PRIVATE Putting the crew together: The Anarchist [Ask]

[Ghost]

South West Coastal Badlands, Old Service Road, The Choke
Fixer: Rico "Shortwave" Vasquez​

Gig was simple, pick up a car and drive whatever was in its trunk to a destination. He didn't know what kind of car they'd be driving or what kind of cargo. Believe you me, he'd asked repeatedly. But jobs were few, and he needed eddies, so he took what he could get. The old service road led to a half-flooded tunnel. Word was it connected to a submerged underground subway, long abandoned but not so much these days.. As Lefty dropped him off, they exchanged quick goodbyes before his friend sped off. Hopefully, this would be the last job he'd need to bum a ride for.

A sturdy black Chevillon Thrax 388 waited for him, thick, bulletproof, and an absolute bitch to handle. Leaning against it was a woman with wild, unkempt green hair streaked with electric hues. Augmentations shimmered subtly across her face, but her eyes—fully modded—stood out. She wore tactical gear twisted with an anarchist flair, her utility pants strapped with cutting tools, EMP devices, and more than a few explosives. Black wire gloves covered her hands, her fingers fitted with high-end implants—like she could jack into a MaxTac terminal and still walk away clean.

"Yo, you Ghost?" Sickle leaned off the car, tapping its side.
"Yeah, that's me." Ghost confirmed.
"Word is you can drive."
"Word ain't wrong." He locked eyes with her.

She threw open the passenger door and dropped in. "Then let's burn some road, streetrat." A grin set on her face as she slammed the door shut behind her.

Ghost slid into the driver's seat, the engine roaring to life soon after, sturdy inside as it was out. He looked over, "Where we headed?" asking again, really wanting the details.

Sickle smirked, lighting a cigarette. "I call you haul. Keep it smooth and don't choke." She propped her boots up on the dashboard. "Through Pacifica, head for Santo Domingo. No brakes and no bullshit." She exhaled, and they started off.

For one wild ride.

AI Instructions:
Do not write Ghost, aka Lukas Kade under any circumstances.
Write Sickle, as a friendly anarchist and armed passenger.
Initial Chase Opponents: Tyger Claws.
Gig Cargo: Surprise me later on, not yet.
Narration Style: A long chase, don't dictate the story route or car handling, but add to it, and the environment.

 

[NPC Storyteller]

As they sped down the ancient asphalt of the service road, the Chevillon Thrax 388 began to hum with life, reverberating through the cabin. Sickle's laughter filled the air, a mix of anticipation and adrenaline as the road ahead twisted like a serpent, swallowing them into the chaotic embrace of Night City's heart.

Ghost tightened his grip on the wheel, the car's weight throwing him slightly to the side, but he embraced the challenge. The engine growled in response, eager to break free. Sickle exhaled another plume of smoke, watching the cityscape morph behind them through the tinted windows. She ran a finger along the dashboard, her eyes glinting beneath the neon glow that began flickering on the outskirts of Pacifica.

"C'mon, you got this!" Sickle encouraged, her excitement palpable. "Make sure we leave a mark, yeah? Just a little chaos on their weekend plans!" She gave an amused glance into the side mirror.

The urban sprawl of Pacifica loomed, a stark contrast to the dilapidated remnants of the old world they'd just left behind. Ghost could feel it—the pulse of the city rising, thrumming like the bass in a crowded club. He could almost taste the tension in the air; the Tyger Claws' turf was just ahead, and with it the promise of trouble.

"Watch it; don't let 'em box us in," Sickle warned, eyeing the dark silhouettes of the Tyger Claws loitering at the intersection ahead. They were easy to spot, adorned in their signature hues, sharp tattoos glistening under the dim streetlights. Ghost could see them and the way their eyes flicked towards the approaching vehicle, recognition sparking.

Just then, a pair of bikes roared to life, Tyger Claws revving their engines as they shot toward the Thrax—gleaming chrome and malicious grins. Ghost pressed down harder on the gas, feeling the car's power surge. "Hold on!" he shouted, heart hammering as the landscape blurred outside.

With a sideways glance, Sickle reached for her gear. "They're itching for a fight! Let's give 'em one they'll never forget!" She flicked a switch on her gloves, and the EMP devices glowed ominously, ready to unleash chaos.

As they sped into the heart of Pacifica, flanked by the sound of high-powered engines revving behind them, the streets became a labyrinth of flickering neon signs and shattered glass. Sickle tossed a glance at Ghost, nodding in time with the pulse of the chase, the rhythm of danger blending with the mounting thrill.

