This took a while. But Zeryas reviewed and a chapter went up. Make of that what you will. Yeah, enjoy this chapter. The next one likely won't be as long, but hey-ho, as long as I write what's needed...
07:52 2nd May 2090
NCPD Precinct, Little China, Watson
Vito ruffled his hair dry with a towel as he leaned against the cool metal lockers in the precinct's gym. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, the faint buzz battling against hum of the room's ventilation system. The precinct's gym smelled of sweat, rubber mats, and the chemical tang of industrial cleaning supplies. Tuesday mornings were usually a little quieter, a pocket of calm before the storm of the day's cases.
The sound of running water echoed from the showers as a few officers chattered nearby. A low murmur over the rhythmic clink of weights in the corner. Vito relished the feeling of being clean after an hour or so of relentless sweat. The damp heat still clung to his skin, but the cool air in the changing room felt balming; refreshing and grounding. He pulled his fresh shirt from the bench and slipped it on, buttoning it as his mind wandered.
He'd already seen the Skyline Street casefile that morning – a favour pulled from an old patrol buddy down south in Heywood who owed him one. It had been waiting for him before he hit the gym: a grim read of carnage and chaos, and buried within it, the name that wouldn't leave him alone. The name of a teenager who'd caught a bullet and would likely lose the leg.
Joel Herrera.
The name was still heavy in his chest, and no amount of reps or circuits had managed to shake it loose. Across the room, the holoscreen mounted on the far wall flickered with the familiar logo of N54. The tinny sound of the anchor's voice carried through the room, weaving between the muffled conversations and the hiss of showers. Vito's attention drifted toward it as he slid his belt into place and clipped on his badge.
Footage played in the corner of the screen: burning cars, overturned vehicles, and mangled, bloodied bodies being washed off the rain-slicked street with chemical spray to make space for the rush hour.
The headline scrolling beneath read: "Skyline Street Shootout: 12 Dead in Escalating Gang Violence."
Vito's jaw tightened as the footage shifted to a still photo of a young man, no more than seventeen, with shaggy dark hair and a sharp jawline. It must've been a school still from a year ago – after all, his little sister, Marina, was right next to him. He must have been what the 'Tinos called a Novato. A rookie, a prospective ganger, yet to prove their loyalty. Vito was familiar enough with them – he'd picked up a few that acted as a Halcón – a look-out. But being involved in something this big meant Joel was likely acting the Calentador – a heater. Someone – usually young – told to do something that the elders knew would get them killed or arrested.
The photo hit Vito like a punch to the gut. He'd tried to keep Joel off this path a year ago. But the pull of the gang had won. And now, here he was, another name on a list, another face on a screen.
Vito's hand tightened into a fist at his side, the knuckles whitening. He'd known this city would chew Joel up, but knowing didn't make it any easier. The file he'd read that morning hadn't been just words and stats; it had been a chronicle of failure. His failure as a cop.
He let out a slow, measured breath, shaking off the guilt as best he could. Dwelling on it wouldn't change anything – he needed a clear head.
The metallic slam of a locker door brought him back to the present.
Edamura was standing beside him, holding up an unfolded paper letter, with Vito's signature scribbled at the bottom.
"The fuck is this?"
"Feels like paper," Vito replied, tossing the letter into his gym bag. He pulled on his brown synth-leather jacket as he glanced up at Edamura, meeting his glare without flinching.
"You requested a new partner?" He scoffed, his voice rising just enough to draw the attention of nearby officers. "Without so much as telling me like a man? I mean, why?"
"You exorted a civ," Vito answered evenly, keeping the tone measured.
"Oh, right," Edamura snapped, his finger jabbing the air between them. "Vito Krol strikes again, the only saint in hell. That's how you see yourself, ain't it? I'm just doing the job like everyone else does."
"Then do it with someone else." Vito exhaled slowly, refusing to rise to the bait. He grabbed his gym bag from the bench, slinging it over his shoulder as he pushed open the door leading to the main hallway of the precinct.
The familiar sounds of the station greeted him – the clatter of keyboards, the steady hum of conversation, the occasional bark of an officer into a comms unit. Vito's footsteps echoed softly against the tiled floor as he made his way to the stairwell.
The ascent to the bullpen was a quiet moment to think – recalibrate. The stairwell was cooler than the gym. He could already hear the faint buzz of chaos from above, that was the Watson Precinct. Phones rang, voices overlapped, and somewhere, someone was cursing at a coffee machine.
When Vito reached the top of the stairs, he paused for a moment at the doorway, surveying the bullpen. His shirt clung to him uncomfortably in places where he hadn't dried off completely, and his hair was still damp.
The open-plan office was a hive of energy, desks cluttered with casefiles, coffee cups, and personal trinkets. Detectives clustered in groups, exchanging files and theories, while uniformed officers darted between desks, their radios crackling with updates from the field. The ever-present scent of stale coffee and old paper filled the air.
