”Clear.” The Krasnoyarsk killer offers by way of reply to Whisper’s enquiry, wiping the blood stained katana carefully against a black clad thigh as she does so. It could be the Solo’s imagination but it’s almost as though there’s a wisp of regret in her voice.

Seeing Lube start to size up their fallen opponents, she then turned to him. ”I want the whip.” She shrugs her shoulders, offers a vaguely enigmatic smile. ”I know a place. A club.” That reminds her that blood is oozing from a number of places where both skin and bodyglove have been sliced open by the monofilament strands. That can wait though.

”What’s plan?”

"I'm OK," Sam reports, shaking off the last vestiges of atavistic terror. Lowering her voices, she adds, "It's not physical I don't think, but Viceroy doesn't look so good."

Sam squats down, cradles the netrunner's head, strokes her cheek, speaks soothingly, "Hey, you're OK. It's over. It was just some Listener mindfuck tech. You're fine."

-

Kenji feels like a scratching post in a cat lady's condo cube, but a quick survey of his wounds tells him that he's still mission capable.

He holsters his sidearm, picks up his sub gun, clips it back to its sling, reloads.

"Kentucky here. I'll live. Got a live one here, barely."

He strides towards the crawling technopriest, aims a soccer kick at the cyber-freak's ribs.

"Where do you think you're going?"

-

Ribs buckle under Kentucky’s World Cup style follow up assault.  A satisfying crump-whoosh blasts out of the LIstener’s mouth, a few air bubbles coming through the blood pouring between the fingers trying to staunch the flow out of the techpriest’s neck.

If Kenji wants to keep this guy alive for any reason, now is the time to act.  If he doesn’t, there’s going to be one more dead Listener on the floor.  Probably still a net gain for Nigh City at large.

On his salvage run, Lube isn’t exactly overwhelmed by the work he sees.  Mesa, or his cored out corpse, is a collection of roughly installed medium to low grade cyberware.  The techpriest has Rippers and a surgical hand that are descent would be fairly easy to harvest.  If he wants the eyes, or the presumed network tie-in in the back of the dude’s neck, the tech is going to have to go full Scav and started cutting.  For the Herald, the most sophisticated ware was chewed to pieces by the drone when he interrupted the infrasonic attack.  The cyber limb isn’t amazing, but ripping the monowhip out is the work of a few minutes and not overly complicated.

In Sam’s lap, Viceroy’s eyes come back into focus.  They green irises dart back and forth before locking on Sam’s glare.  There’s haunted damage there, the detective can see it.  Whatever the Netrunner saw or felt ripped through her leaving a wound.  But she’s a pro and she tries to sit up, failing on the first try, making it with Sam’s assistance on the second.

“I’m not fine,” Viceroy says, the normal bubble gum pop in her voice no longer there..  “Not by a long shot.” The netrunner shoots a dirty glance at Lube, mumbles something about failing to pull her up the goddamned steps, and finds her feet.  “I think I pissed myself,” she eventually chews out.  “Or someone else pissed in my jumpsuit.  Though that seems kind of unlikely.”

"Hey, Lube, don't forget the grenade launcher some asshole dropped over there.  Wouldn't want a kid to get ahold of it," Martin says in passing.

He squats down next to Viceroy and decides to not dance around the issue.  "Yeah, good choice in aromas.  It fits the local ambience.  I think the DJ has given up that gig in favor of topless dancing, though."  He aims his chin toward the Herald's shredded remains, then offers Viceroy a hand up.  "You good to go skullfuck the server room so we can set this place on fire behind us?"

”Yeah,”Viceroy answers, not meeting Martin’s gaze.  Then she looks around, works her jaw, and finds some spine.  “Yeah.  Fuck these little pricks with a chainsaw.  Let’s burn it down.”

"On it," Cruz said gleefully, heading over to pickup the GL.  The Tech was stuffing his carry-bag with loose gear a quickly as possible.

For the Listeners, the dominos begin their inexorable fall.

