Cyberpunk: Angel of Chrome

17:30 PM – Perimeter of Dogtown

Outside the jagged concrete slums of Dogtown, V stood with his boot heel dug into a rusted patch of cracked highway, breathing in the familiar blend of exhaust, ozone, and opportunity. His shard pinged once, twice, then four more times in rapid succession.

"That's a bundle," he muttered. The gigs came in together, wrapped up neat like a corpo data drop. Fukui's touch, no doubt. He already knew the rhythm: if she sent this much at once, it wasn't just work—it was a plan. Or a trap. Or both.

The summary flickered on his retinal HUD:

Gig 1: Implant ghostroot spyware into Voodoo Boys' system core. NetWatch contract. Untraceable, ultra-deep, high risk.

Gig 2: Steal data from same node. Barghest contract. Hansen wants it. No questions.

Gig 3: Post-handoff, stealth-download Hansen's own command grid data. NUSA contract. Delivered quietly.

Gig 4 (Optional): Sell rebuilt chrome modules. Marketed as premium black-market upgrades. Buyer? Hansen's own quartermaster.

V smirked. "I should charge extra just for the poetry."

He blinked, realizing he just read Gig 4. "Damn, I should've started with that one," he muttered with a sigh. "Now I gotta turn back before someone else gets rich off my punchline."

Time to head home, grab the goods, and prep the payload. If he was going to pull this off, he'd need the good stuff—the kind you don't find on shelves or order off a fixer's list. This was gear you rebuilt from scrap, tuned by hand, reimagined from broken tech everyone else had thrown away. Un-bricked. Reinvented. Ready to burn.

The lift doors to his tower slid open with a sigh. Only Misty and Kiwi were in the common room. The rest of the crew was running gigs for Chrome Angels across Night City, pulling eddies and favors wherever they could. Kiwi had stayed back, needing three days for her chrome to settle into operational stability after a tricky surgery she performed that same morning.

Misty sat cross-legged with a candle and her taro deck laid out between her and Kiwi. "Your fate changed," she said softly, turning over a card with a hand more steady than her voice. "You're not just watching the storm anymore. You're in it."

Kiwi raised a brow, then glanced at V. "You hear that, boss? I'm doomed."

"Then you're in good company," V muttered, cracking a smile.

He slipped into the back, past the clinic's reinforced doorway, into his world of sparks and solder. His chrome collection sat neatly packed, each piece labeled, repolished, recalibrated. Some of it he'd dug out of a trash crate, burnt and twisted. Now?

"Diamonds to them," he said, lifting a gleaming leg actuator, "good enough for me."

He loaded ten sealed packages into a courier crate. "Not all at once," he muttered. "Flood the market, and suddenly chrome's cheap. Can't have that."

Capitalism, baby.

He returned to the lounge to say goodbye to the gentle girls still holding down the fort. Kiwi sauntered over and kissed him on the cheek, eyes sharp and teasing. "Sure you're not too drained? That cupcake got her hands on you again?"

V scoffed. "Rebecca's a menace, not Dracula."

"Hmph. You keep tellin' yourself that, chrome boy."

He waved her off with a half-smile and turned to Misty, who was still quietly reshuffling her deck.

"Keep an eye on Kiwi while I'm out," he said.

Misty smiled faintly. "She doesn't need watching. You do."

He chuckled, tapped the edge of her table in passing, then moved through the door beside his engineering room—straight into the auxiliary garage he'd converted into a personal gear bay. The crate clinked slightly in his grip as he passed a wall of magnetic tools, shelves stacked with assorted chrome implants and weapons, and a workbench scarred with solder burns. In the corner, his recon bot — Spiketooth — paced silently on its retractable legs, scanning for motion like a restless watchdog. As V approached, the bot paused, emitted a soft mechanical chitter, and tilted its chassis toward him.

"Yeah, yeah. You'll get your shot soon," V muttered, giving the bot a light tap on its armor. "But this one's mine to warm up." He loaded the chrome into the transport case, sealed it tight, and rolled his neck.