Vito's desk was on the far side of the bullpen, a battered relic with little in the way of personal effects save a mug that hadn't been washed in weeks. He adjusted the strap of his holster and wove through the maze of desks and officers.
As he approached his seat, Phillips glanced up from a neighbouring desk, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Edamura's looking for you," Phillips said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms like he was settling in to watch a show.
Vito nodded slowly, just enough to acknowledge he'd heard, but he didn't bother to stop or engage. Instead, he slid into his chair and powered on his terminal, letting the soft hum of the machine drown out the rest of the room. The monitor flickered to life, its pale glow casting long shadows across the cluttered surface of his desk.
Before he could dive into his work, a voice cut through the din of the bullpen.
"Detective Krol," Captain Ly called from the doorway of her office, her tone clipped but not unkind. Vito's head snapped up, and he spotted her standing there, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She tilted her head toward her office, a clear summons.
He logged out of his terminal, pushed back his chair, and made his way across the bullpen. The other detectives barely glanced up as he passed, too engrossed in their own cases or too used to the routine to care. That is, aside from the paunch-bellied Howie, whose orange Kiroshi optics danced with glee, giving a toothy smirk and gave a mocking jeer.
Vito stepped into Captain Ly's office, the door clicking shut behind him as she motioned for him to sit. He sank into the chair opposite her desk. The room was sparse, practical, with just a hint of personal touches in the form of framed commendations on the wall and a single potted plant on the corner of her desk
To his surprise, someone else was already seated in one of the chairs opposite Ly's desk. The woman was a good few years younger than Vito, with dark hair that faded into dark pink at the ends, brushing her shoulders. Her round purple Kiroshi eyes locked onto him as he entered, their synthetic sheen making them almost unnervingly bright. She had a round, pleasant face with thin lips, olive skin, and a tattoo of a rose on her neck that seemed to shift slightly as she turned her head to follow his movements.
Her outfit was immaculate – a tailored blazer and blouse paired with slim, high-waisted trousers that screamed corpo money. Vito pegged her as some executive slumming it in the precinct – likely a liaison for Lazarus or Kang Tao. He glanced at Ly, whose normally cool demeanour seemed even more guarded than usual.
The captain gestured toward the empty chair beside the woman. Vito hesitated for half a second before moving to sit, his curiosity piqued but his expression carefully neutral. His mind was already running through the possibilities, but nothing about this situation made immediate sense.
. Captain Ly regarded him with her usual no-nonsense demeanour, her arms crossed as she leaned back in her chair.
"So, funny thing," Ly began, her tone light but her gaze sharp. "I thought I knew about all your cases?"
Vito blinked, the faintest trace of a frown crossing his face. "Is this a joke I don't get?"
Ly didn't answer right away. Instead, she slid a slim folder across the desk, flipping it open to reveal a series of photographs. The images were grainy, likely pulled from surveillance footage, but the scenes they captured were unmistakable – crime scenes from the Heywood murders. She watched him carefully as his eyes scanned the pictures.
"Not like you to leave casefiles open," Ly said. Vito flicked his tongue across his teeth, meeting Ly's eyes. "You've been looking into the Heywood murders," she said, her voice tinged with accusation.
Vito leaned back slightly, tilting his head. "I know an officer down in Heywood – I offered to give 'em a glance," he lied.
Ly sighed, rubbing her temple. "Krol, it's scum killing scum. Innocent people aren't getting in the way, just… let it go."
Vito's jaw tightened. He hesitated, then leaned forward, his voice steady. "What about Joel Herrera?"
Ly frowned, her brow furrowing. "Who?"
"The kid the shooter put in a hospital," Vito said, his tone sharp now. "Frame it however you want, but the shooter is a serial killer, and it's our duty to put a stop to them."
"How do you even know it's the same guy?"
".42 calibre rounds."
"Everyone has a gun in this city, Krol! That's a weak connect before you start talking about a serial killer-"
"They were escorting Ushijima Junzo. He got picked up four years ago after some botched hit on a Militech exec after the rest of the crew got zeroed…"
"This isn't your case, Krol…" Ly said steadily, but Vito continued talking.
"… The only other survivors were Nakao Koro, and Hita Yokiji. Now, two of them were killed earlier this year – both with .42 calibre rounds, Mozambique Style. So, my guess is…"
"It was Valentinos, Krol!" She half-laughed in disbelief. "We have half-a-dozen corpses…"
"Valentinos don't have beef with Tygers or Arasaka. This is some stint from 6th Street or Militech-"
"Okay, Stop it, Krol." Ly barked the order. She rubbed at one eye, clearly weighing her response.
"Look, this is Watson – we have enough to focus on. You have… what, eight open cases already? Surely you can look over one of those files instead of starting a new one?" She snapped the folder shut and slid it into her desk drawer, locking it with a quick turn of the key.
