PRIVATE Whistleblower

[Anders Whitard]

---

@Dmitri Antonov
@Vigilant
@Basher

---

Anders didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, shoulder to the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching as the nomads poured in like it was happy hour and nobody told him he was hosting.

His clinic — his clean, quiet, orderly space — now stank of engine grease, old leather, and someone's damn chewing gum. A guy with a bat. Another with a sawed-off. Boots tracking street grime across his floor. The kind of people who didn't know the difference between sterile and sanitized, and didn't care either way.

He exhaled through his nose and muttered, not exactly under his breath, "How many more you planning to invite? Should I put out coffee, maybe some folding chairs?"

He shot Dmitri a quick glance. No venom in it — he trusted the man. Always had. But that didn't mean he had to enjoy the process.

He shifted his grab bag over one shoulder and tapped something on his wristpad. The security system chirped once, then the doors sealed with a heavy click. Shutters engaged. Motion sensors live. The clinic would be safe—if not clean.

"Clinic is locked down," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Nobody touches anything while I'm gone, or I swear, I come back with a scalpel and no anesthesia."

He moved past Vigilant without ceremony, but paused just long enough to tilt his head toward Dmitri's outstretched hand.

"You give him the gun or don't. But we don't have time for this back-and-forth crap. Either we're going or we're not."

He gave the nomads a once-over as he passed. "Next time, text first. I charge extra for walk-ins."

Then he made for the stairs, boots hitting the steps harder than usual — not rushing, but definitely done with the conversation.

---

 

[Vigilant]

I heard them coming up the stairs, but given the situation the inate urge to break for an exit was quashed, pinned against a wall even, by that sinking feeling of knowing I was trapped. When they entered, I got the understanding I was supposed to right away. They were big guys, quite literally in the case of their leader, but also in the way they dressed and the arms they bore. Even before the leader spoke, I knew they were fucking nomads, and my creeping doubt, my confusion about Antonov, blew up into full alarm. Who the fuck was I dealing with, who had nomad muscle on their speed dial? Was this guy really even Militech?

The nauseous pit in my stomach seemed an abyss as the man levelled his gun at me a little more emphatically this time. My emotional suppressor was working overtime on doling out the delicate balance of hormones needed to quell the rising tension, but it was useless in holding back the flood of memories, of Texas, of the nomads there.

The warm feeling of blood trickling down my face, droplets hitting the floor being the only sound once the motorcade of thunderous diesel engines had faded beyond the range of my ringing ears. That cell, an emptied out janitor's closet, the cold desert nights hitting me differenly than they had in the war. In those days, in Arizona, we had camped out on the range, but in Texas it was just me and four grey walls. Every time that cacophony of combustion engines came to the door, once a day, for seven straight, the nomads would beat me again. The sadists they were, had gathered all from me there was to give, and they still took more. Torture became an inevitability, death felt like a certainty, but the worst thing about that week was what I didn't know. Whether or not anyone else had made it out alive, who else was living bloodied at the hands of savages who were rolling in money from the so-called Free State.

I had never liked nomads before, but since then I'd come to know the true color of those people. Perhaps I ought not have been surprised to see a gang of them wrapped up in whatever the hell I had stumbled upon. It reinforced that fish out of water feeling, and as bad as things seemed right now, the memory of being tied to that chair in a west Texas ruin was telling me I had to acquiesce. Above all else, the doctor was absolutely right in his last words before he left for the stairs. Time was waiting for no one.

I slowly reached for my sidearm, drawing it from the holster, placing it in Antonov's outstretched palm.

"Fine. You win." I was certain it was what the man wanted to hear. I could tell there was some pride in executing this little affair.

"Whatever happens next, lets get it over and done with."

@Dmitri Antonov @Anders Whitard

 

[Dmitri Antonov]

Theme Music: In the 42nd Street - Absolute Valentine​

---

​

Location: Heywood
Time: 8:30am
Tags: @Anders Whitard | @Vigilant | @Basher

​

Mondays​

​

"Fine. You win." I was certain it was what the man wanted to hear. I could tell there was some pride in executing this little affair.

"Whatever happens next, lets get it over and done with."

Time seemed to slow down as the confrontation took place, reaching a climax as Vigilant handed Dmitri his sidearm. Dmitri's grin returned as he accepted the weapon and slid it into his belt. He then nodded toward the exit: "Let's get going then." His eyes briefly met those of Basher, who turned and led the way down while Dmitri took the rear, keeping his gun ready to ensure Vigilant's compliance.

