***BRRRINGGG***

Alexander Cruz called one of the numbers that they all had exchanged at the end.

"Yo, I've been thinking about the shit that went down in that parking garage.  Maybe I've got something that will help next time, you know?  Stop by the shop and bring your hardware.  We're gonna to tweak that shit out.  Tighten up the tolerances.  Rebuild and reblue.  Big calibers and short trigger pulls.  You know what they say, amateurs talk tactics, professionals talk motherfuckin' firepower.  Anyway, hit me back."

With that, Cruz disconnected the line, sent a pin for the Heywood garage, and then called the next number on his list.  The message was much the same.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:21, Thu 08 Apr 2021.

>>>WEEK ONE (and 1 hour)<<<

Alex spends his first week procuring a pop-up ranged weapon mount for installation in his cyberarm.  He also purchased the latest Chiba human interface electronics, which cost as much as the cyber itself.  Then the work began - replacing the stock 'tronics with the high-end aftermarket goodness.  Once that was done, he took the sans serial number Militech Arms M-5445B Adjudicator, modded it out with a smartgun kit, then stripped the non-essentials, modded the frame, and mounted it in the pop-up slot.

The project had taken a full week, but in the end, his cyberarm had a new pop-up excellent quality very heavy pistol smartgun.  Fucking sweet!
This message was last edited by the player at 04:50, Fri 09 Apr 2021.

>>>WEEK 2, DAY #1<<<

After Martin dropped of his Beretta, Cruz got to work.  He ordered some new parts for 2 hour drone delivery, which he got for free thanks to his Alizon (Alibaba merged with Amazon mid century as everyone recalls) Prime membership.  The tech spent the whole day focused on the pistol, upgrading components with top-shelf aftermarket parts.  Then using his techscanner, he adjusted everything, until the action was as smooth as butter.

>>>WEEK 2, DAY #2<<<

Cruz did similar work on Kentucky's Heavy SMG the next day.  The two chatted while Cruz worked, mostly alternating between what really happened with the Listners, with boasts about body counts and kills whenever Angelica was nearby.

At the end of the day, the Heavy SMG was ready to put in work, now with more accurate groupings.

"The medium pistol one won't take as long, so leave it and I'll do it tomorrow after some shopping.." Cruz said as he handed Kentucky back his now Excellent Quality Heavy SMG.

>>>WEEK 2, DAY 3<<<

Cruz did go shopping mid-week.  He picked up a few things early in the morning, and by 10 am, he was getting the computer-aided-design light tattoo he commissioned earlier in the week applied.

Light Armorjack/Motorcycle Helmet (100 eb.)
Light Tattoo (100 eb.)
40 rds VHP (40 eb.)
40 rds. Basic Slug (40 eb.)
20 rds. Rubber Slug (20 eb.)
20-rds Buckshot (20 eb.)

After lunch he started in on Kentucky's medium pistol upgrade.  The work took about 6 hours to complete.  After it was done, Cruz went to a Aldecaldo BBQ to drink 40's and show off his new artwork.  He texted Kentucky that the pistol was ready to pickup the next morning.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:30, Fri 09 Apr 2021.

Night City
Nomad Outlands
August 30th, 2045
1720 Hrs

"Yeah, so no shit, there I was, thought I was going to die," Cruz says, starting the story the way all good stories start.  "Maelstrom assholes all around, some new bullshit group calling themselves Listeners.  We were surrounded, looking to hit the skids and bug out when I see 'im.  Mi hermano, Emil."

No one's calling bull, everyone is nodding along in between bites of barbacoa.  Real goat out here, not that vat created nonsense.  The smell of roasting meat still fills the air, coming out of the pit the critter had been roasting in for the last 16 hours.  Everyone here appreciates a good story, they can subtract the nonsense out on their own.  Especially here in the California sunshine and good clean dirt.  None of that NC pollution filling their lungs.

Cruz continues the story, getting the laughs where he wants them, the gasps where it's expected.  Makes himself out to be the hero, but leaves plenty of room for Emil's own heroic actions, non-existent as they were.  Still, better to make everyone out to look good then be a one man show.

