My Audio Books Chapter 1382 Ed

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General A Man With a Heart - What a Damn Gonk.... A Cyberpunk 2077 OC

Thread starterMorph

Start dateSep 16, 2022

Tagscyberpunk cyberpunk 2077 own-character self-insert world building

Who should Arthur wind up with?

Panam Palmer

Valerie (V)

Gloria Martinez

Claire Russell

Lucyna Kushinada

Hanako Arasaka

Meredith Stout

Rogue Amendiares

Lizzie Wizzie

Us Cracks (whole band)

Harem (select this and anyone you want involved)

Other / OC (reply with suggestions)

Nobody

Gonzo

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Sep 16, 2022

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Threadmarks Chapter 1: Opportunity

Morph

"It is with some displeasure that I must tell you to cease and desist...."

The rest of the words on the email seemed a blur. Cease and Desist?! I checked the header of the email, and sure enough, there it was, the Biotechnica logo, shown proud and true at the top. I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose once again, taking a moment to rest my eyes away from the harsh glow of a screen. Like all the others, I filed it in the 'potential trouble' file of my inbox and attempted to move on with my life. Like all the others, it seemed more oriented at nuisance value than anything else. I had them stymied, and they knew it. My tech wasn't exactly innovative, rather an application of an already accepted but long ignored concept, and best of all, it was public. Bad for Biotechnica, and for all the corpos in general. Because you can copy my tech, but now that the cat's out of the proverbial bag, you can't supress it, no matter how hard you try to.

And wasn't that just a bitch? All that profit, all those eddies, just down the drain. And best of all, I wasn't one of them, a corpo, a man of wealth. Oh no, I was a street urchin with some common sense and a basic knowledge of economics, a shockingly rare thing in the future, I had found. And what a disappointing future it was. Oh sure, it looked the part, with the mega-towers, and the neon-drenched streets, and all the fancy tech, but that's all it was, looks. Everything else seemed worse, the people dumber, shorter lived, more prone to violence, less ambitious. Hell, illiteracy, of all things, was now becoming a common thing again. After all, who needs to read when you can just use a braindance to learn things? Not like schools are important, huh?

Fucking morons.

And that wasn't the only thing either. Social mobility, in spite of all the new tech, seemed to be more depressingly stagnant than ever. Corporate consolidation, a government withdrawal from providing even necessary services and a general attitude of corruption seemed to be holding people down. Even worse, the lower classes, of which I am a former member in this world, are complicit in their own depression. Parents who refuse their children to go to school, adults preferring quick and easy gang money over honest work and building wealth. I mean, it's not like the tools have disappeared, the stock market is still here, and seemingly more accessible than ever. Businesses are stupidly easy to open, even if they are insanely hard to get off the ground, and opportunity seems abound, although unlike most, I actually bothered to look for it. Honestly, sometimes, the sedentary laziness of people in this world shocks me. I mean people always talk about how they want to 'make it', but will anyone get off of their ass and try? No, that would be too obvious, let's sell drugs and shoot each other instead!

And so, what does a man from an entirely different timeline and from fifty years in the past try to do? Fix it, of course.

Turns out, they're not the only morons in town. I've been here for more than five years at this point, and by all accounts, my rise has been meteoric. And so, why am I spending my Saturday night staring at this fucking screen in this dingy fucking office rather than getting wasted at Afterlife like seemingly my entire staff has chosen to do?

Because in spite of all my financial success, when I look out the window, nothing seems to have changed. The streets are still grimy, dirty and dangerous, and the people walking them, even more so. Shootings are a common sight, as are Cyberpsychos, gangs, rapists, murderers and paedophiles. Oh sure, here, high above it all, more than thirty floors up, everything is clean and the people are nice, minding their manners, well dressed, punctual and motivated. But I still remember those days from five years ago, of sleeping on the streets, of running from fight to fight, barely scratching out a sense of stability only to have it promptly snatched away by some up-jumped Maelstrom, Animal or 6th Street thug with a nine millimetre and far too many substances in his system.

So, in such dire straits, how did I manage to rise so high? Like I said, its economics. Like most people, one of the first things I noticed was the insane food prices in comparison to the average wage. Food, alone, would east up something like 30% of my earnings every month. 30 fucking percent! It took a larger share of my income then the fucking rent! And that was also obscene! It seemed the same for everything I looked at, healthcare, cars, computers, toys, everything. Prices were high, higher and becoming even more so by the day.

Now, for a normal person, this would be crippling. The only thing you would see would be the bills, and that's where your dreams would go to die. But those high prices signalled something else as well: opportunity.

You see, to be able to understand the cause behind these depressingly exploitative prices, you have to understand something about this world. Mega-corps don't just happen, it requires a government to turn a blind eye for decades, to ignore blatantly predatory behaviour for decades. What's more, it requires a government to not only neglect it, but to actively incentivise that sort of behaviour from those corporations. The result is that they can try and force each other out of business in unscrupulous ways, gain market share, and then fix prices for themselves. What's more, when governments stop giving a shit, like they seem to have in this world, then that forceful expulsion becomes outright espionage. People killing each other over a new type of chip, or over a clause in a contract. And once the cat got out of the bag, the violence escalated, quickly. Infiltration soon morphed into a cold war between rival corporations, and soon enough, outright war. The politicians, under the influence of the CIA, FBI and DEA and their batshit plans were more than happy to ignore the problem whilst lining their pockets from the numerous 'donations' going their way.

So much for a free market. So much for democracy.

Of course, all of this is merely window dressing for the real story. You see, once corporate consolidation and espionage really began heating up, it quickly spilled out into all of the sectors. Including the food sector....

The big ag companies at the time, their battle for dominance got really heated. To the point where they began to infect each others harvests with biological weapons to kill their crops and reduce their competitors profits, making them softer targets for a potential acquisition. The government, being in their pockets, naturally opted to give the companies subsidies to help them 'increase production' instead of cracking down and actually fixing the problem. Incidentally, the politicians who passed that particular law all retired to generous fortunes and executive positions at these firms.

Never mind the effect this had on the food supply. Never mind the famines, nor the dead, emaciated corpses strewn about the globe. The boardroom is all that matters.

I swear, sometimes I feel like punching myself to check if I'm not in a nightmare. The stupidity of these people.

Anyway, once all the mess had died down, only a handful of corps were left, and they realised that the high prices their war created had enabled them to acquire frankly insane profits. So instead of stopping the war like sensible, normal people, they came to an agreement to keep the pretence of war going, as a justification for retaining those high prices. In Night City, there is only one of those corporations in operation: Biotechnica.

And that's where I come in.

You see, Biotechnica has enjoyed a virtual monopoly over the provision of food in the city. All ingredients used in all meals enjoyed by anyone other than the ultra-wealthy come from one of their facilities. Kibble, All-foods, they own the lot. Hell, the only reason they aren't the virtual Kings of the city is because both Arasaka and Militech have interests here, and nobody, not even me, is stupid enough to butt heads with those heavily armed juggernauts.

Well, they held a virtual monopoly, until recently, that is. You see, nobody bothered to compete with them, fearing Biotechnica's particularly brutal brand of espionage would be turned on them instead. Any new agricultural tech they made would be stolen, any new crops poisoned and the owners of those crops quickly experiencing unfortunate 'accidents'.

And yet, once again, the past came to be my saviour in this endeavour. Open-Sourcing, a term near and dear to my heart in my old world in my old-life as a programmer, enabled me to bypass any attempts at IP theft. No point trying to steal something that's publicly available, is there? My own lack of implants helped me bypass many of the attempts on my life, after all, you can't hack good old skin and bones, now can you?

Speaking of which, how stupid are implants anyway? I mean, shoving a piece of hackable, unreliable tech in your body for a minor upgrade?

Anyway, by a combination of strangeness on my part making me unpredictable and sheer luck, I survived long enough to get my business off the ground. Best of all, there's not much they can do about it, at least for now. Because even though my innovations are simple, they would be too costly for Biotechnica to implement at scale, whereas I have built my company around them, putting me at a sizeable advantage. What's more, my innovation shields me from the worst of the biological attacks on my crops as well.