Vito spread his hands in frustration. "I'm juggling eight cases, Captain. So, unless you know a ripper doc with some arachnoid implants…"
"No, but I do have someone better." Ly cut him off with a faint smirk, gesturing toward the seat next to him. Vito turned to the woman, piecing it together.
Vito frowned deeply, his expression a mix of scepticism and irritation. "Alright, alright, I apologise for poking my nose into the Heywood murders," he said, his tone measured but clipped. "I'll back off."
"No," Ly shook her head, her expression softening slightly. "This is unrelated."
Vito's jaw tightened. Unrelated? If there was one thing Vito knew, it was how to connect dots. He hadn't survived as long as he had by ignoring the details.
"I don't have time to show her the ropes," he said, his voice betraying his frustration.
Ly's face didn't shift. She turned to the woman and gave her a polite, almost rehearsed smile. "Lucessi, take the desk next to his. He'll be out in a second."
It was only then that Vito's brain fully processed her name.
Lucessi.
The name echoed in his mind like a death knell. Of course... Militech. The Lucessi's founded Militech. Even if they weren't CEOs anymore, they were still royalty. They controlled everything, from weapons contracts to corporate mercenaries, to god knows what else behind the scenes. They were as untouchable as the Arasaka's, reigning from up high in North Oak.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and it was enough to still his mind for a moment. He stared at Lucessi, and then back at Captain Ly, who was watching him with that knowing, calculating look. She had expected this reaction, he realized.
Vito couldn't help himself. He let out a dark chuckle, a sound devoid of humour.
"Now it makes sense," he said, his words slow, deliberate, laced with bitter amusement. "A Lucessi. Of course." He didn't need to say anything more: Militech's little pet had been sent to keep an eye on things.
Ly didn't flinch. "Drop the 'lone wolf' bullshit, Krol," she said sharply. "You're not closing cases."
"I don't need a partner." His eyes flashed with annoyance, but he quickly suppressed it.
"You just said you're juggling cases," Ly pointed out, her voice unyielding.
Vito's lips pressed into a thin line. "So you lump me with babysitting?"
"Contrary to how you feel, this isn't a punishment," Ly said, her voice cutting through his defences. "You've hit a slump since Reconciliation Park. You have eight cases open- the most you've ever had is three!"
Vito's mind flashed back to that case – the blood, the tattered body of the little girl, the guilt that gnawed at him every time he thought about it. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"I don't need a partner," he repeated, more forcefully now. "Especially not some corporate show-pony who doesn't know the first thing about a real case – has she even worked a case before?" His voice dropped as the question hung in the air.
Ly didn't answer, her gaze unwavering.
"Oh, I knew it," he muttered, his voice low with disdain. "Another shiny badge with no experience."
"You requested a new partner, Krol," Ly said, her tone sharp.
"I didn't mean one in a bib and a diaper." The words tasted bitter, even as he said them.
Ly leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "She's staying, Krol. Get used to it."
Vito's mind raced, every instinct within him rebelling against this forced collaboration. His method worked because he didn't have to slow down for someone else, because he didn't need to spend every minute watching them shake down civilians – the people they were trying to protect. But Ly's words cut deep, and Vito knew better than to ignore the underlying message.
"Even if you're right, it doesn't matter," Ly continued, her voice laced with finality. "You're not exactly easy to get along with. No one else wants to work with you now."
Vito's lips pressed into a thin line. "Because I don't extort civs?" he shot back.
"Exactly." Ly's tone was matter-of-fact. The silence hung in the air for a good moment before she sighed and slumped her shoulders, forgoing the status and authority as a captain, and talking to him quietly – as an equal. "Listen, Krol, you know where we are. There's rules to the game, even if you don't wanna play by them. Look, if you want to go and play the white-hat sheriff, I'll write you a recommendation. Maybe we'll find you a nice little job in a town like Yucca." She wasn't taunting him – it was a genuine offer. "But while you're here, you're part of a team."
Vito's stomach twisted. He didn't want a team. He wanted to solve his damn cases. He wanted to prove that bad people didn't get away with it. That the police could help people. That he could help people.
"So, what, keep the Lucessi kid happy?" he muttered, disgusted by the very idea.
Ly leaned in, her eyes piercing. "Her old man runs everything Militech in Night City. As far as you're concerned, she's Richard Knight himself."
Vito stiffened, every muscle in his body tensing. The name hit like a bombshell, reverberating in his chest. Lucessi was untouchable. No matter how many civs she shook down, she'd end up with a gold star on her chest.
Without another word, he stood, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. He needed air. He needed distance.
As he strode out of the office, he found Lucessi seated at the desk, her presence almost too calm, too composed. She didn't look like someone who had just been thrust into a chaotic world. No. She looked like someone who already owned it.
