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.”

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.

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.

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.

I sat there, watching the hands on my watch march forward inexorably, eyes unfocused as my left hand rubbed at the bandages around my chest. I was still sore from when someone mistook me for a slab of meat in need of tenderizing. Nothing felt broken aside from my pride, so it was just a matter of time for things to knit themselves back together. Flicking my hand across the face of the pocket watch brought the report I had composed back into focus, and I finished attaching an edited snippet of sound from when I met with the PLF. The editing was to extract all indication that my new-found friends were there. Wouldn’t make me a very Private investigator if I had left that in.

“He’s burning out, Aurora. They just didn’t build him for these repeated wipes.”

I was swimming in a weightless darkness, floating above all that man had built and surveyed. Nothing could touch me; nothing was important.

“It’s been set for retirement already, Andrew. The hardware will last long enough for Elkins’ little project.”

I twirled in that darkness, and I was looking down upon a falling star, burning so bright. It was so close – so close – I could just reach out to it and hold it in my grasp.

“We’re going through him too fast, Aurora; if we don’t lay up-“

A soft, mechanical voice whispered in my ear. “Contact in five… four…”

I was falling, being pulled back to the Earth. The first gust of wind was a shock; it sent me tumbling, twisting.

“Three… two…”

I could feel the fires as the heat began to grow, hotter and hotter, until it was eating away at my flesh.

“One…”

The light of the plasma front was blinding. Everything was so bright, and I opened my mouth to scream.

“Contact.”

Welcome to News 24/7’s Movers And Shakers – the interactive news and gossip show for webizens focused on what’s going on behind the news in Night City. I’m your host, Robyn Curia.

“First up, our correspondent Veracity Blaize talks live to the infamous Friedlander Bey, owner of the luxury Ottoman Casino Hotel about one of the highlights of the city’s 2050 social calendar, the Grey Auction. Veracity?”

“Thank you, Robyn. Yes, I’m here in the penthouse home of Friedlander Bey, entrepreneur and public benefactor, perched atop the palatial Ottoman Hotel in the colorful Vimes Hill area, a favorite with tourists and locals alike. Mr. Bey, thank you for agreeing to this interview at what must be a very busy time.”

Dateline: December 27th 2050, 0900 Local Time.

The team has been summoned – that’s the only way to put it – to the penthouse suite atop the luxurious Ottoman Hotel from which the notorious Friedlander Bey rules his domain. They have a good idea why – the Emir is hosting one of his big Grey Auctions at the massive hotel and casino complex over the next three days and he’ll want to rope them all into providing some extra security, no doubt. Their appointment is for 9.30 am, so – in some cases bleary-eyed and grumpy – they all show up at the massive entryway to the Ottoman nice and early. It doesn’t do to disappoint The Emir. After their vehicles are taken by utterly polite and bright-eyed young valets they all walk in through the marble and chromed main doors.

The entire entryway is designed to impress: a vaulted forty foot ceiling painted in trompe-l’œil painting, marble floors, real plants in brass pots, and a low murmur of wealth. Ahead, sweeping hardwood stairs at least sixty feet wide lead up to the main casino floor. However, the team are intercepted before they can set foot on them by a hard-faced, tall, black man in a midnight leather trenchcoat and wraparound shades. He’s wearing a RFID badge on his lapel which bears the hotel logo and the legend “Ottoman Security”.

He smiles, unconvincingly, and grates out “Gentlemen, welcome to the Ottoman. Can I help you?”

After I went my separate ways from the rest of the team for our 10-ish hours of preparation, I remember being pissed. Incredibly pissed. It wasn’t like I couldn’t do without my Reaper or even my Carbine, but it was my strong point, y’know? Played to my strengths quite capably. Besides, I liked my Reaper. Nothing made me feel stronger than it did. That goddamn Emir. If his lackey didn’t dwarf me, and his bastard-ness himself wasn’t paying me very handsomely to do this right, I would’ve just dropped that Sobranni and looked for a head-hunt job.

So, I dug around. I needed a solid pair of guns, so I dug. It didn’t take anywhere near as much… well… “work” as I thought it would. I only had to break one guy’s hand to know who I needed to look for. Some guy called Stick who lived close to the border of Cargo Town. Didn’t wonder why he was called “Stick”. Figured it was just some back-alley nickname. All I thought was that if he swindled me, I’d have to stick it to his dip-shit ass, and hunt for someone else.

As each of the team enter Suite 4018 on the fortieth floor of the luxurious Ottoman Hotel, they are greeted by their escort from earlier, Tomas, and a second man who shakes their hands firmly and introduces himself as Jonathan Haroun, the Ottoman’s security chief. Haroun isn’t as tall as Tomas although he’s far more bulkily built, and sports a shaved head and a well-trimmed goatee beard which is beginning to grey. He holds himself just as Tomas does though – like a well-trained fighter, alert and ready to spring into action, but with an air as if he’s listening to something others cannot hear. It’s a poise and energy the team all familiar with themselves , often from looking in the mirror: a man who is well used to violence of the kind that kills, and who is being fed information via HUD and communications channel from a computer database about everything he could possibly need to build a tactical picture of every possible threat.

Tomas gives them a quick tour of the suite itself, which is medium-priced for the Ottoman. The suite is very well appointed, in a theme of honey-brown woods and pale gold trimming, with large self-polarizing windows of thick laminate looking out over the city. It has a holo-screen and full top-spec entertainment center, a public terminal with heavily restricted access to the hotel’s own computer net and several device recharging pads in the lounge and each bedroom. It has two bedrooms each with a king-size bed as well as a large lounge holding two couches which produce queen-sized beds when folded out. The bathroom holds a semi-circular hot-tub which can accommodate four, an ultrasound shower with room for two or maybe three and the usual sink and commode – all with gold-plated fittings and marble surrounds. There’s a small kitchen with a ceramic hob, microwave and coffeemaker but the wet bar has been removed. In its place there now stands a gun safe keyed to the team’s ID badges.