[Tanya]
[Night City, Heywood, The Glen]
[April 8th, 2067]
"Recording Start: Cyberware Technician Tanya Degurechaff, License ID# 73248-A-1121, Level 2," I withheld a sigh as I sat in my Clean Suit in the Clean Room of Doctor Stephen Meadow's clinic in the Glen, "and I am performing a Level 2 Cyberware inspection and cleaning on a pair of Kiroshi Full-Band Mk.3 optical implants, Serial Number-"
I rattled off the serial number for the pair of optics and then took my seat in front of the cameras, making sure to hold up the hermetically sealed steel box to the lasers to scan the bar code.
Now, this level of documentation wasn't a requirement for a Level 2 cleaning and inspection job like this, but getting into the habit was only good form, as I had less than a month before I tested for my Level 3 Cyberware Maintenance certification; I was six months behind the power curve for a technician with three years of experience, but given I was an orphan and had two other jobs that required my attention I did not let this slow down lower my morale. Regardless, having a documented history of performing to Night City's standards well before applying for the next certification level would only increase my chances.
I pulled the optics out of the case with my gloved hands, taking care to visually inspect them for faults, and then settling them into a non-conductive cleaning solution within a small hydro-sonic cleaning chamber before initiating a 30-second cycle. They had already been pressure tested before I came in, but the cleaning cycle would check the seals anyway; if there was some leakage of the cleaning solution into the optic's chassis then that was fine- it was non-corrosive and non-conductive anyway. Once the cycle was complete, I pulled them out with a pair of optic forceps and placed them into a cradle wherein I began spritzing them with filtered compressed air from one of the numerous hoses hanging above my head.
I grabbed onto a hanging high-fidelity camera and dragged it down from the ceiling to begin performing a visual inspection while looking at the monitor on the wall.
This particular pair was a trade-in by a customer who was complaining of haloing and refracting on hot days, with the most egregious issues happening at night.
After looking at them more thoroughly, I could see why- there was a small bit of moisture I could spot on the interior of the optic's front lens. "-Moisture found on the interior of the lenses, meaning that some liquid from the hydro-sonic cleaning managed to slip past the seals. Given these optics received a 'Pass' from the pressure test check that means these likely have a faulty pressure sensor as well-".
Although I knew I had a definite 'Positive', I still went through the standard battery of tests, checking and cleaning the neural connectors, testing the power systems, the tiny internal battery (which I would be replacing anyway), and conducting the mandatory low-level EMP testing. Getting a 'Pass' from the remaining tests, I grabbed a pair of Fine Motor Movement Manipulator Gloves (F3MGs)- gloves with all sorts of tiny tools attached to the fingers- and began going through the tear-down process of the optics as prescribed by the Kiroshi tech manual- making sure to orate my progress as I went along.
There were two occasions in which I had to stop and consult two of the manual's video guides for a more involved step- firstly for the removal of the optic's lens locking rings and secondly for the pin removal on the micro-circuit boards- but ultimately this rebuild only took about half-an-hour. I felt a small smile on my lips as I put the optics back together, sans the lenses themselves, and spritzed the internals with an alcohol-based sublimating agent to remove any potential moisture; a quick spray with dry compressed air removed the last of the cleaning agents and I sealed the optics up. The last step was pressurizing the optics to 0.3 atmospheres with a non-toxic, non-bio reactive filling agent that would color the optic's vision a light blue for a time if the seals failed in the future; this was a bit of a special service that Doctor Meadows liked to do that would command a very tidy premium.
The last step was to go through the entire testing process once more, which added ten more minutes to the job, and I cleaned them one last time before sealing them into the electrostatic polymer packaging. It took me only a moment to put them back into their case, and I printed off the inspection sticky, stuck it to the optics, and sealed the case with a tamper-evident tape.
"Job complete. End recording."
I stood up on the stool's bar before stepping off, careful to ensure that I didn't tear my clean suit's bottoms as I did when I first started, and I carried the box to the two-way decon chamber- sliding up the door, sticking the box within, and closing it. I toggled the intercom with my knuckle, "The Kiroshi Full-Bands are complete, Doctor Meadows."
The small video screen above the speaker came to life, revealing the grinning visage of the doctor, "Tubular work, Tanya! Preem to the supreme! I actually was just prepping the surgical suite for a client that was looking to upgrade their peepers, and having those on the list will make up-selling that much easier."
Doctor Stephan Meadows was a dark-skinned man of Haitian descent, middle-aged with some salt and pepper in his short afro and beard. Though he dressed in a suit with suspenders and an oddly colored bowtie, his manner of speaking was more in line with a fusion of Night City slang and that surfer culture I remembered the Americans once having. Having access to the wealth of his clinic, his skin was free of blemishes and he had thin, silvery trails of EMP threading sliding over his cheekbones, across his nose, and trailing around his jawline.
However, despite his conflicting attitude and dress, the man was admirable- he paid me at the market rate, set clear expectations for my work performance, and he stood by them. I had no doubt that he would continue to reward me for hard work, and if I failed to meet his expectations I had no doubt that he wouldn't terminate my employment as well; he was filling out ridiculous amounts of paperwork each year on my behalf so I could work legally as an underaged youth, so I needed to be exceptional.
I nodded with a hum, "Mmhmmm... yes, I can see why, Doctor. Regardless, they are in the outbound decon chamber and ready for pick-up."