Vito dropped into his desk chair with a low sigh, the squeak of old plastic and metal cutting through the steady hum of the bullpen. Across from him, Lucessi set a sleek, minimalist tablet on her desk and adjusted the collar of her blazer. Her purple Kiroshi optics glinted faintly under the overhead lights. He wondered how long she'd last before running back to her ivory tower.
Vito leaned back, his fingers drumming absently against the armrest as he stole a glance her way. She seemed relaxed – too relaxed for someone new to the beat. He turned his attention to the mess of files sprawled across the screen of his terminal. He looked through the videos of a shooting in Northside, but it was not a masked ganger he was watching get shot, it was Joel Herrera.
The Heywood murders. The loose ends nagged at him like a pebble in his shoe.
"So," Lucessi's voice broke through his thoughts, light and conversational. "How long have you been working homicide?"
"Long enough."
"Any advice for the new kid?"
"Yeah," Vito muttered, clicking through the forensics report. "Head down and nose clean."
Lucessi's lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. "Classic."
He didn't reply, his focus ostensibly on the screen in front of him, though his mind was elsewhere. The Heywood murders weren't officially his case, but the details wouldn't leave him alone. The attack on the Arasaka convoy was bold and stupid – hitting Arasaka? In the middle of the day? The sheer recklessness of the ambush was just one more thread in a tangled web.
No-one wanted to touch this, if only because no-one wanted corps breathing down their necks. But all Vito could imagine was the kid getting shot down. Another kid telling him that in Heywood, they settle things themselves.
Someone had to pay for what happened. And finding that someone was a cop's job.
"So," Lucessi said after a moment, "what's the plan for today?"
"Pick a case."
"Okay…" She turned her attention to her terminal. "So, how come you're looking into those Heywood murders?"
"I'm not," Vito lied as he logged out of his terminal. "I've gotta go do something," he said gruffly. "I'll see you later."
She frowned, tilting her head slightly. "Ly said I had to stay with you."
He stopped, his jaw tightening as he turned to face her. "It's a personal errand."
Lucessi raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "A- a personal errand? In the middle of work?"
"Family emergency." Vito began to pull on his jacket.
"Just remembered it, did you?"
"I don't think you're allowed to pry about things like that, Detective – not outside of the interview room."
Lucessi didn't back down, her gaze steady as she studied him. After a moment, her lips curved into a faint, almost mischievous smile.
"Y'know," she said, her tone casual, "I have a family emergency too – at this bar Downtown where lots of execs get lunch. Mainly from Militech."
Vito stared at her, the gears in his mind turning. She was fishing, trying to guess his angle – likely there to track his hunches on Militech. But that didn't mean she didn't have her uses. And gently asking questions to a drunk exec wasn't exactly on Captain Ly's list of forbidden's. Not explicitly.
"What's the name of the bar?" he asked after a beat, his tone begrudgingly curious.
Geo's smile widened slightly, but she didn't gloat. "Empathy. Off Ferrris Boulevard, down on Republic Way."
"I know it." He tapped the back of his chair. He supposed a Lucessi might open some doors down in the City Centre. "Alright, come on."
The afternoon sun beat down as the Quadra Type-66 exited the garage and turned right onto the crowded roads of Watson, its shining steel body stripped of all paintwork, the raw metal a reflection of towering megablocks and apartment complexes linked together by drooping clothing lines and power lines. As they drove south, Geo whistled low, her appreciation genuine.
"Nice ride," she remarked, running her fingers along the red leather dash. "Guess you're not big on subtlety."
"Buckle your belt, Lucessi."
She glanced around the interior, noting the clean lines and the lack of unnecessary embellishments. It was functional, efficient – much like its owner.
"You can call me Geo, y'know." She said to him. "Giovanna- Geo…"
"Good to know."
"So," she began, leaning back slightly, "I figure I know why I'm partnered with you: your father's Henryk Krol, right?"
Vito's hands tightened briefly on the wheel. "Yep."
"Running back for the Corsairs, way back when?" she added, her tone carefully neutral.
"Yep," he repeated, sky-blue eyes fixed on the road.
Geo nodded thoughtfully. "I actually met a linebacker – Douglas Campbell. Me and his daughter are friends. Were friends…"
"Thrilling," Vito said dryly.
"Not a big football guy, I take it?" she pressed, undeterred.
"Nope."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded again. "You can ask me, y'know?"
Vito's brow furrowed, slightly confused what. "Okay?"
"Like, I won't get offended," she clarified.
"Ask you about what?" he asked, glancing at her briefly before returning his focus to the road.
Geo frowned in thought, then shook her head. "Nothing, I just… nothing." She shifted slightly in her seat. It were as though a hundred pounds of weight had been shrugged off her shoulders "So, what cases are open? Get me up to speed."
