This took a while, but hey, at least it's nice and long and you can sink your teeth into it (phrasing…?). This is a Vito chapter, obviously, and I think it's a decent one – I'm very eager to get some feedback on it.
Yeah, the next chapter will be out as soon as I get another character I've been waiting on – this is becoming a bit of a theme, so… maybe I'll give people a week or so to finish character forms? I know it sounds pissy – and maybe it is – but, when it's been between two and four months… you get it.
So, without any further ado… here's the chapter!
07:01 25th April 2090
Apartment 0110, Megabuilding H2, Wellsprings, Heywood
"Good morning, Night City!"
The voice of Ziggy Q crackled through Vito's apartment, spilling from the tinny speakers of his wall-mounted radio. The morning light creeping in through his windows painted everything in hues of pale blue and dirty white, the neon lights from the skyline flickering even in the day. The yellowish sheen of smog hung over Wellsprings, blurring the sharp angles of Night City's towering skyscrapers. Out on the streets below, the hum of drones and the distant thrum of AVs punctuated the waking city, a mechanical lullaby Vito had long since grown numb to.
"Over in Vista del Ray, the bodycount is climbing as 6th Street Patriots are losing their heads – literally! A mass murder, gangland style, just outside of Delamain headquarters – that'll teach ya to tip your cabbie, am-I-right?"
Vito rolled his eyes as Ziggy Q's slick laugh crackled over the radio and pulled on his pants. The synthetic material clung to his legs, stiff from too many days without a fresh cleaning cycle. Vista del Rey. It was always Vista del Rey. Not his district, but close enough that the blood ran into Wellsprings, pooling like it always did in the gutters of Night City. He yanked up his jacket, rough brown leather with augmented carbon fibre plates stitched into the shoulders, a precaution he'd long ago adopted after too many close calls on the job. It was durable enough to stop low-calibre rounds but light enough to be forgotten once it was on.
"If you're lucky enough to be breathing tonight – and have 10,000 eddies to burn – you might be able to snag a ticket to the exclusive Johnny Silverhand tribute concert later tonight. That's right, chummers! Ten grand to relive a dead man's glory days in a city that can barely afford clean water. You've gotta love it!"
The apartment was small – cramped, even – but it worked. A pad with a small alcove in the wall where his bed was, another nook where he could sit to chow down on whatever scop he'd managed to pick up on the way home, and a small toilet and shower with a washer-dryer unit.
Vito reached for his badge on the cluttered table. He poked aside the crinkled takeout containers, their fluorescent logos still pulsing faintly in the dim daylight. He'd clean up tonight – he wouldn't put it off. It was just hard to find any time in Night City. That was always the problem – not enough time. Or, so Elena had told him.
The furniture was the same as the previous tenants – Vito had only bought new bedsheets and towels.
Vito shook off the thought: The place barely had enough room for him, much less his regrets. The apartment was a step down from where he'd grown up in Heywood, but he didn't really care about that – it was his (as much as a rented pad could be). He had learned a long time ago not to get too comfortable in Night City. Nothing good lasted here.
He picked up his Lexington – a handgun that had seen better days, and stowed it in his shoulder holster. He glanced back at the apartment as he fastened the jacket, the stiff leather creaking. Everything was a mess. Piles of old case files, printouts on coffee-and-curry-stained-papers, half-read articles on the latest cybernetic augmentations (the new cybernetics that had been popping up around Watson circled in red ink) and the growing war between the cybernetic maniacs, Maelstrom, and the pimps-and-glitter-fiends, the Tyger Claws.
"… Trauma Team stock continue to rise, in no small part due to our miracle worker, Carrie Lachanan! Stay tuned to hear just how she does it – and how she keeps her skin so clear!"
Vito walked over to the radio and clicked it off – he had little interest in Trauma Team, and less in their doctors.
He looked out across the for a moment, his back to the sprawling cityscape to the south. It had become something of a ritual – to look out across the sunny south: the ferris wheel of Eden Beach, next to the Mega Ride, which hadn't run since… well, ever. Coastview was marked by that amusement park and the Grand Imperial mall – rather, what was left of it. Then, of course, there was that area that was once called Serenisands, but was now known by a different name: Dogtown. Vito wasn't crooked, crazy, or desperate enough to step foot in there, and would be happy to let the tin troopers continue playing army man as long as it kept them out of the rest of the city.
