Blazing red neon lights glow upon oily puddles along the streets of the harbor. The shouts of longshoremen can be heard upon the chill wet air, soft tones among the high pitched whines of machinery and the rattling crash of metal upon metal. All this seen from the barred windows of Desiderium’s newest holding, Ad Libitum. A promise, I hope, of all we offer to those in this changing time.

I spare a last glance beyond the bars, before turning to my guests. Two middle aged Chinese men from Harbortown, seeking a better life – granted, I have advertized. “Nǐ hǎo Mr. Zhang, Mr. Liao.” We exchange proper respects to one another, “Mr. Candy, we are much pleased that you make time in busy schedule so soon.” They are eager, they know I’ve moved quickly, but then this quarantine can’t last forever, “Call me Pater, and it was a trifle, with the plague in Harbortown – it is important we get the wheels of trade moving before our clients find other markets.” They seem to swallow that well enough, the last month has been extremely trying on the dealers and fixers. Few have vast reserves of wealth to lean on in such crisis and it seems the Triad’s have charged a premium for even the necessities – people are scared. Short term cash flow is worth nothing if it undermines the loyalty of your people, fear, fear is a fatal sickness in our trade.

It’s been three months since the Sanders job went sideways – that was a real disastrophe: Garrion blown away by a corporate death squad; the client iced; everything he said a lie; the only thing salvageable was the payday – which only came about selling off bioweapons and the girl we were hired to rescue in the first place! Still, a payday is a payday, and 10.7K was nothing to sneeze at, and we knew things weren’t going to be smooth, which is why Mei brought on our diminutive new trigger-man, Hank. The caper crossed paths with a P.I.’s job, and it looks like the character is sticking around, I think he has a thing for Mei. He seem like a good enough guy – took a beating without crying about it – but I think he might be a pacifist! Wait until he gets to know our merry band of miscreants a little better!

The 10-large was invested into card-counting and “safe” probability gambles within a week, minus a small chunk for a few flashy meals and drinks with friendly ladies. I played it safe: I only counted cards against other clients, never fleecing the house, and made sure my “safe” gambles were small enough to stay on the good side of the house.

I feel like the King of the World.

Sitting here in our usual booth at “Decadent Dark”, watching the show on the main stage and sipping a refreshing tonic water and lime, my girl Emmy cuddled into my side and a fat sheaf of cred-chips in my wallet. Life is seriously good.

No urges to create, either. Abigail was a fine work of Art. The memory will keep me warm inside for quite sometime, months if everything goes as normal. Musingly, I sip my drink and allow myself to drift into replayed implant-memory of that recent glory once again…

It was surely fate that brought us together in that Amon Zero temple almost three months ago now. Her presence hit me between the eyes like a sledgehammer and I got over-zealous, careless, tried to talk my way inside. Then she slammed my face into a temple pew and I knew she was the one, the very next Art that had entered my life. I had managed to get a bug into her robe’s fabric and that was the beginning, gave me where she lived and her route to the Amon Zero repository where she was some kind of acolyte. Once the job with the team was over I could devote serious time to her, and I did.

Dateline: September 24, 2050, 00:55

The group sits within the Silverfish, an early 2030s era military ‘stealth’ submersible that Combat Cabs likely bought either as military surplus or on the black market. The fish is small, cramped, and claustrophobic, and anyone who sat inside one for any length of time would agree that the repetition is justified. The sub arrived an hour after Dweezil made the call, piloted by Brock, a no-nonsense damned-near android of a sub pilot. A few bits and pieces of contraband lay on the seats – it’s obvious that this sub was recently used for cargo transportation duties, rather than mere personnel transport.

Eleanor Sanders lies in the middle of the sub, completely blocking the aisle; she’s dressed in a loose black jumpsuit and connected to a life support system, but remains unconcious and flat as a board. Brock’s voice sounds from the intercom. “We’re pulling up on the port now. ETA, five minutes. We’ll hit soundly at 0100.”

Dateline: September 23, 2050, 21:05

As the smoke clears, the groans of the injured and the choking-gag of Candyman mark the only sound in this small circle of the city. The stacatto sound of well-controlled gunshots, pop-pop-pop, continues to echo from the Triad base to the north.

Candyman continues to recover from his bout of stomach sickness, while Mac lies on the floor, gravely injured. The police officer unsteadily gets to his feet, looks down at the newly-created bodies surrounding you, and asks “What happened?”

