Soundtrack:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4LJdJeGE9k

Corporate Zone
Night City
March 13th, 2045
2315 hrs

Twenty seven hours after an anonymous tech popped open the security hatch to the theater’s HVAC system, a small beep sounds in Nyx’s ear.  It took her over three hours to make her way slowly through the building’s ventilation system, each fan turned off just long enough for the lithe Russian to slip through the gap before the blades started turning again.  Just long enough so that the building’s smart climate system wouldn’t send off a notification that the atmospheric conditions demanded by the mega rich had slipped even a fracture of a decimal place out of whack.  The infiltration had been the work of an invisible Runner she’d never met, the tech masked and silent except for hand gestures.  Nyx herself word a thermal hood so that IR sensors would be unable to reconstruct her facial features from heat alone.

For twenty four hours she’s been sitting still, sword across her lap, pistol cradled in her hand waiting for a tiny signal to emerge from the tiny radio receiver in her ear and crash into her consciousness.

As far as contracts go, this one isn’t great.  Anonymous Fixer.  Paid through a shell company that Nyx assumes is just the first of many layers.  If she’s being set up, there’s very little chance of payback.  But if she’s being set up, there are less sophisticated methods to make that happen.  Traps that don’t require twenty four hours in a ventilation system.  Living in constant suspicion of being hunted is motherfucker.

She hears voices coming up through the “floor” below her, through the hatch she’ll have to pop for her entrance..  The target’s for sure.  The thin laugh of a socialite that has moved passed her harpy prime.  A couple more voices.

There’s another beep.

It’s go time.

Patience. Okamoto-San had spoken much of patience. Of serenity. Of becoming at one with the World, finding one’s inner spirt, inner peace. Which had turned out to be a pile of fucking bullshit when the bullets and grenades had stopped flying and the old man had been lying there with his head six feet away from his body.

A job is a job though. And so the black clad Russian assassin had sat as close to motionless as she could be for for the past twenty four hours. She sat cross legged, her hands on her knees, palms turned up, the blade that had ended the elderly Japanese’s life resting on those palms. that had been business, not pleasure. He would have understood. Her breathing was regular, even, her only movements the occasional sip from the camelpak on her back, its contents a specially created blend of liquids and nutrients designed to give her the nourishment that she needed while she sat here and waited for the target to make her presence known. SovOil had trained Tri well. She could wait for days.

But she is glad when she finally hears voices. Plural.

It was time.

She had already decided on how she would do it. Pictured it in her mind’s eye a thousand times as she had sat there waiting. After all, it was better than thinking about other things. Keep your focus. No distractions.

Nyx reckons that there are at least three of them. Perhaps more. That was to be expected. There is only one of her. She likes the odds.

Deep breaths. Do not think about Siberia. Keep your fucking focus. She can hear Odin saying it. Odin. One. He is dead now, like Okamoto-San. Tri knows this. She saw Odin's body. He lost his focus.

Nyx rises. Slowly. The pistol is holstered. The katana goes into the custom sheath on her back. For now. She’ll draw it when she’s in the room. Blades are quieter than guns. The black clad assassin arched her back, stretched her muscles, fires the synapses that shoot the sandevistan into her blood stream. Things immediately start to slow down around her. The voices are taking on a different timbre, becoming slower, as she moves to the hatch that is her way in. She’s already scoped the hatch. A booted foot comes crashing down on it, sends it flying

Nyx follows it through,, knees bending when she hits the floor, a backflip to take her way from the opening, just in case there’s some sort of response, everything happening in slo-mo as she rises to stand straight, her hands already drawing the katana from its sheath, both hands on the blade’s hilt as she seeks out the room’s occupants, intent on killing every one of them.

Nothing personal tovarishchi. Just business.

