Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
Let me rephrase that.
They aren't evil in the eyes of Arasaka.
To anyone with a moral compass that isn't fucked up… they aren't evil in evil.
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The Architect of Anarchy: A Cyberpunk Crafting Quest
- Thread starter Magoose
- Start date
- Mature Sci-Fi
They aren't evil in the eyes of Arasaka.
To anyone with a moral compass that isn't fucked up… they aren't evil in evil.
Do you mean that they aren't noticeably more evil then the average corpo? I don't understand the phrasing. Sorry.
[X] Plan Down The Rabbit Hole
- Location
- yorkshire
[X] Plan: Preludes and Preparations
- Location
- Fort Worth, TX
[X] Plan Down The Rabbit Hole
[X] Plan: Preludes and Preparations
I've started playing Cyberpunk 2077.
My first playthrough will be as a male Nomad and a goody-goody. I'll have an evil bastard playthrough after that.
Just finished the mission to look into the brain dance of Arasaka Yorinobu's suite, provided by Evelyn. Judy's an interesting character.
My first playthrough will be as a male Nomad and a goody-goody. I'll have an evil bastard playthrough after that.
Just finished the mission to look into the brain dance of Arasaka Yorinobu's suite, provided by Evelyn. Judy's an interesting character.
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I guess we need to get into contact with Bartmoss and just drown him in custom equipment.
Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
It means they aren't evil for evils sake just to assure that Arasaka is prospering.
But Since Arasaka goals are evil… well
- Pronouns
- Zack
Don't you think this mission is very risky?
- Pronouns
- Reader
I mean, Malcolm should be able to handle it? Assassinations are right up his alley and Stella provides tech support.
Vote closed
New
Turn 7 Results
New
Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
Turn 7 Results:
[X]Father: "Come." that was all the message said. Rolled:D20 => 19
You stepped into the dimly lit apartment, the air thick with the scent of burnt circuitry and stale antiseptics. The low hum of cyberware diagnostics filled the silence, punctuated only by the ragged coughs of the man slouched in the chair before you.
Your father.
His chair wasn't just a seat—it was a monitoring station, thick cables feeding into the ports along his spine, reading his failing vitals and degraded cyberware functions. His breathing was labored, his augmented lungs struggling to cycle oxygen properly.
His eyes flicked up to you, the dull glow of implants reflecting in the dim light.
"So you've come," he rasped. His voice was rough, brittle—like metal grinding against bone. "Get in here."
Before you could step further, the door hissed shut behind you.
A shadow moved in the corner of the room. A bodyguard emerged from the dark, chrome-plated arms adjusting the aim of a high-caliber pistol now trained on your head.
Your pulse spiked.
"What the hell is this, Father?" you asked, forcing your tone to remain even.
He chuckled dryly, a sound laced with both amusement and self-loathing. "I need your help. As much as it pains me to say those words to you."
Another cough wracked his body, his cybernetic chestplate flickering with warning signals. He grimaced, shaking his head.
"You were right," he admitted. "I haven't been able to maintain my cyberware at peak efficiency… but that's not my failure." His eyes darkened. "Your mother made it so."
That made you pause.
"…Why would she do that?"
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Why does she do anything? Why did she drag you to Night City, abandon you here, when she could have kept you safe and controllable in Tokyo?" His voice dripped with scorn. Then he coughed again, the lights of his neural interface flickering wildly.
"But then again," he continued, his tone shifting, "I had my part to play."
He gestured for you to step closer.
"You were told there was a neural tracking chip in your head. One that could locate you anywhere on Earth."
You stiffened. "She told me that herself," you said. "It's why I never left."
He let out another rasping chuckle. His hand moved, retrieving something from the table beside him—a mechanical syringe.
Not a normal injector. This was a surgical extraction tool, meant to remove micro-implants from deep neural tissue without causing permanent damage.
He held it out to you.
"Put it at the base of your skull," he instructed. "And don't move."
Your grip tightened around the injector. Every instinct screamed at you not to trust him—but at the same time, he had never needed you before. Not like this.
You pressed the cold metal against your neck. A sharp prick, followed by a strange sensation—like something detaching from your nervous system.
Then, from the tip of the extractor, a small, blinking chip fell into the collection chamber.
A chip that was still beeping.
You took a step back, your breath catching. "What the hell is this?"
Your father leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto the device. "The tracking chip wasn't just for keeping you in Night City…" His lips curled. "It was a prototype doll chip."
Your stomach turned to ice.
"You're lying," you said immediately.
But he shook his head. "Your mother helped develop it. At least, that's what she told me." He exhaled sharply. "She was never going to let you stay here. She was coming for you, and when she did…" His gaze sharpened. "She would have flipped that chip on and ripped your willpower away in an instant."
Your fingers curled into fists.
A doll chip. Designed to override the conscious mind, turning people into perfectly obedient puppets—for hours, days… years, if programmed right.
And she had put one inside you. As a child… that could have killed you.
Your father watched your expression carefully, gauging your reaction.
"Why are you telling me this now?" you demanded. "What do you get out of it?"
He exhaled, and then—he smiled.
"For one thing," he said, the bodyguard's gun clicking as it locked onto you, "I need your help."
The red targeting laser brushed against your forehead.
"You understand cyberware, you seem to have knowledge of someone who has studied and tinkered and built things…" he continued smoothly. "Help me fix what's wrong with me."
Your mouth went dry. "I don't have the tools, I don't know how to-"
"You will try," he cut in, his voice calm. "Or you'll die here. Choose."
And just like that, the power dynamic shifted, your father's gaze expectant.
Because you had always been disposable. But now?
Now you were useful.
You glanced at the vitals monitors, the screens flickering with warning signs. Red alerts pulsed across the holographic displays, casting a sickly glow over the room. His biometric readings were a disaster—his heart rate irregular, his oxygen saturation unstable, and his core temperature fluctuating in ways that no human body should withstand.
But it was his cyberware loadout that told the real story.
His entire body was nearly chromed out, a patchwork of high-grade augmentations grafted onto a failing organic system. His neural chip was pushed to its limits, constantly overclocked to compensate for the wear and tear. The remnants of his biological nervous system—what little was still intact—were clearly breaking down under the strain.
And then there was his immune system—or rather, the complete lack of one. He was fully dependent on immunosuppressants, meaning his own body was at war with itself. Every implant, every modification was a hodgepodge of outdated software and brute-force workarounds, held together by sheer necessity rather than proper integration.
If he had chosen this for himself, that would have been one thing. Some people burned through their humanity like cheap fuel, trading flesh for steel willingly. But something in your gut told you that he hadn't been given much of a choice.
And that was something you could use.
You exhaled slowly, straightening. "No," you said, voice even. "Not without conditions."
Your father's cybernetic fingers tightened around the armrest, servos whirring as he processed your defiance. The bodyguard's aim didn't waver, the gun trained dead-center on your skull.
Your father let out a rasping chuckle. "I have a gun pointed at your head, son." His voice was a low growl, edged with something dangerously close to amusement. "What the hell makes you think you're in a position to negotiate?"
But that was just it.
You weren't bargaining from a position of power—you were bargaining because he needed you more than you needed him. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, he knew it.
"You already know," you said quietly, keeping your voice steady.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a slow twinkle flickered in your father's optics, a cold artificial light gleaming beneath the surface. His smile was knowing, calculated—a predator's grin. "You have learned something here after all."
He was proud of you.
And that made you sick.
You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to stay still. "I want full access to my inheritance at eighteen. No strings attached. No joining Arasaka, no things that I have to follow… I get everything that I would get when you die, when I turn 18, and I never see you again."
The moment the words left your mouth, he threw his head back and bellowed in laughter, the sound reverberating through the room. It wasn't amusement—it was mockery, a condescending sort of delight.
"You want money. Resources." He shook his head, smiling as if you were a child demanding sweets. "I can see you've learned from the best."
Your jaw tightened, but you didn't rise to the bait. "And—"
"And?" He arched a brow, incredulous. "What more can you demand from me besides money and resources?"