The Doctor's current inventory was a bit sparse in the mid-tier products- we had a bevy of low-end options from both Kiroshi and Zeiss, and a few high-end offerings from both as well, but our middle-level inventory was lacking. So getting these Full-Band Mk.3s into inventory would give him the opportunity to up-sell the customer for only a 'few hundred eddies more' whereas before he didn't have any options available.
The black man grinned widely, putting his pearly whites on display, "Radical! I'll send Cindy to pick them up."
"Now, I saw that this was the last job on my docket, Doctor, so is there anything else that I will need to look at before I clock out for the day?"
"Nadda, Tanya. There will be some chrome coming in for a special order tomorrow, but those have already been checked over," Doctor Meadows looked off to the side, as someone got his attention by clearing their throat, "Ah, the patient should be arriving soon, so I'll let you go. Do be sure to study for the Level 3 exams well, I'm putting my reputation on the line for you!"
"You have no need to worry, Doctor Meadows, I will pass without issues." Given my current track record and work ethic I don't believe he was truly worried, but once a Technician was certified for Level 3 work they were no longer required to have a Sponsor to advance.
Level 3 was where the majority of technicians sat.
They could have stable work and enough eddies to live comfortably, but Level 4 and Level 5 were where the true money was at. Whoever earned the required certificates could perform Depot-level maintenance and even small-scale modifications of their own- those that climbed that high typically owned Boutiques for customized cyberware. However, I would need to have my own accredited business with a stable location before I even thought about ranging any further. For now, earning my Journeyman status as a cyberware technician was enough; I would no longer be tied down to Doctor Meadows, and we both knew it.
However, we both also knew that I wouldn't jump ship without good reason- loyalty was a difficult thing to earn, especially in this city, and just as Doctor Meadows had mine, I had his. Though we both knew that in a place like Night City loyalty could be flipped on its head with the right pressure or motivation, I didn't think I would have anything to fear from him just as he had little to fear from me- we were both well kempt upstanding, tax-paying citizens who ran our official business clean.
Not that the Night City Administration couldn't drum something up for the right price if our competitors wanted to see us fall.
"Excellent! You're off until Thursday, but I'll give you a buzz if I need you to come in, so go enjoy the rest of your day. Keep cheesing!"
I blinked at his odd vernacular, as the intercom display winked off; it took me quite a long time to grasp the streetslang of Night City but for the most part, Doctor Meadows seemed keen on either bringing pre-Krash slang back or simply making his own up.
I left the Clean Room and headed toward the Employee locker room to change out of my Clean Suit; I was pleased to see that Rosita, one of the new receptionists that Doctor Meadows hired, remembered to bring my poly bag back from the laundromat. It was customary for all of us to keep a spare change of clothing within the clinic in case of an emergency, and yesterday she had spilled her coffee all over herself; being the new hire she didn't have a poly bag to store her soiled clothes, so I offered her mine as a professional courtesy. That she returned it so promptly spoke well of her, and I had a feeling that unlike Sandra, one of the previous receptionists, Rosita just might stick around for a long time.
The Clean Suit was a sealed polymer onesie with detachable gloves and padded slippers on the feet; both were connected with thin zippers with rubberized piping so that they could be exchanged as they wore out. In my case, with Tanya's petite body, the suit itself fit my frame just fine, but I had to get gloves and slippers custom-made because of my slender hands and feet. The entire suit was covered in EMP threading and anti-static bands to prevent any possible damage to the cyberware that the technician was working on, and the goggles, head sock, and face mask prevented any hair, skin, or other biological materials from contaminating the Clean Room.
I hung it up, inside out, and put it in my poly bag before putting it into the Outgoing closet for the night staff to take to our contractor for cleaning.
After a quick shower, I was once more dressed in my usual dress when I was working this close to City Hall- it was a simple charcoal-colored two-piece suit that was common among the lower-level office workers in the city. A white shirt was usually something avoided in Night City on account of how dirty even the most upscale districts can be, but I was of the mind that wearing grey with black flirted too close to the Neo-Militaristic style that usually grabbed the wrong sort of attention in the area of Heywood that I lived in. A simple blue tie without a tie-bar was wrapped around my neck, and I wore a more athletic set of synth-leather shoes that I kept clean but only spit-polished; any attempt at making them shine would be wasted as people in Night City who saw nice things often weren't above attempting to ruin them. Lastly, I had a simple pair of synth leather black gloves that existed more to protect my hands from abrasions and help me grip the handles of my pistols; as a fashion statement, their purpose was secondary.
Spoiler: Tanya's Suit
I had two spare sets of this exact suit, and I made sure they were given a polymer-based Tek-Klean stain-resistant treatment; it wouldn't prevent any detergents from removing sweat and it wouldn't be easily washed away either. It was rather expensive, but it was very convenient, and I cannot count the number of times the treatment saved my rather pricy suits from being consigned to the trash. The only downside was that the treatment had to be reapplied every six months with moderate wear, which meant I had to block out almost half a day to monitor my clothing during each application period. That was a slight inconvenience but ultimately inconsequential.
I had to use one of the orphanage's mop buckets since they were the only items I had that were large enough to submerge my clothing in, and as an added benefit the bucket was now hydrophobic, making it a favorite among the kids doing chores since the yellow polymer came clean with just a rinse.