His attention shifted to the sky outside, the silver-blue light filtering through the ever-present haze of pollution. Drones buzzed like insects in the air, their metallic shells catching the occasional glint of sunlight. Traffic AVs swarmed above the street level, crisscrossing in a chaotic ballet of exhaust trails and blinking hazard lights. The smog was thick, turning everything beyond a few blocks into a muted blur. Somewhere out there, far past his line of sight, people were dying – either by bullet, blade, or just the slow suffocation that life in Night City promised.
Vito turned away and headed back toward the bathroom. The smart-mirror flickered as he came closer, and he came to face his reflection: his pale, gaunt face lined with stubble, his blue eyes piercing, reddened, but still open (thanks in no small part to coffee). He waved a hand under the tap and soon enough, splashed cold water on his face and ran his hands through his close-cropped blond hair, staring at the bags under his eyes.
His skin, sallow and tinged slightly yellow under the cheap, flickering light, was crisscrossed with the faint lines of dermal implants. One scar, a faint crescent along his cheekbone, stood out from the rest. It was the kind of mark you didn't forget, even if you wanted to. A knife fight with a Ripperdoc who wasn't keen on being arrested. The guy lost more than his license that day.
Vito reached beside the basin to pick up his gloves from last night's shift. Thick, synthetic leather with reinforced knuckles. As he tugged them on, his wrist display flickered on, a soft blue light blinking twice before fading into the familiar outline of his work interface. He scanned through his morning briefs, his eyes narrowing at the rising homicide rate. He had a full day ahead, and judging by the number of pings from dispatch, it was only going to get worse. But, at least he could make it a little better for some others.
Something caught his eye: the mirror had stopped responding. Instead, a series of long black streaks flickered back and forth across his own face, until it looked as though he were staring at himself behind bars.
Vito crossed back into the living area, picking up a half-eaten protein bar from the counter and shoving it into his mouth. A familiar pinging sounded inside his head, and as he looked out across the apartment, red text appeared in his vision: a call notification from Edamura – the newest addition to his division.
"Hey, Edamura," Vito said, mouth half-full.
"Hey, Krol, what's keeping you? I've even come up to you."
"You've come up to-" Vito repeated, a little confused. "Oh, shit, right – give me a sec, I just need to grab my shoes." He walked over to hook a finger into the pull loop of his boot and force his foot inside.
"Come on, Krol, before one of these scumbags thinks they can shake down a badge."
"No-one's gonna shake down a badge, Edamura…"
"Yeah – you clearly grew up around Wellsprings…"
Finally booted, Vito double-checking he'd holstered his gun and picked up his badge – he found his car key next to the badge in his jacket pocket.
The apartment felt colder than usual, or maybe that was just him. He glanced around one last time – clothes scattered, empty bottles on the floor, his bed a mess of tangled sheets. It was home, for now.
The call ended and, as Vito approached the door, there was a knock: sharp, metallic, and impatient.
"Yeah, yeah," he called, tapping the panel beside the door. "I'm coming."
The door hissed open and, stood Arata Edamura in his grey and blue coat that fell to the knees of his grey pleated pants. He chewed on his gum idly, leaning on the railing and looking down twenty-something storeys to the ground floor. His straight back hair had been combed back from his forehead, falling in a straight sheet to the nape of his neck. Although he was within a year of Vito's age, the man stood a full head shorter, his brown monolid eyes hidden away behind a pair of thick black sunglasses. His thin lips curled slightly as he took a look at Vito and approached.
"Well, would you look at that: he's alive."
"Unfortunately," Vito grunted, rubbing his eye again.
"Didn't sleep?"
"Not much. Had to stay late, finish some arrest reports."
"Ah, being a good boy, doing your homework?"
"You make it sound so fulfilling…" Vito closed the door behind him. "I'm guessing the dog eats yours?"
Edamura scoffed. "Yeah, whatever, Krol. Let's just get goin', okay?"
