The Architect of Anarchy: A Cyberpunk Crafting Quest

Voting is open
Reader mode
So I'm in a giving mood.

Who wants to see Malcolm and stella witness the glory that is Morgan Blackhand being an angry god of war saving their asses?
 
Damnit...I can't decide. I'll leave it to chance.

EDIT: Saving Alt it is.
[X]Focus on Alt: She's the reason you are here. So you are going to play hero and save her.

Magoose said:
Who wants to see Malcolm and stella witness the glory that is Morgan Blackhand being an angry god of war saving their asses?
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
MEMEMEPLEASEOGRACIOUSLORDMAGOOSE

...ahem. Yes, that would be delightful, thanks.
1607_kerching threw 1 2-faced dice. Reason: Save Alt (1) or Loot (2) Total: 1
1 1
 
[X]Focus on Alt: She's the reason you are here. So you are going to play hero and save her.


This is gonna be wild.


Also love the idea of us doing this so she cannot escape paying the debt she owes.


Also who else is considering making a sort of.... Last resort/Call your Bluff item for if mom or anyone gets close to capturing us.


As we are now we are far more valuable alive than dead so maybe we can leverage that and make something to, basically, mimic the effects of BEING dead and calling it our insurance.

If we get captured we threaten to activate it and "die" and revive later after a set amount of time.

Might also need to include some fail-safes in case we get buried or are prepped for incineration but having a way to make people believe we died would probably be our best bet at avoiding our folks.


Maybe get a chance to biosculpt some gonk to be our body double and get them killed in a way that prevents close examination.

This lets us walk away and start fresh with a new identity.
 
lockingbane said:
Never said that.

The goal is to give us time to build up and grow until we are too hard a target to be as good easily take
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
I'm not sure how we are supposed to build up by faking our death and giving up things like the level 5 security building, our hard won workshop and warehouse, our many contacts that we made, all of which would be watched closely. I think you underestimate the amount that would need to be given up for a convincing death faking. Maybe just accept that we need to win next turn at least somewhat to fend her off?

What I'm trying to say is, we're already hard target. Very hard target. Dropping a bunch of stuff to try and build back up isn't going to make things easier. It's hard to get where we are now after giving things up in the first place, let alone go further without drawing attention.
 
Last edited:
Over the Hills and Far Away New
  • Sidestory
    • Over the Hills and Far Away

    Malcolm exhaled sharply, his revolver kicking in his grip as another shot ripped through the air, striking one of the assault team pushing toward his barricaded position. The enemy's response was immediate—another machine gun barked back, spewing a hail of lead that chewed through the furniture and scrap metal fortifications. He barely had time to throw himself behind a sturdier barricade, the impact of bullets hammering against it, rattling his bones.

    This wasn't going to hold. Not for long.

    He had only minutes to prepare the school before the assault began, barely enough time to set up defenses while Stella worked her magic, trying to save the hundred kids now marked for death. All because Senji's mother wanted a clean slate—wanted to cull the so-called "undesirables" and replace them with a new generation of corpo-loyal slaves for Arasaka.

    The bitter irony twisted in his gut. Up until an hour ago, most of the students had been loyal—hell, grateful—to the corporation. Arasaka had pulled them out of poverty, given them purpose, a future. They had accepted the price of their loyalty without question. But now they knew the truth: they were expendable. Their service, their devotion, meant nothing.

    Even Malcolm, with his broken, war-torn South African past, had felt a kinship with his friends who still believed in Arasaka. He understood them, even respected them. And yet, here he was, standing between them and the corporate death squad sent to wipe them out.

    Maybe it was just in his nature to fight against impossible odds. Maybe that part of him never really died, even after everything he'd done—everything he'd lost—in the warzones of Africa.

    He didn't know how long he'd last. He didn't care.

    For a long time, he thought his purpose was simple: fight for whoever paid him the most. Survival was enough. But then, he met Stella. And for the first time in a long time, someone made him feel human again. She didn't see him as just another gun-for-hire, another killer shaped by the wars of the past. She treated him like he mattered.

    And then there was Senji.