After they descended the steps, they would find a small column of vehicles clearly belonging to the nomad crew parked along the curb. Easily a dozen chooms, varying in appearance and armament, accompanied the vehicles. One would think that a large display of armed individuals would attract unwanted attention, but in Night City - such a view was as common as seeing a police car patrolling an affluent neighborhood.

Anders would be led into the middle vehicle; a extensively tuned and modified Thorton Merrimac MSL3 with armor-reinforced doors and mismatched panels. The rear bed of the SUV was built out with jump seats, expanding the passenger capacity to 6 instead of the usual 4 seats. Dmitri and Vigilant would enter the same vehicle, with Vigilant being led into the very back of the vehicle. Dmitri took the middle seat alongside Anders, with Basher entering the forward passenger seat. The remaining group of thugs piled into their vehicles, and the column set off. Now that they were inside and moving, and the situation had been relatively deescalated; Dmitri turned to the two men: "I have a safehouse in the warehouse district. You'll be safe there as I get this situation sorted out."

He nodded to Basher: "These guys may look rough, and to be fair to them - they are tough bastards-" Basher grinned and the driver chuckled. "...but they're dependable, and they'll look after you." After a moment, his attention shifted more toward Vigilant. "You aren't in the NUSA anymore, agent. In Night City, shit has to get done a few different ways to get results; sometimes you gotta roll around in the mud with the pigs." His eyes scanned the man up and down in his seat. "It's obvious neither of us trust the other. That said, I don't think you're lying about being a NUSA agent. Telling the wrong person that information is more likely to get you shot and thrown into a dumpster than provide any form of protection."

He let that hang in the air for a moment. Externally, he was the image of command as he took control of the situation. But internally, he knew he would need to navigate this situation delicately if he was going to safeguard his status as a Militech agent, while also preserving his criminal network. For now, he needed to play his cards with the appearance of casual honesty, even though he was choosing his words and what information he revealed very carefully. "Once we get to the safe house, I'll check in with my contacts at HQ to confirm your details. If they check out, then we can get started--"

Dmitri was suddenly interrupted by a very sudden collision into the lead car, as a commercial truck smashed into the driver's side of the vehicle and effectively blocked the intersection. Amid the chaos, several other vehicles served to try and encircle the column, but Basher's instincts kicked in and he shouted over the din: "TURN RIGHT! MOVE!" The nomad driver was quick to respond as he cut the wheel and stepped on the gas. The Thorton's tires skidded against the pavement for a few seconds until the grooves on the tires gained traction, causing the vehicle to lurch as they sped to the right. The chase car of their column moved to following, but was soon waylaid by the ambush vehicles that almost overtook them. Men rushed out of the ambush vehicles that had moved to flank them, who in turn produced one-handed submachine guns and began peppering the rear car in small arms fire. The glass on the vehicle was impact resistant, so could endure the barrage for now - which gave Dmitri's vehicle time to move down put distance between them, and time for the chase vehicle to get moving.

Four motorcycles sped past the ambush and chased after Dmitri and company, each bike carrying a driver and a passenger sitting behind them.

"F*CK!" Dmitri cursed loudly. He grabbed his pistol and pulled back the slide before unbuckling his seat belt. Basher reached under his seat and pulled out a submachine gun of his own. Dmitri was the first to lean out the window, throwing several shots down range at the cyclists, who appeared to be every bit the gonk-brained gangsters with their myriad of tattoos and chrome lining their skin. Dmitri's first few shots missed, and he pulled back into his seat for a brief respite as Basher leaned out and fired a few bursts. "Looks like Maelstrom got wind of the leak. Dammit..."

---

 

[Anders Whitard]

---

@Dmitri Antonov
@Vigilant
@Basher

---

Anders sat still, too still, his breath slow and measured in the humming belly of the Thorton. He could feel the tension in the metal, like the vehicle was holding its breath along with him. Dmitri was talking — smooth, confident — but the words washed over Anders like stale air. Promises of safehouses and trust. Of protection. Of control.

He'd heard that pitch before.

Thirty years ago, different voice. Rotterdam dockside. A storm rolling in. "We'll get you out, Whitard. You'll be protected. Militech looks after its own."

He'd nodded then. Shell-shocked, barely off the boat, heart still hammering from the firefight in Berlin that ended with three KriegWorks engineers dead and a black datashard in his pocket. They were chasing him across borders. Contracts out. Bounties posted. And yet he believed it. He believed Militech. Believed they'd guard the tech and guard him.