'Only one more day,' Vito reminded himself, 'one more day, and Hank will be driving him.' The week had been torturous; from Krol blaring the siren to get them to the station quicker, to retelling the same old stories whenever Lizzy Wizzy came on the radio, Vito had resolved to get rid of him. Thankfully, Hank would moving over the weekend, and would be closer to Edamura. The weight of being Edamura's driver was almost off him, but his back still felt sore.
Vito entered the elevator with Edamura and checked his wrist display: up in Watson, there was already activity. The same old 10-31s in Little China, a 10-72 in Kabuki, multiple 10-57s in Northside…
"Fuckin' lucky, right?" Edamura said to Vito, clapping his hands together as if he were about to begin praying. Vito frowned, and Edamura nodded to one of the many screens in the elevator: dead bodies. Their chests were blown apart, bones broken, lying in pale white puddles of synthetic blood, their cybernetics torn out of them and left on the sidewalk. It hadn't escaped Vito's notice that the bodycount had been on the rise – Heywood and Westbrook natives. None of the victims had too much of a profile – likely a new gang. And from their effectiveness, they were likely ex-military. Maybe BARGHEST had looked beyond their own little hellhole of Dogtown…
"Lucky?" Vito asked.
"Well, imagine if we worked Heywood instead of Watson."
"Maybe we'd be able to catch the guy."
Edamura scoffed. "Just clock in and clock out, Krol – that's what I do."
"I noticed."
Edamura scowled and the elevator finally slowed to the ground floor and the doors opened. The two men walked out, passing the long marble planter, empty of any greenery, and graffitied with a white skull biting a red rose, decorated with a golden cross. Written above the eye sockets were the words: Por la familia vivo. Vito didn't know much Spanish, but even he understood that.
Passing the glow of blue-and-pink-and-green, the Matapang Coffee stall Vito used to frequent, decorated with an advertisement for 'Wet Dream: be the Dream, or the Dreamer. The ULTIMATE sexploitive experience!' Above the coffee stall was a hologram of a reminder in bright neon-red letters: 'Your day could be worse.'
Vito glanced up at the mural that had been beside the coffee stand for as long as he'd lived there: commemorating and immortalising a Valentino ganger, Alejandro Garcia. The guy had been stabbed by 6th Street fifty times. It seemed that everyone died in Night City, but some people had a legacy.
The two men walked out in the frosty morning air, looking out over the palm trees and S.C.S.M's and stores, the large NCPD mech accompanied by two sticks: beat cops, standard officers that were armed with Ajax rifles.
Vito's boots crunching against the pavement as he adjusted the collar of his coat. The massive entrance to the building loomed behind him, the brutalist architecture of the megablock cutting into the skyline like an imposing slab of concrete. A few broken neon signs buzzed above the archways, flashing garish ads for second-rate cyberware and noodles. Above those, the skeletal silhouette of a holo-ad shimmered faintly, promoting some latest luxury.
Vito cast an eye over the steady flow of pedestrians around him – workers, gangers, and fixers, all flowing in and out of the structure like blood through the city's veins. His eyes flicked toward the street beyond, where AVs and ground-cars wove through traffic like insects in a frenetic hive. Everything was in motion, yet somehow still felt stagnant.
Sat on the wall nearby, a braindance wreath around his neck, with bone-white hair fading to black at the ends, was the teenager, Freddie. His hair had been shorn at the sides, but fell to shoulders in a mullet. He'd taken to foregoing any shirt, and instead wore a cyan-green puffer vest on his bare shoulders, so as to show off as much as his new tattoo as possible: a series of lyrics from different rockerboys like Johnny Silverhand, Kerry Eurodyne, Maya Marks and Freddie Rogue. At least he was wearing pants again, now that the novelty of his Mr. Studd implant had worn off. In the past few months, he'd acquired a new cyberarm – made of black and lined with purple LEDs.
"Ey, yo, Officer," Freddie called out as he approached, "you got a smoke?"
"I don't smoke, Freds, and neither do you," Vito said, not breaking his stride.
"Yeah, yeah, preem – listen, you know that guy, Tyrrel? Seth Tyrrel?"
"Should I?"
"This beav tourist."
"Beav?" Vito frowned at the phrase – he remembered his dad used to use that term.