So, what is this mythical innovation, you ask? It's indoor farming.

More specifically, it's climate controlled, sealed indoor farms in large, formerly abandoned, warehouses outside the city. Dirt cheap to acquire and retrofit, cause its in the middle of the desert and nobody lives there, and though farm labour, machinery and seeds were harder to acquire for security reasons, they were worth it in the end. Now, this is not in any way unique. In my old world, they were relatively common, and widely thought to be the next major evolution the green revolution. In this new world, its primarily used to grow crops on spacecraft or specifically to grow drug crops by gangs. Seemingly, nobody thought to grow vegetables and fruits with it instead.

Like I said, fucking morons.

The genius of this, is that no matter what happens now, the damage can't be undone. My tech is public, so even if they kill me, a thousand new upstarts with a bank loan and some dreams will come in to take my place with their own companies. They can't compete with me properly, because it means slashing their prices to a fifth of their current levels, and losing a huge chunk of their profits. And whilst they are trying, they seem to be struggling to poison my crops.

Thank you, mechanical locks, air filtering and solar panels!

All of this means that for the first time in more than thirty years, the residents of Night City have access to fresh, clean, cheap and unprocessed food.

And they fucking love it.

In the time I have been in business, I have not once failed to completely sell the entirety of a harvest before the next one is ready. When I set up the company, I don't think I imagined the sheer extent of the problem. I mean, before I came along, foods that you or I might consider pedestrian, like real lettuce, were considered a luxury. Because of me, families could now afford to feed themselves properly for the first time without having to choose between what else to sacrifice to pay for it, like fuel or shelter. One warehouse rapidly became two, and then three, and then thirty as the teeming masses got their first taste of properly cheap and most importantly good food in decades. The start-up loan I took out, usually meant to be paid back over twenty years, was paid back in two, and gradually, as I expanded, my prices fell further and further. To many, I am their saviour, because this small improvement in their lives has changed everything. I'm not exaggerating either, though I desperately wish I were. It is estimated that the lower prices and additional employment generated by my company have helped lift more than a hundred-thousand people in the city above the poverty line. Needless to say, I have become ridiculously popular as a result.

There's just one problem. The government. You see, the city authority, under the direction of the esteemed Mayor Lucius Rhyne, has decided to fine me for a string of nuisance violations, never mind the nuisance posed by more aggressive rivals. This pressure is combined with an increasingly aggressive attitude taken by a corrupt NCPD towards my company and its operations, such that raids and searches have almost become commonplace in our offices. They haven't killed anyone, yet, but it's only a matter of time. All of this is compounded by Biotechnica's attempts to patent the idea of indoor farming, which if they did would enable them to legally supress their burgeoning competition, and with the amount of money flowing the way of the courts, it's even possible they may win. Hence, the cease and desist letter.

But none of that matters right now, because I just spotted my next big opportunity scrolling on the bottom of the silent TV in the corner of my office.

Mayor Lucius Rhyne was just killed. An election will be held to determine who will replace him.

Looks like that popularity will be coming in handy.

-------

So, the first chapter is complete, and the scene for conflict is set. Will our protagonist thrive, or will he succumb to the cesspit of the city?

I do not in anyway own Cyberpunk or any related properties, only my own character.

Feel free to leave a review or comment, let me know what you guys think!

Hope you enjoyed it!

Last edited: Sep 16, 2022

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Sep 17, 2022

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#12

Threadmarks Chapter 2: Arrangements

Morph

"We need to talk."

In spite of the seriousness in my tone, the only response she deigned to give was one of mild bemusement, but it was replaced quickly with a more business-like demeanour, "What about?"

"Being who you are, I trust you are aware of the goings-on, politically speaking?"

"Naturally."

"Well, the ground has been shifting, and quickly. Mayor Lucius Rhyne just got himself killed an-"

She cut me off, "Not officially."

I dismissed her retort with a wave of my hand, "You and I both know the police report is bullshit. Someone, somewhere, came gunning for the mayor, and after that failed cyberpsycho attack, they learned from their mistakes and got subtle. Bad news for me, bad news for you."

She quirked an eyebrow at my statement, "Oh?"

"Someone found a way to off two of the most powerful men in the city within mere weeks of each other, and the supposedly best fixer in Night City wasn't involved in either one? Either you're slipping, or your opponents are getting wise. Come on Rogue, Saburo Arasaka, and the Mayor, and within weeks of each other? The two biggest contracts you'll ever be able to get, and you skipped out on both. That can't be good for your rep, now can it?"

"Me not getting involved was calculated. I mean, you don't see Dexter DeShawn around these parts anymore, do you? Only gonks pick fights with Arasaka, and I am no gonk." I pursed my lips, set my drink down on the table to the side, and leaned forwards towards her, closing the gap until my face was just a couple inches from hers. She looked amused at the move, "If you kiss me, I'll kill you."

My next words were a whisper, "But you were a gonk, weren't you? You went in that tower with Johnny, and you went in with a payload measuring in the kilotons." The smile slid straight off her face, and in my peripheral vision, I saw her reach down to her hip, surreptitiously making to draw her gun. Not wanting to take the chance, I leaned back into my side of the booth, adopting a more relaxed tone and posture, "You seem to have yourself convinced that you're some paragon of apathy, and that you don't care about anything but the almighty eddy, but you can't fool me."

Her next words were bitten out between clenched teeth, her gun drawn and pointed at me under the table, not that I couldn't see it, "How did you find out?"

"Not even a hint of denial? I'd be disappointed if I weren't so pleased."

Her tone became more heated, "How did you find out?!"

I took a sip of my drink and spoke, "Let's just say that I have.... connections." Of course, I didn't, not really, but I could hardly tell her I was from the past where she was in a video game about the dystopic alternate future, now could I?

Her eyes narrowed, "Nobody knows what we did on that day, I made sure of it. There is literally nobody alive who could tell you I was, in any way, involved."

I took a moment to ponder her question, and noting her itchy trigger finger, decided to take a different tac, "Say, did someone by the name of V come by to see you recently?"

She looked aggravated, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Humour me."

She looked suspicious, though the diversion in topic seemed to have calmed her a little. Thankfully, she decided to bite, "Yeah, why?"

"Did you have her scanned before you met with her?"

"Of course."

"Notice anything.... strange?"

Here eyes narrowed as she considered what I had just asked her, "Just some faulty hardware in her dome. Nothing special."

I nodded, and stroked the lip of my glass, "Incidentally, did you hear the new announcement, about a biochip being developed by Arasaka?"

Her eyes widened in realisation, and for the first time since I had known her, Rogue's unflappable façade cracked, "The heist...." For a moment, she seemed shocked beyond mere words, "Silverhand's in her fucking head?!"

Relishing the victory, I chose the wrong moment to become unbearably smug, "My my, you're remarkably quick on the uptake, aren't you? I expected it would take you longer to get to Silverhand. Bravo, Rogue, bravo."

Anger and shock was quickly supplanted by a calculated ruthlessness on Rogue's face as she pointed the muzzle of her gun back at me, this time on the table rather than under it, "He was the only one us they managed to get a hold of alive, and that doesn't really change much, does it? I still can't have this getting out," she jabbed the gun in my direction, "and you need to be kept quiet, one way or another."

"It's a biochip developed by Arasaka, Rogue. You know, the people you nuked? The people who had your co-conspirator's engram for more than fifty years. I mean, did you seriously think they wouldn't at least try to interrogate it?" I scoffed, "The only reason you aren't in a box right now is because the tech is still buggy as hell." I smiled, now with the knowledge that I had her on the hook, "But now... now it's in the wild, and more importantly, it works, and most importantly of all, Arasaka knows that it works. However, they needn't know more than that, and my connections can make sure of that for you, and ensure that any copies of the engram in Arasaka's possession experience a.... malfunction."

This was, of course, a complete lie. Arasaka did not have copies of the engram, nor did I have connections that could ensure they be destroyed if they did. However, Rogue didn't need to know that, did she? For a moment, sheer outrage flashed across her face at the notion that I was blackmailing her, and more importantly, that I was blackmailing her successfully. "Where does the CEO of a fresh food corp get those kind of connections?"