You didn't hesitate. "A warehouse on the docks. Under my name. You cover the taxes. I take full ownership when I turn eighteen. But before than, I can use it for whatever I desire. What I want, with no oversight from you, or mom."
His expression shifted, ever so slightly. Not shock—he was too controlled for that—but intrigue.
Because now he knew this wasn't just about wealth. It was about control. About freedom.
And he wasn't sure if he liked that.
The tension stretched between you like a tripwire, each second balanced on a razor's edge. Then, finally, he exhaled.
"Fine," he said at last, voice clipped, eyes narrowed. "Now, get to work."
You didn't hesitate. Not because you weren't afraid, but because this—this—was a puzzle. And you had always loved puzzles.
You weren't a ripperdoc, not by a long shot. But you were an engineer. A problem-solver. And your father was just a machine wearing human skin—a machine that had been badly maintained.
His cyberware was a mess of mismatched parts, barely functioning as a single system. It was like someone had upgraded him out of necessity, not precision. Like he was being kept alive, rather than improved. And that… that didn't sit right with you.
His optics were lagging, the firmware at least two years out of date. You flashed the system, updated the drivers, and adjusted the calibration. The new patches would sharpen his vision to near-perfection, reduce latency, and eliminate the glitches.
His arms were running dry—synth blood levels dangerously low, hydraulics overcompensating for muscle fatigue. The pressure was straining his heart, the feedback loop of bio-mechanical stress making him weaker rather than stronger.
You injected fresh synth blood, flushed out the fluid channels, and recalibrated the pressure to ease the strain. It wouldn't fix the bigger issue—his failing organic components—but it would make him faster, smoother, more efficient.
His synth lungs should have been perfect, a cutting-edge model capable of filtering toxins and enhancing endurance. But someone had crippled them, capping efficiency at 85%—the equivalent of a man with asthma, constantly struggling for breath.
Whoever did this didn't want him dead—they wanted him weakened.
You bypassed the restrictions. The moment you did, his breathing shifted—a long, slow inhale, deeper than anything he had taken in years. Power returned to his posture, his shoulders settling into something more natural.
Then came the real mystery. His neural system was a disaster, a chaotic web of feedback errors and misfires, like someone had rewired pain receptors to amplify suffering rather than dull it.
Every movement had been sending spikes of agony through his body.
And he hadn't even known.
Was it faulty engineering? Or deliberate? A built-in punishment—a failsafe, ensuring he was never truly at ease?
You dampened the pain responses, cleaned the routing protocols, and stabilized the connection between his nervous system and cybernetics.
He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and took another deep breath. For the first time since you entered the room, his face betrayed something almost human—relief.
You couldn't fix everything. His immune system was shot, his body dependent on immunosuppressants just to keep the cyberware from eating him alive.
But now, at least, he had a fighting chance.
Would he thank you? Doubtful.
Would he use this newfound strength against you? Probably.
But for now, you had done what you set out to do.
And you had learned something.
Your father had spent his whole life controlling others—and yet, he had been living in a prison of his own making.
When it was over, the night was over.
And you were staring at your father as he sat up, a new man.
His posture had shifted—where there had once been strain, there was now control. His breathing, once ragged, was now even, measured, confident. He rolled his shoulders, testing the newfound efficiency of his cyberware. The power that had once been slipping through his fingers had been returned to him.
And you had done that.
"Now—" he began, but you raised your hand, thumb pressing down on the small button in your palm.
"The final fail-safe until a physical contract is signed, Father," you said smoothly.
His optics flickered with suspicion.
"This button," you continued, dangling it before him, "will shut down all your implants. Your lungs. Your heart. Your nervous system. You'll be dead before you hit the floor."
It was a lie.
But he didn't know that.
His lips curled in a silent snarl. "You little—" He stopped himself, eyes tracking the device. Calculating.
"Why?" he finally asked, voice quieter, more controlled.
"Because nothing matters unless it's in writing." You smiled thinly. "I don't trust you to follow through unless I see it, signed and sealed. Until everything I demanded is mine."
A pause. Then, unexpectedly—your father laughed.
"Finally."
The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine.
He didn't hesitate—he simply leaned forward, pulled up a digital contract, and began drafting the documents. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly.
And as you watched, you realized something.
He had been working on this already.
Your stomach twisted.
"How much do you know about my little hobby?" you asked carefully.
Your father shook his head. "I'm the reason no one has discovered it." He took a slow, deep breath—enjoying the sensation of lungs finally working at full capacity. "You aren't as sneaky as you think, Senji."
There was something in his voice you didn't expect.
Respect.
"But," he continued, "you certainly know how to make something… real."
You stared at him, at the calculating gleam in his optics. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even offended. If anything, he was pleased. Like you had finally met his expectations.
And that sickened you.
"I hope to never see you again, Father," you said flatly.
He smiled. "And I will honor your wishes… despite my own desire to simply kidnap you and force you to do what I want."
Something about the way he said it—so casual, so honest—made your blood turn to ice.
"What's stopping you?" you asked, your voice cold.
Your father looked away. Out the window, where the neon haze of Night City pulsed like a living thing.
"We made a deal," he said. "And I don't break my deals."
Then, after a long silence, he spoke your name. "Senji."
There was something in his voice—something that almost sounded like hesitation.
"If your mother comes to Night City…" He stopped. Then, finally, he turned to look at you. "Don't listen to a word she says."
His expression darkened.
"And if you have the ability to… kill her."
The words hung in the air, heavy as lead.
You stared. "Why?"
For the first time, you saw something other than calculation in his face. A flicker of something deeper.
And then he frowned.
"There are certain things even I do not know," he admitted. "But know this—" his gaze hardened—"I see you as a tool for my own ends. The same as your mother does."
His voice dropped to something dangerous.
"But there is something deeply wrong with her. She wouldn't just use you. She wouldn't just control you. If she thought she could make the Arasaka family rulers of the world… she would burn it to the ground to do it. She would turn you into something you won't recognize… and you would be doing it without a single hesitation."
The neon outside hummed in the silence between you.
And for the first time in your life, you wondered if your father was the lesser evil.
Reward: You saved your father from his own body. And than he has given you what you wanted.
You have gained a new workshop, a warehouse by the docks.
You have gained one workshop action.
Can now upgrade production runs, and invest into tech to make better weapons and armor.
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-[X]I Belive in Destiny: Kenji wants you to come with him. He wants to meet with a new… Yakuza member in the city. He's coming to kill him. Rolled:D20 => 19
For a moment, you could almost pretend you were back home. Almost.
But that illusion shattered the moment the karaoke machine was silenced by the heavy thud of the office doors closing behind you.
The sudden quiet was deafening.
You and Kenji sat across from the man behind the desk—the Oyabun. He was old-school Yakuza, the kind who carved his way to power and held onto it with an iron grip. His suit was sharp, but his tattoos peeked out from beneath the cuffs—dragons and demons, old-world ink that told a story in blood and steel.
And right now, those black eyes were drilling into Kenji.
"You know, Kenji…" the Oyabun said slowly, his voice like the scrape of a knife against a whetstone. "You are marked for death."
A chill ran through you. Around the room, the heavies stiffened, hands twitching toward steel—blades and heat both.
Kenji didn't flinch.
"I know," he said, voice even. "But I will not follow the orders."
His words hung in the air like the edge of a blade.
"As much as my honor has been tainted," he continued, "my mission remains the same." He tilted his chin ever so slightly in your direction. "To protect my young ward. And I will not abandon it until I am dead… or no longer needed."
That was when the tension snapped.
You felt it like a wire pulled too tight—one of the heavies twitched, fingers ghosting toward his blade. Another's cybernetics whirred, his optics flickering red for a split second.
Your Killer Angel was already on your arm, a whisper of synthetic silk against your skin, ready to be drawn.
But Kenji? He was calm.
Steady.
Like he had already made peace with the fact that he might die in this room.
And that scared you more than anything else.
Yet, his voice didn't waver.
"Still, I come here with respect for the organization," he said. He dipped his head slightly—not bowing, not submitting, but acknowledging the weight of the room. "And I ask that you leave my ward out of this… business."
Silence.
