I have nearly thirty years of netrunning on the streets of NC under my belt. I played it in every iteration and used several other rulesets to survive in that beautiful abomination called Night City. Just a few weeks back, I got my hands on the fabulous TinyD6 Cyberpunk rulebook.
Even though I waited about a year for the Cypher System Cyberpunk supplement, I decided to give TinyD6 a spin against Arasaka, Militech and the likes.
That game is so fun! Don’t underestimate the game… just because it’s called TinyD6, this game is anything but tiny. At the time of this post, I have several hours and sessions of this playthough already done and I never encountered a situation where I was underwhelmed by the system. I never ran into a part of the rules where I thought that I was missing something… and even IF I was missing something, I just made it up.
But first, let’s get the elephant out of the room: I know Night City… and I know it like Street-Name-Level, this does not mean that I don’t get creative and bend reality here and there but I try to stay as close as possible to the canon. The only part of the franchies I left out was the Edgerunner anime series. The whole aesthetics is so against everything I consider cyberpunk. And yes… I read a lot (A LOT) of cyberpunk novels – and not just the classics like William Gibson or Philip K. Dick.
There will be many references to old RPG material and storylines from Cyberpunk 2077, for example does anybody know what Rachel Casich is doing right now???
Oh and another note: there is a particular detail about my character that some *cough* HOMOPHOBIC *cough* people won’t like… feel free to fuck off!
Prologue – White Noise
Megabuilding H04, Arroyo, Santo Domingo – 12-08-2078, 20:32
The rain hammered against the corrugated iron of Megabuilding H4, each drop a tiny percussionist in the symphony of misery that was Arroyo. It didn’t let up, never did really, just shifted from a drizzle to a downpour and back again. Inside, Renee Chambers – though most folks called her Charm, if they were lucky enough to get past the door – huddled deeper into the threadbare cushions of her apartment. Twenty-four years old, give or take a few glitches in the records, and already carrying more baggage than a freighter ship. She’d seen better days, sure, but those felt like faded memories from someone else’s life. The walls were peeling, revealing layers of forgotten paint jobs beneath, much like her own history.
She remembered London, vaguely. A ghost of cobblestone streets and grey skies, overlaid with the neon glare. She’d been a kid when they hauled her over here, her parents chasing some pipe dream of opportunity in this festering wound on the Pacific Rim. Her mother, Eleanor Chambers, had been a rising star at Network 54 – all polished smiles and manufactured outrage for the cameras. Her father, Julian, was a lawyer, specializing in corporate defense; a man who’d spent his career greasing the wheels of corruption. Both gone now, swallowed by the city’s relentless churn. “Just another statistic,” she muttered to herself, tracing patterns on her thigh with a nicotine-stained finger. “Another couple of bodies feeding the data streams.”
The cybernetic jaw was the first thing people noticed. A sleek, aluminum panel that replaced the left side of her face, a consequence of a deal gone wrong – or maybe right, depending on how you looked at it. It wasn’t flashy; just functional, a silent testament to the price she paid for survival. Small and slender, yeah, but don’t let appearances fool you. Charm had teeth, both organic and synthetic. She’d spent enough time hustling in this city to know that looking fragile was an advantage, a way to lull people into underestimating her. It bought her time, space to think, to plan. And right now, she needed both.
The memories of those times still stung. The shame, the emptiness… it clung to her like the damp air in Arroyo. Joytoy… sexworker… whatever. The words tasted like ash on her tongue. She’d done what she had to do to keep a roof over her head and food in her stomach. “It paid the bills,” she’d tell herself, reciting the mantra of every desperate soul scraping by in Night City. But it didn’t erase the feeling of being used, of being reduced to a commodity. She’d learned to build walls around that part of herself, layers of sarcasm and defiance designed to keep anyone from getting too close. “Don’t even think about pity,” she’d snarl at anyone who dared to offer it. “I’m doing just fine.”
