- 11 years before canon -
"Good morning, Night City! On today's new-"
Yeah, good fuckin' mornin'...
Mornings in Night City don't come with sunshine.
They come with static. Blinking lights.
Buzzing electricity in your skull where dreams should've been.
I groaned, slapped the alarm off before it even had the decency to sound, and dragged my sorry ass upright. My apartment smelled like last night's noodles, ozone, and synthetic regret. Concrete walls stained with mould. One flickering strip of neon from outside made its way through the blinds and onto the floor, dancing on roaches too slow to hide.
"Still alive," I muttered. "Again."
The mattress creaked like it wanted to die. So did my back. I rubbed my eyes and stumbled into the bathroom — one cracked mirror, one broken LED strip, one thousand regrets.
I looked like hell.
Hair wild, sticking in six different directions. Eyes sunken, right optic lagging behind the left — like the socket didn't sync right after the last tune-up. Hadn't gotten it checked in weeks. Couldn't afford to. Not when rent was overdue, ammo was running low, and every fixer in Watson thought I was either too green or too broke to be worth a risk.
Didn't matter. I'd earn my rep. Just needed the right gig.
Water pressure was nonexistent, but the rinse-cycle buzzed and hissed enough to wake me. I grabbed my patched-up jacket from the chair, holstered my piece, and slid my blade into the sheath at the back. Boots on. Gloves tight. Checked my Kiroshi settings. Optics flickered, then settled into a soft glow.
Targeting reticle: online. Facial scan: online. NCPD bounty monitor: definitely online. One guy on the fifth floor had a warrant pop up every time I passed his door.
Speaking of…
I stepped into the hall. It reeked of piss and damp metal. Two floors up, someone was screaming. Two floors down, someone was crying. And somewhere behind me, a door slammed open and something shattered.
Just a regular morning in mega-block paradise.
As I made my way down, I passed a couple of punks loitering by the stairwell. One of them — tall, acne-scarred, with dermal piercings like streetline wires — gave a little whistle.
"Damn, V," he said. "You look like a discount deathwish. That cute or what?"
I didn't stop. "Keep talkin', Toothpick. Maybe I'll let you be my meatshield later."
His buddy chuckled. "She got jokes!"
I kept moving. Their laughter didn't last long. It never did once I turned the corner.
Outside, the street was already alive with the usual churn — market stalls selling chrome knockoffs, broken vending machines buzzing out expired cans, and the endless chorus of honks, shouts, and distant sirens. Somewhere, someone was bleeding. Somewhere else, someone didn't care.
A homeless guy barked something about Arasaka being lizard people. I ignored him. Everyone did.
The food stall on the corner was open. The guy didn't even look at me when I slapped down a few eddies.
"Soup," I said.
He nodded, handed me a cup of vaguely beef-flavoured noodles. I leaned against the graffiti-tagged pillar nearby, slurping from it while trying to ignore the acid sting of early-rain drizzle. Tasted like wet rubber and artificial salt.
Then my shard buzzed.
I flicked the call open, chewing as the line connected.
"V," came a nasal, oily voice. Zigzag. My fixer. Real name unknown. Probably something like Timmy. Scrawny dude with teeth too gold for his station and a wardrobe straight outta an alley thrift pile.
"Zig," I said flatly.
"Woke up early, huh? That's rare."
"Don't push it. You callin' for small talk?"
"Nah, nah. Listen, got something you might be into." He sniffled. Probably from a stim crash. "Container Alley, down near the yards. Word is Gina J's put something up for grabs. Package detail's light, but it's hot. Not corpo-hot, but local hot. She's lettin' low-cred mercs take a stab before the real chooms catch wind."
My noodles stopped mid-slurp.
"Gina J?" I echoed. "She doesn't slum it."
"She does now. Or someone under her does. Point is — I got the location. You want a chance at impressing someone that matters? This is your shot."
I glanced at the street, then up toward the sky, neon-stained grey, full of promises that ended with bullets.
