PUBLIC Calling All Cars

Jack Kowalski

Clean Cop, Dirty City
Jack Kowalski
Eddies
344
Character Bio
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NIGHT CITY
WESTBROOK DISTRICT
CHARTER HILL
NIGHT CITY FIRST NATIONAL BANK, 1650

​

Jack didn't hate this time of year- but it did get dark early. It was cold, it was windy at night. During the day the temperatures weren't too bad, but lately he had grown to be annoyed by wearing a T-shirt during the day and a jacket at night. That, and the lack of Officers meant that he was held over and put on overtime moreoften than not. He was driving around- he wasn't actively being proactive, having just come off a series of calls. Two shootings and a robbery report, with a footchase with a punk that ended with him tackling him and an hour of processing for paperwork and inventory. His patrol car's lights skipped across the slightly-wet surface of the road, flashing lights mirrored in the dirty water collecting on the ground.

He skimmed over them with his vehicle, taking a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. Tired already? He needed another coffee to get through the next five hours of his shift. His radio, however, had better ideas.

"CALLING ALL CARS, ROBBERY IN PROGRESS."
"NIGHT CITY FIRST NATIONAL BANK, CHARTER HILL BRANCH. MULTIPLE SHOOTERS, ONE OFFICER DOWN. ALL AVAILABLE UNITS CONVERGE."


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Jack took a deep breath, and flicked on his lights, buckling up as he hit the gas. He grit his teeth, flying through the streets, weaving between cars, dodging some inattentive pedestrations, and slowing down just enough at the red lights to safely clear the intersection. Not that he would've really cared if he smashed some asshole's car, he just wanted to get to the call safely and not deal with the paperwork. Jack did his best to keep his teeth unclenched. The last trip to the dentist wasn't good. Got chewed out by an elderly woman about his teeth grinding-

Just another added stressor.

He heard the gunshots as he got closer. Multiple shooters, in his mind, implied a few. Just a few, a handful. Standard bank robbery crew. However, this looked more like an entire gang of them. Aug'd up assholes with automatic weapons right near closing time, and on the busiest time of day. He stepped on the gas, rounding the corner by pulling on the parking brake. One of them was in the street, a machine pistol in her hand, laughing as she was advancing on two Officers, ducking and weaving behind their patrol car.

He stepped on the gas. She must have had some sort of armor upgrade or something to that effect, one of the Officer's sidearms didn't penetrate her, only caused her to stumble and laugh. Not quite a cyberpsycho... but unpleasant to deal with nonetheless. She swung the pistol around to his car, hitting the hood of his vehicle with a barrage of bullets. Jack ducked, leaning over into the empty passenger seat-

And accelerated.

Cops tend to forget that they were driving a weapon itself. Deadly force was authorized at this point, so why care about the method?

Turns out, just as Jack suspected, her body, while standing up to small arms well enough, didn't stand up too well to a full-impact of a car going almost 65. She rolled under his car, his front right tear lifting up, then both after he ran her over. He quickly got out of the vehicle, grabbing the shotgun and racking a load into it as he got out of the car, bullets bouncing off of his vehicle as he exited, from both the street and inside the bank. Who knew how many there were, really?

He walked over to the woman he ran over, crouching behind his car. She was still kicking, somewhat, her cybernetics not liking the impact. Wiring, blood, tissue, skin, all mixed together while she was crying out, screaming, cursing. He put the shotgun near her head-

And ended that threat right then and there.

He clicked on his radio.

"Calling all cars, calling all cars- be advised, well over twenty suspects, send everyone!"


​
OOC Note:​
Click to expand...
Are you coming to help? Just in the area? Or inside the bank? Or taking advantage of the Chaos inside to get to the cash that these hooligans are also after?
 
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Location: Northside - Old Warehouse
Time: 17:00 (5:00pm)
Tags: [OPEN]
​
"Will you hand me the f*cking wrench already?"

"You need a new toolbox, I don't know how you find anything in here."

"HAND. ME. THE. FUC-"

Cool steel finally hit Basher's palm as he was mid-expletive. "Thank you. Was that so hard?" His tone was immediately gentler as the ratchet sound of the wrench clicked at a steady rate. His hands were working within an engine block, securing the bolts of a replacement he just finished. He stared down as he was working, while the woman next to him stared daggers into the side of his head.

There it was... that damn smile. That broad, cheshire-cat smile he always had when he knew he was edging along that line of getting a slap across the face. Maybe she would do it for good measure, just to wipe that smile away with a beat-red cheek instead. "Not as hard as sleeping alone tonight." She walked off in a huff, causing Basher to glance up from his work to 'observe her' as she walked away. He chuckled softly, torquing the wrench a few last times before setting the wrench in the toolbag and stepping over to the driver's side of the truck. He pressed the ignition, causing the engine to roar to life as if awakening a lion under the hood.

Another guy walked up to the open door; his pale skin offset by black tattoos tracing the outline of the veins running down his neck and along his exposed arms. His eyes were completely replaced by tinted optics, giving him a permanent "wearing sunglasses indoors" vibe. He took his head as he leaned against the frame of the truck: "One day she's going to beat the sh*t outta you with a crowbar while you're sleeping; you know that?"

"She can get in line." Basher cast a roguish smirk at the man. "Don't worry - she'll want to 'blow off some steam' later and we'll be right as rain." The resulting wink was unnecessary, but cemented the implication Basher was making. Corbin merely shook his head as he smirked. He was about to say something when the truck's CB radio burst to life:

Jack Kowalski said:
"CALLING ALL CARS, ROBBERY IN PROGRESS."
"NIGHT CITY FIRST NATIONAL BANK, CHARTER HILL BRANCH. MULTIPLE SHOOTERS, ONE OFFICER DOWN. ALL AVAILABLE UNITS CONVERGE."
Click to expand...

Corbin didn't have to look at Basher to feel the gonk-eating grin lining his face. "No. Boss wants us to keep a low profile." Silence was the only response.

"NO."

...

"No..."

...

The two men finally locked eyes, and this time Basher spoke. "It ain't a crime to look."

Corbin sighed.

"And if you think about it... it's the perfect use for that truck we stole" This time it was Corbin's turn to go silent. Eventually he rolled his eyes and walked off to the truck. Basher chuckled, and yelled out to the rest of the warehouse where his crew was scattered about: "Mount up! We got a robbery we're going to... observe."


 
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Night City
City Center
Night Corporation Headquarters
(77'th Floor, Operations Division)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~​

Far from the tumultuous and chaotic City Streets, a Silent Sentinel lay dormant. To all outward appearances, this mighty obelisk slumbered; the steady neon glow of its 'NC' logo shimmering like a single pallid eye amidst the multi-colored fractal noise of light and sound which painted Night City in rainbows. Unbeknownst to the masses, however, within the walls of this obsidian edifice there pounded a beating heart engorged by the blood, sweat, and tears of the masses. Though removed from the struggles of daily life, those who dwelt within this fortress were by no means unaware of what happened beyond its walls.

It was true what they said in hushed whispers. Night Corp was always watching.


Jack Kowalski said:
"CALLING ALL CARS, ROBBERY IN PROGRESS."
"NIGHT CITY FIRST NATIONAL BANK, CHARTER HILL BRANCH. MULTIPLE SHOOTERS, ONE OFFICER DOWN. ALL AVAILABLE UNITS CONVERGE."
Click to expand...

The squawking of the radio called the attention of a number of uniformed individuals seated amidst the desks and terminals of the Operations Room. One of the black-clothed agents stepped away from his terminal and approached the semi-circular desk upon which hummed a multitude of monitoring devices. This particular box was keyed directly into the NCPD Communications Network, allowing for discrete monitoring of the Department's Dispatch and Communications. The Agent-in-question, a blonde-headed middle-aged man with a clean-shaven face and mismatched eyes, bent forward to listen as he pressed a small button imbedded within a box on the desk. One of a dozen similar buttons, each unmarked.

The small circular disk lit up in a pale yellowish glow.