    Senji, who didn't look at him like a tool, like a disposable asset. Senji, who saw past the blood on his hands, past the scars, past the hollowed-out soul he barely recognized anymore. When Malcolm handed him the hand cannon he was now firing, he hadn't just given him a weapon—he'd given him his loyalty. His life.

    Because when Senji looked him in the eyes, he saw a pain even deeper than his own.

    The revolver's cylinder clicked empty. Malcolm let out a breath, ducking back behind cover. "Reloading!" he barked, hands moving on instinct as he cracked open the chamber and dumped the spent casings.

    His classmates kept firing, their liberated assault rifles and pistols roaring in defiance. The same weapons Stella had unlocked from the academy's armory. The same armory meant to keep them obedient, to keep them docile. Now, it was their lifeline.

    But it wouldn't be enough.

    They were all going to die here.

    For a long time, he thought that wouldn't bother him. That maybe, when the end came, it would just be another battle, another nameless grave in the dirt. But now, surrounded by kids—some barely old enough to hold a gun, some already bleeding out because he wasn't fast enough—he realized something terrifying.

    He didn't want to die.

    Not here. Not like this.

    Not when there was still a chance to tear through every last bastard shooting at them.

    His fingers closed around the last few bullets he had left. He loaded them with deliberate care, snapping the cylinder shut. He was going to make every shot count.

    There were a hundred of them out there. Maybe more.

    Didn't matter.

    He was going to take as many as he could with him.

    And then—gunfire.

    Malcolm's head snapped up as he heard the sharp bursts echo from outside. He peered over the edge of his barricade, muscles coiled, heart hammering against his ribs. The assault team was moving—running toward the school's entrance, their formation breaking as if they were trying to get somewhere fast. Trying to stop something.

    What the hell was going on?

    "Bancho, ammo count!" he barked, already moving. He didn't wait for the answer. His boots pounded against the floor as he sprinted toward the classroom where the wounded were being kept.

    The air inside was thick with the metallic tang of blood, the acrid scent of sweat, the low murmurs of pain. Most of the first-aid kits had already been stripped from the remaining classrooms and repurposed into a makeshift triage station in the medical office, but there was only so much they could do.

    Abend, the farmer's son, a nomad by birth but a city rat by circumstance, stood over one of the most seriously wounded kids, adjusting the IV drip with a scowl of concentration.

    Malcolm didn't need to ask. He could see it in his face.

    "How bad are we looking?" he asked anyway, his voice harsher than he intended.

    Abend didn't look away from his patient. The kid on the floor—Joe—was barely breathing. His chest rose and fell in uneven, ragged gasps, his skin ashen, lips tinged blue. The IV might as well have been a band-aid on a bullet wound.

    "The fact we're all still alive is a goddamn miracle," Abend muttered. He ran a hand through his dirt-smeared hair, exhaling sharply. "Joe's not gonna make it unless we get him to a hospital. He needs a transfusion. Or a new fucking lung. He's drowning in his own blood."

    Malcolm clenched his jaw. He knew that rattling sound, that wet, gasping breath. The kid didn't have long.

    His grip tightened around his revolver.

    This wasn't supposed to be his job.

    He wasn't the hero. He wasn't the one who saved lives. He was the weapon, the tool you pointed at a target when you wanted something dead. That was what he was good at. That was what he was made for.

    And yet—here he was.

    Fighting like hell to keep these kids breathing.

    He exhaled sharply, forcing down the weight pressing on his chest. He had to think. He had to move.

    "Bancho!" he called again, louder this time. "Tell me we got something left."

    If they were going to make it out of this, he needed a plan. He needed an opening. And if the gunfire outside meant anything, maybe—just maybe—they still had a chance.

    "Got nothing left. Maybe fifty rounds each," Bancho said grimly.

    Fuck.

    Malcolm sucked in a breath, glancing around at the kids who were waiting for his call. Fear clung to them like a second skin, their wide eyes darting between him and the barricades, to the bloodstained floor, to the bodies that weren't getting back up.

    They all knew what he was about to say.

    "Teams of five, stack up! We're fighting our way out to the streets and scattering there."

    The words left his mouth like a death sentence.

    Nobody wanted to acknowledge what that meant—that they'd have to wade through the blood of those they'd already killed… and the ones they hadn't. That some of them weren't going to make it. That there wasn't going to be a safe, clean way out of this.