After checking my two pistols out of my lockbox with my keycard, a pair of customized Militech M76e Omaha tech pistols, I slotted one into my shoulder holster and the other in the holster at the small of my back. A quick readjustment of my suit jacket on my shoulders to make sure the grips of my sidearms wouldn't print or grab, and then I was out the rear Employee entrance. The alleyway behind Doctor Meadow's clinic was relatively clean, with a few standard dumpsters and containers for biohazardous waste lining the walls, and I gave the four cameras a wave- my customary bidding of goodbye for the private security staff that ran our building's network.
Within moments I was pushing out onto the main street amongst the throng of bodies leaving their places of work during the lunch rush. It was just after one in the afternoon, and already the crowds were starting to thin as the corporate drones and Night City staffers were making their way back to their offices; seeing that I had some time before the next NCART bus arrived at my usual stop, I slid into the seat at a local gyro stall and grabbed a quick meal.
"Ahhhh, Tanya, welcome back," The stall owner smiled broadly as he toweled at some sweat on his brow, "The usual?"
"If you would, please, Ahmed," I nodded politely as I adjusted the swiveling chair to face out toward the bustling crowds with my back against the counter; it always paid to be wary in Night City, because even in a sea of Law and Order like the City Center it wasn't uncommon for shootouts to happen- usually between the NCPD and whatever ruffians were stepping onto their territory that day. Facing away from potential danger was an easy way to take a bullet to the back of the head.
"Alright, one Tayyib Special Gyro, coming up!"
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at Ahmed- the man spoke English and Spanish natively considering he was born and raised in Heywood like me, but he always insisted on adding some Arabian words to his vernacular to 'enhance the authenticity' of his stall. Though despite my amusement I found his dedication to his bit commendable; a lot of the time, 'faking it until you made it' was a valid business tactic in Night City.
Regardless I paid him half a mind as he set about carving up the SCOP log on the rotisserie behind him; it always looked quite appetizing with its caramelized exterior and inviting sizzle, but much like the artificial pita it came with, the textures and flavors were always off. While he went about fixing my meal I engaged in people-watching, a popular Night City pastime, and observed the citizens as they came and went. The pair of Japanese Corpo Suits seated at the far end of the stall's seating were given a brief glance and then dismissed; not only was staring rude but attracting any attention from anyone linked to a Corp, major or minor, was never a good outcome. Given the way their eyes were lit up in gold, they were busy on a private call and they were seemingly uncaring of their surroundings, which meant they were either ignorant or capable; given the fineness of their clothes and the visible bulges of concealed weapons, I ventured to guess it was the latter.
"Here you are, Tanya," Ahmed set a paperboard plate on the counter behind me before sliding a tube of sauce, "Do enjoy."
"You know I always do," The smile I returned was natural as I quickly upended the container and liberally drizzled my pita and scop meat with the vinegar-based white sauce; and as I took a bite my smile grew wider.
Yes, the vinegar sauce always saved it in the end; how he managed to get his hands on the dehydrated onions without breaking the bank was something I'd always wondered about but never questioned. If the food was good then you didn't dig unduly, and with how often Ahemd's stall was under the eyes of the NCPD it had to be legal. Or at least not so illegal that a bribe couldn't solve.
It took me only a few minutes of careful munching to finish off my meal, and after cleaning off my fingers with an alcohol-laden sanitary napkin I slipped my gloves back on and slipped a trio of Eurodollar coins onto the counter as a tip, "Thank you for the meal, Ahmed. I'm off."
"Be safe, Tanya," Ahmed's dark eyes crinkled around the edges as he nodded, the man busy adjusting his apron, "Heard there was a bit of a dust-up going on between the Valentinos and the NCPD. Not a war or anything but the Vals did something to kick up the hornet's nest."
"I'm always aware, Ahmed, but thank you for the information. Enjoy the rest of your day."
"You too!"
Once more I was back among the throngs of corporate workers and tourists from other parts of the city, noting that there was a group of what looked to be schoolchildren heading toward the entrance of the City Hall; I didn't know if NCSD did field trips like this considering I tested out years ago, but given it was election season in a few months it wouldn't be so outlandish that the current Mayor would engage in photo-ops. If anything the sudden crackdown on the Valentinos might also be related...
I crossed the street at the designated crosswalk and made my way over to the NCART terminal where dozens of other people waited. It was only six blocks from here to the 2nd Amendment my other employer operated, but given it was 30.5 degrees and very humid today I didn't feel like making the twenty-minute walk that I usually would during the cooler months. Given the press of bodies at the terminal, with most packed under the sun shade like sardines in a can, I wasn't the only one who wanted to avoid showing up to their destination stinking of sweat.
Instead of trying to claim some of the shade like everyone else I chose to stand on the outskirts next to the mouth of the alleyway that led to the open-air 'Good Times' marketplace that I frequented occasionally. Not only did this protect me from some enterprising pickpockets, but it also put a few heavy steel fixtures between me and any danger; given there was a quartet of NCPD Uniforms on the opposite street corner in tactical gear that meant they were at least wary of any sort of Valentino reprisals. So in my mind, the additional caution was warranted, even if the likelihood of something banal like a drive-by on civilians was infinitesimally small; doing something as extreme as that would only make the NCPD step up their efforts, and the Valentinos had their own code of honor- they weren't Malestrom.
The only issue with my current location was that I'd likely miss the chance to cram onto the next bus, but given the lunch rush was ending waiting for the next bus would likely afford me an actual seat.