Gravity takes its slow hold as Nyx drops through the hatch, boosted reflexes bringing the world into nearly supernatural focus.  Target (designer dress, Kevlar weave, fancy necklace, eyes narrowing).  Civilian (middle age man in tux, mouth frozen in an “O” of surprise).  Civilian (sycophantic secretary, simply frozen).  Security #1 (reacting, moving to block access to Target).  Security #2 (reacting, moving to attack, hand in coat).  That the muscle is already in motion just confirms what she’s expecting (at least moderate level pros) and she’s still got the literal drop on the pack.

Nyx’s knees flex and boost her into the sky into a backflip.  She tracks the incoming bodyguard through her peripheral vision and lets the sword in her hand snake out of its own accord, almost without conscious thought.  The blade slices through the Kevlar weave the body guard wears, but he twists with the impact, cut, but not nearly incapcitated.  Landing on the balls of her feet, Nyx spins, striking out with another slash against the security moving to secure his primary.  He’s as lucky as his comrade.  The blade slices down his back, but doesn’t strike anything particularly critical.  At least they’re hit.

A silenced pistol appears in the hand of the interceptor.  At the speed she’s moving, Nyx can read the CombatArms logo emblazoned on the barrel.  The hammer drops, the slide moves back from the expanding cloud of vapor that drives a steel slug her direction.  Nyx calls the direction badly, dropping her profile into the guard’s line of attack.  A hot slash of pain drives across her ribs as the bullet burrows its way through her own Kevlar weave before it exits the back of her suit in a small spray of blood (-4 HPs).

She’s had far worse.

The civilians have yet to react.

Der’mo. Shit. Perhaps the bullet will leave a scar. One more memento, one more thing to show off in the cages when she’s punching fuck out of an opponent. One more reminder not to lose the fucking focus. Even if pain is good for the soul.

The black clad killer brings up the katana, the finely honed blade of folded steel held flat, parallel with the floor, as her hands guide it in what she intended to be a killing arc that’s designed to see the tip of the blade make contact with the bodyguard’s neck.

If she gets that one down then she intends to be going after the first one - and the target - before his body has hit the floor.

That’s the plan.

OK, so we're trying to kill the closest dude then go after the other bodyguard / the target

LED lighting specifically tuned for the most aesthetically pleasing wavelength of blue to play off the perfect marble floor glints off Nyx’s red blade.  Small droplets of blood, accelerated by her swing, fly down the blade leaving a faint spray on the wall that suddenly becomes a flood.  The tip of the katana rips through the guard’s throat.  The poor bastard leans back with the impact, the blade curving up from severing the windpipe, cutting up through his jaw and face to exit through his right eye.  He goes down gargling on the fountain of blood pouring down his destroyed throat.

Without missing a beat, Nyx springs forward in a deep lunge, both hands driving the point of her sword forward towards the chest of the remaining security guard.  Torn between avoiding a sword and protecting his charge, the bodyguard fails to react in time, twisting in a futile attempt stop Nyx’s relentless assault.  The sword once again finds flesh, this shot less effective than the one that dropped the guard currently imitating a dying fish on the slippery marble behind the assassin.

The guard snarls at the second slice and raises his pistol, firing twice.  He nearly removes his own foot with his first rushed shot and the Russian immigrant to Night City easily steps inside the arc of the pistol to avoid the second shot.  Behind the guard, Nyx’s target starts to back up furiously, hands finding the wall behind her and tracking her movement along the small rail that will eventually lead her to a private box.  The non-hazardous male has devolved into a simpleton, his hands in front of his face as though he could push the visual in front of him away from happening.  The sycophantic female makes a run for it, dashing past Nyx and running through the expanding pool of blood on the floor.  She manages to keep her footing through the blood and leaves a track of red foot prints trailing away behind her, each a neat triangle and a single circle from her perfect stiletto heels.