Dogtown loomed, and this time he was walking in with four missions, a crate loaded with rebuilt chrome bombs, and the fate of multiple nations tucked somewhere between his spine and sarcasm.

Time to work.

The ride to Dogtown was quiet, the city buzzing past as Warlock glided along the scarred roads like a predator with manners. The checkpoint came into view—flickering signage, armed guards, and a tall gate flanked by retrofitted scanners. The air smelled like rusted metal, fried synthmeat, and static.

Warlock slowed as they approached. The scanner unit blinked alive, casting lines of blue over the car's surface.

"Scanner active," Warlock said politely.

V leaned slightly, watching the scan overlay in real-time. On the screen, it showed a nearly empty vehicle—no weapons, no hardware signatures.

He smirked. "Funny. Who the hell goes to Dogtown with no weapon?"

Warlock didn't respond, but V knew the reason: unless Warlock wanted to be scanned, you couldn't really scan him. The AI had its own safety mechanisms. Combined with Warlock's pre-installed hardware, it projected the perfect illusion—just a nice car, clean and unarmed. Something that looked like it'd die from a couple shots from a popgun. In reality? Not even a Basilisk could scratch it. V smirked.

V handed over the encrypted ID Fukui had given him earlier that week. The gate terminal blinked once, processed it, and opened without a word.

"Easy," he muttered. "Too easy." The ID Fukui gave him wasn't some forged black market scrap—this thing was real. Maybe too real. Probably pulled straight from one of Hansen's inner circle. Fukui had taken enough gigs for Hansen that the guy thought she worked for him. That was the game—make him feel in control. So yeah, she 100% had him generate an original, high-level ID, preloaded with enough clearance flags to keep the guards looking elsewhere. Either Fukui had friends in high places, or bodies in cold ones.

Once inside, he made his way to the quartermaster drop point—a rust-colored prefab shack wedged between two burned-out storefronts. Inside, the Barghest quartermaster, a burly sharp-eyed man with ink on his neck that read "DEAD OR USED," glanced up from his data pad.

"You V?"

"That's what they tell me. You Kess?"

"Yeah. Heard you got something shiny."

V popped open the crate, revealing ten units of rebuilt chrome, gleaming like trophy kill-plating.

"Shiny enough to blind your procurement guy," V said.

Kess whistled low. "No kidding. Let's talk price. It'll take a bit to run diagnostics, verify everything's clean and operational. You wanna wait, or come back in thirty?"

"I'll come back," V replied, already half-turned. "Got another gig to prep for Hansen."

"Ah yeah, that one. I'm the contact for that, too," Kess said, then lowered his voice. "Try not to get caught. Hansen likes clean grabs. There's a bonus in it if the Voodoo Boys never even know the data's gone."

A group of five Barghest soldiers entered just then. Kess nodded to them. "Help me move this stuff to the testers."

"Yes, sir."

V gave a parting nod and stepped outside. He glanced around once, scanning quickly for any lingering eyes before slipping into the alley's shadow. With a practiced breath, he activated his Sandevistan and optical camo, turning invisible. Even hidden, he dodged security cameras anyway—for the sheer thrill of it, and infiltrating Hansen's main grid node. His fingers danced briefly across the interface, copying data silently onto his personal shard, the security systems none the wiser.

Exactly two minutes later, he reappeared precisely where he'd left—calm, casual, as though he'd never moved.

Gig 3: Complete. Gig 4: In process. Gigs 1 and 2? Still waiting.

V smiled as he slid back into Warlock's seat.

19:00 PM – Dogtown Core, Stealth Ops

Dogtown. Night City on synth-steroids. A place where murder was public sport, trust was currency, and both expired quickly. The air reeked of burning rubber, spiked synth, and gun-oil. Neon signs flickered like dying nerves above alleys packed with mercs, junkies, and joytoys armed to the teeth.

As Warlock entered stealth mode, its reflective plating shimmered, then faded from the scanner grid. Traffic cams blurred. Heat sigs ghosted. The car slithered through the chaos like a rumor no one could trace.

"Stealth engaged," Warlock intoned. "Cloak clean."

