#corpo conspiracy

[minisulfat]

Mr. Blue Eyes

[kharonion]

Can you tell a bit more about Vikt's corpo career? I'm especially living for headcanons and everything else that you've come up with for him that diverges from ingame canon :D

aaa heck, you know I'm always down! 👏

Vikt started his career at Arasaka quite young, a consequence of being groomed into the life path throughout childhood. (Let it be known, however, that his parents didn't do this maliciously; they simply wanted their only son to be successful. Good hearts and intentions... but boy howdy, they picked the wrong place.) At sixteen, he flew out to the main training camp in Japan, and at eighteen, he had a solidified position in Night City's HQ.

And he worked there for decades... the whole while being transformed into a human weapon. Brainwashed, to the point where he'd forgotten the quaint life he'd lived before. The joke of him being "Arasaka's pet" isn't much of one—because that's what he is.

He started as security detail and did so for a handful of years, until eventually, he caught the attention of Jenkins, who thought Vikt would be the missing puzzle piece in counterintel. He was right; Vikt was a natural, able to do what needed to be done while remaining hardened and callous. Any- and everything asked of him, he did.

By 2077 (i.e. in-game canon), though, Vikt reached a point he was working himself beyond his limits. Exhausted, getting sloppy, increasingly reliant on cognitive boosters—and Jenkins immediately noticed. And he did something about it.

The 'hit on Abernathy' job is a ploy. Bait that Jenkins knows Vikt will take—because, after all, he is the "mindless pet" of the department. What better way to shave off the dead weight than to tangle him in a web of treason and espionage—by his own hand?

The plan was for Vikt to be executed on the spot, along with whoever he'd enlisted to help with the "job." But, obviously, that didn't happen.

And it left Vikt betrayed... and pissed.

[itsabouttimex2]

Fizzling Neon

“…can I tell you something that bothers me?”

There’s not quite a sneer on your coworker’s face, but the expression he wears while turning to you is regardless unhappy. The man’s never much cared for your rambles, and especially not while the two of you were on kitchen duty.

Then, he’s never much cared for you in general.

But if he has to choose between his own thoughts (centering mostly on his ex-wife, if you had to guess) your awkward ramblings, or a droning and dead silence that was cut only by Chica’s muffled gorging, the gray-haired man would probably pick you, though he would do so reluctantly.

Very reluctantly.

“Well?” the aged man finally grunts, arms crossed as he leans back against the counter. His tense posture screams impatience, but at least he’s waiting for you to say something instead of outright ignoring you. “What is it?”

You hesitate, unsure if you should bother, even with his explicit approval. Your coworker doesn’t like you- he’s made that clear enough over the past four months. Still, there’s something gnawing at you, something you need to get off your chest before it eats you alive. A rattling clatter of pots and pans kicks up in the washing area, accompanied by incessant crunching noises- the avian animatronic must’ve gotten into an unfinished dish.

You don’t want to sound like some manic conspiracy theorist, of course- that type pops up on the premises of the Pizzaplex constantly, filming themselves as they harangue the workers and scare the children- only to scurry away when you pleaded with Monty to scare them off- the kids always got a kick out of that, at least.

Still, all antics aside… maybe talking about it would do you some good.

“…it doesn’t make any sense for them to be animatronics.”

He turns to you, sporting an expression that implies you may well have grown a second head, utterly dumbfounded by such an out of pocket (to him) statement.

His brows knit together tightly, lips twisting into a grimace that makes him look even less pleasant than he already does. “What in the blazing hell are you even talking about?” he finally asks, his voice a low growl that barely carries over the distant clang of metal on tile as Chica shuffles around.

You squirm for a moment, then spill in a hurried rush of words built around cobbled knowledge from your childhood.

“It’s just… these are… they’re robots. And, animatronics are, well, they… animatronics- real animatronics, I mean, they’re- they’re puppets! Animatronics are supposed to be puppets hooked to machinery hidden in the ground, machines that host the puppet’s programming for the routines they perform! They’re supposed to be fragile, breakable! You’re supposed to be able to shatter them, shove them around, pick them up and throw them- in case they break down and block people in an emergency! Or, or like… the design specs, in general, they’re- so like, if an animatronic closes around a kid’s hands, the design specs of these things are specifically built to be fragile enough to never exert enough force to hurt the kid! They’re not supposed to be able to move arcade machines, or jostle vending machines, or pick up kids! And-“

“You know what, kid? And I’m gonna be real level with you, just cause I don’t think the management bothers doing it when they really should- nobody gives half a damn about your autist bullshit. They were always called animatronics. From the first fucking pizzeria to the last pissing pizzaplex, they were animatronics, puppets, machines, and no one except for you gives a shit about the name they use. And look, you wanna obsess over this crap, fine. Just don’t bring it up with me again. Got enough on my plate without babysitting your paranoia about trivial corpo branding bullshit.”