"Get ready!" Sickle yelled, launching a small grenade backward from the rear window. It soared through the air, landing smack between the pursuing bikes. A bright flash erupted, a shockwave erupting from the impact, sending one of the bikers sprawling off the road and into a graffiti-laden wall.

Ghost grinned, adrenaline coursing through him. "Looks like they're not used to that kind of welcome!"

But it was not just the bikers. The street ahead twisted sharply into an alley littered with refuse and retreating shadows. Ghost swung the car, feeling the slick handling of the Thrax grip the corner. The tires screeched as they navigated the narrow passage, squeezing past discarded shipping crates and old urban debris.

"Nice!" Sickle cheered, eyes wide with exhilaration as they emerged back onto the main road, the Tyger Claws struggling to regain their chase, fury blazing in their eyes. Sickle's hands were dancing over her gear, gearing up for another weapon, another move. Ghost could only focus on the road ahead, the pulsating thrill of the chase echoing in their wake.

They shot through Pacifica, the city alive and screaming, the sounds of pursuit harmonizing with the neon lights flashing by, each corner possibly opening up yet another chaos or opportunity. And as they barreled toward Santo Domingo, Ghost felt a smirking grin split his face—this was not just another job; this was living on the edge with a partner ready to ride out the storm.

In the distance, the horizon shimmered with promise, and behind them, the Tyger Claws were not ready to let go just yet. The chase had only just begun.

 

[Ghost]

As they sped down the ancient asphalt of the service road, the Chevillon Thrax 388 began to hum with life, reverberating through the cabin. Sickle's laughter filled the air, a mix of anticipation and adrenaline as the road ahead twisted like a serpent, swallowing them into the chaotic embrace of Night City's heart.

Ghost tightened his grip on the wheel, the car's weight throwing him slightly to the side, but he embraced the challenge. The engine growled in response, eager to break free. Sickle exhaled another plume of smoke, watching the cityscape morph behind them through the tinted windows. She ran a finger along the dashboard, her eyes glinting beneath the neon glow that began flickering on the outskirts of Pacifica.

"C'mon, you got this!" Sickle encouraged, her excitement palpable. "Make sure we leave a mark, yeah? Just a little chaos on their weekend plans!" She gave an amused glance into the side mirror.

The urban sprawl of Pacifica loomed, a stark contrast to the dilapidated remnants of the old world they'd just left behind. Ghost could feel it—the pulse of the city rising, thrumming like the bass in a crowded club. He could almost taste the tension in the air; the Tyger Claws' turf was just ahead, and with it the promise of trouble.

"Watch it; don't let 'em box us in," Sickle warned, eyeing the dark silhouettes of the Tyger Claws loitering at the intersection ahead. They were easy to spot, adorned in their signature hues, sharp tattoos glistening under the dim streetlights. Ghost could see them and the way their eyes flicked towards the approaching vehicle, recognition sparking.

Just then, a pair of bikes roared to life, Tyger Claws revving their engines as they shot toward the Thrax—gleaming chrome and malicious grins. Ghost pressed down harder on the gas, feeling the car's power surge. "Hold on!" he shouted, heart hammering as the landscape blurred outside.

With a sideways glance, Sickle reached for her gear. "They're itching for a fight! Let's give 'em one they'll never forget!" She flicked a switch on her gloves, and the EMP devices glowed ominously, ready to unleash chaos.

As they sped into the heart of Pacifica, flanked by the sound of high-powered engines revving behind them, the streets became a labyrinth of flickering neon signs and shattered glass. Sickle tossed a glance at Ghost, nodding in time with the pulse of the chase, the rhythm of danger blending with the mounting thrill.

"Get ready!" Sickle yelled, launching a small grenade backward from the rear window. It soared through the air, landing smack between the pursuing bikes. A bright flash erupted, a shockwave erupting from the impact, sending one of the bikers sprawling off the road and into a graffiti-laden wall.

Ghost grinned, adrenaline coursing through him. "Looks like they're not used to that kind of welcome!"

But it was not just the bikers. The street ahead twisted sharply into an alley littered with refuse and retreating shadows. Ghost swung the car, feeling the slick handling of the Thrax grip the corner. The tires screeched as they navigated the narrow passage, squeezing past discarded shipping crates and old urban debris.

"Nice!" Sickle cheered, eyes wide with exhilaration as they emerged back onto the main road, the Tyger Claws struggling to regain their chase, fury blazing in their eyes. Sickle's hands were dancing over her gear, gearing up for another weapon, another move. Ghost could only focus on the road ahead, the pulsating thrill of the chase echoing in their wake.