A few moments later, a small intercom set into the center of the desk spoke up. A woman's voice; her tone measured and professional with a husky quality - as if she were no stranger to the taste of cigarettes and strong alcohol. It was not an unpleasant voice by any means, but its tone was direct and cold:

"What is it?"

"Ma'am, there is an incident developing. First National Bank, Charter Hill. Suspected Bank Robbery."

"I see. Keep me informed."

The light on the board went dark and the blonde-haired man remained. The room was far from silent, but his duty was to monitor the radios. His other comrades had their own specified roles. It didn't take long for another message to arrive via the NCPD Monitoring Hardware... but this one was louder in volume and tinged with notes of anger, surprise, and desperation:

Jack Kowalski said:
"Calling all cars, calling all cars- be advised, well over twenty suspects, send everyone!"
Click to expand...

At this, the Agent scowled, then reached out for another panel; this one connected to a small screen set to one side of the semi-circular desk. A button was depressed and the screen flickered to life - set to one of Night City's News Channels. Already, another of his comrades was flipping through a black-bound binder - seeking out a list of names and numbers. Searching for contacts to notify, people to call, and protocols to set in motion.

It was true what they said.

NightCorp was always watching.
 
Smoldering holes burned their way through the shadows across the street from First National Bank of Charter Hill, fingers of smoke unfurling out from the fiery rings before being beaten away by the blinding flash of red and blue lights. Tucked into an alley between some marketing firm for drug riddled perverts - and a lawyer's office for when they got caught - were eight red and black coats centered around two rusted Thorton Mackinaw pickups. Leaning against the lead vehicle, Risers watched the first of NCPD's finest hogs speed onto the scene just as the gangoons across the street began pouring out of the bank. He couldn't help but chuckle when the first ganger turned into red pancake mix under the badge's front tires.

So much for these dorphheads being smart.

Looking back over his shoulder, The Red Chromer noted the time displayed at the top right of his vision. "Badges found their way out of the donut shop. I clocked five-forty-five. What time you three got?"

Faust was the first to answer, stepping forward from the shadows with his hands tucked into the collar of his armorjack, "Five-point-three-five, bossman"

"Shit man, this timer must be fucked or something, boss" Flex, one of the many True Believers vying to brought into the elite of Red Chrome, complained as he slapped the side of his head. The kid's eyes were still let up a bloody red as he poured over whatever HUD he was staring at, "my shit's all fucked up. I got like, seven"

"Seven minutes? How the fuck did you get seven minutes?" There was a crack as a bullet ripped past somewhere overhead, then a metallic THUNK as Faust slapped the kid on the back of the skull with an open hand in the wake of Risers' words.

"You were supposed to be counting time, kid, not the amount of thrusts you can average" Faust snapped, sending a rolling shockwave of laughter through the assembled Red Chromers, "this is what happens when you download some Japo-Bloatware, buy a fucking watch next time, kid"

"Ow!" the True Believer tucked into himself, hands nursing the back of his skull, "shit man, I know you ain't old enough for watches."

Another snap, then a chunk of metal exploded into a hail of splinters that rained down into the alley. "Shit! Will you two shut the fuck up!?" Risers brushed the shrapnel from his jacket with a chromed hand, "we already got fucked once by NCPD's roided-out show pigs - I won't be having that shit happen again."

As the shards fell from his jacket and plinked off the asphalt, Risers turned away from the gunbattle across the street and took a step toward Faust and Flex, "Not at their fucking pigpen and sure as fuck not at that zoo-biter bar. Next hate-night can't have any fuckups - and that shit isn't coming from me, it's coming from Harper, and if he wants this shit done right then we are gonna make sure it's done fucking spotlessly. So stop fucking around, assholes!"

The walls echoed the scream, carrying "asshole" down through the alley and puckering every one it passed over. Risers sighed, rolled his eyes, the counted off, "so we have five-thirty-five, five-forty-five, fucking seven somehow and what did you clock, Dust?"

He turned to his girlfriend with some hope that maybe she was more competent than the rest of his clown show was proving to be at the moment. They needed accurate response times when the pigs had a reason to show up fast. Nothing was going to get badges and corpo security on their game faster than putting the money at risk - but he doubted these dorphheads they'd put up to the task would last long. None of them were even so much as laced into Red Chrome, nor knew it was Red Chrome who'd passed them the security deets which meant they would die just as poorly as they'd lived.

All Red Chrome needed from them, however, was to live long enough to get an adequate response. Once they had those times, they'd have the last piece of the puzzle for their Wastson stomp.
 
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Sammy woke to the digital rasp of his alarm, a sound somewhere between static and a dying synth riff. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of a half-dead holopanel in the corner. Naked under the sweat-streaked sheets, he groaned, rolling onto his side to kill the alarm with a sluggish flick of his wrist. His optics adjusted automatically, faint green overlays tagging the detritus of his one-room apartment—half-empty noodle cartons, the faint glint of his Kusanagi helmet, and his comm-link, still flashing with an unfinished message to Eve.

yeh ill clear my schedule nxt weeafbgknlm-​

The sentence hung there, as unresolved as everything else in his life.

He pushed himself up, feet finding the cold polycrete floor, and dragged his body to the washroom. The mirror was cracked, and the flickering biolight overhead cast his reflection in uneven shards. His eyes were bloodshot, the kind of exhaustion that seeped deeper than just the physical. Last night's gig—another messy, underpaid scuffle for dominance in the block—had left its mark, bruises creeping along his ribs and a tension in his neck he couldn't shake.

The sink spat brown water before clearing to a murky grey. Sammy splashed it on his face, the chill snapping him into something resembling wakefulness. His internal clock pinged: 16:58. Too damn late.

The chirp of his comm-link cut through the silence. He didn't need to check the screen to know who it was.

"Yeah?" Sammy answered, his voice rough, as he leaned against the sink.

"Shen-dawg! Good morning, sunshine," DeeJay's voice came through, too bright, too casual, and way too amused. "How you doin' my man? Saw some buzz about your fireworks on the block feeds."

Sammy snorted as he strangled the last bit of toothpaste from an emaciated-looking tube onto his frayed toothbrush. "What's the job?"

DeeJay chuckled, the sound grating like cheap synth drums. "Straight to business, huh? Alright, got a hot one for you. I've got a client uh. . . running an 'off-the-books' transaction near Charter Hill. Cops pulled up on their little soirée thanks to another, unrelated mess over at First National. Now they're stuck and need a clean egress. . . Figured you're just the cool dude for it."

Sammy walked across his apartment to the radio, leaving a wet trail across the floor as he flicked a button on the holo-panel. A repeat of an uncomedic comedy show. Ads. Ads. The neon glow masked his bored expression as he lazily switched channels.

"- several wounded, police on scene as this marks the fifth bank robbery this week. Charter Hill Bank, now under assault by well over a dozen individuals have-​

"Told ya, Sammy boy. It's a reaaaaal mess, and my client's stuck in the middle of that jambalaya."

"What happened to their crew?" Sammy asked, wiping his face on a threadbare towel.

"Bailed the moment NCPD started making noise," DeeJay replied. "Besides, you're better than their crew. A real pro. Not to mention, they'll pay preem eddies for a little bit of discretion. You know, keep their faces off the media feeds."

Sammy exhaled, rubbing his temple. "How preem?'"

"Oh, Sam my Jam-man!" DeeJay teased. When Sammy didn't reply, the fixer quickly answered. "There. The deets." A number flashed on Sam's comm-link screen. "Happy?"

"It'll do," Sammy said, his tone flat but firm. "And I want them gone before NCPD decides to lock down the whole district."

"Always a pleasure my man. I know I can trust you to not make a mess this time, okay? This guy's a repeat customer and loves to throw his bills around. Do me this one favour, Shen-dawg, I'll make sure he throws extra your way."

The line went dead before Sammy could reply.

He sighed, tossing the comm-link onto his unmade bed before turning back to the cracked mirror. The day-old stubble on his jaw and the shadows under his eyes weren't going to fix themselves, but he didn't have time to care. Work didn't wait for anyone, especially in Night City.

