The Six
Tuesday, February 21, 2051
19:30 PM

The Six, what was once known as Interstate Six, is one of the busiest freeways in the world. After the quakes of ’43, the other two major arteries connecting SoCal and NorCal, the 99 and 101, were both closed due to damage and a mess of red tape emerging as a minor border war between NorCal and SoCal, halting any hope of reconstruction.

That leaves The Six as the only major road connection between the two sister states. Repaired, repaved, and expanded on primarily by the megacorporations – as opposed to the state actors supposedly in charge of the operation – The Six now operates as a paragon of industrial efficiency – at least, when the automated toll collection system is working. On those days when it’s down – hacked, damaged by the elements, or just plain broken down – things slow to a crawl as The Six’s privatized police force, 6Sec (supported by both NorCal and SoCal police) collect tolls and make border inspections.

This is one of those days. The Lazarus team is in the middle of one of the greatest gridlocks of recent memory, some two miles from the NorCal/SoCal border. It’s already gone dark, and in the past two hours the team has moved forward all of four miles. 6Sec vertols are hovering above The Six, their spotlights shining down upon the horrendous backlog of cars waiting in line.

Mac sighs, stretching his arms as best he can, feeling trapped like a ferret in a cage, hopped up on caffeine. “Are we there yet?” Pitbull switches the song over to Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer”, before wrestling himself out a cigarette. Wormwood munches on a skewer of chicken tikka he bought from one of the many scooter-born vendors working the massive jam and muses “Pits, we need to find an alternate route, and maybe an alternate pick-up point for the rest of the gear too.” Basically trapped in his seat, Pacoy intently explores the intricate features of the media capabilities of the buzzbot, focusing on the streaming data as it changes from optical input to visual output. This, he thought, is something I should have learned to manipulate at master levels before getting into a situation like this. What was I thinking signing on to be filmed?

Jake’s Discount Dealership

Tuesday, February 21, 2051, 12:45 PM

The Lazarus Group has just finished acquiring their cross-country ride, an old-style Amur suburban assault vehicle pre-supplied with bullethole and a steering column that just refuses to sit straight. After shifting their meager supplies to the Amur, the Group was just about ready to roll-out when suddenly the sound of gunshots ricochets through the lot – leaving their salesman, Jake, with a hole in his ten-gallon hat the size of a monkey’s fist and a spiderweb forming just to the left of Pitbull’s eye.

Mac slams his hand into the back of the driver’s seat in a panic. “Drive, big man! Get this tank in motion! I don’t want to get lit up by Chicago lightning!” Pitbull growls, “Don’ gatta tell me twice…” as he guns the engine and shifts into drive. Wormwood curses as he realizes his rifle is all packed away nicely in his holdall – then hits the window button and reaches for one of his pistols while searching for the source of the gunfire.

Mac frantically looks around the door, searching for a manual window crank before tapping on the window to try and get Stan’s attention and motion him to get down on the ground. “Who’s shooting at us? What’s going on?” Pitbull jacks his HUD into the dashboard plug-in and yanks out his Urban Fox, scanning for viable targets as the tank of a vehicle roars into motion. Pacoy scrunches into his seat for as much cover as he can get while trying to peek out the window and find a source of the gunfire.

“Over there!” Pacoy shouts, noticing a group of shiny roadsters, “Those roadsters!” “I see them!” Wormwood yells. “Hit the road, Pits!”

It was one of those niggles that bore into my brain, eating away at my every thought until it consumed enough of my brainpower to confuse and distract me. I found myself staring blankly at my desk, halfway between Anita’s wonderful set of legs and my case file – either of which would normally consume the entirety of my attentions, but lately I could barely focus. Why couldn’t I find any information on my grandfather? Everywhere I looked, there was a dead end. No medical records, credit history, death certificates, but I remember him bouncing me on his knee when I was a lad – kind and gentle with tons of sweets around. The only thing that I could imagine was that he hid himself, or was hidden. But why had he been Zeroed? Was he a fugitive on the run? A government agent? Was he the kind man that I remembered, or was he something darker, more sinister of purpose? What connection did he have out in Omaha? Was he there when it happened? What would I find out there?

Lazarus Home Office

Tuesday, February 21, 2051. 9:20 AM

The Lazarus Group is once again gathered in their office, after a day of schmoozing, contract signing, and wishlist-making. Wormwood, who has now had his picture plastered all over the Night City netscape for the past 20 hours after being fingered as the ‘Lipstick Killer’ (though his actual identity remains unknown) has successfully disguised himself to fool a casual lay-person or even a simple facial recognition system, but its capability of spoofing a more serious scan or a close-up inspection isn’t nearly so certain. The team once again awaits Eris Stansfield, the group’s patron from DreamCorp who has secured their services to scout out the nearly-mythical Omaha Exclusion Zone. The catch: The whole thing has to be filmed – and they’re on a tight deadline, which is about to get even tighter.

Waiting for Eris to arrive, Pacoy anxiously works the action on his multi-tool – checking the movement each function. He gives a quick tug at his goatee before drawing his balisong and checking the it’s action. He pauses, tightens a screw with his multi-tool and checks it again before folding it and concealing back on his belt. Damn, he thinks to himself as he considers the contract I was so busy lusting after the payday, it didn’t really dawn on me what I was signing. I’m going to have a trained journalist with multiple robocams documenting my every move for the next few days! I’m breaking Rule No. 1! I gotta figure out how things are going to go down.

“Does this broad know anything about being on time? She was supposed to be here at the crack of nine, and here we are, waiting around again…” Mac sighs, leaning against the wall, steaming cup of kaff nearby, twiddling his thumbs idly. Pitbull sits at the table, smoking his… third?… fourth?… well, his next cigarette of the day while servicing his Reaper, planning to move onto the Urban Fox afterward. The door to the conference room opens and a lean, balding man with a beard, about 5’2" and with the characteristic rolling gait of a lifelong biker strolls in. “Wotcher, guys. What do you think of the new me?”

Casefile #3a

This has to be a first – now I’m not investigating a person, but a whole district. Omaha. What DreamCorp wants with the place, I’m not sure, but it sounds like there’s got to be some good loot to be had there. Not without danger, sure, but there might be a chance I can find out more about my grandfather, and help the group make a bit of a profit while I’m at it. It’s nice being reunited with these goons again – helps me feel at ease. Not that I felt much better when Wormwood started getting spooky about Eris. But the monetary compensation DreamCorp was offering for this salvage operation was too good to pass up, despite my reservations about the operation.

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.

“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.

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.

“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.

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.”