When the story winds down, Cruz does the grand reveal of his new tattoo work, pulling his shirt down model style and punching one thumb over his shoulder.  There is a smattering of polite applause and whistles.  Of course, no one believes that this is how it happened, but everyone is willing to go along with it.  Lube Job is sipping down a genehacked IPA when he gets his first taste of criticism.

"Yo, Lube Job," a voice calls.

Cruz turns to find himself face to face with a short middle aged man wearing a flannel shirt and very dusty cowboy boots.  A weathered face with a few missing teeth smiles up at him.  "I appreciate what you did there, both in the story and for my nephew."  The man sticks out his hand.  "Federico Salerno.  But everyone calls me Poncho."
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:09, Sat 10 Apr 2021.

"Mucho gusto, Señor Salerno... eh, Poncho," Cruz replied as he shifted his beer and returned the handshake.

"We take care of our own right?  Plus those that take care of us?  It was the least I could do," Alex said by way of a welcome.  Some humility had replaced the bravado of the earlier story to the group.

"We do," Poncho says, "Aldecaldos one and all."

Handshake complete, Poncho rubs his calloused hands together in front of his face.  Cruz can pick up that several of the last joints are missing from the fingers his left hand in a clean diagonal slice.  Probably monofilament.

"Emil can't really tell us what happened," Poncho says.  "Last thing he remembers is parts run, pulling up to an intersection in his jeep.  Then nothing.  Next thing he knows he's throwing up all over himself in the crash pad you guys had him in."

The older man goes quiet for a few seconds, staring off in the direction of Night City.

"Alexander...Emil is...not good.  Whatever it was you pulled him out of has left marks on him."

"Carajo," Alex muttered under his breath.

"Those pendejos had him hooked to a machine.  Had a lot of people hooked to that machine.  A dozen if I recall correctly.  Every kind of person.  Corps, street folk; they didn't have anything in common.  Well, nothing that was apparent.  We couldn't save them all - too many Listeners, not enough time," Cruz said.  He took a deep breath in, then let out a long sigh.

"We looked for Aldecaldos tats, military tats, anything to help us sort out who to take.  We sent a few pics to the fixer who set us up on the job also.  The fucking machine was like a braindance system maybe?  I dunno, never seen anything like it before.  Seemed to be programed by jumpers and dip switches - very weird tech."

Cruz took another deep breath, then a long pull of his beer before continuing.

"There was an old Asian guy - Kim - who had the worst reaction.  Emil's wasn't nearly as bad.  I figured two or three more minutes and he'd have woken up like the others."

Cruz hadn't asked for specifics on how Emil was "...not good" but he could imagine.  Pandora came off the machine yelling "Fuckers.  Fuckers!  GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD!"

The tech grimaced, then tightened up his jaw to control the emotions he was feeling.
 "I'm.. I'm sorry."

There wasn't much more to say on the subject.  He'd done is best considering the circumstances. He wondered what he'd ever say to the families of those he had to leave behind, if he met them.

Cruz paused, composed himself, then let his mind shift from the past to the future.

"There was an edgerunner down there by the name of Pandora.  She was on that fucking machine and helped with the escape as well.  We can check in her to see if she has any answers on what the machine is, did, or more importantly, what can be done to fix whatever it did to Emil.  Pandora was screaming about fuckers in her head.  She's definitely someone we should check with."

Alex had just pulled out his agent when he paused for a second.

"One other thing that was strange down there.  All these hijos de puta were packing the same Militech pistol.  Either they jacked a fucking Militech convention or a shipment, because I bet if you walked out to the barbecue and asked to see everyone's iron, you wouldn't find the same pistol twice.  If you wouldn't mind asking around about missing shipments, that might be another lead to figure out what's going on with these Listeners."

Sadly, jacking a Militech convention or shipment was the best case scenario in Cruz's mind.  The pessimist within had also raised another possibility - that the Listener's were being supplied by Militech...
This message was last edited by the player at 14:36, Sun 11 Apr 2021.

"I'm happy to ask around," Poncho says.  He starts fiddling around in his pockets, getting together the bits and pieces necessary to hand roll a cigarette.  The motions are simple, automatic and the older Nomad pauses just long enough to offer Cruz one before he completes the process.  "At least I can do something productive."