He throws his soiled dishrag against the metal interior of the sink before him, then stomps off towards the staff room in order to punch out and head home, probably hoping to down a fifth of whiskey and pass out.

You stand there in shocked silence for a moment, throat tight and eyes growing wet, trying to compose yourself as the angry pounding of his footsteps fades away.

It hurts. You wish it didn’t hurt so bad, especially when the scorn comes from someone you don’t particularly know or care for, someone you know doesn’t particularly care for you.

You want to shove those painful feelings away, because you know if you dwell on it too long, you’ll start spiraling, and there’s no one here who wants to listen- not without mocking you or brushing you off.

Except- the sound of metal footsteps breaks your train of thought, and those steps are heavy and deliberate, echoing through the empty kitchen. You freeze, pulse quickening, because it’s late, nearly time to close, and you’re very certainly the last person in the pizzaplex.

“Oh, Superstar…”

His voice, as always, is smooth and warm, carrying an affectionate tone that he usually reserves for children. You don’t need to turn around to know who that soothing voicebox belongs to.

You swallow, hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen countertop as the sound of metal feet against porcelain grows louder. He’s close now, just behind you, and you feel the subtle hum of his mechanical frame, a strange, ever-present vibration that seems to radiate from him, and you are awash in the cyan hue that drifts from his mechanical body.

Glamrock Freddy.

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out at first. There’s a lump buried deep in your throat, and with it there’s a fear that if you try to explain yourself, you might break down entirely.

Freddy waits, a patience so unshakable it mirrors the steel he’s built from.

And he waits a little longer still, right up until there are tears brimming in your eyes, threatening to spill, and then one of his large paws reaches to bundle around the back of your head, holding it there as though he’s cradling something fragile, something precious.

At his gentle, synthetic touch your lips press tightly together, unwilling to speak for risk of breaking a dam that spills regardless, and as the first of many tears trickle down your cheek, Freddy’s thumb; soft with synthetic padding, swipes it from your face.

“That was very unkind of him, Superstar. I will be sure to report his behavior to management, for it is in violation of the rules of the Mega Pizzaplex.”

“N-no, Freddy, it’s fine. Really… really, it’s fine, and I don’t want to cause any trouble.

The ursine machine, so many warmth welling behind his eyes that the kitchen feels cold in comparison, he tilts his head, his illuminated blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly, not in anger but in something softer- concern, and to some degree even disbelief. He doesn’t move the heft of his hand, still cradling your head with the care of someone holding glass. “It is not fine,” he insists gently, voicebox unwavering. “Everyone within the Pizzaplec must treat one another with respect. The rules are very clear.”

A bitter laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Yeah, well, rules don’t really stop people from being jerks, do they? Just… just please let it go, Freddy. It’s not worth it.”

There is a long, lingering moment where he continues to stare, eye lights drooped at your insistence on allowing things to be. But, finally, he lowers his hand, though his frame remains close, looming like a shield against the sterile, fluorescent lights kitchen. “Your feelings are worth it, Superstar,” he says after a beat. “But I will not push.”

Then he pauses, awkward and almost ashamed, then kneels to level his gaze to your own, and quietly speaks. “And I did not mean to eavesdrop on the staff, but I did overhear the management speaking to one another about the weather.

Oh. Oh no.

“So I wanted to tell you that a snowstorm is predicted, and, on behalf of the Pizzaplex, I wanted to extend you an invitation to stay overnight, since you do not have a way to get home if the bus is out.”

Oh, Cassie was going to be devastated.

Freddy straightens up at your lack of apparent response, his hulking frame towering over you once more, though his demeanor remains calm. “I spoke to the daycare attendant about preparing a bed for you- his residence has many cozy spots, and I believe you will find it suitable.”