The feed from the Kerenzikov whispered promises of precision, his nerves ready to spark on command, while the emotion suppressor did its job, dulling the creeping anxiety that came with every job like this. Sammy stretched his legs—well, the high-grade alloy and hydraulics that replaced them. They hissed faintly, pressure recalibrating for the movement. He'd learned to trust them as much as his bike, the cybernetics melding with what was left of his human self.

Sammy pulled on his gear with practised efficiency: black armoured pants, a kevlar-reinforced bomber jacket that bore the fiery birth of a dragon on its back, and holstered his tools. His fingers lingered on the edge of his helmet, the reflective visor catching the dim light as if mocking him. It stared back at the man, the gaping maw of the lightning-charged shark threatening to eat him alive.

Helmet in hand, Sammy stepped out of his apartment into the smog-choked air of Chinatown. His Kusanagi sat parked where he'd left it, sleek and waiting like a coiled predator. Sliding onto the seat, he felt the engine purr beneath him, a mechanical growl that promised speed and escape.

With a flick of his wrist, the bike roared to life. Sammy gunned the engine, the Kerenzikov twitching in the back of his mind, primed to make him untouchable. Night City blurred as he leaned into the throttle.
 
Fuck, her head hurt. It wasn't just her head, either - her whole body ached, and she had to be careful how she turned, because her ribs were still tender on one side. While the three of them bickered, Evi produced the small bottle of over-the-counter painkillers she'd brought with and palmed two pills, grimacing as she swallowed them and the bitterness clung to her throat all the way down. For the past three days they'd been the only thing keeping her functioning, and with how fast things were moving now that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

Neither was the fucking arguing. There might not have been any Lacers with them, but she never would have guessed it by the sound of things. Still, she was careful not to let Risers see her roll her eyes, and when he turned to her wanting to know how her count measured up she made sure to look over at him. "Five-forty-two." Maybe she would have had more to say, but lately she hadn't been saying much at all. It was always like this for the first few days after shit got real bad. She just hoped he wouldn't mention anything about it.

Evi returned to nursing her half-smoked cigarette, leaning against the passenger side of the lead pickup as she watched the chaos and carnage slowly spread from the epicenter of the bank. The badge that barreled on-scene in his patrol car had finished what blunt force trauma started, but she'd lost sight of him after that as more lights and sirens overtook the scene. It was nice to watch someone else get fucked by NCPD after the shitshow at the junkyard.

Every gunshot felt like a knife being wedged further into her skull, and there wasn't anything the painkillers could do to help with that. She flicked the remnants of her cigarette against the wall, rubbing her temples as she circled behind the truck to stand next to Risers. From this new vantage point she thought she caught another glimpse of that same badge, but whoever it had been quickly melded back into the turmoil.

"So we average it at five-forty, but that's just your everyday pigs." This was the first time she'd spoken up all day, and she tried to ignore how it still hurt to swallow or move her jaw too much. "No way they won't be sending more than that. Not to some shit like this, and sure as hell not with what we've got planned." She glanced up at Risers before continuing, almost as if for permission. "Keep counting, the real shit's still on the way."
 


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First National Bank
Charter Hill, Westbrook

​

Smoke and shrapnel filled the air around him as he knelt behind an overturned desk. His mask itched against his face, but he didn't dare pull it off. The First National Bank in Charter Hill had become a battleground. NCPD was entrenching themselves outside, laying down suppressive fire through shattered windows, while inside, the situation was even worse. A cyberpsycho—because of course there was a cyberpsycho—ripped through the lobby, augments flaring red-hot as it carved through anyone unlucky enough to be in its path. Ryan spared a glance at the two dead bodies sprawled near the vault, their blood pooling beneath them. Two of the so-called "crew" he and Vex had weaseled into joining through a drunken loudmouth at El Coyote Cojo. Amateurs, loud and aug'd to hell, all puff and no substance.

It was supposed to be a clean job. Mask up, grab the eddies, and slip out before the alarms really brought the heat. Ryan and Vex had no intention of splitting the payday evenly. The plan was simple: muscle into the gig, snag the cash, and leave these idiots to deal with the cops. Now, the gig was spiraling into chaos, the alarms screaming in tandem with the sound of heavy gunfire. The NCPD wasn't taking chances. Drones hovered in the shattered windows, sweeping the room with scanners, looking for any excuse to send more lead flying. The loudmouth who got them into this was already down, his chrome-plated face split wide open—cyberpsycho's work, no doubt.

Ryan peeked over the desk. The psycho was still rampaging near the teller booths, a hulking figure with jagged blades for arms and optics burning like hellfire. Their 'crew' was scattered around the area, shooting at both NCPD and the psycho at large.

"Perfect," Ryan muttered under his breath, wiping a streak of blood from his Kiroshi optics. They flickered momentarily, recalibrating to highlight heat signatures. He saw one of the crew trying to flank the cops with a scattergun—stupid move, and it ended the way Ryan expected: one loud boom, and the guy's head turned to pulp.

He tried calling out, his optics throwing up an image of @Beau Frost, his close friend and go-to Netrunner.

"Come on, come on."

The money bag was still at his feet, heavy and promising, but worthless if they couldn't get out. Ryan's mind raced, weighing options. The back exit was their best bet, but it would take timing, precision, and a little bit of luck. He took a steadying breath, his fingers tightening around the grip of his pistol. If he was going to pull this off, he'd need to move now while everyone else was distracted. Ryan signalled to @Vex Kiranova, a new associate he trusted little more than the cons around him. Yet.. he got them into this mess, he'd honor getting their way out.

"WE GOT TO MOVE!" he called out to Vex, rolling his shoulders as he prepared to move.
 
The once-sterile lobby of First National Bank in Charter Hill had descended into complete chaos. Ivo "Ironhand" Lasko, a hulking cyberpsycho with far too many aftermarket mods for any sane person, paced erratically near the shattered teller counters. His industrial-grade cyberlimb ground with every movement, the servos whining as his jagged, blood-slicked fingers flexed and unflexed.

"TrAiToRs... aLl oF tHeM… sEll MEEEEE oUt, wIlL tHeY?!" Ivo muttered, his glowing red eyes flickering like malfunctioning headlights. In his other hand, he clutched a shard tightly enough to crack the casing, muttering about it being his "ticket to freedom."

Moments earlier, Ivo had barged into the bank mid-robbery, drawn by who-knows-what. To the crew inside, his arrival seemed like bad luck personified. To Ivo, it was betrayal. His hallucinations had kicked in almost immediately, the voices in his head jeering, mocking, accusing him of being set up by these strangers. The first crew member to try reasoning with him didn't stand a chance. Ivo's massive hands came down like a guillotine, smashing the unfortunate man into a mangled heap of blood and chrome. The others, already scrambling to secure their haul, suddenly found themselves caught between the cyberpsycho's wrath and the imminent arrival of NCPD forces. When the alarms blared and the first wave of NCPD officers swarmed the front entrance, Ivo turned his attention to them, roaring like a feral beast. Bullets ricocheted off his cybernetic torso as he returned fire, his arms becoming a blur of violence. The police had no idea they'd walked into a meat grinder.

The lobby was now a maelstrom of chaos.

Ivo snarled, whipping his cyberlimb toward a nearby marble column and reducing it to rubble. Shrapnel and debris rained down, forcing everyone—thieves, cops, and unlucky bystanders alike—to duck for cover.

"YoU'rE AlL iN oN iT!" he screamed, his voice a guttural roar that carried over the cacophony. "YoU ThInK YoU CANNN taKe WhAt'S mInE?!"

As if to punctuate his point, he raised his industrial cyberarm and unleashed another barrage of fire toward those outside and then inside. Sparks showered the room as one crashed to the ground, exploding on impact. The collateral damage only added to the chaos, flames licking at the edges of the vault door. The thieves found themselves pinned down. Every attempt to move toward an exit was met with either suppressing fire from the arriving NCPD or a brutal, sweeping attack from Ivo himself. The psycho seemed to be everywhere at once, his paranoia turning every movement into a perceived threat.