I did in fact miss the next bus, but the bus that arrived ten minutes later was far less crowded, and I even got to sit in one of the chairs!
The NCART terminal at the corner was almost empty when I arrived only a little bit after 1:45 in the afternoon, and I made my way down the cracked sidewalk toward my second place of employment. I didn't usually arrive this early when I was scheduled to work, but the lack of further cyberware meant that I could come in early and leave early, which meant I could dip into my coding work early. My usual work day at the 2A started at 4:00 and ended around 8:00 in the evening, but those were self-imposed hours more than anything- Mister Andrews didn't typically care about my schedule as long as I worked the mandatory 20-hours per week for the program he was sponsoring me under and made sure I was available on-call in case the shop got particularly swamped with work.
Other than that, he treated me as more of a freelance weapon smith and generally let me set my own hours each week, and I was grateful for the flexibility. My work at Doctor Meadow's clinic was usually quite set each week, and so the ability for me to shift around my working hours with my job at the 2A meant I could dedicate a good amount of focus to my coding and debugging side gig. Though despite the fact that the old codger liked to tell me that I could 'show up whenever', he seemed to like having me around the shop more rather than less.
Mister Andrew's 2A was a stand-alone building at the very southern end of the Glen, right on the waterfront, with a rather generous building above ground and a long, fifty-meter gun range underground; with smaller targets, we could simulate out to two hundred meters for those who came with various rifles. However, if they wanted a more grounded experience for shooting at longer ranges they were better off heading out into the badlands outside of the city... which he happened to organize monthly trips of for a nominal fee. A sound business strategy given he liked to go out shooting in the desert every fourth Sunday of the month, though given I was a minor he usually left me and Marco, one of my fellow gunsmiths, in charge of the shop while they went out and had fun.
With Mister Andrews knowing that crime was a well-known element in Night City, our Second Amendment building was considered non-standard in its layout. The 'storefront' was practically little more than a glorified closet; it was a box two meters by two meters, with a door that could only be locked behind the 'counter'. There were half a dozen high fidelity cameras complete with scanners linked to the NCPD database spread throughout the 'showroom', and the 'showroom' itself was just... every weapon, ammunition, and attachment we had in stock behind twenty-five centimeters of bulletproof glass.
A prospective customer entered the showroom, with a 'two Choom limit', and the door locked behind them. They interacted with Mister Andrews, myself, or three of Mister Andrews' other employees- Valdez, Marco, or Cherry- via some monitors and an intercom system. Usually, they knew exactly what they were coming in for, but every once in a while we had a customer who was new to shooting entirely, and when that happened we could slide the products they wished to examine through an armored, two-way box. If they wanted to test fire a weapon then a door would be opened and they could meet with Salvatore, the shop's Range Safety Officer, down in the basement and rent one of our pieces. Theft from our shop was almost zero because a gonk thief wouldn't be allowed to leave until the iron or products they were looking at were returned to us, and with the external cameras, customers usually weren't jumped the moment they left the showroom.
However, I did say 'almost'.
Two years ago, when I had only been working at the 2A for six months, some half-cyber psycho asylum escapee managed to punch out the brick wall and escape with a Constitutional Arms M203 Tactician shotgun he had been 'examining'. After absconding with the stolen merchandise, he somehow found a few boxes of shot shells to arm himself with, and carried out a Blue-Su - a suicide by cop- attack on the Biotechnica Clinic he had been getting treated for his cyberpsychosis. Almost six people died, and three had to get emergency medical cyberware installed to save their lives, and the investigation that followed was incredibly nerve-wracking. However, in the end, there were a number of failures that occurred well before he'd stolen from our shop that absolved us- Biotechnica failed to notify the NCPD that he was getting treated for cyber-psychosis and because of this the NCPD database we were linked to didn't flag him. The corp also didn't properly disclose the number or nature of the augmentations that allowed him to tear through the brick wall and escape.
Biotechnica paid out a number of penalties, including the reconstruction costs for our shop, and now our showroom has steel plate embedded in the walls to prevent a second such occurrence; it wouldn't stop a psycho with Gorilla Arms, but it would stymie any gonk with a thermal blade long enough for us to fill him full of lead.
I grabbed my physical key from around my neck and drew my Omaha from my shoulder holster as I circled around the back of the shop, my eyes flitting about the alleyway; there were cameras here but outside of calling my Agent there was no way for anyone to notify me if we had someone lurking out back. Given the alley faced the street we couldn't set up an auto-turret like Mister Andrews wanted, so we had to make do with caution and diligence when entering or leaving the area alone. There were a few dumpsters on the back wall with swiveling iron bars over the tops locked with a padlock, to keep out dumpster divers, and near the mouth of the alleyway were a trio of thickly shelled orange steel boxes; we stored our hazardous materials in there, from spent cleaning chemicals to primers and spoiled gunpowder.
The iron bars on the dumpsters had been a recent addition, as only a few months back some gonk glitterhead thought he could try to hide in one and ambush Cherry when she was leaving; the former Joy Toy's Unity spattering his brains all over the lid disabused him of that notion.
I waved to the camera and strode up the steps before inserting my key and letting myself inside, only putting my Omaha away once the thick steel door was securely shut behind me.
"Tanya, glad you could stop by," Barthameous Andrews' gravelly voice cut through the low-din of Night City radio.