"Yeah, from Charter Hill. So, he owed me some eddies, but kept sayin' he needed time to get it, and kept promisin' interest – it's been a full month now, and the fucker's dodging my calls! So, I was thinkin', you and me roll up…"
"I'm not bailing you out or shaking down your buddy, Freds."
"It ain't shakin' down if I'm owed it!"
"Not how it works, Freddie," Vito said, placing a hand on the kid's shoulder. "How much did you give him?"
"A hundred."
Freddie rolled his eyes. "Well, it's a learning lesson."
"But-"
"Is this a guy a friend? You like him?"
"No, the guy's an asshole."
"Okay, so, a hundred Eurodollars, and now he's out of your life for good. Trust me, sometimes you end up paying a lot more than that."
Freddie's jaw stiffened and his brow furrowed – it was clear he wasn't happy with this, but he wasn't disputing Vito's points.
Behind them, Edamura's footsteps were heavy on the cracked sidewalk.
"Leave the kid alone, Krol, we've got shit to do."
"Yeah, yeah…" Vito nodded. "I'll talk to you later, Freds. Say hi to your mom for me, okay?"
"You fuckin' his mom?" Edamura asked with a slight frown – as if he was genuinely asking. Freddie didn't take it that way though.
"Hey, choom, don't talk about my mom like that," Freddie grimaced.
"Okay, look, Freds, we've gotta go to work," Vito said quickly, glancing over to the patrolling Militech mech between two sticks. "Stay outta trouble, alright?"
"Asshole…" Freddie murmured – loud enough not only for Vito to hear, but Edamura as well.
"Hey kid, if you do get into trouble, should we bother calling your old lady to bail you out? That the arrangement, Krol?"
Freddie took a step towards Edamura, but Vito pulled an arm around him and held him back, much to Edamura's glee.
"I'll see you in the car," Vito said.
"Nah, let the creep have a go," Edamura grinned, "the big man wants to prove he's tough."
Vito shoved Freddie back and held out a hand for him to stay before turning back to Edamura. "It's gonna be a long day already, Edamura, you want the paperwork for this as well?"
Edamura scoffed and reached into his pockets to pull out a carton of cigarettes. He gave a shrug of surrender and made his way down the steps behind them, disappearing from view. Vito sighed and turned back to Freddie shaking his head.
"The hell is that about?"
"You heard what he said," Freddie frowned.
"Yeah, I also saw you try to hit a badge, Freds. You gotta drop this attitude."
"He-"
"Easy," Vito urged Freddie. "What's your mom gonna say if you end up down the station? A full year you can get locked up without cause, you get that, Freddie?" He searched the boy's eyes until they were cast down at the ground. "Just… take it easy, okay? Start goin' to the gym, work out the anger, yeah?"
Freddie didn't reply – he was just glaring at where Edamura had walked away. After a little nudge on the arm from Vito, he finally gave a nod.
"Okay, now… look, I'll see you around, okay? Just stay out of trouble. Be careful-"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be careful, whatever…" Freddie scoffed as he left, still glancing over his shoulder to the stairs.
Vito let out a small sigh, watching the kid walk away: worry still trickled inside his brain. He turned back to follow Edamura down the stairs: he'd taken to parking his car off the road, ever since a couple of kids had stolen the tires off his car. Instead, he walked down the concrete staircase, passing beneath the advertisement of a metal unicorn, (only its horn was replaced by something a little more phallic) with the words 'El Guapo: Need for Speed' beside it.
Edamura was stood at a food cart half-way down the stairs, run by Yasmin, holding a small cardboard tub of spiced tofu in one hand and a mustard-yellow squeeze-bottle in the other.
"You know this is the leading cause of death, right?" Edamura was complaining to her. "Not bullets, I'm a cop – it's this shit."
"Oh, quit your belly-aching, you ain't even paid!"
"Aizuchi? You think I'm gonna pay for this?" Edamura scoffed, taking a bite of the tofu. "Goddamn, here, try flog it to some other gonk…"
"Hey, Yas," Vito said as he locked eyes with her. His Kiroshi optics glowed bright blue and, moments later, he got the notification: twelve Eurodollars had been paid out of his account.