The Edgerunners split, Viceroy, Whisper, and Cipher moving towards the server room.  Lube, Kentucky, and Nyx cautiously approaching the flickering lights.  Both groups maintain their hyper-vigilance, someone had to be flying the drone that Alex hijacked.
No one volunteers.  Boot steps echo down the hallway in either direction, foot prints leading around and through expanding puddles of blood and cyber-oil.  Viceroy catches her breath as she wavers down the hall, finding her feet after a gentle nudge from Martin.

Like most server rooms, this one is dark and cool.  Unlike most, this one is a hack job of make-do.  Power conduit hangs unsecured from the ceiling tied, into a series of scavenged processors, each floating in cooling racks.  A central workstation sits amidst the tangle of wires.  Viceroy can only identify the bit of control hardware after tracing wires and com-lines back and forth.  A single cyberjack sits closed on top of the dull black plastic.  At the back of the room, a bolt hole stands open.  Someone fled.  Following appears distinctly optional.

“Better call your folks,” the Netrunner says, settling down to sit on the floor.  She eyes the box warily, unsure of what horrors might be inside.  Like if she hadn’t already heaved her guts out, she might do it now.  “I don’t know what’s going to happen to anyone live-streaming the nightmare when the signal goes.”

She gives the team time, steadies herself.  And jacks in.

At the other end of the Hallway of Bloody Kinetic Dismemberment, the other trio step into a carnival of horrors.  Fifteen bodies lay strapped on stone platforms, five columns of three, each column radiating out from a central point, where another body sits ensconced on a steel throne.   Each of the supine forms is connected to a familiar looking face piece.  Only these are surgically attached, plugging directly into the visual nerves of the hapless users.  Similar devices flow from their ears.  Plastic catheters carry nutrition to the bodies and waste away.  They’ve been here long enough that the smell of rot is prevalent, the living dead cursed with bedsores from immobility.

The person occupying the throne is perhaps even worse.  It takes Kenji a moment to understand that the figure is female, as emaciated as she is.  Skeletal limbs sit on the throne, head hanging askew.  A silk red robe covers her frame, a mask forged in the likeness of a wolf covers her face, polished to a mirror sheen.  She faces away from the Edgerunners and doesn’t respond to their presence.

Probably because of the knife  in her heart.  It’s a nice piece.  Silver.  Ornate.  Some kind of middle eastern bullshit carved on the hilt.

In what would have been her line of sight, a 3 meter square projection screen displays oddly patterned static that never seems to repeat.  A small table containing a quill and a bottle of ink sits next to the throne, any device for recording her observations gone.

When Lube looks the throne over, he can pick up the odd details.  It’s mounted over a crack in the floor, the foundation sealed with melted wax.  Acoustic pickups surround the chair, listening for something from below.  Nothing that our heroes can hear.  Not now anyway.

Perhaps they could disconnect the victims.  Perhaps.  But there is the pesky time thing.  And they look truly fucked.

Then Viceroy’s worm goes to work.

It’s hard to miss.  The figures on the table arch hard, backs straining against their bonds.  Their mouths open, gaping holes in tired flesh.  And then they scream, a dissonant howl of pain and madness.

The static on the screen goes apeshit.  The patterned static going solidly black.  Solidly white.  Diagonal.  The lines dissolve into featureless gray.  For a second, just a millisecond, in the hangover of her hyper reflex chemical stew, Nyx is fairly sure she saw something looking at her, a massive head with black eyes mouthing soundless words.

Before Kentucky can tell Viceroy to stop, the bodies collapse, still.  They breathe but do not stir.

Across town, Daphne, forcibly removed from her signal screams, rants, raves.  She breaks free of the doctors, pulls her Agent back to her face and rages again.  Her signal is gone.  At the Nomad camp, the situation is the same.  Pandora goes slack as the voices whispering in her mind for the last several weeks finally go silent, though a part of her yearns for them to start again.  Which just pisses her off more.  At least for a blessed moment or two, her mind was her own again.

And for the true believers, their god falls silent leaving them in painful limbo.

Viceroy jacks out.  Spits on the computer.  “Fuck this place.  Fuck these people.  I’ve got your damn copy.  Get me. The fuck. Out of here.”.

