So, it's been a minute but that's because (drumroll please) I'm actually planning to run a ttrpg of Cyberpunk! That'll definitely be a fun one, but it's obviously taking a bit of time. But, I didn't want this chapter to slip by since I've already put it off for a long time, so… here we go!
21:15 26th April 2090
Totentanz, Northside, Watson
Robbie Barrett's arrival at Totentanz was an event in its own right, even if no one spoke of it aloud. He came alone, through the suffocating smog of Night City's underbelly with a kind of silence that commanded attention more than any entourage ever could. His coat, a tailored cut of synth-leather and black wool, moved with legs like a shadow, every fold and hem crafted like forged armour. Its collar, slightly upturned, framed a face of stone – sharp cheekbones, a hard jaw, and dark eyes that carried the cold focus of a man who'd saw things few in Watson could barely imagine. Underneath, his suit was fitted and unembellished, almost antiquated in style, though every stitch spelled out the fortune to those who recognised its value. On his lapel gleamed the Syndicate pin, a small, rare splashed of gold: an insignia shaped like an abstract dagger, the only indication of his affiliation. It was a symbol both discreet and unmistakable, a subtle banner he carried in the heart of enemy territory: Watson in its labyrinthian glory of concrete and chrome.
Totentanz loomed before him like an industrial fortress – its brutalist, towering form as intimidating as it was pathetic: a crumbling hotel – a relic of Night City's once-glory. Its exterior was a patchwork of cracked cement and graffiti, splashed in erratic neon red, as the distorted shadows twisted and bled together over it. It was a place born from the bones of Night City itself, where the air tasted of iron and decay, where the streets outside were littered with the remnants of broken deals and even more broken people. Robbie took it all in with a single glance, his face impassive, already assessing the atmosphere, the sharp scent of alcohol, and something faintly rotten creeping into his senses. Though now the heavy smog was more tangible, the air had that metallic bite to it, filled with the taste of rust and something more chemical, as if the city itself was slowly corroding under the weight of its own excesses.
He didn't hesitate as he stepped inside, his gaze steady as he crossed into the lion's den.
The lobby was cavernous, though it was suffocated with a stench that mingled smoke, sweat, and the greasy scent of cheap scop that some of Maelstrom's lower ranks wolfed down by the S.C. near the far wall. Overhead, faint light spilled from faulty neon panels embedded in a ceiling of exposed metal beams, casting a sickly, jaundiced glow over everything. The once-pristine array of tiles on the floor had been worn down to a patchwork of grime and cracks, the grout now filled with years of detritus and what Robbie guessed was more than a few stains of dried blood. The walls around him were lined with bullet holes and scrawled messages in spray paint, each piece of graffiti louder and more aggressive than the last. Skulls, distorted faces, fractured words of rage – each mark a territorial claim, a manifesto of violence in the quintessentially savage dialect of Maelstrom.
Somewhere from deeper within the building, the bass of the club's music beat through the walls like a distant war drum, its vibrations rumbling up through the lobby floor. Robbie could feel it thrumming through his boots, resonating up his spine with a dark, primal rhythm. It was disorienting –overwhelming, almost – that the beat was so low and insistent that it was like the heartbeat of the building itself: a warning that he was trespassing on Maelstrom's turf.
The lobby was sparsely populated, though a handful of Maelstrom grunts lurked along the edges, their eyes flickering toward him with interest. He could sense their gaze on him, almost feel the weight of their curiosity, like dogs sizing up a wolf. They were rough, many of them grotesque; One of them, a figure hunched by a S.C.S.M, had a lower jaw that was almost entirely metallic, glinting under the light as he gnawed absently on a stick of synth-meat, his jaw whirring as he chewed. His eyes, glowing a faint orange, tracked Robbie's movement, though he said nothing, merely letting out a short, metallic laugh that cut through the otherwise suffocating silence.
Robbie's expression didn't shift as he moved past them, the sound of his polished boots echoing softly off the tile. There was a tension to his walk, a calmness that felt unbreakable, as if he'd walked this path a hundred times before. He neither looked left nor right, moving with a confidence that made it clear he had no reason to glance at the goons who lingered in the shadows. To them, he was something foreign – an oddity. No one lingered in this part of the club without reason; the handful of Maelstrom grunts loitering near the S.C. had that telltale twitchy gaze, their pupils blown wide with whatever mix kept them on edge.
At the far end of the lobby, a narrow stairway awaited, leading up to the second floor. The staircase was a brutalist construction of steel and concrete, each step grated and uneven, the iron handrails sticky with grime. Robbie's hand slid over the rail as he climbed, feeling the rough, unclean texture beneath his fingers, a sensation as familiar to him as the scent of gunpowder or the chill of a winter's night. Overhead, the lights flickered erratically, casting long shadows that stretched and danced along the walls as he ascended. The narrowness of the stairwell added a sense of claustrophobia, the walls pressing in on either side, as if eager to swallow him up into the building's bowels.