The shard in his hand gleamed faintly, a rare moment of clarity crossing his face as he muttered again. "Freedom… it's all I need…"

Ivo's pacing became more erratic, his hulking frame leaving deep gouges in the floor as he muttered to himself. For Ivo, everyone in that bank was guilty. Everyone was his enemy.





 


Jack was good. Two more shitheads were down, from the initial one. He upturned his shotgun, ducking behind a car, reaching to his belt and performing, unenhanced, unaided- a quad load of his shotgun, chambering four shells in rapid succession. He rotated it back into his hands, peering over his car-

Just in time to see the bad guys get a lot worse. On the inside, a Cyberpsycho had started his own rampage. Jack breathed deeply, weighing his options. The cyberpsycho barreled through the columns of the bank, as far as he could tell on the inside. Blood on his body, he screamed, grabbing both an unfortunate Officer and a few more suspects on his way around the lobby. The Officer was flung violently into the car as he tried to press into the bank.

Better that, than chopped in half, Jack thought as he pulled his shotgun up.

Subdermal armor, probably. This would slow 'em down, maybe make 'em stumble. No, Jack had to do something else. Subdermal armor was all well and good, stopped breaks in the skin, mostly. Kinetic energy, no. He heard more sirens coming- NCPD coming in force now. But not what they needed. The psycho was in the middle of the lobby, just for a moment, looking to and fro while the bullets bounced around him, were fired at him, near him, and then towards other people in the group.

Out of his fucking mind.

Jack pulled the shotgun up to his shoulder- swung it over the car. He kept both eyes open- the ghost ring going not around his chest, or his legs, or his arms, or the blades on them, no. And Jack, an expert with that shotgun, put that scattergun's spread right in his optics. Not his eyes, those were long-gone. No, but the skin, sure, armored, probably not gonna get through that. But nice, expensive optics, not protected by subdermal armor? He'd take a 12 gauge against those any day of the week, even at this distance, just barely outside the bank. He had just a short window of time, just the spaces between seconds.

But Jack? Jack was pretty damn good.

Then, Jack pressed his radio while the Officers picked up the fire, both the robbers, and now the psycho to deal with. But he knew that there was no way they were equipped to deal with that thing.

"MAXTAC! WE NEED MAXTAC ON SCENE! PSYCHO ON-SCENE! RESPOND TO MY LOCATION NO-"
Click to expand...

Jack racked another load in his shotgun, squaring up behind the car, turning only briefly to lay out another chrome'd out knucklehead that wandered out of the bank, trying to spray a machine gun at the NCPD that had gathered outside. He lined the shotgun back up with the Psycho after racking it, not sure if his shot hit, or even worked. Really, all he had to do-

Was make it until MAXTAC showed up. More NCPD responding. SWAT, armored vehicles, the whole nine. Rear of the bank, some on there way to shut down access to this part of the city, closing tunnels, putting up barricades, raising walls, the whole nine. The day just got a whole lot more shitty for Jack. The radio was hopping. Jack, however, was in a bad spot- stuck behind his car mostly, in the middle of the street for the time being.


"Zjedz moj chuj!"
 
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Sammy eased off the throttle as he rolled into the alley, the Kusanagi's purr dropping to a low idle, a predator settling into the shadows. The neon graffiti on the polycrete walls shimmered in the oil-streaked puddles, an ambient flicker of corporate promises and gangland warnings. The distant staccato of gunfire danced through the air, underscored by the low hum of drones circling above Charter Hill.

He killed the engine and swung off the bike, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. From this vantage, he had a clear line to the mess: the First National Bank was lit up like a Christmas tree on the 4th of July. NCPD cruisers blocked off the street, their roof strobes fracturing against the shattered façade of the bank. Inside, shadows shifted—robbers pinned down by a crossfire of cops and a rogue cyberpsycho that moved like bad code let loose on the meatspace.

Sammy leaned against the wall, the chipped paint biting into his shoulder as he flicked open a comm-link. DeeJay picked up before the first ring ended, his voice a too-bright overlay against the grim tableau in Sammy's visor feed.

"Shen-dawg! So how you like the party? Premium entertainment, right?"

"Diu, Dee. If this is your idea of premium entertainment I don't wanna know what you do on the regular." Sammy shifted his weight, eyes scanning the rooftops for his approach. "Chaam gaa chow. . . .weih, gau sai chow hai! You got anything useful for me, or you just here to piss me off?"

"Hey, hey man!" DeeJay protested, his voice tinged with mock indignation. "I ain't no weather man, Shen-boy! I can't tell where the wind blows the next psycho-shooter your way! Heh"

The last bit of mockery was like acid blistering on his skin. Sammy clenched his jaw, keeping his eyes on the building. "Sei kau, Diu nei lou mou! Weih, you better hope I don't catch a stray, or I'll come back as a ghost and haunt your sei yan tau."

"Relax, Sammy-boy. I got you covered." The line crackled faintly before DeeJay continued. "Word is the bank's got skylights. Maintenance guys are lazy as hell, so odds are one or two of them might still be unlocked. Top floor's mostly admin, so it's your best bet for getting in without becoming target practice."

"Relax, Shen-sam," DeeJay continued to tease in between mouthfuls of soy-pork. "Client's a big spender. Play nice, and they'll line your pockets with enough eddies to keep you in noodles for weeks. Just don't get yourself zeroed, alright? I kinda like you alive."

The line went dead, leaving Sammy with the distant sound of chaos and the hum of his internal systems adjusting for the task ahead. He pocketed the comm-link and took stock: revolver, loaded with his last resorts, tucked snug against his ribs. Shotgun strapped across his back, rubber rounds ready to knock the wind out of anyone too close for comfort. Stun baton, humming faintly at his side, a reliable fallback for when finesse stopped being an option.

His gaze shifted to the street below, the cyberpsycho cutting a brutal swath through anything that moved. A gleaming, overclocked monstrosity with too many implants and zero humanity. Sammy's gut twisted, the Emotion Suppressor kicking in to tamp down the edge of unease.

Sammy crouched lower, adrenaline and irritation sparking in tandem. "Wah, nei hou sei, Dee, this isn't a gig—it's a fucking nightmare. Psycho's in there making dim sum out of people, NCPD's spraying lead like it's Chinese New Year, and I'm up here playing monkey on a fucking rooftop. Mou lei tau."

Despite his incessant bitching. he launched himself onto the first rooftop, his cyberlegs absorbing the impact with a hydraulic hiss. The Kerenzikov pinged faintly in the back of his mind, a whisper of accelerated reflexes and heightened precision. He moved like smoke across the rooftops, the city's chaotic glow stretching out beneath him. Every step brought him closer to the bank, where the air crackled with tension and the stakes felt higher than ever. Sammy didn't mind the danger. It was the unpredictability that set his teeth on edge.

As he perched on the final rooftop, surveying the carnage below, Sammy allowed himself a moment to breathe. The streets were a mosaic of broken glass, flashing lights, and the kind of violence that had no winners. He was just here to do a job, same as always.

One final leap, one tuck-and-roll over the ferro-concrete rooftop, and he was on top of the bank. Sammy spotted the skylight, half-cracked open like Dee promised, and huffed. "Finally, one thing not completely dau chut in this mess."

DeeJay's familiar voice crackled into his ear. "See? I knew your lil' ass could make it across the rooftops. You're a verifiable gymnast is what you are, you lanky son of a bitch."

"Dee, you sei for lau kau, this better work. Psycho's down there pulling a John Woo, and I don't wanna end up as someone's fucking viral Ex-BeeDee."

"Sammy-boy, skylight's golden. Just slip in, get the client, and slip out. Easy." Sammy's Emotion Suppressors had to suddenly account for the spike in aggression in the solo's system. There was something to be said about the fixer's uncanny ability to trigger the notorious provocateur. "'Easy,' my gau can. You know what's easy? Me shoving my boot so far up your bei hai you can taste it when this job's done. Next time, warn me about the fucking sideshow!"

Sammy killed the call with a sharp jab at the comm-link. The words still simmered on his tongue as he eyed the skylight. His fingers brushed the stun baton strapped to his side, its faint hum reminding him of the gamble ahead.

