Pacifica Boardwalk
Night City
August 26th, 2045
1315 Hrs

It was a dark and stormy-

Nah.  Fuck that.

It's bright and sunny, just after 1pm in the coastal California sunshine.  The offshore breeze carries away the stench of Night City and the construction crews that are slowly turning Pacifica into a playground are off for the weekend so the continuous sounds of construction have given way to cries of seagulls, squeals of laughing kids, and advertising hawking of drug dealers.  Ahhh...progress.

Sam Fletcher sits at an outdoor café, delicately picking at a plate of seaweed greens and octopus.  None of that lab shit for her.  This is real deal cephalopod, maybe a failed candidate for genetic uplift, but undeniably tasty.  And courtesy of the Mr. Johnson that she's waiting for.  Not gonna turn down a job interview that reads: 1300 Hrs.  Bayside Bistro.  Make your self comfortable.  Treat yourself to lunch.  I'll be there when I can.

The ice cold lager doesn't hurt either.  And the fact that sitting here on the boardwalk makes it fairly easy to spot anyone that might be watching her.  So many people in motion makes it easy to see those who aren't.

She's taking a swig of the beer when she sees them coming.  Three men, The Corp and his goons.  Her Mr. Johnson to be sure.  Sam sets the beer down and and dabs at her mouth with the cloth (cloth!) napkin.

"Ms. Fletcher," the snake-oil salesman says as he sits down.  Fletcher's eyes take him in.  5,000eb suit.  1,000eb smile.  Perfect white teeth.  Perfectly manicured nails.  Perfect shark's grin.  Perfect asshole. The goons flank out, failing to look casual and not caring about it.

"Cipher," she says crisply.

"As you say," the Corp acknowledges with a nod.

"And you?'

"Just another Johnson."

"As you say," Sam quips back.

"I need you for some work.  I understand you might be able to find something for me."

"You understand correctly," Sam answers. She takes another sip of beer, visualizes whipping the bottle into the corporat's smug, bespoke face. She quit the force so she wouldn't have to kowtow to condescending pricks like this anymore. Sam's not about to put up with his bullshit now. Even still, she's not about to let real seafood go to waste. Might was well see where this goes...

"If it's here in Night City, I can find it. But whether or not I start looking depends on what your 'something' is and who's asking."

Her tone makes it clear that "Just another Johnson" isn't going to cut it.

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This message was last edited by the player at 20:15, Sat 10 Apr 2021.

The corp smiles his perfect smile again, casually reaching into his sports coat.  The direct sun should be making the guy sweat.  That he's not speaks volumes of the cut, weave, and engineered threads of the designer suit.  When his hand returns, it's holding a micro-thin titanium business card.  Probably cost as much as this meal and this jerk-off puts it on the table between them, right in a ring of the moisture dripping of Sam's beer.

Sam's eyes flick down, magnify, and read: Valentin Medlock, Militech Arms,  VP Government Contracts.

"That should take care of the first issue," Valentin says.

Without ordering anything, a plate of food arrives in front of the Vice President.  Sashimi and a bottle of Sake.  Before he can even crack open the chopsticks, the curly haired waitress beats a hasty retreat.  Like he's executing a checklist on power meeting behavior, Valentin turns his attention away from Sam, delicately seizes the chopsticks, picks up a perfect piece of endangered tuna that has been flown across the western hemisphere in a Nomad DeltaJet just this morning, dips it in a bit of soy, and plops it down his throat.

"Delightful," he sighs.  "And how is your octopus?"

Sam stifles a smile. This creep is trying so hard to look like he's not trying hard. It's almost endearing, in a little-boy-trying-on-daddy's-shoes sort of way. She counters his question with a passive-aggressive power move of her own.

"It's OK," she lies. Her octopus is delightful. "So, Valentin Medlock, what exactly are you looking for?"

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This message was last edited by the player at 22:00, Sat 10 Apr 2021.

"Sake?" Valentin asks.  If she wasn't packing years of experience and heightened optics, she would have missed the microtremor that rippled across Valentin's mouth, betraying his annoyance.  He pours to small glasses without bothering with Sam's answer.  Crisp movements complete the exercise, an imitation of a Japanese tea ceremony.  Because somewhere he read that it would be cool to use ceremony to display confidence and competence.