“They slipped.” Wormwood quips as he swaps magazines on his pistols.

After holstering her gun again, Mei – still disguised as Jingfei – comms to the team subvocally, “He’ll be a problem if they want us to come inside. Weren’t they the ones who sent him down there in the begin?”

“I’ve never heard of someone changing into a crazed freak from getting sick,” Hanks says with a bit of disbelief. “I heard rabies and syphilis do that.” Pitbull grates, training his Reaper on likely points for hostiles to arrive. Mac grumbles and hauls himself off of the pile of detrius he found himself on. “Pacoy, how’s the signal from your pinbot? Anything back from that titanic wreck?”

“Maybe,” Wormwood subvocalizes back, “But we can always hand him over again as an introductory gift, if needs.” He snickers audibly.

“Let’s hope Triads are like Boy Scouts, eh?” Pacoy mutters. Wormwood looks over at the police officer. “Hey Taffy, you don’t happen to know where the PLF hang out, do you?”

Taking out a silk handkerchief, Candy clears the last of the vomit from around his mouth and turns to Officer Taffy, “It’s a war zone up here, but we should have it under control before too much longer.” Dweezil pats the cop off as he steadies the man, having taken care of him during the fight.

Dateline: September 23, 2050, 20:15

The Edgerunners have escaped from the sewers just in time, having been informed by an extremely doped-up NCPD police officer that the sewers were going to be flooded with both water and octobots less than an hour prior to the designated ‘all-clear’ time.

Now, the Edgerunners stand upon a street in a neighborhood that is on fire. Several of them are crouched behind an overturned vehicle that looks like it’s been here for thirty years; others are up against the walls of some of the few buildings that aren’t on fire. The sound of gunshots rings out every few moments from the distance; the conning tower of the triad’s aircraft carrier headquarters is just one of the origination points for that common sound.

More close to home, the Edgerunners can now see that several of the rioters have begun to take an interest in their presence. Officer Taffy is down and possibly out after a man tossed him to the side like so much play-do. Cargotown’s citizens are out in force, and an even dozen of them are facing the Edgerunners. Several of them hold baseball bats, tire irons, and other improvised weapons; one of them holds a Molotov cocktail, already burning. There is a menacing, wild look in the eyes that look back at the Edgerunners; reasoning with these people is unlikely to be fruitful, as all reason has left the zone. Even worse, all of them show signs of plague infection – some have full-blown tumors growing from their face, hands, and elsewhere. Others have scars, running up and down their bodies. One of them was either enhanced prior to the transformation or was hit harder than the others – his jaw looks malformed even more than normal, and his three-fingered hands are shaped into claws. He looks at the Edgerunners and roars, revealing a set of massive set of fangs that would make a space alien proud. When he howls, the rioters charge.

Dateline: September 23, 2050, 19:00

The Edgerunners creep along in a dank sewer, moving carefully towards two thugs hiding out from the plague and rioting in the streets above. The thugs have captured a Night City police office – likely enforcing the quarantine by patrolling the sewers for just such a group as the Edgerunners. The thugs are beating the man, trying to get information out of him – but the Edgerunners have decided that two against one isn’t a fair fight. Not that Edgerunners fight fair…

As the Edgerunners creep closer, there is a sudden lull in the beating/interrogation at the end of the tunnel. The sewers are silent – except for the slight ‘swish, swish, swish’ of the Edgerunner team slogging their way through the muck. One of the thugs speaks up, and Pacoy watches through his feed from the buzzbot. “What was that? Shit, are the boy’s friends coming back?” Pitbull keeps his Reaper trained on the commotion, hyperspectral sight lighting up his HUD like Christmas.

Mac creeps forward, shotgun braced against his shoulder, holding it tight like it’s about to jump out of his hands. Shadowing the wall, he approaches and stops just before the tunnel splits off. Pitbull creeps closer to get a bead on one of them, Reaper trained on the expected location of the thugs. Pistol ready, Pacoy cautiously approaches the tunnel split off, paying attention to the feed from his bots.

While the combatants of the party creep forward, Mei continues to scan the pathway behind and around them to watch for anyone who may come to aid the thugs from behind. Pitbull leaps out and unloads three shots at the first thug he heard. The bullets fly out from the reaper’s barrel, pift-pift-pift, their silenced sounds reverberating in the tunnel. The bullets strike the thug directly in the chest, exploding into showers of gore that come flying out his backside. A few small entrails wind up on the police officer’s face. Following close behind, Wormwood copies Pitbull, stepping forward and unleasing both silenced pistols at the remaining thug.