The Oyabun studied him. The gears behind his ruthless gaze turned, weighing loyalty against betrayal, honor against practicality.
And in that moment, you realized something:
Kenji had placed his life on the table.
The Oyabun exhaled slowly, fingers steepled as he considered Kenji's words. The weight of the moment settled over the room like a storm front—heavy, electric, waiting to break.
Then, after an eternity, he nodded.
"You were a good soldier, Kenji." His voice was almost… respectful. "Loyal. Efficient. A man who knew his duty. Before your fall, you brought honor to the organization."
Kenji said nothing, his face carved from stone.
"I respect what you have chosen," the Oyabun continued. "To protect your ward, to turn your back on the old life. Few men are willing to make such a choice." He exhaled through his nose. "And I will respect it."
The tension in the room shifted, not gone, but changed—a shift from execution to ritual.
The Oyabun's gaze hardened. "But honor demands a price."
A knife was placed on the table before him.
A wakizashi blade, gleaming under the dim office lights. Its edge was pristine, honed for a purpose older than any of them.
"One last duty, Kenji," the Oyabun said, voice low and final. "To sever the past, so you may walk into the future unbound. Your yubitsume."
A blood price for his freedom.
The room was silent.
The heavies watched, not with mockery, not with hostility, but with understanding. They knew the weight of this demand. The final sacrifice of a man leaving behind his clan.
Kenji did not hesitate.
He reached for the blade, his grip steady. He turned his hand, palm down, placing his left pinky against the table. His right hand gripped the handle, aligning the edge against the joint.
No hesitation.
No second chances.
With a swift, clean slice, the blade cut through skin, bone, nerve.
A sharp exhale—the only sign of pain.
Blood splattered across the table. The severed digit lay there, a small, lifeless thing.
Kenji took a shaking breath and placed the knife down. He lifted his hand, pressing it into a cloth one of the heavies handed him. His expression did not change.
The Oyabun watched the blood pool, then nodded once.
"It is done."
The severed finger was taken, wrapped in cloth, a final offering to the past.
Kenji sat back, pressing the cloth to his wound, but his eyes remained locked onto the Oyabun's. No fear. No anger.
Only resolve.
The Oyabun studied him for a moment longer, then turned his gaze to you.
"Your guardian has paid his price," he said. "The debt is settled. The organization will not pursue you."
His black eyes glittered like onyx.
"But understand this—Kenji's life is now his own. His choices, his loyalties—they no longer lead back to us."
A silent warning. If Kenji ever crossed the organization again, there would be no ceremony, no blade, no respect.
Only death.
Kenji nodded once. "I understand."
The Oyabun gestured toward the door.
"Then go. And do not look back."
Kenji stood. You followed.
As the door shut behind you, the noise of the club flooded back in—the bass, the voices, the life of Night City.
But something was different.
Kenji was free.
Reward: Kenji is free of his Yakuza obligations.
He can now fully work for you without any strings or potential past making things difficult.
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-[X]Malcolm, and Blood: Malcolm has smiled as he looked at you. "You are awesome you know that." Rolled:D20 => 11
Malcolm was not a simple man. He was a contradiction, a walking paradox, a storm barely held together in human form. At least, that's what you used to think.
But honestly? When you stripped everything else away, there was one simple truth.
He was a killer.
And he enjoyed it.
Malcolm leaned back, rolling his shoulders, his grin splitting across his face like a fresh wound. His eyes, cold and hungry, glittered under the dim neon light.
"You know," he drawled, spinning the heavy .44 in his grip with practiced ease. "You're awesome, you know that? Few people look at me and say, 'that is a guy I trust to get things done.' But you—you didn't hesitate. You just put this big, beautiful hand cannon in my palm and let me do what I do best."
He kissed the barrel, smirking. "And for that? I appreciate it."
You exhaled slowly, watching him carefully, measuring the sharp edges of his enthusiasm.
"Yeah," you muttered. "I just don't want you pointing that pistol at me."
Malcolm laughed—a sharp, jagged sound, like a blade scraping metal.
"C'mon now." He turned the gun, spinning it once more before clicking the safety on and tucking it into his belt. "We're partners, yeah? I don't shoot partners. Hell, I even like you."
His grin widened, and somehow, that didn't make you feel any better.
Reward: Malcolm is… well not… anything more than what he is.
Soon you may start his loyalty missions and quest line.
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-[X]The Runner on the Edge: Stella sat down on the roof next to you. "I have a question: If I jumped off this roof, would you jump after me?" Rolled:D20 => 14
Stella sat down beside you on the rooftop, the city stretching out below like a neon-drenched ocean, rippling and shifting with the currents of headlights, holograms, and restless movement. The skyline twisted and pulsed, alive in the way only Night City ever could be.
"I have a question," she murmured, tilting her head, her synthetic irises catching the shifting light. "If I jumped off this roof, would you jump after me?"
That caught you off guard.
"What?"
She didn't look at you, only at the city below. "I want to know if you care enough about me to follow me down, not knowing if we'd survive or not."
You frowned, unnerved by the casual way she said it. "I care enough to not let you jump in the first place."
That made her smile—slow, deliberate, as if you'd just given her the answer she was hoping for. She turned, watching you closely now, studying the way your brow furrowed, the way your fingers tensed against the ledge.
"Really?"
You hesitated, suddenly reevaluating your own words.
"You're a friend," you admitted carefully. "And an acquaintance that's… useful to me. I don't like losing people who can help me."
It was corpo speak, clinical, distanced, a convenient wall of professionalism meant to keep emotions in check. To make sure things didn't get messy.
But even then…
Even then, you felt something.
It wasn't love—not that kind of love, anyway. But there was an undeniable attraction, a pull that was dangerously close to desire. Stella was beautiful, and her body was as malleable as she wanted it to be. If you asked, she could change, adjust, sculpt herself into whatever vision you wanted. And sometimes, she did it without even thinking, shifting between looks, playing with appearances like it was second nature.
Maybe that was why you didn't say anything.
Because deep down, you already knew—she didn't want to be seen as anything more than a competent companion. Someone who could do the job, someone who could keep up, someone irreplaceable, not because of beauty, but because of skill.
But Stella was sharp, and she saw what was going through your head.
And when she smirked, it wasn't just amusement—it was understanding.
"Follow me," she said, her voice quieter now, as she led you through the dimly lit corridor and into her apartment.
The door hissed shut behind you, the lock clicking into place as you turned back toward her. She had already settled onto the edge of her bed, her cybernetic fingers idly tracing patterns against the fabric of the sheets. The glow of the city filtered through the tinted windows, bathing the room in cold neon hues.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"For what?" you asked, tilting your head.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "For not seeing me as an object."
Your brow furrowed. "While you are aesthetically beautiful, I find someone who can save my ass far more valuable than someone who just looks pretty. What do you think I am, some feudal samurai looking for a decorative companion?"
That made Stella laugh, the sound unexpectedly genuine. "Well, you are the son of corporate royalty."
You snorted, leaning against the wall. "Said royalty that doesn't even acknowledge my existence."
She studied you for a moment, her expression unreadable. "That doesn't mean it's not still in your blood."
You shrugged, arms crossed. "Blood doesn't mean shit in Night City."
Stella smirked, resting her chin on her palm. "Maybe. But it still has a way of catching up with you."
Stella's smirk faded as she leaned back, her fingers tracing over the netrunner suit of her arm. The soft hum of the city outside filled the silence between you.
"Look," she said, voice low, measured. "If you want me, you don't have to dance around it."
You blinked. "What?"
She scoffed, tilting her head as if she were speaking to a child. "I know how this works. You help me, I help you. No strings, no complications. You clearly find me attractive, and I have no illusions about what most people want from me." She shifted slightly, her eyes locked onto yours. "So if that's what you want, take it."
For a moment, you just stared at her. The invitation in her voice, the way she carried herself—it wasn't desperate, wasn't vulnerable. It was a transaction. A calculated offer. And that made something twist in your gut.
"No," you said finally.
She froze. "What?"
You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. "I don't want that, Stella."
Her brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly. You could see the gears in her mind turning, trying to make sense of it, to rationalize your refusal. "You don't?" she echoed, almost as if she didn't believe it.