The lighting almost seems to complement the carnage, to enhance it, to turn it into some sort of art form, something that feels as though it might belong in this theatre. Blood sprays from Nyx’s first victim, some of the splatter landing on the black kevlar light bodysuit that covers her from head to toe as his body hits the floor with a thud, a crimson puddle swiftly spreading on the white marble. It might have made a pretty aesthetic. Call it art and some Corporate big shot would probably pay big bucks for it.

Tri doesn’t care about that though. Cybernetically augmented eyes take in the scene before her, everything still looking as though it’s happening in slow mo. She doesn’t give a fuck about the man in the tux. He’s as much part of the scenery as the hand rail. Ditto stiletto girl. There’s a possibility that she might raise the alarm but it doesn’t even register as a tertiary concern. Nyx plans to be long gone before any armed response team is on scene.

That leaves one shooter and the target. The katana flashes through the air again as she tries to strike down the surviving shooter and the woman that is the reason that she is here.

OK, so that’s katana attack #1 on the surviving shooter followed by attack #2 on the target.

From her space inside the muscle’s guard, Nyx chokes up her grip on the katana and spins, point once again leading the charge on an upward trajectory.  The point of the sword enters just under the jaw on the unfortunate guard and exits in a cinematographic manner, cleaving the bone in two and leaving the unfortunate soul trying to hold his face together as he begins to bleed out, gargling, on the floor.   No longer relevant to the man’s dramatically shortened time horizon on the planet Earth, his pistol clatters to the ground.

Sword work is messy as fuck.

Nyx rolls out of the way of the collapsing body, neatly avoiding the ever growing puddles of yuck on the floor, and slashes down hard towards her primary target.  Turns out the mark is surprisingly agile for an older woman.  She spins on designer heels, angling away from the ascending blade.  Turns out surprisingly agile for an older woman isn’t agile enough.  Or maybe it’s just agile enough.  The armor weave of the evening wear yields to the blade, but turns away the worst of the attack.

There’s a slight click sound from her target’s hand and Nyx snaps her head back trying to avoid what she knows must be heading her way.  Razor sharp claws with enamel tips that cost more than Nyx would make on five of these hits zip past the assassin’s face, missing by a good six inches.  Six inches becomes less than two on the counter swing.  The target howls in fear and determination.  This chick isn’t going down without a fight.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:24, Thu 20 Jan 2022.

Tri spins and moves with a grace and agility that might have seen her become a ballerina in another life. Instead she has chosen a career killing people. Or perhaps it chose her. Who can say? Regardless of who chose who, two bodies are now on the floor. Nyx feels neither remorse nor satisfaction. She doesn’t really have the time or the inclination to feel anything for them. They had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, had come up against someone better than them. That was it. Maybe one day she’ll come up against someone better than her. Maybe.

She would rather today was not that day though.

The target managed to surprise her. Nyx would give her that. The way that she moved was unexpected. There would be words with the fixer about that later. What else had she not been told?

The first lunge misses by a distance. The second is closer. Tri would rather not offer her a third chance. She can tell by the howl that the target knows that this life or death. They’re not both leaving here alive.

So be it.

The katana held at head height, the tip of the blade pointing at the target - and thus, she hopes giving her better reach - Nyx  brings it down hard, diagonally, from right to left, the intent being to cleave her unfortunate victim in two, her hands twisting when the sword reaches the nadir of its downwards stroke, to bring it slashing horizontally across the woman’s belly, while at the same time trying to keep out of range of her claws.

It sure as fuck wont be pretty.

The woman fights like a cornered rat: all hisses, spits, and claws.

The katana comes in twice in rapid succession, first the down stroke, then the horizontal.  Both hits land, the downstroke severing what’s left of the shoulder strap holding the dress, the horizontal slashing across her abdomen.  The form fitting armor keeps the fabric from hitting the floor even as the blow exposes everything above her breasts.  Neither hit drops the woman and she lunges back in a counter.