"Jesus, Krol, you need to start vetting your vendors…"
"Yeah, yeah, okay, Edamura…" Vito said, pulling him along. "Leave the woman alone."
They continued down the staircase, passing from shadow to yellow light, back to shadow, and finally into the dull sunlight that filtered through the clouds of smog and steam as they passed through the basement of the megabuilding: the cheapest apartments. Outside, the benches had been lined with metal spikes to keep any homeless people from actually sleeping there. It didn't change things though: they usually just slept beside the benches on unfolded cardboard, drinking expired cartons of Dairing Dairy and cans of Chromanticore. That is, when they weren't lucky enough to get a burrito out of one of the five S.C.S.M. machines that lined the walls.
Vito turned left to see billowing clouds of black smoke and, as he glanced over, found roughly fifty rubber tires all piled up and burning beside the mountains of black-and-blue trashbags. A few of the homeless were curled up beside the fire while others dug through the opened refuse, pulling out cartons and cans and trying to drink whatever drops were left.
"Hope they didn't use your tires again," Edamura chortled.
Vito didn't respond: his eyes fell over the barbed wire that lined the metal bars that walled off the fuseboxes and back entrances of the building next to them. Lying in the small area outside the graffitied garage door, were three bodies. Chromed all to shit with muscles covered in scars and augments to make them bigger, faster, stronger. Dumbbells of frightening weights had been stacked along in the corners, and a punching bag had been set up in the corner with posters on the wall giving motivational advice like 'Work Hard Work Harder,' and 'Conquer All, King'. Animals – usually they didn't venture too far out of Pacifica. But, between them all, was the graffiti on the ground: a large Gothic 'V' in gold paint, submerged in scarlet roses, the petals falling.
"We should take a look," Vito said.
Edamura frowned, and turned back to Vito. "At what?"
"Four vic's," Vito nodded. Edamura paused and climbed back up a few steeps to peer over the chipped yellow paint of the rusting railing.
"Four stiffs… Valentino's killing Animals."
"Strange, isn't it?"
"Not really – Animals are gonks, and this is 'Tino turf." Edamura shrugged. "Let them kill each other – saves us the work."
"We still need to call it in."
"We're not on the clock. You think we'll get overtime for this?" Edamura scoffed. Vito's eyes glowed neon-blue again as he dialled 911. He could have walked back up to talk to the sticks with the mech, but… well, if he called it in, officers would have to check it out.
"911, what department do you require?" The woman's voice asked.
"Police, please."
"One moment… What is your emergency?"
"This is Detective Krol, 33, I've got to call in a 10-67 outside Megabuilding H2, around the back by the trash."
"Is the suspect still there?"
"10-10 on that, everyone there is dead. A few homeless folk nearby, might've seen something."
"10-4…" There was a long pause as the woman doubtlessly began to relay the information. "10-15, 33, officers are 10-17."
"10-4. There's also a 10-81 here. Nothing serious, but if it spreads…"
"10-4, 33."
"10-4."
The call ended and he turned back to Edamura. "Officers are enroute."
"Kokkoi," Edamura shrugged boredly, "now are we gonna get movin'? This place stinks…"
They trudged down the metal grated steps, their footsteps heavy and the metal flexing beneath them. They turned the corner, passing more trashbags, more poor souls carrying cardboard boxes and rifling through all the junk to try and find anything worth an eddie. Another smaller heap of tired had been piled together and lit.
"You don't wanna call in another 10-81?" Edamura asked. "Because, if you don't, how will you know anyone will do something about it?"
"You know, if you wanna mock me for doing my job, the smart thing to do would be to wait until after I've given you a ride to work."
The two detectives turned the corner and continued walking towards Vito's car: the gleaming and shining Quadra. One of the Type-66 series, the sports car was sleek with a metallic, polished finish. Next to it was a twenty-foot piece of graffiti. Not just art or a tag, but something of a memorial. On red badge, lined with roses and vines, was a man with a styled moustache, gold sunglasses, wavy dark hair, and a golden crucifix around his neck. Behind him was a large golden crucifix, and written around his head were the words 'Valentinos'.