Dateline: September 23, 2050, 17:45

The sun begins to settle down behind the shimmering glass and steel towers as Night City once more embraces its namesake. The aftermath of the explosion at the hospital threw everything into chaos; it was lucky that the Edgerunners made it out alive and free. Now, they are grouped at Candy’s hideout and a debate rages between the team members. Should the team brave the plauge-infested streets of Cargotown in order to rescue a girl who may not even be alive and – perhaps more importantly for this group – who may not be able to afford their rescue fee? Or should the team call it a bust, throw down their cards now that their paymaster is dead?

Outside, a black B&B C700 parks in front of the hideout, and out steps Mei – still in her guise as April. The passenger door opens and closes, but you are unable to see who gets out until he steps around the front of the car. It is a hispanic looking man that can’t be more than a 4 feet tall….The two head into the building.

Wormwood thunks his beer down on the table, “I say we have to finish this – for Garrion’s sake and because the only way to make any money out of this double-cross is to get a sample of the drug, a sample of the virus, and someone both worked on – then selling them to some corporate lab. That means finding Eleanor. Which means, unfortunately, Cargotown.”

Pitbull sits on the couch across the room, staring at his Reaper solemnly, knowing that the bearer of its twin is dead. He takes a couple of swigs from his beer now and again, but does little else. Wormwood looks up, “Candyman, you know I’m right on this. You’re the leader, seems to me, so if you say go…”

Mei and her stunted companion enter the room, and Mei addresses them, “Still arguing about heading into Cargotown? If you’re worried, I picked up some extra muscle.” Candy squeezes his nose tightly – the stress of the debate becoming draining, “Yes, but can we afford to make enemies of Umbra Corp? I simply do not see such a risk as worthwhile now, a man and a friend down, it is a time to nurse our wounds and keep our heads down.”

Now safely inside, Mei releases her disguise, but feeling lazy, leaves her English module running. Candy looks up to the newcomer, “Who would you be newcomer, if Mei vouches for you, then you have my trust. Still, tell me of yourself. Anything to pause this troublesome debate.”

Wormwood nods to the new arrival, “Hey there. I’m not in a joking mood so if Mei says you’re extra muscle I know not to belittle her, cut her down to size. You’re good.” Hank looks over the people in the group to see if any of them are already ‘sizing him up’ and keeps an eye out for any suspicious characters, only to note that everyone in the room looks suspicious to one degree or another. He only acknowledges everyone with a bob of his head.

Pacoy chimes in, “Cargotown is no walk in park – it’s not like sneaking into a corporate tower or anything. Mei, Candy and I will not be at our peak usefulness in a place like that. I want to get to the bottem of this, but we need heavy firepower and a serious plan. At minimum, a guide!”

A collection of Mac’s casefiles, as jotted down in his personal notebooks.

I muttered something inaudible as I stared at my flexiscreen, fixated on the image of a hospital, fresh with a newly donated crater – someone was being awfully generous giving that to the hospital. I hadn’t seen violence on this scale in at least six months, but that didn’t make it any less shocking. That’s not the kind of thing that people did anymore. Not often, anyway. I cursed as I flipped through the images and figures, pausing to thump the screen as my CRT Program made the image waver until it felt the shock.

“What was that?”

Shit. The moment I saw the image on the newscast, I forgot that I had a client on the phone. They had directed me to the cast in the first place – I had been consumed in a game of chess against myself until the phone rang. Good thing too, because I was losing.

“Audio from the newscast – apologies, I didn’t know it was that loud.” I winced. That was a weak lie, and I covered it up badly. They didn’t seem to notice.

“Look, Trenton, we need eyes on the scene. We’ll pay your fee, but we need to know what happened – can you get there and investigate?”

I nodded, before forgetting that the client hadn’t come by in person. “Wait, who is we? I need to know who I’m working for before I step foot out of the office.” Not strictly true, but you don’t get services like mine for free. Not if you’re of the male persuasion at any rate.

There was a sigh on the other end, and I clicked through more images, thoughts hurling through my head like untold hospital gurneys. I took a sip of my coffee and heard, “Providential Core”.

I barely was able to swallow in time. They could afford my fee several times over. But I’m not one to look a gift in the teeth, as the saying goes. I passed him my billing information, and let off the call with a terse, “I’m on my way.”