An old fashioned butane Zippo is produced, the paint missing from the Corvette logo emblazoned on the steel body of the lighter.

"Emil won't say much.  He's refused to have the hardware pulled out of his skull.  Spending most of his time surfing the net.  Says he's looking for the answer, but won't say what the question is."  Poncho ashes on the ground, boot crushing the hot embers into the sand before any errant sparks can start another California wildfire.  "If you know some people, our family would like some answers."

Cruz took a cigarette with a nod, then leaned forward to an offered light.

"I'll find out what I can.  If I can dig up any answers, you'll have them.  In the mean time.. Cruz paused to consider how best to offer up his next... possible course of action.

"Families are all about trust.  I wouldn't ask you to breach that trust, unless it was to help Emil.  If you could get the logs for his activities on the net, it might help."

Alex was clearly not coming down too hard on this course of action.  He didn't know if Poncho could get the logs, much less would get the logs.  Still, it might help, and he would feel worse if he had an avenue to pursue and didn't offer it.

"I'll get you what I can," Poncho tells Cruz with an understanding shrug.  "I'm not the Net expert my niece is, but hopefully she can pull something.  It's not betraying trust, not really.  Wouldn't let him stand in front of a bus either."

The Aldecaldo elder rubs his hands together again, clearly uncomfortable about the whole thing.  "Well my new compadre, it looks like my beer is broken.  Enjoy the BBQ."  Poncho takes a few steps away, pauses, and turns back.  "Thank you, Cruz.  Really." As Poncho walks away, Cruz's agent pings with man's contact information.

>>>Week 2 Day 4 & the morning of day 5<<<

Cruz woke up and started working on Karma's pistol, however, he couldn't get the conversation with Poncho out of his mind.  He was so distracted, he lost track of time and ended up having to start again on the upgrade after lunch.  It wasn't the end of the world - none of the materials were damaged.  Just time... precious time.

I'm a soup sandwich today.  Need to refocus.

He wasn't done by lights out, so he started again the next day, finishing up around noon.

>>>Last Afternoon, Friday, Week 2<<<

Cruz could have spent the rest of the day working, but he decided to take some rest.  It was Friday.  So he pulled out his agent and worked on some lyrics to go with an old tune he had always liked.  It was the kind of thing he liked to do to entertain himself on occasion.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1plPyJdXKIY

Adjudicators. We adjudicate any fuckery for a price. We’re damn good too. But you can’t be any geek off the street. You gotta be handy with the steel, if you know what I mean. Earn your keep.

Adjudictors, mount up!

It was a clear black night, a clear white moon
An Aldecaldos G was on the streets tryin' to consume
Some skirts for the eve so I can get some phones
Rollin' in my ride, chillin' in the combat zone

Just hit the east side of the JCZ
On a mission tryin' to find Miss Daph-o-ne
Seen a car full of girls, ain't no need to tweak
All you skirts know what's up with Night City

So I hooks a left near Hot and OCC
Some parts on the move, so I said "Let's do this!"
I jumped out the ride and said "What's up?"
Some Inquisitors pulled some gats, so I said "I'm stuck!"

Since these girls peepin' me I'ma glide and swerve
These hookers lookin' so hard they straight hit the curb
Onto bigger, better things than some horny tricks
I see my homie and some suckas all in his mix

I'm gettin' jacked, I'm breakin' myself
I can't believe they takin' Emil’s wealth
They took my rings, they took my brain, yes
I looked at the Listener, said "Damn, what's next?"

They got my homie hemmed up and they all around
Can't none of them see him if they goin' straight pound-for-pound
They wanna come up real quick before they start to clown
I best pull out my strap and lay them bustas down

They got wires to my head, I think I'm goin' down
I can't believe it's happenin' in my own town
If I had wings I would fly, let me contemplate
I glanced in the cut and I see my homie el-J

Eight large in the clip and one in the hole
Lube Job is about to make some bodies turn cold
Now they droppin' and yellin', it's a tad bit late
Lube, ‘tucky and the Whisper had to Adjudicate
This message was last edited by the player at 13:01, Fri 16 Apr 2021.

