Chapter 1: The Deal at the Afterlife
The Afterlife breathed like a living thing tonight. Neon arteries pulsed crimson and cobalt across the chrome-plated bar, reflecting in the polished augments and wary eyes of the patrons. The bass wasn't just heard; it vibrated up through the soles of V’s boots, rattling her teeth, a low, insistent thrum that mirrored the frantic pulse in her own throat. Synth-whiskey fumes mixed with ozone, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of cyberware pushed past its limits. V traced a restless finger around the rim of her untouched glass, the cheap synth-ice long melted. Her gaze kept flicking to the main entrance, then down to the discreet service hatch near the bathrooms – the one marked ‘Maintenance’. Her usual impatience felt like a live wire under her skin tonight.
"Tick-tock, choom," a voice rasped beside her, dry as desert bones.
Rogue Amendiares materialized from the smoky haze like a ghost conjured by the club’s own shadows. Seventy years hadn't bent her spine; she wore her age like armor plating, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued. Platinum hair, stark against her weathered, dark skin, was pulled back severely. Her chrome hand, intricate and gleaming, tapped the bar counter once, twice. The bartender, a kid with optic implants flickering nervously, slid a tumbler of something amber towards her without a word.
"Rogue," V acknowledged, forcing her tapping fingers still. "You look…"
"Like I haven't slept since the Fourth Corporate War?" Rogue finished, taking a slow sip. Her eyes, pale and unnervingly perceptive, scanned V head to toe. "You look like a cat about to jump into a den of Scavs. Nerves?"
"Anticipation," V countered, maybe a little too quickly. She leaned in, lowering her voice beneath the thumping music. "Did you…?"
Rogue’s smirk was a slash of crimson lipstick against her face. She didn’t answer immediately, savoring the tension. Her gaze drifted past V, taking in the room – the chrome-plated mercs nursing drinks, the data-couriers huddled over glowing screens, the edgerunners eyeing each other with predatory caution. All oblivious to the transaction about to happen right under their noses. Finally, her chrome hand slid across the polished bar top. Pinched between her fingers was a tiny, unassuming datachip. It landed with a soft click beside V’s watery drink.
"Delivery confirmation," Rogue stated, her voice low and gravelly. "Access codes. Temporary biometric override for his private suite’s outer door. Downstairs." She jerked her head towards the hatch. "Basement level, past the coolant pipes. Smells like ozone and despair. Can’t miss it."
V’s hand shot out, snatching the chip. It felt cold, insignificant. Yet it held the key. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "And… him? He’s…?"
"Waiting," Rogue confirmed, swirling her drink. A holographic countdown flickered erratically above the stage, casting shifting patterns over her impassive face. "Got your message loud and clear, V. Unusual request. Even for Night City." She took another deliberate sip. "Cost you extra, naturally. Had to grease some palms you wouldn’t believe existed."
"Name it," V breathed, her eyes locked on the chip. The din of the club faded to a dull roar. All that existed was the cold metal in her palm and the promise waiting below.
Rogue chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Relax, kid. Not asking for your firstborn. Yet." She leaned closer, the scent of expensive synth-tobacco and something vaguely antiseptic clinging to her. "Standard finder’s fee. Plus hazard pay. Dealing with Arasaka’s pet attack dog, even indirectly… adds a premium." She named a figure that made V’s stomach clench. High. Very high. But not impossible. Not for this.
"Done," V said, the word escaping before she could second-guess it. She pulled out her agent, fingers flying as she initiated the transfer. The confirmation chime felt like a death knell and a starting pistol rolled into one.
Rogue watched the transfer complete, her expression unreadable. "Pleasure doing business." She drained her glass. "Now, a word of advice? From an old netrunner who’s seen more chrome than a junkyard." Her pale eyes fixed on V’s, sharp as broken glass. "Smasher’s waiting downstairs, alright. But trust me, sweetheart," her smirk returned, wider this time, tinged with something darkly amused, "his hardware isn’t the only thing that’ll leave you screaming."
The words landed like a physical blow. V felt a cold prickle run down her spine, momentarily eclipsing the heat of her anticipation. Before she could formulate a response – a retort, a question, anything – a new sound cut through the club’s ambient noise.