"You didn't think I survived those attempts on my life by Biotechnica by pure luck, did you?" Actually, I did. Well, that and some good old-fashioned paranoia, not that she needed to know that.

Thankfully, the rage present on her features soon morphed into an expression of resignation, and she took the bait, "What do you want?"

I smiled. I needed her in my corner for my plan to work, and now I did.

Wasn't future knowledge just the best?

------

So, the protagonist has begun to sow the seeds for his climb to power. Will he prevail, or will the rapidly changing circumstances render his plans moot?

This is a bit of a short one, but I need more time to write out a full-length chapter, so I decided to write this instead to keep all of you entertained in the meantime.

I own nothing of Cyberpunk, only the MC is mine.

Thanks for all the comments and feedback! Hope you guys enjoy it!

Last edited: Sep 17, 2022

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#20

Threadmarks Gonzo 1

BlackStar

World of Gonzo

A Fresh Head of Lettuce

Strange thing to think about now. When we were children, these were miracles, manna from the heavens above of the great grey skyscrapers. Big green balls, with leaves. They'd be advertised in those fancy shows, or in neon signs, ones which featured the corporate boots, gnawing lettuce like a hamster. Though I asked, as a younger synth coke addict, when I looked up from sniffing to notice, "What the hell is lettuce? Kibb seems fine to me." And Prepak as well, because we didn't know a damned thing better. Like Exodus, we have been cast from the holy land, and forced to scavenge what little we can. Century ago, we could send grain to everyone, eat juicy grass-fed steaks every dinner, and eat au natural. Then the Mid-west dried up, the government went belly-up like a bloated corpse in the bay, the DEA disintegrated cheap hash and marijuana, and everywhere went to hell. Now we can't have any of those nice things, especially the narcotics, because of those authoritarians and their offspring.

"Gee, Gonz, aren't you an optimist? Why're you talking about this?" Well because I like to complain, and a man has the right to complain.

A century ago, our great-grandparents screwed it to hell and back, we're still picking up the pieces like a suicide off the street, guts and all. At least the Hebrews got less of a boot on their neck than we do now, from the besuited fascists and authoritarians, that bunch of cosmopolitans who love to dine on their fresh lettuce, specially grown off the corpse of some dumb ganger who found himself as fertilizer. Oh, back in the days they were in Egypt (If anyone knows anything about the Old Testament beyond something like a highlight reel of football when they gouge out each others' eyes with the spikes) they had fresh food, they had homes, but they were slaves. Real nice arrangement. Guess the suits here have realized that some people might like to know the taste of lettuce, make them like the old Hebrews. Slaves appreciative in the change of diet. Blame these jaded eyes, but that's all we Americans are nowadays: Slaves to a government, corporations, and to the technology we so gladly slide onto ourselves.

Now, some corporate in a nice suit who'd grubbed for a scrap of Bulgarian Kibble from the '10s, on a dare, complained and decided: he wanted to have the good stuff cheap. Good to know there's some slick-suited individuals high off the remaining natural cocaine of this world to wonder what cheap lettuce tastes like. Of course, one's choice for narcotic predilections does not mean that a corporate man wants lettuce only. No, he'd seen enough to know: He wants some tomatoes too! And before you know it, he makes a whole sandwich, one that makes the Jesse James Kosher Deli jealous. All for himself. Now, corporate men are not like you or I: they find something, they want to make money off of it. So this bastard figures to sell it, and cheap. His public relations people, the slimiest of all that reside in corporate suits, probably want to say that it's for a good cause. That being, the man's wallet.

It certainly hasn't helped mine, the money I save on sandwiches is stolen by the pig who puts notices on my car.

Now, I've been at the Jesse James a few times since our corporate benefactor has provided his fresh lettuce, and every time I've went, the sandwiches get cheaper. I'd had to pay fifty eddies for a small morsel ten years ago, squeezed between a Chromer and a member of the New Hell's Angels. They'd argue how to shake me down for money to pay for their meal and split me in half for the meat on their sandwich. Now, they only want to see which parts of me go on their sandwiches, so I've had to skip out on the place. Damn the man who got it cheaper, when it was pricier it gave me more time to slip out before those two started to kill each other.

Now, ol' Gonzo has to deal with some chromeheads trying to break in to steal his weapons cache, so if you don't hear back from me, you know I have taken them all to Hell with me.

Lookin' over the edge with a sandwich and a handcannon,

Gonz

(Hope you enjoy, for your reading pleasure)

Last edited: Sep 18, 2022

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Sep 17, 2022

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#21

Threadmarks Chapter 3: A New Model

Morph

Rogue came through, and in a big way.

For one thing, I can now announce the addition of a new member to my security team. Say hello to the one, the only, Panam Palmer!

Naturally, she wasn't quite as enthusiastic as I was, muttering under her breath the whole time about the 'fucking corpos' and how 'this was the last time with that bitch'. She's good, and pretty too, but most importantly of all, she still retains her connections with the Aldecaldos, who's allegiance I will need as one of the few decent Nomad tribes on the edges of the city. And now, thanks to Rogue, I was one step closer to acquiring it.

More importantly than that however, Rogue has managed to set up a meet with the head of the 6th Street Gang, who was normally someone who shared Silverhand's perspective regarding corpos. So much so in fact, that he'd had the former leader of the gang killed in a coup for cosying up to them. However, it seems the combination of my own reputation and Rogue vouching for me has led to at least a momentary change in their disposition. Needless to say, I was going to have to tread carefully. And that went for more than just Will Gunner. I can't have endeared myself to Rogue by blackmailing her, and whilst I was sure I could patch things up with her later, I was going to have to be extra careful regarding my safety for the foreseeable future. The Queen of the Afterlife was not someone to be fucked with.

It took a few minutes of nervous waiting, Panam muttering under her breath the whole time, but eventually, the door to the place I had chosen for the meet had swung open, and in marched Will Gunner, flanked by two of his henchmen, Sam Carter and Boz, if my memory served me correctly. They were armed to the teeth, and seemed to sporting what looked like cobbled together combat armour. Naturally, it was all adorned with copious amounts of American flag regalia. Seemingly, my reputation took me far, but from the looks of things, not far enough.

The two henchmen went around the room, shutting the windows and checking for hidden doors, and once they were done, they returned back to the main door and flanked the sides, giving themselves an advantage should guns start blazing, not that they would. All of this was done with almost military levels of efficiency, as expected of 6th Street. Will grabbed the chair across the table from me, flipped it around and straddled it as he sat down, his wrists crossed over the top of the backrest, a pistol held in one of his hands, a clear warning, if there ever was one. "So, here I am." His tone was gruff, and carried with it a distinctive edge.

I smiled, in a manner that I hoped seemed non-threatening, and began with my commiserations, "And I do thank you for that. I know it's rare for you to meet with businessmen like me, and that fact that you are speaks volumes. I do thank you for the compliment."

His response was expectedly hostile, "I wasn't complimenting you, you fucking corpo-rat. I was under the impression that you had some biz, and I owe Rogue a favour."

In spite of the insult, I insisted on retaining my manners, "Naturally. Well, let's get down to it, shall we?"

Will looked impatient, "Let's."

"I trust, Mr Gunner, that you are aware of who I am? Of what I do?"

"You think I would be here if I didn't? They call you the 'good' suit, the one corpo in the city with the heart." He levelled an intense stare at me, and for a moment, I felt a spike of anxiety until he broke his gaze away from mine, "Pah! You're just another rat in a suit, only worth the price on his head and not an eddy more. You can't fool me."

I nodded, "Well, lucky for the both of us, I don't want to be worth an eddy more. You see, Mr Gunner, I have a proposal for you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. You see, of all the gangs in Night City, yours is the most reasonable. For one, you have this sense of patriotic honour about you." I gestured to the numerous small American flags on his person along the generally military stylings of his clothing, "For another, you tend to restrict your activities to things that are somewhat.... palatable. No working with Scavs or paedophiles for you lot. And finally, and most importantly, you're not founded off exploitation. The original 6th Street gang consisted of veterans who were tired of being fucked over and just wanted their neighbourhood to be a safe place to live. You may have somewhat strayed from that original goal over the last few years, but you still hold it to be one of your core aims, don't you?"

