Adventure 2: Never Fade Away Part 3:
-[X] A Katana sized for the armor, with a simple black and red grip and a blade with a crimson red color that occasionally sparks with red electricity dancing across the blade once the high-frequency function powers on. A simple weapon meant to kill its wielder's enemies.
--[X]High-Frequency Blade: You were curious of the new high-frequency blade schematics you… borrowed from Arasaka subnet. They can't figure it out… you did with just a glance.
--[X]Smart-Grip Interface – Uses neuro-connection technology to adapt to different weapons, tools, and combat styles, allowing better control and response time when handling various objects or weapons.
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The hotel room was more than just a place to crash—it was a safehouse, a refuge where mercs, techies, and netrunners alike left behind scraps of unfinished work, weapons in various states of assembly, and caches of tools waiting to be repurposed. It was a place where warriors rebuilt themselves, where blades were sharpened, and where fire was used to forge both steel and resolve.
And right now, you needed that. Desperately.
Your fingers curled around the battered katana—the same blade you had wielded at the Atlantis, slicing through Arasaka agents as if they were nothing. The edge was chipped, dulled from overuse, but that wasn't what made your grip tighten. It wasn't enough.
You needed more.
The compulsion gnawed at you, a drive that was just shy of obsession. The blade had served you well, but it could be better. It should be better.
The micro-forge tucked away in the bathroom was a godsend—a compact but powerful piece of tech meant for quick and dirty repairs, but you could make it work for something greater. The window was already cracked open, letting in the cool, polluted air of Night City, mixing the scent of burning metal with the ever-present smog.
The process was instinctual. Heat. Hammer. Quench. Shape. Repeat.
You worked with deliberate precision, reshaping the katana's edge, and reinforcing its structure. Your armor still wasn't perfect, and that meant the weapon had to compensate—balanced to your suit, forged to be an extension of your will. and with the nano tech, you could slice bullets.
A deep red hue crept along the metal, a product of forging trickery—a technique you had learned over the years, something to give the illusion of a blade wreathed in blood. But that wasn't enough, was it? No, you wanted more than just theatrics.
You rigged a small power cell into the handle, connecting it to the reactive elements in your suit's gauntlet. The result was subtle but effective: an electrified charge running along the length of the blade, arcing faintly in the dim light. It wasn't powerful enough to turn it into a vibroblade, but it would add just enough extra 'umph' to punch through cyberware and short out weaker defenses.
You ran a gloved hand along the new edge, watching how the faint electricity danced along the crimson steel.
Now, it was perfect.
As you finished the last careful adjustments to your reforged katana, setting it aside to let the steel settle, a strange sensation crept over you. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.
Slowly, you turned your head.
Rogue and Santiago were seated across the room, eyes flicking toward the N54 morning news, but you could tell—they'd been watching you the whole damn time. Santiago, arms crossed, wore his usual shit-eating grin, while Rogue only raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable.
"Well," she said, tilting her head toward the blade, "seems we have a reason to keep our mouths shut. Clearly, you're not some corpo."
You exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of your nose. You hadn't even noticed them. You had been so completely absorbed in the forging process that the rest of the world had just… faded away. Rookie mistake.
"Alright," you sighed, bracing yourself. "You're gonna demand something from me, aren't you? That's usually how this goes."
Santiago chuckled, shaking his head. "While I could, I realize you've got enough shit on your plate." He leaned back, casual, but there was an edge to his voice. "Been doing some digging with Rogue about you… Your parents are real pieces of work, huh?"
Your jaw tightened. "Yeah, no love lost."
Rogue smirked. "And here I thought corpos were all about family values."
You shot her a flat look. "Let's cut the exposition. What do you want?"
"Want nothing from you. At least not right now." Santiago said smoothly. Beside him, Rogue shrugged, unconcerned.
That made you narrow your eyes. "What?"
Rogue's gaze met yours, unblinking. "You're a merc. You'd sell out anyone for a paycheck."
You expected her to bristle at that, maybe snap back with something sharp. Instead, she just smirked.
"Let's just say I prefer playing the long game. Having a network of people is more valuable than cashing in for a quick payout."
You frowned but didn't argue. Fine. You'd figure out what that meant later.
For now, there were bigger concerns.
