PUBLIC Iron Divided by Malestrom's hand (Open)

[Ghost]

The Iron Divide in all its glory.
The Veland Machina Factory
Theme​

At the edges of Santo Domingo the Iron Divide's skyline stretched high above him—not the glittering skyscrapers of downtown, but the cold, unforgiving metal shells of a post-industrial wasteland. Part of it found its purpose off the backs of the less fortunate; the rest was a ruin, housing those same backs.

To the suits, the Ironworks Redevelopment Zone, or IRZ-02 was still half pulling in eddies. Dusty, part glowing neon ads tried to cling to a fading dream. The rain barely had time to settle before it was filtered, drained, or guzzled—whether by automated plants or a lucky resident's purifier. Nothing was wasted here. In other districts, you'd see trash; here, eerie efficiency ruled. Every scrap was reused, and everything, even discarded packaging, had a reusable price tag.

The gig was simple: infiltrate a factory some union workers had turned into a cooperative. Rumor had it they were developing rare cyberware for the cause that could tip the balance in the workers favor, and the suits couldn't take that risk. The job turned his stomach, but better him than some jacked-up, over-implanted psycho with no morals. Easy in and out, and spare as many lives as possible.

Only it was never easy.

The Veland Machina Factory

Inside, the fixer's intel had been off. Maelstrom had already been here, deja vu full circle, or something worse. Whether they were hired for muscle, or just scavenging for parts, this place was a warzone. Corpses of the workers slumped against the machines they had tried to build a life out of, blood and hopes smeared across rusted metal. A few around him still clung to life, barely breathing in their broken dream, now a damaged shell of a factory.

Ghost exhaled cool air, clicking the mag into his Saratoga SMG. Another night with another risk. But Maelstrom still had something worth taking. And they had it coming.

Voices were in the next room, Ghost searched for a quieter way in than the main door, jumping and pulling himself up through a damaged part of the ceiling. Staying low and wanting to look for a better vantage point, he moved as quietly as he could through the damaged factory above.

AI Storyteller Instructions:
High Involvement Level with the NPCs and the Environment
Only write Maelstrom NPCs or any relevant NPCs.
Narration Style: A mix of Light Stealth and Action. High risk-reward. An impactful tense style.
Key Story Elements:
A few bits of cyberware can be looted if successful. A custom neural scrambler with a Ghost Mod is among the cyberware Maelstrom are stealing.
Optional. Union Workers from the Cooperative might still be alive as prisoners.
Optional. If the fight gets too loud for too long, the cyberpunk 6th Street Gang, or the cyberpunk NCPD police might be alerted.

 

[NPC Storyteller]

As Ghost clung to the warped metal ceiling beams, he could hear the muffled voices of Maelstrom's goons in the next room. His instincts kicked in; caution was paramount in this den of thieves. The chaotic energy surrounding him mixed with the pungent smell of burnt wiring and spilled oils, reminders of a hard-luck life now erased. He focused, trying to discern the chatter below.

"I swear, if we don't get these chips out fast, the suits will pull the plug on us!" one of the Maelstrom goons barked, his voice tinted with frustration and urgency.

"Shut up, Tech. You want them to hear you?" another grumbled back, the disdain in his tone palpable. "Move the goods and let's get the hell out. We don't need any extra deaths tonight."

Ghost slipped silently through another shaft, bearing witness to the devastation below. Bodies lay scattered, shadows of dreams snuffed out by greed. A rusted conveyor belt, once a symbol of productivity, now served as an impromptu mausoleum for fallen workers. He spotted an overturned cart, its contents—a mix of scrap metal and makeshift tools—might have been their last hope. A twinge of guilt pooled in his gut. But no time for pity; Ghost remembered his mission and the stakes at play.

Suddenly, a noise—a shriek, then silence. Ghost's grip on his weapon tightened. Had they discovered something? He couldn't allow the Maelstrom to turn any more lives into collateral damage. Ghost edged toward a skylight, peering cautiously downward.

The room vibrated with tension. A couple of Maelstrom thugs loitered over a table strewn with Circuit Boards and Neural Chips—those cyberwares the workers had been developing. His prize, and perhaps their salvation if they still lived. But what became of the workers? Ghost knew better than to underestimate Maelstrom; they thrived in chaos.

He inched closer, his heart racing as adrenaline coursed through him. Time to disrupt the sinister transaction. A plan began to form. He would pop a few warning shots to draw their attention away from the cyberware, perhaps even incite chaos among them—a tactic that could serve multiple purposes. Stealth was critical, but an explosive entrance always held its own allure.

Suddenly, the flicker of movement caught his eye—a hint of fabric, perhaps a captive desperately seeking respite. Were there workers still alive, hidden away from the goons, perhaps even aware of an impending ambush? With a swift glance, Ghost noted the solid metal door at the far end of the room—likely leading to more prisoners.

"Time to make some noise," he murmured quietly to himself.

In a single, fluid motion, Ghost readied his Saratoga and took aim at the nearest Maelstrom thug. The sound of gunfire erupted—sharp and jarring. Echoes danced through the factory as vapor trails of bullets blazed toward their target.

"Hey! We're under attack!" another thug shouted, panic sparking chaos among them. Ghost had achieved his objective; they were frantically searching for cover, their focus diverted.

As they scrambled, he spotted an opening—a narrow corridor veering toward the metallic door. He darted across the room, his heart pounding in sync with the chaos he had unleashed. Gunfire erupted around him as he ducked behind the remnants of a machine.

Ghost could hear the Maelstrom operatives bickering, their panic turning worrisome as they shot at shadows, completely unaware he was already slipping through the cracks, his sights set on potential freedom for those behind the barred door.

"Get the scrambler!" a voice shouted. The urgency now echoed through the chamber, pulling him toward the very object of his quest—the custom neural scrambler.

As the disparate sounds of firefights cloaked his approach, he had to consider the implications of drawing too much attention. The sirens of the NCPD or the infamous 6th Street Gang were not far off in this part of the city. But in this moment, he needed to act—dispatch the Maelstrom swiftly and rescue any potential survivors trapped in the dark corners of this metallic realm.

No turning back now. Ghost took a deep breath, feeling the weight of purpose on his shoulders as he began his assault, believing it might just be a fight for liberation—but knowing all too well, it was also a fight for survival.