Dreck. This is all this idea is.
Exactly why the Empire would open a portal to the world of Cyberpunk 2077, let alone start colonising(?) it, and in the middle of a major city-state no less, I have no idea. My muse is apparently eating turds out of the toilet.
Smooth Harry ain't looking it. The fixer's twitchy as a Sweet Clean Speed head in his Afterlife booth, scratching his neck, fussing with his hair, like a gonk about to head out on their first ever job. Not chilled like he usually poses. Generally if Dex Deshaun was chill, Smooth Harry was prone.
"What's chewing on you? You're acting like you got half the corps in the city on your ass."
"I do have half the corps on my ass." Short, sharp and scared. "V, you know my rep, right? My specialty."
"Sure. Intel. If someone knows it, you'll find out, and tie it all up nice to sell."
"Well, that's why I've got sams from half the fucking corps visiting me. Militech, Arasaka, even had plainclothes from the PD, they all want – you know what? Let's have a drink first. Need it for what I'm gonna tell ya."
One glass each of Centzon. Of course. Smooth Harry would know that, along with quite a few barkeeps, barflies, and your chooms. You feel the edge softening, and Smooth Harry settles.
"They all want intel on the Imperials."
Fuck.
You just stare at Harry. No wonder he's gonking out. The Imperials have pretty much taken over Northside and biz there has dropped right off. There's quite a few exotics roaming around, done up like lizards or cats, some goombs with pointy ears. And their food is to fucking die for. Add to that one last fact: you don't mess with them or anyone under their protection.
You mention this.
"Shit V, who said anything about messing with 'em? My corpo clients just want intel. No bodies, no sabotage, just go in with a braindance rig, maybe slurp a server or two, then slip out again. Nobody the wiser."
"So I front as a tourist, slip under the rope barrier when no-one's looking? Sounds too easy."
"Yeah. See, I have a list of intel my clients are screaming for." A datashard clicks on the table.
You click it in. It's quite a list. Biotechnica wants to know where all this Imperial food is being produced. Militech is clamoring for deets on how the Imperials can fire energy from their hands; don't blame 'em, that'd be quality 'ware. The NCPD want intel on several sub-gangs, the Imperial Legion and Fighter's Guild. Trauma Team want deets and if possible, samples of their healing "potions".
The term makes you pause and scroll back. According to Militech, they have magic weapons, magic scrolls, even magic armour that does shit that regular leather or plate mail shouldn'tbe able to do.
"The fuck? I'm seeing the word 'magic' thrown around a shitton here."
"I know right? Like an old guy once said, 'any sufficiently advanced tech is indistinguishable from magic'. Something like that. Mili' really wants examples of their gear, not that they let the good stuff out."
"A little burglary. Should've known."
"Worth half a million eddies. Fifty-fifty split."
You take another swig of Centzon. Two-fifty-thou' eds isn't regular pay. Militech must be really gonking to offer half a fucking mil.
"And the other clients?"
Harry's grinning. "V, Biotechnica, Arasaka, even Night Corp are all offering six figure payments. I mean, shit, these Imperials come outa nowhere, they bring people food, medicines, and security that isn't a racket. They've almost swallowed Northside whole, where's next? The waterfront? Kabuki? Japantown? Little China? Why're they doing this? You know… the angle. They're angling for something, and that's making Night Corp nervous for a start. We need an insider."
"What about Big Herve? Hear they patched him up real good after that tits-up dockside."
Shake of the head. "Herve's outa the game. Last time I saw him, dude was sporting robes for some church or other. Told me flat out that he's no longer interested in rolling gangs or being huscle. Then he finished packing his pogue and last I heard he was shacked up in some place called Stendarr."
"Netrunner? Billy the FISH could get into their systems."
"Don't seem to have one. Billy was pissed about that."
Another drink. Herve got turned, and Billy couldn't do jack. Serves him right for not getting off the damn runner couch more.
"So, I look around, ask a few questions, poke around where I'm not wanted, boost some tech, bring it back?"
"Yeah. Hopefully someone'll stick an infect in Maelstrom's ear and distract 'em."
That's a thought. Maelstrom were the main gang in the NID until the Imperials started pushing them out with extreme prejudice. Crazy chromers getting skewered with honest to fucking god arrows, spears, goddamned swords by guys looking like they'd just come off set from a fantasy TV prog. The way the battle of All Foods blew up on the news, no wonder everyone wants to know their secrets.
So you shoot another Centzon and think some more. This gig seems straightforward. Play the…
"I'll need an advance," you say. "Enough eddies to catch someplace to live up there. Some gonk coming in and out'll attract attention, but a new resident won't."
And that's how you find yourself and your shit all crammed into your car and heading north three days later.
Harry's fingered a place: a room in an old warehouse now renamed the Kvatch Hotel. It's easy to spot. You can see where corrugated iron has been replaced with windows. That and the large wooden sign with a yellow and black symbol of a wolf over the entrance.