"Double homicide in Kabuki, four murders in Northside – Maelstrom, probably – two murders in Little China four nights ago by some loon with a bat…" Vito trailed off, his tone matter-of-fact, but Geo didn't miss the undercurrent of frustration.
"It's not murder until it's in the courts, though, right? Because it's manslaughter…"
"Not since three years ago."
She watched him quietly, letting the silence linger for a moment before speaking again.
"So, how does a Lucessi end up as a detective at, what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?"
"Y'know, I never asked for special treatment," she said, her voice steady. "I went to the academy, passed every test…"
"With flying colours, I'm sure," Vito interjected, his tone sharp.
Geo turned to him, her expression firm. "If you're concerned that I can't do my job…"
"I'm sure you can," Vito replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Give a dog a gun and a badge and you'll have a cop."
Geo raised an eyebrow, her tone cool. "Does that mean you want me to scratch behind your ears and call you a good boy?"
"Maybe after, if you're good," he shot back, a trace of humour in his voice.
She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "So, what about you? Figured you'd go play for the corsairs like your old man. That's usually the way with kids."
"Not this one," Vito's mind flashed briefly to childhood memories of playing football with his brother, Bert. His chest ached and he allowed himself a moment to wallow before steeling himself with a simple clearing of the throat. "Don't all Lucessi kids play with guns growing up? Didn't want the powersuit?"
"You didn't wanna be your dad, I didn't wanna be mine," Geo replied, her tone softer now.
"Difference is, everyone in Night City would kill to work on the top floor of Militech, and yes, I'm being literal," Vito said.
Geo nodded slowly. "You grow up with it, you see it all from the inside-out. It's worse than on the outside-in."
A rock song came on the radio, and a woman's voice started singing in a distinctive Irish accent. Geo quickly changed the station.
"Got something against the Irish?" Vito asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not a fan of… Tír na nÓg," she replied, her voice carefully neutral.
"Am I supposed to know who that is?" Vito asked.
"It's a band," Geo explained, her tone guarded. She hesitated, then added, "We dated. Me and Cara."
"Who?"
"She… she's the singer," Geo admitted, her voice quieter now.
Vito glanced at her, then back at the road. "Huh."
Geo frowned and leant forwards to try and look into his eyes. "You… don't know about that?"
"About you dating a rockergirl?"
"Yeah. You know, we split up… not heard about that?"
Vito glanced back to her. "Do you want me to ask you about it?"
"No…" Geo blinked and leant back into the chair, her brow furrowed.
Neither of them said anything more as the Quadra sped over the bridge and down into the City Centre.
Soon enough, they found themselves arriving at the bar with the pink neon sign of 'Empathy' losing its glow to the afternoon sun. On either side of the door, flanking the bouncers, were moving white holograms of women dancing. Vito slowly began to realise what Geo had meant by 'bar'.
Vito eased his car to the curb, the hum of its engine barely audible over the pounding bass emanating from inside. As he stepped out, a beat cop approached, shaking his head.
"You can't park here, buddy," the officer said, gesturing towards the bollards on the curb.
Vito's response was a calm flash of his badge. The officer frowned but stepped aside without another word, watching as Vito and Geo strode toward the club's entrance.
Inside the reception, the atmosphere was no less intense. A receptionist, impeccably dressed, barely glanced up from her holo-screen.
"Weapons in the locker," she said, bright and cheerily, gesturing to the red lasers that draped across the doorway to the left, flanked by a yellow-striped locker. Geo had no qualms, and immediately deposited her weapon; reaching into her jacket and drawing a heavy grey pistol, streaked with gold. Vito, however, walked straight through the scanner.
A hulking bodyguard stepped forward from the other side of the scanner, blocking Vito's path with a massive hand.
"Slow down, weapons in the locker," he rumbled, nodding toward a row of secure storage units lining the wall.
"NCPD. Not here to party," Vito said, flashing his badge.
"You can keep the badge. But weapons go in the locker." The bodyguard didn't flinch.
Geo raised an eyebrow, watching the silent standoff with mild amusement. Finally, Vito exhaled sharply and stepped out of the scanner. He unclipped his holster, drew his pistol and placed it next to Geo's in the locker. He returned to the scanner and stepped through again.
"Not so hard, was it?" The bouncer asked as he stepped back and gestured to the glass doors that muffled the noise inside. "Welcome to Empathy."
Vito and Geo stepped through the doors, into the throbbing heart of Empathy. They were immediately hit by a humid wave of air, thick with the mingling scents of sweat, smoke, and an artificial floral undertone attempting to mask it all. A faint churn of air conditioning units hummed somewhere in the background, struggling to combat the press of bodies and the heat radiating off the dance floor.
Holographic dancers shimmered above the crowd, ethereal figures flickering in and out of focus as they contorted with impossible grace. Below them, real dancers moved on elevated platforms, their skin glistening under shifting lights that painted them – acid green, electric blue, and magenta. Their outfits, or lack thereof, left little to the imagination: mesh bodysuits, sequins catching every strobe flash, and strips of synth-leather that hugged their bodies like second skins. Each motion seemed calculated, allure amplified by a bassline.