V parked in a dark lot near a broken vending stand. He stepped out, checked his HUD, and scanned the zone. This was it. The same cracked data bunker used in that old gig—"Treating Symptoms." Now it was his battlefield.

V moved like vapor. Shadows bent around his optical camo as he slipped past the outer perimeter. This time, he wasn't just stealing data. He slipped into the Voodoo Boys' core server, deep behind the black ICE, and did three things:

Stole Hansen's requested data. Easy.

Installed the NetWatch ghostroot. Surgical.

Added a custom backdoor of his own. Because, well... you never know when you might want to fry a Voodoo Boy or two.

"Insurance," V whispered, smirking.

He exfiltrated like a myth, back in the car before the cameras rebooted their second cycle.

Gig 1: Complete. Gig 2: Complete.

On the way back to the prefab HQ, V caught a glimpse of a scav ambush setting up near a burning kiosk. One of them pointed. Big mistake.

"Finally," V muttered, cracking his neck. "Some community spirit."

Warlock swerved, then roared forward. The scavs barely had time to react before chrome met bone. One was launched clean into a dumpster. Another flew like a ragdoll over a fruit stall.

"Pedal to the metal, Warlock."

"Engaging civic cleanup," the AI replied flatly.

V laughed the whole way back.

Back at the prefab HQ, Kess greeted him in a luxury suite lined with chrome—literally. The ten units he brought were now displayed like museum pieces, each tagged and documented.

"Mr. V," Kess said with a grin. "You done excellent work. This chrome is prime. What'd you do, rob an Arasaka container and kidnap the engineering crew to unseal them?"

"If you want that story, Kess," V replied, "you don't have enough eddies."

Kess laughed, then his tone cooled. "Well, everything's perfect... except one crate. Some of the mods triggered a fault. I'm generous, so I'll give you 1/10 of market value for those. Our guys will try to crack 'em."

V narrowed his eyes. "That chrome is clean. How exactly did your scanner find a fault, Mr. Kess?"

Kess smiled like a shark. "See for yourself." He handed over a scanner and the flagged piece.

V ran it. The error appeared instantly. But he noticed something off. A hidden variable. Embedded code. His fingers flew across the scanner's debug panel.

"Oh, I see... You installed a script—'Smöck v2.1'—that hides legit VAT serials and misflags gear as defective. Cute. Undersell the good stuff, buy it cheap."

He raised an eyebrow. "Kess... I came recommended."

The smile vanished. "Doesn't matter. If I say it's faulty, it is. You're still walking away with five mil. What, not enough?"

Suddenly, five soldiers stepped into flanking positions.

V chuckled. He didn't move—just scanned them once. Tactical gear, clean lines, smart visors. Not street gangers. These were trained. Efficient. Coordinated.

Too bad none of that matters.

His fingers twitched.

The room lit up for half a heartbeat with muzzle flashes and kinetic pulses. Five soldiers turned on each other in perfect synchronicity—quickhacked before they even realized. Their weapons jerked up and barked death across the room, controlled like puppets on a wire. When the smoke cleared, five bodies lay crumpled. One still had his rifle half-raised, as if he died still trying to aim.

V remained standing. Calm. Casual. Like he'd just turned off a light switch.

He sat on the suite's couch.

"Now, how much is your life worth, Kess?"

"I-I-I… I can give you all Hansen authorized. Seven mil!"

"Oh? So you were keeping two for yourself."

"It's just business!"

"Sure. How much for your life?"

"I have one mil! The rest are assets around the city—buildings, shell corps!"

"Perfect," V said, hacking his shard and siphoning everything in real time. "Eight mil, plus bonus goodies."

A ping. Asset transfer confirmed.

"Damn, nearly fifty mil in holdings," V muttered. "Sasha's gonna kill me when I ask her to handle all that."

Kess trembled. V drew his Malorian.

Suddenly—

"Mr. V!" a voice barked.

Hansen walked in with twenty elite soldiers. He looked around at the corpses.

"Sorry for the intrusion," Hansen said. "I needed to find who was stealing from me. Kess here was my leak."

"So you set me up?"

"Call it a filter. You passed."