The banners – honest to god actual cloth banners – of the Imperials are everywhere. No graffiti for these guys. Nope, just white cloth with a red diamond that on second glance becomes a dragon. Looks fucking weird against the squat, dead industrial shitscape.
Inside it looks even weirder. It's like someone tried to wall up the remaining tech with wooden planks, but left the lights, the doors, and the concrete floor intact. There's a fucking open firepit in the middle of the foyer, with quite a crowd gathered around it. Mostly Imperial gangoons looks like, and a fair few Night City residents too.
"Keep moving," fuck. Never even saw the Legion goon by the door. Still, time to stop gonking and get with the biz.
You head over to what looks like the bar. Probably where you book rooms as well. The 'keep is tall, slender, with red eyes, blue-grey skin, and pointy ears. You only glance at them so you can't scope any signs of surgery. Pointy ears seem popular round here.
"What'll it be?"
"Room, long term." Doing your damndest not to stare at those ears. Can't see any cyberware. Somehow the figure looks just wrong in that Seventh Street Screamers shirt. "Name's V."
Normally the barkeep would check on their implants. This mook actually turns and pulls out a fucking book and turns a few pages. "Ah yes, new resident eh? We have a small apartment for you. Number 17. Through that door there, second floor, you'll find it easy. There's some useful guides in the bookcase."
The key is weighty and old fashioned. No scanning here. The second floor is wood, covered in carpets. The whole refit of the warehouse screams yeah, we're super retro medieval and we don't give a flying what you think.
Suite 17 is again disorienting. There's a small kitchenette, curtains for the windows, but the layout is familiar. Just like your apartment at home. Except there's no vending machine between the bathroom and the bed.
The bookcase does have plenty of reading, mainly guides to… fucking hell. There's a whole ten books devoted to the Nine Divines, whoever they are, the tenth looks like an overview and how to join their "Imperial Cult". Others introduce the Fighter's Guild, the Mage's Guild… you have to stop. No point overloading yourself. Pace them out, V. Gotta sort the money from the shit.
Gotta decide where to start jobbing first.
Someone knocks. "Miss, uh, V? There's someone here to see you."
"Who is it?" Got your suspicions, but you keep a hand on your gun.
"It's me. Jackie."
Open the door and there's your choom. "V! How come you're living here now?"
"Long story Jackie. Wanna help me move in?"
"Uh… sure, I can be muscle."
"And I'll scare up some more," oh yeah, the barkeep's offsider. "We've got plenty of strong backs to help with heavy lifting."
Turns out the muscle is a big guy with a bigger mustache and beard calling himself Rolf Dry-Stein. The three of you leave the hotel bar to see a couple gonks trying to lift your ride.
"First chance choombas," you say, pulling out the Unity, "Fade out in forty frames or less."
"Fuck you puta," well, time for warning shots.
"Do as she says," Rolf informs them, "or we might even call the Guard."
The gonks have some nerve, but it's starting to fray. The number of people who've stopped walking along and started watching them with anticipation is actually frightening.
"You leave it you lose it," stupid fuck pulls a Takemura out.
And then bursts into flame.
The girl who did it looks more dressed for a fancy costume party than fighting, but she keeps the flame on. You can see clearly that it's a directed jet, and it seems to be generating from a point about twenty mill above her cupped hand.
"¡Mierda! Maldita perra! Jodidamente me prendió fuego!" Well duh. The gonk flails, trying to beat out the flames while aiming, neither of which he's good at.
No time. You aim center mass and fire. That seems to be the cue for the crowd to set on the other moron with fists, flame and assorted weapons. Burnt hombre doesn't like being shot, and zeroes on you. Jackie's faster, his shot clipping the goon's shoulder and throwing his aim off.
Then along comes Rolf. The big blonde guy charges up and smashes his fist into the side of his face. Down he goes and doesn't get up.
"IMPERIAL GUARD!" The bellow seems amplified, and now there are armoured men and women arriving, pushing the crowd away from the gonks. Jesus fucking Christ. No wonder the crime rate's dropped like a stone. Gonks themselves are… well one's definitely dead as far as you're concerned, the other's barely breathing.
"What started all this?" Head Guard is a no-nonsense guy with a white sort of shirt thing over his armour. Close look shows marks. It's not for show.
"Those two mooks tried to steal my car."
"In broad daylight."
"I said they were mooks."
"In the Northern district."
"Must be new here."
"Captain," one of the other guards, "the car does have signs of tampering with the locks."
"Another attempted theft," mutters Captain. "Well, unfortunately for this one he'll live."
"He will?" Rolf frowns. "I must be getting old."
"Anyway," the Captain grins at Rolf, "if you'd kindly get your stuff out of your car before another chump tries to take it, we'd be much obliged. All right everyone, fun's over, move along!"