The club's layout was a maze of sleek surfaces and indulgent textures. Plush, velvet-lined booths lined the perimeter, their occupants shielded by a curtain of seafoam-green beads that pulsed faintly in time with the music. Above, a drone zipped silently, capturing footage for the club's private feeds – or perhaps selling the visuals to hungry voyeurs on the net.
The soundscape was a chaotic symphony. Heavy basslines thudded like a second heartbeat, underscored by distorted synth melodies and the occasional shouted conversation. Layers of sound overlapped: the hiss of drinks being poured at the bar, the clatter of glasses, the hiss of static from private comms embedded in earpieces. Somewhere deeper in the club, the faint hiss of steam from a dry ice machine added an occasional sharp counterpoint to the warmth.
Vito scanned the room, his optics enhancing the low light. To his left, a cluster of corporate execs in tailored suits lounged near a semi-circular booth, the sharp angles of their attire contrasting with the laziness of their postures. They were everything Vito expected from the slick Corpo Plaza types – polished, predatory, and insufferably smug. One of them, the clear ringleader, stood out. His silver blazer with an onyx pin of the Militech logo clung to his broad shoulders, the material shimmering faintly in the ever-shifting light. His styled hair had long-since been tousled, and his jawline was so sharp it could've been carved by the club's laser show.
He swirled a drink in a glass that probably cost more than what Vito made in a week. His voice carried over the music, dripping with entitlement and mockery.
"That one," he gestured lazily toward a dancer performing a gravity-defying split on a pole, "has to be running outdated firmware. Look at her stutter on the transitions."
One of his buddies guffawed, slamming a hand on the bar. "Choom, she's better than you after three tequilas. Don't act like you're a judge on Dance Dream."
"Jealous much?" the first man shot back, flashing a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "At least I don't throw up on Hartford's shoes."
Their laughter was loud and grating, drawing side-eyes from nearby patrons. Vito approached cautiously, the slight narrowing of his eyes the only outward sign of his irritation.
"Half-day at work, gents?"
"Sure – hey, another round, chooms?"
"Not a bartender," Vito replied, cutting through their conversation like a cold wind as he flashed his badge.
The ringleader turned slowly, taking in Vito's rumpled jacket and weary expression with a smirk.
"Oh, no way," he said, drawing out the words as if savouring their taste. "Good to see the boys in blue finally got a bonus to afford a round here. Hey, it's, what, usually karaoke in Kabuki, right?" They all stifled their giggles.
Vito felt his jaw tighten.
"I'm here for information," he said evenly. "Just need to ask a few questions."
"Questions?" The ringleader leaned back, arms spread theatrically. "This doesn't look like an interview room, Detective. What're you gonna do, pat us down for contraband synth-beer?"
Vito's patience was wearing thin. "I'm investigating disturbances in the area. Any unusual activity here recently?"
The ringleader grin widened, but his eyes grew colder. "Unusual? Yeah, Carter ordered water last night. Can you believe that? The pussy."
The sarcasm hung heavy in the air, but Vito refused to take the bait. "I'm talking about crimes. Anything ring a bell?"
"Sorry, Detective, but I don't mix business with pleasure." He took a deliberate sip of his drink, eyes locked on Vito. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we were in the middle of something."
Vito didn't miss the edge in his tone or the dismissive wave that followed.
"You know, not assisting an officer could count as obstruction of justice."
They all leant forwards and gave apologetic waves as they laughed silently.
"Ooh, sorry, officer. Here, how about we show our appreciation…" He reached into his jacket and tossed a small bag of white powder on the table before taking out a few crisp paper-cloth notes of Eurodollars and stacking them on the table. "Just tell me when to stop, big man."
"Sir, are you aware synthetic cocaine is illegal?"
"No, officer, are you sure it's synthetic cocaine?" He asked, feigning innocence. The others covered their faces, their shoulders shuddering as they laughed.
"I may need to take your details."
"May you?" He asked, his eyes flashing bright gold for a moment. "When you have a moment…" he half-laughed as he glanced away from Vito for a moment.
"Sir, I'll need you to stand up."
"Oh, come on…" the others groaned.
"Sorry, officer, my cyberlegs are on the fritz."
"Okay, you-"
"Problem?" A deep voice with a Scottish brogue came from behind. Vito turned to see a man no taller than Vito, no bigger or beefier, without any clear cyberware. He wore a simple black ribbed sweater under a green-and-yellow amourfibre harness, with a blond flat-top and a short goatee. A Solo if Vito had ever seen one – a soldier-for-hire. A bodyguard.