You cringe when he mentions the daycare, snapping your thoughts from the soon to be birthday girl.

The attendant's dual personalities were a lot to handle during even just the day- but Moon's presence at night, especially, would be downright unnerving. But Freddy, gentle and unyielding, he turns you around with his big paws and nudges you towards the kitchen’s entrance.

The white doors swing open as Freddy pushes you past them, and the sounds of the nearly silent Pizzaplex greet you. The faint hum of machines powering down for the night drifts through the air, and the glittering lights of arcade machines flicker in the distance, while the mascots painted on the walls seem to grin down at you with their smiles.

It dawns on you now, staring up at the acrylic likeness of the lead animatronic that you hadn’t said yes to his offer, hadn’t quite stuck yourself through with the promise of a full night with the daycare attendant… and with Freddy going in the opposite direction, no doubt heading to his own room for the night… well, there wasn’t exactly anyone around to ensure that your footfall led you to the ever-unnerving nursery.

And, for that matter, a revelation dawning quickly upon you- you didn’t even know if the weather had started turning for the worse. If the storm was so bad that it would put out the local bus, sure, then you might not have a choice. But a light sprinkle wouldn’t kill you, and the lost and found wouldn’t mind you “borrowing” a jacket or scarf.

You turn toward the far end of the Pizzaplex, where the staff exit looms. You could just… check for yourself. There’s a strange, dread pang in your chest like the bite of an icicle, the notion that you might be caught going off-course, then returned to your path like an errant child.

Freddy surely wouldn’t mind you only checking out the window, would he?

Definitely not.

But still you step lightly, shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor as the exit grew nearer and nearer. The Pizzaplex, as well as you've grown to know it, comes to feel unnaturally large when it’s this quiet- without at least a dozen children to draw your attention from the winding halls and the sprawling white floor, sometimes the place feels more like a labyrinth than a glorified daycare.

Though the twin doors come into reach without obstruction, there's still a prickling sense of unease that crawls the length of your skin, sending shivers down your spine as you reach for the silver handles.

Just a peek isn't going to hurt anyone, you tell yourself with a measure of false confidence.

It does not stop the trembling chill that races your heart to pump erratically as you make the move to push the doors open, and your skin grows colder still at the sight before you.

Snowflakes.

Fluffy, chunky snowflakes, cascading from the sky in a relentless flurry, the parking lot and roads already blanketed in white. The wind howls, biting and sharp. The city looks almost like a desolate tundra, smeared in thick strokes of white. The last bus is nowhere to be seen, likely sent back to the station early to avoid the storm.

You pull harshly on the doors, snapping them shut to prevent a gale wind from blowing through, to prevent snow from spilling onto the tile, and then you turn back, resigning yourself to a long night in the daycare, and then there’s a flicker of movement in the reflection of the chilled glass. You freeze, breath hitching sharply.

Slowly, you turn around, expecting to see Freddy or perhaps one of the staff bots patrolling the area.

And there is no one around.

Not that you can see, at least.

But the sound -faint, metallic clicking- tells you something is near. It’s sharply deliberate, like the tapping of long nails against glass.

And then a gangly shadow falls over you, dragging half of a shriek out of your lips right before you slap your hands over them.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, and there, in a fluid arc of motion, leaping from the ceiling, is Moon, his painted grin wide and unsettlingly toothy in the dim lighting. He cast an eerie silhouette across the room as he lands upright with barely a thud, tilting his head to regard you.

“Why are you out of bed?”

“I was just…”, you start to say, but the words catch in your throat as he draws nearer. “I was only…”

“You know it’s against the rules to wander, don’t you?”

Your heart races as you stumble back, desperate to put distance between yourself and the unsettling animatronic. For all that you (and perhaps none but you and Cassie shared this feeling) had a soft spot for Sun, there was no denying that Moon had grown strange of late, often over-bolstering his “child-caring protocols”, to the terror of his many, many charges. Too often you had to step in and watch over them in his place just to ensure the kids would get some measure of sleep.

“I-I… no, i was just… just checking the weather,” you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, checking the weather!” he repeats, his tone exaggeratedly bright and overly cheerful, though there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. “But the rules are very clear- no wandering after hours! And you wouldn’t want to break the rules, would you, Starlight?”

That nickname doesn’t feel the same way that “Superstar” feels, not as warm or bright or genuine.