The rain intensified, rattling the windowpanes. Charm pushed herself up, her pink-streaked black hair falling across her face as she headed for the battered datapad on her desk. Netrunning was her trade now, a precarious existence built on exploiting vulnerabilities in corporate networks and selling information to the highest bidder. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid better than most things that didn’t involve risking your life – or your sanity. “Time to earn my keep,” she mumbled, booting up her rig. The neon glow of the screen illuminated her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her jaw and the defiant glint in her eyes. Night City might have chewed her up and spat her out, but Charm wasn’t going down without a fight.
Her comm crackled with a familiar voice. It was Javie Gómez – bartender in the Hysteria in Watson – his usual gravelly tone laced with an unusual urgency. “Charm,” he’d said, “got a… situation. Someone wants to meet you. Discreet type… a Suit. Says it’s worth your time.” No names, no details, just the implication of eddies and the unsettling feeling that something was about to get messy.
Hysteria Bar, Little China, Watson – 12-08-2078, 21:03
An hour later, she found herself perched on a stool at the Hysteria’s bar, the “White Noise” she ordered – a sickly sweet mix that tasted vaguely like Vodka, regret and artificial fruit – doing little to soothe the knot forming in her stomach. The place smelled like a mix of cheap synth-alcohol, desperation, and the lingering scent of piss – a typical Tuesday night in Watson. The air was filled with the murmur of conversations, the clatter of glasses, and the throbbing pulse of industrial music bleeding from the speakers. She scanned the room, her senses on high alert, cataloging potential threats and escape routes. Then she heard her name across the crowded space. A sharp intake of breath, followed by a subtle shift in the ambient noise as heads turned in her direction.
Javier Gómez was engaged in a conversation with a man she couldn’t quite make out. He gestured towards her with a slight nod of his head, confirming her location. The man approached without fanfare, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need to announce himself. He slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of ozone and expensive cologne. No pleasantries, no wasted words. “Mr. Rook,” he stated flatly, his voice a low rumble. “I have a proposition for you.”
He didn’t bother with introductions beyond his name. Charm raised an eyebrow, her expression carefully neutral. “And what kind of proposition is that?” she asked, her voice laced with a healthy dose of skepticism. Rook ignored the challenge, continuing without missing a beat. “My client requires a data chip to be… eliminated. It’s found its way into the possession of someone at Network 54.” He paused, letting the information sink in. “The contents are irrelevant to you,” he added quickly, as if anticipating her questions. “Its mere existence is problematic.” Charm’s internal alarms flared a little brighter. Network 54? That was her mother’s old stomping ground. A coincidence, probably, but in Night City, coincidences were rare and usually involved someone getting hurt.
He laid a small Credstick on the bar between them – a sleek, black rectangle that hummed with contained power. “Five thousand eddies for the job done right,” Rook stated, his gaze unwavering. “Clean and discreet. No questions asked.” Charm considered the offer, weighing the risk against the reward. Five thousand eddies was decent money, enough to keep her afloat for a few weeks, maybe even upgrade her rig. But something about this felt… off. The lack of details, the urgency in Rook’s voice, the connection to Network 54 – it all added up to trouble. “Five thousand eddies,” she repeated slowly, testing the waters. “For destroying a chip that somehow ended up at Network 54? That’s it?” She paused, letting her sarcasm drip. “No guarantees on discretion? No assurances this won’t end with me staring down the barrel of a corporate security team?”
Rook remained impassive. “Discretion is paramount. And as for guarantees… let’s just say my client appreciates efficiency.” Charm took another sip of her White Noise, the sickly sweetness doing nothing to mask the bitter taste of impending complications. She looked at the Credstick, then back at Rook’s unreadable face. “Reluctantly,” she said finally, taking the Credstick with a sigh. “You have yourself a netrunner.”