"Tell me why I shouldn't decorate the wall with his brains?"

Hansen laughed. "Even the best merc can't handle my squad. But... I'll give you one more mil to let him live."

"Hmm. Tempting."

KAPOW — Kess's head exploded.

Hansen blinked. Activated his Sandevistan.

Too late.

V had already moved.

Time hadn't just slowed—it shattered.

One moment Hansen stood surrounded by elite Barghest soldiers. The next, he was alone in a red-slick room filled with twitching limbs and shattered chrome. Heads rolled to a stop like bowling balls finding their gutters.

Hansen's Sandevistan was still mid-cycle.

He blinked. Frozen in realization.

V hadn't just been fast.

He had rewritten the definition.

He looked down. His limbs were gone. Just a torso and head.

V walked up. Gently slapped his cheek.

"Was gonna shake your hand," he smirked. "But you're kinda... between arms right now."

"If you weren't my client, you'd be dead. Next time, play straight. Oh—and check that chrome I brought. I added a little something for you. You'll thank me."

Hansen groaned. V turned and strolled through the blood-slick room at a leisurely pace, stepping over limbs like discarded trash. Casings crunched underfoot. One of Hansen's elite still twitched in the corner. He didn't even glance.

"Tell Fukui we had a minor disagreement," V said over his shoulder, voice casual. "But it's settled. Don't want her worried."

Hansen, bloody and stunned, nodded.

"Think of it as a new start," Hansen muttered through gritted teeth, trying to suppress the pain pulsing from his severed limbs. "You earned it."

[Wire transfer received: ₵ 5,000,000]

A few Barghest soldiers cautiously approached, weapons half-raised. Hansen wheezed, "Stand down. Call the ripper. Tell him I need... new everything."

"Yes sir," they replied, backing out quickly.

V smiled. "Glad we could clear the air."

In that moment, Hansen realized: V wasn't a merc. He was a monster.

V slipped into Warlock and drove off. A second later, he yanked a tiny spy tag from beneath the undercarriage and crushed it between two fingers.

"Nice try, Hansen," he muttered.

He hit the call.

"Fukui."

"Four for four," he said. "Gigs done."

"I see," she replied calmly. " NetWatch sends their thanks. That's ₵ 500,000. NUSA doubled theirs: ₵ 1,000,000. Hansen's gig fee is ₵ 500,000."

"Wait, I thought Hansen already paid me."

"That was for the chrome," she said. "The extra fee? That's because he realized who he was dealing with and folded."

"You were watching through the suite cameras, weren't you?"

"Of course."

"You know, Fukui—if I didn't know better, I'd think you were scared."

"Scared? No. I've lived through scarier. I just didn't expect you to be... quite so efficient."

A pause. Then:

"Truth is, V... I had hoped you'd grow into the next great fixer. My protégé. But now? With the kind of power you're throwing around? You don't really need it. You're breaking the game. Still—I'll help however I can."

"Power's a funny thing," V said, his voice quieter for the first time. "You reach a point where it's no longer about the game, the tricks, or the paychecks. It becomes a weight. A lonely road."

He paused.

"Still... I am curious. Why do you really help me, Fukui?"

Fukui's voice softened.

"You remind me of my late husband. Same recklessness—only you've got the spine to back it up. And he was wise beyond his years too—quiet when needed, ruthless when it counted. You've got that same edge, V. Just sharper in different places."

V smirked. "He must've been charming."

"He was. Until someone powerful took everything away from him—and from me.

There was a quiet weight in her voice, just long enough for V to catch it.

"Who was it?" he asked.

"You'll know at some point," Fukui said. "For now, he's too high up the ladder to reach. But the time will come. Eventually, there will be a gig—one big enough to settle everything."

V smirked. "No one's high enough on the ladder to dodge a shot to the head. Not forever. When the time comes, I'll be ready—unless I accidentally take him out before that," he added with a crooked smile.

Fukui exhaled, the edge of tension softening in her voice. She let herself smile."

She refocused. "I've arranged a meeting for you. Mr. Hands. I gave him the address. Told him you'd come. And that he couldn't stop you."