Cyberpsycho syun mm syun yan aa? Diu, diu keui lou mou, yu gwo jan hai bik jyu, mai din lan sei keui loh

With one last glance at the chaos below, Sammy hauled himself up to the skylight and slipped inside, ready to finish the job—or die cursing.

 
(Text in italics is mental convo between Vex and Nyx)

"Складзіце мне маршрут!" Vex's demand was spoken without words; it was a raindrop on the lake of his mind, and the waters rippled toward the island that was Nyx.

"I don't speak Russian Vex."

"It's Belarusian!"

"Doooo nooot caaAAAAARRREEE -- WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

A valid question.

Vex had managed to find himself at the El Coyote two days ago, shortly after his untimely death. Fortunately, there'd been a ripperdoc around when his heart stopped. He'd been resuscitated, stolen back from death's grasp just at its moment of victory. The remains of his 'ganic heart were incinerated, a synthetic ticker thundering away in its place. That'd been a week ago, and he'd adjusted as best he could.

The first two days were unpleasant, like someone had a permanent grasp on his heart and might crush it with a single squeeze at any moment. That feeling gradually receded, and as his strength returned, he'd found it did so doubly. His hesitation about synthetic organs seemed to have been unwarranted - he only felt stronger, faster, brighter. There'd been no spiritual break, no disconnect with God that he'd feared at the loss of something spoken of so vitally in the old texts. He'd concluded that he was still himself, merely a soul piloting a puppet of meat and iron, unchanged.

Aside from the whole experiencing death thing. There'd be time to unpack that later.

On a whim, he went to the Coyote for a beer, and that's where it started. He'd picked Ryan out to be one of the only individuals with an IQ above the alcohol content in the beers, and they'd played their hustle well at the pool table. That loudmouth, dead now, talked about a bank heist, a bunch of idiots seemed keen, and the new friends had decided to play them like the fools they were.

Most of their crew was dead already. Those that weren't probably would be soon. Seemed they were the fools now.

"Fuck the big man! Fuck the big man!" Vex repeated to make his intent as clear as crystal. The runner had been sitting behind the marble column when the psycho, a Mister Ivo Lasko according to Nyx's reading, had taken umbrage with the interior design of the bank. He'd thrown himself onto the floor, hard, just barely escaping another early execution beneath exploding sheets of marble. It rained down on him, pebbles of it clattering across the tiled floor all around him as Vex rolled onto his back.

He was laying right in the center of the room, exposed, no cover. One of the cops by the door (@Jack Kowalski) leveled a shotgun at him and fired. Vex grit his teeth as he braced for impact, blinked twice when he realized he'd not been the target, and scrambled on all fours until he was somewhat safely positioned behind a steel table. He drew his sidearm, aimed the .50 square at the Psycho's back, and squeezed the trigger four times until the mag was empty, one was left in the chamber, and then replaced the mag. He carried the unwieldy sidearm for these exact kinds of situations, and he hoped the shots would at least annoy Mister Lasko.

Vex did his best to ignore the throbbing pain in his 'ganic hand that came with the weapon's repeated use as Nyx attempted to worm her way into Lasko's head.

Most people were islands in the sea of her perception. Lasko was more like a volcano spewing hot ash and magma at random intervals: all violence and chaos and no direction, a force of nature. Not easily approached. She raised an invisible hand, willing tidal waves of scrap-code to crash into the sides of the volcano. They only served to cool it somewhat, and in many places the magma hardened, the volcano growing larger.

"It'll take me awhile to break that ICE." She whispered into Vex's skull.

"You'd think we'd be due for some good luck." The runner muttered as one of the cops raised a sidearm his way. He only needed to look in the man's direction for Nyx to read his intent, take note of the cop's island, and smother it beneath the waves. The man crumpled where he stood, unharmed and incapacitated as Nyx withdrew the waters as quickly as she'd brought them crashing down.

Ryan Graves said:
"WE GOT TO MOVE!" he called out to Vex, rolling his shoulders as he prepared to move.
Click to expand...

"А тут я якраз уладкаваўся! /// And here I was just getting comfortable!" Vex shouted back, a stress-induced chuckle clipping the end of his sentence as opened his coat and withdrew his power sword from its housing. The emitters of the blade's energy field crackled to fine crimson light along its edge as his gaze darted over to @Ryan Graves, then the bag of money at his feet. He made sure to readjust his hood and make sure the plain black mask was still in place over his face and waited.

"Reading the 'schems it's looking like the only way out's the back, or the roof if you think you can make the jump." Nyx paused as she verified the distance between this building and the next. "And I really don't think you can make it."

Nyx noted Ryan's call to @Beau Frost and hijacked the signal, splitting it between the three of them. "Back door's the only way Ryan. Grab the money and run, I'll cover!" He cast a look to his left, which had the only open hallway leading deeper inside.

Once Ryan moved, Vex would be right behind him, his power sword crackling its bloodlust all the while.


@Jack Kowalski, @Evi "Dustoff" Ashford, @Basher, @Ryan Graves, @The Watchman, @Cyrus "Risers", @NightCorp
 
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'Well, ain't this about a bitch!'
'Chill, man, chill! No need to go gettin' your panties in a bunch.'
'Oh, yeah? Are you even listening to the radio traffic?! There's a fuckin' cyberpsycho down there! Y'know, in the bank our man's gone and got himself trapped in.'
'Actually, yeah, that does sound bad.'

Cursing under his breath, Security Specialist Webber took a moment to collect himself, his foot tap-tapping away as the first vestiges of adrenaline reached his system. Joe didn't hold it against him. Fight-or-flight response, he remembered his old drill instructor saying. Flight means you get shot in the back. Fight means you might not get shot at all. Of course, he had been pretty spot on with that assessment.

'Death comes for us all, eventually.' The oh-so optimistic Meyer chimed in, helmet visor up as she tapped away at a PDA in her hand. 'Stop being such a baby and grow a pair.' Smirking, Joe glanced over at Webber as the AV banked sharply, the pilots really putting the old bird through her paces. 'Man, fuck you, Meyer!'

'Fuck me? Really? Come on, you do better than that!'

A voice cut in over the feed, stymieing any further argument. 'Alright alright alright! Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking!' Joe stifled a grin. 'As you all know, we are heading into an active combat situation. So, Graham, Webber, time you two made yourselves useful. Lock 'n' load and get ready to drop. This could get lively!'

'Sounds like it.' The chatter over the wideband was getting choppier by the second. Too much interference, or just too many panicky officers.

'Client's heartrate is elevated, biomon readouts register fifteen percent blood loss.' Meyer told the team. Why she sounded excited was anybody's guess. 'Insertion?'

'Via the roof,' the co-pilot, Stockman, replied. 'Front's a no-go. Too much crossfire, too many unknowns.'

'And the back?' Joe asked, climbing to his feet as the AV turned in towards the bank, lights flashing, heavy machine guns searching. 'Also a no-go. Flyover revealed multiple sets of wheels, all unidentified, and several mobiles, again all unidentified.'

'Jesus H Cristo! Maybe Webber was right.' Extending the stock of his G-58 Dian, Joe thumbed off the safety, bracing as the Aerodyne descended, klaxons blaring. 'See! Told you! This is a fuckin'-'

'Bad idea, ja, we heard you the first time.' Grabbing their bags, and drawing their pistols, the Medtechs joined Joe and Webber by the hatch. The ground came up fast, the pilots levelling out at the last possible moment. A green light came on above the hatch as it swung upwards, depositing them onto the roof of the First National.

And into the maw of Hell.
 


Dmitri-Header-moshed-12-24-23-34-02.gif
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Location: Westbrook - Charter hill
Tags: @Vex Kiranova | @Jack Kowalski | @Ryan Graves | [OPEN]

"You guys in position yet?"

"This is a bad idea Bash."

"You worry too much. Seriously, what are we doing? We're just watching."

"You f*ckin' know what you're doing Bash. Don't sell me that load of gonk."

Basher looked through a set of binoculars at the developing situation in front of the bank. He was parked on the shoulder of the highway that ran straight over the outskirts of Charter Hill, just outside of the cordon the police were rapidly establishing. He smirked at the remark. "It may surprise you to know, I don't want anyone to get pinched - even though I'd enjoy seeing you learn not to drop the soap the hard way Corbin."

