finality of her message with poignant longing. The girl's bright eyes seemed to leap from the display, an echo of Eliza's strength and tenacity shining through.
Cyrus studied the image, pausing on the girl's fearless stance; she had her mother's spirit, and that much was plain. Like looking into Eliza's face when she was younger, there was a wild streak, a spark of life that hadn't faded.
It was beautiful and untamed.
"And maybe together, we can start making things right," Eliza finished, her voice a blend of determination and softness—a distant vision for a better tomorrow. "Whatever your choice. I know you'll make me proud. Goodbye, Cyrus. I'll see you soon."
The message ended, leaving Cyrus in the silence of the rooftop.
Whatever his decision, the road ahead promised trials but also the possibility of redemption—for him, for Night City, and for Eliza.
The final word of the audio file lingered in Cyrus's mind like a whispered oath. With a click, he sealed the message away and slipped the data shard securely into a specially designed compartment at his waist. It rested there, inert yet pulsating with latent purpose.
The night air was cooler this high above the city with the ever-present hum of Night City's relentless energy below. Cyrus stood motionless, a statue amongst the symphony of sirens and the neon glow, absorbing the emotional residue that Eliza's voice had left behind.
Chamber's voice broke through his contemplation, bringing him back to the here and now. "So, what are we doing?" Her tone bore a hint of curiosity, laced with readiness to follow his lead, as it had always been.
Cyrus inhaled deeply through the helm's filtration systems and exhaled, finding solace in the simple, living rhythm of his breath.
He looked out over the sprawling cityscape of Night City, the endless array of lights and the depths of shadows they cast, all whispering secrets of the sleepless city.
"We make her proud."
Cyrus felt the weight of his own resolve settle across his shoulders – lighter than any burden he had carried before. With Chamber by his side, he was ready to infuse the cesspool of despair and darkness that Eliza described with something it had likely never known – hope, just as she had asked.
He may be a Headhunter, a breed apart from the masses seeking to survive day-to-day in the city below, but he was also a Spartan, a beacon of light when all other lights go out the night.
The path forward was clear.
It was time to get to work.