ACPA. Assisted Combat Personnel Armor. Otherwise known, far more simply, as Power Armor, it was the mainstay of heavy infantry during the early decades of the 2000s, providing heavy firepower and extreme durability. The Arasaka 'DaiOni' was perhaps the most excessive example of the ACPA arms race, integrating a standard Alpha fullborg chassis into the armored suit to produce a 'body' that could comfortably engage armored formations with a significant chance of victory.
Even the DataKrash could not fully kill R into ever-more-deadly forms of ACPA. However, after the Fourth Corporate and Unification Wars, the utility of these suits dwindled. While growing larger as materials science advanced, the difficulty of supplying them increased dramatically with the destruction of maritime trade and the loss of so much knowledge, while advances in robotics were producing drones capable of matching the heavy security role ACPA lances had filled, while being cheaper to field and maintain. In addition, personal cybernetics technology such as the most advanced forms of Sandevistan were not something ACPA jockeys could match directly, due to the lack of integration between suit and pilot. Fullborgs increasingly took on a more prominent role as heavy or specialist infantry, despite the risks of cyberpsychosis. By the late 2050s, ACPA as a rule remained the province of nation-states rather than corporate militaries - with the exception of integrated chassis like the still-fielded DaiOni of Arasaka and Militech's own heavy infantry designs, corporate warfare was subject to extreme cost-cutting and resource-saving measures.
As with the highest of society, so with the low.
The 'Junkerknight' - an ACPA jockey utilizing a scavenged or stolen frame, typically operating as part of a criminal gang or small-time mercenary - became far rarer as ACPA usage (and subsequently the availability of such chassis for salvage or theft) declined. The better-off mercenaries and cyberpunks utilizing the armored suits found themselves folded into increasingly regimented mercenary companies or into state militaries. Meanwhile, criminal gangs turned to extant military hardware, even of lesser quality, to augment their forces, and attrition and time did the rest.
But in the ecosystem of Night City, no beast truly dies.
So too with Junkerknights. With their better-supplied competition removed from the field, and the growing proliferation of military-grade hardware on the market, the remaining independent suit jockeys and Solos adapted. The battlefields of the Unification War, the graveyards of discarded detritus outside Night City, and the constant stream of military-grade hardware sourced from both salvaged tech and the rare vandalized convoy proved a rich hunting ground for those with the technical skill to modify and alter their suits without factory-spec parts. The apex predators of the wars of decades past turned to scavenging to outfit themselves - and carved a niche in Night City's underworld by offering their services to the highest bidder while maintaining their fierce independent streak, for even reduced in power from their corporate heydays, an experienced ACPA jockey with a functional suit is worth fifty lesser combatants, at least if those combatants don't have heavy weaponry.
But no jockey can operate truly alone. Even in the urban sprawl of Night City, there are only so many places one can hide a war machine, only so many ways to avoid the eyes of those who'd covet what you've built. And safe bases are always difficult to come by, without joining a gang - an option that was taken by a few, who rarely lasted long in their careers.
Enter the Round Table.
It started life as a dive bar that happened to be next to a machinery shop, in a semi-abandoned district between the Heywood, Westbrook, and Santo Domingo neighborhoods. According to local legend, an ad-hoc lance of Junkerknights put a stop to a gang war and stopped in for a drink, giving the owner - a Matthew Cardona - the idea to talk to the owner of the neighboring shop and offer the nice gentlemen and women who'd just flatlined a hundred gangoons a place to repair their suits. Other legends say that, rather than resorting to negotiation, Cardona simply shot the man and took the shop for his own. Regardless of the truth, the bar quickly became a haven for the remaining Junkerknights and independent suit jockeys (who quickly became associated with the same title despite their higher-quality equipment) of Night City - neutral ground, serving as something similar to the Afterlife or the preferred watering holes of lesser mercs across the city. In doing so, it has spearheaded the development of the rudimentary code of conduct that governs fights between the Junkerknights of Night City.