He was once someone that plenty of people would have called 'attractive', even Salaryman would agree even if it wasn't sexual, with a large, strong body and defined musculature. His skin was pale and hair a vibrant red, with a large bushy beard that hung down to his chest, but his masculine features were checkered by deep scars that curled up along his skull, giving the right side of his face a deep grin despite the cosmetic work done to restore it; Militech's medical care didn't extend to such damages unless you worked in their PR department or were a higher ranking corpo.
"I told you I would, Bart," I replied easily as I strode over to the corner of the shop where my locker was.
It took me a long time to call him that, 'Bart', instead of Mister Andrews, but as much as he preferred there be familiarity between us I held him just as high esteem as I did with Doctor Meadows. Even if this cesspool funhouse mirror of capitalism taken to the furthest extremes by cronyism and corporatism... these two men stood out to me as bastions of the Free Market. They were self-made men who took the hands they were dealt and made something of themselves, to build a legacy that they could pass down to someone else to enrich their lives... even if Doctor Meadows hinted that he preferred men and Mister Andrews was impotent because of his injuries. At the very least I knew that Doctor Meadow's paramour's nephew was studying medicine to help at the clinic and Mister Andrews had a niece who was serving in Militech's security arm; even if it wouldn't be soon, one day all of their hard work could be passed onto the next generation to further upward economic mobility.
And no, I did not snoop about Doctor Meadow's lover's nephew.
It was all publically available information.
I pressed my thumb to the biometric lock and opened the thin steel door before shucking my jacket off and pulling on a treated sweater; a thin cloth apron that was also treated was wrapped over the top. It was always chilly in here, and the equipment kept oil and grease off of my more expensive clothing. "Are your legs giving you some issues again?"
I'd noticed that he was in his powered wheelchair instead of walking around with his usual Militech Ostritch cyberlegs as he usually did.
The man shook his head with a small smile that tugged at the other side of his lips, "For once? No. I finally got my claim pushed through on Monday and my Veteran's Service Rep told me that I qualified for the new Mk 2 upgrade package. Supposed to be four kilos lighter per leg, and the new servos should mean that I don't have to get them serviced as often. So I had my ripperdoc remove them and ship them in- should get the new legs back by the end of the month."
I chewed on my lip as I grabbed the scrunchie off my wrist and tied my hair back into my customary low ponytail, "Any costs?"
"Just the delta between my new and old legs. Don't worry yourself about me, kid, I've got the eddies." He shrugged, his t-shirt tightening around his shoulders before he spun the chair around and crawled toward the opposite wall, "Now, get over here, and let's check out your first product."
I was certain my eyes lit up a little bit as I kept pace behind him as we walked over to a quartet of small-scale industrial units in the back corner of the shop.
Spoiler: Fabricators
In my first life I had been a military otaku, one of those types who went to woodland airsoft ranges every few months when my schedule allowed for it. I had a variety of different replica weapons, and I often spent as much yen on my airsoft hobby as much as an American gun nut would spend on real guns. It didn't get any better in my second life when I was forced to become an Aerial Mage and fight in the accursed war Being-X facilitated to spread the religious belief that was waning as society advanced.
In both lives I was enamored with the history behind the weapons, the soldiers that used them, and the battles they took part in; it made me intensely jealous of the Americans who could just... purchase priceless pieces of their history and take them out to shoot on the weekends. So while I found that I absolutely hated this third life's world, especially Night City, I was grateful that I could practice the right to self-defense with the best weaponry that you could afford.
However, the half-century since the world started to go to shit meant that there wasn't a lot of competition or variety in the weapon's space, and the same went for optics and attachments. The Corps ruled over the mass markets while boutiques and custom shops handled the low-volume; there wasn't much in between, and any business that tried to expand was quickly gobbled up by the larger corps. However, that meant that as long as you didn't get greedy, there was an opportunity to make eddies.
So I convinced Mister Andrews to spring for a quartet of multi-function 3D manufacturing stations that could handle a wide variety of build requests. From subtractive to additive, metal or polymer, these four machines could handle almost any task that a small builder could require. With easy-to-swap tool clusters and high-fidelity cameras and sensors, they were a dream... though it meant that I had to learn how to use the proprietary software that I couldn't modify lest I void the warranties, but all-in-all it was a huge coup. Once I was familiar with software and how to import my CAD files and tweak them, I began immediately designing a number of weapon attachments and specialty items that we could sell.
My first product? A custom, extended magazine for my twin Militech M76e Omahas.
Spoiler: Militech M76e Omaha Pistol
They were definitely more expensive than the old Lexington I used to carry, but in terms of lethality, the difference was night and day- a standard 9mm +P versus a trio of armor-piercing 3.3mm tungsten flechettes accelerated by an electromag system? No contest. The three flechettes could actually penetrate skin weave and even subdermal armor in ideal circumstances while the 9mm could not, and it could even damage even moderately protected cyberware; I would rather poke someone full of tiny holes versus my bullets smooshing against their protection.
I had mine further modified to remove the three-round burst functionality in favor of an aftermarket module that instead overcharged the capacitors to improve the penetration. It was far from a penetration monster like a Burya, but with the new module, I could reliably punch through most thin barriers- plywood, cinderblock, and a single layer of bricks- and still have marginally effective skin-weave penetration; I needed a direct hit on subdermal armor to penetrate, but that was better than what the stock Omaha was capable of. The module itself was inexpensive, comparatively, but the additional machining and gunsmithing often bloated the price of the weapon high enough that they just ended up thinking it wasn't worth it. However, being a gunsmith with a fully stocked machine shop tailored to the task, I could do the work myself at cost.