Several voices could be heard chuckling at the joke over their shared comm channel, and although Basher couldn't see Corbin, he had a feeling he wasn't laughing. "This ain't our shitshow anyway. Remember, we're just watching to see what this unlucky son-of-a-bitch is going to do to get out of this. There's no point trying to steal the money from under his nose if NCPD nabs him in the next few minutes. Now if he gets out of Charter Hill?" He smirked again to no one's benefit. Corbin was sitting in his car down the block from the bank with a view down the back alley, and as expected he looked like someone smeared some gonk on his face. He didn't want to admit it, but Basher had a point.

"We tail him, see where he goes, and once he shakes NCPD, we beat the shit out of him and take the money for ourselves. Charter Hill is gonna be our turf soon enough, so they'll learn respect fast and hard. He's gonna be worn out from all of this. We're all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Even you Pink - you in position?"

Silence followed, which lasted long enough for Basher to prod again: "Pink, do you copy--?"

"I heard you."

Damn, if tones could kill... he'd need to make it right to her somehow. He didn't even need her to pass him the wrench earlier, he just wanted to yank her tail a bit. But by the sound of it, he had yanked too hard.

"I'm in position."

...and maybe buy her something after this. Everybody else sounded off. Basher's crew was a dozen strong at the moment, all of them pros. Some were former nomads like him, who could drive the tits off of a Quadra Type-66 because they actually stole it. Others were old gang members who rode with Bash when he hit rock bottom, and who actually cared enough not to enable him to get back to being a junky.

They had all exits from Charter Hill covered, and most could drive hard and fast enough to meet up at the other junctions once the call went out. Other bystanders pulled to the side of the road and started staring at the carnage erupting below them, adding a level of camouflage to Basher as he kept observing through his binocs. Several people around him grimaced and audibly gasped as the cyberpsycho cleaved and smashed all around him, but Basher kept looking. He wasn't a sadist, but there was something about a situation being so gruesome you just... couldn't look away.

...Maybe he was gonk-brained. Don't do drugs kids.




 
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Night City
City Center
Night Corporation Headquarters
(120th Floor, CEO's Penthouse)​

"-ow to a rapidly developing situation at the Charter Hill branch of the Night City First national Bank, where a large number of armed assailants have taken hostages. We've only just received reports that at least one cyberpsycho appears to have been included in their number. We here at N54 News are urging the Public to avoid this area, as there is a significantly-increased police presence. The NCPD has released an emergency bulletin..."

The voice continued to ramble on, speaking in a hurried tone. The sound had been turned low, but still aptly filled the space of the expansive & dimly-lit penthouse apartment that accommodated its sole occupant. The lights in the room had been turned down, and the shifting colors on the television screen added a rapidly-shifting cacophony of light and shadow which danced across every inlaid surface.

Seated upon a small loveseat-sized couch a short distance away from the large television screen, a blonde-haired woman sat in a position which was neither poised nor dignified. Draped across the back of the small couch lay a white coat, pristine and pure. The woman lay in one corner of the couch, nestled amongst the cushions with a single bare foot propped upon the edge of a small coffee table between herself and the television. Her other foot remained on the carpeted floor, clad in a white high-heel of the same pure white leather. A white blouse and white slacks adorned her athletic and lithe feminine frame; tailored to conform to every sinuous curve. A head of short, wavy platinum blonde hair topped an angular, feminine face with high cheekbones, and the woman's full lips were set in a terse line. The woman's bright azure blue eyes were as deep as an ocean - both strikingly beautiful and intense.

Clutched between all five fingers of one hand was a crystal glass half-filled with a deep amber liquid. If there had been any ice within the glass to begin with, it had long since melted.

Evelyn Night, heir to the legacy of a Corporation and City which bore her name, deeply sighed.

Surely, Max-Tac was already in-route. The Cyberpsycho issue would be dealt with... but the issue of the armed robbery was a separate one. Due to the rapidly-developing nature of the situation, nobody could be sure how it might end... and already, she was visualizing the worst-case-scenario. She'd have to reach out to the NCPD once the investigation was underway... details of what was taken, the number of wounded versus dead... Damage Control.

If there was a press release or an NCPD Briefing, perhaps she could get one of her people inside. NightCorp had a number of informants within the NCPD, and all it would take would be a single word to the right person. The Charter Hill branch was where some of the city's most influential and wealthiest clientele had established their accounts, and already she was dreading to find out the names of those caught inside the bank. Those injured or killed. The questions which would undoubtedly arise.

Evelyn brought the glass of bourbon to her lips and swallowed the remainder with another sigh.

"Fuck..."

NCPD: @Jack Kowalski
Attackers: @Ryan Graves @Vex Kiranova @Ivo "Ironhand" Lasko @Evi "Dustoff" Ashford @Basher
Trauma Team: @Joseph "Grey" Graham
Extraction: @The Watchman
 
WESTBROOK - CHARTER HILL
FIRST NATIONAL BANK
Who: @Ryan Graves | @Vex Kiranova

The sound of chaos. A symphony of destruction!

A street down, Beau leant against a Thorton Mackinaw Larimore, cigarette between his fingers as he scrolled through one of his phones liking pictures of models and seeing what kind of vacation he would take if he didn't hate people. The sound of sirens and bullets firing fell on deaf ears as he brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled a drag. He was here on behalf of Ryan. A "quick job" he had said with confidence. What did he think was quick about robbing a bank exactly? 'In and out. Twenty minutes!"

He had gotten them in with ease. Hacking into the system and letting them bypass security with ease, but it wasn't until someone decided to drag a cyberpsycho around. Or was he already there? Beau looked up from his phone as another NCPD car sped by. More reinforcements. He sucked on his teeth and shook his head. His gaze went straight back to his phone as he scrolled through a couple of more pictures and finally switched to the news. Night City News was doing a live feed of what was going on in the front of First National Bank. Cops positioned outside firing into the glass and into the lobby. The arrival of the cyberpsycho and those that were trapped inside. Beau's eyes slowly went over each detail on what was happening - the most recent post being two minutes ago.

The sound of people made him look up once more. They weren't supposed to be here.

They were not cops, they were not gang members from any gang he knew. Beau's eyes narrowed behind his shades.

The call came through from his earpiece. Vex's voice came through.

"Ah, Vex. Didn't know your caller ID said Ryan." His voice dripped with sarcasm as the man's voice issued an order.

"Personally...I wouldn't do that. У нас есть компания (We have company). A group came up, they have the doors covered and from a recent post from Night City News, полиция (police) are making their way and blocking the top." He scratched his chin idly. Looking around some more, he sighed. "There is gas station. I can blow up or I can initiate lock down. You and cyberpyscho will be locked together, but you tell me what doors to unlock and I can block off others." He kept his voice low and covered, turned towards the truck so others wouldn't hear him. "Your call, друзья (friends)."

He flicked the cigarette onto the concrete and stomped it out.
 
Enroute to the Shenanigans...

She was mindin' her own business, honest. Out for a lil Sunday scav on a...Whatever day it was. Damn near balls deep in she really didn't wanna know what, with her face jammed flat against some really twisted and without a doubt rusted beyond the redemption of a tetanus shot. Why, you may be asking yourself? Just ask Tim "Booty Man" Wilson, it's all for the booty.

And today's booty was gonna be a nice payday...IF.

If she could reach the nasty ass bag that had been wedged good and tight in the rubble of the 3rd floor of the building. It had been still together. More or less. Then the most recent stiff breeze was enough to push it over the edge, and the floor in the center finally gave way. No one was really surprised, except a couple newbies to the area, who thought the empty building was a good place to set up shop. Sadly, for Omega anyways, the now dead newbies were light on any kinda gear or implants that fetched more than a few new parts she'd been eyeballing. But, fear not, for one of the poor dead shmuck's had some data on his agent that indicated a stash of stolen Agents they'd scored.