Gunner looked suspicious, "Yes..."

I nodded in satisfaction, "Good. You see, I'm planning on making a run for the office of the Mayor in the upcoming election, and I need your help. Though you may despise me for what I am, we are not so different, you and I. We both came from the streets of this city, and we both found ways to lift ourselves above it all. You with your strength of arms, and me with my strength of mind. Together, we can make that original dream happen. We can make 6th Street a good place again."

My tone was imploring, and more than a little fake, but Gunner seemed to be buying in, "What's in it for us? Aside from your bullshit promises, I mean?"

I shrugged, "Money, mostly. And a whole lot more besides, if I manage to win, that is."

He tapped the table with the end of his gun, "Details."

Hook, line and sinker. I had him intrigued, and I knew it, "Well for one thing, once I come into office, I plan on legalising a couple of the less lethal drugs you guys already peddle. Maybe you boys would do best with a shell company granted a temporary distribution monopoly over something like Reefer when I legalize it? In one year, you would make more from that alone than you would from drug sales in the black market from the past ten years combined. And all that with none of the risks that traditionally come from the drug trade in the first place."

Gunner dismissed my question, "They're illegal at the state level. You won't be able to change a damn thing, you fucking liar." Looking enraged at what he perceived to be my lies, he made to get up, "We're done here. If I see you again, I'll kill you."

Though he appeared fearsome when riled, I couldn't afford to let this meeting fall through, and so I gulped down my fear, and cut him off before he could make to do anything drastic, "Ah-h-h-h. I can see why you might think that, but it just isn't the case. Night City is a free city, and whilst most people think that just applies to business, it also means that the city retains a degree of legislative control. I mean, prostitution is illegal in the rest of Southern California, and yet here, in Night City, there's a BD parlour and Dollhouse around every corner, isn't there?" I waved my own statement away, "But ignoring that for the moment, you haven't even considered the other benefits that working for me can bring."

Gunner looked suspicious, but much calmer now. "Carter."

"Yes, boss?"

"Check up on that, would you?"

Carter nodded and his eyes began to glow as he pulled up the net to confirm that what I had just said was true. After a moment, he responded in the affirmative. Gunner grunted in appreciation and continued with the negotiations, "Enlighten me, will you, as to these benefits that you can supposedly provide."

"There are a number of them, but the primary one besides money that I can think of is legitimacy. Right now, 6th Street is just another gang-"

"The hell we are!" Carter was apparently even more of a live wire than his boss, though he was quickly silenced by a stern glare from his superior.

I quirked an eyebrow at the outburst, and yet ploughed on regardless of it, "Sure, you and I know that, but does anyone else? I mean, all the extortion and robbery can't be good for your rep, now can it? If you work for me, you'll have to shut those parts of your business down, but I'd be more than willing to replace it with work of my own. We can turn the 6th Street gang into the 6th Street company, and set an example of how law enforcement should be done."

It was now Gunner's turn to quirk his eyebrow, "What kind of work?"

I shrugged, "Protection and policing, mostly. Unlike most other corpos out there, I'm not exactly armed to the teeth. This whole time, I've been on the defensive, but fighting smart rather than hard does have it's limits. With you on my side, I can change that."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, "It's tempting, to be able to legally stick it to the big corps in the city, but I don't think you could afford us."

Classic deflection. This one was going to hurt me right in my bank account, but it was a sacrifice I was going to have to make, "I may not be the richest in town, but rest assured, gentlemen, that I have a healthy enough business to be able to pay any even semi-reasonable price."

He waved his hand dismissively, "I've seen your balance sheet, I know that. More importantly though, even if I do say yes, which is in no way a guarantee, nobody else in 6th Street will say yes to working for a corpo-rat, even a somewhat reasonable one like yourself."

"Ah-h-h-h, Mr Gunner. You wouldn't be working for me, you'd be working with me."

He let out a bark of laughter, his tone once again gaining some heat to it, "What's the fucking difference? I've worked in corpo forces before, we all have. They chew you up, and once they've broken you down, they spit you out without so much as a by-your-motherfucking-leave."

"The best assurance I can provide, besides my word and values, is partial prepayment. Instead of having you boys give your lives for me, and then fucking you over and paying you scraps for your sacrifice, instead, I'll pay half of whatever price you deem reasonable right now. The rest will be paid after each job is done. That way, even if I do fuck you over later on, which I won't, you'll still have my money."

"And what's to stop me from running away with your money after I've taken it?"

I paused, and mulled my response over. Eventually, I settled upon an appropriate move, one I hoped would garner me some amount of respect with the man, "Tell me, Mr Gunner, did your men have us scanned when you entered the room?"

"Of course."

"Are we armed?"

Gunner turned to level the inquiry at his henchmen, "Boz?"

"Panam is, but the guy, maybe my eyes are goin' wrong, but he looks completely unarmed. No mods or nothing."

I smiled at the look Gunner was sending me from across the table, his face showing a mixture of shock and confusion. I waited a few seconds, allowing him to feel the discomfort, knowing that the idea that someone would willingly make themselves vulnerable would scare him more than someone who was threatening him. Threats, he understood, this, well this was out of his wheelhouse. The smile still on my face, I began to speak, "That's the kind of man I am, Will. I put my money where my mouth is, and I keep my promises. I want to build bridges, not burn them. If you want to take my money and run, there is absolutely nothing stopping you. I won't come after you, though I will never do business with you again. Your rep will doubtlessly take a hit, but nothing more than that."

Will looked amused, "So, you're a gonk, then?"

"Maybe I am, Mr Gunner, but like you, I have a vision for what this city could be, if we all stopped fighting and actually worked on getting things done. Together, I believe we can create a new model for the city, a better, safer, cleaner model. One with less violence, one with opportunity abound, one where places like 6th Street are free from the violent whims of corporations and corrupt police forces alike. If that makes me a gonk, then so be it, so long as we can be gonks together." I leaned in and injected as much hateful intensity into my voice as I possible could, "Let's show those fucks that the dream of the founding fathers and of America writ large isn't dead just yet."

There was a long stretch of silence following my little speech, in which I could see my words were having an impact. Gunner was no Rogue, and the man was a relatively open book as a result. Evidently, his two cronies saw his indecision as well, and were becoming evermore restless as the quiet stretched on. Eager to not become victim to some sort of misunderstanding, I tried to move our negotiations along, "So, Mr Gunner, do we have ourselves an agreement?"

He remained stubborn in his silence for a few more moments, before he responded with a single sharp nod of his head, "We have a deal. If I can sell this to the rest of the gang, I'll send you the deets of what we want over the holo."

I stood from my chair with a broad smile across my face, closing the top button of my suit with my left hand and offering my right hand to shake. He declined the offer, and instead stalked out of the room, his henchmen following him, only Boz lingering a moment to stare at Panam and me. Once they had left, I let out a sigh of relief, the tension slipping away from my form.

Turning around, I saw the look of bewilderment on Panam's face as she stared at the door, and resisted the urge to laugh. I succeeded....mostly. A small snort still escaped, and Panam, now broken out of her bewilderment, levelled a fiery glare in my direction, "Just what... who the hell are you?!"

This time, I did laugh at her frustrated confusion, relishing the victory for what it was, "Whatever do you mean?"

"You got 6th Street, fucking 6th Street, to play ball. And they hate corpos like you even more than I do!"

I simply chuckled and tapped my nose knowingly, refusing to answer, knowing the lack of one would annoy the living hell out of her. After a moment of expectant silence, she realised what I was doing, growled and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Thoroughly enjoying her frustration, I couldn't resist a parting shot as she left, "See you Monday, dear employee!"

I heard her growl once again and punch the wall as she was walking by, and chuckled to myself. Once she was well and truly gone, and the mirth of the moment had passed, I took stock of my situation.

Assuming 6th Street accepted my offer, I was now in prime position to make my momentous announcement. With a sizeable force of well-trained, well-organised veterans at my beck and call, I had so many more options available to me. I didn't have to toe the line anymore; I could finally afford to step over it and level the playing field.

