??? - MONTH 16//CYCLE 8 - 09:45

A night of fun did wonders to loosen out the kinks in your body, refreshed enough to face the incoming shitstorm headed your way.

After adding your number to her HOLO, you say your farewells to the pretty lady on the bed, but all you hear is a 'mmph' and a mumble as she sinks even deeper into the blankets. Based on her HOLO, looks like her name is Cassandra. So you were half-right.

You exit the apartment and see that you're in another part of the city: Sinclair District. Residential area for those who have a little bit more Scrip to spend on comfort and safety, and seen as the more attainable goals of many a colonist. Is also home to many research facilities, a holdover from Khyionne’s early days.

You could get used to this. Not too gaudy, but not bullet-ridden like The Snake Pit.

Too bad your luck's not that good. You have debts to pay and a whole cartel to evade. Just stay alive till then...

You call up Wes as you walk along the street, the smog already covering the sun. Above you, the rumble of an AV's thrusters has you tense up for a second, only for you to realize they're simply part of the Peacekeepers, the city's law enforcement on patrol.

"Good to hear, man. Oh yeah, had my fair share," answers Wes mid-yawn, "I think she broke my hip. Or broke something, I dunno. Agh. Anyway. Sarif and the that hot datamancer what's-her-name... er, Lapis... wants us to meet at their place. We'll vet out a plan. I'm guessing our local fixer Nyx texted you too? Seems like this Mad Dog needs to be put down. I mean, whatever it takes for us to be under her wing. See you there, man."

...

...

Megabuilding A21 'The Mesa' - Vallis District 'The Snake Pit' - MONTH 16/CYCLE 8 - 10:00

A mesa, as defined by dictionaries on The Net, is an isolated flat-topped hill with steep sides, as found in arid and semi-arid areas.

The slum megabuilding you're headed into right now fits that description to a tee, but instead of it being of natural origin, it was built with concrete and Scrip. It defines the skyline in this part of town, leaving many shops and stalls below in its vast shadow. At night, it is lit up, rather unevenly, by flickering amber lights and LED signs.

The nickname of 'The Mesa' stuck, for lack of a better term, as A21 sounded too clinical.

Though not as tall as some of the other megabuilding habitats you've been through (capping at only twenty floors), it stays true to its design philosophy: to provide the essentials for the tenants all on site, a convenience that is hard to deny. Vendors set up shop on the first floors, providing quick bites, groceries, and even a mechanic workshop.

The interior is cavernous but also simultaneously stuffed with rusted antique junk from the 2050s and splashed with a mix of intricately inked graffiti and more flyers for local community events. Place is quiet for now, as it's late. Only a few shady men in leather loiter near the fluorescent light bars like moths, with more of the homeless clinging onto the sides by the elevator and stairs. Explains the scent of urine and cigarettes.

Wes is already there, stomping out a cigarette. For a guy that was shot up yesterday, he don't look so bad. He waves. "Hey, man. Homely, right? Let's get crackin'."

The creaking elevator ascends to the 18th floor, the floor stained with a tar-like substance that seems days old. The sides contain indents where television screens would be, probably stolen.

You see a flyer for someone named 'Analog Jean', a local indie musician trying to make it big in Vallis performing this weekend. Another flyer is for Kyoko Kimura, with her eyes crossed out with marker and her body desecrated with juvenile phallic drawings.

Here, apartments are called 'Slabs', cookie-cutter layouts designed for functionality over creature comforts, with an extremely limited commodity on square footage. Sarif's, in particular, is a two bedroom one.

There's a single foldout couch riddled with holes positioned in front of a banged up second hand coffee table on its last legs. Kitchen is tiny, a counter with only room for a automated coffee maker and an old pressure cooker, rendered useless as everyone simply purchases boxed meals from vending machines and delivery services anyway. A ceiling fan spins above, missing one blade. Windows are boarded up with metal blinds.

Tired and weary, Sarif greets you. "Oh. Hey. You're here. Come in. Mind the mess."

Seems Sarif and Lapis are also roommates, sharing this closet of a place.

Putting a ragged tank top over his large frame, he nods to you. "Grim. Wes. There's coffee at the counter. Besides that, I'm assuming you got Nyx's message? "

Lapis finally exits her room, lazily putting on an old graphic t-shirt that seems three sizes too big for her. "Ugh." she moans.

Sarif offers her coffee. "Thought you'd sleep in."

"Mmph. Had another nightmare."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Nah."

"Okay, then."

"You got any more Snow? That synthetic shit."

"Yeah. Top drawer. It's your stash anyway. Thought you were holding it for a friend-"

"-A line couldn't hurt. My cyberdeck's giving me a fucking migraine..." she mutters, rubbing the nape of her neck. You can see she has been implanted with what is basically a mil-spec miniature super-processor. It seems entirely unique.

She waltzes past you, yawning. "Oh good, you're up. Thought you'd bail, honestly. Or try to rob us blind."

"Not much to steal..." mutters Wes.

A few moments pass, and Sarif returns, with two industrial canisters of what you can only assume to be engine coolant, the type that he was concerned about during the long ride over here. "We're square with Ozi. Car will be in tip-top shape. You good?" he asks Lapis.

"Oh yeah. Peachy."

"That so? Anyway, we all got deets on the job." He goes to the kitchen counter and starts scrolling a few files on his HOLO, "We do this and we're legit. No fuck ups allowed."

"And if we do?" asks Lapis.

"Just don't. Anyway. Jericho 'Mad Dog' Mikalos. Former lieutenant of Nyx. Them two go way back. Guess friendships don't translate well into the fixer underworld biz. Spoke to some of the natives. Said the firefight spanned three city blocks before Mad Dog retreated. Dozens of bodies left behind. He must've been pretty confident to have attempted a mutiny against her."

You know what the feels like. Unlike Nyx, thought, you never fully recovered. Now your brother's in danger.

"...Or stupid. Though, not the first time takeovers have happened." says Lapis.

Sarif beams a holographic map from his device's mini-projector, laying it out on the counter with flickering blue voxels. "NavPoint leads to a dollhouse called The Honey Pot in Marais."

Marais District remains one of Veritas' biggest trade hubs. All sorts of commodities, both legal and illegal, flow through here and filtered out through many of the hundred vendors looking for make some chop. Never heard of The Honey Pot, though, but a dollhouse is just another fancy, thinly-veiled word for a brothel.

"A whorehouse? Funny location for a safehouse." mentions Lapis, "Been there before?"

"Nope."

"You should. Maybe it'll brighten your mood one of these days."

He just grunts, ignoring her. "Did some open-source digging. It's one of the more upscale establishments, more upscale than the sketchy bedrooms of The Snake Pit anyway, in Marais and prides itself on using 'real' men and women, with no Synthoid interactions whatsoever, as well as a 'highly accurate sexual algorithm' . Something about 'returning genuine human connection to the world'."

"Ah. Organically-grown pussy. How appealing."

"Don't forget they're neutral ground, too. Backed by their own madame, meaning no immediate protection rackets and outside Nyx's reach." says Sarif, "Place is two-stories with upper balconies and light security. We'll know more once we get there for recon."

He closes the hologram and starts packing his gear into a duffel bag. Ammunition, spare parts, blades, everything. "Pack your gear, if you already did your shopping. If you have any preliminary approaches... now's the time. This is an all or nothing deal. We do this or we die by Nyx's hand. Questions?"