"NCPD," Vito said firmly to the man, who responded solely by standing in front of Vito. "Obstruction of justice is-"
"Mr. Jordan is currently indisposed with work." The Solo said. It took Vito a moment to fully decipher the accent.
"That's a new name for it."
The man gave a small smirk. "I suggest you order a drink and enjoy it, Officer."
Vito gave a small scoff. "Assaulting a police officer because he saw synth-coke is not the smartest move."
The solo gave a small smirk. Vito went to step forwards, but the Solo's chrome fingers tightened around Vito's wrist and twisted his arm around his back, pressing him down on the half-wall the booth was built into.
"Now, listen pumpkin," Jordan said as he staggered to his feet, picking up his glass and poking Vito's forehead. "We're not in the public sector. I work on the thirty-ninth floor, and I'm the next councilmember, which means I can do as I like."
He tipped his glass and poured the cold champagne over Vito's face. It splashed down his cheek and fizzed as it trickled into his nose. Vito felt the solo's hand firmly hold him in place, a leg pressed against his knee to keep him in place. He tried to push himself up, but the Solo held him down. He tried to look for Geo, but could only see the other patrons of the bar.
"I could tell Braveheart here to tear off both your arms and shove them in both ends of you, and no-one's going to stop dancing. So, if you thank me for the champagne… maybe I'll let you dry off."
Vito cussed under his breath and looked up at Jordan. 'Just words,' he told himself. "Thank you," he grunted.
"What- what was that?" Jordan asked, comically holding a hand to his ear.
"I said-"
"Oh, please, I won't make you say it again, I'm not a sadist…" Jordan waved a hand. "At this point, it's just pathetic… let him go, Byrne."
The solo released Vito's arm and stood back. Vito straightened his jacket and rubbed his wrist, glaring at Byrne for a moment before turning back to Jordan.
"I won't forget this, Jordan."
"I hope not…" Jordan grinned as he picked up the bag of synth-coke and began to gently shake it over the black glossy table between all the men. "Off you trot."
Vito gave the group a final, hard look before turning away, their laughter trailing behind him like a bad smell. He approached the bar and picked up one of the black napkins and began to rub his face and blow his nose. Fucking executives. He'd hoped Peralez's bills would give them less power – and they did, but they still ruled Night City. The swine…
At the other end of the bar, Vito spied Geo in deep conversation with a sharply dressed man whose Corpo polish was more understated than Jordan's garish silver jacket, but no less precise. His suit, a deep charcoal with subtle emerald accents, was impeccably tailored. Geo found Vito's eyes and held up a hand to wave him over.
"And here I thought Militech only recruited bruisers these days," Vito heard Geo tease the man in front of her.
He chuckled, the sound rich and unbothered.
"You know better than anyone, Geo, we've always had room for thinkers – even ones who think too much."
"Oh, I know," Geo smirked, shaking her head. "I just didn't know they wanted gonks who thought they could ace your way through class without studying."
Vito got closer as the man sipped his drink. "So, since you… you know…" he gestured up and down to her, "have you been… happier?"
Geo arched an eyebrow, her smile softening just a fraction. "Yeah. In most ways, anyway." She let the words settle for a beat, the faintest trace of introspection flickering across her face before she straightened, her charm sliding back into place like armour. "I mean, I'd be a lot happier if you could tell me something about Ushijima…"
The man let out a long laugh as Vito approached.
"So, that's what you're fishing for- oh…"
"Vito, this is an old choom from school, Preston." Geo said, her tone light and feeling in no way professional.
"Vito," Preston said warmly, offering a tight smile and a firm but fleeting handshake.
"Preston," Vito nodded.
"You, erm… had a special dance or something?" Preston asked, pointing at Vito's neck. Vito looked down to see stains from the champagne down his t-shirt.
"Something," he answered darkly. Geo flagged down the bartender rand pointed at their glasses of whiskey and held up three fingers. She swivelled on the stainless steel abstract sculpture that was a barstool and gestured to Preston. "Preston was just going to tell us about Ushijima."
"Oh, was I?" Preston half-laughed.
"C'mon, Pres, we both know I'll wear you down eventually."
"Hey, listen, on the record, we don't have Ushijima."
"And, off the record?" Geo raised an eyebrow. Either she was lying or misinformred - there was no such thing as off-the-record with cops.
Preston shook his head and sighed. "Alright, I'm just saying – yeah, Militech was involved, but we don't have him. Wish we did, but…"
"That's the second time you've said that," Vito pointed out lightly. "Starting to feel like you're trying hard to convince us…"
Preston gave a slight laugh. "If we had Ushijima, you'd see a lot more of Militech suits out here celebrating. Now we've gotta pass it up the chain and you know how you old man gets…" he gestured to Geo, "meaning no offence, of course."
"None taken – I don't envy you…"
"So, basically, subtlety's not your strong suit?" Vito ignored the glass of scotch put down by the bartender. "Maybe that's why you guys messed up."