Machines make sense.  That’s the nice thing about them.  Chop, weld, manipulate.  Get some straight attitude on the merch whether it’s an off market hand cannon or a motorcycle that needs to be that much cooler.  Cruz and Cousin it busy.  And the better Lube gets, the busier the business seems.  Eyes focused on the work bench, Alexander doesn’t ken to the new arrivals right away.  That’s what Basti is for, the junior cousin an unofficial shop mascot.

“Mr. Lube?” Basti calls out, pulling Lube’s eyes up from the submachine gun he is making slow mechanical love to.  “You know these gringos?”

Lube becomes aware of a gasoline rumble outside the shop.  He knows the sound.  He tweaked the engine with an eight eye sex freak.  The engine cuts out taking and a pair of gringos slide out.  L. Seth does some totally unnecessary Duke of Hazard nonsense across the hood and falls into step behind his boss, Black Jasper, head on a swivel.  Jasper just walks into open bay like he owns this shit.

“Can I-“ Basti tries to stammer out.

“Nah,” L. Seth says. “We’re just here for the boss man.” The muscle considers for a second then reaches into his coat and flips a wad of Eb bills to the teenager.  “Go buy yourself a walking taco or stack of porn BDs or something.”

“There’s not-“

“There’s a food truck not half a mile from here,” L. Seth cackles, cracking himself up.  “Start walking, comprende?”

Basti looks at Lube.  Looks at L. Seth.  Looks at the bills in his hand. Looks at Jasper.

“Hey kid,” Jasper says patiently, “if this was a violence thing it would already be a violence thing.”

Basti scoots out, leaves Cruz to be Cruz with the employer.

“Lube,” Jasper says as soon as the kid is out of ear shot, “what did you guys do to my netrunner?”

"It was the demons man.  Hell, I lost my shit down there too.  Ran until it was tolerable to turn around.  Viceroy?  Chica got hit hard by what they were doing.  Infrasonic shit.  Maybe something else," Cruz said with a shrug.  He'd been mostly trying to forget that shit, so his analytical side hadn't processed everything that had happened.  Alex paused a second, took in a deep breath, then added.

"Kentucky pulled some cyber-eyes from the puta running the show down there.  Could check 'em for MicroVideo^tm..." he added with a shrug.

There was another pause, then Alex asked:

"So is Viceroy going to be ok?"

Is she fucked like Emil Salerno is what Lube was really asking.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:08, Wed 13 July 2022.

“I’ll ask Kentucky about the eyes,” Jasper says.  He puts his hands in his jacket pockets and sighs.  “Viceroy? Shit.  She won’t…” The fixer trails off.

L. Seth sighs louder.  “Just spit it out, man.  She won’t answer his calls.  Jasper gets butt-hurt when women won’t call him back.”

The fixer doesn’t bother to turn around, he just sends an eyebrow up for Lube’s amusement. “Your sister always calls back.”

“Hey, fuck you!” L.Seth hisses, taking a step forward.  Then he stops.  “Okay fine.  She usually calls you back.  She just hates you.  Sometimes.  Whatever.”

Black Jasper shrugs. “Back to the matter at hand.   Yes, Viceroy is ignoring my calls so I’m not sure she’ll be okay.  And her info sec is good enough that I’m not sure where she lives.  I can respect that.  Maybe she would talk to you or one of your team since you experienced the same thing she did.”

The fixer takes a look around the shop, around the work Lube is doing.  “Before you get the idea that this is all a hearts and minds touchy/feely visit, I need to move some product.  Thought maybe with your rep and current high esteem with the Aldelcaldos you might be able to help me negotiate a fair price and a bit more than the usual privacy.”

"Yeah, I can give her a call.  Like I said, I stepped on my dick in the down-under, so perhaps that's something she and I can bond over," he replied with his trademark shrug. Hey, maybe we can go to therapy together for a discount or something... Cruz thought to himself but left unsaid.

"As for the Family, I can probably help there.  Hell, I've got dibs when it comes to the lower end of the Aldelcaldos' motorpool now, so depending on what it is and where it's going, it might be something I can handle myself."

Jasper’s eyes widen, just a bit.  Then he smiles.

“That would be…ideal.” He looks back over his shoulder at L.Seth who rolls his eyes.  “You’ll need a van, something with auxiliary power supply.  I have a…package… to move that requires something that absolutely isn’t a life support system.”. The fixer lets it hang.  “Seven feet long, three feet wide, three feet tall.  And it needs to evade detection should someone come looking.”