And that is why Omega was face first in something even the megacorps weren't interested in weaponizing (yet). All for the sweet, sweet booty. Digging her toes in, prepping for her final push, eyes on the prize.

Push. Lunge. Fingernails scrape then snag fabric. Scramble and scrunch enough to grip then whoosh! With a whoop and a holler, she jumps up, holding her trophy at eye level. She gives the bag a jostle, checking the weight. Aight, aight, in we go. A quick zipper check, and her eyes scan the contents.

Yahtzee, bitches! 3 brand new Agents. Brand new was relative, gotta remember. She knew they were older, but hell, she was gonna eat good tonight baby. She slung the bag over her shoulder, and her own Agent popped a notification up into her left eye HUD. Bank robbery...CyberPsycho...

Could this day get any better???

She wasn't far from the bank, couple blocks. She had her bag with her today, she was working, after all. She'd also brought along one of her favorite toys, ya know, just in case. Night City is a dangerous place for a young lady. Connected via quick release mechanism to her pack was her baby. It wasn't any piece of priceless art or anything. Insulated handle with a button and some kinda metal rod, all told in the 18" range.

She was on foot today, left the board at home. Once clear and outside the building she'd been scavving in, the sounds of the day's festivities were an easy GPS to follow. Opting to see what the 411 was first, she shimmied up for a better vantage point. From her dumpster stack perch, she pulls a flask from her bag and gulps a good healthy shot of Boost down. One frat boy burp later, and her left hand takes the baton from her pack.

As the Boost starts to flow, honing her focus, her left thumb pushes the button on the baton's handle and it sparks to life. Ole Sparky she called her. A Stun Baton by any other name, but don't insult it like that in front of Omega. She built the poor thing herself and she's rather touchy about it.

She shifts her balance towards the balls of her feet, as her mind contemplated what her crazy ass was thinking about. Ole Ivo the Psycho was in there going nuts and shit. She should probably be concerned for the life and property loss happening inside right now. Or as the bottom dweller she was, hacking the bank's clearly distracted systems and making a withdrawal of her own. C: None of the Above.

She was watching the Psycho, really kinda impressed at how fast the big guy was moving. In Omega's world, speed was the difference between being fast enough to miss the next bat on an intercept course with her face in the next match and being able to eat for a couple days after. It was staying far enough ahead of, and being able to slide away from, the other runners and Ice she might trip and trigger when she's poking her Net nose where it shouldn't be.

Speed was life, and a chance at a better life. Good Ole Ivo the Psycho, he might be a menace to society, sure. But that wasn't her problem to deal with. Night City's finest were all around, doing a gonzo job with the whole shit show. As per usual. No, her target was Ivo and his gizmos and gadgets. Whoever could have him, she didn't want all of him.

Just the shiny bits.​
 
A guttural roar ripped through the chaos of the bank lobby as Ivo slammed his industrial cyberlimb into a marble column, fracturing it and sending shards flying like shrapnel. His grotesque form stood as an apex of destruction amidst the hail of gunfire and screams, his blood-slicked chrome catching the cold artificial light.

"yOu tHinK yoU CaN TaKe It FrOM MEEEE!!?"
"yOu tHinK yoU CaN TaKe It FrOM MEEEE!!?"

Ivo spat, his voice distorted by the static-laden speakers embedded in his throat. His glowing red optics flickered erratically as his fractured mind played out imagined betrayals. The shard in his hand was gripped tighter, his ticket to freedom—or so the voices had convinced him.

The buckshot from @Jack Kowalski 's shotgun peppered his faceplate, forcing Ivo to stagger back a step, momentarily blinded. "COCKSUCKING PIG!!" he bellowed, his massive frame pivoting as he swung the industrial cyberlimb like a wrecking ball from afar. The weight of the lumbering limb could be easily perceived as he lifted it high, unleashing a projectile launcher from inside his arm, and took aim toward the car Jack crouched behind.

"BaNg!"

A loud shot rang true as a explosive projectile sprang to life, screaming forth toward the police officer and his compatriots. Ivo's attention shifted, chunks of the bank's interior were pulverized as Ivo barreled forward, each step reverberating through the tiled floor. @Vex Kiranova 's .50 rounds slammed into his back, drawing sparks and tearing parts from his person. The psycho stumbled as blood trickled down, but quickly recovered as the subdermal armor took the brunt of the mercenary's attack. The psycho's paranoia flared again. He whirled around, zeroing in on the direction of the shots. "fUcKInG DeAD!!"

He lunged toward the steel table where Vex had taken cover, raising his cyberlimb for another shot of his launcher as it charged. The crimson light of Vex's power sword caught Ivo's optics, temporarily catching him by surprise and halting him in his tracks as bullets rained down. Paranoia twisted the image before him, "The Devil sent you!" he screeched, clutching his head with his human hand, as if to drown out the voices screaming inside his mind.

He fired.

"DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!"

Just in time for Trauma Team to arrive.



 


aW6NfSS.png

Active Location: First National Bank
Physical Location: Her car, three blocks over
Objective: Observe, perhaps intervene
Tags: @Ryan Graves @Vex Kiranova @Jack Kowalski @Omega @Joseph "Grey" Graham @Basher @Evelyn Night @The Watchman @Ivo "Ironhand" Lasko

Xasha was zipping through Watson when her system started pinging with spikes of local activity, she flagged it up, and reports of disruption at the bank, cyberpsycho reported? Her lips curled up in a curious smile, could be a fun distraction. She found a spot where she could park up and let her steering column retract as her seat slid backwards. With a flip of a switch, her windows went black and she could have some privacy.


Callisto: Hey! Who's on? might have a show in NC
Io: Hey Calli, what you got?
Kore: Yo!
Callisto: Got a CP wrecking the bank with PD on the scene, going to do a run.
Kore: Nice!
Callisto: I'm in the car atm, anyone got a remote port I can borrow if I run out of proc?
Gandymede: Yeah, take my two, I got RAM to spare rn. pinging to you 68 nano
Callisto: Cheers, going in, spectator link on my profile, not gonna be pg13 so keep Elara out! Lmao ciao
Kore: lol
Gandymede: lmao bitch
Click to expand...

Xasha let out a sharp breath as her link engaged and her vision of the world was filled with visual representations of digital pathways. She began running towards the bank, the police netlines were on fire and made it pretty easy to follow. Her slim fingers were dancing on the rollerball mouse built into her driver's door to help her navigate. Slicing into a bank from her car was never ideal, she wished she had to additional processing speed that she would at home but she thanked Jupiter that she had Gan's spare port as a safety net.

The first firewall was not much of a problem for someone like Xasha and she quickly popped in and began looking for vulnerabilities to give herself an easier time. She just wanted the CCTV for now so she could watch. Absent-mindedly she reached with her hand for a glucose bar and bit into it feeling the tartric tang on her tongue that she told herself helped her focus. There we go, she thought to herself as she found the crack she needed and went into the back security network. The woman's skin made goosebumps when one of the bank's AI codes checked her spoofed credentials and after achingly long seconds, moved on.

Someone was trying to hack the bank accounts which was burning the bank's processing speed, that was handy. Xasha slipped into one of the CCTV cameras and her HUD showed her the screen. She relaxed and stretched her fingers knowing she was at her first destination. The sight inside was carnage, blood and bodies spread around with a couple of guys going at the brute in the centre peppering him with largely ineffective fire. She watched for a little bit seeing a large caliber round hit the psycho and spray chunks into the air. She grinned as her connection to 5th World notified her that bets were being placed by family.

"Hmm... let's mix things up." she said to herself, portioning off her viewpoint to run automated and heading into the fire safety systems. She could activate the sprinklers with a few clicks of a button and give them a little bit of environmental fun to deal with alongside the beast. To be fair, the damage he was causing would likely cause a fire anyway so who was she to delay the rain?

"Click"

She hit the button for the fire suppressant system and returned her focus to the CCTV to wait for the water to begin cascading down.