Below was something of an epitaph, including the man's name: David Moreno. It look familiar, but all Valentino murals looked the same to him. Another poor kid dying in Night City.
Across the road, holographic billboards glitched and shimmered next to the alleyway, showing ads for the latest cars, for Arasaka, and for subscription-only entertainment feeds that cost more than Vito's monthly rent. The sharp sound of an electric engine revving nearby caught Vito's ear, and he turned to watch as a sleek, black Rayfield rolled by, its chassis glistening with a fresh coat of polish.
Edamura gave a long whistle as the car rolled by. "Rich bastards, right?"
"Hey, lay off the kid, alright?" Vito said to Edamura.
"Wow, you're really banging his mom?"
"Just lay off him, alright?"
Edamura stared at Vito for a long moment, as if he were trying to discern why Vito would have a problem with him talking down to someone.
"Whatever…" he said, sounding about as adolescent as Freddy had.
Vito glanced back to see a Makigai pickup roll by, covered in grime. The disparity was palpable; one second you were staring at a car that could buy half the block, and the next, you were stepping over a homeless person who'd had their optics stripped for scrap.
They climbed into the car and Vito turned the key in the ignition, hearing the engine purr and the radio spark to life with the radio. It was a Lick Switch track – popular on the Pacific Dreams radio station.
"Not this crap again…" Edamura groaned. "Mind if I change it?"
"Yeah, I do."
Vito drove down the ramp, slowing down to thread between the bollards and turn left down the Skyline Street south and turned north onto Ventura. The megabuilding grew smaller behind them as they navigated the border of the Glen and Wellsprings. It was a nice street – lined with beech trees and modest apartments, with barely any litter on the roads. It made sense – it ran right past City Hall. As soon as he turned onto Senate Avenue, he was accosted by billboards. Advertisements each competing to be more controversial, more awe-inspiring, more sexual, more alluring – all of them were competing for his attention. All of them had something to offer him – something that would make him feel complete. A corridor was shown, with the mangled mess of a head splattered across the walls as the rest of the body slumped into the corner as a woman lay beside him, her white tank-top half-torn as she covered one breast, looking across at the corpse, a shoe skewed a few inches away from her. A hand clutching a revolver swept into frame, taking up the forefront of the billboard: 'To stop a bad guy with a gun, you need a bigger gun. Malorian.'
Vito turned his attention back onto the road as he drove beneath the winding highway that rose above and over to Vista del Ray. To the left of him was the Wild Blue Hotel & Spa – doubtless there was some affair going on in there, right now. Or someone else was being paid to dig up dirt on someone else having the affair. No-one 'visited' Night City – he knew what the hotels were for.
Behind the smog and steam from the grates on the floor stood the black building full of Rockerboys: Time Machine. Laced with gold neon and pasted with gig posters, it was where most kids that thought they were the next Kerry Eurodyne came to.
He took the usual route to work, turning left and waiting at Richard Night Ringroad, where he passed through Corpo Plaza: the peaks of Night City's urban sprawl. As they head further north, they found less cracks in the roads, less litter and less gangs. Everything bathed in the ghostly blue glow of neon signs that flickered with half-life. The hum of traffic mixed with the low throb of music pouring out from an open doorway down the block. An old bar frequented by some Arasaka employees, if Vito remembered right. You didn't forget places like that – spots where people had vanished, never to be found again – at least not intact.
"This is the dream," Edamura said, his voice low as they passed a woman exiting a black Chevillon Emperor, stamped with the Arasaka logo on the sides. The damn thing was twice as big as Vito's sports car. It could ram him off the road at full speed and maybe there'd be a scratch on the paint. Still, since Peralez had become mayor, the police had been getting higher funding. If it continued, perhaps they'd be able to match the corps in a decade or two – in Night City, at least.
"Some dream…" Vito grunted.
Edamura gave a slight scoff. "You know, it's pretty clear you didn't grow up poor."
"And you did?"
"I didn't say that."
"Doesn't mean it's not true."
Edamura shrugged. "Hey man, you walked away from your daddy's money – I walked away from mommy's debt. But, y'know, at least I have some notion of what eddies are worth."
"If that's the case, you would've bought yourself a car by now…"
Edamura actually laughed at that. "Being a cop doesn't pay well, y'know?"