It was my first true solo gunsmithing project, taken under Mister Andrew's watchful eye, and I machined out a small tube in the frame to install a thin penlight that I could toggle with a switch on the frame before adding an external capacitor block that locked onto the Picatinny rail slot. Machining the frame further to accept a power lead to the Omaha's internal power system took a lot of planning and CAD work, but I was able to integrate the external capacitor to the power grid that connected to the magazine; the 9-round magazine was where the battery and capacitor was stored. I even integrated a more detailed digital rounds counter that was synchronized with my lone Kiroshi, to give me an AR overlay of my rounds remaining and charge for my magazine's internal battery; it also served to give me a visual indicator of the health of my capacitors based on its discharge rate.
Overall, a very handy and functional set of upgrades that merely improved the performance of the weapon; I'd already customized and stipple the grips to better fit my hands.
Though when compared to most non-revolvers the Omaha was noted to be lacking in rounds count, which was one of the primary reasons I removed the three-round burst from the pistols in the first place; emptying your magazine in only three trigger pulls made for terrible ammo economy. And without a dedicated combat rig, carrying around enough magazines to make a difference in whatever gunfight you found yourself in was a hassle with the Omaha; I would know because I've been in nine gunfights, and I haven't even turned 16 years old yet!
So after getting comfortable with the printers and software, I decided to do something about it.
I cracked open one of the spare Omaha magazines that I had and set to work analyzing it for improvement, taking laser scans and video footage of the stock equipment, and taking notes on possible avenues for improvement. Of which there were many.
The primary issue I had with the Omaha was the meager 9-round magazine capacity which was a direct result of the capacitor and battery being stored in the magazine itself. The stock Omaha magazine was... horribly overbuilt. It was far too chunky for what it was needed to do- certainly useful if you were planning on running over your magazines with a truck, but for most people's purposes, it was far too much. The walls of the magazine were thick, the base plate was thick, and the capacitor and battery combo they used were tech that was twenty-nine years old. I was just a novice but I felt I could do better.
So I created a design that was double-walled, the gap large enough that I could slot twin solid-state wafer batteries on both sides of the mag body, removing the old battery from the bottom, and the newer capacitor was more consistent and less prone to overheating. I managed to squeeze in two cheap graphite heatsinks to sandwich the new capacitor to make sure it didn't catch fire, and there were three power leads at the top left, rear left, and rear right corners of the magazine so it could interface with the M76a, c, and e series of pistols.
My new custom magazines were not only compatible with all versions of the handguns, but I doubled the round count from 9 to 18, all the while shaving off fifty grams off the mag weight... though the extra projectiles would add further weight regardless.
Best of all? It didn't even reduce the concealability of the weapon because it fit flush with the magazine well- just like the stock mags.
Spoiler: White Silver Customs - Omaha Magazine
My smile was broad as Mister Andrews slid a tray of components, showing it off to me as an unfinished man, and then handed me one of the finished magazines, "They look... preem, Tanya. Not bad for a few hours with a CAD program. It took Cherry about four minutes to put it together and solder everything in place, and with the parts used? Dirt cheap. All told this cost about €$17 eddies to put together... and I think we can easily sell them for €$95 a pop. After taxes and fees, we're looking at €$59 profit, give or take some ennies."
I picked up the new magazine and looked it over, "You really think we can sell these for that much?"
"Fuck, Tanya, the stock Militech mags sell for €$40, and they ain't nearly as nova as these," Mister Andrews scratched at his beard as he shook his head, "You gotta remember not everyone carries an Omaha, Tanya- only you and other Suits carry these. Even then, people always want more rounds, especially for weapons like these; being restricted to a pistol and a couple mags to carry around like these Corpos are? They'll be salivating for the chance to double their rounds count without adding more mags to their belt or purse."
I nodded emphatically.
"And since they're backwards compatible with the previous two generations of Omaha pistols?" Mister Andrews shrugged as he smirked, "I can think of at least three Priv-Sec firms that would be happy to buy us out if it meant that they could keep one of their current go-to handguns viable. Rounds on the belt are all well and good, but rounds in the gun equal rounds down range, and that's what matters."
I carried my two Omahas and a spare magazine for each, and it was because I was so rounds limited that I designed the new magazines in the first place.
"But, we gotta stick to small orders for now, custom jobs and whatnot. If we try to sell these in high volume there is no way Militech would take that sitting down, so we'll start small, okay?" Mister Andrew's neon green eyes crinkled as he shook his head, "Now why don't you take that thing downstairs and put some rounds through it, huh? I already had Valdez run it through its paces, but I think that if we can sell a hundred of these a month then we should have the fabs paid off by Christmas."
I arched an eyebrow, "So soon? And you think we can sell that many?"
"I think I can sell every mag we make, Tanya. The Omaha is popular- over 90,000 registered owners in Night City alone, and that's just the Civvies, the Corps aren't so generous with their numbers, and neither is the NCPD," He shrugged as he began wheeling over to the internal staircase toward the basement firing range, "And we can sell outside of Night City on the net for a premium. Sure, some gonk with a 3D printer can make his own for ennies on the dollar like we are, but most people? They ain't got time for that. Especially the Solos and Edgerunner types- they'll pay a premium for any edge they can get... and double the rounds count? That's one preem edge to have in a gunfight, especially when some gonk thinks you're out of ammo and gotta reload."