"Two nights ago," the suit continues, "I was enjoying some downtime in South Night City.  Something to take the edge off."  Valentin leans back, crosses an alligator leather loafer over one thigh, and offers Sam a toast with his Sake.  "My lady friend and I were just leaving our favorite club when we were set upon by several armed thugs."  Despite not turning his head, both of the goons securing the perimeter shift uncomfortably, accused of something. "Please tap the bottom right corner of my card."

Sam leans forward and with an exaggerated gesture, stabs the indicated corner with a down turned thumb.  A small hologram lifts into the air about two inches above the table.  A large handgun with blacked out tech specs slowly begins to rotate.  "This is a Militech Arms M-5445B Adjudicator VHP.  Very nice design for those who don't value subtly.  It is also not commercially available.  It is not slated for release to the military until 2047 with no commercial release currently pending."

Valentin leans forward.  "Ms. Fletcher.  Cipher.  I'd like to know why I was robbed by a New Inquisition asshole with a weapon that he cannot possess."

Militech has its own in-house criminal investigations division. Sam knows this because it tried to recruit her shortly after she resigned from the police force. She doesn't have to ask why MCID isn't handling this particular case. No competent investigator would. For a moment, she considers easing off on Valentin, but he probably doesn't want to spread word of his incompetence around town any more than he has already; he's likely fully committed to Cipher Investigations. Besides, she enjoys watching corporats squirm.

"Alright, you're on the clock. Let's start with how, when, and where you lost the shipment. I'll need everything you know about it. And rest assured, Mr. Medlock, this information stays between the two of us," Cipher says, starting to audio record the remainder of the lunch meeting.

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This message was last edited by the player at 03:30, Mon 12 Apr 2021.

There's a squeal in Sam's audio suite as Valentin starts talking, some sort of audio jammer.  She can hear him, can still record what he's saying, but it's distorted.  While her ears are picking up his real voice, there is a second voice that sounds like it's been run through a garbage disposal system, the one that she's recording.  That's the first sign she's had that this particular asshole might be legit.

The second is the smile he gives her.  Cold.  Hungry.  Not playing around. The show is over, now he's down to business and it's...intense. "Cipher, I need you to understand a few things."  The Exec raises a hand and starts counting the fingers off.  A diamond that would buy Sam's apartment outright sits in a gold ring on his left hand.  "One, there is no lost shipment.  According to the warehouse in Heywood, the crates are still there.  Video surveillance confirms this.  As does the manager I caught fucking around on his wife last year.  Now, I don't have to open those boxes to know that the pistols aren't there.  Because one was in my face in the hands of the New Inquisition and that is literally all I can prove.

"Two, someone has fucked up in my organization, and I love it when people fuck up.   I get to own them.  That's why I'm sitting here with you when I could be going to corporate. If you haven't put that together by now, I'm wasting my time.

"Three," Valentin continues, "I've had you vetted and read through the file Militech has on you.  You like to keep it independent.  I respect that.  So please do not fuck up."

Leaning back, the exec resumes a standard power posture, relaxing, hands going out to his chopsticks and Sashimi as the pretension of corporate power replaces the psychopath who had just been staring at her.

"Four is payment.  Easy.  1200 eb on discovery and proof of who has been moving these guns out of my company.  Should you wish to earn some bonus money, I will happily pay you 100eb for each of the pistols you return to me with an escalator of 10% after the first weapon."

Another piece of Sushi disappears down his gullet.

"Is that sufficient?"

Sam expected the electronic jamming, but Medlock's verbal onslaught catches her a bit off guard. Now's she's the one trying not to squirm. Fortunately, her Chem Skin's self-calibration software automatically kicks in to keep her face from turning beet red. She buys time to collect herself by finishing off her beer with a long pull. Casually setting down the bottle, she wills herself to maintain eye contact with the Militech shark and answers,

"1500eb, plus expenses, and the bounty."

Medlock smirks, waves his hand- a gesture signifying the casual dismissal of something trivial. "Done."

"Good. This is obviously more than just some garden variety office fuck up. And you wouldn't give a shit if it was just some shipping clerk or forklift jockey 'dropping palettes' on the street. This sounds like an inside job, someone high up, someone worth owning. You must have someone in mind."

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This message was last edited by the player at 17:35, Sat 17 Apr 2021.

"Someone acted and covered their tracks.  That means tech support," Valentin explains needlessly.  "With that kind of access, that kind of support, I'm looking at big fish." Corp looks at his plate of raw tuna, two of eight pieces consumed, and lays the chopsticks down on the plate with a small click.