"No," you repeated, voice firm. "Because that's not all you are. And I'm not interested in treating you like you're only worth what you can give me."
Something inside her cracked.
Her breath hitched, and before you could say anything else, tears welled up in her eyes. She looked away sharply, pressing the heel of her palm against her face as if trying to force them back.
"Fuck," she whispered.
You hesitated, unsure of what to say, what to do. Stella wasn't someone who cried. She was someone who adapted, who changed, who wore different faces as easily as she breathed. But this? This was real. This was raw.
"I—" she tried, but her voice broke. She gritted her teeth, swallowing hard. "I just… I didn't think you were that kind of person."
You took a slow step forward, careful, measured. "What kind of person?"
Her eyes finally met yours, and there was something almost wounded in them. "A good one."
You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. "That's a pretty low bar, Stella."
She let out a shaky laugh, wiping her face quickly before the tears could truly fall. "You'd be surprised how few people clear it."
Silence stretched between you again, but this time, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was something else. Something heavier.
"You should get some rest," you said finally, stepping back toward the door.
Stella stared at you, still unraveling, still trying to understand before she finally nodded. "Yeah," she whispered.
But as you turned away, you heard her voice again—softer, almost fragile.
"Senji?"
You paused, glancing back.
"…Thank you."
You didn't say anything. You just nodded. And then you left, letting the door shut quietly behind you.
Reward: you and Stella talk…
And come to a greater understanding.
Also you refuse her advances because you don't want that. And that made you rise to the top of her people list.
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-[X]The Workshop Powerstatintion: Maybe you can fix it on the down low. Rolled:D20 + 2 => 19
To think, all it took to fix the building's entire power system was tracking down the Techie who actually ran the place.
You had expected some high-end Corpo engineer, someone with sleek chrome enhancements and a personality as cold as their balance sheets. Instead, you found yourself in a dimly lit basement, staring at a grease-streaked mechanic in a sweat-stained tank top, half-buried in a mess of tangled wires and humming machinery.
He barely looked up when you entered, muttering something under his breath as he yanked a wrench against a stubborn bolt.
"Name's Briggs," he finally grunted, voice rough, tired. "You the one bitching about the power?"
You crossed your arms. "More like the one trying to keep this building from turning into a blackout zone."
Briggs snorted. "Yeah, well, tell that to the fuckers up top who think cutting maintenance costs is a smart move. Half this wiring's older than I am." He shook his head, wiping oil off his cybernetic hand. "Damn Corpo bastards don't get that things need to be maintained, not just replaced when they finally break."
You raised an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for the sentimental type."
He smirked, a jagged scar on his cheek pulling slightly. "Ain't sentiment. It's common sense. You take care of your gear, it takes care of you. Same rule applies whether it's a rifle, a ride, or a whole damn building."
It made sense. He wasn't some high-end Corpo tech specialist—he was a grunt, ex-military, someone who had spent his life keeping things running rather than tearing them down and rebuilding them for a profit. A mechanic first, a techie second.
And judging by the mess around him, he was the only reason this building still had power at all.
The basement was a mess—flickering monitors, rusted junction boxes, and a tangled web of wires barely holding the building together. One bad surge, and the whole place would go dark.
You exhaled, hands on your hips. "I can help."
Briggs, the building's techie, barely looked up as he pried a fried capacitor out of a circuit board with his cybernetic fingers. "Oh yeah? And what do you know about keeping this piece of junk running?"
You stepped closer. "I'm an engineer. Not some Corpo suit who throws money at problems—I actually build and fix things. You said it yourself: you take care of your gear, it takes care of you."
Briggs narrowed his eyes, sizing you up. Then he smirked, standing up with a groan and rolling his shoulders. "Alright, kid. You wanna get your hands dirty? Be my guest. But I ain't paying you."
You smirked back. "Wouldn't dream of charging you."
The weekend was hell.
The building was a patchwork of half-assed fixes and jury-rigged wiring, slapped together by cheap labor and even cheaper materials. What should've been a simple job turned into a two-day marathon of tearing out corroded power lines, rewiring faulty connections, and replacing burnt-out breakers.
Briggs had the experience, knowing which corners to cut and which systems were too fragile to tamper with. You had the expertise, upgrading the building's ancient infrastructure piece by piece, replacing archaic software, and even crafting a few custom bypasses to prevent future failures.
You worked through the nights, running on energy drinks and old-world stubbornness.
At one point, as you both crouched in a crawlspace, fighting a cluster of tangled wires, Briggs wiped sweat from his brow and glanced at you. "You know, you ain't half bad at this."
You chuckled, twisting a bundle of cables together. "High praise from a guy who thought I was just some Corpo brat."
Briggs grinned. "Still might be. But at least you're a useful one."
By the time Sunday night rolled around, the building was practically humming with new life. The lights were stable, the power grid was optimized, and for the first time in years, the elevators didn't feel like death traps.
Briggs leaned against the doorway of the basement, cybernetic arm crossed over his chest as he surveyed the work. "Hell of a job, kid."
You cracked your knuckles, exhausted but satisfied. "Damn right it was."
Briggs chuckled, pushing off the doorframe. "If this whole Corpo mess ever goes south on you, you might have a future in maintenance."
You smirked. "I'll keep that in mind."
Reward: Power upgraded.
Final crafting quality increased by +1. Design turn component costs for testing decreased.
--------------------------------------------
-[X]"Burning Chrome Baptism" (Fixer: Sable Noir)
--[X] Kenji, Senji
---[X] Kenji : Hellspitter, Senji : Killer Angel, Aegis Hygeia
Continued in Burning Chrome Baptism.
-[X]"Silver Lament" (Fixer: Sable Noir)
--[X] Stella, Malcolm Rolled:D20 => 20
The plan had been almost too easy.
Stella, ever the genius when it came to system manipulation, had stalled the train with nothing more than a well-timed message to Night City's overworked and underpaid ground crew. With the rail infrastructure being as unreliable as it was, a simple maintenance delay was enough to buy them the window they needed. That gave Malcolm time to slip onto the train as just another passenger—no alarms, no fuss.
Then the security lagged behind, and Malcolm did what Malcolm did best.
The first shot cracked through the air like a whip. The second followed before anyone even had time to react. By the third, the train car was drowning in chaos. Corpo security scrambled, but it didn't matter. Malcolm moved with the confidence of a man who had done this a thousand times before, weaving through the cramped aisles with his .44 barking death.
He didn't just kill them. He destroyed them.
A bullet to the head. A knife to the gut. A boot to the throat just to watch them gasp for air before he finished the job. It wasn't just efficiency—it was pleasure. Malcolm thrived in the carnage, reveling in the screams, the panic, the way power shifted the second the first body dropped.
By the time he reached his target, the entire train car was a slaughterhouse.
The woman had been hiding, pressed against the wall like a rat caught in a flood. Her face was streaked with sweat and smeared makeup, her corpo suit no longer pristine, no longer a symbol of power.
She begged. Pleaded. Offered everything she had—secrets, money, escape routes—anything if it meant keeping her head attached to her shoulders.
Malcolm listened. He even nodded, as if considering her words. Then he pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed through the blood-soaked car, and the woman's body slumped to the ground.
Malcolm exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "I don't like people begging for their lives when they have no leverage," he muttered, holstering his gun.
He was a psychopath. No hesitation. No remorse. Just blood and bullets and an unsettling grin.
And the worst part? He was damn good at it, and he really wanted to work with Kenji again.
Said simply: "He's the best at what he does. And I want to learn from the best."
Reward: +500 standard components.
There are now rumors going around that Malcolm… yes Malcolm, Is now beginning to be hunted by sadistic killers for the Combat zone.
They want to turn him into a modern-day gladiator… in a place where he will not survive.
Best to let the heat cool off on him before things get to heavy.
AN: Enjoy.
[X]Father: "Come." that was all the message said. Rolled:D20 => 19
You stepped into the dimly lit apartment, the air thick with the scent of burnt circuitry and stale antiseptics. The low hum of cyberware diagnostics filled the silence, punctuated only by the ragged coughs of the man slouched in the chair before you.