Farrier Street, Little China, Watson – 12-08-2078, 23:10
The persistent throb was familiar – a dull ache radiating from her Chrome. The cybernetic jaw, a jagged reminder etched onto her face where a bullet had once ripped through her smile a few years back. It wasn’t debilitating, not anymore, but it was a constant companion, a low-level hum of discomfort that underscored the precariousness of her existence in Night City. Tonight, the pain felt amplified by the chill December evening – a damp 15°C and relentless rain hammering against the asphalt street.
Her hoodie, pulled tight over her netrunner suit, was saturated, clinging to her like a second skin. Each movement sent shivers down her spine as the water seeped through the fabric. Her pink-streaked black hair hung in damp strands, plastered against her cheeks and forehead. Occasionally, one of those rebellious streaks would find its way into the openings of the cybernetic jaw, causing a momentary tickle on her tounge that she’d normally find irritating if it weren’t for everything else going on.
She caught sight of herself in a rain-streaked window – a blurry reflection of defiance and exhaustion. A sarcastic smile stretched across her face, a practiced expression designed to mask the anxiety churning within. And then, a thought flickered through her mind, dark and absurdly humorous amidst the misery. “This is a hell of an advantage,” she mused internally, the corners of her mouth twitching further. “I can now eat without opening my mouth.” The image was ridiculous – slurping noodles while maintaining a stoic facade, never having to reveal a flicker of emotion.
It was another layer of absurdity piled onto the already chaotic foundation of her life. A broken smile, a soaked hoodie, a throbbing jaw, and a job that could very well land her in a corporate prison cell. But Renee Chambers didn’t break easily. She just adapted, she survived, one sarcastic thought and dripping strand of hair at a time.
Scene #1 – Gavin Benton… what a Gonk
NCART Station Memorial Park, Corpo Plaza, City Center – 12-08-2078, 23:26
The NCART line D rattled along its tracks, a metallic groan echoing through the tunnels as it carried her from Ellison Plaza towards Memorial Park. Rain lashed against the windows of the train car, blurring the neon cityscape into an impressionistic smear of color and light. Charm barely registered it; her mind was already occupied with the task ahead – infiltrating Network 54. The memory of Rook’s offer still clung to her like a damp shroud, a potent mix of opportunity and dread. Five hundred eddies for a data chip that someone desperately wanted erased from existence? It smelled like trouble, but trouble paid well in Night City.
Stepping off the train at Memorial Park, she was immediately assaulted by another wave of icy rain. The wind whipped around her, soaking through her already damp hoodie. She decided to walk the remaining distance to Network 54 headquarters, preferring the anonymity of the streets to the potential scrutiny of a cab or public transport. Each step sent a familiar ache through her Chrome, a constant reminder of past mistakes and the price she paid for them.
Network 54, Downtown, City Center – 12-09-2078, 00:11
Arriving at the imposing glass and steel structure that housed Network 54, a wave of memories washed over her. Childhood visits with her mother, Eleanor Chambers – all forced smiles and awkward small talk while her mother charmed executives and colleagues alike. She knew this building intimately, every corridor, every security checkpoint, every hidden nook and cranny. It was an advantage she hadn’t anticipated, but one she intended to exploit.
Her gaze settled on the back of the building, where a chain-link fence offered a surprisingly easy climb. Beyond it lay a service entrance, often overlooked by security patrols. This was her entry point. Pulling out her interface cable – a tangle of wires and connectors that felt like an extension of her own nervous system – she connected to the lock mechanism on the door. The familiar hum of the connection filled the air as she began to bypass the electronic safeguards. A few lines of code, a quick override, and with a satisfying click, the door swung open.
She slipped inside, scanning the surroundings for any signs of movement or surveillance. The interior was dimly lit, the silence broken only by the hum of ventilation systems. But her vigilance wasn’t misplaced. Just as she cleared the doorway, she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye – a security camera slowly panning across the corridor. Adrenaline surged through her veins. With a swiftness born of necessity, she dove into the shadows beneath a stack of crates, holding her breath and praying that she hadn’t been seen. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence. Please, please don’t let them have seen me.