Xasha has parked up and hacked in to watch the cyberpsycho fight and turned the fire sprinklers on just for her own amusement
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They hit the stairs. With Webber in front, and Meyer and Inoue behind, Joe took the time to weigh their options, his G-58 held in a ready position against his chest. Alarms blared as they made their way down to the ground floor. Their client was supposed to be down there, tucked up tight in some conference room or whatever, if the tracker embedded in the base of his spine wasn't playing up.

'Hook a left!' Meyer directed the team from the rear, one hand clutching her PDA, the other a pistol seeded with armour-piercing rounds. 'Just off the main atrium, those rooms with the one-way glass. See 'em?'

'Seen.' Joe responded, staying tight on Webber's six as they skirted the walls, weapons up, safeties off. Rifle and machine gun fire echoed through the bougie hallways, a sort of backing track to the constant drone of the alarms. There was a major firefight happening somewhere close, but Joe couldn't tell where exactly.

A large explosion outside shook the hallway, shattering what few windows remained intact. A plant pot with real greenery caught a piece of shrapnel, spilling its contents.

Avoiding the lobby, Webber and Joe passed into the conference rooms. It was dark inside. Blood stained the faux-wood panelling. In one of the corners, a figure slouched, a pale hand pressed to a wound on his right arm. 'About time you people got here!' Their client growled, some mid-level corporat in a soiled SegAtari business suit. 'G-get me the fuck... outta here! Now!'

Ignoring him, Joe stepped aside as the MTs went to work. Medbags snapped open, and red-gloved hands began ministering aid. Scissors as sharp as a monoblade removed the corpo's sleeve. Then, came the sprays and the syn-skin patches.

Outside, in the lobby, the fight continued to unfold. Joe saw the cyberpsycho taking fire, heavy rounds knocking him this way and that. 'Fucker's got subdermal armour,' Webber whispered, keeping the big-gonk-bastard in his sights. 'Probably hopped up on combat stims, too. Man, why're we always gettin' sent up against fuckin' chrome jocks?' A good question, Joe thought, shrugging.

'Just keep an eye on his gonk-ass. Last thing we need is-'

Automatic gunfire cut him off. From the lobby, and the first floor balcony across from them, Joe spotted brief muzzle flashes. Bullets pinged and ricocheted from the stone pillar he sheltered behind. The stick-up crew. 'Fuck! Returning fire!' His G-58 came alive in his hands. Rocket-propelled bullets whizzed and spun through the air, tracking warm targets. Several flickered towards the diamond surrounding Big Gonk's head.

The rocket struck first, sundering the pillar and throwing Joe clean off his feet.

@Ivo "Ironhand" Lasko @Vex Kiranova @Jack Kowalski @Omega @The Watchman
 


Sammy came up in a low crouch. The soft hiss of chemical suppressants overhead mingled with the distant staccato of gunfire below. The flickering hum of failing fluorescents buzzed in his ears as he took in the admin floor.

Polycrete walls painted corporate beige stretched in a dull grid of cubicles and glass-walled offices. Panic locks cast faint red glows where desperate staff had sealed themselves in. Other doors hung ajar, spilling papers like the aftermath of a storm.

"Wah," Sammy muttered, sliding behind a toppled cubicle. "Yi ga, gam jau dim aa?"

DeeJay's voice crackled in his ear, smooth as oil. "Yo, Shen-boy. Belly of the beast, huh? Got some interlopers in the system. Multiple pings. One's real sneaky—spoofing the manager's ID."

Sammy grimaced, scanning for movement. "What's your angle Dee? Nei hai dim yiu fan di yi ching?"

A low chuckle came through. "Traaaaaade secrets, brother. You just do you, yeah? Pro tip—manager's workstation might hold a clue. Get creative."

Sammy muttered something in Cantonese, an unintelligible mix of exasperation and resignation. His eyes flicked to a pinned memo board near a conference room door. Among the clutter, a laminated floor plan caught his eye. He peeled it free, scanned quickly. Dead center—manager's office, reinforced door.

When he reached it, the door was ajar, swinging just enough to show the dim glow of a monitor. Inside, the air was stale, tinged with ozone and sweat. A sleek device blinked beside the workstation, LEDs tracing the progress of an active transfer.

"Well well well. . .," Sammy muttered, leaning in. "Even the bank's getting fleeced from the inside."

He debated yanking the plug but hesitated. Whoever was behind this had their own agenda, and Sammy wasn't being paid to derail it. His finger hovered over the keyboard when a message flashed onscreen:

Vault opened. Manager's status: down. Location: Lobby.​

The grainy feed from a security camera popped up—a chaotic lobby, bodies piled behind the robbers' barricade. Sammy squinted, spotting a faint twitch under the heap. The manager. Used to open the vault, then discarded like trash. The realization hit like a gut punch. "Fan nei lai,". Sammy growled. He flipped open his motorcycle helmet's visor, wiping the sweat that had accumulated underneath, turning to leave just as the sound of boots reached him.

From his hiding spot, Sammy watched Trauma Team sweep through the atrium like a red-gloved storm. Their movements were surgical, precise. Webber, their lead, cut through the haze with a scalpel's cold focus.

Their destination was clear—a conference room off the atrium. Sammy couldn't see inside, but the glow of one-way glass gave it away. Muted voices passed between them, muffled but purposeful. Client alive, maybe injured. They weren't leaving without him.

Sammy sneered. "Wah, jing hai hai ou," he muttered. Trauma Team worked like gods with designer gear—sleek weapons, gleaming medkits snapping open with practiced ease. In another life, maybe Sammy would've rolled with a crew like that.

"Wah hai...jan wai gei chin zou lou mou," he added under his breath.

His eyes drifted back to the lobby. The cyberpsycho loomed, a hulking nightmare shrugging off suppressive fire, its subdermal armor gleaming under emergency lights. The NCPD was trying, but it wasn't enough.

Then came the rocket.

It streaked across the lobby, slamming into a pillar with a deafening explosion. The shockwave ripped through the building, shattering windows and raining razor-sharp glass. Sammy flinched as a chunk of ceiling collapsed nearby, his cyberlegs absorbing the brunt of the impact.

Trauma Team wasn't spared. One operator—Joe—was thrown clean across the room, his cry muffled under the chaos. The rest scrambled, some tending to their client, others returning fire at the stick-up crew on the balcony.

Thick chemical fog spilled from the fire suppression system, coating everything in a pale haze. Sammy coughed, his eyes adjusting to the murky light as chaos churned around him.

"Sei nei dai sei..." he muttered, shaking his head.

Through the fog, the cyberpsycho remained, unscathed and immovable, a gleaming specter amid the carnage. Sammy tightened his grip on his baton. "Mou lei tau..."

He wasn't getting paid enough for this. Hell, he wasn't supposed to be here this long. But the image of the manager, twitching under the barricade, stuck with him. DeeJay's client wouldn't take excuses.

Sliding toward the fire escape, Sammy kept low, every step a calculated risk. He reached the stairwell, pausing to glance back at Trauma Team.

"Wah, nei gau meng," Sammy muttered, flicking a quick salute out of habitual respect.

The stairwell stretched out before him, its shadows yawning like a maw. Every step down tightened the coil of tension in his gut. His boots hit the ground floor with a faint thud, and the shattered remnants of the lobby corridor stretched ahead.

Sammy inched closer to the barricade, the memory of the manager's faint twitch pulling him forward. Every movement was deliberate, his muscles coiled like a spring, ready to snap at the first sign of trouble.

His breath hissed between clenched teeth as he muttered under his breath, a steady stream of Cantonese curses and dark humor. "Mou lei tau. Nei jat ding hai ti ti nei ziu la."

The lobby was a warzone, the air thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. Sammy's shadow melted into the wreckage, his eyes scanning for a clear path. Somewhere in the chaos, the manager was still alive—but for how long?

He tightened his grip on his baton, teeth grinding as he crept steadily along the ruined cubicles and rubble. One misstep and the cyberpsycho would have poor ol' Sammy in his headlights. One slip up and it could be Sammy's parts strewn around the lobby for the front pages.

When he suspected the cyberpsycho was sufficiently distracted, his muscles and servos exploded forward, taking 2, 3 meters in each stride as he leapt soaring over rubble and corpses, diving into the next piece of available cover.

 
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