    The silence that followed was thick. Heavy.

    And then, one by one, the oldest kids armed up, securing what little ammo they had left, picking through the weapons of the dead. Malcolm grabbed a Kevlar vest off one of the fallen Arasaka agents—some corpo bastard who had taken a headshot clean through the visor. He pulled it over his shoulders.

    Too big.

    Like most things in his life.

    He gritted his teeth and adjusted it as best he could. Didn't matter. It would stop a bullet all the same.

    The kids finished stacking up, their makeshift squads forming near the exit. The last group clutched a stretcher, Joe strapped in, along with the others too wounded to walk. Their faces were pale, clammy, barely clinging to consciousness.

    A hundred kids cosplaying as operators, trying to escape real ones.

    What a fucking joke.

    Malcolm sucked in a breath, gripping his revolver like a lifeline. His voice cut through the weight in the air.

    "I lead, you follow!"

    They all knew it. If anyone had a chance of getting them out, it was him.

    His fingers brushed against his radio, half-forgotten in the chaos of the firefight. He yanked it free and pressed down the call button.

    "Stella, we're blitzing to the exits. Tell me which one is the clearest?"

    Silence.

    Then, Stella's voice came through, tight and grim.

    "None of them are clear. We have twenty-five at every exit."

    FUCK.

    His mind raced. They weren't getting out clean. They weren't going to just slip through the cracks. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think.

    He had one option.

    "Funnel them into a kill zone."

    Stella's breath hitched. "Not a chance. You can't do that."

    "They're going to be back, and when they come, we'll really be dead," Malcolm shot back. His fingers dug into the radio. "Just do it."

    Silence.

    Then—

    "…Fine."

    Stella was in.

    Malcolm turned to his squad, eyes burning.

    "Move. Now."

    And they ran.

    Something was wrong.

    Malcolm crouched near the stairwell, motioning for the others to stay down. From their position, they could hear the Arasaka operators barking orders at each other, their voices tight with unease. The usual cold professionalism of corpo kill squads was gone—replaced by something Malcolm had never heard from them before.

    Panic.

    "Perimeter! Hold the entrance—NOW!"

    "We need reinforcements—this thing is cutting through us!"

    "What the fuck is that?! It just—"

    Gunfire erupted outside. Short, desperate bursts. Screams followed.

    Malcolm felt his heart hammer against his ribs. Senji?

    Had he sent a team of mercs? Had he brought in some heavy hitters to save their asses? The hope flared in his chest, hot and wild, but he didn't dare move yet.

    Then—

    A moment of silence.

    Just long enough for Malcolm to wonder if the operators had managed to regroup.

    Then all hell broke loose.

    Smoke grenades burst across the courtyard, thick clouds swallowing the Arasaka squad whole. A split-second later, flashbangs went off in rapid succession—white-hot bursts of light and sound turning the world into chaos. Shadows moved through the haze, and then—

    Death.

    It wasn't a firefight. Not really.

    It was a slaughter.

    The twenty-five Arasaka operators, highly trained and armed to the teeth, never stood a chance. Their bursts of gunfire were wild, frantic, aimed at ghosts in the smoke. One by one, they dropped—silent, clean kills, like children playing at war against a force they never even saw.

    It was over in seconds.

    Malcolm barely breathed as the smoke slowly began to clear, revealing a lone figure standing among the bodies.

    A man, clad in black, stepping over the corpses like they were nothing.

    A cybernetic hand gleamed in the dim light, black metal catching the glow of distant fires.

    Malcolm knew that hand.

    Knew that man.

    Morgan fucking Blackhand.

    The legend. The merc that corpos whispered about in dark boardrooms. The boogeyman of Night City.

    And now?

    Now, he was standing just a few feet away, pistol raised—aimed directly at Malcolm's head.

    Malcolm barely had time to react before the man grunted, voice low and sharp.

    "Come with me if you want to live."

    Malcolm exhaled.

    Than Morgan saw the carnage and the kids before him. "Come on, or your friends are going to die."

    All he knew, was he was following Blackhand like was the second coming of the messiah.
     
  • New
  • Sidestory
    • Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Voting is open
    Back
    Top