V laughed. "Trying to make me show off? You know that's my weakness."

"Please," Fukui said. "You've been showing off since you tracked down Faraday, cut off his head, and walked into Afterlife with it in a box—just as Rogue was writing up the bounty. You even ordered an orange juice with your free hand like it was brunch at a spa."

V grinned. "Ah. That day. Good times."

"Naturally. You're overdue."

20:00 PM – Dogtown, Heavy Hearts Club

The club's elevator was locked. V hacked it in seconds. Activated stealth. Walked through the haze of cig smoke and synth beats. Wade Bleecker—codename Mr. Hands—sat in his office upstairs.

V hit him with a silent quickhack, freezing Mr. Hands mid-motion without him even noticing. It was clean, fast, and undetectable—just long enough for V to slip into the room, close the door behind him, and drop the hack.

He was signing contracts.

"Mr. Hands," V said.

Wade blinked up, the thought catching in his eyes before his mouth. Damn. Fukui sent me a monster, he thought, straightening in his chair.

"Nice to meet you."

"Call me Wade."

"Alright, Wade."

They shook hands—well, V reached out. Wade was still half-processing the fact that someone just bypassed all his security like it was a game mod.

"Heard you've been building quite the merc network."

"Solid folks," V said, leaning forward. "You ever need something, talk to Sasha—my secretary. If it's beyond our team, I handle it personally. For the right price."

"Jobs gotta be moral, ok?"

Wade raised a brow.

"As much as Dogtown allows," V added with a smirk. "Killing scavs and Voodoo Boys counts as charity work around here."

Wade laughed. Then flicked a shard across the table.

"From Fukui. She wanted me to know what happened with Hansen. That was... impressive."

"How come you didn't kill him?" Wade asked, studying V's expression.

"Didn't want to destabilize the territory," V said. "Truth is, I don't even know all the power players down here yet. Would probably cause more harm than good taking out the wrong pillar."

"He's useful. For now," Wade replied.

"Smart. And lucky. Hansen might actually use you now to make more money. But I'd like a word before you take any gig from him. I can screen 'em. Pay extra."

"You want to be the leader of Dogtown?"

"Not officially. Too much paperwork. But Hansen's a loose cannon. If your stunt humbled him, maybe he'll behave."

He opened a secure case and passed V a chrome piece.

"This is a Behavioral Imprint-Synced Faceplate. Tier-5 iconic. Militech never finished it—FIA turned it into spyware. Reads neural imprinting, mimics behavior, voice, facial tics. Even adjusts your bone structure. With enough data, you become them. Perfect clone. It's locked, though—only a NUSA ripper can unlock it. But Fukui told me that won't be a problem for you."

V smiled."

V turned it in his hand, impressed.

"Didn't think these existed outside NUSA black ops."

"They don't. Not legally. You unbrick it, and I've got jobs lined up."

V nodded, pocketing the case.

Wade handed him a keycard. "Here—your new ID. Clean and synced. Use this and you're off Hansen's radar. I'll talk to Sasha to arrange fresh IDs for your crew too—high-level, untraceable."

"Appreciate it."

"Anytime."

20:45 PM – Outside Heavy Hearts Club

V stepped out into the cooling Dogtown air and leaned against Warlock's frame. He called Fukui.

"Wade's solid," he said. "Went smooth."

"I know. His wife's an old friend. He's one of the few decent ones left in that mess."

"So… anyone else worth knowing?"

"Actually, yes. A solo. Bit of a ghost. Ex-NUSA. Name's Solomon Reed."

V opened the file as it came in, skimming quickly."Club Mirage bouncer, huh?"

"That's him," she said. "Doesn't talk much, but he's sharp. Fukui-level sharp."

"You want me to talk to him?"

"Wouldn't hurt," she replied. "Just see what your gut says. I'll send over his file. Say hi from me—and if he plays hardball, give him this info. Might break the ice."

"Cya, Fukui."

"Cya, baby," she smirked, then added with a playful lilt. "And V? Careful out there, alright? Would be a shame if someone finally caught up to you—just when you're starting to look handsome with all that chaos under your belt."