Your father.
His chair wasn't just a seat—it was a monitoring station, thick cables feeding into the ports along his spine, reading his failing vitals and degraded cyberware functions. His breathing was labored, his augmented lungs struggling to cycle oxygen properly.
His eyes flicked up to you, the dull glow of implants reflecting in the dim light.
"So you've come," he rasped. His voice was rough, brittle—like metal grinding against bone. "Get in here."
Before you could step further, the door hissed shut behind you.
A shadow moved in the corner of the room. A bodyguard emerged from the dark, chrome-plated arms adjusting the aim of a high-caliber pistol now trained on your head.
Your pulse spiked.
"What the hell is this, Father?" you asked, forcing your tone to remain even.
He chuckled dryly, a sound laced with both amusement and self-loathing. "I need your help. As much as it pains me to say those words to you."
Another cough wracked his body, his cybernetic chestplate flickering with warning signals. He grimaced, shaking his head.
"You were right," he admitted. "I haven't been able to maintain my cyberware at peak efficiency… but that's not my failure." His eyes darkened. "Your mother made it so."
That made you pause.
"…Why would she do that?"
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Why does she do anything? Why did she drag you to Night City, abandon you here, when she could have kept you safe and controllable in Tokyo?" His voice dripped with scorn. Then he coughed again, the lights of his neural interface flickering wildly.
"But then again," he continued, his tone shifting, "I had my part to play."
He gestured for you to step closer.
"You were told there was a neural tracking chip in your head. One that could locate you anywhere on Earth."
You stiffened. "She told me that herself," you said. "It's why I never left."
He let out another rasping chuckle. His hand moved, retrieving something from the table beside him—a mechanical syringe.
Not a normal injector. This was a surgical extraction tool, meant to remove micro-implants from deep neural tissue without causing permanent damage.
He held it out to you.
"Put it at the base of your skull," he instructed. "And don't move."
Your grip tightened around the injector. Every instinct screamed at you not to trust him—but at the same time, he had never needed you before. Not like this.
You pressed the cold metal against your neck. A sharp prick, followed by a strange sensation—like something detaching from your nervous system.
Then, from the tip of the extractor, a small, blinking chip fell into the collection chamber.
A chip that was still beeping.
You took a step back, your breath catching. "What the hell is this?"
Your father leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto the device. "The tracking chip wasn't just for keeping you in Night City…" His lips curled. "It was a prototype doll chip."
Your stomach turned to ice.
"You're lying," you said immediately.
But he shook his head. "Your mother helped develop it. At least, that's what she told me." He exhaled sharply. "She was never going to let you stay here. She was coming for you, and when she did…" His gaze sharpened. "She would have flipped that chip on and ripped your willpower away in an instant."
Your fingers curled into fists.
A doll chip. Designed to override the conscious mind, turning people into perfectly obedient puppets—for hours, days… years, if programmed right.
And she had put one inside you. As a child… that could have killed you.
Your father watched your expression carefully, gauging your reaction.
"Why are you telling me this now?" you demanded. "What do you get out of it?"
He exhaled, and then—he smiled.
"For one thing," he said, the bodyguard's gun clicking as it locked onto you, "I need your help."
The red targeting laser brushed against your forehead.
"You understand cyberware, you seem to have knowledge of someone who has studied and tinkered and built things…" he continued smoothly. "Help me fix what's wrong with me."
Your mouth went dry. "I don't have the tools, I don't know how to-"
"You will try," he cut in, his voice calm. "Or you'll die here. Choose."
And just like that, the power dynamic shifted, your father's gaze expectant.
Because you had always been disposable. But now?
Now you were useful.
You glanced at the vitals monitors, the screens flickering with warning signs. Red alerts pulsed across the holographic displays, casting a sickly glow over the room. His biometric readings were a disaster—his heart rate irregular, his oxygen saturation unstable, and his core temperature fluctuating in ways that no human body should withstand.
But it was his cyberware loadout that told the real story.
His entire body was nearly chromed out, a patchwork of high-grade augmentations grafted onto a failing organic system. His neural chip was pushed to its limits, constantly overclocked to compensate for the wear and tear. The remnants of his biological nervous system—what little was still intact—were clearly breaking down under the strain.
And then there was his immune system—or rather, the complete lack of one. He was fully dependent on immunosuppressants, meaning his own body was at war with itself. Every implant, every modification was a hodgepodge of outdated software and brute-force workarounds, held together by sheer necessity rather than proper integration.
If he had chosen this for himself, that would have been one thing. Some people burned through their humanity like cheap fuel, trading flesh for steel willingly. But something in your gut told you that he hadn't been given much of a choice.
And that was something you could use.
You exhaled slowly, straightening. "No," you said, voice even. "Not without conditions."
Your father's cybernetic fingers tightened around the armrest, servos whirring as he processed your defiance. The bodyguard's aim didn't waver, the gun trained dead-center on your skull.
Your father let out a rasping chuckle. "I have a gun pointed at your head, son." His voice was a low growl, edged with something dangerously close to amusement. "What the hell makes you think you're in a position to negotiate?"
But that was just it.
You weren't bargaining from a position of power—you were bargaining because he needed you more than you needed him. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, he knew it.
"You already know," you said quietly, keeping your voice steady.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a slow twinkle flickered in your father's optics, a cold artificial light gleaming beneath the surface. His smile was knowing, calculated—a predator's grin. "You have learned something here after all."
He was proud of you.
And that made you sick.
You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to stay still. "I want full access to my inheritance at eighteen. No strings attached. No joining Arasaka, no things that I have to follow… I get everything that I would get when you die, when I turn 18, and I never see you again."
The moment the words left your mouth, he threw his head back and bellowed in laughter, the sound reverberating through the room. It wasn't amusement—it was mockery, a condescending sort of delight.
"You want money. Resources." He shook his head, smiling as if you were a child demanding sweets. "I can see you've learned from the best."
Your jaw tightened, but you didn't rise to the bait. "And—"
"And?" He arched a brow, incredulous. "What more can you demand from me besides money and resources?"
You didn't hesitate. "A warehouse on the docks. Under my name. You cover the taxes. I take full ownership when I turn eighteen. But before than, I can use it for whatever I desire. What I want, with no oversight from you, or mom."
His expression shifted, ever so slightly. Not shock—he was too controlled for that—but intrigue.
Because now he knew this wasn't just about wealth. It was about control. About freedom.
And he wasn't sure if he liked that.
The tension stretched between you like a tripwire, each second balanced on a razor's edge. Then, finally, he exhaled.
"Fine," he said at last, voice clipped, eyes narrowed. "Now, get to work."
You didn't hesitate. Not because you weren't afraid, but because this—this—was a puzzle. And you had always loved puzzles.
You weren't a ripperdoc, not by a long shot. But you were an engineer. A problem-solver. And your father was just a machine wearing human skin—a machine that had been badly maintained.
His cyberware was a mess of mismatched parts, barely functioning as a single system. It was like someone had upgraded him out of necessity, not precision. Like he was being kept alive, rather than improved. And that… that didn't sit right with you.
His optics were lagging, the firmware at least two years out of date. You flashed the system, updated the drivers, and adjusted the calibration. The new patches would sharpen his vision to near-perfection, reduce latency, and eliminate the glitches.
His arms were running dry—synth blood levels dangerously low, hydraulics overcompensating for muscle fatigue. The pressure was straining his heart, the feedback loop of bio-mechanical stress making him weaker rather than stronger.
You injected fresh synth blood, flushed out the fluid channels, and recalibrated the pressure to ease the strain. It wouldn't fix the bigger issue—his failing organic components—but it would make him faster, smoother, more efficient.
His synth lungs should have been perfect, a cutting-edge model capable of filtering toxins and enhancing endurance. But someone had crippled them, capping efficiency at 85%—the equivalent of a man with asthma, constantly struggling for breath.
Whoever did this didn't want him dead—they wanted him weakened.
You bypassed the restrictions. The moment you did, his breathing shifted—a long, slow inhale, deeper than anything he had taken in years. Power returned to his posture, his shoulders settling into something more natural.