He reached the second floor, where the sounds of the club grew louder, pulsing through the walls with an almost hypnotic intensity. Here, he was met by a Maelstrom ganger, a towering figure bristling with augmentations that seemed to devour what little had been left of his humanity. The left side of his face was a latticework of jagged chrome plating, embedded with an array of flickering red LEDs that pulsed with the same erratic beat as the club music.
Robbie's dark Kiroshis met the big brute, studying the half of his face that had been carved away to accommodate rows of red cyber-eyes that flickered erratically – almost like faulty Christmas lights.
"You lost?"
"I'm here to talk to Dogface," Robbie said, his voice a low and precise tone that didn't bother with pleasantries.
His gaze was half-dead, eyes clouded over with some synthetic enhancement, giving him a hollow, glassy stare that Robbie barely acknowledged.
"The fuck does Dogface want with you?"
"Ask him."
The guard paused, his LED-lined face expressionless as he processed the name. He didn't bother with any bravado, no posturing, only a grunt as he pressed a button on the wall, summoning the elevator with a hiss of hydraulics and grinding metal. The door slid open, revealing a cramped, graffiti-streaked box, the air within stale and laced with the faint scent of cigarette ash and rust. Robbie stepped in without hesitation, ignoring the guard's stare as the door slid shut, sealing him into the grimy enclosure.
As the elevator descended, it jolted and shook, the overhead fluorescent light flickering in time with the rattle of the machinery. It was a sensory assault – the throbbing bassline growing louder and louder as he neared the club's core below, the walls shuddering with the force of the music. Robbie stood unmoved, his hands resting in his coat pockets, his gaze fixed on the doors as he waited. The flickering light painted his face in sharp relief, casting dark shadows over his eyes, turning him into a figure of cold, quiet menace. Though he didn't look like anyone in the belly of Totentanz, he carried the quiet confidence of a man that belonged, as if he were a statue carved from the same stone as the building itself.
The doors slid open, releasing him into the entrance hall of the club proper, where the sound erupted into a full assault on his senses. It was like stepping into a furnace, the air thick with smoke and heat, laced with the acrid stench of spilled booze and sweat. The room ahead was bathed in harsh, strobing lights that painted everything in flashes of crimson, scarlet, and electric orange, the shadows shifting and twisting with each beat of the music. The bassline was relentless, a guttural, pulsing rhythm that shook the walls and seemed to dig into his bones, creating a visceral connection with the raw chaos that lay beyond. It were as though the entire club was the growling belly of some Hellish demon.
Ahead, a staircase descended into the heart of the dance floor, where bodies writhed in a feverish display of augmented muscle and exposed chrome. Faces and limbs gleamed under the lights, twisted by cybernetic implants that glowed with eerie, hollow colours. He could see the strain in their movements, the wild, desperate abandon that marked each dancer as someone who had lost themselves to the music, to the moment, to something much darker lurking beneath the surface. People were not people; they were just shapes and fragments of flesh and steel, colliding and coalescing under the heavy, suffocating weight of the bass.
As he crossed the dance floor, Robbie Barrett's presence cut through the chaos, parting a few members of the Northside crowd that recognised him. Those that turned tracked his movement with augmented eyes, some narrowing in suspicion, others glinting with curiosity. Robbie didn't acknowledge the attention, his gaze fixed on the far side of the room, where another staircase led up to the private booth above. Each step felt heavier, more deliberate, his stride unbroken as he left the roaring inferno of the dance floor behind him.
The stairway leading up was lit with dim, amber lights, the shadows pooling between each step, as if inviting him deeper into the darkness. The walls here were lined with faded posters, the remnants of old acts that had once performed here, their faces now faded and torn, relics of a forgotten past. The atmosphere shifted as he climbed, the smell of cheap booze replaced with a faint, earthy scent, like cigars left burning in the stillness. Each step seemed to take him further from the chaos below, and deeper into Maelstrom's inner sanctum.
At the top, the private seating area stretched before him, shrouded in a dim, sepia-toned glow. Dark, leather-clad couches dotted around a single low tables, littered with glasses and ashtrays, the surface scratched and worn. How much deal-making, betrayal and bloodshed had it been privy to? And there, in the faint red light, sat Dogface, surrounded by a handful of his most trusted.
He knew what to expect: he already had his hands up by the time one of the Maelstrom goons began opening his jacket and searching for weapons.
"Robbie fucking Barrett," Dogface said, reclining on the couch, both arms stretched out across the back. His eyes (and most of his brow) had been hollowed out and replaced with steel pistons and glowing orange Kiroshi optics. Half the time, the implants were solely for the aesthetic – to make themselves more intimidating, and mark them as Maelstrom. Sometimes they didn't even have a choice, and the chrome was forced on them. A mark of initiation – not unlike his brother's gang and their scarification to tally their kills. Dwayne hadn't forced the custom on the cutters, but… well, there was only one way to stay in the gang. Same old story: adapt or die. Cut yourself or get cut.
"Dogface."
