Dateline: December 28th 2050, 1700 Local Time

The Lazarus Group – Candyman, Pacoy, Able, Mac and Pitbull – have been contracted to help protect Friedlander Bey’s Ottoman Hotel during his “Grey Auction” – a three day sale of stolen goods and massive party which draws the rich and famous from all over the world. They’ve already foiled an attempt to blow the hotel up using a gene-tailored bacteria that turned the contents of the entire buildings waste system into explosives, and captured the people responsible – members of the enigmatic 23Enigma group of techno-nihilist terrorists.

Now the team has had to postpone interrogating their prisoners at Candyman’s headquarters in order to rush back to the hotel in their luxury AV flyer. Bey has called to say he wants them there for the second auction session – and in any case Able’s masters at the Rossum Corporation want him to be their proxy in bidding for a consignment of prototype weapons which will come under the hammer in this session.

As the team lands at the Ottoman Hotel’s capacious mid-tower AV hangar, they find the hotel’s gruff security chief, Jonathan Haroun, ready and waiting for them.

“Took you long enough! The Emir wants to see you before the auction session, in his penthouse. I suggest you run.” The man seems to have watched too many pre-collapse cop movies and thinks he’s the precinct Captain.

Candy steps out of the AV and smoothes his suit, “On my way, Marid still down?” Haroun growls, “Yeah, he’s still down. Fucking AI gave away the jackpot on the slots three times in ten minutes!” Pitbull scoffs as he stomps past Haroun. “Ok, Agent Johnson…” He mutters as he puffs off of his umpteenth cigarette of the day.

Candy stops a moment, “I’m sure it was not his fault, Marid only does what he’s told. Try not to be so hard on him Haroun, it only hurts you, blood pressure and what not” and continues around the corner without waiting for a response. The AV’s camera tracks the conversation just outside, short identifiers and threat-assessment summaries appearing beside each person as the camera moves to them each in turn. The AV’s engines slowly shut down, the landing lights turning off – and the pilot canopy pops open. A small datajack eases out of the socket at the base of Able’s neck as his eyes open, blinking as he re-inserts himself into the real world. Pitbull stops an inch from the entrance, before sighing and stomping back to the V-TOL and deposits the Reaper in the back seat. “Sorry. Forgot the Emir and people and panicking and shit…” He half grumbles to the group.

Mac follows Candy, wobbling a bit as he does, glad to see solid ground again. “I still maintain that if we had been meant to fly, we’d have wings and not have made them ourselves. I’d prefer if we could leave it to the birds next time.” He glares at the bus behind them. “Three times, eh? Pacoy’ll be pissed.” Exiting the Av, Pacoy does a quick pat-down of all of his gear, then heads off to the penthouse, wondering if he’ll get a chance to look at the inner-workings of Madrid. “Nah, Mac, Slots are for grannies and drunks… and one time with Candy…. There’s real gamble there, but I bet it sure was a pretty sight to watch ‘em spill!” Pacoy answers. Smiling wistfully, Mac’s shoulders rise and fall. “Still, those one-arm bandits giving cash away like sweets on Samhain?” He lets a whistle escape from between his lips as he makes his way to the penthouse. “Yeah, Pennies from Heaven…” Pacoy ponders the image.

”The last several hours had been most trying, both for the Bey’s every present worry as well as the relative boredom of babysitting during the auction. Even as I watched the proceedings, the Corporate bidding war over the fringe-tech weapons, my thoughts were constantly rushing off to Grigori and 23Enigma held in Carpai Graen, to Miss Wolfir. Even as I lead Veracity on, the silent words between us outside the apartment complex, those words ran through my mind like fire. That Mrs. Blaize took my arousal to in relation to herself, only worked to my favor, she is an impressive woman but she is no wolf. Perhaps it is the exhaustion, but I am glad to heading home and hanging my mask up for a while. It’s times like these that I wish I could forgo the act and be Elwin Cypress again. “

Dateline: December 29th 2050, 0800 Local Time

With only three days to go until New Year 2051, the dog-tired Edgerunners – Candyman, Pacoy, Able, Mac and Pitbull, along with their new associated Saxby – were given a break from their duties as added security at the Grey Auction in the salubrious Ottoman Hotel. They returned to Candyman’s headquarters at Cabrini Grean but, exhausted, tumbled into beds instead of interrogating their captives – members of the 23Enigma terrorist group they caught trying to turn the hotel into an enormous bomb, including the cell leader Professor Gregori.

