Word on the street was that the Butcher of Arasaka was going independent, and he wanted to bring an army with him. Straight from the mouth of every fixer in Night City, a brand new job opportunity for people with nothing left to lose and a craving for getting out of this fucking city. A brand new job doing the same old shit, but with the fuckin' Butcher on your side this time. Way he figured it, that was barely less dangerous than fighting him with all the collateral that follows when the Smasher goes to town.
Anything was worth getting out of this fucking place. Night City could suck his entire metal dick, he wasn't staying here any longer than he had to, and this way he didn't have to pay for a flight ticket.
There was an official-sorta process about it that made his skin crawl, reminded him too much of corporate bullshit. He had to go to a place at a certain time and get a personal interview? That was some shifty bullshit, and likely to get a kill-switch jammed in his skull. That was how the fucking suits got you, with direct contact.
Still, if getting some death-switch in his brain meant leaving, he'd deal with it. Having his head fucking explode was better than staying here. Any minute the city could explode in violence again, and he needed a way out after last time. How many free-for-all murderfests have happened in the last six months alone?! Too fucking risky. The curse of Mr. Night was coming back with a fucking vengeance, and he wasn't going to be around for the last toll of the bell.
He checked the address again, glancing at the corner of his vision, and then glancing at the heavily worn street sign. He grimaced when he finally realized he was a street away, and started moving again.
He pulled the heavy coat tighter around himself as he moved. It was fucking March and it was still this cold. It should be hot. What the fuck was the point of pumping smog in the atmosphere if it didn't get any fucking warmer in the spring!?
This was his favorite coat. Nice and covering, thick armorweave with ballistic plate inserts, came all the way down to his ankles, and had a high collar. Just disguised enough that the coppers wouldn't be on his ass about it, just bulky enough for him to hold all his irons under. Sure it was heavy, but there was a little thing called not being a fucking pussy that dealt with that just fine.
He emerged from the alley he passed through, boots crunching broken glass and scattering cans of rotten shit, and paused when he saw the building on the net-patch pic. Old nondescript looking plumber's place, long shut down, used to be a Strommer hideout. Not the kind of place you ever went if you felt like keeping your meatlimbs, not the place you went if you fancied only having two eyes.
Good thing the Strommers were fucking flatlined or run out, fucking psycho shitbags. They deserved worse.
Then again, who didn't?
He saw a merc that he recognized walk out, not making any kind of particular expression. That was the guy from Gureny's bar down in Tigertown. So he had tried applying too? Did he get the job or was he dismissed?
He hoped it was the first, the fucker owned him money, taking it out of his hide when he was sleeping was as good as any other way.
Another merc, this one he didn't recognize, walked up to and into the building. Nothing moved to follow his path as he approached, so there weren't any active watchers on the cameras and he couldn't see any turret mounts. Might be safe enough to approach. He swallowed and flicked his eyes around, taking everything in again, before stalking out of the alley and towards the double-doors at the entrance.
Raising a gloved cyberhand, he pushed the doors open and walked inside. He almost walked outside again when he saw the mercs swarming the interior. More than two dozen of the fuckers about a large entrance, looking around all shifty and staring at him. The competition.
He lowered his brimmed hat and glared at any who made eye-contact, before stalking forwards to the horned lady who looked entirely too calm behind a desk. Her tits were almost out in that button-up shirt though, that was real nice to see. He realized why she was so calm as he approached, with her flickering and barely-see-through form indicating that she was some sorta projection. No risk of folks gettin' grabby then.
He rested an arm on the desk and leered down. The lady, unimpressed, spoke before he could posture. "Here for the interview?"
Stumbling for a moment, he quickly puffed up his sails again. "Yah got that right, I heard the Butcher needs irons." He growled out behind a tactical five-o-clock shadow.
"And janitors." She dryly replied as she typed on the cyberdeck in front of her. "You're number 119. Remember it and go through the green doors when you're called. Got it?"