…but it’s still nice (admittedly less so under these circumstances) to have someone care enough to give you a moniker- and unlike Freddy, who simply maintained that everyone he liked was his special “Superstar”, the lunar half of the daycare attendant was far more reserved with his affections.

If he had let that feeling grow a little longer, that slow drift of bubbling warmth rising around your heart, maybe you wouldn’t have screamed out even past the barriers of your hands as he lunged forward and snagged his thin fingers around each side of your waist.

Instead, you simply shriek and kick.

That doesn’t stop Moon from lifting you slowly, his grip more than firm enough to make escape impossible. He tilts his head, his painted grin never wavering, though there’s something unsettling about the way his glowing red eyes seem to scan every inch of you, as if gauging your intent.

“No screaming,” he chides softly, his voice lowering to a whisper that echoes unnaturally in the empty Pizzaplex. “You’ll wake everyone up. Naughty, naughty.”

Your breath hitches as you struggle against his unyielding grip, your hands clawing uselessly at his smooth, cold arms. Moon holds you aloft effortlessly, his glowing red eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

“Please,” you manage to croak, weak voice trembling. “I- I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to cause trouble! I just… I just wanted to see if the storm was bad.”

His metal grin remains fixed, the crescent of his face gleaming faintly in the low light. “Storms are dangerous, Starlight,” he murmurs, his voice mechanical but almost sing-song, and still dripping with a strange condescension. “You could get lost. Hurt. It’s better to stay where things are safe.”

There is an unsteady pulse pounding through your chest now, a staccato rhythm that you’re certain he can sense. His glowing red eyes narrow, and his rictus grin; for all that it is fixed in place by steel, seems to grow wider.

He cradles you closer, the warmth of his metallic hands seeping through your uniform. The hum of his inner workings vibrate faintly, a reminder of the sheer difference between your anatomies. His voice drops lower, head leaning in to hiss lowly in your ear.

“And safe,” he whispers, “means staying close to me, Starlight.”

[rochenn]

man whenever palpatine gets killed off during the clone wars in a fic and fucking. padmé or bail become chancellor right after him. i understand this in a "i want a happy ending for everyone" kind of sense but this solution seems so out of touch sometimes. as if you wouldn't have mas fucking amedda as an interim chancellor first and as if the next election wouldn't either solidify him or result in the ascension of someone like tarkin.

"but palpatine was outed as a sith" ok. how do you even prove that to the public, to the feared Average Voter, the dreaded Moderate, without sounding like a conspiracy lunatic? like the sith as a whole are even less known about than the jedi and they might as well just be the same thing (about 10 thousand jedi exist in the galaxy. coruscant alone has a population of 2 trillion. "minority" doesn't even begin to describe the position of the jedi here)

even if palpatine fucking dies it's too late for the republic because his old lackeys and corpo friends are in ALL the positions of power and could so, so easily pin this situation on the jedi one way or another. also dooku's training weights are essentially off now that the guy who could have killed him via zoom is gone. ppl need to realize that everything was already SO over before the clone wars even started, no matter if palps lives or dies

[ohwolfling]

There is nothing in Cyberpunk 2077 that suggests that Johnny Silverhand is 100% a liar or changing details in a way that would make the outlandish theories I see make sense.

1. CDPR adapted a TTRPG for their video game's narrative. Changes they made were made first and foremost for that purpose. While there are nods to canon that they don't use or changed, those are mostly easter eggs and not a grand conspiracy. Cyberpunk 2077 has a lot of intentional bread crumbing that people refuse to engage with but then turn around and Pepe Silvia for the sake of being edgy mostly.

2. On top of that, TTRPGs are made to be constantly adaptable for their table, which would at times include changing "canon."

I say this because if you refuse to engage with that, you can tap out. You're not gonna enjoy this and I don't want to argue with you. I'm just

✨️chit chatting✨️.

Anyway,

Johnny Silverhand becomes a polarizing figure to so many of y'all because you suffer from No Nuance disease. It's not an accident that Johnny is full of contradictions. It's not an accident that the story is full of people who both love Johnny and deeply resent him. That's the story!

To an extent, Alt, Rogue, & Kerry feel betrayed by Johnny because he was always going to do this.