After several hours sleep, Candyman’s minions awaken them and remind the team they have a lot to do before they’re due back at the Ottoman at midday.

Pitbull stomps into the area, bleary eyed, completely dressed but looking as though he had just rolled out of bed. Mac grumbles, looking up briefly from his notepad, his eyes cast in the shadows like beneath a streetlamp. He looks over at Pitbull, a smile on his face. “Got some shut eye? Looks better on you than passing out did.” Hope he got up on the right side of the bed too. Hate to see what he’d do if he hadn’t. He presses a mug of coffee into Pitbull’s hand and raises his own. Pitbull grunts to Mac, “morning person” far from descriptive of the soldier. He takes the cup and downs it’s contents, before dropping into quick, huffing push ups.

Able steps out of his room into the hallway, his head bleary from half-remembered dreams. There was something in those dreams, something important – but all he has are fragments. The noxious smell of fumes, the sound of a giggling child, a flash of wavy brown hair – and through it all, the impression of falling, endlessly down… Able shakes his head to clear it, his hand resting on the wall in front of him as his eyes focus upon the door in front of him. He recognizes it almost immediately, before he notices the minimap bleeping in the corner of his awareness. Behind this door sat the prisoners – and there were only a few hours left before they had to go back on duty. It was time to put the dreams to bed and focus.

Saxby awakes experiencing a brief moment of where-am-I panic. The memories of the night before flood in, and he glances around his guest room at the cartel’s headquarters. He sniffs and rubs his eyes, set at ease by the generic beiges and maroons of the room’s dressing. He stands and stretches, then begins to gather his clothes. He chuckles to himself at the sheer banality of the room, like the love child of a waiting room and an airport. Stepping out into the hallway, he yawns and stretches again. Hearing the others stirring down the corridor, he trudges toward them. Mac looks up. “Mornin’ there young Sax. Catch any sheep in those monotone rooms? Heavens knows I couldn’t.” Mac winces into his coffee, flipping his notebook closed before anyone gets close enough to read it, stowing it into his jacket pocket with a casual ease. Saxby gives a one fingered salute to Mac. “Mornin. Coffee?” He grabs a mug and fills it. Turning to the group, he asks nonchalantly, “Dr. Creepy?” He sips, eyeing the group. “Yeah… real disturbing brain. Professor Gregori’s had something to say about everyone here that’s rattled them a bit – well, most everyone.”

Pacoy grabs a bagel and coffee from the kitchen after a quick shower. “You guys talking to Dr. Creepy before we leave?” Pacoy asks Able and Pitt. Curiosity over the professor is strong, but Pacoy decided his time would be much better spent examining the war-borg, leaving the interrogation to the interrogators. “Keep the comms open, and I’ll pipe in if needed, but until then, I’ll be tinkering with the tin-man.”

Candy’s henchman and chauffeur Hugh glides into the room on his electric wheelchair, effortlessly negotiating obstacles as he steers the chair via his interface implant. “Good morning. Pater is still asleep for now, I’m afraid and I wouldn’t want to intrude on him under the circumstances. I’m sure he’ll be here soon, but most of you know where everything is.” He heads into the kitchen area for a caff himself.

Dateline: December 29th 2050, 1000 Local Time

The team had just finished interrogating their prisoner, Professor Gregori, when Able – or at least a personality controlling Able – knifed the academic-turned-terrorist in the back, paralyzing him from the neck down. In the ensuing confusion, Saxby fired off a pistol round into the ceiling (which didn’t faze his hardened companions one bit) and triggered a security lockdown in Candyman’s headquarters. Candyman – who had slept through the whole thing up until the alarm because he’d spent the night with his lieutenant Francheska and Doctor Vano – was outraged by what he saw as an infringement on his promised hospitality, even for terrorists, and demanded an explanation.

Now, the team – Candy, Able, Pacoy, Mac, Pitbull and Saxby – have gathered in Candyman’s main room to talk. Saxby sits on the couch, nursing his third (fourth? He lost track) mug of coffee. It’s been a long morning. Pitbull stands upright, a soldier at attention. All he can do to contain his fury. He preemptively sends Candy his footage of the interrogation, which only cuts off after Candy’s demand for lockdown. Pacing back and forth, Mac eventually sets his caff down on a table and manages to still his hands enough to pour a finger or two of whiskey into the mug. To hell with the Bey’s rules… a bit of this ought to set me more upright than a skyscraper. He clutches the mug like a life-raft as he skulks over to a seat and sits down, seeking absolution in the bottom of his coffee.