"Especially when you blow it all on… what do you spend your money on?"
Edamura shook his head and chuckled, "Same stuff as everyone else, I guess."
Vito had no interest in prying into that.
"Well, do that less, then. Maybe you'll be able to drive yourself to work and sleep a little better…"
"Say what you want, but I'm actually gettin' enough sleep, unlike some other cops."
"I don't sleep much because I'm working." Every night there was something Vito was doing – arrest reports, reconnaissance, assisting with interrogations, pouring over case files. He didn't get paid for most of it, but… well, he didn't become a cop for the payslip.
"Speaking of – you ain't eaten yet, right? You wanna grab some scop on the way in, Krol? Chubby Buffalo does a nice sandwich – I swear, there's some real beef in it."
"I hope not…" Vito muttered; no way anyone at Chubby Buffalo's Bar-B-Q had enough dough to buy real meat: not since all the livestock had been infected.
"C'mon, why not?"
"Because we're not heading down to Arroyo; Chubby Buffalo's in the opposite direction."
"Alright, fine, I hate sandwiches anyway…"
They drove up Ferris Boulevard, and crossed one of the bridges over the bay. All the cars sped up here, on the highways. The roadside sound barriers were long and curved, folding back in on the cars and, finally, they came out onto the bridge. Glass towers rose before him, shining in the rising sun. Taking up the top twenty storeys of the building next to it, topped with a crane to make it even taller, was another billboard: a man bent over backwards in sheer horror as his organic hand fought against his black cybernetic, that clasped a knife and pressed it closer to his knife. 'Install at your own risk: Foreign Boy.'
"How about… oh, I know this noodle bar off Clarendon Street – nice place."
Vito knew the place – Kashuu Hanten, a place frequented by Tyger Claws, which meant it was likely a front for something. Either way, two badges going inside wasn't the best idea.
"Tyger bar?"
"Hey, I'm not gonna start shit – I just want some scop. Maybe I'll pick up some norimaki for lunch…"
Vito bit his lip – he did need to eat. Especially for a long shift – who knew when he'd get a chance for lunch? It was funny – he'd only ever started thinking like that after Elena left.
"Fine. But you're paying."
"No, no, I got the CHOOH-" Edamura began.
"And I drive you to Watson – scop isn't included," Vito stated as he turned right down the Kabuki exit, entering the district of Watson. Immediately, things felt different: the were no sound barriers, just rickety tin fences lined with barbed wire. The drab grey concrete was stained and dripping with grime, and the roads were dominated by rust buckets. They drove down Palm View street, passing Riot: a popular nightspot, not just in Watson, but across Night City. When he was younger, Vito had gone to see Cartesian Duelists there – had his first beer there, too. Bouncers settled scraps as quick as they started, but what Vito remembered most were the bathroom floors: like a Jackson Pollock painting under a UV light. Vito felt a little too old for that stuff now.
He drove under Halsey Boulevard and began to descend the hill onto the highway. Everything was grey concrete with a lick of fading sea-glass paint, save for the small red shoulder that separated the two lanes. Turning right off the highway, the two detectives arrived at a true Watson street: it was dirty and smelly. The fan of an AC unity slowly turned on one of the walls. Looking out across the passenger seat, Vito could see some Tygers lurking in an alleyway behind the bollards, watching his car roll by with piqued interest.
The small road was lined with concrete barriers, garnished with barbed wire. Wyvern drones floated by, scanning a car parked off-road next to the pink graffiti of a tiger-head. As they followed the curve of the road, they found an Archer Quartz parked up ahead of them, on the other side of the road. The road was narrow enough as is, driving beside the car could've meant losing a side-camera or scratching the paintwork. The Quartz was decorated with large pixel blocks of sea-foam green and dark burgundy, reflecting the sickly green Open signs from the grocery store behind it.
"Alright, let's go…" Edamura swung open the door and climbed out. Vito did the same, making sure to lock his car and glancing back to the Tyger Claws at the alleyway: he wanted them to know he'd seen them. Vito looked up at the towers – they seemed so much taller when you were sandwiched in the streets between them. He approached the noodle joint, Kashuu Hanten, looking at the red lanterns in the windows when he heard a loud whistle: Edamura had approached the Quartz nearby, flashing his badge.
