Recent content by Catriona Devine

There was a brief exchange of glances between PCS and Sock, with Catriona opting to cling to any impression that she was a cool head with continued nonchalant wall leaning. The other two were attempting to have a telekinetic conversation with their eyes, which, honestly, made the Scottish man...

Forget about the internal self-identity crisis; what a refreshing change of pace it was to speak to civilised people. Catriona appreciated the crew more than she would care to admit to their faces, but they were hardly the sort to take home for Christmas. Tripz was an anti-social gremlin who...

The sky was peppered with black stars, but instead of celestial bodies in their goth era, they were the floating specks of oxygen deprivation. She was the proverbial pet hamster in the hands of the overzealous toddler with no concept of grip strength, about to be one of dozens to succumb to...

If you don't laugh, you'll cry. The notion that this would be a career comprised of one part revulsion, one part horror and just a squeeze of the frightening slap of reality. It was the means to an end, a quick-fix solution to a temporary problem. Pay off the loan, get off the hook, and move...

It was hard to balance out the marvel of witnessing PCS fire off communist rhetoric with all the grace of a juiced-up Animal on fight night with the immediate panic of looming consequences. The moment this got called in, it would be pegged as a cyberpsycho attack, and no doubt, MaxTac would be...

"So ye pished oan him." "Mhm, I did." "An' he paid ye to pish oan him." "He did, yes." "Did ye still hae to shag him?" Catriona paused momentarily, her fingers requiring every inch of cerebral focus to secure the necklace clasp beneath her chin. In hindsight, perhaps they should have stolen...

Immediately, the thought of Tripz being entrusted with iron rippled through the three, who reacted accordingly. The girl wasn't a maniac by any means, but she was a nocturnal net gremlin with a bloodstream full of party drugs and a loose grip on reality. Sock withered on the spot while Catriona...

Catriona continued her glacial consumption of the kebab while observing PCS's pre-fight rituals. The pair didn't spend too much time in the company of one another, usually buffered by their international man of mystery (otherwise known as an incomprehensible Scottish man with a van), which...

Fuck, had he really just pegged her for brand new out of the box? It slapped her right in the face just about as hard as he'd slapped her ass (in hindsight, not true). Catriona's mouth drew into a thin line, swiftly turning contemplative as the word 'fragile' hit her for the one-two. It wasn't...

His arm forearm pressed against her throat, flesh no match for synthskin wrapped in scrap metal as the ability to breathe departed her. Immediately, her hands flew up to pry at the limb, fingers scrabbling and attempting to find any purchase in between, only to find unyielding patchwork that...

Catriona contemplated the kebab. In contemporary cultural history, she had learned much about the nature of doner meat (lending credence to the theory that her degree would have been worthless had she obtained it). In early 21st-century western Europe, it had apparently been a staple meal of...

If Catriona was trying to exude the aura that they were an organised collective of capable yet mysterious individuals then it was dead on the floor. The corpse was actively fucking twitching under the pale moonlight of a hairy Scottish arse. At the very least, Devine could at least attempt to...

Fuck. So much for an easy bonus. In the aftermath of a quick-drawn safeword, Catriona remained on her back and stared at the ceiling, the once generic off-white paint having long since been stained yellow by nicotine and a lack of functioning ventilation. A worn-out room for worn-out people...

In her less humble moments, Catriona considered herself to be a graceful creature of limitless empathy; however, she couldn't even begin to understand the emotional drive that would lead a person to walk towards where the explosion had come from. Nor did she particularly want to find out. Not...

"Cat, and you're right, the pleasure is yours." Apparently, there was some rite of passage that she'd missed the NCART on or a collective Night City meeting where everybody but her got bestowed their alias. Cat was uninspired, but nobody wanted to be caught dead overthinking their own nickname...