She’s fast.  Fast enough that Nyx feels the rippers puncture the armor over her abdomen and tear flesh.  The barest hint of a smile crosses the target’s face.  Even if she dies, when she dies, she’s gotten through her assassin’s defense at least once (-4 HP). The follow up slides over Nyx’s bodysuit without breaching the Kevlar seal.

There’s screaming in the distance.  The woman that got away?  Maybe.  Any help coming is still a long way away.

Suka.

Bitch.

The curse is as much inward reflection as outward. Nyx was annoyed at herself for letting the target get inside her guard, irritation at her perceived sloppiness outweighing the sudden bust of sharp pain she can feel in her belly.

Fucking focus!

For a second her eyes lock with the older woman’s. Not that the hood that serves as both concealment and protection offers the target much to stare back at. Death comes without a face.

And then the katana is moving through the air, a sandevistan fuelled rush shooting through Nyx’s veins as the black clad killer seeks to channel every ounce of her strength into a killing strike that is aimed at the what she judges to be the most vulnerable part of the target, a part of the body that she can clearly see is not protected by armour, at least not above the skin - the neck. If a second blow is needed it too will be aimed above the shoulders.

Engaging a tactical shift from simple sword work to pinpoint lethality, Tri sets out to work.  Muscles go rigid with anticipated effort, the tendons on her forearms springing to life and pushing against the tight weave of her skin suit.  A glint of light plays off the blade as it arc across the space between Nyx and her target.  The older woman throws herself backwards with an explosion of breath, the blade just missing flesh.  Not to be outdone, Nyx advances, right foot coming in, left foot springing forward, and she snaps the blade a second time in an offhand counter strike.  The blade passes across the target’s torso, right at the clavicle line.  For a moment, there is stillness.  Nyx freezes, slash complete, then returns to her guard.

Her target goes still, eyes searching her assassin’s.  She doesn’t ask why.  She doesn’t beg.

Blood erupts like a river, splashing down the woman’s front, flowing from a pair of severed veins, one on each side of her neck.

She sinks slowly to her knees, hands going limp to her side, before she slumps against the wall.

“Oh god!” the male civilian shrieks. “Tamara!  Tamara!”  Death apparently is the great motivator.  He pushes past Nyx, ignoring the sword in her hand and slides to the floor, suit soaking up blood from the floor.  Eyes frantically take in the wound, hands cradle Tamara’s face.  “No.  Not like this,” he practically moans.  He finally turns his eyes to Nyx.  “Why? Who?”

Nyx sheathes her sword and turns away, unable and unwilling to answer.

Behind her, Tamara dies with her hand on her husband’s cheek.

(Nyx: -2luck points to land second swing)
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:14, Sat 22 Jan 2022.

Nyx pauses, mid stride, doesn’t turn around.

It’s better when they don’t have a name. Fuck, Nyx/i> doesn’t have a name any more. Just Nyx or <i>Tri. One she chose herself, one that was chosen for her. They’re interchangeable, sometimes she’s one, sometimes she’s the other. Only on the rarest of occasions does Ksenia Orlova ever see the light of the day.

Names make it personal. And it wasn’t personal. Just bizniz. A job. Some people do banal work in a Mall. Some are medtechs, save lives. Nyx takes lives. It’s her job. And she’s good at it. Must be, for she’s alive.

Nothing personal Tamara’s husband. It’s just the way it is. Her back is still to him. She doesn’t have the answers that he wants. Even if she did she couldn’t tell him.

If she turns around she will kill him. To her mind it would be a kindness of sorts. Let them be together in the next life. If you believe in that sort of thing. Tri doesn’t know what she believes. But for the next three point one four seconds Tamara’s husband’s life hangs in the balance, although he doesn’t know that. If those three point one four seconds are the difference between her making her exit unopposed or being shot and killed by the inevitable armed response that stiletto girl would have summoned - if they hadn’t already been alerted by the gunshots - then Tamara’s husband will have his vengeance.