Candy sits behind a table, not on the couches as one of the crew as is his norm. Desiderium personnel are thick along the walls and the Aequitas herself stands at Candy’s right hand, “So, explain what happened. Just start at the beginning.” Saxby glances around at the others, then fixates on Candy. “The interrogation got-” he searches for the words, “-out of control. We don’t, well, I don’t have the training for this.” Saxby, no stranger to being stopped and frisked by the authorities, raises a suspicious eyebrow at Able. I’m prepared to stand for this, he thinks to himself. Stand for it, and walk out alive.

Pacoy looks annoyed, “Look, Candy – I see where you are coming from, you offered the Professor hospitality, and now he’s a twitching around in a pool of his own blood. But he attacked Saxby, options were slim. Able took things farther than we wanted to, and I understand we need to deal with that, but not like this: We aren’t Desiderium. We don’t work FOR you, we’re supposed to be working WITH you. Partners, not prisoners. Stand Down and let’s work this out as teammates, none of us are going to stand for being treated like this – can’t you see that we have as much face to loose in this situation as you do?” Pacoy reasons, keeping his voice calm and even.

Candy rises his hands palms forward, “I have no intention of treating you like Desiderium, my people are here as a token of safety, nothing more. I just want to hear the facts. This is not a trial.”

Dateline: December 29th 2050, 1115 Local Time

The team – Able, Candyman, Mac, Pacoy, Pitbull and Saxby – are back at the Ottoman hotel for the second day of their contract as additional security consultants for the infamous Grey Auction. unfortunately, things are going wrong fast. Just as the morning auction was about to begin the auctioneer flipped out and began stripping then singing The Sound of Music! While most of the team subdued the auctioneer, and Mac took on that role with the hotel A.I.’s help, Candy and Pacoy followed the Night City Vice President of Umbra Corporation and her bodyguard team, who were seen leaving the auction room just as the mess began.

Rushing up two floors, Candy confronted the Umbra people as they exited their elevator – while Pacoy and one of his drones got the drop on the Umbra team unobserved. Just then, two naked women appeared from another elevator and walked right towards candy asking if he wanted to party. Ignoring them Candy challenged the Umbra people and went for his mono-wire sword.

Seeing Candy go for his weapons, the Umbra executive, Valerie Aldridge, barked a single word “shoot!”, and her bodyguards went for their weapons!

Now, while everyone is busy talking, Pacoy fires the Vortexo! into the elevator and sends his Kestrel-bot to gain a little altitude, seeking the best vantage point. “Marid – close the doors on them NOW!” He then stows the Vortexo! before drawing his Prowler pistol and balisong in a cross-defensive grip. Seeing that words have fallen on deaf ears, Candy draws forth a prowler and a wicked monoblade, both held before him in a crossed defensive stance, “Umbra, you’ve overstepped yourselves.”

Pacoy’s coil of sleepy gas roils into the elevator and the three security team surrounding Icefire drop in quick succession. The Umbra exec herself is unaffected, however – and Marid doesn’t respond to Pacoy’s call, the elevator doors remain open.

Dateline: December 30th 2050, 0900 Local Time

It’s the day before New Year’s Eve – 2050 is about to swing into 2051 – and for the first time in half a decade the closing party of the Ottoman Hotel’s Grey Auction will not be a big part of tomorrow’s festivities. The hotel is still a mess, while the massive orgy of destruction that prematurely ended the Auction yesterday, and its aftermath, are still lead items on every national and international news feed. Some news feeds say the mayhem was due to Umbra Corporation trying to use a backdoor it had installed in its cyberware to control the minds of many hotel guests. Others, and Umbra’s massive PR machine, blame everything on a zero-day exploit of Umbra’s software from the 23Enigma terrorist group. Umbra stock went into freefall yesterday, but today the mega-corporation issued a patch to fix the security hole and its stock is beginning to recover. Meanwhile, the police and every news crew in Night City are trying to find out which story is true.

The Lazarus Group, central to these events, has decided that discretion is the better part of valor. Having been paid at some of the money they hoped to earn and gotten some much-needed sleep, they’ve retired to explore their new base of operations – a dusty combined aircraft hanger and office space on the edge of the Buchanan Inner City Airport, a stone’s throw from Hartnell Hospital and the Kirk Park combat zone. Saxby sits in one of the office rooms, hunched over a bank of computers. Pieces of hardware are strewn about several desks. The click-click of a soldering iron heating up is the only noise heard. The rest of the team let themselves in by the hangar door. Hearing voices off in the distance, Saxby comms to the team. “Welcome home, guys. I’m in the back trying to get us some infrastructure. Make yourselves comfortable.”