Jasper shrugs, shaking Lube’s hand mentally. “The run is to Phoenix, home of heat, drought, and lack of government surveillance. It needs to be there in three days.” Because who in their right mind would hang out in a concrete funhouse of empty strip malls, high rises, and 135 degree temperatures?

“Let me know when you can run and where to bring the package.” The duo start their walk back to the car sitting on the ramp of Lube’s shop.  Jasper stops, turns.  “And thanks for checking on Viceroy.  I appreciate it.  Get her back on her feet and I’ll owe ya one.”  Another deal struck.

It takes six calls.  And it takes seven rings on the the last call.  But Viceroy does finally pick up Lube’s call as he’s approaching the west side of what was once the Phoenix metropolitan area.

Her already husky voice is raw, worn like she’s been chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes.  Or inhaling burning Pixie Sticks.

“Lube,” she says.  “I’m fine.” She’s not.  “You can stop calling.” That’s not what she wants.

Collapsing mounds that used to be suburban McMansions zip by out the windows of the TechNomad’s van.  On the horizon he can see the lights of the few skyscrapers that are still occupied, surrounded by a forest of dead buildings.  Massive moisture harvesters turn slowly in the night, trying to eke out what few drops they can out of the air.  Signs encouraging water conservation war with End Times religion and State Water Rationing Board notices.  To the south east, Alex can make out the lights of roaming drones and gyrocopters, the evidence of the Tucson Regional Security Forces doing their level best to keep the scavengers and water thieves out of the parts of the desert the city-state still controls.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:08, Wed 27 July 2022.

"Look, I'm the last person who should be trying to counsel someone, but we went through some shit down there.  I'm gonna keep calling until we go out for a coffee, or drink, or whatever.  Because maybe you are fine, but I need someone," Cruz said... letting the last part drift off a bit.  If she wasn't open to him saving her, maybe she'd be open to saving him.

Noticing the patrolling of the TRSF patrols, Cruz pulled off the road and killed the lights.  He timed the patrols for a bit, before attempting to make the Phoenix run, hopefully between the prying eyes of the five-oh...

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a second.  Then another.  Then another.

Then a full throated laugh. “God,” Viceroy drawls out with a hint of self directed bitterness. “I guess it’s not all about me, then.”

Lube watches out the window, figures the distance to the boys from Tucson is more than sufficient and starts his blackout run through the desert.  With any security forces from any party likely to be on the main roads, Alex heads off the highway and into the vacant ‘burbs, decaying civilization whipping by his windows, illuminated in electronic green.

A heat signature pops bringing an increase in pulse rate with it, but the threat turns out to be a lone coyote, loping through scrub and dust, hunting something.

“Okay,” the Netrunner finally says. “I can see you’re out of town at the moment.” A nod to her cybersecurity precautions. “Mercy Mike’s on Saturday?  10pm.  And Lube, thanks for calling.

Behind Lube, a coffin shaped box that does not contain a body (no sir!) hums quietly.  Out the windshield, the buildings start to get bigger.  A little less abandoned and a little more scavenged, though who the hell would want to try and eke an existence out of this place is a question that Lube doesn’t have an answer to.

———————

One hour and three milligrams of adrenaline later, Lube pulls up to the security gate of a collection of low mounds just outside of the downtown corridor.  A few skyscrapers rise, mainly arcologies now, plants protected behind glass, people protected from the elements.  Inside one building, a fountain can be made out through the thick glass, a display of water that the people in the outlying neighborhoods would kill for.  Which may explain the thick glass.

Upon presenting credentials (in this case a sheet of microthin paper that basically disintegrates upon eyeball inspection), Cruz get the go ahead to drive through the gate.

“Follow the illuminated path,” the guard tells him in a gruff tone.  Then the guard stops, drops his attitude for a moment.  “Look friend, I’m not kidding. Stay on the path.  Last guy didn’t listen.” Tracing his sight line, Alex can see a scorched wreckage sitting in prominent display at a crossroads. “I’m not sure he even did it on purpose. Don’t be that guy.”