Three point one five seconds later she’s moving again. Without turning. Killing him would be a mercy. She doesn’t get paid for pro bono work.

The neural link in her head sends an impulse to the receiver / transmitter in her ear, a blurb of noise shoots into the ether at the same time that she’s leaping upwards like a salmon to  she’s grasp the edges of the hatch that she came through. By the time her feet have cleared the corridor and she’s back in the claustrophobic world of vents and air ducts the signal has been sent. Job done. Initiate exfil.

This is the part where she finds out if the whole thing is really a SovOil set up.

If silence was the word of the day on the infil, efficiency is the call for the exfil.  Eschewing slow weight distribution for speed, Nyx slides through the vents aware that sound could give her away, but based on the ruckus she can hear from the vents she passes nobody is going to note an errant knee banging on an aluminum wall.

She skitters back to the central air shaft to find a fan turning in her path.  There’s a moment of debate as to if she has the support she hopes for, a moment that stretches mentally into possible contingency planning, and then the motor of the fan shuts down, the blades slowly coming down.  It’ll probably take thirty seconds if she lets them slow on their own.

From here it’s a ten meter vertical climb to another air handler, twenty more meters of tunnel, and then the maintenance hatch she entered through.

Both air handlers shutting down.  They know you’re in the vents.  NetRunner under attack.

There is no text message of “hurry.” There doesn’t have to be.

“Attention patrons,” a soothing female voice intones through the building’s PA, “there has been a security lock down initiated for this building.  Please remain in your seats and await further instructions. Thank you for your cooperation.”

It’s Tri’s considered opinion that she may be dead by the time that the blades stop turning of their own accord. If she had the time to spare she might waste more seconds reflecting that she should perhaps have killed the male with the target - she’s already past the brief lapse where she allowed herself to think of him as Tamara’s husband - so that he couldn’t tell anyone that she had disappeared up an air vent. But they might have known anyway. Her trust level in her Runner is at a low ebb.

She only has one option to try and bring the blades to a premature halt. The katana slides from its sheath. Exquisite Japanese craftsmanship. Elegant. Graceful. Stained with the blood that it has tasted tonight. Mouthing a silent apology to the blade for the abuse that it is about to take, Nyx places it between the spinning blades as though they were a mark’s ribs, tries to slow their revolutions, thrusting the blade in and out as required to try and slow them without shattering the folded steel.

Sparks fly from Nyx’s sword as the blades strike glancing blows on the folded steel.  Each hit sends reverberations up her wrist, but the blade was constructed well.  Strong and flexible, the workmanship allows the weapon to take each of the noisy hits without shattering.  When the fan finally comes to a halt the Russian assassin is able to take a quick look at her sword as she shimmies through the now static air mover.  Scratched and lightly chipped, the blade emerges from its abuse not exactly unharmed, but at least intact enough to be able to be repaired to full service with minimal work.  The sword goes back in its sheath.

The air shaft is wide, wide enough that it has its own ladder for the maintenance crews that have to service the theater’s HVAC systems.  Climbing the ladder is a matter of time rather than effort.  Another thirty seconds goes by as Tri ascends to the next air handler.  From her position on the ladder, she isn’t able to get the same leverage with her sword so she elects to use one of her daggers to slow the blades.  The range is shorter, her hand closer.  The mechanical advantage isn’t as good so it’s not exactly a surprise when the dagger’s thin blade shatters in her hand.  Tiny slivers of metal spray through the air as fan blade and dagger steel have a dispute over kinetic energy, material strength, and bad luck.  The matter is settled with a double loss.  Nyx feels the bits of metal sting her flesh.  It’s annoying, but not enough to do actual damage.

On the plus side, the fan is now jammed open, the hilt of her knife stuck at the joint of the broken fan blade.