But protection in Night City came with an expiration date. And this ride? It was ticking.

His eyes were on the rearview mirror when the first hit came — a jarring crunch of steel on steel ahead of them. The lead car exploded sideways as a commercial truck barreled into it, grinding metal, spraying glass, flipping the Nomad SUV like it was made of tinfoil. Bodies tumbled out. One of the chooms didn't even scream — he was pulp before he hit the ground.

Anders flinched, one hand instinctively bracing against the window frame. His jaw clenched, and for a second, his vision narrowed, the decades peeling away.

Berlin. KriegWorks campus. Code Black protocol. A mech turret turning on his retreating back as alarms screamed and smoke choked the lab's ceiling. A girl named Liska — junior dev — slamming the door shut behind him and staying inside. He never looked back.

Basher yelled — something guttural, full of panic and command. "TURN RIGHT! MOVE!"
The driver reacted, spinning the wheel hard. Anders' shoulder slammed into the door as the Thorton fishtailed, tires howling on the pavement. Behind them, gunfire erupted — sharp, close, unmistakable. The chase car, trying to pull forward, was lit up in bursts of automatic fire from the ambush vehicles. It skidded, clipped the curb, and didn't get back up.

"Maelstrom." Dmitri's voice, low and furious. "F*ck."

Anders didn't answer. He didn't need to. His fingers had already activated the optic drone in his lap, sending it crawling out the side window and up the rear quarter panel like a rat with eyes. It linked with his retinal feed a second later. From above, he saw it all in infrared: four motorbikes weaving in pursuit, each with double riders, chrome glinting under streetlamps. Blood heat. Armed. Closing in.

He drew a deep breath and reached slowly into his inner coat. His pistol was old — very old. Militech Arms Avenger, serial number filed off, the grip worn smooth from decades of service. A relic. Like him.

"Should've guessed. Nobody ever plans for the exit."

Another burst of gunfire hammered the back window. Impact-resistant or not, it spiderwebbed. The vehicle jolted again as the driver swerved around another abandoned sedan. The city was collapsing around them, glass and shrapnel and rage.

And through it all, Anders just counted seconds. Measured breath. Waited.

Not for rescue. Not for safety.

Just for the right moment to disappear again.

---

 

[Vigilant]

"You aren't in the NUSA anymore, agent. In Night City, shit has to get done a few different ways to get results; sometimes you gotta roll around in the mud with the pigs." His eyes scanned the man up and down in his seat. "It's obvious neither of us trust the other. That said, I don't think you're lying about being a NUSA agent. Telling the wrong person that information is more likely to get you shot and thrown into a dumpster than provide any form of protection."

"I'm hoping that isn't foreshadowing my fate, Mr. Antonov." I remarked slyly. I suspected I might not be wrong.

It was a common misconception in my line of work that we enjoyed the game, like gentlemen spies of 20th century film. The problem with the game, if it even really could be called that, is that when the game was up and the cards were laid down it was all too easy to see in hindsight when you were fucking around. The visceral understanding of my situation was, in short, that damned headlong rush after the NAPOLEON lead. The game was best played when planned, measured twice, cut once. Hit them hard, fast, effective. That had been our star tactic in Canada, in Latin America too. But this time I hadn't bothered to measure, and it was me getting cut. The larger looming concern, though, was the apparent lack of communication between the branches of our great nation, and the extent to which Antonov's network was above board with the company, which I figured was not at all. We indeed had no choice but to believe one another until our offices could communicate the reality of the situation, assuming we were both telling the truth of our identities.

My piecing together of the web I'd fallen into was torn apart as my ears filled with the sounds of tires screeching and metal rending, my whole body jerking forward as the driver slammed the brakes immediately before we collided with the accident ahead. Not the first I'd seen in my short few weeks in NC already, though I quickly realized this was no accident when the bullets started flying.

It was impossible to mistake Maelstrom for any other Night Citizens with the grotesque cybernetic horror they invited upon their own bodies, and a corporate hit and run was their bread and butter. I ducked my head down below the window of the car and tried to envision a game plan. Despite the tenacity of the Maelstrom freaks, I saw no way that they would manage to stop an entire nomad convoy, not when they were packing the iron I'd come face to face with at the Ashlar. Yet... if they did... I'd have to hope there was enough time between my captors being flatlined and a window opening to get the hell out. All in all, it seemed unlikely.