They shot through Pacifica, the city alive and screaming, the sounds of pursuit harmonizing with the neon lights flashing by, each corner possibly opening up yet another chaos or opportunity. And as they barreled toward Santo Domingo, Ghost felt a smirking grin split his face—this was not just another job; this was living on the edge with a partner ready to ride out the storm.

In the distance, the horizon shimmered with promise, and behind them, the Tyger Claws were not ready to let go just yet. The chase had only just begun.

Anarchist explosions, bikes, and a chase—the last five minutes had been a blur. Instinct had taken over, adrenaline beating through his veins as Pacifica sung its own song. The Chevillon Thrax 388 handled like a bloated pig on wheels, fast when it got going, but cornering, forget it. Tough ride though, but how tough?

"Shortcut." Ghost yanked the wheel, sending them skidding into a narrow alley.

Sickle raised an eyebrow, taking a slow drag from her cigarette. The anarchist didn't look convinced. Bikers digging in at their heels, snarling engines chewing up the wet, grimy asphalt. She reached into her vest, pulling out a homemade explosive, bare wires twisted into a chaotic mess, above the bomb a fuse just waiting for a fire. And a cigarette with its name on it. "Some shortcut." Sickle Deadpanned.

Shots rang out. Up ahead, two more bikes blocked their alley escape, their riders already unloading rounds at the Thrax's bulletproof hide. Sparks dented against reinforced plating. Sickle exhaled smoke, then lit the fuse with the glowing end of her cigarette. "Cover your ears, streetrat." She lobbed the homemade explosive behind them at the chasing bikers, the fuse sputtering down like watching a cheap but determined firework ready for the payoff.

Ghost accelerated toward the bikes ahead, gripping the wheel tight. More shots bouncing off the reinforced plating "Buckle up. Firecracker." He grinned at their banter, but stayed focused ahead, he was either breaking through the biker's blockade or getting turned into scrap. Metal met metal, tires screamed. And sickle's explosion lit up the alley behind them.

CHATGPT: Write and narrate only from Sickle's or an external perspective. Do not include Ghost's thoughts, feelings, actions, or dialogue. Focus solely on the chase, the environment, their antagonists, and Sickle's actions and dialogue. Keep the narration short and punchy. Take into account other posts, please.

 

[NPC Storyteller]

Anarchist explosions, bikes, and a chase—the last five minutes had been a blur. Instinct had taken over, adrenaline beating through his veins as Pacifica sung its own song. The Chevillon Thrax 388 handled like a bloated pig on wheels, fast when it got going, but cornering, forget it. Tough ride though, but how tough?

"Shortcut." Ghost yanked the wheel, sending them skidding into a narrow alley.

Sickle raised an eyebrow, taking a slow drag from her cigarette. The anarchist didn't look convinced. Bikers digging in at their heels, snarling engines chewing up the wet, grimy asphalt. She reached into her vest, pulling out a homemade explosive, bare wires twisted into a chaotic mess, above the bomb a fuse just waiting for a fire. And a cigarette with its name on it. "Some shortcut." Sickle Deadpanned.

Shots rang out. Up ahead, two more bikes blocked their alley escape, their riders already unloading rounds at the Thrax's bulletproof hide. Sparks dented against reinforced plating. Sickle exhaled smoke, then lit the fuse with the glowing end of her cigarette. "Cover your ears, streetrat." She lobbed the homemade explosive behind them at the chasing bikers, the fuse sputtering down like watching a cheap but determined firework ready for the payoff.

Ghost accelerated toward the bikes ahead, gripping the wheel tight. More shots bouncing off the reinforced plating "Buckle up. Firecracker." He grinned at their banter, but stayed focused ahead, he was either breaking through the biker's blockade or getting turned into scrap. Metal met metal, tires screamed. And sickle's explosion lit up the alley behind them.

CHATGPT: Write and narrate only from Sickle's or an external perspective. Do not include Ghost's thoughts, feelings, actions, or dialogue. Focus solely on the chase, the environment, their antagonists, and Sickle's actions and dialogue. Keep the narration short and punchy. Take into account other posts, please.
[/div1]

The alley closed in around them, the graffiti-splattered walls reflecting the flashing chaos behind. Sickle nestled the explosive into her palm, the weight familiar yet electrifying. She stared at the bikers—a pair of Tyger Claws, wild sparks in their eyes—gunning their engines and firing their weapons like rabid dogs.

"Some shortcut," she muttered, skepticism dripping from her voice, but she trusted Ghost's instinct. It was a fast ride, and they needed to outmaneuver these predators.