"This" being cash in on a deathwish. If you yourself don't have a deathwish, then loving someone who does is immensely frustrating. Alt wasn't fucking around on the Net to the point of Arasaka noticing casually. Alt mirrors Johnny and would've done something revolutionary had NetWatch & Arasaka not figured her out & Arasaka weaponized her. Rogue doesn't (potentially) go down with you in the end for nostalgia's sake and doesn't go out in 2023 because Johnny's just her buddy. Rogue and Johnny share core beliefs. Rogue just didn't think dying would do any good and has no interest in being tortured by Arasaka or any other corpo or government agency (and I think it's reasonable to assume that after Johnny's death she did experience some of that, she didn't "sell out" for funsies after watching Johnny slip from her hands & Smasher stomp Johnny). Kerry is so fucking terrified of dying that he's living as a parody of himself and whatever the papers tell him to be if you never engage with him.

I see people argue back and forth about Johnny not really caring about stopping Arasaka and just wanting revenge for Alt, Johnny not really caring about Alt and just wanting to blow up Arasaka tower.

Hey, man, it can be both.

Johnny is physically and mentally disabled. He has a prosthetic arm, Arasaka brand, from a corporation that fuels the fucking war he found himself in and the dystopian hellscape he's struggling to navigate. Johnny knows first hand what this mass militarization means because he lived in it (and Adam Smasher is the anti-Johnny.) I don't know why it's a leap to think his guilt and grief over Alt might've been the final nail in the "If I'm going to do it, I need to be really sure it matters" coffin. For that grief and guilt on top of everything else to be the thing that makes him go, it has to be now. I have to try. I can't keep doing this.

The game itself confirms for you that JOHNNY WAS RIGHT ABOUT ARASAKA AND THE STATE OF NUSA! ABOUT THE WORLD! His rants are all factual. The writing he saw on the wall is now regular news bulletin. Like great writers of the cyberpunk genre, Johnny isn't a prophet but he is a guy who said, "this is what happens if we don't regulate, slow, or stop actions x, y, z by corporations, government entities, and rich people."

The thing Johnny is full of shit about is himself. The thing Johnny is full of shit about is that he can somehow want to save the world or die trying without risking hurting others or getting hurt himself. He's avoidant, violent, and terrified. The "narcissism," mean quips, and casually dehumanizing language is armor. And if you engage with Johnny, you see the mask slip a lot. He'll even take the mask off a few times (the sunglasses are so crucial to his characterization actually, such a symbol).

Cyberpunk 2077 has two large, sweeping themes that are most prevalent -

🔸️No individual can be big enough or woke enough or make a big enough spectacle to stop government and corporate sanctioned dystopia

🔸️the only thing you have is each other

and ALL OF IT is delivered in a wrapper of grief and loss.

Jackie doesn't die just to hurt your feelings. Jackie dies so that you and Johnny are on the same playing field. Lazarus and Orpheus.

Obsessing over an imagined central theme of "actually it was all Morgan Blackhand because on reddit Mike Pondsmith said" is just... I don't think you like Cyberpunk 2077. I don't think you processed a single thing in it. I'm not yucking your yum if that's fun for you to think about (I have my own means of putting Blackhand in a microwave) but this kind of... militant obsession with an alternate history in a game so full of its own stuff is brainrot.

[themeraldee]

Ok but what about homelander who gets bored one day and decides to go searching through adult vids on the internet, scrolling past videos upon videos centered around him or the seven (HOMELANDER AND MAEVE CUAGHT FUCKING IN THE AIR?!?!? NOT CLICKBAIT) but nothing catches his eye. That is until he comes across you. Ur not doing any crazy shit just wearing pair of his brand of panties and nothing else. But it’s the way you look up at the camera all innocent like your not fitting a monstrous dildo down ur throat that makes him click on ur channel

And then he becomes obsessed with you, ur number one fan 🤧🤧🤧

Oh mate the 'HOMELANDER AND MAEVE CUAGHT FUCKING IN THE AIR?!?!? NOT CLICKBAIT' bit made me think of all the weird candid moments and stories people would be sharing on reddit/tumblr/twitter and I low-key want more of that in the show 😂 where are the conspiracy theory boards!!! where are the creep shots!!! Anyway that was off topic. Sorry about that 😂

Oooh hoho hoo how the tables turn. Who's the fan now?