"No one under Senior Product Manager is capable of making that move.  The contents of the crates are encrypted.  We don't advertise 'weapons in development' on the side.  No, this is someone with rank in the organization.  There are twelve names I can give you.  Tap the card again." When Sam complies, the hologram of the pistol shifts to a hologram of a man in his early thirties, with name and title.  "Each of them is there," Valentin continues.  "Just tap your way through."

Without further ado, the Corp dabs the corners of his mouth with the napkin, drops it on the ground and stands.  "I look forward to hearing from you soon," he says and leads his goons away.

Sam sits at the table, empty beer in hand, and studies the cast-offs of the hunter.  3/4 a plate of endangered fish, 2/3 a bottle of sake, and Sam's own meal.

The Next Day...

With twelve suspects and no internal access to Militech, Sam has little choice but to work backwards, surveilling a New Inquisitor street corner in South Night City, hoping her mark is sloppy enough to show up in person (or at least send a proxy) for a face-to-face with his/her off-book gangoon clientele. That, or she might get lucky and catch one of the local gangers flashing a factory-fresh Adjudicator VHP. Both possibilities, in Sam's assessment, are long-shots.

From the darkened interior of her parked police-surplus Archer Hella Enforcer (sanitized so that, to the non-gearhead observer, it's indistinguishable from the ubiquitous civilian model), Sam's Cybereyes scan the block, zooming in on anyone that seems out of place. The windows are cracked just enough to admit the industrial susurrus of street-life.

Why a corporate exec would risk his/her career by klepping cutting-edge combat tech from his/her own employer, then selling (giving, loaning, donating, tithing, test-running?) it to the pariahs of Night City's gang-scape, Sam still hasn't worked out. Every theory she comes up with seems less likely than the last.

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This message was last edited by the player at 04:21, Thu 15 Apr 2021.

Waiting always sucks.  Always.  Even when there’s coffee, chai, cigarettes, a veritable cornucopia of legal and illegal stimulants, and good music to keep you focused.  After four hours your ass hurts, your mind wanders, and you’re tired of your favorite bands.  But hey, at least Private Dick life is glamorous.

Ahem.

Sam watches and gets the feel for New Inquisition territory.  South Night City is still trying to shake off the Silverhand/Corporate Apocalypse of twenty odd years ago.  Businesses and people are coming back and like all recoveries, some people are coming back faster than others.  With all of the struggle and cracks in the social systems as wide as the Grand Canyon, the New Inquisition has been able to step into the vacuum, promising the latest round of exchanging future dreams for current suck.  Most of the people here pay no attention at all, except when a roving pack of NI zealots comes moving down the street, then they duck.  A single proselytizer is much to worry about, though it always pays to be reasonably polite to someone who is willing to carve your Midnight Lady out of your still breathing body to save your soul.

So Sam watches.  A blond girl is lead through the space wearing a sign promising salvation for repentance.  NI for sure, especially with the piece of muscle holding her arm, but not quite right.  She gets what she wants at 0203, because nothing good happens after 0200.  It would be thrilling to behold if she didn’t end up square in the middle of it.

At 0156 there is an apparent tremor in the crowds moving down the street.  The detective isn’t quite sure of the source, but she’s positive that something is about to go down.  Time to check weapons.  The crowd thins leaving mainly the tourists frequenting the area for sex, drugs, and rock’n  roll.. At 0201 she spots a single NI soldier moving down the sidewalk, posture full of swagger, broadcasting his allegiance with tattoos, bad attitude, and a machete.  At 0202, as he’s passing Sam’s car,  his purpose becomes apparent.  He’s bait.  From the north side of the street, a pack of Maelstrom shitheads dash across the pavement screaming war cries and threats, weapons out, Wolvers deploying, pistols waving.  The bait turns, raises his machete, and makes the sign of the cross over his chest ready and willing to ascend to heaven in this moment.

And then gunfire explodes from the rooftop of the bar behind Mr. Bait.  Bullets and acid filled paintball rounds rain into the Maelstrom gang causing momentary disorder, but hey, fuck it, in for a penny and high as fuck on Black Lace, they push forward.  Sam catches a glance of an Adjudicator in the hands of a Maelstrom dick that seeks momentary cover behind her car.  He gives her a twisted grin as he rises, drawing a bead on the NI guy with the big fucking knife.

Sam is in it now.  It’s up to her what she wants to do.