The erratic bursts of small arms fire melded into the soundscape of the chase, interspersed by the more noticeable blasts of pump-action shotguns launching from passenger seat windows. I kept down, and looked to Anders. clutching his pistol, but not returning fire like Dmitri had been quick to do.

I yelled over the sound of the firefight, "Are you going to use that thing?!"

@Dmitri Antonov @Anders Whitard

 

[Dmitri Antonov]

Theme Music: In the 42nd Street - Absolute Valentine​

---

​

Location: Heywood
Time: 8:30am
Tags: @Anders Whitard | @Vigilant | @Basher

​

Mondays​

​

Bullets pinged off of the paneling of the Thorton, accenting the bursts of bullets flying from Basher's submachine gun alternating with Dmitri's halting semi-automatic fire from his pistol. Basher managed to blowout the front tire of the lead bike, causing it to lurch and throw both the driver and rider head first into the pavement, only to be pulverized by a semi truck laying into its horn amidst the chaos. Dmitri's follow-up salvo caught the rider behind the second bike, only to be followed by a searing pain tearing through his shoulder.

Although his subdermal armor would prevent any fatal damage, the shooter used an armor piercing round which tore through his flesh and THUDDED against the casing of the weave. In short - it hurt like hell, even though he wouldn't die (he hoped). He pulled back and instinctively clutched his shoulder, blood seeping through the wound. As he settled back into his seat, he saw Anders pull out an antique and look as though he were about to put it to work. Shortly after, Vigilant perked up. Dmitri could hardly expect the agent to sit idly by in a gunfight, and while they were holding their own - they weren't out of the woods yet. All it took was another complica--

As if on cue, Dmitri saw what appeared to be that complication barrelling toward them against the flow of traffic. Vehicles swerved out of the way as a heavily armored and modified Mahir Supron BARGHEST surged toward them. Fortunately, the driver of their vehicle was clearly worth their salt, and feinted to the left before shifting to the right. The gonk-brained Maelstrom driver behind the Supron took the bait and tried to collide with the Thorton as it feinted, only for both vehicles to miss each other by mere feet. The driver of the Mahir was not without skill however, and quickly turned to correct; narrowly avoiding cars that desperately swerved or broke to avoid a collision. Miraculously, the Mahir avoided a collision and fishtailed until its tires gained traction and the vehicle barrelled in pursuit as the motorcycles sped past.

Dmitri glanced at both Vigilant and Anders, nodding at the latter: "Put that away before you hurt yourself doc." He gave Anders a roguish smile, which became more deadpan as he redirected to the agent. He flicked the safety on his pistol, set under his leg to hold it steady, then pulled out the agent's pistol - handing it to him by the barrel.

He nodded. "Karma is a bitch I guess. Don't f*ck me over, and maybe we'll get out of this to worry about trust later." He winced slightly in pain as the the wound in his shoulder seeped, but then began to clot. The bullet would need to come out for the skin to heal properly. He could still fight, but he took a minute to catch his breath before grabbing his pistol, and readying himself for another salvo.

---

 

[Anders Whitard]

---

@Dmitri Antonov
@Vigilant
@Basher

---

Anders didn't answer Dmitri's jab. Just gave a quiet snort and holstered the revolver like he was putting away an old argument. His eyes flicked to the blood seeping down Dmitri's arm. That was a problem. Not fatal (yet) but the wrong kind of pressure, and Dmitri would be fighting one-handed in sixty seconds.

Without a word, Anders reached into the inner lining of his coat and pulled out what looked like a playing card-sized metal plate — hex-shaped, scratched, and unlabeled. The edge caught the cabin light, revealing fine etching, like repurposed military tech. He peeled back a protective backing, revealing rows of tiny microneedles on the underside.

"Homemade," he said, almost proudly, "from two trauma patches and a derm-seal printer that thinks it's smarter than me."

He slapped it onto the skin just below Dmitri's wound — click-hiss — the thing pulsed faint red as the auto-stims injected. Dmitri would feel a surge of cold clarity and the throb in his shoulder turn to a manageable burn.

"It'll slow the bleeding, dull the pain, and stop your hand shaking," Anders added. "But more important —" he held up a slim extraction tool, all teeth and magnets "— it syncs with this. I pull the round after the fight. Patch goes hot, cauterises on exit. Neat and tidy."

He slapped the side of the car and sank back down, eyes forward.

"Just don't bleed on the upholstery. It's not my Thorton but it would be a damn shame."

---

 

[Vigilant]

As Dmitri was hit, i took a chance to see where his assailant was.