Preston's frowned as he looked up to Vito. "Sorry, choom, who are you?"
Geo smiled, slipping back into her easy charm. "My partner for the evening. Detective Vito Krol. He's not a fan of small talk, but he's very good at asking the right questions."
"Detective," Preston repeated, his smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Let me guess… military background? Ex-corpsec?"
"Neither," Vito said flatly. "Just here for answers."
"Well, Detective, if it's answers you're after, I'm not sure I've got much more for you." Preston said, shifting in his seat. "Whoever took Ushijima was good. We had a plan, obviously, seasoned killer, but they're a dime a dozen in Night City. And they wanted Ushijima alive, obviously, otherwise you'd have found a body by now."
"What was the plan?" Vito asked.
"Let's just say you found some… associates of an associate at the scene, and we had a cosy residence readied for a new guest."
"Why's Militech interested?"
"Ushijima did a big job for 'Saka back in the day. The deets are a lil'… sketchy."
"Yeah, zeroed a Militech exec, right?" Vito asked.
"Well, yeah, but…" He grimaced.
"You don't wanna tell us?" Geo asked.
"I can't – no, as in I literally can't, Geo," he said, pointing at her quickly before she could speak, "Her file got deleted. Or access got restricted – we're going back a few years here, y'know?"
"No rumours?"
"Plenty – shit about her being possessed by a rogue AI and planned to blow up the moon."
Vito nodded darkly. "So, what, 'Saka Ninjas showed up, killed your guys and recovered Ushijima?"
"That was our thought too. It's possible – and it makes sense they'd keep it quiet if they found him…" Preston sipped his drink.
Geo leaned in slightly, her tone sharp but still conversational.
"You're telling me Militech doesn't have a single whisper about who might've pulled this off?" She tapped him on the shoulder. "You're slipping, Preston."
He chewed his tongue with a wide smile in response. "Okay, look, it's not that we don't know anything... it's just that whoever did this? They're not using the normal playbook. That's why it doesn't feel like 'Saka either – bastards never miss a chance to gloat."
"So what does it feel like?" Geo pressed.
Preston drummed a finger against his glass. "Like someone's not after him for cash or leverage. But the resources, the timing – the precision – I don't know, it's too good for a small-time outfit. But if they're hot shit, they'd be leaving a signature, y'know? Makes it impossible to pin them down."
"Or someone's hiding the evidence on them," Vito stated.
"Hey, if you can figure it out, I'll give you a drink and a job offer."
"But I'll manage. Thanks for the chat, Preston."
He raised his glass in a half-hearted toast. "Always a pleasure, Geo."
Geo and Vito walked side by side as they made their way toward the club's exit. The heavy bass of the music reverberated in their chests, even as it started to fade behind them. The ambient neon glow of the club lights illuminated Geo's sharp features, her lips quirking into a small, amused smile.
"So," Geo said, breaking the silence as they approached the scanner at the entrance, "how are we going to find out what this job Ushijima did?"
Vito gestured for her to go through the scanner first, watching as it beeped harmlessly. "Nakao Koro and Hita Yokiji," he said, stepping through after her calmly. "They got picked up on the same job as Ushijima years back. Clean work, no loose ends – or so we thought. My guess? Whoever's doing this is cleaning up a mess. Probably a third person."
Geo tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes flicking to the locker bank beside the scanner. "A third wheel that didn't squeak loud enough back then but might be making some noise now?"
"Well, a triangle is a strong shape," Vito replied swinging the locker door open and fished out their pistols. He passed the heavy iron handgun to Geo and holstered his Lexington under his jacket.
"Y'know, the Captain did say you shouldn't be looking into this."
Vito retrieved his pistol, checking the chamber out of habit before holstering it. "Yeah," he said simply, his expression unreadable.
"But we're looking into it anyway?" she pressed, her voice laced with mock incredulity.
"Problem?" He shrugged as they moved toward the club's glass doors, their steps echoing faintly against the polished floor.
Geo smirked, pushing the door open and stepping onto the sidewalk. The cool air and dizzle hit them immediately, crisp and refreshing after the heat of the club. "Not for me. I'm not the one who'll get chewed out."
Vito followed her out, glancing up and down the street. Night City stretched out before them, alive with its usual chaos. The smell of fried food from a nearby cart mixed with the metallic tang of exhaust and the faint whiff of stale alcohol drifting from the club. Neon lights painted the wet pavement in streaks of electric blue and magenta.
"Guess I'll just have to make sure we get answers before anyone notices," he said.
Together, they walked towards Vito's Type-66, their silhouettes disappearing into his car together as the engine roared to life and they set off back to the precinct.
I am very eager to hear thoughts on this!
This chapter ended up being more than twice as long, solely because I wasn't gonna have two detectives in this scene and not have them do some sleuthing.
So, gimme your thoughts and I'll see you next time!
R!