The bullets pinged violently against the Thrax's armor, a symphony of destruction that ignited her adrenaline further. "Cover your ears, streetrat," she warned, the fuse lighting her way to sweet chaos. She launched the explosive backward, a calculated toss that sailed through the air like a shooting star.

The fuse sputtered, the sound echoing in her ears, blending with the roar of the motorcycles. She turned just in time to see the explosive connect with the first bike, the explosion erupting in a fiery brilliance that showered debris across the alley. Metal screamed; one biker went flying, while the other swerved desperately to avoid the raging firestorm.

"Let 'em burn!" Sickle cackled, another deep drag from her cigarette feeding her thirst for chaos, leaving the alley littered with the aftermath as they sped forward.

Up ahead, she could see the blockade forming; two more Tyger Claws were waiting, weapons aimed, eyes narrowed with menace. The alley was cramped, but she could feel the car's power surging, and Ghost was determined, just as reckless.

"Here we go!" she breathed, danger igniting her passions. Miles of Pacifica stretched out ahead, but they needed to break through this obstacle first. Arms taut, she scanned for any sign of an opening or an opportunity, ready to unleash another surprise from her arsenal at a moment's notice.

The Thrax roared forward, tires screeching as they barreled toward the bikers, and as the tension peaked, Sickle was ready to unleash chaos once more—a hunter in a city that thrived on brutality. She braced herself for impact, knowing all too well that this was the only way through.

 

[Ghost]

The alley closed in around them, the graffiti-splattered walls reflecting the flashing chaos behind. Sickle nestled the explosive into her palm, the weight familiar yet electrifying. She stared at the bikers—a pair of Tyger Claws, wild sparks in their eyes—gunning their engines and firing their weapons like rabid dogs.

"Some shortcut," she muttered, skepticism dripping from her voice, but she trusted Ghost's instinct. It was a fast ride, and they needed to outmaneuver these predators.

The bullets pinged violently against the Thrax's armor, a symphony of destruction that ignited her adrenaline further. "Cover your ears, streetrat," she warned, the fuse lighting her way to sweet chaos. She launched the explosive backward, a calculated toss that sailed through the air like a shooting star.

The fuse sputtered, the sound echoing in her ears, blending with the roar of the motorcycles. She turned just in time to see the explosive connect with the first bike, the explosion erupting in a fiery brilliance that showered debris across the alley. Metal screamed; one biker went flying, while the other swerved desperately to avoid the raging firestorm.

"Let 'em burn!" Sickle cackled, another deep drag from her cigarette feeding her thirst for chaos, leaving the alley littered with the aftermath as they sped forward.

Up ahead, she could see the blockade forming; two more Tyger Claws were waiting, weapons aimed, eyes narrowed with menace. The alley was cramped, but she could feel the car's power surging, and Ghost was determined, just as reckless.

"Here we go!" she breathed, danger igniting her passions. Miles of Pacifica stretched out ahead, but they needed to break through this obstacle first. Arms taut, she scanned for any sign of an opening or an opportunity, ready to unleash another surprise from her arsenal at a moment's notice.

The Thrax roared forward, tires screeching as they barreled toward the bikers, and as the tension peaked, Sickle was ready to unleash chaos once more—a hunter in a city that thrived on brutality. She braced herself for impact, knowing all too well that this was the only way through.

Impact. Jolted forward and then back against the seat, a crunching punch. The bumper bent in, one Claw diving for cover, the other not making it in time. Metal shattered, shards flying, and a bike exploded in a shower of sparks.

"Ha hah!" Sickle howled a laugh, flipping off the Tyger Claw still standing. "Better luck next time, gutter trash!"

Ghost yanked the handbrake hard, the heavy car jolting into an unwanted slide before he corrected it, turning into the slide to get traction, and then gunned it forward. Santo Domingo ahead, a quieter patch, at least for now. He glanced over as Sickle stubbed out her cigarette and flicked it out the window, the last embers of fire behind them dying to the wind.

"Not too bad," Ghost grinned.

"Eh, you'll do," Sickle smirked, swapping out her mag, letting it drop to find another. "Car's a beast, who's driving who?"

Ghost snorted, wondering how many pockets she had. "So where next?"

"Through Santo Domingo to Watson," she said, holstering her weapon. "Same deal, no stopping for any gonk."

"Any chance you'll spill what we're hauling?" Ghost pressed.

"Not one in hell, choom," she shot back with a sideways grin. "Mystery's half the fun, yeah?"

Not to him! The ride through the factory roads was smoother, not safe, but steady. Nobody looked too eager to test them. The quiet held, up until Watson. That's where things always got messy.