Lube dutifully follows the directions, approaching one of the identical mounds, circling around the way the little yellow lights tell him to until he comes to a dark cavern that slopes down into the desert.  The lights go down.  And so does the van.

At the bottom, a loading dock waits along with a suit and four robots, the mechanical constructs frozen waiting for orders.  The suit sucks on a cigarette casually, ID badge turned inwards so Lube can’t make out his name.

“You’re the guy our friend sent?” the suit says when Lube steps out. “He must trust you.”

"Mercy Mike’s - I'll be there.  Thank you," Cruz said, having arranged some time with Viceroy.  A sigh of relief followed the disconnection.

The best lies have a solid grain of truth, he reminded himself and... truth be told, he still had some things to process about what went down.

---

"Follow the illuminated path.  Roger that,", Lube said, repeating the instructions.  They key to military service, was doing what you were told to do, so in this matter, Alexander Cruz didn't have any problems.  At least not now.

---

Alex nodded.

"I am.  And trust is ephemeral.  Hopefully I'll still have it after this run," Cruz said in a tone that wasn't hopeful... no... it was delivered like a statement.  A statement the pop-up Adjudicator Very Heavy Pistol in his cyberarm was prepared to shift to an imperative or perhaps a demand, if needed.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:44, Sun 31 July 2022.

“Trust,” the suit quips, “when you need it, you can’t buy it at any price, yet you can only sell it once, always too cheap.  Let’s not fuck this up.”  Without a word, he gestures with his cigarette to the robots standing by.  Either they don’t need a verbal command or he’s got some wiring to take care of it.  The four metal bipeds whir to life, gears bringing spines erect and joint to activation.  Synthetic muscle flexes, fingers clench and expand as the systems run rapid self diagnostics.  They turn as one and march to the back of Lube’s smuggler-mobile.

“Please access cargo module.” The lead bot is polite.  At least.

Lube complies, authorizing the van to open up and disgorge the shipping container.  Hydraulics activate slipping the coffin shaped box out the back of the van on a slide arm.  The robots line up like soldiers receiving a fallen brother, moving in the same eerie precision.  Hands grasp the steel rings serving as grips,, closing with a snap before the legs and torso perform an intricate dance, ending with the bodies facing the box, legs facing 90 degrees away.  Three steps later, they’ve cleared the cradle and take up a holding position.

“And now for the grand reveal,” the suit says mainly to himself.  He strides forward giving no shits about the four thousand pounds of automated steel operating in his personal space.  A quick flip opens a service panel that he jams his palm into.  These results in another panel sliding back.  Green lights illuminate the guy’s face, but Lube can’t make out what they are.  Not exactly.  Though one is flashing about fifty times a minute if he were a betting man, a fairly regularly at that.  Professional eyes flick back over to Lube.  “The cargo is in viable condition.  I am authorizing payment.”

There’s a few seconds delay.  Cut-outs contacting cut-outs contacting plausible deniability across multiple continents.  More than likely at least one NetRunner watching to make sure the eddies go clean.  Lube’s agent pings with confirmation of the payment.

“It’s been a pleasure never making your acquaintance,” the suit says. “Since you were never here, I don’t have to worry about you not telling anybody about this.” This is almost an affront to Lube’s professional sensibilities.  The corp agent pauses, gauges Lube.  Reaches into his jacket and produces a clear glass card with nothing but a chip sitting in the center. It’s high end work, crystal at a closer glance. “Should you wish work without the middle man, I can always use a runner with discretion.  One who wants to be paid direct.” He holds the card out, daring Lube to take it.

In the silent moment, the cyber-laborers begin their march, taking Lube’s cargo down into the catacombs beneath the desert sands.

"While I appreciate your offer, with out a middle man, there's no cut out.  And since I was never here," Alex's voice trailed off as he gave a curt nod.

Cruz had no problem with his middle man; he was getting jobs and good pay.  Plus he had zero interest in being pulled over and searched by five-0 with this dude's card in his pocket.  That would put a big fucking wrinkle in having deniability with whatever was about to happen down in the catacombs to Mr. Fifty-Beats.

No.  Lube's job was done.  The Nomad/Tech turned around, headed toward his vehicle and never looked back.