Biotechnica better watch it's fucking back, because the moment I got the chance, I was going to start tearing strips out of their hide.

But old grudges aside, this changed the balance-of-power in the city significantly. If 6th Street sided with me, then they were going to have to clean up their act. Inevitably, the other gangs would sense weakness and start muscling in on their turf. Naturally, this will require a significant show of force to ward them off, or maybe I'll have to cut a deal with them. It would certainly be interesting, negotiating with the Animals and Maelstrom, especially given the charismatic nature of their leaders in-game, though I wasn't going to touch the Voodoo Boys with a ten-fucking-foot pole. I remember the shit they pulled in-game, as well as their feud with NetWatch, both of which were bad news for me.

The Aldecaldo's were a given, I was going to have to find a way to get them to fall in line at some point, even if only to protect my business interests in the Badlands, though I was aware that I was going to have to find a way to break up their deal with Biotechnica before I made the attempt. Still, Saul seemed like a reasonable enough guy in the game, and I have no doubt I can cook something up, especially as Panam was likely on her way to ask him about me right now.

Choices, choices and even more choices.....

For once in my life in this world, all the pieces on the board all seemed to be falling into place. I wasn't the underdog anymore, and what a wonderous feeling that was. Regardless, I knew a moment of complacency could kill me, especially as it seemed that I was the only person in the world without any cybernetics, and so something as pedestrian as a simple bullet to the head would be enough to end me permanently. I may have been in a videogame world, but I certainly didn't have the survivability of a videogame character.

If, on the other hand, 6th Street didn't accept my offer...

There really was nothing for it. Without the firepower to protect myself from anyone wanting me out of the race, which was likely a lot of people, I wouldn't last the week. Fucking with the food supply was one thing, but I can't imagine for a second either Arasaka or Militech would just let a man like me rise to power. My best hope in that case would simply be to throw my weight behind Peralez and ensure that he remained himself. Assuming I couldn't stop the corruption from whatever it was messing with his head, which was likely, my next-best bet would be to focus on expanding my business, and to keep making life better the same way I already had been. Bide my time, build up my resources even further, hire a proper army, and then make another run at power when the opportunity presented itself. However, I had already burnt my bridges with Rogue, and with her gunning for my head, which she would be for the foreseeable future, I didn't fancy my chances lasting that long. I needed at least part of the story events to play out to be able to mend that relationship to the point where she won't want to kill me anymore.

Here's hoping Gunner comes through....

_____

So, our protagonist has made his first move to build his powerbase! Will his gamble pay off, or will his house of cards come tumbling down?

I own nothing of Cyberpunk, only the MC is mine.

Any omakes, spinoffs and parodies are welcome. It's a fanfic guys, go nuts.

As always, all comments are welcome.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Last edited: Sep 17, 2022

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Sep 17, 2022

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#26

Threadmarks Gonzo 2

BlackStar

World of Gonzo

America The Beautiful

America, what is that beautiful thing? If you believe the real old folks, the ones who were born in those misty years when, or just before, the country burned up like the chromers' corpses after I was done with them, it was Babylon burning. Blood spilling into the canals of the great city, citizens looting and rioting, and the beautiful burning of Manifest Destiny of burning down villages in Central America to distract from the first two. We see that in the holovids, the old flats, the books, and all the scars and skeletons that you see driving from Night City to Washington D.C. Now, for the undereducated ganger, booster, and creep who lives in the combat zone, they just see it as some long ago time, or just something talked about between the people who toss them out of society, or as the justification for this or that suit to talk about. Most of us see it in the government ran by the military, and their good old friends in Millitech. Suits and uniforms, uniforms and suits. Consider it legitimate, shrug at how it's just a dictatorship shared around the same circle of people like an abused junkie girl in a drug den. \

But if you've ever read Hemingway, you know what America was. You ever read Mark Twain, you know what America was. You ever read HST, you know America. It was a damn rough place, but it gleamed like a diamond covered in shit with a spotlight on it. The euros who wouldn't be caught dead now going to the US to settle down, their great-great-great-great-great grand uncle and his brood of four hundred children settled down and prospered, enticed by that diamond gleaming. Made themselves rich, got to live well, better than anyone else. Then everything went to Hell in a handbasket and hand grenade. Me? Well, there's a lot of things for old Gonzo to say about Old Glory. Seen a lot of it. I've driven from Night City to Washington, D.C. as a nomad, on every upper, downer, screamer, all arounder, that you can think of. I've seen the sunset in Santa Fe while on a stamp of acid. Oranges turned green and greens turned purple and turquoise to silver. Been on speed driving through Utah, those religious nuts and their big beehive of a religious commune. Heard old stories from an older nomad who swore he transported the first Stage Seven across the US from New York to Night City back in the '20s, in the middle of a Kansas night on peyote. Done all that and more. So I can go ahead and give my educated, drug-enhanced opinion: Just can't help but feel like a Roman traipsing 'round the ruins, shaking my head at how it all happens.

Here's how it goes: Some man in a suit or toga or armor sets everything up nicely, and everyone afterwards fucks it up. Yeah, now it looks like it's all together, but when you stare a skull in the face while you've ingested two stamps of acid in the middle of the Dakotas, knowing full well that this was some poor dumb bastard from the 1990s who likely had seen the good times, and died from either the wildfires, starvation, robbery, or just the plain old Wasting Disease, you wonder how it can ever be put back together, better than before. Hell of a humpty dumpty that fell off his big wall. Even when the President wraps themselves in the flag as they wade through blood to "reunite America", they're talking about an old dream, long since dead. You, dear readers, know I've talked about this. The flag, the stars and bars, the eagle, near everyone thinks it exists. It doesn't. Hasn't for near a century now. Blew itself open with a shotgun back in the '90s, and they're trying to reanimate a corpse. But so many people want that corpse to be up and about, even if it's a zombie that'll devour them.

Century before, before they were run off or executed like so many "savages" by corps who wanted their tropical resorts, their beaches, and their privacy away from the unwashed masses, primitive people in the Pacific Islands had something called, "Cargo Cults". They saw the planes whirring in the sky, schooooo, whizzz, bang! They dropped gifts like the gods they worshipped, and when they disappeared, these primitives tried to make their own things. Replicas of planes, radios, air strips. Thought they might get the boons and gifts if they had the stuff to make it. Sure, looked roughly the same on the outside, but nothing working on the inside. Didn't have the right touch to make it right. That's what's it like with all these gangs who put on patches of America, American flags, Americana. It all looks about the same, but it's just not right. Can't work like it did because the internals are all wrong. The Sixth Street Gang, one I've loathed with a passion for a long time, does this. They beat their chests, they make their salutes to the flag like Boy Scouts of Yesteryear and wants to be back into the Union. Meanwhile, they ship drugs, make protection rackets, and use the flag to hide all that. Perhaps they'd fit in just fine with the old US, when they killed themselves over the drugs they had brought in. The new one as well.

The "cyberpunks" of fifty, sixty years ago had the right idea. America needed a new dream, a new concept to work when everything else had been vaporized by the Gang of Four and Martial Law. Yet what did they do? Die, sell out, go into hiding, or make the NET a true pain in the ass to deal with. The corporations were here to stay, and have stuck around like a tick. So we're stuck here, hum drum and wondering what the hell we're doing.

Now, at least there's one small part of America that hasn't changed too much. Might call it a pilgrimage, like I did back in '72 for the centennial, but I'm headed to Vegas; it feels about the last shred of that old America left. Gaudy, decadent, ridiculous and covered in more than it's own filth, but it shines like a diamond.

So, my dear and devoted readers, I will be off to Vegas for a while. Need to find myself lost deep into writing, acid, tequila, and the last shred of America.

Slouching towards Gomorrah, otherwise known as Las Vegas,

Gonz.

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Sep 18, 2022

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#29

Threadmarks Interlude 1: Michael

Morph

Michael was happy.

It was a strange sensation, happiness. It sort of flittered about his chest at different times of the day, sometimes making it's presence known, other times not. Even still, Michael knew it was, at least for the moment, omnipresent. He went to bed happy. He woke up happy, he drove to work happy. Because life was good.