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds, the camera continued its slow sweep past her hiding place. She slowly emerged from the shadows, taking a moment to steady her breathing and calm her racing pulse. The building was eerily quiet; she surmised that it was likely nightshift personnel only. A wave of relief washed over her, quickly followed by a renewed sense of focus.
The intel Rook had provided – Gavin Benton, a slimy tabloid journalist – echoed in her mind. She needed to find him and locate the data chip. Spotting an information terminal nearby, she quickly accessed the building’s internal database. A few keystrokes, a quick search for “Gavin Benton,” and there it was: Floor 38, Room 277. The layout of the floor plan appeared on the screen, highlighting the location with a pulsing blue marker.
Navigating the labyrinthine corridors proved surprisingly easy. The building’s automated systems seemed to be operating at minimal capacity during the night shift, and she encountered no one along the way. Each step echoed slightly in the stillness, amplifying her sense of isolation. After what felt like an age, she finally reached floor 38. The hallway was deserted, bathed in the pale glow of emergency lighting. She paused before the door to room 277, taking a moment to compose herself. This was it – the culmination of Rook’s offer and her own reluctant agreement. With a deep breath, she reached for the doorknob, her hand hovering over the cold metal.
Scene #2 – Delivery drone
Floor 38, Network 54, City Center – 12-09-2078, 00:26
The lock clicked open with surprising ease. Years spent navigating digital and physical security systems had honed Charm’s skills to a razor’s edge. She slipped inside Gavin Benton’s office, the door closing silently behind her, swallowing her into the dim interior. The room was typical of a mid-level journalist – cluttered but not chaotic, reflecting a life lived amidst deadlines and discarded ideas.
Her Kirochi Optics immediately kicked in, bathing the room in a soft, infrared glow that overlaid the visible spectrum. The “Sentry” model offered enhanced vision modes, thermal imaging, and facial recognition capabilities – tools she relied on for survival in Night City. She scanned the room methodically, cataloging every detail: the worn furniture, the overflowing bookshelves, the scattered papers strewn across the desk.
Her gaze settled on a datapad lying amidst the clutter of Benton’s workspace. Beside it sat an incongruous sight – a half-eaten cupcake, its frosting smeared and slightly stale. Charm ignored the sugary treat. She grabbed the datapad, quickly assessing its contents. It appeared to be filled with mundane notes – interview transcripts, story outlines, contact lists. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it might hold something useful. Who knew what secrets could be gleaned from a journalist’s digital trail? With a shrug, she stuffed the datapad into her backpack, alongside the lingering scent of stale frosting and desperation.
Then, her fingers brushed against something small and rectangular tucked away in the next drawer – the data chip Mr. Rook’s shadowy client wanted destroyed. It was encased in a protective shell, its surface gleaming faintly under the infrared glow of her optics. This was it – the reason she was here, risking exposure and potential retribution. She carefully retrieved the chip, ensuring it wouldn’t trigger any alarms, and deposited it alongside the datapad in her backpack. Silently, she closed both drawers, meticulously restoring them to their original positions, hoping to leave no trace of her intrusion.
As Charm reached the ground floor of Network 54, a wave of anxiety washed over her. The building’s sterile atmosphere felt oppressive now, each shadow seemed to hold a potential threat. Just as she was about to push through the revolving doors and escape into the rain-soaked streets, she heard a voice – calm, friendly, and utterly unexpected.
“Renee? Is that you? Renee Chambers?”
Charm froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, threatening to betray her carefully constructed facade. Slowly, cautiously, she turned around. Standing before her was Alexia Santander, an elegant woman with silver streaks woven through her dark hair – a familiar face from her childhood memories. Alexia had been a close friend and colleague of her mother, Eleanor Chambers, back in the days when Renee was just a child tagging along to Network 54 events.