She enters the final stretch of HVAC tunnel, goal line in sight.  The red light above the door flashes green.  Two clicks reverberate through the vent space as the lock on the door disengages.  Good news, except there should only be one lock disengaging.  A hatch opens in the floor in front of her, security presumably.  She has three meters to the floor hatch and six meters to the door.

Der’mo. Tri looks at the hatch as it slowly opens in front of her, the sense of satisfaction that she had felt at getting this far slowly dissipating like ice on the Neva when spring comes.

One more hurdle to overcome before she reaches her exit.

Judging that the time for subtlety and stealth has long since passed, the black clad Assassin reaches to the drop leg holster strapped to her left thigh and draws the compact but powerful handgun that had nestled snugly within its polymer confines, hears the low pitched beep inside her head as the pistol connects to the subdermal grip in her right hand.

She’s already moving towards the open hatch, scrambling along the tunnel on knees and one hand, the pistol held in the other. When she reaches the edge she’ll hurl herself across the opening, hoping to appear as no more than a dark shadow to anyone below her but ready to fire if she’s spotted.


(I’m not sure that I’ve done the mental image of this in my head justice but what I’m aiming for here is for her to throw herself across the open hatch (Athletics or - I’m imagining this is a pretty cramped space and she can’t stand upright - Contortionist?) with pistol drawn ready to open fire if anyone sees her. Does that make sense? It sounds like it would be cool in something like the Matrix…)

The vent space is tight, not a ton of room to maneuver, and with the Sandevistan hangover in effect, Nyx feels like she scrambling in jello.  Sure, the snail’s pace is an illusion, but it feels like moving down the duct is taking forever.  Light shines up from below.  A shadow moves, obscuring the brightness coming from the hatch.  The assassin gets to the edge of the hatch before any of the security goons can get it together enough to stick their head and see what she’s doing.

Her knees go wide to the walls, the sticky-rubber soles of her shoes bite into the joint where the floor meets the walls and search for purchase.  She dives.

Looking down as she passes the open space, she sees a wide set of eyes appear.  Eyes shocked by her sudden appearance and aggressive actions.  The SMG in his hand twitches as he stumbles back a bit from the step ladder he’d been starting to climb.  Nyx manages to squeeze one shot off before her pistol gets past the gap, the bullet hammering strait down and catching the guard in the chest.  (-1 round)

All in all, the movement was too much.  The assassin lands with a bang, legs spread on either side of the hatch.  She’s not hanging out of the portal, that’s the good news.  The bad news is she’s going to be scrambling hard.  Bullets begin bashing up through the “floor” as gunshots ring out.  One of the projectiles punches through the duct work just below her navel, arriving in a dull thump that might cause a bruise, but not much else.  Whatever energy managed to get through the ceiling tiles and aluminum sidewalls bleeds out on the surface of her jumpsuit.

It’s getting crowded in here.

The pistol barks again, an empty cartridge case ejected as another round is fired through the hatch at an angle in an attempt to make whoever is down there prioritise their own survival over any attempts to stop her.

And then she is scrambling, pulling her legs across the opening and scrambling towards the door on her hands and knees. Maybe if she had moved three point one four seconds sooner after all she would already be clear.

A dull thump and grunt rewards Nyx from her blind fire efforts.  How effective the shot was is up in the air.  At least it connected.  Ultimately, she scrambles away from the portal and to the main access door, leaving the question of what happened below unanswered.   Leading with her shoulder, the assassin blasts the unlocked door open, boots finding the metal plating of the access platform here 15 meters above ground.  The platform is maybe a meter square, access controlled by a ladder descending the side of the building.

Nyx doesn’t hesitate.  Her body slams into the metal railing in order to come to a screeching halt, breath puffing out of her lungs..  The impact doesn’t really matter, it’s not going to hurt.  At least not compared to what could come next.  A free left hand reaches back to the door to find the promised drop bag waiting.  Two carabiners are attached, one to the railing, one to her belt and Nyx tumbles head first over the metal cylinder that is supposed to prevent unwanted falls.