"Send the ping."
"Atta girl."
He cut the line.
No pay. No backup. Just a whisper and a waypoint.
Exactly how I like it.
The alley stank of old fuel and fresh blood, faint but recent. Typical Container Alley vibe. You didn't step here unless you had iron in your spine or no other option.
I had both.
The waypoint Zigzag sent glowed on my minimap. A small lockup deep in the tangle of shipping crates and broken loader mechs. The kind of place no sane corpo would enter without a dozen guards and a trauma team on speed dial.
I moved fast and low, weaving between rusting husks and overturned crates. Rifle slung over my shoulder, pistol mag-locked to my thigh. Didn't plan to use 'em unless I had to.
My real weapon? The one no one saw coming?
The shard plugged behind my ear. The ICE-burner laced across my spine. My rig.
I dropped beside a half-crushed container, tapped into a junction box barely hanging from its rusted hinge. The thing sparked like a dying firefly, but I coaxed it into life with a flick of my wrist and a gentle spike of current.
"C'mon, baby… give me a node."
Click.
The port opened. I jacked in.
The world shifted.
Gone was the grime and cold and stink. I fell into the Net's underlayer — bright wireframe streets flowing beneath the meatspace like veins of light. Data pulses like traffic. Cameras were eyes; every light post, drone, and turret a sleeping beast.
I slipped in through a backdoor one of the old Claws left open. Idiots always left sloppy code. A typo here, a handshake protocol too old there. No one teaches real infosec these days.
I piggybacked a signal across the relay tower three blocks out, ran a quick ping.
Turrets? Inactive. Cameras? Looped.
Guards?
Two. One watching a food review on his shard. The other fingering his trigger like a virgin at prom. Useless.
I sighed, disconnecting.
"I miss real firewalls."
Still crouched in shadow, I pulled the rifle from my back and checked its sights — not because I needed to, but because it looked cool and calmed my nerves.
This was my first real chance. Gina J's bounty wasn't some gangland re-up. It was the kind of job that opened doors if you walked away breathing.
And I planned to walk away.
My boots barely made a sound as I crossed the alley floor, keeping to the shadows between stacked crates. Movement on the far side — maybe a drone. Looked homemade. Patchwork chassis. Optical node scraped from an ARASAKA scout unit. Couldn't have been standard issue.
I smirked. "Scav special. Wonder who's babysitting you."
I dropped to a crouch near a metal pillar, flicked my left wrist, and opened my hacking overlay. The drone's signal danced in my field of view like a skittish firefly.
Too easy.
A few strokes of virtual code, a handshake trick I learned from ripping old Maelstrom decks — and I was inside. The drone didn't even squeal. One moment it was scouting… next, it was mine.
The video feed was sharp—sharper than I expected for a garage job.
Two guards on a smoking break. One was eating something that might've been meat, might've been polymer. The other half-asleep.
Another ping. More signals.
A second feed opened up.
That was when I saw him.
Down below, in the alley, half-shrouded in mist and cold light. A tall figure, coat dragging like a wraith, silent as a shadow. No glow from his eyes, no holotags, no ID signature. But something about him... it made my skin crawl.
Not in fear. In curiosity.
He moved like he wasn't from here. Like the grime and noise didn't apply to him.
I tracked him through the drone, even zoomed in once. Sculpted face. Unblemished. No visible chrome.
Which meant… either real expensive work, or something else entirely.
"Who the hell are you?" I whispered, tilting my head.
Then he looked up, just as I reprogrammed his drone's camera to face me.
For a second, our eyes met through the lens.
A beat.
I flicked the mic on and purred into the feed.
"Well-built, chrome-face. Shame your locks were old code. Hope you weren't emotionally attached."
I let the drone hover for a second longer, then pushed the feed to loop — just in case he had backup software trying to reassert control.
He reached for his sidearm.
"Called it," I whispered.
Then bang.
The drone dropped.
Sparks flew.