Charm didn’t have much time to collect herself. The unexpected encounter threw her off balance, disrupting her carefully planned escape route. “Yeah,” she replied, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears. “Alexia? Wow, haven’t seen you in… a long time.”
Alexia smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “It has been a while, Renee. You’ve grown up. What brings you here to N54?”
Charm felt a cold sweat begin to trickle down her forehead. The lie she was about to spin had to be flawless. She tapped a hand on her backpack, implicating something she wouldn’t believe herself. “Oh, I’m working as a delivery drone now,” she said, forcing a casual tone into her voice. “Just brought a delivery for one of the technicians from the nightshift. Parts, mostly.” It was a flimsy explanation, but it was the best she could come up with on short notice.
Alexia raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. “A delivery driver? That’s quite a change from what I remember about your mother.” She paused, studying Charm for a moment longer. “She always said you were destined for great things.”
Charm shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Things change, Alexia. Gotta pay the bills somehow since… mom…” The lie tasted like ash in her mouth.
A brief silence hung between them, filled only by the hum of the building’s ventilation system and the relentless drumming of rain against the glass. Small talk ensued – pleasantries exchanged about families, careers, and the ever-changing landscape of Night City. Charm kept her responses short and vague, desperately wanting to end the conversation and escape the situation.
Finally, with a polite farewell, she pushed through the revolving doors and plunged back into the rain-soaked streets. The cold air felt like a welcome relief after the suffocating tension inside Network 54. She didn’t look back, but she could feel Alexia’s gaze on her, a silent question hanging in the air. As she hurried away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this encounter was far from over. The job had just gotten significantly more complicated.
Scene #3 – NCART Line A to Wollesen Street
NCART Station Memorial Park, Corpo Plaza, City Center – 12-09-2078, 00:41
The rain intensified as Charm burst out of Network 54, the polite farewell with Alexia Santander feeling like a distant memory. She didn’t bother with a brisk walk; she was practically sprinting now, weaving through the crowded sidewalks towards the NCART metro station at Memorial Park. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, every passerby felt like a potential threat. The stolen data chip and datapad burning a hole in her backpack were enough to justify the adrenaline surging through her veins.
She managed to snag a spot on Line A heading towards Wollesen Street in Arroyo, cramming herself into a crowded carriage filled with weary commuters and flickering neon signs reflecting off the rain-slicked windows. The rhythmic rumble of the train was a small comfort, but it couldn’t completely drown out the persistent feeling that she wasn’t alone. Even underground, surrounded by hundreds of people, she felt exposed, vulnerable.
NCART Station Wollesen Street, Arroyo, Santo Domingo – 12-09-2078, 00:58
The journey from the NCART station to Megabuilding H4 was a familiar one, yet tonight it felt fraught with danger. As she navigated the grimy streets of Arroyo, the impression of being followed solidified into something more tangible. It wasn’t a blatant tail; it was subtle – a fleeting glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision, a shadow that lingered just a little too long. She quickened her pace again, scanning the faces around her, trying to identify the source of her unease.
Then she saw him. As she passed a large glass panel displaying advertisements for cybernetic enhancements and synthetic ramen, she caught a glimpse of a man a few meters back. He was nondescript – average height, dark clothing blending into the shadows, his face obscured by a hooded jacket. But there was something about his posture, the way he kept glancing over his shoulder, that screamed “I’m following you, bitch!”
Charm didn’t hesitate. She veered off her usual route, plunging down a network of narrow, dimly lit alleys – a labyrinthine maze known only to those who lived and survived in Arroyo. Each turn was calculated, designed to shake off any pursuer, but also to confirm her suspicions. The smelled like decay, punctuated by the dripping of water from leaky pipes and the distant hum of illicit activity.
Rounding a particularly sharp corner, she pressed herself against the cold, damp wall, pulling out her Arasaka HJKE-11 Yukimura smart pistol. The weapon felt reassuringly heavy in her hand, its pink finish gleaming faintly in the gloom. She leveled it, finger on the trigger, heart pounding against her ribs, and waited for her follower to turn the corner. This was it – the moment of truth.
