The wind was cold that day. Strange for August, sure, but Cyrus Vance definitely felt a chill.
Because cold sweat was pouring down his back.
"I fucking told you—on time means on time! Shit! You goddamn people!"
Cyrus was on a call with someone, voice low but hysterical—
Everything froze.
Ethan found himself immersed in the braindance's reality: the hot wind against his skin, Cyrus's voice crystal clear, the distant noise of the street, advertising AVs drifting through Night City's sky...
The heat was so authentic that Ethan could feel himself sweating. His mouth went dry.
This is the new age. People who knew how to use technology had turned raw data into experience. "Immersive" wasn't just a word anymore—it was literal.
Before Ethan could fully appreciate the tech, a phone rang in his ears.
Mr. Hands' voice cut in: "Try pulling the view closer to the Barghest soldier's ear. See if you can pick up the voice on the other end. Might recognize them—that'd save us a lot of trouble."
Ethan followed the instruction, pulling the perspective toward Cyrus's ear canal. Sure enough, there were audio layers there that didn't belong to Cyrus.
"Kinchō shinaide, tomo." Don't be nervous, friend.
"Companies run late all the time. Be patient. We're on our way."
The caller threw out a line of Japanese, then switched to English with a slight Japanese accent—Night City standard—trying to calm down Cyrus, who was clearly on the verge of losing it.
"Arasaka?" Ethan's mind jumped to the megacorp immediately.
Mr. Hands chuckled. "Tyger Claws all speak Japanese. Europeans work for Arasaka too. Using language to pin down someone's affiliation isn't wise."
So Ethan kept listening.
"Fuck! Fuck! You have any idea what kind of risk I took sneaking out of Dogtown? If those guys don't see me at the night shift, I'm dead! You've got ten minutes. After that, deal's off!"
Cyrus was practically snarling the words.
In the distance, a drunk lay on the ground vomiting. The smell was so real that both Ethan and Cyrus instinctively covered their noses.
Silence on the other end of the line. Several seconds.
"Friend. How do you think your Colonel would feel if he found out you were selling him out?"
Cyrus clenched his fists. His teeth ground together audibly.
"You're all a bunch of fucking assholes! Scumbags!"
"Just wait nicely. Don't make this harder than it needs to be." The voice on the other end was completely flat, ignoring the outburst entirely.
Ethan frowned. Cyrus didn't look like someone selling intel. He looked like a turkey being roasted on a spit—caught in the middle with nowhere to go.
Poor bastard.
Ethan shook his head. He didn't know who was on the phone with Cyrus, but it was clear: Cyrus was being coerced.
Mr. Hands offered his input: "Fast forward. Skip ahead to when he meets his handler."
Ethan nodded. The playback accelerated, showing Cyrus's agitation in choppy bursts—punching the wall, crouching with his head in his hands...
"Here we go."
The scene shifted. A Quadra Turbo-R 740 rolled into the alley where Cyrus waited, surrounded by cigarette butts.
Back in the early 21st century, Japanese sports cars had dominated the American market—reliable handling, fuel-efficient. But the Quadra Turbo-R had become a jewel of American automotive engineering.
The Turbo-R was a classic in its class. Plenty of power, aggressive styling—but it demanded skill. That engine was a beast that only experienced drivers could handle.
Money. That was Ethan's first impression of whoever owned this car.
You had to be making serious eddies to drive one of these. Mid-to-high-level corporate, or a ranking gang member at minimum. Maybe a professional driver who spent a lot of time behind the wheel—because most rich people just wanted smooth and luxurious.
Mr. Hands seemed pleased when Ethan voiced his observations.
Of course, it was Ethan's past life as a hardcore Cyberpunk player that really helped here.
"Problem with the BD?" Ethan noticed the man stepping out of the car had his upper body completely pixelated—only audio came through.
Mr. Hands sighed. "Anyone with skills protects themselves from being recorded. That kind of cyberware is expensive, but manageable. Standard practice."
"I came personally to make the handoff. Give me the goods." Cyrus's contact walked up to him without a shred of guilt for being late.
Cyrus looked up at the man. His fists clenched several times, but in the end he just reached into his pocket and pulled out a chip.
"Let's be clear. Ten thousand eddies. Cash. Every last ed."
Cyrus watched desperately as the man took the chip. The complaints from earlier were gone now. The braindance's immersion tech let Ethan feel that exhaustion radiating off him.
Just give me the money. I'm done.
"The route map you provided isn't worth that much." Cyrus's contact wasn't the generous type. He wanted more.
Cyrus reached for the chip, trying to snatch it back—but failed. A dull thud, and Cyrus went flying several meters from a single kick.
"Cough—cough—"
Blood in his mouth. A Barghest soldier getting launched like that... Ethan was pretty sure the attacker had corporate-grade chrome.
"Cyberware looks like corp hardware. Voice isn't familiar." Ethan shared his assessment with Mr. Hands.
Hands nodded. "Mm. Bionic joints. Titanium skeleton. The works."
In the recording, Cyrus had finally reached his limit. "You short me, I'm going straight to Hansen! If I'm going down, we're all going down!"
Seeing Cyrus on the edge, the contact finally revealed his next demand. "Plant these solid-state explosives under the cargo trucks. Do that, you get the rest of the money. Here's the deposit—after the job, go to—" static.
Cyrus got to his feet and opened the cloth bag full of rolled cash. "Five thousand? Shit!"
"That's plenty. You're causing a lot of people sleepless nights. Half now is more than fair."
Cyrus bit down, accepting his fate. "Fine. I'll pick up the rest after it's done."
The playback froze.
Creak—
Reality returned. The familiar scent of cedar filled the room.
Mr. Hands removed his BD wreath and fixed an expectant gaze on the young man.
Ethan laid out his observations:
"There was a golden tiger figurine on the passenger seat. Possible connection to the Tyger Claws—or just a decoration."
"The cyberware doesn't look like standard gang gear, but that doesn't rule anything out. Corporations and gangs work together all the time. As for the rest... no solid leads yet."
"Key info is missing. No license plate either."
Mr. Hands confirmed Ethan's findings with an approving nod. "Sharp eyes. Leads have to be worked piece by piece. Remember this—it's exactly why Colonel Hansen sent you here."
[Subject 'Mr. Hands' — Affinity Updated][AFFINITY: 10 — "You might actually be useful."][REWARD: Body +2, Bonus +1]
As the notification faded, Mr. Hands stood and retrieved a long case from a tall wooden cabinet.
"Originally, I was going to have one of my people grab something from the armory for you on your way out. But now I think this little treasure of mine needs to go to someone who can actually use it."
"Netrunner teams are good at tracking other netrunners when directed. This beauty will let you keep them at range. How you use it is up to you."
"Ammunition's your problem."
Ethan opened the case. A matte-black rifle lay inside, still glistening with fresh gun oil.
[ICONIC: Tsunami Nekomata — Tech Sniper Rifle]
Ethan's heart kicked up a notch.
Now that's what I call a reward.
Plz throw powerstones.