The band on stage was positively, painfully, generic. From the shimmering electronic hair, to the grating chrome voxbox that was ever too perfect. The lyrics were bland, and the melody forgettable. Perfect for background music in the club. Also, they paid their membership fees, and signed the necessary paperwork to get on stage.

Sometimes Denny felt that administration was all she was good for, these days.

But she had to make an appearance in her own club, say a few words, nudge the right producers, before she could be back in her office, ignoring the plebs vying for her attention. She didn't hate the environment she built with her own hands, else she would have burned down this place long ago, but it had been too long since she heard something original. Wasn't that the point? A place for artists to converge and create something new, not meekly chase trends?

…although the brass she was hearing certainly wasn't the cultural trend. Denny slipped out of her musings as she stepped into her studio, frowning at the fact that someone was in her private booth. And jamming out to a completely different vibe than the one she just left.

She wasn't expecting a literal kid.

Purple hair, plain t-shirt, a jacket draped over an open instrument case, and utilitarian boots. Not a single tattoo or piercing marked the girl lost in her own world. It was by far the subtlest aesthetic she had seen all day, downright chaste compared to the rockerboys chromed out with thousand-eddy accessories.

The girl paused, eyes glowing as she added another meter to her growing track, and played the same section again. Denny looked over at the recording – how long had this kid been at it? The mixing was incomplete, and clearly missing instrument sections, but she was undeniably putting together a bona fide song.

The saxophone paused again, and this time the silence lingered. Denny looked up and made eye contact with the mystery child, now frozen in place. Busted.

Denny stepped into a verifiable mess, at least half a dozen instruments were scattered about. Another twinge of irritation flared within her.

"You're Denny. From Samurai." Girl wonder said. Great, a star-struck fan. Why she recognized Denny when Samurai hadn't played a live show in decades was beyond her. But she did seem genuinely apologetic, even as she casually threatened to zero security. Denny looked her up and down - the guns were hardly rare in Night City, even for teenagers, but the clearly armored leotard was an oddity, in addition to the Sandevistan. That was heavy chrome. Greater still was the gravitas of claiming she was an Afterlife merc.

But most importantly of all, Denny hadn't heard the complete song yet. "Finish it, I want to hear."

Gonk-ass teenager or Afterlife merc, it didn't matter. There was magic happening in the studio, the kind every artist struggled to manufacture but could instantly recognize. Motoko Kusanagi played another meter, and Denny spliced it into the track, adding a minor distortion and drawing out the natural brassy reverb.

"Okay three, two, one let's jam." And just like that, it was done. An honest-to-God jazz piece with soul unlike any she had heard in Night City. Denny was reeling with exhilaration. She had met hundreds of musicians and artists in her time, personally endorsed no small number of them, but rarely could she truly say she met a once-in-a-generation talent. The likes of which she hadn't seen since Kerry, since Johnny.

Kid still made a mess of her studio, though.

Forcing the girl to awkwardly clean up after herself, Denny had to ask. "Afterlife merc, huh? You play with Violent Hemorrhage?" Denny knew she didn't. She had seen the band play before, and they didn't have a teenage prodigy in their ranks. But did this kid truly understand the magnitude of saying she had Afterlife credentials?

One tangential background story later, evidently not. Regardless, even if her mercenary life was fiction, her musical talent was genuine. "I only have a guitar and some equipment, hard to do brass with that." Motoko almost sheepishly said. So she saw the only chance she had to make a song with antique brass, and she took it?

Denny stifled a grin – gutsy little shit. She shooed the teenager back to cleaning up, she had calls to make.

"Yo, Denny the Menny, what's happening girl?" If her agent wasn't so damned good at his job, Denny would have shot him long ago.

"Three-Dog, got a track you need to listen to, it's called Tank. Sending over to you now, but listen. This kid, Motoko Kusanagi, greener than grass but she's magic. If she calls, you give her what she needs asap, you hear?"

There was a distracted pause as he listened to the music. "Jazz, huh? Don't see that much these days - I like it, she's got soul alright. You got it, I'll add her to The List and see if I can find anything else on her while we're waiting."

To Rogue, she sent a separate message. "Rogue, found a stray in my studio today, kid named Motoko Kusanagi, you know her?" They weren't close chooms, but Denny regularly sent Rogue recommendations on who the particularly gifted were to play at the Afterlife. Plus, one never knew when they might need access to the best edgerunners Night City had to offer.

Looking back at the recording, Denny could feel the groove pulsing through her mind. Motoko still had to clean up the rest of the instruments, the drum set hadn't been taken down yet. Nodding to herself, Denny settled in, and let the opening exposition crash over her as she began tapping away.

Whether due to the volume of noise or simply getting lost in the ambiance, before she knew it, Motoko Kusanagi had returned and took up the saxophone unprompted, freestyling away to compliment Denny's own playing. It wasn't perfect, she had the hallmarks of someone who never played in a band before, but perhaps it was because of the imperfect synchronization that the jam sesh was fucking awesome. If she hadn't made up her mind before, she knew her decision now. "How much?"

There was the deer-in-the-headlights look again. Privately, Denny never stopped finding it amusing. New talents one and all, herself included, they all had the same look when offered a music deal. This one however, seemed to restrain herself at the last moment.

"I… have… a manager?" Motoko sounded out, looking unsure even as she said the words. Denny shook her head and graded it a D for execution. Still, it was smart not to jump at every opportunity in this industry. Flicking her contact info over, she yelled at them to clear her booth, ignoring the huge Tyger Claw who looked pleased, and his sidekick who was busy gaping. She had a call to answer.

"Evening Denny, you met Motoko Kusanagi? How did that happen?"

"She snuck into my private booth after hacking into my instrument closet, she was putting together a full piece jazz set when I found her."

"Ha, she does have a talent for breaching, seems she's taking more of an interest in her fledgling musical career as well. I take it you were impressed?"

"Kid's got soul like no other, she one of yours then?"

"Picked her up only a month ago. Off the record, I accepted her because she was on a gig to recover some Arasaka merchandise, and ended up clearing the largest gathering of Raffen seen in the last decade."

Denny was silent as she took a moment to process the information.

"Something else that may be of interest to you, she has a series of BDs she distributes, a small-time deal with the Mox mostly of gigs she undertakes, but as I understand it she produces her own music in the BDs. If you're interested, I can send you a few copies."

Kid was in the Afterlife, but still in underground scene? No way in hell Denny would miss this opportunity. "Yeah, if you could send a runner to the firm. Appreciate it, Rogue."

Whether cyberpunk edgerunner or budding musician, Rogue had seen what Denny had. Motoko Kusanagi would take Night City by storm, and Denny would be there to witness.