The rules of the Round Table - an establishment that now occupies most of the combined shop/apartment block that housed the original bar - are simple. Only those not affiliated with any gangs are allowed to enter - ex-members are allowed, provided they have a record of operating against their former comrades - and while jobsfromthe gangs are freely taken, the jockeys themselves are strictly independent. Any dispute between suit jockeys ends at the Round Table's entrance: whatever the feuds between the fiercely individualistic knights might be, they will not be held within neutral ground. Finally, the Round Table demands a cut of any given job's payout - both in eddies and in all-importantsalvage, which the basement techies and mechanics of the Table use to augment the suits of their resident jockeys still further. In exchange, the Round Table - currently under the management of one Winston Arthur Scott - offers safe harbor and maintenance services, and serves as an informal meeting room, in addition to the more typical mercenary accoutrements of fixers, ripperdocs, arms dealers, and techie support.
It is for this reason that the Round Table has lasted the decades it has - that, and the fact that it would take a full-scale war to dislodge the Junkerknights that use it as their home base. While the number of active jockeys in the city fluctuates somewhat as members die or retire and new ones arrive on the scene, it has remained roughly stable in the range of the mid dozens, with other support personnel - often highly skilled by mercenary and ganger standards in order to keep up with the jockeys proper - adding around the same number of trained fighters.
It was into this environment that I stepped on a rainy day in 2072…
-Excerpt fromKnights of Rust: Interviews with the Armored Fists of the Corporate Wars
—-
"WHY THE FUCK DO NOMADS HAVE GODDAMN ARMOR SUPPORT?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, COMMS ARE DOWN? FUCK, ON THE LEF-"
Militech 'deniable asset' squad black box, provenance unknown
—-
Ana Slavica almost sighed in relief as Zduhać stomped its way through the gate. Hell of a job, that Militech ambush had been. She'd taken out half the damn security through the Net and they'd still torn up the huscle her idiot fixer had saddled her with. The gonks hadn't seemed to mind, though - probably high off their asses on combat drugs, but they'd taken their share and scrammed, letting the nomads and their convoy move on. Fair enough. She didn't feel up to talking anyway. She watched through her suit's eyes as the heavy steel door opened up, revealing the familiar sight of the Round Table's garage. Way in the back, she could see a trio of Junkers already being worked on by the others. Business was good these days. Plenty of corpo and ganger blood to be spilled.
Zduhać was smart enough and well trained enough to know how this went, and stomped on over to the washing station, before she slipped back into her frail and fucking useless meatbody and began to disconnect from the frame, fighting the urge to shiver as the coolant got repumped into storage instead of keeping her brain from burning out while she stayed in the only place she felt free. The suit opened up, and she stumbled on out. Fucking fixer better not stiff her on this payment, she hadn't eaten the last couple days, too busy working.
She got to work cleaning the suit off. Zduhać kept itself still as she played the pressure washer over its surface, getting rid of the blood that always covered it after a tough job. She might've 'taught' it judo but it was still a fucking ACPA, the 'non-lethal' throws it did still splattered gonks across everything. Crimson swirled its way down into the drain. When her knight was cleaned off, she led it over to the gantries. No real damage this time, she'd have felt it, but always good for a check-over and tune-up.
Thankfully, the gantry next to hers was occupied by one of the Junkerknights who wasn't a complete tool. Jacob was a decent guy. His suit, Lancer, was currently peeled open, and the techie sitting against its leg, interface cables plugged right into his suit's brain as he stared off with a blissed-out expression on his face.
Ana still wasn't sure whether Lancer's AI was just fucked up, Jacob was crazy, or if at some point some Blackwall-breach AI had shoved itself in there and had brainwashed the kid. Not like she was gonna poke at the thing through the Net, she wasn't stupid.Weird-ass idea about his suit talking to him and sessions he spent in 'conversation' with the thing aside, he was a decent guy. Not that she cared, really. Just wasn't a pain in the ass to talk to, and he respected Zduhać as its own thing, so she'd do the same about Lancer. Common fucking courtesy, right?
Took the gonk a minute to figure out she was there, though, as she worked over Zduhać. Couple of scrapes and dents in the plate, nothing she needed to worry about. Also a few aramid teeth embedded in the back of the left hand, from that one fucker with the cyberjaw her suit had punched in the face, which took a bit of work with pliers to get out. She bounced one off the side of Jacob's head, and the techie blinked before his eyes started focusing again. "Ah...hey, Ana," he said with a smile. "Good job?"
"Decent enough," she grunted. "More eddies to spend on this bottomless pit, yeah?"
"Hear ya," Jacob replied, rapping a knuckle against Lancer's leg. "Big guy eats a lotta eds in parts. Nah, not saying you're fat, buddy," he continued, addressing nothing. "But you gotta admit, you do burn through cash."