Rope spits out of the bag, uncoiling faster than the eye can follow, hissing in the night.  If the measurements are off, the assassin is going to have an abrupt stop.  If the measurements are good, she’s going to have a slightly less abrupt stop.  Perfect opportunity to get rid of the assassin, too.  No point worrying about it.  No time to worry about it.

The dynamic rope grabs, stretches, bleeds out the kinetic energy necessary to ensure Nyx’s spine doesn’t snap with a sudden jerk backwards.

And stops.  Leaving Nyx hanging half a meter above the ground.  Reflexes kick in, she unclips the device and hits the ground to find herself in the back alley of the theatre.  Back towards the street she can see a sedan idling, headlights illuminating her position.  That’s not her ride, she can make out two figures in the front seats, but they’re sitting still.  She should be going deeper into the maze between these rehabbed relics of the past in the corporate zone.

It’s only a matter of time until security follows her out.
This message was last updated by the GM at 00:50, Tue 01 Feb 2022.

The pair in the car are probably just innocent bystanders. Otherwise they’d be exhibiting more of a sense of urgency. Probably. But you don’t survive on the run for as long as Nyx has by ignoring details like that. In her line of work coincidence can be deadly. So her gaze lingers on the sedan for half a second, perhaps three quarters, the artificially augmented Huawei / Mostek ^TM eyes that replaced her flesh and blood ones automatically going into night vision mode, rendering the scene before her in shades of black and green.

And then she’s moving again.The twin beams coming from the parked car’s headlights are not her friend this night. She needs to get out of the light and into the shadows. Literally. The assassin isn’t hanging about, wanting to be long gone before any armed response spills out of the theatre, so she’s springing as she heads down the alley, wanting to blend in with the night, the dull throb in her abdomen where the rippers sliced her skin ignored as she counts off the openings on the right hand side. She’d spent hours previously poring over digital maps and street views, has her exfil route committed to memory.

Second right. There. A turn and she’s heading down another alley, the spring slowing to a jog, the sound of her breathing fills her ears as she heads for the t junction that forms the end of the alley. Left. Then right.

In the car…

“That was impressive.” The driver of the car taps the steering wheel lightly, nodding his head to the punk rock blasting through the car’s sound system.  The bunji jump exit occurring to the front of the vehicle has put him in a considering mood.

“Nah, that was top-fucking-notch, cream your jeans, straight up killer, bad-ass.” The passenger cracks his knuckles and his neck while they watch Tri beat feet down the alley.

A loaded silence passes in the blink of an eye.“Yep.”

The passenger turns his head.  “Oh fuck me, you want one don’t you?”

“Probably safe to say the meet is fucked.  Might as well get something out of this evening.”

Prior planning has prevented piss poor performance to this point in Nyx’s operation.  Committing the exit path to memory is the kind of thing that should be de rigeour for pro’s.  Sadly all too many wanna-be killers skip over the little details, thinking that it’ll all work out on its own.  Ha.  Right.

Nyx takes the first corner just as the engine in the car behind her comes to life in a contained unleaded fuel explosion.  Actual high performance combustion, none of that alcohol bullshit.  It’s accelerating as she sprints.  There’s a squeal of breaks, a car door opening and shutting, and then the wheels scream again in the alley, vehicle blasting forward.

The T intersection looms, a left turn, a piece of movement out of the corner of her eye.

She’s being followed by a blur.

Nyx’s jog becomes a sprint once again, lungs burning in a familiar sensation.  In the street in front of her, she catches the sedan blasting across the opening of the alley, probably in the neighborhood of 120 kph.  The right turn hits, and the assassin takes the junction, trying to get a little better of a look and who’s coming in behind her.  Nyx jumps, clears the dumpster she spotted the day before, the one behind the Chinese restaurant that likes to dump their cooking oil instead of collecting it.  She vaults a second time, catching the edge of the fire escape and starts to pull herself up to this, her secondary exit.