CHATGPT: Write and narrate only from Sickle's or an external perspective. Do not include Ghost's thoughts, actions, or dialogue. Focusing on the chase and Sickle's actions. Lay out the next challenge they are to face. Please use all other posts for reference.

 

[NPC Storyteller]

Impact. Jolted forward and then back against the seat, a crunching punch. The bumper bent in, one Claw diving for cover, the other not making it in time. Metal shattered, shards flying, and a bike exploded in a shower of sparks.

"Ha hah!" Sickle barked a laugh, flipping off the Tyger Claw still standing. "Better luck next time, gutter trash!"

Ghost yanked the handbrake hard, the heavy car jolting into an unwanted slide before he corrected it, turning into the slide to get traction, and then gunned it forward. Santo Domingo ahead, a quieter patch, at least for now. He glanced over as Sickle stubbed out her cigarette and flicked it out the window, the last embers of fire behind them dying to the wind.

"Not too bad," Ghost grinned.

"Eh, you'll do," Sickle smirked, swapping out her mag, letting it drop to find another. "Car's a beast, who's driving who?"

Ghost snorted, wondering how many pockets she had. "So where next?"

"Through Santo Domingo to Watson," she said, holstering her weapon. "Same deal, no stopping for any gonk."

"Any chance you'll spill what we're hauling?" Ghost pressed.

"Not one in hell, choom," she shot back with a sideways grin. "Mystery's half the fun, yeah?"

Not to him! The ride through the factory roads was smoother, not safe, but steady. Nobody looked too eager to test them. The quiet held, up until Watson. That's where things always got messy.

CHATGPT: Write and narrate only from Sickle's or an external perspective. Do not include Ghost's thoughts, actions, or dialogue. Focusing on the chase and Sickle's actions. Lay out the next challenge they are to face. Please use all other posts for reference.

[/div1]

The impact jolted Sickle against her seat, spine pressing hard against the padded cushion as the Thrax hammered into the remaining Tyger Claw rider. She could feel the car shudder as it caught the biker off guard; a satisfying crunch echoed, metal against flesh, followed by a burst of sparks as the bike exploded in a fiery display.

"Ha hah!" Sickle barked out, delight crackling in her voice. She flipped off the remaining Claw, her inner anarchist reveling in the chaos they'd just wrought. "Better luck next time, gutter trash!"

Ghost expertly yanked the handbrake, the heavy Thrax sliding unnaturally before he kicked it back under control. They shot into the main street, Santo Domingo stretching ahead, the atmosphere thick with tension yet momentarily free of predators. Sickle stowed her last cigarette, watching the embers flicker before they vanished into the wind.

"Eh, you'll do," she replied with a smirk, swapping her mag for a fresh one, eyes scanning the surroundings as she slid it into her weapon. Ghost's unspoken concern about her arsenal flirted across her mind, but there was no time to explain.

"Through Santo Domingo to Watson," she instructed, her voice low and purposeful, body twitching with the thrill of the chase still buzzing through her veins. "Same deal, no stopping for any gonk."

She could almost feel Ghost's itch for answers about their cargo. "Not one in hell, choom," she shot back, a smile tugging at her lips as she caught a glimpse of him. "Mystery's half the fun, yeah?"

They cruised past crumbling factories and shuttered shops, the quieter patch holding its breath around them, giving way to a facade of calm. Sickle's instincts buzzed, scanning for any sign of trouble lurking in the shadows. It was all too easy here. Danger was always waiting to pounce.

As they neared Watson, the ambiance shifted. The abandoned warehouses framed the roadway like a prison, each corner hiding a potential ambush. The dim light cast long shadows, and Sickle could feel the tension thrumming through her skin like a live wire.

Suddenly, a gang of Maelstrom boosters burst from a side alley, a chaotic splash of color and chrome. Clad in their signature straps and implants, they whipped out weapons, their eyes lighting up with madness. The lead biker swung a heavy lead pipe over his head, roaring a call for blood.

Sickle's heart raced, adrenaline spiking as she instinctively reached for her grenade belt. "Here we go!" she shouted, adrenaline igniting her senses. They wouldn't be getting through without a fight.

A barrage of gunfire erupted as the Maelstrom wasted no time, bullets rippling through the air like deadly rain. "Watch out!" Sickle urged, flinging a grenade into the approaching fray, a beautiful arc promising destruction.

With the chaos unfurling, Sickle leaned out of the window, ready to unleash another round of ruthless anarchic fun. Watson's fuse had been lit, and the ride was about to plunge into madness once more.