I grinned and shouldered my rifle.
"Showtime."
I had just started smiling when the world tried to kill me.
The drone was toast—fried circuits, one pop and a hiss. Guy didn't even flinch when he pulled the trigger. Just a twitch of the wrist. Dead silent. Calm like he was brushing lint off a coat.
Creep.
Still, that kind of control wasn't street-earned. Not around here. Even the best mercs twitched before a shot.
This guy? He moved like a machine pretending to be human.
And that's when the chip called back.
I turned toward it, half-focused on the glowing shard tucked inside the casing I'd marked hours ago. Corporate signature, high-density processor. My payday. My upgrade.
I approached the container, fingers slipping across the lock's surface—already patched into the relay. It hissed open on cue.
The interior lights flickered on, revealing rows of military-grade cases and one very corporate matte-black briefcase resting dead center. The kind corpo execs die holding onto. The kind Gina J would pay through the nose for.
"Come to mama," I muttered.
Behind me, silence. No footfalls. No shout. No creeping threat.
Which made the first crack of gunfire all the more deafening.
I didn't even register the impact at first—just that I was sideways, teeth full of dirt, and the air had been kicked out of my lungs. My shoulder burned. Warm. Wrong.
I scrambled behind the crate, heart pounding, synapses flashing like a traffic jam.
Sniper? No, too close.
I peeked—red flashes in the distance. Black and red armor. Logos on their jackets like fangs.
Tyger Claws.
"Seriously?! This was my gig!"
Three of them stormed the yard like they owned the place, one vaulting a container wall, the other two opening fire like they didn't care who was caught in the crossfire.
A bullet skipped past me, punched a hole through the crate next to my face.
I bit back a scream and pressed flat.
I glanced sideways—only to see the tall guy again. He wasn't hiding. He wasn't even worried.
He stepped into the open like death in a coat.
I barely had time to shout before another Claw came around the flank, firing wild. The stranger moved—quick, clean. His sidearm barked once, and the ganger folded like a cheap chair.
I caught my breath. "The hell are you?"
He didn't answer.
Just reached down and yanked me back into cover. Rough grip, practiced motion. I hit the wall with a grunt, blinking up at him. That face—still calm. Still perfect. Still not right.
"You're welcome," he said flatly.
"Go to hell," I spat, clutching my shoulder. Pain flared with every breath. "Friggin' Tyger bastards weren't supposed to be here…"
"No ambush is ever scheduled," he muttered, drawing a second pistol from beneath his coat.
Another Claw burst around the corner—big guy, lots of chrome, blades on both forearms. He roared and lunged.
Pretty Boy didn't hesitate.
He sidestepped, ducked under the first slash, then slammed his elbow into the guy's ribs—hard enough to crack bone. Followed it with a blade to the thigh, a pivot, and a finishing stroke across the throat.
I flinched.
It wasn't just clean—it was surgical. He moved like a vid assassin. No wasted motion.
Another Claw fired from the gantry above—missed me by inches. Sparks flew from the metal behind us. Pretty Boy whipped around, raised one palm—and launched something.
A pop. Bright light. A concussive thud. My ears rang.
Two more dropped after that. He didn't even reload. Didn't stop moving. It was… terrifying.
He turned, panting only slightly.
"You've made a mess of this operation."
"I made—?!" I gasped. "I'm not the one who blew up my own drone!"
He didn't reply.
Instead, he crouched beside a fallen Claw and started disassembling him. Like… actual pulling out of components.
"You scavving?" I asked, stunned.
"I am collecting information," he said without looking up. "Unlike you, I do not waste data."
Arrogant prick.
I caught my breath, propped myself against a crate, and checked my systems. My shoulder was bad—bleeding heavy. Adrenaline was already crashing.
"The processor. Take it," he said suddenly. "It is beneath me."
I blinked.
"Wait. What?"
He didn't repeat himself. Just stood, holding something bloody and metallic. An optical unit. He turned away, toward the shadows.