From the direction of the service hatch, muffled by layers of concrete and steel but unmistakable in its raw, mechanical power, came a low growl. It wasn't human. It was the sound of hydraulics straining, servos whining under immense load, a deep-chested rumble that vibrated the floor plates beneath V’s boots. It spoke of immense, barely contained power. And impatience.
Rogue raised an eyebrow, her message delivered. "Sounds like your date’s getting restless. Wouldn’t keep him waiting." She turned her attention back to the bartender, effectively dismissing V. "Another one. The good stuff this time."
The datachip burned in V’s clenched fist. Rogue’s warning echoed in her mind, warring with the primal thrum of adrenaline and desire. The growl from below came again, louder this time, a metallic snarl that promised… something. Pain? Pleasure? Oblivion? It didn’t matter. Not anymore.
V pushed herself off the bar stool. The synth-whiskey glass sat forgotten, condensation pooling on the chrome. She took a deep breath, inhaling the thick cocktail of Afterlife’s essence – desperation, ambition, synth-alcohol, and now, faintly, the acrid tang of ozone rising from the hatch. Her boots echoed on the metal floor as she walked away from the light, the noise, the relative safety of the crowded bar. Towards the heavy, unmarked door marked ‘Maintenance’.
Towards the growl.
Towards Adam Smasher.
Her hand hovered over the access panel. The chip felt slick with sweat. Down there, past the coolant pipes smelling of ozone and despair, waited a night she wouldn't forget. Whether she survived it was another question entirely. She slotted the chip. The panel blinked green. The heavy door hissed open, revealing a steep, dimly lit staircase descending into shadow. The growl vibrated up the steps, wrapping around her like a physical force. V stepped over the threshold. The door hissed shut behind her, sealing her into the concrete throat of the building. The thumping bass of the club vanished, replaced by the oppressive hum of machinery and that low, relentless, mechanical growl, pulling her deeper into the dark.
The thumping bass of the club vanished, replaced by the oppressive hum of machinery and that low, relentless, mechanical growl, pulling her deeper into the dark. Concrete steps, slick with condensation, led down into a throat of flickering emergency lighting. Each step echoed too loudly in the confined space, swallowed almost immediately by the deeper, rhythmic thrumming coming from below. The air tasted metallic, thick with ozone and the greasy tang of overheated syn-lube. Beneath that, something else: a sharp, chemical stink that made her sinuses prickle – industrial coolant, maybe, or the sterile reek of medbay antiseptic turned sour.
Pipes, thick as her thigh and crusted with grime, snaked along the ceiling and walls. Condensation wept from their joints, forming cold, dark pools on the floor that reflected the sickly green glow of the safety lights. The growl intensified, vibrating up through the soles of her boots. It wasn't just sound; it was a physical pressure in her chest, a subsonic insistence that demanded obedience. Adam Smasher. The name was a physical weight in her mind. Arasaka's boogeyman. The walking extinction event. And she'd paid a fortune for… this.
"Chrome-plated idiot," V muttered, her voice swallowed by the ambient roar. Her hand drifted to the holster at her hip, finding cold comfort in the familiar grip of her Nue. Against Smasher, it would be like throwing pebbles at a tank, but the weight was a habit. An anchor.
The staircase ended abruptly at a heavy blast door. It looked like it belonged on a bank vault, scarred and dented, the reinforced metal gleaming dully. A single, red access light pulsed slowly above a dark interface panel. No visible handles. Just smooth, impenetrable steel. This was it. Rogue’s chip felt suddenly alien in her palm, slick with sweat. The low growl resonated through the door itself now, a constant, predatory rumble. Waiting.
Her throat tightened. The anticipation wasn't just nerves anymore; it was a cold, creeping dread coiling in her gut. Rogue’s words slithered back: "…his hardware isn’t the only thing that’ll leave you screaming." What the hell had she signed up for? Not just sex. Bargaining with a force of nature. Playing with fire that didn't just burn, it erased.
A wave of pure, adrenal panic washed over her. Her vision tunnelled for a second, the oppressive hum suddenly deafening. Abort. Run back up the stairs. Chalk the eddies up to experience. She could almost taste the synth-whiskey she hadn't drunk upstairs, sour and cheap. But the image that flashed wasn't escape. It was the disappointment in Rogue’s pale, knowing eyes. The mocking laughter echoing in the Afterlife. The feeling of being just another gonk who couldn't hack it when things got real. Worse, it was the gnawing emptiness that had driven her here in the first place. The need to feel something extreme enough to drown out the static.