Michael knew he was strange in this sense. Not many of the people at his regular haunts were happy, and he was mocked for his attitude more often than not. But Michael didn't care, because he was happy.

Let me explain.

Once upon a time, young Michael was a kid from the streets, and like most kids from the streets, he fell in with the gangs.

At that point in his life, it would have been difficult not to. An effective orphan for years now, Michael envied those men who walked the streets, whose presence would cause some to look away in fear, and for others to acknowledge them with respect. As a homeless kid, that seemed like nothing less than a superpower to young Michael, who spent his days rooting around dumpsters for any scraps of food he could find and on occasion, begging. He had been, for his whole life, spat on, abused and stolen from.

He didn't even have anything worth taking, and they still stole from him!

And so, Michael, getting ever closer to starvation and increasingly desperate, finally did the unthinkable and approached one of these men, asking for help. And much to his shock and surprise, the man obliged, taking him to a nearby diner and buying Michael a bag of Kibble. It was the most kindness Michael had received in a long while, and so when the man asked for a favour, Michael obliged.

And so an agreement was struck. Once a week, the man would meet Michael at the diner, and Michael would tell him about the goings-on in the most rotten underbelly of his district of the city. In exchange, for one glorious hour a week, Michael could eat to his heart's content.

However, one day, the man didn't come.

Michael, somewhat older and wiser at this point, recognised that the look of the respected men in the streets had changed. These people didn't wear American flags anymore, no, they didn't wear much of anything, preferring to let their bulging muscles and ridiculous proportions speak for themselves. Some even had flashes of gold lining their skin, sporting some of the coolest cybernetics he had ever seen.

But that coolness didn't seem to matter, once Michael realised his friend wasn't just away, oh no, he was dead. And these animals had killed him.

Now young Michael couldn't really comprehend why someone would want to kill the nice man who bought him food every week, but he just knew that he wanted vengeance for the one man who'd ever shown him kindness in his life. And so young Michael gathered his things, though he had precious few, and set off from his home, if, that is, you could call a patchwork tent made of cardboard and scrap fabric such a thing. It took several days of trekking, with Michael seemingly going in circles, before he spotted one of the men with the American flag on their arms. Approaching the man, he asked if he could join, and to his surprise the man said yes.

What followed were simultaneously some of the best and hardest years of Michael's life up to that point. These people, they fed him, they housed him, they even seemed to care for him, even if only a little. However, they also worked him to the bone.

He'd get up early in the morning, cook food for those who lived with him before their morning patrol, and then settle in for a gruelling day of lessons with the old matron who ran the household. She taught him to read, to shoot, to run, all the skills he'd need in his future life as a future 6th Street gangoon.

Occasionally, the men in his house would hand him a backpack, a bike, and a school uniform, and tell him to head to such-and-such address. Above all, he was to never open the backpack. Naturally, Michael obliged.

In this way, Michael passed his childhood by, and grew up to face the big, bad world. He learned lot's of other things as well, like how to mend a car, how to patch a bullet wound, how to hunt, and how to forage, but he remained one of the best when it came to reading, running and shooting. When it came time for young Michael to be inducted into the gang proper, he remembered being ecstatic, completely over the moon, safe in the knowledge that he would be able to fulfil his promise, the one to his friend made all those years ago.

And then everything changed.

You see, Michael, as a new member of 6th Street, would be spending his time at the ground-level of the whole operation. He was the cannon fodder. The expendable resource. After his first fight, and his first kill, Michael realised that the man who had fed him all those years ago may not have been such a kind man after all. He saw the way people looked at him as he walked through the streets, and he realised it was the same looks he had wanted to receive, all those years ago.

Needless to say, Michael abandoned his promise soon after.

He knew he wasn't the good guy of his story anymore. Thieving, murdering, threatening, these weren't the actions of heroes, no they were the actions of the villains. However, instead of facing up to this fact, like all his compatriots, Michael sank deeper into booze, drugs and sex.

And then he met a Joytoy.

And she was beautiful, and oh so painfully fragile and delicate when she wasn't being controlled by a computer somewhere else. He loved her, and after a while, he got her to love him back. Really, truly, till death do us part, love him back.

And then she got pregnant.

Michael didn't really know how that happened, Joytoys were supposed to be sterile, after all. Still, as he held his son in his arms for the first time, he gained a new appreciation for the idea of God. He was quite literally holding a miracle in his arms, and all of a sudden, the world didn't seem to be such a dark place anymore.

It was then that Michael swore to himself that he would stop being the bad guy of his story. He had a son, and he loved him, and villains didn't love their children, much less have any in the first place.

He left his life of sin behind, and he managed to convince his newfound bride to abandon hers as well.

The first few months were tough, the cost of a new infant piling up and eating through his savings as he struggled to find a non-violent job. For a moment, Michael feared he would wind up back on the very streets he worked so hard to escape in the first place.

And then he saw the sign. "Help wanted", printed in clear black and white on the wall of a rundown old warehouse, and Michael breathed a sigh of relief.

Little did he know that that sign would be the source of his happiness now, so many years down the line. It wasn't particularly difficult work, but as Michael put on his overalls every morning, the company logo plastered across the front and back, as he kissed his wife, ruffled the hair of his child and clambered into his company truck, Michael felt pride. Perhaps more that he had ever felt before, because he wasn't the villain anymore. He wasn't even working for him!

No sir, his boss wasn't the soulless agent of some faceless megacorp, one running guns and starting wars and making the world worse and worse by the day. No, his boss was instead one of the most curious little men he had ever had the privilege of being around, who spoke as if he were from the 19th century rather than the 21st, who was one of the bravest men he had ever met, in spite of being one of the most vulnerable at the same time, who turned his single abandoned warehouse into an empire practically overnight. And best of all, he didn't even have to hurt anyone to do it, no they didn't start wars, they grew food, and they were very happy to be doing so, thank you very much.

When he got to work every morning, that same sense of petulant, defiant optimism greeted him wherever he went. His colleagues faces usually sported wide smiles and grins during their breaks, the atmosphere lively and hopeful. All the men here were lucky, and they damn well knew it.

And then things changed again.

It seemed as if a switch had been flipped by the world, and the full force of it's awfulness came bearing down once again. Seemingly at the flip of a coin, the NCPD would raid their little warehouse, and tear it apart, ripping potatoes out of their pots, and toppling the shelves, and leaving just as suddenly as they came. The first was a cause for a panic, the second a cause for suspicion, but by the third, it became clear to Michael what was happening. When the next raid came, the usual joviality of the warehouse was replaced by a grim determination. All the men here came from nothing, and thanks to the company, they now had something to lose.

And they weren't going to lose it without a fight.

Naturally, they were barred from actually fighting. The boss always insisted that their lives were worth more than some damn potatoes, but his determination to keep them safe only incensed their desire to return the favour.

And so the members of warehouse team one began their campaign of passive resistance. And silently watching the frustration of the officers build as each raid proved less effectual than the last at disrupting their work was worth every bit of extra effort it took to frustrate them. Soon enough, an NCPD raid was nothing more than a minor annoyance to the team, and they would have everything back to normal within minutes of the NCPD leaving the premises. Some officers attempted to slip biological weapons, but they had been trained for this, and were now able to deal with it just as expediently as they could all of the other mess the NCPD made.

And then, as if magic, the almost routine raids just.... stopped.

And though many of his colleagues were happy about the change, Michael found himself unhappy for the first time in years.

Because just outside the doors of the warehouse, standing guard every day, were two members of 6th Street.

-----

Hi guys, I had an idea for something like this a while back ,and so I decided to post it and give it a shot.

Regular chapters will resume in a couple days, when I have a chance to finish them.

Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.

Hope you enjoy it!

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Sep 19, 2022

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#36

Threadmarks Chapter 4: Security

Morph

Turns out, security was expensive.