"NCPD, gaki!"
"Oh, for…" the kid began.
"You know the drill."
"No, dachi, I'm just-"
"Whoa, I'm not your dachi. It's deka, now do I need to invoke Safe Streets Act?" Edamura asked, holding out his hands.
The kid bit his lip and cussed before interlocking his fingers behind his head and leaning forwards to rest his head on the steering wheel.
"That's a little better. Anythin' in the car, geki?"
"Why are you asking? What've I done?"
Edamura leant into the car and grabbed a fistful of the kid's hair.
"Jesus, Edamura…" Vito said, walking over.
"Who's the deka, here, gaki, me or you?"
"You, you!" The kid winced.
"Then I'm askin' the questions." He released the kid's hair and then rested a hand on the roof of the car. "Now you can give me eye contact."
Vito sighed – he knew what was going on. Same thing that went on whenever badges pulled over anyone.
"Anything in the car?" Edamura repeated the question.
"Just some food."
"Got a piece?"
"Yeah."
"Why you sat in a car with food and a piece?"
"I dunno, I was watching something…"
"Alright, out of the car," Edamura ordered him, opening the door.
"Edamura – can we just get the food?"
"Order it, I'll be in soon," Edamura casually waved a hand.
The kid get out of the car – he was a lanky thing, with a pretty old cyberhand. The kid climbed out of the car and followed protocol: He knelt down on the road and lay on his belly, hands behind his head as Edamura peered inside the car, leaning over to open the glovebox. He removed a unity handgun, turning it over before stowing it in the glovebox once more. Edamura poked around in the white bag of food, giving it a sniff and opening up the containers.
"What were you watching?"
"Just somethin' on my phone."
"What was it?"
"Just a music vid, man."
"What music?"
"It- Us Cracks, man!"
There was a moment's pause and Edamura guffawed.
"Shit, gaki, I should lock you up just for that, alone…" He chortled.
"Edamura," Vito called, "we're runnin' late. Leave the kid be, and let's get some scop."
Edamura flicked his tongue over his teeth and shrugged as he nudged the boy with his foot.
"Okay, gaki, you heard the deka, get up and delta."
The kid immediately sprang to his feet, shooting Edamura a glare before climbing into his car. However, Edamura then rested a hand on the open car window and cleared his throat.
"Y'know, it's customary to give satsu a… small token of appreciation. For our service."
That part always made Vito's stomach churn – he'd never enjoyed it, not even in the academy when he was training. He watched the kid's jaw stiffen before his eyes glowed a royal purple. Edamura grinned and straightened up, gesturing down the road.
"Hit the road, gaki."
The kid didn't need telling twice. He pressed the ignition button and the tires screeched as he peeled out around the corner, scraping against bollars and concrete barriers. Edamura turned back to cross the road, snickering to himself.
"What is it with you picking on kids, Edamura?" Vito asked.
"Hey, kid was a Tyger: way I see it, I'm confiscating evidence."
"Yeah, you're a real boon to the badge," Vito scoffed.
"I do somethin' illegal?" Edamura asked, raising an eyebrow. "I do somethin' I'm not supposed to?"
That was a… hard question. Or, rather, an easy one that Vito wouldn't like to answer: there were infomercials that taught citizens to pull over, avoid eye contact, lie down, and then pay and say 'thank you' to the officer at the end. He knew it was lawful, and the law was rarely wrong, but… it was just something he'd never quite liked.
"I'll buy my own damn food," Vito said, turning back to enter the noodle bar.
"You gonna be like that, huh?" Edanyra asked.
"Aren't I always?"
This chapter was originally going to be around 2k words long. But I got swept up in writing about Edamura, in the journey, the advertisements, etc. I did restrain myself from writing about trees too much (if you've read Clash of Crowns, you'll get it).
Well, I don't plan on the next chapter being as long, but I never do and… we end up with these 6K word monstrosities. If I don't get some of the characters by the end of the week, I might put out an open call for them, so, keep an eye out!
Review, follow, all that jazz – it's as motivating as coffee when it comes to writing.
R.