With a shaky breath that fogged in the cold air, she fumbled not for the access chip, but for a small, sleek hypospray nestled in an inner pocket of her jacket. Synaptic Accelerant. Street name: Zoom. Not her usual pre-op cocktail. This was pure, unadulterated chemical courage. A temporary firewall against the fear threatening to short-circuit her nervous system. Forget reflexes – she needed her brain dialled down, numbed, just enough to walk through that door without her legs buckling.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the cool nozzle against the skin of her neck, finding the port just below her jawline. She closed her eyes. The metallic growl from beyond the door seemed to deepen, vibrating the floor plates like tectonic plates grinding. A final, wordless protest screamed in her skull.
SHE DOWNS IT.
The injector hissed. A surge of unnatural cold flooded her veins, immediate and bracing. It spread like liquid nitrogen, chasing the panic, numbing the edges. The world snapped into hyper-focus, the grime on the pipes suddenly crystalline, the hum of machinery resolving into distinct, layered frequencies. The dread didn't vanish; it just receded, pushed behind a thick, chemical pane of glass. Detached. Manageable. Her breathing evened out, deep and controlled. Her hand, steady now, retrieved the datachip. The cold metal felt sharp, purposeful.
Okay, Smasher, she thought, the words crisp and clear in the chemically-enhanced silence of her own mind. Let's see what screams you've got. She slotted the chip into the access panel. The red light blinked rapidly, then flashed a solid, unwavering green. A series of heavy clunks echoed from within the door's massive frame, like bolts the size of her forearm sliding back. The low growl ceased abruptly, replaced by a profound, waiting silence that felt even heavier than the noise.
With a final, hydraulic sigh, the blast door began to slide sideways into the wall, revealing impenetrable darkness beyond. A wave of warmer, acrid air washed over her, carrying that chemical stink mixed with something else now – hot metal, scorched ozone, and an unsettlingly organic musk.
V stepped forward, the green safety lights casting her long, distorted shadow into the abyss. Her boot hit the threshold.
The silence shattered. Not a growl this time, but a voice. A voice like grinding gears lubricated with gravel, impossibly deep, resonating from the darkness ahead. It filled the space, leaving no room for anything else.
"Took. Your. Time."
The words vibrated in her bones. V didn't flinch. The chemical calm held. She took another step into the dark, letting the heavy door slide shut behind her with a final, echoing boom, sealing her in.
"Traffic was hell," she said, her own voice sounding unnaturally steady in the consuming dark. "You know how it is."
A low, rumbling sound emanated from the blackness. Not quite a growl. Not quite laughter. Something predatory assessing its prey. A single, massive red eye ignited in the darkness, ten feet off the ground, casting a baleful glow that illuminated the outline of a truly monstrous silhouette – all jagged angles, reinforced plating, and terrifying scale.
"Chipper. For dead meat."
V forced her chemically-enhanced calm into a smirk she didn't feel. She kept walking towards the glowing eye, each step deliberate on the unseen floor. The air grew hotter, the chemical stink stronger, laced with the raw power radiating from the figure ahead. This was the point of no return. The edge of the map. Her pulse, slowed by the Zoom, remained a steady, distant thud.
Showtime.
The single crimson eye burned in the darkness, an inferno contained within a monstrous skull of plasteel and chrome. It cast long, distorted shadows that writhed across jagged contours of armor plating – slabs thicker than V's torso, scarred and pitted from countless engagements. The air vibrated not just with the room's deep hum, but with the raw, contained power emanating from the figure. The heat intensified, pressing in, carrying the stench of scorched metal, volatile coolant, and that underlying, unsettling musk – like old blood and machine oil.
"Dead meat walks. Talks." The voice ground out, each syllable a bass tremor that vibrated V's teeth. A heavy, metallic clank echoed as a massive shape shifted in the gloom. "Curious."
V forced her breath to stay even, the Zoom keeping the primal terror at bay, turning it into a distant, analytical buzz. Just data, she thought. Big, violent data. Her eyes, adjusted now to the low light, picked out details: the hydraulic pistons in the legs like industrial rams, the reinforced spinal column housing cables thicker than her wrist, the sheer, brutal scale of him that dwarfed the large, concrete-lined space. It looked less like a room and more like a maintenance bay for heavy mining equipment. Chains hung from the ceiling. Stains, dark and ambiguous, marred the floor.