“You’re the Lipstick Stalker, aren’t you, Randall?”

Those words delivered so calmly and knowingly just froze me in place, almost made me wet myself. Thank Jesus, Buddha and Elvis all at once that they came from my girlfriend, Emmy, instead of from a cop. She was sitting propped up in bed in my apartment and I’d just come home from working a long shift at the Dangerous Seasons strip club. I’d just gotten my boots off and was now regretting that fact as I wondered whether the cops – or worse, her uncle, my boss at the club, and a couple of the Emir’s finest – were going to bust through the apartment door then and there. Also, dammit, she’d used my real name. Randall Barcello aka Wormwood. I didn’t think she knew it. Her uncle must have told her.

Emmy just smiled at what must have been a look of sheer shock on her face and held up a purple crystal data-spike.

What a month. We moved some basic equipment into the new Lazarus HQ just in time to throw a small case-wrap/New Years party in the new observatory, nothing like my typical New Years plans, but hey – the Ottoman was in no condition to bring in a year, either.

New Years Resolution: Upgrade the Cyberware. No spending any money until I got my cyberware hardened – with the money I’ve been making between Lazarus and Aquino Automations, there was no excuse to have unshielded cybernetics – especially with the sort of characters we’ve been dealing with lately. Of course with the Ottoman under renovations, and the little-fish clubs flooded the run off, there was a lot less temptation at the tables than usual… The eyes were a simple fix, but for most of a month, I felt like I was swimming through molasses as agility enhancers adjusted themselves.

On the bright side, It was a month with no distractions in the hangar – the shop was mostly up and running thanks to a healthy investment of the cred burning a hole in pockets – it’s not like I had anything else to spend it on! It’s got basic set-up for anything machine-work/repair the crew might need, it feels like a second home already. The front office was in working order, mostly thanks to the efforts of Candy and Mac – which is especially impressive considering their very tastes and ideas on how things should be done, I think it still breaks Mac’s heart that we didn’t hire a “leggy dame” for a receptionist! At least they didn’t let Pit or Wormwood decorate anything on the main floor – now there’s a way to frighten off clients! The rest of the place is a work in progress, still needing work, but mostly needing time. The office was tense with the open questions of Wormies “extra-curricular activities” and the “Omaha” photo of what is presumably Mac’s grandfather, as soon as my systems were up to par, I knew I needed to get away for a little while, let things sort themselves out.

Once I felt fully recovered, I hit a number of small clubs, hustling poker pushing the house as far as I could before moving on to a new one – it felt great after so long! With a sizable roll built up, I felt it long overdue to take in the sights at the newly refurnished Ottoman. Quality food and exquisite drinks comped to the room, a couple of lovely ladies to help enjoy the luxury, and the thrills of a real casino – this was what money was made for! As hard as it was, I played it smart: Hustle the small time, loose at the Ottoman. The perks of the Platinum Club and the good will of the Bey is worth far more than anything you could buy for cash. Besides, The Bey has made a subtle, non-official encouragement of fleecing cheats before they cause problems with “honest” patrons, so life is good. After a few nights of taking in the Ottoman’s hospitality and a couple new suits from the brilliant on-site tailor, I felt fully recharged and ready for action – hell, if Aquino Automations says in the black and we pull off a couple more paydays like the last few, I just might talk to The Bey about renting out a suite on a more permanent basis – now there’s a real dream!

Fully recharged and ready to go, I had nice weekend with the family – Lechon roast and moon-cake for Chinese New Year, farewell Metal Horse, Welcome Metal Goat! After too much lumpia, San Miguel and questions about when I’m going to settle down and start a serious family, there was a minor scuffle with the Sumantings, but nothing serious – not enough to ruin the weekend.

Before I knew it, it was Monday – and there was a message on my comms for a business meeting at the HQ. Back to work, business as usual. Hopefully, the issues are cool enough deal with, without any major issues keeping us from staying professional.

“Its all about growing stronger in the shadow of the dragon until you are a dragon yourself,” Candyman said. “Sucking its blood and growing stronger…ever so slowly stronger.”

