I'll be honest: the idea of the Doom Slayer Kar-ing en Tuk-ing his way through cults in Night City still appeals on some level; it would make a nice slam-bang adventure with plenty of slamming and banging. Not that kind of banging, the kind with triggers getting pulled.
"You should have brought him in!"
"Yeah? Did you see how fast that guy was? And his armour didn't even cop a fucking scratch, you ass. If base hadn't forgotten that comms were busted open, we'd have done that. As soon as the dumbfuck said 'apprehend', he got mad."
"This 'Doom Marine" is a person of interest to Militech. You are an employee of Militech. Asking nicely is not in our ROE. He has access to technologies that cannot be allowed to fall into opposing hands."
"Jesus fucking Christ! Are all you brass fucking dumb? He has a fucking AI on his side!"
"Sergeant you are out of line! This will be kept on record!"
"Sir. My apologies. Sir."
"But you do have a good point, this 'Vega' AI is a concern. There'll be panic if the public learns that an unaffiliated AI is at large in Night City. We'll get Intelligence to watch for any signs and tip off Netwatch as well."
"Whatever… Oh yeah. Might look at the clinics for anyone getting voice work done."
"Why is that, Sergeant?"
"The AI said his vocal chords were permanently damaged. If he's gonna hide in the city, being mute's gonna stand out. Some mute dude getting a replacement voice box? Sus."
"Good thinking. We'll take your advice on board for our search. I believe that's all we need. Dismissed, Sergeant."
VEGA pondered the interview recording that it had managed to extract in one of it's stealth hacking runs. Truth be told, learning how to breach the many types and layers of firewalls and ICE surrounding the various 'data fortresses' that comprised the modern net had proven a more challenging and rewarding pastime than it had expected. In human terms, it had enjoyed doing it.
Still, an AI needs something to do, especially when the human whose suit systems they are riding in is unconscious with a ripperdoc installing a low-mid-range VoxAll artificial larynx (a VoxAll Viva Firenze 2.1, if you're interested, RRP ED$5099 not including installation) in their windpipe. VEGA felt as though both it and the Slayer had dodged a bullet.
"Okay, sleepin' beauty," the doc, a gangly man calling himself 'Phalanges' with overlong mechanical fingers, said to the unconscious immortal, "time to wake up."
VEGA took the opportunity to sweep the implant and the cyberware that it had managed to convince the Slayer to install, spotting an impressive collection of mal-, ad- and spyware that was reduced to inert stubs shortly afterwards. Apparently, this Phalanges considered sabotage a good way to encourage repeat business. It decided that some creative justice was in order.
On the couch, the Slayer stirred, then coughed. "Oh, here," Phalanges handed him an inhaler. "Two puffs now, in three hours take two more. Think you can say something?"
"Ah…" the immortal man stopped, his hand going to his throat, "I… can… speak… again."
"You certainly can. Your organic vocal chords… they were nothing but stubs. Dunno what the fuck happened to blow them out like that, but a VoxAll should last a little longer as long as you don't scream full bore for extended periods. Now take two puffs like I said."
The Slayer did, and the discomfort in his throat died down. He took in the fact that his vision now included a few reports on the local time, a mini-map, which he (and VEGA) liked very much, and a few other readouts, including one that seemed to be for a bank account, but was currently just an obnoxious error message.
"This… will… take some…" the voice sounded odd in his ears. Vaguely he remembered sounding different, long ago, before he first encountered demons.
"If you don't like the voice, you can come back and swap the cords out."
He just grunted, not trusting himself to speak just yet.
"It has been a long time."
"Uh-huh. Well, 'long time' better not get in the way of payment." Phalanges' eyebrows rose.
A two-tone ping made the Slayer's eyes flick up and to the left, where the message INCOMING CALL: VEGA appeared. A second's stare replaced it with the UAC logo and VEGA's voice.
"I have garnished various transactions from multiple Militech and criminal organisations to cover costs. What remains I will deposit in a Night City bank account for our future use."
Phalanges' eyes flashed orange briefly, then he smiled. "And that'll do nicely! Thank you for your patronage. Now if you don't mind, I have other patients waiting…?" His tone rose, indicating that the Slayer was to leave.
"I will be back if I need your services again," he said.
"Uh… go easy on the talk for the next three hours. Two puffs after that, then wait another three. Then you should be able to speak normally," Phalanges warned.
The Slayer nodded, walking out into the small office that Phalanges used as a waiting room. Everyone eyed him as warily as when he'd first walked in.
"I am ready to set up a bank account in your favoured name," VEGA said, "What name should I use?"
The Slayer thought. Many names were lost, gone in a wash of blood and violence. Others were, he suspected, too outlandish and would point Militech and any other pests to him. Slowly, one crawled its way to his tongue.
"Taggart," he said softly, "Flynn. Taggart."
Thus Flynn Taggart opened an account at the Night City Bank, a good five years before he actually arrived, to the tune of four thousand, six hundred and twenty-seven eddies.
VEGA had a lot of fun concocting a legitimate looking transaction history.
Truth be told, Flynn did cut an imposing figure. His build, his scarred face, and the fact that his clothing was somewhat mismatched, told people that this dude was a regular street fighter. Flynn, of course, didn't contradict this.
In truth, the Slayer thought of this as almost a holiday. Just walking around, taking in the sights, absorbing as much information as he could, immediately prior to hunting down the cults.
Night City was indeed a sewer, a town without pity for anyone who fell by the wayside. He noted numerous homeless encampments, multiple abandoned buildings, and gang graffiti everywhere. The 'corpos' were practically an aristocracy, everyone else either a serf, or beggar, or bandit.
The bandit caste came in two flavours, ganggoon or merc. The mercs appealed to his sense of honour, but he knew that the gangs – including the demonic cults – would probably have a merc or two on their payroll. Well, he'd deal with that later.
Currently, he had grown a tail, at least three idiots probably intent on rolling him. One final swallow, and his emptied Nicola bounced off an overflowing trashcan. Then he stopped and turned around.
The would-be muggers froze. Stringy little shits. Tired-looking clothes, two in wifebeaters and one in an ugly and loud collared shirt, under matching vests. Yep, ganggoons. Wifebeater one was sporting a fat revolver. Wifebeater two had a cheap-looking plastic pistol, one of those Saturday Night Specials you get from a vending machine. Loud shirt had some sort of sword handle over his right shoulder.
The Slayer considered saying something, but decided to let his eyes do the talking. Theirs replied that they didn't take him seriously.
"Pockets," loud shirt's English was probably a third or fourth language. "You empty. Now."
The Slayer rolled his eyes and set to work.
The results were not only predictable, but slotted nicely in the ganggoons' reality tunnel. His speed was clearly the result of a Kerenzikov or Sandevistan; his strength some gorilla arm kind of implant. The expression on his face? Oh, probably on this side of cyberpsycho. Outside of their reality tunnel was the notion that the mark's failure to kill them stemmed from a decision to not enact Kar en Tuk on them, in order to fit in.
So Li Feng of the Tyger Claws recuperated from his serving of blunt force trauma, extra large, and vowed revenge on the fucker if he ever saw him again. Besides, he wanted his katana back.
VEGA of the UAC detected that particular line of comms traffic and arranged to make the subsequent two weeks for Li Feng extremely frustrating.
Subsequently I had the idea of Doo- ah, Flynn meeting Jackie, but I haven't thought this idea any further.