Then came the real mystery. His neural system was a disaster, a chaotic web of feedback errors and misfires, like someone had rewired pain receptors to amplify suffering rather than dull it.
Every movement had been sending spikes of agony through his body.
And he hadn't even known.
Was it faulty engineering? Or deliberate? A built-in punishment—a failsafe, ensuring he was never truly at ease?
You dampened the pain responses, cleaned the routing protocols, and stabilized the connection between his nervous system and cybernetics.
He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and took another deep breath. For the first time since you entered the room, his face betrayed something almost human—relief.
You couldn't fix everything. His immune system was shot, his body dependent on immunosuppressants just to keep the cyberware from eating him alive.
But now, at least, he had a fighting chance.
Would he thank you? Doubtful.
Would he use this newfound strength against you? Probably.
But for now, you had done what you set out to do.
And you had learned something.
Your father had spent his whole life controlling others—and yet, he had been living in a prison of his own making.
When it was over, the night was over.
And you were staring at your father as he sat up, a new man.
His posture had shifted—where there had once been strain, there was now control. His breathing, once ragged, was now even, measured, confident. He rolled his shoulders, testing the newfound efficiency of his cyberware. The power that had once been slipping through his fingers had been returned to him.
And you had done that.
"Now—" he began, but you raised your hand, thumb pressing down on the small button in your palm.
"The final fail-safe until a physical contract is signed, Father," you said smoothly.
His optics flickered with suspicion.
"This button," you continued, dangling it before him, "will shut down all your implants. Your lungs. Your heart. Your nervous system. You'll be dead before you hit the floor."
It was a lie.
But he didn't know that.
His lips curled in a silent snarl. "You little—" He stopped himself, eyes tracking the device. Calculating.
"Why?" he finally asked, voice quieter, more controlled.
"Because nothing matters unless it's in writing." You smiled thinly. "I don't trust you to follow through unless I see it, signed and sealed. Until everything I demanded is mine."
A pause. Then, unexpectedly—your father laughed.
"Finally."
The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine.
He didn't hesitate—he simply leaned forward, pulled up a digital contract, and began drafting the documents. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly.
And as you watched, you realized something.
He had been working on this already.
Your stomach twisted.
"How much do you know about my little hobby?" you asked carefully.
Your father shook his head. "I'm the reason no one has discovered it." He took a slow, deep breath—enjoying the sensation of lungs finally working at full capacity. "You aren't as sneaky as you think, Senji."
There was something in his voice you didn't expect.
Respect.
"But," he continued, "you certainly know how to make something… real."
You stared at him, at the calculating gleam in his optics. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even offended. If anything, he was pleased. Like you had finally met his expectations.
And that sickened you.
"I hope to never see you again, Father," you said flatly.
He smiled. "And I will honor your wishes… despite my own desire to simply kidnap you and force you to do what I want."
Something about the way he said it—so casual, so honest—made your blood turn to ice.
"What's stopping you?" you asked, your voice cold.
Your father looked away. Out the window, where the neon haze of Night City pulsed like a living thing.
"We made a deal," he said. "And I don't break my deals."
Then, after a long silence, he spoke your name. "Senji."
There was something in his voice—something that almost sounded like hesitation.
"If your mother comes to Night City…" He stopped. Then, finally, he turned to look at you. "Don't listen to a word she says."
His expression darkened.
"And if you have the ability to… kill her."
The words hung in the air, heavy as lead.
You stared. "Why?"
For the first time, you saw something other than calculation in his face. A flicker of something deeper.
And then he frowned.
"There are certain things even I do not know," he admitted. "But know this—" his gaze hardened—"I see you as a tool for my own ends. The same as your mother does."
His voice dropped to something dangerous.
"But there is something deeply wrong with her. She wouldn't just use you. She wouldn't just control you. If she thought she could make the Arasaka family rulers of the world… she would burn it to the ground to do it. She would turn you into something you won't recognize… and you would be doing it without a single hesitation."
The neon outside hummed in the silence between you.
And for the first time in your life, you wondered if your father was the lesser evil.
Reward: You saved your father from his own body. And than he has given you what you wanted.
You have gained a new workshop, a warehouse by the docks.
You have gained one workshop action.
Can now upgrade production runs, and invest into tech to make better weapons and armor.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-[X]I Belive in Destiny: Kenji wants you to come with him. He wants to meet with a new… Yakuza member in the city. He's coming to kill him. Rolled:D20 => 19
Marked for Death
The club throbbed with neon light, pulsing in time with the relentless blare of J-pop and electro beats imported straight from Tokyo. The air was thick with synth smoke, the scent of high-end cigarettes mixing with the tang of cheap whiskey and sweat.For a moment, you could almost pretend you were back home. Almost.
But that illusion shattered the moment the karaoke machine was silenced by the heavy thud of the office doors closing behind you.
The sudden quiet was deafening.
You and Kenji sat across from the man behind the desk—the Oyabun. He was old-school Yakuza, the kind who carved his way to power and held onto it with an iron grip. His suit was sharp, but his tattoos peeked out from beneath the cuffs—dragons and demons, old-world ink that told a story in blood and steel.
And right now, those black eyes were drilling into Kenji.
"You know, Kenji…" the Oyabun said slowly, his voice like the scrape of a knife against a whetstone. "You are marked for death."
A chill ran through you. Around the room, the heavies stiffened, hands twitching toward steel—blades and heat both.
Kenji didn't flinch.
"I know," he said, voice even. "But I will not follow the orders."
His words hung in the air like the edge of a blade.
"As much as my honor has been tainted," he continued, "my mission remains the same." He tilted his chin ever so slightly in your direction. "To protect my young ward. And I will not abandon it until I am dead… or no longer needed."
That was when the tension snapped.
You felt it like a wire pulled too tight—one of the heavies twitched, fingers ghosting toward his blade. Another's cybernetics whirred, his optics flickering red for a split second.
Your Killer Angel was already on your arm, a whisper of synthetic silk against your skin, ready to be drawn.
But Kenji? He was calm.
Steady.
Like he had already made peace with the fact that he might die in this room.
And that scared you more than anything else.
Yet, his voice didn't waver.
"Still, I come here with respect for the organization," he said. He dipped his head slightly—not bowing, not submitting, but acknowledging the weight of the room. "And I ask that you leave my ward out of this… business."
Silence.
The Oyabun studied him. The gears behind his ruthless gaze turned, weighing loyalty against betrayal, honor against practicality.
And in that moment, you realized something:
Kenji had placed his life on the table.
The Oyabun exhaled slowly, fingers steepled as he considered Kenji's words. The weight of the moment settled over the room like a storm front—heavy, electric, waiting to break.
Then, after an eternity, he nodded.
"You were a good soldier, Kenji." His voice was almost… respectful. "Loyal. Efficient. A man who knew his duty. Before your fall, you brought honor to the organization."
Kenji said nothing, his face carved from stone.
"I respect what you have chosen," the Oyabun continued. "To protect your ward, to turn your back on the old life. Few men are willing to make such a choice." He exhaled through his nose. "And I will respect it."
The tension in the room shifted, not gone, but changed—a shift from execution to ritual.
The Oyabun's gaze hardened. "But honor demands a price."
A knife was placed on the table before him.
A wakizashi blade, gleaming under the dim office lights. Its edge was pristine, honed for a purpose older than any of them.
"One last duty, Kenji," the Oyabun said, voice low and final. "To sever the past, so you may walk into the future unbound. Your yubitsume."
A blood price for his freedom.
The room was silent.
The heavies watched, not with mockery, not with hostility, but with understanding. They knew the weight of this demand. The final sacrifice of a man leaving behind his clan.
Kenji did not hesitate.
He reached for the blade, his grip steady. He turned his hand, palm down, placing his left pinky against the table. His right hand gripped the handle, aligning the edge against the joint.
No hesitation.
No second chances.
With a swift, clean slice, the blade cut through skin, bone, nerve.
A sharp exhale—the only sign of pain.
Blood splattered across the table. The severed digit lay there, a small, lifeless thing.