He frowned, a little put-off by how anticlimactic this was, before grunting a confirmation and turning to stalk away. Casting a glare around the room, he eventually found the least populated spot and strode over, plopping himself down and crossing his arms. There were a few others in the reception room chattering about this or that, but merc code meant you didn't try fishing for deets that weren't for you.
At least, not off the clock. On a gig, anything goes.
"101!" The horned lady called out through speakers, causing a hot piece of ass over on the right of him to stand up. Strutting to the doors in a tight black catsuit with yellow bdsm-looking metal shit all over her, barely hidden by a long black coat. Shame about that fucking face though, smile like a fucking gulper eel and shit-ass pinprick optics from the 60s.
She cast a tiny glance his way as she passed, left optic-pupil going up and down while right stayed still. Not in appreciation, but in the same way a fucking Strommer looked at you.
He had the personal-defense laser he called his left optic shine in defensive hostility. Her grin widened a tad.
The moment passed, and she kept walking.
…Fucking crazy bitches with hot bods. This is why BDs were better, psycho-broads were worthless in real life. Trash-tier holes should go commit iron-in-mouth and leave the rest of the world alone.
…101 huh? He grunted and shifted around to get comfortable, it would be a while before his number came up, probably.
He kept his eyes open, glaring at nothing in particular and letting it unfocus slightly. This would let him keep track of his peripherals easier, making it harder for anyone to sneak up on him. You couldn't trust any of these fucking gonkshits, they'd keep an eye out for you so they could bash your head in with their chooms later and rife through your pockets for loose chips.
You could only trust your hide to yourself, because anyone else would sell your skin for quick eddies. He would know, because he checked those skin graft prices out once. It was a good fifty eddies for a grown man, that was kibble for a month, that was good money.
"You look worried." The voice right next to him called out.
He almost whipped out his knife to stab the fucker that startled him, only stopped when he noticed who had done so.
Some fucking brat nearly got himself killed by trying to make conversation with a strange merc. He forcibly calmed himself down by slowly growling out the breath caught in his lungs, and glared harshly at the brat on his left.
Some scrawny looking teenager with tanned skin, long and straight black-brown hair, and wearing worn nomad-fash. His hair was kept back with a black headband, and his optics glowing gold. Kid must really like black, because that's what his whole fucking outfit was colored.
"Trying to get yourself flatlined, brat? Don't fucking do that." He growled out, leaning back in his seat and keeping one eye on him just in case.
"102!" The horned lady called out. He decided to no longer focus on her until his number came up.
The brat smiled sheepishly and leaned back in his own chair. "My apologies." You weren't sorry for shit, brat. "Still, you're tense. The interview will go better if you relax, you know?"
"I don't need advice from a brat." Actually, thinking about it… "Why are you even here?"
"Same as you I'd imagine. I'm here for the interview."
He scoffed in disdain. "Aren't you a little young for this?"
The brat smiled knowingly. "I'm older than I look. Besides, I'm not applying for a combat job. Looking to apply as a fixer."
He narrowed his eyes at the brat, re-evaluating him. Fixers were sneaky shits, you couldn't trust a thing about them, not even what they looked like. So this teenage thing was probably another tool to the not-brat.
The brat smiled knowingly. "Let's be friends, how does that sound?"
"Fuck no." He replied immediately.
The brat had the audacity to chuckle. "Still, you should really relax. You have what it takes to make it in, you just need to stop with the posturing. Just be honest and Adam Smasher will sign you on."
"Oh really?" He didn't need to disbelieve or believe this kid, there was no loss or gain either way. So he resolved to leave the veracity completely untested instead.
"Really."
"I'm not going to take advice from a brat who looks ready for a funeral." He grumbled.
"What…? Oh the black. I'm not a fan either, to be honest."
What? "Then why are you wearing it? Put some fucking color in there kid."
"I'll be wearing gold one day, it's my favorite color." The kid spoke with absolute surety. "But not yet, now's not the time for it."
He snorted. "Every brat says they're gonna get rich, you ain't the first."