Martin is to about to ask Viceroy if she wants him to put a bullet in anything on the way out, but the thought sputters out when the screaming starts.  "Fuck me what?" he exclaims as he hauls the netrunner to her feet.  "Coming to ya," he sends as he starts moving back toward the rest of the team at Viceroy's best possible speed.  "Sitrep?"

He drags Viceroy along in his wake, trusting Cipher to cover their backs.  The Consigliere leads the way into the throne room, muzzle down a a 45º angle but ready to start the next chorus.  Upon seeing the general lack of mayhem in the room, he lowers the pistol to vertical but doesn't holster.  "What the actual white noise cult fuck is this?"  He takes a knee to examine the crack in the floor but carefully refrains from touching anything.

What might once have been a crack in the building’s foundation has expanded.  A jagged tear in the floor runs north/south, covering maybe five meters, half a meter wide at the widest point directly under the throne.  Had this not been a fucking cult haven, the team might have chalked the yellowish polymer filling the void as sealant, but closer investigation reveals this to be inaccurate.  The same wax sealing the throne to the floor seals this crack.  Flecks of black sit distributed in the wax alongside what Whisper swears on closer examination must be gold coins.  Salt has accumulated at the edges where the sealant touches the concrete, leached out of the moisture that comes and goes.

Then the solo blinks.  Just at the edge of the crack, pushed up under the throne and next to an auditory pickup sits a finger bone sealed in this stew.

Viceroy laughs her throaty laugh, decidedly darker than usual. “You guys know how to show a girl a party.  A super duper fucked up party.”

Nyx shivers visibly as she she locks eyes with whatever it is that’s in there, staring out from whatever circle of cybernetic Hell it dwells in. A random thought slithers out of a dark place in the Russian Ronin’s mind as the comatose bodies jerk and dance to whatever tune only they can hear - or perhaps their reaction is because they can no longer hear. That thought lingers just long enough to whisper to her soul. Whatever happens, don’t let these fuckers take you alive.

Black clad shoulders ripple into a shrug when Whisper poses what Nyx presumes to be a rhetorical question. ”Is gateway to Hell.” A warning is then added, probably unnecessarily. ”Be careful.”

While the other Solo is poking about at the crack in the floor, Nyx’s eyes shift to the red silked figure. More specifically the knife that is piercing her chest and the mask that is covering her face. ”Lube.” she says quietly. ”Can you get her mask?” From what she’s seen tech retrieval was Cruz’s speciality.

As she speaks she draws her pistol, holds it in gloved right hand, pointed at the immobile figure’s chest while an identically gloved left hand moves to the hilt of the blade, fingers grasping it and starting to slowly draw it out,

Nyx
Retrieving knife from person in throne
Addressing any movement from said person with a round to centre body mass

Cipher's seen a lot of fucked-up shit during her relatively brief but eventful police and private detective careers, but this takes the fucking cake.

"Geo thermal energy?" she asks, pointing at the sealed crack in the floor. "Or fumes, like the shit that 'powered' the Delphic Oracles in ancient Greece?"

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:06, Sun 03 July 2022.

"These poor fucks unplugged from the 'signal'?" Kenji confirms. When Viceroy nods her neon-pink coifed head, Kentucky hooks his medscanner up to the nearest victim, studies the readout.

"Barely alive, physically. Brain is dead. They're goners. Best thing we can do for them is a morphedone OD before we incinerate this place."

He pauses a second, entertaining second thoughts, adds, "Or call NCPD, make it their problem."


-
This message was last edited by the player at 19:57, Sun 03 July 2022.

Martin is an atheist by default, in the sense that he was raised without any particular religious indoctrination, but something in Nyx's matter-of-fact statement drags icy fingers down his spine.  He stands, moves to clear the team's lines of fire (and, not coincidentally, takes a few steps away from the crack), and prepares to knock Lube aside and dump a full fucking mag into the masked figure if it starts moving again.