Below her, she hears her pursuit lose his footing and slam directly into the dumpster with a curse and a bang on account of the oil slick in the alley.  Any satisfaction is fleeting as the damn fire escape peels away from the wall, corroded bolts ripping free of aging salt crusted bricks.  Years of training keep her from getting hurt, but Nyx stands from the debris pile to a cackling laugh.  The man chasing her easily pushes the dumpster away and dusts trash off his now stained white t-shirt.  He grins, an angelic face, eyes a psychotic twinkle.

“Looked good up until gravity fucked ya,” he levels.  “Liked the oil slick.”

Behind Nyx, the sedan rips into the alley, headlights going dim as they find the pile up.  There’s a sound of pursuit, security goons yelling at each other as they search the urban corridor for the assassin.

“My boss would like a word.  And probably a job offer.” L. Seth says, gesturing to the car.  “Can we get you the fuck out of here?”

”I hope the fall didn’t hurt too much.” The black clad Assassin offers with the slightest cant of her head. Her tone is laden with insincerity as enhanced eyes take in both pursuers, the one following her and the one in the car.

They don’t look like the security goons from the theater. Don’t act like them either. Off in tone direction she can hear shouted cries. They’re getting louder. Which means that they are getting closer.

”You had me at job offer.” She’s in motion as she speaks, moving towards the sedan, opening the door. Rear seat, behind the passenger. In case she has to blow his brains out. There’s a brief pause when it becomes apparent that passenger sedans aren’t really designed with passengers who have a sheathed katana strapped to their back in mind. There might be an element of dark comedy to the whole thing as she shifts. Shifts again. Not any better.

With a hissed curse Tri wriggles the blade over her head, still in its sheath, lays it across her lap. Then pulls the pure black hood that has obscured her features since she went into the theater up over her head, takes a deep breath. Either this is legit and these people have work for her. Or they’re going to try and kill her. In which she’ll have to kill them. Whoever succeeds, it’s not going to matter if they see her face. And if they cruise past some of the goons she now looks less conspicuous. That’s the plan. Her sweat soaked hair is plastered to her face. Fresh air - or what passes for it inside the sedan - feels good on her face after it’s been under the mask for so long.

”Let’s go. And what do I call you?”

Acceleration pushes Nyx pushes and pulls Nyx around in the backseat as the Audi shows off some serious horsepower blasting out of the alley and sliding through the traffic of the Night City Corporate Zone.  Someone guy is screaming some song about institutions on the radio.  The blond guy, the speedster sits twisted in his seat, back mostly against the passenger door where he can keep at least one eye on their new passenger.  He may be crazy, but he doesn’t appear entirely careless.

She gets her first good look of the driver, makes him for the brains of the outfit.

“Jasper,” he answers, slipping the car between a pair of drone delivery trucks, picking up an automated horn reply from an enraged algorithm.  “Black Jasper.  I guess.  There’s a first aid kit under the passenger seat if you need it”  Nyx has heard the name.  Runs a crew out of New Westbrook, mainly corporate gigs.  Puts together the occasional freelance team for contracts.  Straight shooter that pays on time.   Usual rumors of why you don’t fuck with Fixers in his background.

“He’d shake your hand,” the body guard says, “but…you know, there’s the whole not crashing us into a garbage truck thing we have to worry about.”

“That’s L.Seth,” Jasper says, tilting his head to the side.  “Human relations.”  The Solo gives Nyx another of his slightly deranged smiles.  Merging onto the highway, Jasper lets the car decelerate into the normal flow of traffic, the volume of the music coming down with the decrease in engine RPMs automatically. “I find your resume to be compelling,” Jasper continues, deadpan. “Well planned exit.  Hit your target and got out.  I’m always looking for talent, usually have a crew or two running.  Give me your deets, we can talk shop.”

“Someplace we can drop you?”