I raised my head above the windows long enough to see the road war culminate in the crashing of even more trucks. The brutality of night city streets was perhaps the least alien thing about the place. Even when the NYPD was a glorified Arasaka deathsquad, the streets of my home back east had never been anything but anarchy. I was 12 the first time I'd been in a car on New York streets instead of an AV.

I was seeing Night citizens in action in what might technically, but hardly seemed so, be called Defense Driving. And damn were they good at it, both the nomads and the gang goons.

The Doc went straight to patching up the enforcer. Though Id had my concerns about the man's ethical, or unethical, engagements that led me to him, I couldn't doubt his commitment to the Hypocratic practice.

Dmitri returning me my pistol was the surprise, but it of course was did him no good to get shot once again, or have Anders get shot while he turned the back of the truck into a makeshift ER.

I simply nodded in recognition as I slid my fingers around the grip and one on the trigger.

A bullet passed what must have been half an inch from my face, flying through one shattered window and out the other as I turned and fired two suppressing shots.

One of the Maelstrom cyborgs had slowed down on his Frankenstein of a motorcycle, waving what looked to be the exact same gun as mine. The imminent question was who knew their piece better. The odds were in my favour.

I fired another quick succession of two shots, having a better idea of what I was up against. Both of them landed amidst the grotesque cavity of the man's chest, and I wasn't sure what I was even hitting, metal plating lining what I would have guessed to be the exposed inside of his rib cage. Where the bones and his lungs had gone, or what machine pump they'd been replaced with elsewhere in his body, I couldn't even begin to guess, but it must have been a sound investment as neither bullet seemed to faze him.

I squeezed the trigger another three times aiming for the man's head. Unless he was so far up his own ass he'd spliced his brain into his lower intestine, he would die.

Two went wide, which I'd expected given the sway of the truck and the moving target, but the lucky bullet found it's mark and tore a chunk of the man's flesh out of his head, from above his right eye and definitely back into his skull. The Maelstromer winced, then cracked a smile, half his face was machine. The half I hadn't hit. He slowed the bike down and pulled over to the side. I'd never seen anything quite like it.

I sunk back beneath the relative safety of the window and looked to the enforcer.

"You good? How long until your driver shakes these freaks?"

 

[Dmitri Antonov]

Theme Music: In the 42nd Street - Absolute Valentine​

---

​

Location: Heywood
Time: 8:30am
Tags: @Anders Whitard | @Vigilant | @Basher

​

Mondays​

​

Relief flooded Dmitri's senses as Anders applied the patch, the stims of which granted him relief from the pain and stabilized the wound. Fortunately, giving the 'Fed' his pistol didn't immediately backfire, as he pivoted out and shot at their pursuers.

I sunk back beneath the relative safety of the window and looked to the enforcer.

"You good? How long until your driver shakes these freaks?"

Dmitri smirked through the slight pain, and Basher let out a bemused chuckle just before he popped out for another set of bursts from his sub-machine gun. Dmitri too popped out, pairing his fire with that of Basher's to knock out the biker that Vigilant previously maimed. When the two men pulled back into the vehicle, it was Basher's turn to chime in: "Oh you know, we're just enjoying the sites. Maybe we should stop to grab some Dim Sum while we're at it."

Dmitri chuckled, but fell silent as his brain began to work at the problem. Their driver was pretty damn good, otherwise they wouldn't have made it this far. But as their pursuers sped after them, it occurred to Dmitri that... NCPD was nowhere to be seen. Why?

A gunfight was erupting in the middle of Heywood, and not even a siren could be seen? Something wasn't adding up.

While he mulled over the situation, Basher turned and placed a finger on his earpiece, then gave the group a wide smirk. "Hang on to your codpieces."

Dmitri braced himself against the door, and not a moment too soon did the reason for Basher's latest irreverence appear. Racing down the street like a bat out of hell came the forlorn escort vehicle - the chase vehicle the others had previously thought had bitten the dust in the initial wave of the ambush. A woman wearing a ponytail and a sleeveless tanktop leaned out of the window holding what appeared to be...

A rocket launcher.

She loosed the round, which caught the armored vehicle chasing them near the rear wheel well, causing it to lurch violently. The nomad escord drifted into the lane, whiping out an innocent bystander in his battered Thorton coup before it hit the targets it aimed for; namely one of the remaining bikes.

The last motorcycle broke off the pursuit, clearly not totally devoid of his whits. Dmitri cast a glance at Vigilant, then Anders, back to Vigilant, then finally Basher.

"Get us the hell outta here."

---