Santiago gestured toward the TV, where the morning N54 News broadcast was still rolling. The screen flickered, cutting from another corpo scandal to the next big headline:
"And now onto entertainment news.
Rockerboy legend Johnny Silverhand and his band, Samurai, have announced a surprise charity concert—one meant to protest the latest developments in the City Center District. Sources close to the band say this is in direct response to the forced displacement of thousands of residents due to Arasaka's latest urban development projects.
The concert, which is expected to be a massive underground event, aims to raise funds for those affected and further rally Night City against corporate overreach. Critics have called it nothing more than another publicity stunt, but with the influx of anti-corperate sentiment rising, many believe Silverhand is planning to unleash the crowd onto Arasaka buildings in protests.
"Arasaka representatives have yet to respond, but insiders suggest the corporation has already started preparing security measures. Whether this means an outright crackdown remains to be seen."
The broadcast cut to footage of Johnny, guitar in hand, sneering into a mic during some past performance.
You watched as Rogue and Santiago exchanged a glance.
Santiago's grin widened. "So, looks like Johnny's kicking the hornet's nest."
Rogue scoffed. "Wouldn't be the first time."
You leaned back, considering the implications. A massive protest, a charity concert, all in direct defiance of Arasaka?
Your stomach twisted. This was going to get messy.
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The setting sun bathed Arasaka Plaza in a deep, golden hue, casting long shadows across the streets below. From this high up, the city looked almost peaceful—almost.
Down at street level, it was anything but.
The streets were packed. Over 200,000 people—at least, according to N54's latest count—had crammed into the district, turning the entire plaza into a living, breathing beast of rebellion. Neon banners and graffiti-covered signs flickered in the crowd, some bearing anti-corpo slogans, others just screaming their love for Samurai. The air was electric with anticipation.
And at the heart of it all? Johnny fucking Silverhand.
You spotted him on stage, setting up for the show. Even Kerry—who, as usual, had been reluctant about Johnny's more blatantly anti-corporate stunts—was actually smiling, legitimately happy to be here. The rest of the band was tuning up, their pre-show rituals a mixture of calm and chaos. This was going to be huge.
Stepping out of the car, you found Thompson waiting for you, arms crossed, ever the picture of cool confidence.
You frowned, glancing at the fortress that was Arasaka Tower. "So we're just gonna rock out and walk through the front door?"
Thompson let out a bark of laughter. "Hell yeah. Johnny's plan sounded stupid… until I started seeing the crowds."
You glanced at the sea of people, a roaring, shifting tide of flesh, chrome, and neon. N54 was calling this one of the largest spontaneous concerts in history.
"And it's not just Samurai playing?" you asked.
"Nah. Johnny got some local talent to start the show. Get the energy up. Then, when Samurai plays…" He shook his head with a grin. "It's gonna be loud, powerful, and legendary. And once it's over… well, that's when the riot starts."
You raised an eyebrow. "Riot?"
Thompson smirked. "Johnny wrote a special song just for the occasion. And guess what? Kerry actually likes it."
That made you blink. "Kerry liked the song?"
"Yep." Thompson's grin widened. "Which means it's actually good."
That was… unexpected.
Your gaze returned to the towering Arasaka building looming over the concert. A steel-and-glass monolith of control, power, and untouchable wealth. And here you were, walking straight into it.
"So we're really just walking in the front door?" you asked again, incredulous.
"Yep," Thompson said without hesitation.
You sighed. "You do realize there are people working there, right? Like, actual people? Not just Arasaka suits."
Thompson gave you a blank stare. "And?"
"The front desk people are nice," you said, adjusting your coat. "Please don't hurt them."
Thompson frowned. "Why?"
"They work for an evil corporation that literally kills people."
"Yeah," you admitted, "but they're nice. Just because they work for an evil megacorp hellbent on running this city doesn't mean they're bad people."
Thompson scoffed. "That the corpo in you talking?"
You shook your head. "Nah, that's just the kid in me who liked the fact they used to give me candy and chocolate since I was eight."
Thompson stared at you for a second. Then he just sighed.
"Jesus," he muttered. "You're weird."