Yeah, big shocker, I know. But seriously, contracting the entirety of 6th Street all at the same time was proving more costly than I could have imagined. Of the sizeable revenues generated by my company, more than half was making it's way into the various pockets of the more than two thousand former gangoons who suddenly found themselves under my payroll. Hell, the prepayment alone had eaten more than two-thirds of the contents of my savings, to the tune of roughly a hundred-thousand eddies per head. Or something like two-hundred-and-fifty million eddies, an insanely bloated price for the kind of service I was acquiring.

What can I say? Gunner ran a hard bargain, and the man was evidently smarter than I initially gave him credit for, because he turned out to be a masterful negotiator.

Still, it was an investment that was already yielding dividends. The fact of the matter was that 6th Street provided a very good security service, as expected of the organisation whose ranks were filled out with veteran soldiers. For one thing, with a couple of heavily-armed gangoons lingering outside the doors to each and every one of my warehouses and offices, the frequent NCPD raids on my property became a thing of the past. For another, whilst the gang remained Gunner's domain, the new 6th Street company was under my leadership, and whilst I wasn't the most martial man in the world, never let it be said I wasn't one of the most entrepreneurial.

You see, security companies typically undertook a single high-paying contract at a time, usually for the highest bidder, typically a mega-corp. But I knew that I couldn't afford to keep 6th Street on my payroll forever, and willingly granting a rival corp access to my security forces was tantamount to suicide.

So instead, I franchised them.

By splitting 6th Street up into smaller franchises and distributing those throughout 6th Street territory, each under the control of local captains loyal to either Gunner or me, I was essentially adopting the precinct model of the NCPD, but with a unique twist. You see, under my direction, the members of the new 6th Street Security Company began to sell a security subscription to the people of their sub-districts. The franchises following this model were small enough to be paid for by selling just a few thousand subscriptions in each district, providing the funding needed for them to be able to make a difference without placing such a heavy burden on my finances. Furthermore, because the ratio between the number of subscriptions needed per district and the number of residents in those districts was so large, only about ten percent of the population of any given district of the city needed to buy in to allow me to break even on the average operating costs of policing that district. In this way, I could expand my influence, line my pockets and demonstrate my crime-fighting credentials to the voters, all at the same time.

At just twenty-five eddies a week, the subscription was a steal for anyone fed up with both the gangs and the NCPD, which was just about everybody. Ironic, considering that theft was one of the issues I was hoping to deal with. In reality, I had made them so cheap because I had thought the subscriptions would be a tough sell, yet once again my reputation preceded me, because they sold just as easily as my produce did. I even anticipated the presence of something of a free-rider problem, after all, if the district is already being patrolled, why do you need to pay for it? Then again, this problem was dealt with be ensuring only those who actually paid were specifically catered to when it came to addressing any criminal acts against their person.

Even with that being the case, all over 6th Street territory, the violent crime rate began to decline. And though it was slow, laborious, messy and often frustrating, it was effective. Turns out, when given the money to buy the right gear, and relieved of the burden of maintaining all of their other criminal enterprises, the 6th Street gang made for a terrifyingly efficient police force. At this rate, I wasn't just going to push back against the NCPD, oh no, I was going to outright replace them.

Unfortunately, I still lacked the manpower to do this across the entire city, but Heywood, Santo Domingo and Vista Del Ray were getting safer by the day, and that, quite simply, was one hell of an achievement.

What's more, these franchises were at least partially comprised of the men of 6th Street who'd been against Gunner accepting my offer, so the risk of betrayal from those I would be working with the closest was reduced. They were too busy running their own far away sub-districts to plot any kind of coup. The possibility of a gang civil war remained on the cards, but that wasn't an issue that threatened my immediate safety, and so I frankly couldn't be bothered to deal with it. I had purchased what loyalty I could, and as far as I was concerned, corralling the more recalcitrant members of 6th Street remained Gunner's problem.

Even still, I retained a core of just over five-hundred fighters under my direct employ, knowing I would need them to defend my interests and my person in the coming days as I launched my campaign. And with the rapidly thinning profit margins of my food business, I expected that soon enough, I wouldn't be able to afford even that many.

That, however, was a problem for future me, because present me was too busy basking the in glory of having a veritable army at his beck and call.

With that kind of firepower, I finally felt secure enough to make my big announcement. It was still a gamble, and I was well aware of just how exposed I would be making myself to the various heavy-hitters of Night City, but as they say: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

When my security team had found out that I wanted to make my grand bid for the office of mayor on an outdoors stage, they had practically thrown a fit. In spite of the unbearable heat, I had almost forcibly been stuffed into the most subtle set of body-armour my team could lay their hands on, one that wouldn't be too noticeable under my suit, Panam watching the whole fiasco whilst sporting an almost sadistic look of amusement on her face.

But this wasn't the only measure taken to ensure my safety and limit my exposure. The original location that I had selected to make my speech had been handily rejected by my team, who favoured a more open space, one with less opportunity for a sniper to shoot me and get away with it. What was originally meant to happen in the middle of Heywood, in the thick of the concrete jungle of the city, was now happening off the edge of a largely abandoned section of Westbrook, with ample access to the nearby highways in case I needed to make a quick getaway. What's more, the podium behind which I would be making my grand speech was made from the toughest material they could get their hands on, supposedly making it capable of withstanding a direct hit by a rocket launcher without leaving so much as a scratch. They'd even gone to the trouble of purchasing a pair of old Militech trophy systems, to protect me from any kind of projectile headed my way.

Alongside all this, my security team had organised to have disguised members of 6th Street dispersed throughout the crowd, for the purposes of crowd control and preventing any unforeseen problems from the audience. A perimeter had been established a mile into the surrounding area, from which all vehicles were banned, so as to limit the possibility of any attempts via car-bomb. I was about as secure as they could ever make me, and even still, they remained tepid regarding my chances of emerging from the event unscathed.

And I thought I was paranoid.

Still, even with all their concerns, I knew my position at the moment was as good as it was ever going to get. It was either strike whilst the iron was hot, or let the opportunity slip through my fingers, and weather the consequences of doing so.

It was with this thought in my mind that I began the slow climb up the steps onto the temporary platform built for this exact purpose, with bomb-proof floor panels built into the stage. A crowd had already been gathered, the event announced a week in advance, though only as a 'press conference'. Still, as I stood behind the podium, cleared my throat, and began my speech, the atmosphere in the crowd was electric.

I could practically taste the excitement in the air, the building expectations of the people written across the faces of the audience as I wound up to my big announcement. And then the moment came, "....and it is for this reason that I would like to announce my intention to enter the race for the office of the Mayor of Night City!"

And the crowd simply went wild. The chorus of cheering that followed was almost deafening. So absorbed was I in the adulation of the crowd, that I didn't notice when my earpiece crackled to life and frantic shouts about someone breaking through the perimeter poured out of it. In the distance, there was a small plume of dust being kicked up by the offending vehicle, gradually growing larger and larger as it's source grew nearer. I noticed it, and yet, unable to hear the warnings of my guards about what it was, I paid it no mind.

And then, two smaller trails of smoke emerged from the dust, curving up and around in an arc, and headed in my direction. By the time I realised what was happening, it was already too late.

The missiles came streaking forth, and were promptly intercepted by lances of hot lead shot forth by the trophy systems. The missiles erupted in place, but unfortunately, the damage didn't stop there. The explosive payload may have just been dealt with, but the resulting shrapnel most definitely hadn't been. Luckily for me, I was protected by my podium and my body-armour, and though some of my clothing was shredded, and I now sported a few additional bruises, and possibly a burst eardrum or two from the blast, I had emerged relatively unscathed.

Unfortunately for everyone else, however, the angle at which they had exploded meant that the shrapnel hadn't simply been directed at me, some of it had hit the crowd as well, and the people standing in the front rows were promptly torn to pieces by the flying pieces of hot metal. Furthermore, some shrapnel shot under the stage and struck it, and whilst the the floor panels may have been bomb-proof, the supports under them most certainly were not, and the stage promptly collapsed under my feet.

What ensued can only be described as pandemonium.

Now aware of what was happening, the crowd's cheers morphed into screams. Scared for their lives, those that were carrying weapons withdrew them, and the crowd began to disperse as quickly as was humanly possible. A firefight threatened to break out in the midst of the panic, but the members of 6th Street my team had insisted on having dispersed throughout the crowd arrested the violence before it could spiral out of control. The occasional crack of gunfire could still be heard, but it was far better than it may have otherwise been.