Kenji took a shaking breath and placed the knife down. He lifted his hand, pressing it into a cloth one of the heavies handed him. His expression did not change.
The Oyabun watched the blood pool, then nodded once.
"It is done."
The severed finger was taken, wrapped in cloth, a final offering to the past.
Kenji sat back, pressing the cloth to his wound, but his eyes remained locked onto the Oyabun's. No fear. No anger.
Only resolve.
The Oyabun studied him for a moment longer, then turned his gaze to you.
"Your guardian has paid his price," he said. "The debt is settled. The organization will not pursue you."
His black eyes glittered like onyx.
"But understand this—Kenji's life is now his own. His choices, his loyalties—they no longer lead back to us."
A silent warning. If Kenji ever crossed the organization again, there would be no ceremony, no blade, no respect.
Only death.
Kenji nodded once. "I understand."
The Oyabun gestured toward the door.
"Then go. And do not look back."
Kenji stood. You followed.
As the door shut behind you, the noise of the club flooded back in—the bass, the voices, the life of Night City.
But something was different.
Kenji was free.
Reward: Kenji is free of his Yakuza obligations.
He can now fully work for you without any strings or potential past making things difficult.
------------------
-[X]Malcolm, and Blood: Malcolm has smiled as he looked at you. "You are awesome you know that." Rolled:D20 => 11
Malcolm was not a simple man. He was a contradiction, a walking paradox, a storm barely held together in human form. At least, that's what you used to think.
But honestly? When you stripped everything else away, there was one simple truth.
He was a killer.
And he enjoyed it.
Malcolm leaned back, rolling his shoulders, his grin splitting across his face like a fresh wound. His eyes, cold and hungry, glittered under the dim neon light.
"You know," he drawled, spinning the heavy .44 in his grip with practiced ease. "You're awesome, you know that? Few people look at me and say, 'that is a guy I trust to get things done.' But you—you didn't hesitate. You just put this big, beautiful hand cannon in my palm and let me do what I do best."
He kissed the barrel, smirking. "And for that? I appreciate it."
You exhaled slowly, watching him carefully, measuring the sharp edges of his enthusiasm.
"Yeah," you muttered. "I just don't want you pointing that pistol at me."
Malcolm laughed—a sharp, jagged sound, like a blade scraping metal.
"C'mon now." He turned the gun, spinning it once more before clicking the safety on and tucking it into his belt. "We're partners, yeah? I don't shoot partners. Hell, I even like you."
His grin widened, and somehow, that didn't make you feel any better.
Reward: Malcolm is… well not… anything more than what he is.
Soon you may start his loyalty missions and quest line.
-----------------------------------------------------------
-[X]The Runner on the Edge: Stella sat down on the roof next to you. "I have a question: If I jumped off this roof, would you jump after me?" Rolled:D20 => 14
Stella sat down beside you on the rooftop, the city stretching out below like a neon-drenched ocean, rippling and shifting with the currents of headlights, holograms, and restless movement. The skyline twisted and pulsed, alive in the way only Night City ever could be.
"I have a question," she murmured, tilting her head, her synthetic irises catching the shifting light. "If I jumped off this roof, would you jump after me?"
That caught you off guard.
"What?"
She didn't look at you, only at the city below. "I want to know if you care enough about me to follow me down, not knowing if we'd survive or not."
You frowned, unnerved by the casual way she said it. "I care enough to not let you jump in the first place."
That made her smile—slow, deliberate, as if you'd just given her the answer she was hoping for. She turned, watching you closely now, studying the way your brow furrowed, the way your fingers tensed against the ledge.
"Really?"
You hesitated, suddenly reevaluating your own words.
"You're a friend," you admitted carefully. "And an acquaintance that's… useful to me. I don't like losing people who can help me."
It was corpo speak, clinical, distanced, a convenient wall of professionalism meant to keep emotions in check. To make sure things didn't get messy.
But even then…
Even then, you felt something.
It wasn't love—not that kind of love, anyway. But there was an undeniable attraction, a pull that was dangerously close to desire. Stella was beautiful, and her body was as malleable as she wanted it to be. If you asked, she could change, adjust, sculpt herself into whatever vision you wanted. And sometimes, she did it without even thinking, shifting between looks, playing with appearances like it was second nature.
Maybe that was why you didn't say anything.
Because deep down, you already knew—she didn't want to be seen as anything more than a competent companion. Someone who could do the job, someone who could keep up, someone irreplaceable, not because of beauty, but because of skill.
But Stella was sharp, and she saw what was going through your head.
And when she smirked, it wasn't just amusement—it was understanding.
"Follow me," she said, her voice quieter now, as she led you through the dimly lit corridor and into her apartment.
The door hissed shut behind you, the lock clicking into place as you turned back toward her. She had already settled onto the edge of her bed, her cybernetic fingers idly tracing patterns against the fabric of the sheets. The glow of the city filtered through the tinted windows, bathing the room in cold neon hues.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"For what?" you asked, tilting your head.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "For not seeing me as an object."
Your brow furrowed. "While you are aesthetically beautiful, I find someone who can save my ass far more valuable than someone who just looks pretty. What do you think I am, some feudal samurai looking for a decorative companion?"
That made Stella laugh, the sound unexpectedly genuine. "Well, you are the son of corporate royalty."
You snorted, leaning against the wall. "Said royalty that doesn't even acknowledge my existence."
She studied you for a moment, her expression unreadable. "That doesn't mean it's not still in your blood."
You shrugged, arms crossed. "Blood doesn't mean shit in Night City."
Stella smirked, resting her chin on her palm. "Maybe. But it still has a way of catching up with you."
Stella's smirk faded as she leaned back, her fingers tracing over the netrunner suit of her arm. The soft hum of the city outside filled the silence between you.
"Look," she said, voice low, measured. "If you want me, you don't have to dance around it."
You blinked. "What?"
She scoffed, tilting her head as if she were speaking to a child. "I know how this works. You help me, I help you. No strings, no complications. You clearly find me attractive, and I have no illusions about what most people want from me." She shifted slightly, her eyes locked onto yours. "So if that's what you want, take it."
For a moment, you just stared at her. The invitation in her voice, the way she carried herself—it wasn't desperate, wasn't vulnerable. It was a transaction. A calculated offer. And that made something twist in your gut.
"No," you said finally.
She froze. "What?"
You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. "I don't want that, Stella."
Her brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly. You could see the gears in her mind turning, trying to make sense of it, to rationalize your refusal. "You don't?" she echoed, almost as if she didn't believe it.
"No," you repeated, voice firm. "Because that's not all you are. And I'm not interested in treating you like you're only worth what you can give me."
Something inside her cracked.
Her breath hitched, and before you could say anything else, tears welled up in her eyes. She looked away sharply, pressing the heel of her palm against her face as if trying to force them back.
"Fuck," she whispered.
You hesitated, unsure of what to say, what to do. Stella wasn't someone who cried. She was someone who adapted, who changed, who wore different faces as easily as she breathed. But this? This was real. This was raw.
"I—" she tried, but her voice broke. She gritted her teeth, swallowing hard. "I just… I didn't think you were that kind of person."
You took a slow step forward, careful, measured. "What kind of person?"
Her eyes finally met yours, and there was something almost wounded in them. "A good one."
You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. "That's a pretty low bar, Stella."
She let out a shaky laugh, wiping her face quickly before the tears could truly fall. "You'd be surprised how few people clear it."
Silence stretched between you again, but this time, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was something else. Something heavier.
"You should get some rest," you said finally, stepping back toward the door.
Stella stared at you, still unraveling, still trying to understand before she finally nodded. "Yeah," she whispered.
But as you turned away, you heard her voice again—softer, almost fragile.
"Senji?"
You paused, glancing back.
"…Thank you."
You didn't say anything. You just nodded. And then you left, letting the door shut quietly behind you.
Reward: you and Stella talk…
And come to a greater understanding.
Also you refuse her advances because you don't want that. And that made you rise to the top of her people list.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
-[X]The Workshop Powerstatintion: Maybe you can fix it on the down low. Rolled:D20 + 2 => 19
To think, all it took to fix the building's entire power system was tracking down the Techie who actually ran the place.