Ana gave him another grunt, before finishing up on the touch-ups. No big maintenance bill today, fucking fortunately - the owner knew better than to cheat Junkerknights on the stuff, but that didn't make it cheap. Maybe she'd grab something fried from the bar.
She gave Jacob a considering look.
Maybe something else too. Round Table rented rooms as well, she had an apartment here. Who knew, maybe the guy was attracted to brains, she knew she wasn't much of a looker.
"Hey, gonk," she said. "You done with the big guy?"
"Yeah, just about," Jacob answered. "Why? Wanna talk shop?"
Ana shrugged. "Got the time. Let's get something to eat."
"Yeah, sure. You mind paying? Last job roughed up my account, needed to find a new arm for the big guy on short notice."
"Cranson?" Ana found herself asking.
"Yeah. Don't know where that fucker keeps getting ammunition, you'd think someone'd cut him off by now with how many buildings he's blown up."
Ana spat to the side. "Fucker's a Militech lackey, he wears their colors plain as day even if he doesn't run with a gang. Doesn't have the balls to make it on his own."
"Yeah, well he just walked in, so keep it on the down-low," Jacob asked lightly, as the reverberations of another suit entering shook the floor. That made five all at once in just one of the bays, regular family gathering. The Round Table had space for thirty or more but it was rarely ever that full - too many jockeys would be out on a job on the day to day. A pity it didn't include Cranson this time.
Prometheus was an ugly piece of work, an eight-limbed monster of scrap metal plate filled to the brim with rockets. Damn effective, though. She'd only tangled with Cranson once, and it'd only been because of Zduhać's evasion protocols that she made it out in one piece. It paused in front of them. "COOPER YOU SHIT," it's pilot exclaimed, voice turned into an ugly snarl by the suit's speakers. "YOU'RE STILL FUCKING ALIVE?"
"Not gonna put me and Lancer down that easy, choom," Jacob responded with a smile. "Besides, you're one to talk. Didn't you drop half a house on yourself?"
"BLEW THAT SHIT UP BEFORE IT TOUCHED ME. AIN'T NOTHING GONNA MESS WITH MY BABY." The suit's head turned on Ana. "BITCH."
"копиле син курве и козе оболеле од болести," Ana responded calmly.
"HA! SEE YOU IN A SEC, HACKER-WITCH. DRINK YOUR SCRAWNY ASS UNDER THE TABLE TONIGHT. SEE IF THAT TIN MAN HELPS YOU THEN."
"Only if Militech paid for a new liver, sellout," Ana shot back. Zduhać just flipped him off, provoking another laugh from the nutjob inside the suit.
"Get that shit parked, Cranson!" one of the other jockeys yelled over from another bay - ah, that was Tumble. An actual professional pilot. "Nobody's got time for your gonkshit rivalries."
"COOL YOUR FUCKING JETS YOU WASHOUT, I'M GOING," the former scav boomed back.
"So..." Ana said, trying desperately to sound normal as the worst disgrace to the name of ACPA everywhere stomped over to an unoccupied gantry.
"Food? Yes, please," Jacob said, disconnecting from Lancer.
—-
Tumble tried to keep an eye out on the new meat when she could. Junkerknights lasted longer than most mercs - especially since the Round Table had a vested interest in keeping an eye out for new jockeys - but 'longer' didn't mean long.
Take the two excitedly talking tech over the fried-to-tastelessness food. Both only a few years into the business.
Jacob Cooper, the tow-headed kid with the easy smile, had apparently gotten his start from a mechanic with a past in some bushfire war or another - the suit he'd taken up was probably a Commando-8 or other similar late-forties model, underneath all the aftermarket mods. He was a solid enough kid, and she'd worked with him a couple times, but either his suit's AI was busted or he was one of the quiet kinds of cyberpsychos - either way, he thought the thing talked to him. Beyond that, though, he was decent enough, and a tough customer in his suit, busted AI or not.
Ana Slavica, the bushy-haired little goblin of a woman across from him, was a different breed entirely. The Serbian expat was sarcastic, foul-mouthed, and bitter, and while she was small and slight enough to be mistaken for a teenager, she was at least nineteen. A piece of work to look at, cadaverous and frizzy-haired, but whipcrack smart. Smart enough to split the load between piloting a suit and netrunning, which must've put her in the ranks of the geniuses among geniuses. Said suit was teetering on the line between medium and heavyweight, a massively armored hulk of metal that was much faster than it looked.