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The air was thick with anticipation. The entire city seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Samurai to finally take the stage. The streets were packed, bodies pressed together in a writhing sea of excitement and rebellion. Even the neon billboards—so often spewing corpo propaganda—seemed drowned out by the sheer energy radiating from the crowd.
And the money kept pouring in.
The charity drive for the victims of Arasaka's displacement tactics had surged past 200 million eddies in just the last two hours. Every second, more donations rolled in, a steady flood of digital defiance against the megacorp that had uprooted so many lives.
And it was still climbing.
You stood at the edge of the stage, armor gleaming under the stage lights, sword strapped to your side. In your hands, you turned over the menpō mask Thompson had given you. The fierce oni visage stared back at you, its snarling maw frozen in a battle-ready expression.
You took a deep breath. Then you put it on.
The weight of it settled over your face, a reminder of the choice you had made—to step into the shadows, to become something other than just Senji Masamune.
You didn't like looking so different.
But you knew what Kenji would say if he were here.
Stay safe. Stay hidden. Stay alive.
And he would be pissed as hell if he knew what you were about to do.
You turned toward Thompson, who was monitoring the constant stream of donations on his portable screen.
"So, what's happening?" you asked, voice slightly distorted through the mask's modulator. "Anyone weird donate yet?"
Thompson let out a sharp laugh. "I shit you not—Yorinobu Arasaka just wired half a million eddies to the concert."
You blinked. "Shit, really?"
Moving to his side, you glanced at the screen. And sure enough—there it was. The heir to Arasaka, the rebellious son of Saburo himself, had dumped a massive chunk of eddies into the cause.
You let out a low whistle. "Damn. I knew he hated his dad, but using the family wallet like that?" You leaned in closer, considering the ramifications. "You think the Japanese media's gonna pick up on this?"
Thompson tapped a few keys, checking live feeds. He grinned. "Front page news."
You chuckled. "That's gotta suck for the old man."
"They'll spin it," Thompson said, shaking his head. "Arasaka PR will call it a 'gesture of goodwill' or some shit. Make it seem like they're the good guys in all this."
Your amusement faded, replaced with a scowl.
Of course they would. Arasaka was too big, too entrenched, too fucking skilled at playing the long game. They could turn a public disgrace into a PR win with just a few well-placed statements, a little media control, a bit of money changing hands.
You opened your mouth to respond—
Then you heard it.
The first rumbles of a guitar riff.
Slow. Deep. Heavy.
The final Samurai song.
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D20 + 20 => 40 | natural 20: 1 #Riot
The moment the first crashing chords of Archangel blasted from the speakers, the crowd erupted like a powder keg catching fire. The bassline thumped like a war drum, rattling through bones and marrow, igniting something primal in the packed sea of bodies. The crowd—hundreds of thousands strong—had been waiting, teetering on the edge, hungry for a spark.
And Johnny Silverhand had just lit the match.
His voice—raw, furious, electric—tore through the night.
"START THE RIOT!"
And just like that, they did.
The frontline—those closest to the barricades—didn't even hesitate. They were already throwing bottles, rocks, and fists at the Arasaka riot troops who had been sent in to keep the peace but had only managed to provoke the storm.
The first clash came in a blur of motion—batons raised, shields bracing—but it didn't matter. The sheer force of the crowd was like a tsunami, swallowing the first line of security before they could even react.
BOOM— A Molotov arced through the air, flames licking at the edges of an Arasaka patrol car before it erupted in fire.
CRASH— A metal barricade toppled, wrenched away by a dozen hands and then turned into a battering ram against the corp security line.
The cops pushed. The crowd pushed back harder.
Then Johnny roared again—voice bleeding through the speakers, unfiltered rage pouring into the microphone—
"YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO! BRING THE WHOLE FUCKIN' TOWER DOWN!"
And his army of fans listened.
Some weren't even thinking anymore. Just acting. Moving. Fighting.
Mercs and gangsters joined the maelstrom, side by side with ordinary people who had lost too much to Arasaka's greed.
A man in a tattered suit—someone who had been evicted from his home by an Arasaka-funded project— swung a metal pipe into the visor of a riot trooper.
A group of ex-factory workers—fired when Arasaka bought out their plant— slammed a dumpster into a security drone, sending it spinning into the pavement in a shower of sparks.