It was four in the morning, and a foul morning at that – the wind from a Pacific storm, so much stronger than in decades gone by and now liable to bring with it acidic rain as a by-product of China’s great urban megacity and it’s industry. The three senior members of the Desiderium Cartel had been up all night, hunched over the holo-table in the group’s headquarters rest area, going over plans and possibilities again and again.

Francheska Wolfir leaned in towards the table once more, studying the complex cascade of probability predictions which she knew hadn’t come from inside her own beloved Desiderium, nor from the fourth member of the late-night meeting, the young hacker Saxby Diggs. No, the codes to access the AI-driven software that had created this stochastic predictive matrix had come from one of the 23Enigma terrorists Candyman had ordered released last week – the woman, Bianca Klieber. The path was an elegant one, but was it doable?

Francheska sighed – she had to trust the man she’d given her life and her very self to. “As you will it, Pater,” she breathed. Hugh DeBois, the other Desiderium lieutenant, simply grunted assent from his powered wheelchair. He looks tired Francheska thought, this kind of thing is harder on him than the rest of us.

Sitting across from her, her lover and master Candyman was warming to his theme – again. He’d been fuelled with an inner fire since his talks with that Professor Gregori and with the Klieber woman, Francheska had seen how little he had slept as he thought and schemed.

“We’ll be a shadow of a dragon, a terrorist insurgency without the terror, until we are strong enough,” Candy continued. “The matrix shows us that eventually we’ll come into conflict with the Emir because he cozies up to the corporations and their proxies in the city’s government as a way to protect his business interests. But for now he’s our Mommy Dragon, he can shelter us under his wing until we have enough wealth and power to fly off to some secret cave of our own for the next stage of our development.”

“They also show we have to cut the immediate link with Lazarus. They’re becoming too high profile and will attract corporate scrutiny. That and the type of jobs they take on would increasingly leave me too vulnerable to harm, even being killed, before the plan can be realized, and that’s just not acceptable. Still, we should keep contact with them, offer them some aid, maybe even hire them ourselves when they would be useful tools. I’m saddened by that, but I must harden my heart.”

“As for you, Saxby,” Candyman gestured towards the slim young man lounging in one armchair, “You’ve seen the matrix, you know what computing power produced it. Do you doubt it?”

“I doubt everything, C-man,” Saxby replied, laconic and still at ease even after such a long and grueling discussion, “But I’ll go with the flow for now. If these predictions are even half right, I’ll be able to channel far more cash to my own project by sticking with you than by any other method.”

“That’s right,” Candy nodded, satisfied, “And your quest to make digital ghosts free for all is an essential part of our endgame, the one that sees us able to emerge from our cave as a dragon in our own right.”

Candy stood, “We’ve come full circle several times tonight and we keep coming back to here. This is what we are going to do. Let’s all go get some sleep now, there’s a lot of work ahead of us. Come Francheska.”

“Yes Pater,” Francheska breathed, relieved that at last the talking was done. She stood and followed her lover towards their bedroom.

Outside, the wind howled again, like the wolf she was nicknamed after. Francheska shivered. There’s going to be so much blood, she thought to herself.

Lazarus Home Office
Monday, February 20, 2051
10:15 AM

Nearly two months ago, after the Ottoman Incident, a DreamCorp security officer approached the Group with a little information and a hint at a future job. That information was a picture, supposedly taken in the Omaha Exclusion Zone, of a man that looks almost exactly like a slightly older Mac; the job was a scouting mission into the Exclusion Zone itself – a trip no man has yet survived since the missile strike in 2040. The riches of the Exclusion Zone – militiary armaments, classified information, high-tech weapons and equipment – have attracted get-rich-quick schemes and stories of hidden plunder for a decade, but that picture is the first real evidence of any crack in the Exclusion Zone’s armor. And DreamCorp wants it found, documented, and exploited – maybe for a documentary, maybe a new snazzy DreamPark. Hell, maybe they just want to get in there and loot it themselves – but they’ve offered the Lazarus Group the chance first.

The Lazarus Group – minus a few members, absent due to other commitments and/or the inability to get out of bed on time – has assembled at their offices, one week prior to the date that DreamCorp gave as the next window when the Offut defense network is going to be down. They’re awaiting the arrival of Eris Stansfield, the DreamCorp reporter who is supposed to be tagging along with them on their journey East. This meeting is to be the last before embarking on the mission; along with Eris is to be a DreamCorp producer, complete with contracts – and a money belt for the group’s expenses.