As someone rounded the bend, Charm reacted instantly. With a burst of speed fueled by adrenaline and paranoia, she lunged forward, grabbing the person and pressing them firmly against the wall. Her elbow landed squarely on their throat, cutting off their air supply, while the muzzle of her HJKE-11 Yukimura rested menacingly against their temple.
But as she registered the details of her captive, the tension slowly began to bleed away, replaced by a wave of embarrassment so potent it almost knocked her off balance. It wasn’t a hardened mercenary or a corporate enforcer; it was a teenager – a girl, no older than sixteen, with wide, frightened eyes and tangled dark hair. She was speaking rapidly in Spanish, her voice choked with fear and confusion.
Charm’s grip loosened immediately. The pressure on the girl’s throat eased, allowing her to gasp for air. “Dios mío…!” she stammered, tears welling up in her eyes.
“I… I am sorry,” Charm mumbled, releasing her completely. Her hand trembled as she lowered the pistol. The adrenaline rush receded, leaving behind a lingering sense of shame and self-reproach. She had almost assaulted a child based on a hunch fueled by paranoia.
The girl stared at her for a moment, still visibly shaken, then turned and fled, disappearing into the maze of alleys as quickly as she’d appeared. Charm watched her go, feeling a knot of guilt tighten in her stomach. The man – her follower – was gone.
Shaking off the encounter, Charm continued her way home to Megabuilding H4. The rain had subsided slightly, but the streets still felt cold and unforgiving. She reminded herself that survival in Night City demanded vigilance, but it didn’t excuse reckless actions. Tonight, she’d almost crossed a line she couldn’t come back from.
Scene #4 – Revelations
Megabuilding H04, Arroyo, Santo Domingo – 12-09-2078, 01:37
The bass from Violent Twist’s latest track – something abrasive and industrial with a surprisingly catchy synth hook – vibrated through the floor of Charm’s apartment, courtesy of 96.1 Ritual FM blasting from her entertainment system. It was the kind of music that felt like nails on a chalkboard to most people, but Charm found it strangely comforting. She’d spent countless nights lost in the pulsing rhythms and distorted vocals within the confines of Totentanz, a legendary club that had been shut down last year after a string of incidents involving cyberpsychosis and gang violence. The memory still stung; Totentanz was more than just a venue – it was a refuge, a place where she could lose herself in the music and forget about the grim realities of Night City.
It also brought back memories of her ex, Melissa. She’d been obsessed with Chrome and getting rid of her “weak flesh”, chasing augmentation after augmentation until her brain had finally fractured under the strain. Cyberpsychosis. A common enough fate in Night City, but a particularly painful one when it involved someone you cared about. The image of her, eyes glazed over and limbs contorted in a grotesque parody of human movement, the gun in her hand and the brain blown out, still haunted her dreams.
Charm leaned back into the threadbare cushions of her futon, the cheap fabric scratching against her skin. Her apartment in Megabuilding H4 was a testament to survival on a shoestring budget. The walls were stained with water damage and adorned with peeling wallpaper depicting faded scenes of pre-corporate tranquility – rolling hills and blue skies that felt like relics from another universe. A single, flickering neon sign outside cast an unsettling green glow across the room, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air.
She’d learned to appreciate the small things: a working shower, a functioning toilet, and the relative safety of being high up enough to avoid most of the street-level chaos. The Maelstroms had taken notice of her over the years, mostly due to the subtle but unmistakable gleam of Chrome that framed her jawline. They’d been subtly hinting at recruitment, talking about her potential – how she was destined for more Chrome, more power, and eventually, a place among their ranks.
Charm chuckled, a dry, sarcastic sound. If only they knew the truth. She’d cultivated the image, played into their expectations. The reality was far simpler: she’d been drawn to Totentanz by Melissa, she had always been turned on by her Chrome and simply wanted to get laid by her. It was a kink she rarely admitted to anyone.