"Who are you?" I called after him.
He paused.
But gave no answer.
Then he was gone.
The bastard didn't even look back.
I lay on the cold ground for a minute longer than I wanted to admit, watching the rain sizzle against the casing of that ARASAKA processor chip.
It still blinked like it had a heartbeat. Unlike me, it wasn't leaking red across the concrete.
"Pretty boy prick," I muttered, half-choking on a breath as I sat up.
Pain lanced down my arm. I hissed, clamping my hand over the wound. The flesh was torn but not shredded—no exit wound. I'd live, but it'd cost me.
Trauma Team wasn't flying to save some unvetted street rat. No platinum plan, no chrome bed. Just grit and painkillers.
The next few weeks were going to suck balls.
I ripped open a stim patch and slapped it on the edge of the wound. It fizzed as it sealed, numbing my shoulder with artificial fire. "Agh! Motherfu-, okay. Okay, we're fine. Totally fine."
The wind had shifted. Sirens screamed two blocks over, probably chasing down a different firefight. No one came here unless they wanted to vanish.
I finally staggered to my feet, blinking neon and ash out of my eyes. I scanned the carnage—Tyger Claws, twitching in their own blood, chrome still warm. Victor had done it so clean. Not even flashy. Just... cold. Surgical.
I wasn't used to that kind of violence from someone who looked like a runway model dipped in scrap metal.
He moved like someone trained—no, bred—for war. The kind of predator you don't find in Night City unless someone's paying a fortune for their silence. And he didn't flinch at the processor. Didn't even glance twice.
But the case—he took that like it was sacred scripture. That briefcase must've held something heavier than eddies. And whatever it was, he didn't take it for creds.
I kicked at a spent shell casing, hard enough to send it clattering into a corpse's visor.
"Chrome-face, huh?" I muttered.
I turned away, limping slightly. My gear still hummed at my back—rifle untouched, pistol half-spent. Processor safe in my bag. Shoulder fried. Nerves raw.
Zigzag owed me answers.
By the time I reached the overpass hideaway, the painkillers had worn off and the stim patch was peeling.
I kicked the busted door panel three times.
Zigzag's voice crackled through a rusted intercom. "Yo, you better not be dying on my couch again, V. I just cleaned it. Kind of."
"Shut up and let me in."
A buzz. The lock clicked. I stumbled inside.
Zigzag's spot was part net-crawl lair, part graveyard for failed startups. Screens flickered with static and garish ads, fan units sputtered like dying birds, and every third chair had no legs. He sat behind a junker console, shirtless, tattoos crawling from his chest to his neck, chewing something that smelled like chemicals and regret.
His eyes widened when he saw me.
"Choom! You look like crap."
"You're a ray of f***ing sunshine, Zig."
I collapsed onto a couch that might've once been beige, now a bruised grey-brown mess. He tossed me a bottle of synth-ice water. I drank it like salvation, then jabbed a finger at him.
"You said it was low-level."
He raised both hands. "It was! Street buzz only. Just a basic retrieval—bounty was open for anyone under Tier One. Figured you'd get in, snag it, get out."
I glared. "Tyger Claws."
He paused. "...That wasn't in the data."
"No? Then explain Pretty Boy Terminator."
That got his attention.
I leaned forward, ignoring the pain.
"This guy. Tall, long coat, face like some corpo's wet dream and hands like a clockwork killer. Built a drone from trash and probably thinks in six languages."
Zigzag blinked. "Doesn't ring any bells. You sure he wasn't Gina's crew?"
"He called her. Called her after the firefight. Had the briefcase. Like he planned it."
Zigzag frowned, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. "Then... he's a wild card. Might not even be local."
"He's dangerous."
Zigzag nodded. "And you wanna find him?"
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
But I'd already memorized the shape of his coat, the sound of his gun, the stillness in his eyes. Something about him stuck like shrapnel.
And in Night City... that meant you either pulled it out fast, or bled slow.