"Oh. Yes I suppose I'll be wealthy too." The brat scratched at his chin. "You'd look good with a big claw, don't you think?"
Before he had time to puzzle that out, the lady at the desk called out. "119!"
Grunting, he stood up and stalked away from the crazy brat. Said brat called out 'helpfully' "Remember, no point in posturing Yarrick!"
He opened the doors and stepped through. Inside was a decently-well lit chamber…
And a few splatters of gore over the floor. He looked at it tensely for a moment, before turning his attention up to the large desk in the center of the room.
Behind it sat a massive form. Larger than anything except a proper milspec ACPA. Clad in pitch-black plates of layered borg armor that extended all the way up to a face set in a permanent-looking scowl. Thick neck, strong jawline, cleft chin, straight nose…
And glaring red optics set in pitch-black orbs resting in a shadowed eye socket. The sight almost made him run right then and there. It was only the large and immaculately maintained blond pompadour over the face that made his mind skip once in confusion.
"Sit." The giant of metal and glares rumbled out, making his own growls sound like a kitten's best attempt rather than a full-grown man. He stepped through the gore on the floor, uncaring that it got on his boots. He wasn't afraid of a little blood and guts of some bastard that deserved it. Only made his job easier, less competition.
He sat in front of the giant, and leaned back in the chair a tad, mostly to disguise that he didn't know what to say.
The giant's optics glowed red, and he spoke again. "Name and desired position?"
"Sebastian Yarbrough, anything that needs a ready gun." He mustered the courage to answer without a stutter.
The giant that was the Smasher seemed to not notice. "Relevant skills and references?"
References…? To prove his skills? "I'm a steady hand with most guns, used to barking orders, and I served as an NCO for the NUSA during the Unification Wars." He reached into his jacket pocket slowly and deliberately, pulling out his old dog tags and setting them on the table. What he wasn't going to do was tell the Street-Smasher that he used to be in 6th Street until they fucking imploded.
The giant glanced at them, before turning his glare back up to him. "Equipment and enhancements?"
He carefully reached into his jacket and began to set his weapons on the table. A big hand-cannon he bought a few years back, a long monoknife, and a few grenades. "I have an assault rifle back in my apartment, and a standard ammo-crate of standard grenades."
He reached up to tap his eye. "Mk 31 Optical Laser, then anti-dazzle optics and level dampers in my audio. Standard cyberport aside from that. Hardened internals. Also got a standard NUSA bioware suite in the army."
"Motivation." The giant growled out, glaring into him. He almost began to lie…
Ah, what the hell.
"I want out of this fucking city, and my only relevant skills are murder. You're hiring killers and bailing on this shithole, and I want to be along for the ride out." He growled out, letting his honest opinion on this place shine through.
A long silence filled the room.
He swallowed his spit.
The giant reached down and pulled out a chip, tossing it at him. He caught it, just barely not fumbling it. He looked at it to see it was a… BD training chip?
"You pass the first round of the interviews. Be ready for a combat simulator test next time. Show the succutary outside that chip and give her your contact so I can call you in for the second round. Got it?" The giant explained with a bored-sounding growl.
He stared at the chip for a second, before looking up and nodding.
The giant nodded at his weapons, still on the table. Quickly he began to put them away again and walked out the door, getting the hint.
That was… less exciting than he was expecting. He raised the chip to the woman at the desk, to which she snorted and her eyes glowed.
His own eyes glowed as he accepted the exchange contact information request.
"We'll see you again soon." She sounded quite irritated, so he just nodded and turned away. "120!" She shouted behind him, causing the brat that caused him a scare earlier to stand up and stride through the doors, sparing him a glance and a sentence.
"What did I tell you? I'll see you later."
Before he could reply to the crazy kid, he was already through the door.
He narrowed his eye into a glare, before finally turning to stalk out of the building.
He had a training sim to practice for, seems like.
Now he just needed to get this checked out before slotting it into his head. Never be too careful, it could be a bomb.