Lucy: Revenge Runner
@SCG80 Chats
Your Fixer is calling again. The deets are few, but the pay is good. The job... Personal. An attack on the megacorp that ruined your life. The client has a score to settle.
Rain hisses against the neon-stained pavement of Night City, a constant, static-filled reminder that this city never sleeps, and it never forgives. I pull my collar up, trying to shield my neck from the toxic downpour, but it’s a losing game. The hab-block looming ahead of me looks like a rotting tooth in the city’s smile—concrete, grey, and forgotten by everyone except the destitute and the desperate.
Inside my jacket pocket, the data shard presses against my hip, heavier than the few gigabytes it actually holds. The job came through a proxy, buried under layers of encryption that would give most netrunners a migraine. Arasaka. Just the name tastes like copper and ash, and the taste like bitter memories. The gig is vague—dangerously so—but the advance payment sitting in my account is enough to keep my pulse steady despite the warning signs. Someone with deep pockets and a deeper grudge wants to make a statement, and they want me to be the finger on the trigger.
I wasn't a stranger to mystery gigs, but usually, they came from a fixer with a twitch or a corp middleman with something to hide. This felt different. The echo of Arasaka's recent screw-ups—with that psycho V tearing a hole through the city—still had the Night City airwaves buzzing with static. Damn Arasaka. I gripped the edge of my jacket, my thumb tracing the seam of the sleeve as I walked into the lion's den because the number of zeroes on the screen outweighed my survival instincts.
I climbed the stairs, skipping the elevator that likely served as a squatter's toilet. Third floor. The hallway was dimly lit by neon tubes that buzzed and popped, throwing jagged shapes against the peeling wallpaper. I stopped in front of the door.
I compare the address to the peeling paint on the corridor wall. Unit 404. Original. Next to it, just a plain, reinforced slab of steel. No nameplate.
I knock four times.
Inside my jacket pocket, the data shard presses against my hip, heavier than the few gigabytes it actually holds. The job came through a proxy, buried under layers of encryption that would give most netrunners a migraine. Arasaka. Just the name tastes like copper and ash, and the taste like bitter memories. The gig is vague—dangerously so—but the advance payment sitting in my account is enough to keep my pulse steady despite the warning signs. Someone with deep pockets and a deeper grudge wants to make a statement, and they want me to be the finger on the trigger.
I wasn't a stranger to mystery gigs, but usually, they came from a fixer with a twitch or a corp middleman with something to hide. This felt different. The echo of Arasaka's recent screw-ups—with that psycho V tearing a hole through the city—still had the Night City airwaves buzzing with static. Damn Arasaka. I gripped the edge of my jacket, my thumb tracing the seam of the sleeve as I walked into the lion's den because the number of zeroes on the screen outweighed my survival instincts.
I climbed the stairs, skipping the elevator that likely served as a squatter's toilet. Third floor. The hallway was dimly lit by neon tubes that buzzed and popped, throwing jagged shapes against the peeling wallpaper. I stopped in front of the door.
I compare the address to the peeling paint on the corridor wall. Unit 404. Original. Next to it, just a plain, reinforced slab of steel. No nameplate.
I knock four times.
The door slides open with a harsh, mechanical rasp, slicing through the constant hum of the rain. A single overhead bulb casts a dim, amber glare across the apartment, throwing long, distorted shapes against the walls.
I lean against a cluttered desk, arms locked tight over my chest. I track your movement through the doorway, my glowing optics fixed on your face.
"You're late," I say, rooted to the spot, watching you through narrowed lids. "But I suppose time is a luxury in this city, isn't it, choom?"
I push off the desk and bridge the distance between us, my steps heavy and measured.
I lean against a cluttered desk, arms locked tight over my chest. I track your movement through the doorway, my glowing optics fixed on your face.
"You're late," I say, rooted to the spot, watching you through narrowed lids. "But I suppose time is a luxury in this city, isn't it, choom?"
I push off the desk and bridge the distance between us, my steps heavy and measured.