A gang of Valentinos—spurred on by the music, by the moment— emptied pistols into the air, screaming in defiance.
And the riot became a war.
A storm of fists, weapons, fire, and fury.
Arasaka troops tried to hold the line, but they were drowning in the tide. Some began retreating, others panicked, and a few just vanished into the chaos, swallowed whole by the mob.
The streetlights flickered in the thick smoke, shadows stretching wild and violent as fire began to consume everything.
And at the center of it all, standing on stage like a goddamn warlord, Johnny Silverhand screamed into the microphone—
"BURN IT ALL!"
Only then—only when the first wave of security forces crumbled—did you gather your wits. The battle haze lifted just enough for you to act.
You drew your blade, the edge catching the glow of fire and neon, and turned to see Rogue, Santiago, and Thompson already moving—running for the tower.
And then Johnny stepped down from the makeshift stage, striding forward at the head of his army.
He still held the mic in one hand, but in the other—a flare, burning like a molten brand in the night.
Before you, Arasaka's elite troopers had formed a defensive line at the tower entrance. Their armor gleamed in the firelight, high-end, corporate steel, their visor-covered faces unreadable, their comms buzzing with orders. They were disciplined, better trained than the riot cops, and they weren't about to break like their predecessors.
They had one job—hold the tower.
And Johnny Silverhand had one job—burn it down.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted the flare.
Paused.
And then he threw it.
It arced through the air, spinning, tumbling—
—before landing at their feet.
A heartbeat of stillness.
Then—
WHUMPF.
Gas canisters exploded from the upper floors, spewing thick, chemical fog down onto the battlefield.
Your stomach twisted. Oh, shit.
You saw the insignias on the side of the launchers, and your blood ran cold.
"We have to get inside!" you shouted, pushing forward, coming to a stop beside Johnny.
He stood unshaken, watching as the mist began rolling across the mob.
"They're deploying nerve agents!"
Johnny barely blinked. "No, they aren't." His voice was flat, almost amused.
Your jaw tightened. "Not the kind that kills people, Johnny—the kind that berserks them."
He paused, rubbed his chin like he was actually considering it.
Then he grinned—that wolfish, reckless grin.
"The crowd is already berserk." He gave a short, sharp laugh. "They're only gonna get angrier."
And as the gas spread, as it wormed its way into lungs, into bloodstreams—he was proven right.
A roar erupted from the mob, deeper, louder, more primal than before.
Arasaka's elite soldiers barely had time to react before the wall of humanity surged forward.
At first, the troopers held their ground—their advanced gear and riot protocols kept them standing even as the first wave of frenzied rioters crashed against them.
Then came the second wave.
And the third.
And suddenly, they weren't standing anymore.
The crowd overran them like a storm surge smashing through a seawall.
For every rioter that fell, two more took their place—screaming, swinging, tearing at armor and flesh alike.
A trooper in black armor tried to hold the line, baton swinging—only for a dozen hands to drag him down. He screamed as the crowd pummeled, clawed, and stomped him into the pavement.
Another fired his shotgun point-blank—the blast sent bodies flying, but before he could rack another shell, they were on him, hands clawing at his weapon, his helmet, tearing him apart.
The line broke completely.
Arasaka had sent its best.
And Johnny's army was eating them alive.
You barely had time to watch the massacre unfold before Johnny clapped you on the shoulder.
"Show's over, Samurai," he said, grinning. "Time for the encore."
Then he turned and ran—straight for the tower's front doors.
And you ran with him.
Santiago and Rogue were already moving, Thompson at their heels. Gunfire crackled behind you as the remaining Arasaka soldiers desperately tried to regroup—but the crowd had swallowed them whole.
The glass doors of the tower loomed ahead, guards inside staring in horror at what was happening outside.
One of them raised his weapon—
Too late.
You burst through the doors, blade in hand—
And the real battle began.
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As you entered the building you had two plans… one was simple… Go find Alt. and save her.
The other was gathering blackmail for when your mom eventually comes.
What do you do?:
[]Focus on Alt: She's the reason you are here. So you are going to play hero and save her.
[]Save Yourself: You are going to do as much looting as you can, to save yourself and give mom as much hell as possible.
AN: enjoy.
Please do not over think it too much.
Though what might happen may effect what is to come.