"Anybody recording this shit?" he asks as an afterthought.  "Jasper probably has people who are gonna want to see this."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:56, Sun 03 July 2022.

In reply to K.N. Orlova (msg # 315):

Cruz brought up his tool hand and did a quick functions check on all the gadgets installed in it.  "Yeah, maybe.  Let's give it a shot," he replied to Orlova, as he moved to disassemble, remove, and recover.  Waste not, want not and all.

Removing the mask turns out to be more an issue of finding the clasps than dismantling the metal.  Metal clips blend almost seamlessly into the sculptured fur of the animal face.  Peeling the metal away from the woman’s face reveals a few facts:

1) The occupant of the throne was a woman in her mid-30s, high end flesh and bone sculpting work done that speaks of wealth.

2) The mask has been built for comfort and long wear as well as easy speech.

3) The mask conceals startlingly blue cybernetic eyes, the irises gleaming in the dull light.  Even if no one is home, the soul fled to the great beyond, life sparkles in the gem like hues.  The eyes are, however, completely absent of identification markers.  Custom job for sure, but not one that has been advertised.

With the primary threats neutralized, Lube and Kentucky pool their minds and skill sets aided by a less than enthused Viceroy.  They chase wires from the audio pickups to the throne then out to the bodies that surround them.  Those, in turn, lead away to the server room and back to the projector above the throne where a dead woman has been watching the projected images for who knows how long.  She shuffled off her mortal coil at least two weeks ago, most likely dead of starvation as there is little dried blood seeping from the knife wound to the heart. The angle is precise, the work surgical and methodical..

Whatever the cultists were listening to below was collected by the throne and converted to an audio/visual file run through the minds of the victims on the slabs in some kind of biological processor farm.  Whatever it was they saw or heard or experienced was sent to the servers and broadcast to the Listeners at large as part of their shared network before coming back to be visually displayed before the throne.

Martin is not a very technical boy, so he observes the investigation while keeping a wary eye and ear out for additional incoming threats.  There's nothing wrong with his own analytical skills, though, and Kenji's rundown of the throne occupant makes him perk up.  "Hey.  So she faded about two weeks ago, and it's been about two weeks since these assholes were on their last shopping spree.  Custom cyber, high-end cosmetic sculpt - I'm thinking she wasn't worked over in the in-house body shop.  Anyone want to put bets on our girl Monica having been a candidate to replace her as the Oracle of Delphi?"

"Makes sense," Kenji opines. "But why haven't they replaced wolf lady yet? You'd think the Listeners would want to feed their 'audience' fresh content instead of reruns."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 16:51, Mon 04 July 2022.

In answer to Whisper's earlier question, Sam chimes in, "I'm getting this all on video,"

She forces her cyber eyes to slowly pan the horrific creche, pausing to focus on anything her teammates point out.

-

Investigation isn’t really Tri’s strong suit so she stands back as the others go to work, does the same as Whisper, watches. Just in case. She’ll let someone else concentrate on getting the actionable intelligence which might lead to another gig with this crew. After all, she has expenses to cover.

”Maybe you fucked up their plans.” She offers with a casual shrug of shoulders when Kenji and Whisper debate the lack of a replacement for the dead woman. ”But when someone like her -“ she nods towards the now demasked corpse ”- disappears people look for them, no? She could be worth something.” Actually, she had a lot of expenses to cover. Staying one step ahead of SovOil didn’t come cheap.

Turning then to Cipher - and taking a step out of the way to ensure that she is not in the camera’s lens, having an aversion to being in something that might one day end up streamed in front of people that might recognise her - she watched for a moment as the former cop let her built in cameras capture the scene before speaking quietly.

”We should take them too,” The tip of the newly acquired blade points to the dead woman’s bright blue eyes. Sure, it’s macabre. But…”Maybe she recorded stuff as well. Maybe saw who put this in her chest.” She holds up her new prize. ”Anyone else curious who killed her?”

Kentucky hadn't thought to harvest the wolf lady's eyes. Sure, it's gross, but the Russian assassin makes a good point.

"I could pull them..." the medtech says, almost sheepishly.