What they saw in each other, she didn't know. Ana was frosty with nearly everyone and Cooper only had eyes for his suit - but they seemed happy enough talking shop.
Both of them were wasted in this profession, and would likely be dead in a decade or less. Longer than the average merc, but still dead.
She drained her glass and settled back into her booth.
Flynn Cranson, naturally, seemed to take that as an invitation. The burly ex-scav plonked himself down into the other side of her booth, all smiles.
That was really how Cranson was. He was an abrasive asshole to everyone, but he'd swing around to downright jolly the second he didn't feel his pride was at stake. Four years he'd been coming here, and Tumble still didn't know which side was the real one.
"Heard you and Jacob got into a tussle," she said quietly.
Cranson shrugged. "Hazards of the job, you know? He's a clever little shit, though. I lost the bonus pay because he dropped a house on me and the convoy got away. Still, not gonna hold it against him, ya know?"
Tumble nodded, slowly. "So what's the reason you're here, then?"
"Eh. Wanted to pick your brain on something, washout, but if you're too busy crawling into a bottle…"
She bared her teeth at him. "Either play it straight or buzz off." She wasn't nearly drunk enough for this shit.
Cranson's smile vanished, and he leaned forwards. "I've got a line on a decent job. Militech fixer - you know the type."
Tumble narrowed her eyes. "What kind of job are we talking?"
"Yeah, that's the reason I want to pick your brain. It sounds good, but…" He gestured expansively. "Corpo types. Always got to wonder what the angle is. For this…they say there's a convoy moving in through the Badlands. Arasaka - but through a shell company. Payout's small, but the real cash is what's inside…because Militech thinks they're trying to buff up Arasaka Tower's defenses with proper, modern ACPA. Not scrap-suits - Type 46 Standard K's, full equipment, four trucks worth."
Tumble did some quick mental math. "That's half a platoon, unless they're going light on ammunition."
"You see why I think it's too good to be true?"
She nodded. "Either the suits have jockeys in them, and it's a suicide run…or the suits aren't what Militech says they are. Or it's a trap of some other kind, from Arasaka's end."
"We've certainly made life a lot more difficult for enough people. And it doesn't smell right." Cranson nodded to himself. "Thanks, Real. Mind if I pay for your drink?"
She arched an eyebrow. "Since when are you a gentleman?"
"Ghost off. I know when someone's smarter than me, and pay out accordingly."
"Even from a washout?" she shot back bitterly.
Cranson at least had the good grace to look awkward at that. "Ain't that what happened?"
Tumble sighed, pouring herself another drink. "One day I'll tell someone the whole story. But I'll need to be a lot more drunk, and bleeding out. Until then, leave it buried, alright?"
Cranson sat back, ragged features turning pensive. "Alright," he said, sliding some eds over. "I'll leave you be, Real. See you on the streets."
She saluted him with the bottle - then nearly dropped the damn thing as the doors slammed open.
"Turn the news on right the fuck now," Troy Williams gasped as he staggered in.
Winston, the owner, looked up, took in the freaked-out expression on the Junkerknight's face, and switched the channel from some dipshit comedy show to actual news.
That was…a lot of Militech hardware being blown up, by some guy in…was that ACPA? No way - nothing outside of bleeding-edge tech moved that fast, let alone flew. Some Arasaka prototype? Whatever it was, the news crews were telling people to stay indoors as the fucker went cyberpsycho on a tear across the city, both Militech and Maxtac in hot pursuit. Aimed right for the center of Corpo Plaza, too.
Tumble put the bottle down.
"Suits and guns, people," she said calmly, voice carrying out over the bar. "That's going to be a lot of hardware to salvage - it looked like the better part of an armor battalion. Let's go stake our claim before the Raffen Shiv get to it, huh?"
There was an audible cheer from everyone - not just the jockeys, but the drivers, techs, and backup mercs who were drinking with them. And why wouldn't they? Salvage claims basically boiled down to whoever got there first having dibs, and Militech looked a little too busy to object. Clusterfucks of this order were practically whalefalls for these people, and one of the rare times they'd cooperate.
She smiled at Cranson as she slid out of her booth. "Looks like you won't be needing to chase that Arasaka pipe dream, huh?"