His fist lashed out and hit the door button before jerking his head, "Tell Salvatore that ammo for you is half-off. Yanno, to celebrate."
I snorted, "Ammo for me is always half off, Bart."
Shooting my new magazine had been... an experience.
It was one thing to envision a product in your mind, but it was another thing build it in a CAD program, source and test parts, and then have it all put together into a cohesive whole.
This magazine, with the laser-etched barcode and serial number of #0000001... was going to go into a display case that Mister Andrews bought and put next to the printers and fabricators; he said that he had a feeling that this would be the first of many so having something he could look back on as time went by was a given in his mind. He seemed quite certain that the freshly named 'White-Silver Customs' would one day become its own brand, with me taking it out of his humble 2A store and into a fancy boutique. He wasn't wrong, given expansion was always on my mind, but I didn't have much more planned than simple attachments and custom kit weapons that the Solos and Private Security Firms would purchase.
Though the actual firearms would be far away since I didn't exactly have a Night City Firearms License yet, so for now WSC would be operating under Mister Andrews' 2A license as an internal company branch.
However, with my fun had for the day, I returned upstairs and manned the 'Front Counter'.
"I'd like to uh... trade this in?" The slot for the drop box was immediately filled with a grimy-looking Rostovic DB-4 Igla.
Spoiler: Igla Shotgun
"Give me one moment, please." I muttered back as I grabbed a pair of poly-nitrile gloves, "Did you perchance clear this weapon before handing it over?"
The street kid, no older than nineteen, had the decision to sheepishly rub at the back of his cap-covered head, "Uhhh, I didn't know how? So I just... made sure to not put anything near the trigger."
It took... considerable effort to pop the hinge on the double-barreled shotgun thanks to the rust and mud-caked on, "Did you find this in the river or something?"
"What!? N-no... s'a family heirloom that my... mother, uh... had buried in the backyard!" He smiled and nodded, "Said it belonged to my Dad who used to hunt with it back in the day. Wild dogs in the badlands. But money's getting tight so I decided that it would be better off used to put food on the table instead of rusting away in the backyard with my old man."
"That is a whole lot of words for 'Yes, I found it in the river'," I drawled, causing the dark-skinned Hispanic teen to blush, "Not that it really matters. First I have to get this thing cleaned up so I can find the serial number- won't be able to take it from you if it was used in a crime... but the NCPD would give you a €$50 bounty for finding it, so it's something at least."
"Really?"
"Yes, really," I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, "However, assuming that I don't need to hand this over for evidence, the best I could offer you for it would be €$200... and that's if it even is functional. We don't deal in scrap."
He rocked on his heels back and forth as he looked over the weapons we had on display, "Damn, that ain't much. I was hoping that I could, you know, get a Nova out of it or something."
"Used Novas run €$350-500, and new you're looking at €$600," I pulled out a few tools and began scraping at the bottom side of the double-barrel shotgun to where the barcode and serial number usually was, "This shotgun? €$450, especially this variant- brand new. Which is why I can't offer more than €$200- I'm going to have to clean it, and at best we can offer it for €$300."
"Wow, you're bein' pretty upfront," The teen scratched at the side of his neck as he squatted to look at the Lexington selection we had, "Most shops don't give you these sorts of deets."
I inhaled sharply as I wiped off the grime on the steel bar with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol and saw that there was a serial number.
I grabbed the photo with my Kiroshi and sent it to the NCPD database to run a scan via my Agent, "And here at 2A we believe that there is something to be gained in fair business. If you know that we're giving you a solid price, and are upfront with how we buy and sell used firearms, that makes you more inclined to deal with us, right? You know we won't cut you out just to make a few eddies. I can't say the same for everyone else but we live here, and we want all the right people to have iron to protect themselves; the more guns in the hands of our fellow citizenry is good for everyone, not just ourselves."
That and if one of our customers managed to extract themselves from a difficult situation because they purchased a firearm from our establishment at an affordable price meant that not only would we secure that customer for life, but we would keep that customer alive to continue making purchases from us.
However, I didn't say that because it was self-explanatory.
"Huh, I never thought about it like that before... say, these Lexingtons, how come they're so expensive? €$900? I mean, I've seen the Badges and some gangoons carry them around, but isn't the 9mm, like, underpowered?"
"The 9mm is a well-known cartridge, and the +P ammunition that most standard firearms use is quite a bit more effective than the 9mm of old. It is compact, controllable even in a machine pistol like the Lexington, and most of all? It's cheap," I found myself shrugging even if I knew he couldn't see me, "Most submachine guns run a +P+ ammo that has more powder behind the bullet, which when combined with the longer barrels gives it some additional effectiveness. However, you're right when you say that it's underpowered for hardened threats, with it unable to reliably defeat skin weave and subdermal armor. Though for the vast majority of problems you might come across, such chrome is usually pretty rare."
The kid slowly stood up, kicking a heel to his bottom as he stretched out his legs, "And... what would penetrate skin weave and subdermal armor."
I snorted, hold your horses, Mister Solo Edgerunner.