You had expected some high-end Corpo engineer, someone with sleek chrome enhancements and a personality as cold as their balance sheets. Instead, you found yourself in a dimly lit basement, staring at a grease-streaked mechanic in a sweat-stained tank top, half-buried in a mess of tangled wires and humming machinery.
He barely looked up when you entered, muttering something under his breath as he yanked a wrench against a stubborn bolt.
"Name's Briggs," he finally grunted, voice rough, tired. "You the one bitching about the power?"
You crossed your arms. "More like the one trying to keep this building from turning into a blackout zone."
Briggs snorted. "Yeah, well, tell that to the fuckers up top who think cutting maintenance costs is a smart move. Half this wiring's older than I am." He shook his head, wiping oil off his cybernetic hand. "Damn Corpo bastards don't get that things need to be maintained, not just replaced when they finally break."
You raised an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for the sentimental type."
He smirked, a jagged scar on his cheek pulling slightly. "Ain't sentiment. It's common sense. You take care of your gear, it takes care of you. Same rule applies whether it's a rifle, a ride, or a whole damn building."
It made sense. He wasn't some high-end Corpo tech specialist—he was a grunt, ex-military, someone who had spent his life keeping things running rather than tearing them down and rebuilding them for a profit. A mechanic first, a techie second.
And judging by the mess around him, he was the only reason this building still had power at all.
The basement was a mess—flickering monitors, rusted junction boxes, and a tangled web of wires barely holding the building together. One bad surge, and the whole place would go dark.
You exhaled, hands on your hips. "I can help."
Briggs, the building's techie, barely looked up as he pried a fried capacitor out of a circuit board with his cybernetic fingers. "Oh yeah? And what do you know about keeping this piece of junk running?"
You stepped closer. "I'm an engineer. Not some Corpo suit who throws money at problems—I actually build and fix things. You said it yourself: you take care of your gear, it takes care of you."
Briggs narrowed his eyes, sizing you up. Then he smirked, standing up with a groan and rolling his shoulders. "Alright, kid. You wanna get your hands dirty? Be my guest. But I ain't paying you."
You smirked back. "Wouldn't dream of charging you."
The weekend was hell.
The building was a patchwork of half-assed fixes and jury-rigged wiring, slapped together by cheap labor and even cheaper materials. What should've been a simple job turned into a two-day marathon of tearing out corroded power lines, rewiring faulty connections, and replacing burnt-out breakers.
Briggs had the experience, knowing which corners to cut and which systems were too fragile to tamper with. You had the expertise, upgrading the building's ancient infrastructure piece by piece, replacing archaic software, and even crafting a few custom bypasses to prevent future failures.
You worked through the nights, running on energy drinks and old-world stubbornness.
At one point, as you both crouched in a crawlspace, fighting a cluster of tangled wires, Briggs wiped sweat from his brow and glanced at you. "You know, you ain't half bad at this."
You chuckled, twisting a bundle of cables together. "High praise from a guy who thought I was just some Corpo brat."
Briggs grinned. "Still might be. But at least you're a useful one."
By the time Sunday night rolled around, the building was practically humming with new life. The lights were stable, the power grid was optimized, and for the first time in years, the elevators didn't feel like death traps.
Briggs leaned against the doorway of the basement, cybernetic arm crossed over his chest as he surveyed the work. "Hell of a job, kid."
You cracked your knuckles, exhausted but satisfied. "Damn right it was."
Briggs chuckled, pushing off the doorframe. "If this whole Corpo mess ever goes south on you, you might have a future in maintenance."
You smirked. "I'll keep that in mind."
Reward: Power upgraded.
Final crafting quality increased by +1. Design turn component costs for testing decreased.
--------------------------------------------
-[X]"Burning Chrome Baptism" (Fixer: Sable Noir)
--[X] Kenji, Senji
---[X] Kenji : Hellspitter, Senji : Killer Angel, Aegis Hygeia
Continued in Burning Chrome Baptism.
-[X]"Silver Lament" (Fixer: Sable Noir)
--[X] Stella, Malcolm Rolled:D20 => 20
The plan had been almost too easy.
Stella, ever the genius when it came to system manipulation, had stalled the train with nothing more than a well-timed message to Night City's overworked and underpaid ground crew. With the rail infrastructure being as unreliable as it was, a simple maintenance delay was enough to buy them the window they needed. That gave Malcolm time to slip onto the train as just another passenger—no alarms, no fuss.
Then the security lagged behind, and Malcolm did what Malcolm did best.
The first shot cracked through the air like a whip. The second followed before anyone even had time to react. By the third, the train car was drowning in chaos. Corpo security scrambled, but it didn't matter. Malcolm moved with the confidence of a man who had done this a thousand times before, weaving through the cramped aisles with his .44 barking death.
He didn't just kill them. He destroyed them.
A bullet to the head. A knife to the gut. A boot to the throat just to watch them gasp for air before he finished the job. It wasn't just efficiency—it was pleasure. Malcolm thrived in the carnage, reveling in the screams, the panic, the way power shifted the second the first body dropped.
By the time he reached his target, the entire train car was a slaughterhouse.
The woman had been hiding, pressed against the wall like a rat caught in a flood. Her face was streaked with sweat and smeared makeup, her corpo suit no longer pristine, no longer a symbol of power.
She begged. Pleaded. Offered everything she had—secrets, money, escape routes—anything if it meant keeping her head attached to her shoulders.
Malcolm listened. He even nodded, as if considering her words. Then he pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed through the blood-soaked car, and the woman's body slumped to the ground.
Malcolm exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "I don't like people begging for their lives when they have no leverage," he muttered, holstering his gun.
He was a psychopath. No hesitation. No remorse. Just blood and bullets and an unsettling grin.
And the worst part? He was damn good at it, and he really wanted to work with Kenji again.
Said simply: "He's the best at what he does. And I want to learn from the best."
Reward: +500 standard components.
There are now rumors going around that Malcolm… yes Malcolm, Is now beginning to be hunted by sadistic killers for the Combat zone.
They want to turn him into a modern-day gladiator… in a place where he will not survive.
Best to let the heat cool off on him before things get to heavy.
AN: Enjoy.
Crafter of War
The Dorf
- Location
- Bend
So... uh, I guess we should probably keep in mind what our allies are like before assigning them jobs willy-nilly?
Well shit we got our dad approval, attention, pride on us, and he said our name correctly and with attention for the first time that feels wrong but also right in a way you finally got your parents approval but you also hate it because of what they are
Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
This entire chapter gave me massive Jinx vibes what with Senji's manic engineering on his dad and building and Malcolm's lack of awareness/consequence.
I wonder what Senji's preferred type of music is when he is working. Perhaps Eurobeats. I could totally picture him listening to running in the 90s.
I wonder what Senji's preferred type of music is when he is working. Perhaps Eurobeats. I could totally picture him listening to running in the 90s.
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Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
As the QM...
He listens to a lot of Chrome Rock.
And Rock in general.
He loves Samurai. but thinks that Kerry is the better singer then Johnny is.
Mom got demoted from I never want to see this crazy women to if I meet you and I have a 1% of killing you... I WILL TRY FUCKING ENDING YOU!
I mean yeah Kerry is better in my opinion as well. It just took him time to find his legs outside of Johnny's shadow. Also, It would be hilarious if we learn his real name since I don't recall a single time he was referred to by either his first or last name.
Edit: Its so cool that the net and actual pop culture is still a thing. If Senji ever goes Corpo or has to pretend to be one, he could go full Agent Smith taking off his glasses and earpiece and shock everyone with his utter contempt and self-awareness since from an outsider's perspective he looks exactly like a part of corpo culture.
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So Malcolm is the brute on our team. Good to know. I still say we keep him around. We need people like that even though it can be cruel.
Hey the last job of use making some electric gun to knock out a team we did. Can we make weapons like that? Specialized stuff for special jobs.
Hey the last job of use making some electric gun to knock out a team we did. Can we make weapons like that? Specialized stuff for special jobs.