She reached into her backpack, pulling out the datapad and the data chip she’d acquired from Network 54. Connecting them to her terminal, a cobbled-together rig salvaged from various scrap yards, she initiated the decryption sequence. The screen flickered to life, displaying a chaotic jumble of files. It was like sifting through digital garbage, hoping to find something valuable amidst the detritus.
The datapad revealed a surprisingly mundane collection: an angry message to Benton complaining about credits he owed; several photos from a trip to Europe last year, showcasing pristine beaches and historical landmarks that felt utterly alien in the context of Night City; mostly illegal copies of NCPD official investigation files concerning a legendary Streetkid known only as “V.” an Afterlife legend. Rumors swirled around V – a mercenary who’d supposedly taken down entire corporations and vanished without a trace. Some said she was a potential successor of Johnny Silverhand. And a very interesting personnel or employee list from Network 54, meticulously detailing names, positions, and contact information. It was the kind of data that could be used to blackmail executives, expose corruption, or simply wreak havoc within the corporate hierarchy.
Charm’s fingers froze as she opened a folder on the data chip. A collection of documents detailing research and development related to… “Project Echelon”. The name resonated with an unsettling familiarity, triggering a buried memory deep within her subconscious. She sat bolt upright in her futon, her heart pounding against her ribs.
It was then that it hit her – a sudden, visceral wave of recognition. This was the name she’d heard her mother talking about on her comms device the night before the car accident that had claimed both her parents’ lives. Her mother, a rising star at Network 54, known for her sharp investigative skills and unwavering dedication to uncovering corporate malfeasance. Her father, a lawyer who specialized in defending those same corporations – a complicated relationship, to say the least. The NCPD had ruled it a tragic accident, a case of drunk driving on a rain-slicked highway. But Charm had always suspected there was more to the story.
She quickly copied all the files related to Project Echelon onto her own encrypted data storage, then initiated a secure wipe of the chip, erasing every trace of its existence. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead as she stared at the screen, the implications of what she’d just discovered crashing down upon her with overwhelming force.
Project Echelon… it sounded like something far more sinister than a simple research project. It felt like a conspiracy, a secret buried deep within the corporate labyrinth, and somehow, her mother had stumbled upon it – or been caught in its web. The NCPD’s “tragic accident” suddenly looked a lot less accidental.
The memory hit Charm like a jolt of static, sharp and unwelcome. It always did, no matter how many years had passed. She could still feel the chill of that November evening, the rain hammering against the windows of her childhood home in Wellsprings – a stark contrast to the sterile professionalism of the two NCPD officers standing on her doorstep.
They’d delivered the news with practiced efficiency: her parents were gone, killed in a single-car accident on the NC Ringroad East. A tragic accident, they’d called it. Then came the twist, the gut punch that shattered any semblance of grief into icy shards of disbelief. They claimed to have evidence suggesting her parents were involved in a fraud case, something about embezzlement and falsified documents within Network 54.
“For your own safety,” one of the officers had said, his voice devoid of emotion, “we need you to vacate the premises immediately. The apartment is now part of an active investigation.” She was never allowed back. All her parents’ accounts were frozen, every asset seized pending further investigation. One moment she was a grieving teenager with a home and a future; the next, she was on the street, clutching nothing but the clothes on her back and a rapidly dwindling sense of reality.
The silence that followed was deafening. She’d tried reaching out to old friends of her parents – their former colleagues, their social circle – hoping for some assistance, some understanding. But they’d all vanished, their calls rerouted or simply ignored. It was as if her parents had never existed, or worse, that associating with her would taint them somehow. Alone in the neon-drenched streets of Night City, Charm understood a harsh truth: she was adrift, a ghost haunting the edges of a world that didn’t want her.
To be continued…
Thank you for reading and I hope to see you next week!