"Quite a bit, but iron that could do so is likely outside of your price range- ah," I got a ping back from the NCPD database, "Good news is that this shotgun hasn't been linked to any crimes. So provided I can get this cleaned up and prove that it works I should be able to get you your eddies. However, cleaning costs €$50, and that's non-negotiable. You can either pay now or I can take it out of the payout if I can prove it works; if I can't then you'll owe me €$30 eddies since the best I could get for scrapping this thing is €$20. Or... I can sell you a cleaning kit for €$25 and you can try your hand at cleaning it yourself. So what's it going to be?"
Cleaning even a ganked-up weapon like this was pretty easy.
I hosed off most of the mud with a pressure washer, hit it with a thick bristle brush for a few minutes, and then had it take a dip in one of the solvent-filled hydro-sonic cleaning tanks we had for fifteen minutes. Knocked all the rust off and even cleaned the crevices, though I did have to take apart the break action to get at the hinges, but compared to the old Germanian weapons I had to clean this was absurdly simple. It was, much like working on cyberware, rather therapeutic for me, and I enjoyed my work.
Given this thing had been tossed barrel first into the river, the barrels had been filled with mud and the action being closed kept most contaminants from entering the chamber where the firing pins were, but I still followed the Igla's Service Manual and cleaned them thoroughly.
All told I was finished in less than thirty minutes, and after inspecting it I grabbed a pair of 8-gauge shotshells and moved down the second, Employees Only staircase down to the range and slipped on a pair of noise-canceling earmuffs before buzzing Salvator to let me inside.
The door unlocked with a dull 'clunk', and the moment I swung it open the pops of gunfire washed over me as well as the scent of gunpowder.
I had been here almost an hour ago but the sounds and smells brought a smile to my face once more.
"Back already, chica? You were just down here, choom," Salvatore was one of those stereotypically handsome Latino men, with defined cheekbones and a strong jawline; he had dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a devil may care smile that made Tanya's heart flutter on occasion- I however, remained unaffected.
If there was one thing that I've learned living with Tanya's body twice in a row was that attempting to regulate her physiological reactions was doomed to failure. Instead, I analyzed, acknowledged, and then discarded.
Yes, his tight t-shirt was clinging to his torso in an appealing fashion, and his biceps did cause the sleeves to strain. His body was chiseled thanks to a combination of biomods and a strict training regimen, but all of that was moot because not only was there a fifteen-year physical age gap between us, but he was also in a romantic relationship with Cherry, our former Joy Toy compatriot.
Analyze, acknowledge, discard.
Though to be fair to myself and Tanya, this was the oldest our physical body had matured to- I'd died before puberty could fully sink its fingers into her the first time around.
So this was new for the both of us and with almost as many years spent living as Tanya as I had Salaryman... it was something I was approaching cautiously but with a somewhat open mind. Previously I had been open to getting married and having natural children of my own, but in this third life it was possible for two women to have children as well... so I wisely decided that I would shelve thoughts such as these for a later date when they actually became relevant.
I hefted the Igla up and showed off the two shotshells, "That was for pleasure, this is for work, Salvatore; possible trade-in or a direct sell."
"Man. I haven't seen one of those in a while- eh?" The man sniffed as he uncrossed his arms and followed me over to the testing cradle at the very back wall, on the last firing lane, though he aborted his walk and began fast walking back to a civilian woman on Lane 3, "Hermana, you done already? Man, you sure blew those rounds quick! Great, now put the pistol back on the table and we'll check out your target-"
I rolled my eyes as I arrived at the testing sled, walking around the poly-glass barrier and setting the shotgun up. I put in the two shells, closed the action, and rigged up the string before clamping the arms holding the shotgun down. A few steps later saw myself retreating behind the barrier and I activated a half-dozen high-speed cameras and yanked firmly.
'BOOM!'
The hunting shotgun, despite being secured, rocked the entire cradle a bit as the twin 8-gauge shot shells fired, and as the gunsmoke was leaving the barrel I was already fiddling with the monitors and watching the slow-motion replay.
Everything... looked good. The trigger was, when I tested it upstairs, within its 5-5.5 pound tolerances, the internal hammers struck the primers... the only thing I would need to do is inspect the spent shells and check to see if the hammers were light-striking or over penetrating the primer caps.
I removed the arms securing the Igla to the cradle and pulled out the two spent shells, and after conferring with the Igla's Service Manual on my Agent everything looked to be in proper working order.
A smile broke out on my face as I made my way upstairs and toward Mister Andrew's office to give my final report and see what he wanted to do as far as pricing.
In the end, the kid decided to keep the iron at Mister Andrew's suggestion- 'Better to have iron on you now than not'.
He could always come back to trade-up when he had the eddies. So we instead sold him a box of double-ought buckshot, a box of 1.5-ounce slugs, and a twelve-shell bandoleer that he could wear like a belt or sling over his shoulder.
It wouldn't be iron he'd show up to a gangoon initiation with, but for keeping him and his mother's home safe it would do the job admirably... as long as he didn't do something silly like fire a warning shot.
Though he was a first-time shooter, I covered his fee to go into the shooting range and got him a box of twenty buckshot shells with my employee discount. The kid needed some practice badly and Salvatore was quick to show him why flagging people with a weapon, even an empty one, was a bad idea.
At the end of the day the 2nd Amendment only made €$79 off the total purchases, but the true profit was putting iron in the hands of another law-abiding customer.
When I went home that night I was able to go straight to sleep since I didn't have any coding gigs, and I was always happy to be able to get the extra sleep- my time in the war made me appreciate it far more than I ever had as Salaryman.