And it wasn't a moment too soon, for mere seconds after the panic had started, a car came barrelling through the crowd, gore spattered across the bonnet from the one woman unlucky enough to not have gotten out of the way in good enough time. And though the car was speeding directly for me, I remained frozen in place, transfixed by a singular detail.

That was a Delamain cab.

Heavily modified, sure, but there was no mistaking the distinctive build and markings of such a vehicle. It may have had rocket tubes attached to the roof, and a spiked grill bolted onto the front, and a myriad of bullet-holes riddling windshield from my team's attempts to stop it, but it was still the same car. It was my favourite vehicle in-game, and there was no forgetting a vehicle that you spend hundreds of hours joyriding in. If nothing else, the growl of the engine was a dead-ringer for the one I had come to love in my past life playing the game.

But more importantly then that, was the fact that there was nobody in the drivers seat of the cab. Not even so much as a corpse slumped over the steering wheel.

This wasn't a hit by Rogue, or some corpo, or even by another gang angry at me for siding with their rival. No, this was Delamain himself, barrelling straight towards me at more than a hundred miles an hour, fast enough to kill me almost instantly upon impact.

Which just begged the question of why?

As much as I tried, I couldn't ever remember doing something to give Delamain cause to hurt me, and as far as I was aware, he didn't undertake contracts of this variety. If someone contracted Delamain for an assassination mission, they would have to be in the car to carry it out themselves. And though the thought of the Epistrophy side-quest bubbled to the forefront of my mind at this point, I couldn't recall any of the rogue vehicles having access to a garage, much less one capable of adding fucking rocket launchers to a car. If this was one of the rampant AI's, then that signalled the involvement of some third party, one powerful enough to have access to that kind of weaponry, and diplomatic enough to convince an insane AI to use it.

Now, wasn't that worrying?

Unfortunately for me, I didn't have time to ponder these worries for much longer, because at that same moment, one of the more cybernetically enhanced members of my security team, one who'd been a member of the Animals before he came to work for me, took a dive, firmly placing his own body between the car and me. And now, thanks to the brave man's sacrifice in absorbing a large chunk of the impact, instead of getting immediately turned into human mush, I went flying instead.

And as I sailed through the air, and came hurtling back down to earth to greet the inky blackness, I had just one thought running through my head.

The game was officially afoot.

And I didn't even know who I was playing against.

____

Will our protagonist survive this escalation? And if he does, what comes next?

Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.

Hope you guys are enjoying the story thus far!

P.S. I'm not quite happy with the way this chapter came out, so it may be subject to a rewrite in the near future

P.P.S. I'm going to have to go back to work tomorrow, as the day of the Queen's funeral is my last day off. As a result, you can expect the almost daily updates to end. More likely, you guys will get one or two chapters a week from now on, as my schedule is rather packed.

Last edited: Sep 20, 2022

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Sep 21, 2022

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#44

Threadmarks Interlude 2: Panam

Morph

Panam Palmer was conflicted.

Well, not conflicted exactly, more..... confused?

Yes, confused was the right word for it. The whole damn situation was confusing, and Panam didn't quite know what to make of it. After the whole clusterfuck involving Rogue calling her in to help someone like V out, she had assumed that things with Rogue were square. They were even, and Panam swore that she wouldn't touch the woman again with a ten-foot pole, even though V turned out to be quite a nice gal, all things considered.

And then the call came.

And Panam was pissed. After all the trouble she had gone through, after almost losing Mitch, and actually losing Scorpion, this woman had the balls to call her up on the holo like it was nothing and demand that she do another job. I mean for fuck's sake, wasn't it enough to go fucking with a Kang-Tao APC?!

But Panam was on the hook, and she knew better than to ignore a call from the Queen of the Afterlife. And that reluctance quickly became curiosity, when upon sensing her hesitancy, Rogue tripled her offer. Whoever it was that rattled Rogue's cage, clearly they were serious. When Rogue told her she would temporarily be joining their security detail, Panam envisioned it would be some mad titan who could threaten Rogue and get away with it, built like Adam Smasher, and capable of cutting through entire armies without breaking a sweat. Or perhaps some captain of industry, in the lines of the late, great, Saburo Arasaka. Someone with unfathomable wealth who knew what he wanted and knew how to get it.

What she got, however, was a big bag of disappointment.

The man she was actually protecting, was the CEO of some dinky little food company, one whose name she had never heard of. He was not much larger than her, and seemed to lack anything even approaching a bite. He wasn't terse, or rude, or even holier-than-thou. Panam thought she'd made history that day, because apparently, she had found the world's only nice corpo.

And then, over the course of a ten-minute conversation, that man convinced the leader of the 6th Street gang, a man notorious for his hatred of corpos, to come work for him, a corpo.

Needless to say, Panam saw his mild-mannered demeanour in a whole new light after that day.

What was once just manners became almost malicious in nature. In her mind, he was suddenly elevated to the likes of the late patriarch of the Arasaka family, because apparently, he was the world's best diplomat. Someone who could sell dogshit to a cat and get the cat to be appreciative that they were granted such a wonderous opportunity.

And Panam began to notice things as well. Like the fact that nearly all the food she was eating that could even remotely be described as good had the logo of his company printed on the packaging. Like the fact that his staff's faces seemed to light up like a goddamn Christmas tree when they saw him, and not in a fake, I want a promotion way either. Even his security team, who were usually the ones who tended to hate their bosses the most, on account of having to spend the most amount of time with them, seemed to appreciate his presence.

They genuinely liked him. Maybe even loved him, given the almost creepy levels of praise heaped upon the man by some of the more enthusiastic members of his staff.

And the man had a knack for money, too. Somehow, over the course of a few weeks of shadowing him, she had picked up more about money and business than she had learnt in her entire life prior. Seemingly, this man had a solution to just about every problem in the world, and he managed to line his pockets whilst solving them. And in ways that seemed almost stupid. For example, he figured out a way to make money off of paying the entirety of the 6th Street Gang to not commit crimes anymore. Panam didn't even know if that was possible, and yet apparently, it was.

At this rate, she wouldn't even be surprised if someone told her that hell was real, and that he'd figured out a way to freeze it over for profit.

Still, even with all the curveballs he was throwing her way, Panam found that the mysterious man was growing on her in the same manner, she consoled herself by saying, in which a terminal cancer grows on a patient. In spite of her reluctance, even she couldn't ignore the butterflies she felt in the depths of her stomach whenever she was around him.

Hell, when Saul had heard who she'd been working for, he'd approved. Saul, fucking Saul, approved of something she did!

Now, she just had to decide whether those butterflies were caused by fear, or by excitement. Fear, caused by the fact that such a dangerously persuasive man could exist, and excitement, over the fact that he didn't seem to want to do anything more with that ability than good. For the first time in years, Panam felt some degree of hope for humanity, because goodness did still exist in the world, and it was her job to protect it.

But none of that mattered right now, because she'd failed.

And for the first time in an even larger number of years, Panam felt heat building up behind her eyes.

No, she wasn't crying, thank you very much. Panam Palmer did not cry.

But, holy shit, she wanted to. She oh so desperately wanted her carefully constructed wall of confidence and cynicism to just shatter, all into a million pieces, if only for a moment, just so that she could release all the pent-up rage and sorrow, all at once. She imagined she would feel a thousand pounds lighter, and that for a moment, she could leave all her troubles behind. But then another call came through the holo, from some gonk named River. Apparently, he had been investigating the supposed murder of Lucius Rhyne, in spite of the objections of his superiors, and he believed it to be connected to the events of the day.

An honest member of the NCPD, and some people said miracles weren't real.

More importantly than all of that, however, was the fact that he had a lead, and all her feelings were swiftly replaced by a cold, hard, murderous fury. She organised a meet between River and herself as soon as she could, because finally, she had a problem she could deal with.

A problem she could kill.

______

What, exactly, is this mysterious lead? And will our protagonist's fate be avenged?

Chapter 1382 - ed

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