It would take a little while for him to slowly descend into madness. I see this as a desperate attempt for him to soothe his ego. So like he comes back from a meeting where he got talked back to or he got scolded by his corpo parents so he's thinking about how there are millions of people who love him, revere him. He should look at that, not the people in his life that make him frustrated.

He's trying to jerk off, make himself feel good but he's too much in his head, his own voice coming back to him and scolding him too for caring so much about their opinions all while Edgar or Madelyn's voices keep coming back to him.

So instead he seeks out fans that could get his mind off the repetitive and distracting thoughts. Might as well indulge in how much people love him. Fuck Edgar. Fuck Madelyn. He's a superhero for fucks sakes, what do they have on him??

He skips all the stupid ones where people dress up as him and Maeve. He doesn't need to watch someone try to be him. He wants someone to worship him.

So there you are with your soaked little Homelander panties sucking on the silicone of the Homelander's Star Spangled Banger looking up at the camera with those doe eyes as if you were not pretending to be sucking his cock.

That image more than does the job, and he doesn't even get to the part where you fuck yourself with it before he blows his load.

At first that'd be enough for him. Satisfied, no longer thinking about what happened. Until time goes on and he keeps thinking back to that look you most definitely meant for him. If you weren't looking for his attention you wouldn't have presented yourself so perfectly right?

He watches the rest of your content in one night, really pushing the limits of his stamina as he blows load after load to the sight of you getting yourself off to his name in multiple ways and positions.

After the obsession fully sets in I see him having a little bit of a crisis between deciding whether he should be the only one who gets to see you like that. It's literally made for him after all. OR if he secretly likes how much other people drool over you while they couldn't stand a chance with you.

He ends up finding who you are and where you live and he watches through the walls of your home as you record yourself. He gets the front row seat and all the parts that come before and after. All the little insights in your life that others don't see. So he makes the move to meet you... aaaand the rest is history...

ALSOO being the attention whore he is I see him even wanting to record one with you. Where all you see in the frame is his naked thighs and cock so no one can actually tell that it's him while he has you sucking him off. Knowing that nobody else will get you like this and that all your fans are watching you finally blow him like you've been clearly wanting to for so long just blows up his ego to insane proportions.

[corpocyborg]

Secure Your Soul: A Cyberpunk 2077 Fanfiction

This fic was previously published under the title “Before the Event Horizon.”

Summary: Six months ago, V’s boss at Arasaka ordered her to assassinate his rival. Instead, with the reluctant but invaluable help of her old friend Jackie Welles, she pushed them both off their thrones and claimed one for herself. Now the new Director of Arasaka Counter Intel has a problem. She’s uncovered information that indicates that Yorinobu Arasaka, the heir apparent to the Arasaka dynasty, is a traitor. But without solid proof, she’s forced to take matters into her own hands.

An AU in which Corpo!V never leaves Arasaka.

CHAPTER NINE: SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

[read on ao3]

Adam Smasher.

V pressed her palm firmly against the pane of glass in an effort to ground herself. She couldn’t believe it. Being in the same vicinity as Yorinobu Arasaka was insane enough, but this was completely mind-blowing.

Adam. Fucking. Smasher. 

The man was a legend. If you could call him a man. He’d been full borg for decades—nothing organic but the brain. Rumours about him had been passed around by Arasaka employees for as long as V could remember. 

That his original body had been destroyed by a rocket-propelled grenade. That Arasaka had made him an offer: full-body conversion and a 15-year employment contract or death and what little there was left of him winding up in some stranger’s body bank. That after his conversion, he’d once gotten shot with another rocket-propelled grenade and fallen nine stories off a building only to rise up again, unscathed this time, and rip the shooter’s head clean off. That he’d recently been assigned as Yorinobu Arasaka’s personal bodyguard—that rumor seemed to be true, at least. That he was fucking Michiko Arasaka and that he got special privileges with Hato Faction because of it. That he’d single-handedly fought an entire Militech assault team on top of the Tower during the Fourth Corporate War. That he’d survived the Night City Holocaust. 

V’s train of thought veered. There were about a billion conspiracy theories about the infamous nuking of Night City’s Arasaka Tower, but one in particular suddenly came to mind. 

She couldn’t recall the source, but she distinctly remembered hearing that the bomb that had leveled Arasaka Tower and taken the lives of countless employees and bystanders had in fact been planted by famous rockerboy and known anti-corp activist Johnny Silverhand. Holy shit. V managed to peel her eyes off Smasher long enough to check on Jackie and the Relic. 