"What're you doin' back here? Decide you wanna get chromed up proper?" His voice was modulated and guttural from the iron pistons implanted in his neck.
"I'm here with an offer," Robbie said, loud enough to be heard over the music.
Dogface leant forwards and picked up the large Techtronika revolver that had been laying on the table before him. He scratched against the metal where his brow would be with the barrel and stood up.
"You mean you're here to give me somethin'?"
Robbie took a moment to just acknowledge Dogface's blunt approach. Trying to physically dominate the situation wouldn't work with a man like him.
"I've recently acquired some property in Little China. But I'm well aware of you and your operations, and thought we could come to an agreement. We…" Robbie trailed off as Dogface began laughing loudly.
"You… wanna buy… my operations?" He turned to his sergeants and lieutenants – all Maelstrom gangers, all psychopaths. They all shared in his laughter – probably out of fear of what fate might befall them if they didn't.
"I'm willing to offer a fair trade."
"My ops ain't for sale, Barret. And Little China is off-fuckin'-limits!"
Robbie waited to see if he would lose his temper. When Dogface just stared, Robbie continued his pitch.
"I can offer high-grade weapons and ammunitions, above-board cyberware, and info on who klepped your black lace-"
"Do I look like I fuckin' need your iron and your chrome?" Dogface asked, spitting the words at him, clenching his hand around his revolver. "We got our own info on who klepped our shit. Little China ain't up for negotiations."
Robbie nodded as he reached a hand into his jacket. By the time he had produced his carton of Morleys, Dogface had taken a step back. What was left of his face turned bright red as Robbie took out a cigarette and lit it. Robbie licked his lips for a moment – perhaps a different tact was needed.
"How about a compromise, then? Little China remains yours, and you get a cut of all ops that go through there – consider it a tax. And your properties in Kabuki – the chop shop, the protection rackets…"
"I ain't tradin' territories, Barrett," Dogface chuckled scornfully. "Get the fuck outta here – walkin' around like the big man…"
One of the goons took a step to Robbie, but he held up a finger and squared his shoulders to the boss. "You've been a smart man, Dogface – it's the only reason you've got to where you are. I wouldn't be talking to you if I thought otherwise. Together, we can accomplish a lot, but alone you're not going to last the two weeks."
Dogface's mouth twisted into a frown. He bared his teeth and marched over to Robbie, pressing the barrel of his revolver against his brow. The cigarette dropped from Robbie's hand as he felt the cold iron push against his skull, something so unbelievably heavy, no-one would be able to lift it (let alone fire it) unless they had industrial-grade cyberarms.
"I don't work with anyone, Barrett," Dogface growled. "And I don't like threats."
"I'm stating facts. You're currently fighting with the Tyger Claws for Kabuki, and you're losing. Because the Tyger Claws deal with the Corps, and you do not."
"You deal with the corpo scum?"
"I deal with the police and the Mox. That makes up every gun that isn't already Maelstrom or Tyger in Watson. You're at war and you need a bigger army."
"And what's to stop me from blowing some Barrett blains on my dancefloor and taking it all anyway?"
Robbie met those LEDs, burning a bright orange like hellish fires. He didn't feel fear, nor did he feel anger. He was just stood there, the gun pressed to his brow, waiting for Dogface to pull the trigger and just put an end to it all.
"Nothing," he answered.
Dogface smiled at this; he must have thought it a compliment. He removed the revolver from Robbie's brow and tossed it back onto the table, making the bottles shiver, shake and topple.
"Scurry back to the Cargo Bay, Barrett."
Robbie fixed the cuffs of his shirt, his dark eyes following the Maelstrom boss. He nodded – he was never going to listen, but that didn't mean it was a wasted journey.
"A lot of your people have heard my offer," Robbie stated. "Maybe even those who have been feeding the Tyger Claws info."
Dogface chuckled at Robbie. "You've always been full of shit, Barrett."
Robbie nodded and took out his pack of Morleys once again, taking a cigarette out. His fingers didn't even fumble or shake. They hadn't since he was a kid. Robbie lit the cigarette and looked back to Dogface. He could dispense with the niceties and façade.
"Good luck with that Arasaka shipment tomorrow, Dogface. I'll expect you at the docks around… seven, was it?" He turned and began to descend the staircase, not turning back as he heard Dogface exclaim.
"You- Barrett! What the- who the fuck… which one of you…" Dogface descended into bluster and rage as Robbie crossed the dancefloor, making his way through the throngs of skezzed-out patrons, dancing and drinking and kissing – a mess of twisting bodies in leather, latex, skin, and chrome.
As Robbie made his way back up to the elevator, he took a long breath and closed his eyes, hanging his head as the doors closed on him.
Everything would've been a lot simpler if Dogface had just shot him there.
There we go – not an incredibly long passage, but it didn't need to be. I actually cut out a lot of dialogue for this. So, yeah, review and all that fun stuff. I'm immediately going to get to work on the next chapter! In fact, I'll upload this and start right now!