-
This message was last edited by the player at 17:59, Mon 04 July 2022.

"Intensely," Martin replies to the Russo-ninja.  "And I think you're right.  They had a profile, or a shopping list, for the people they wanted to plug in.  Or maybe several profiles for different... ah... components."

"Either you do it or I do." Nyx smiles at Kenji, holds up the knife. "But maybe I damage them. So I think better you."

Sadly the high end optics probably aren’t the first pair of cyber eyes the medic has had to pull, though they may be the most distinctly post-mortem pair.  It takes Kenji a second to figure out the design.  Running the proper probe under the upper eye lid doesn’t yield the proper decompression for the orb to slide out of the socket.  Turns out the damn pressure plate in underneath the lower lid, but when he finds it the reason for the design change becomes apparent.  There’s far more visual processing power than normal built into the upper structure of both cyber eyes.  What exactly it is that this strange woman was looking at remains to be seen.

Kenji pockets the mechanical orbs in a wad of gauze.

Nyx flips the ceremonial dagger in hand, tossing the blade into the air before catching it and tucking it into her belt.

Alex takes the wolf mask under his arm like a basketball and grins.

Martin shakes his head in disgust.

Viceroy spits again, muttering something on the edge of hearing about assholes and ghosts.

Sam takes it all in, turning off her recording software in relief.

The empty voids of the woman’s eyes watch as the Edgerunners slip out the door and back into Night City, their world much stranger than it was an hour ago.


And we fade out.

The valley is dark.  Even at noon the sun struggles to do much more than break through the thick redwoods that have somehow managed to stay alive through the myriad apocalypses that have rocked the Time of the Red.  At the valley’s center a low concrete and glass building sits, fortified and silent.  A single road leads to this place.  A road nearly impossible to find.  And should you find it, security to ensure you fail to return protects the rituals inside.

A stainless steel table sits at the room in the center, a room where the sun is not allowed to shine.  Curved like a U, the table connects to a worn stone wall, a transplant from some far away place, etched with carvings depicting horrors and victories.  Debaucheries and grotesqueries.  There at the junction of the table and the wall waits and empty throne and an empty scepter.  In front of the throne, the floor is rent open, a dark hole dropping to the bowels of the earth.

Fourteen figures sit at the table along with one empty chair.  Men and women in clothes of wealth and power.  Each hasf their features concealed by a mask in the shape of a wolf’s head.

“The Consort has fulfilled her purpose,” the Alpha says.

“Praise be,” the rest intone.

“May I?” one wolf asks.

“The Alpha recognizes the Wolf of Corruption.”

“The Listener project has reached its inevitable conclusion. It must be said, however, that the end was both more abrupt and far sooner than we would have been ideal.”

“The results?”

“Despite the compromise, the necessary technology has been disseminated.  Ascension continues apace.”

“The cost…” another hisses.

“The Alpha recognizes the Wolf of Gold.”

“The development of the Listener project exceeded projected costs by several orders of magnitude.  We must recoup.”

“Are we in any danger?” Corruption asks.

“Of course not.  Though gold for the master…”

“Is power,” they intone.

“If I may,” a voice at the other end of the table says.

“The Alpha recognizes The Mother.”

“Our first order of business must be to elevate a new Consort.  The Court must be maintained.”

“I agree,” The Alpha nods. “You have a candidate.”

“The Mother calls upon the Wolf of Purity to serve as The Consort.”

“His will be done,” the new Consort agrees, voice breaking with just a hint of trepidation.  Or maybe excitement.

“Then we come to the matter of the Wolf of Steel.”

Heads swivel, locking on a member at the table who stands abruptly.  “I will not be-“

“The Alpha does not recognize the Wolf of Steel.  He will be silent.  The disruption of the Listener project is laid at your feet.  The Alpha calls upon the Wolf of Retribution.”

“Guilty,” the word is spat out. “Feed him to The Maw.”

The largest of the Wolves stands, massive hands coming together, knuckles cracking.  He laughs, relishing his role..

And we crash to black.




Soundtrack:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmgyQjO6Lfk