REBECCA

Thirty thou.

I lay back on the stripped remains of the bed, while I ran the sheets through the washer. Pilar was out drinking with Falco, and nights were when I got to use our shared bed uninterrupted. Rent in Night City was expensive, so much that I, an adult, had to share. At least it wasn't a coffin in the megabuildings, but it wasn't a good one either, just a shitty North Industrial District conapt with my twenty year senior, loser of an older bro. The scopshitter didn't cook, didn't clean, didn't resupply, unless it involved techie gear, booze or porn. He'd left suspicious stains on the sheets, again, even after I'd shot him the last time he did that.

Might have to reinforce the lesson.

I eyed my newly acquired weapons, from where they were partway stripped on the worktable. Maine never gave me weapons. Motoko? Section 9, whatever it meant, had pretty much given me cart-blanche on whatever gear I'd wanted. Kitten had offered to make me a custom fatsuit, and though I hated to concept of wearing pants, neither Maine or Pilar had ever offered to get me gear that was meant to elevate me. Only temp stuff for whatever gig we were doing, and for me it usually amounted to short lived fad fashionware from where I was supposed to post up and look pretty. For whatever gonk I was supposed to 'distract' that week. Dorio was better, but only but, and made sure that I was at least strapped before throwing me in the churn.

Omahas were good at what they did: they were standard issue Militech gear, compact railguns meant to deliver a fusillade of high impact lead in a compact package. So they suited me, and I was a decent shot. But now I had an M251s Ajax for precision shooting, because firing a long, shoulder arm, from a standing position was a nightmare for someone my size. I had a DS1 Pulsar, a bullpup style subby for quick engagements. And the pièce de résistance, the magnum opus: a DB-2 Satara, a modified version of the classic Igla shotgun. Some clever nerd had slapped on a series of magnetic coil accelerators, and changed up the ammunition from buckshot to needles. The combination? A weapon that could flatline someone as heavily borged as Maine.

Problem was that I couldn't use it, not yet. Being small had it's disadvantages, and something like that, despite its EM nature, still had a significant kick. My original plan had been to get chromed up with a beefy set of arms that would force Maine to put me on the frontlines. I could finally shine, brighter than a supernova. Except now?

Maine didn't get me guns. Pilar didn't build me fuck all. Kitten was worried about my well being, genuinely worried. She'd saved my ass from when I'd kinda lost control and started spraying lead everywhere on full auto. Used herself as a meatshield, usually people did that the other way around. That was a slipup, I was embarrassed even thinking about it. Pros didn't lose control like that, the kid herself sure as shit didn't. It hurt, that a teenager was a markedly better merc than me. It just reinforced all those negative thoughts and self doubts, doubly so because I wanted to be that good, wanted to show off. And I'd ended up being barely more useful than any of the other kids.

I didn't even know what the fuck those gonkass scavs had done to mount that sort of response. It didn't feel like we were doing community service, even though flatlining those morons sure as shit was. I'd seen the kill rooms. I'd grown up on the streets. I knew what happened to helpless idiots that got lured into dark alleys, bought BDs from sketchy people, or plugged their neuralware into suspicious bodies.

The best way not to be a victim was to make victims.

To do that, you needed chrome. To get chrome, you needed eddies. And I'd just gotten thirty thousand eurodollars. Not three hundred, as a tip for a good distraction, barely enough to cover the costs of doing biz. Not three thousand, as a ten percent cut from Maine for a snore of a gig - which ended up going to rent because Pilar wanted to party. Thirty thousand fuckin' smackaroonies for joining a baby PMC and just... having fun. The gig wasn't much different than going to the range, for all the risk involved. They had a goddamn mecha, had custom fatsuits. They had an APC, not to move personnel, but to move all the gear the stole.

They'd taken everything not nailed down, and even then I was pretty sure I'd seen Kitten tell Tats to strip HMGs that were bolted to the floor.

I'd planned to do what everyone else did: go out in a blaze of glory so fuckin' bright, the gonkass vampires on top of their plutocratic towers would be forced to acknowledge the unacknowledged. Except now? Maine didn't have a rocket launcher in the trunk of his Quadra? Motoko did. Maine? He and Pilar could suck each other off until Silverhand 2.0 finally wiped Night City off the map for good. Fuck edgerunning for loose change and worrying if I wouldn't be able to pay next month's, let alone get upgrades to ensure I'd live long enough to spend whatever eds didn't go down the drain.

I brushed the anger away. The fury of the helpless. It wouldn't change anything, but Sec 9? Yeah. I could see myself doin' shit like that, at least for a while. For now, until I got enough dosh, enough chrome, to strike out on my own. At least until I managed to move out on my own, so I didn't have to wash crusty sheets from a shared bed. Motoko had laid the groundwork for a PMC that could rival Barghest.

I'd have to change my plans. Already, I had SAAI building me an upgrade plan. Front line combat, that soaked bullets? I'd need a linear frame, but it'd mess with my style. Netrunning? Nerd shit. Sitting in a nest, and popping heads like pimples? Boring. I wanted to be a smooth operator, someone that went bump in the Night. Someone that wouldn't get a second glance on the street, but would silence the room when she strolled into Afterlife.

I wanted to be so damn shimra, that it looped back to cool.

Thirty thousand eddies? Yeah, I could make it work. Skeletal reinforcement, so I could stack subdermal on my short frame. Battlegloves to give me a firepower platform, maybe. Maybe get a K500 too, or klep one from the NCPD, to run distraction for me. I could even pop SAAI inside, they'd be my side-kick. Two person destructo squad, one that wouldn't be sidelined, ever.

Kitten had invited me to party, but there'd be time to party later. I had work to do. I reached over to my shelf, and slotted the shard I retrieved from there. I'd been the first thing I'd gone out and bought. A copy of one of the most popular books to be published since the Collapse, and the subsequent DataKrash. The Solo's Manual, by Morgan Blackhand. I wanted to carve my name into solo history, with everything it entailed. Blood, sweat, tears, and hard earned respect.

And nobody ever said I wasn't a hardworking woman.