"Curious is my middle name," V replied, her voice steady, surprisingly light despite the chemical restraint. She took another step, boots echoing on the cold floor. Her hand hovered near her hip, a reflexive gesture. "Well, actually, it's probably something like 'Trouble', but 'Curious' has a better ring for intros."
The red eye didn't blink. It simply stared, an unblinking ember of pure, predatory focus. "Names are irrelevant. Flesh is temporary." A low whine built, the sound of servos powering up under immense strain. "Function is all. Yours?"
"Tonight?" V tilted her head, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. The chemical detachment allowed it. "Compatibility testing. Heard you had... impressive specs." She gestured vaguely towards the hulking silhouette. "Wanted a hands-on demo."
A sound like grinding ball bearings rattled in the darkness. Laughter? Or just lethal mechanics? "Fragile meat. Seeking oblivion." The figure took a step forward. The ground trembled. V felt the vibration travel up her legs. He was easily nine feet tall, maybe more, a walking siege engine. "Oblivion finds you." Another step. The distance closed with terrifying speed. The heat radiating off him was palpable now, like standing near an open forge.
"Maybe I just appreciate high-performance engineering," V countered, her stance shifting subtly, ready. The Zoom sharpened her focus; she tracked the minute shifts in his weight, the positioning of those massive articulated limbs. Every instinct screamed run, but the chemical barrier held, turning fear into a focused hum. "Rogue said you were... available."
"Rogue Amendiares," the voice rumbled, a hint of something almost like recognition, buried deep beneath layers of synthesized distortion. "Old ghost. Sends sacrifices." Another step. He was twenty feet away. The red eye filled her vision. "You armed, meat?" The question was flat, devoid of curiosity, a simple verification.
"Little something for the nerves," V admitted, fingers brushing the grip of the Nue. Pointless, but comforting. Like a security blanket made of lead.
"Good." The word was a death knell.
It happened faster than synaptic impulse. One moment, the colossal figure was a looming shadow twenty feet away. The next, the air cracked. Not a sound – a physical disruption, a sonic boom compressed into the confined space. V saw only a blurred streak of dark metal, felt the pressure wave hit her like a physical shove a fraction of a second before the impact.
There was no pain. Not at first. Just overwhelming force, a universe of kinetic energy focused into a single point – a chrome-plated fist the size of a construction hammer moving faster than thought. It connected with her center mass. Her armored jacket might as well have been tissue paper.
The world dissolved into a white-noise explosion inside her skull. The carefully maintained Zoom-focus shattered like glass. All sensation condensed into the brutal transfer of momentum. She felt her feet leave the ground. She felt the air forced from her lungs in a silent, agonized rush. She saw the grimy ceiling lights streak past in a sickening blur.
Time stretched, distorted. She hung weightless for an eternal microsecond, the red eye of Adam Smasher the last, terrible thing she registered before the world slammed back.
Her spine hit the unyielding concrete floor with a wet, crunching thud that echoed obscenely in the vast space. The impact jarred every bone, rattled her teeth, sent sparks dancing behind her eyes. Her Nue skittered away across the floor, disappearing into the shadows near a dripping coolant pipe. The breath she hadn't managed to exhale was trapped, a burning knot in her chest, utterly useless. Black spots swam at the edges of her vision, threatening to swallow the single, burning red eye now looming above her, impossibly large, impossibly close.
The force, the sheer shock of it, drove through her rigid muscles, bypassing conscious control. Her legs buckled first, the strength evaporating as violently as the air from her lungs. Her torso followed, folding under the invisible weight of the blow. The chemical courage of the Zoom evaporated, leaving raw, primal terror surging through the sudden void. Her vision tunneled, the edges dissolving into static, focused solely on that unblinking crimson point suspended in the darkness above her. Agony bloomed deep in her core, a spreading fire where the impact had landed, stealing speech, stealing thought, stealing everything except the animal instinct to curl inward.
V DROPS TO KNEES, then collapses forward onto her hands, gasping, retching, the world reduced to the cold bite of concrete against her palms, the taste of copper flooding her mouth, and the suffocating pressure of the red gaze pinning her to the floor like an insect.