He seemed to be having a similar experience. He was gripping the Relic’s box tightly against his chest, watching the scene in front of them with rapt attention. When he noticed her looking at him, he leaned his head slightly closer to her. “Is that—is that Adam Smasher?” he whispered. “Goddamn. He’s a Night City legend. Bleak motherfuckin’ one too. What’s our play?”

“We wait. And we stay silent.” 

Smasher stood motionless near the elevator. Yorinobu was pacing in the center of the room. He seemed obviously agitated. Impatient, maybe. Every once in a while, he shook his head and cast an irritated glance around the space. Finally, after several rounds of this, he spoke aloud. “Are they here yet?” he asked, seemingly to no one in particular. 

The suite’s AI assistant answered him in its cheery, artificial voice. “They approach from the landing pad.” 

“Who the fuck are they talking about?” Jackie asked. 

“Shhh,” she shot back, though she thought she could guess the answer. She watched as Yorinobu sat down on the cushioned chair beside the coffee table. He seemed calmer, she thought, but he didn’t seem any happier. He wasn’t fidgeting as much, but his head was arched downwards, gaze fixed on an undefined point in the center of the table. 

Jackie wasn’t satisfied with silent observation. “Bug,” he whispered, ignoring V’s repeated commands, “Who we got incoming?”  

Jackie’s netrunner was good, but hers was better. Carter’s soft-spoken voice was in her ear despite the fact that she hadn’t even unmuted herself. “I hope you’ve gotten outta there by now, V, but if you haven’t, you gotta hurry.” His voice dropped to an even softer tone. “It’s the Emperor.”  

Of course it was.

She’d always hoped to one day have the opportunity to meet him. Ironic that the moment should arrive to find her cowering behind a wall like a common thief, instead of greeting him with the gravity the situation demanded. She felt a flash of irritation, at her luck, at Jackie, and at herself. She pushed the feeling forcefully out of her mind. Wallowing was useless. 

Beside her, Jackie finally fell silent.

Saburo Arasaka slowly descended the staircase from the upper floor of the suite, though not as slowly as one would expect from a 158-year-old man. He was no ordinary old man. He had access to the best medical care in the world. She’d heard that he spent a lot of time in med tanks, designed to regenerate biological tissue, though he still looked ancient to her now that she saw him up close, his skin wrinkled and covered with large moles. Despite his best efforts, the wear of time was showing. Perhaps there were limitations to what technology could achieve, in his lifetime anyway. V hoped not. If the most important man in modern history couldn’t find a way to live forever, what hope did the rest of humanity have?

With him came someone V didn’t recognize—another Japanese man, with long black silver-streaked hair tied back into a neat bun. He wore a dark kimono that left his unusual neck cyberware visible above the collar. V had never seen anything like it before, though she thought it looked like a variant of some sort of endoskeletal armor. Her optics had already run an automatic background scan of his face through the NCPD database and, unsurprisingly, had come up blank. She signaled them to run another facial scan through the Arasaka employee database instead. Evidently, her new clearance level was actually high enough to warrant a result: Goro Takemura, personal bodyguard to Saburo Arasaka. At the moment, he was methodically scanning the perimeter of the suite. V tensed as his gaze passed over the pillar, optics glowing bright red.  

“Leave us,” Saburo Arasaka said. He spoke in Japanese—she’d heard it was the only language he spoke, though she doubted it was the only one he understood.

“Arasaka-sama,” the bodyguard responded, turning abruptly toward his boss. “I still haven’t done a full sweep.”

“This is my son,” he responded. The simplicity of the statement showed he expected no further explanation should be necessary. 

“Of course. Should I retrieve what we came here to..?”

V’s breath caught. So he knew what his son had planned after all. She’d been a fool to think otherwise. 

“I will handle it. You may go.”

Takemura immediately bowed and headed toward the elevator. V exhaled. That had been way, way too close. 

Smasher looked toward Yorinobu, who shot him a brief nod, then he followed Takemura onto the elevator. Seeing the two of them standing side-by-side brought into clear view the contrast between the elder and younger Arasaka’s choice of bodyguard. Takemura was an unassuming man at first glance—muscular, but not excessively so, with a relatively short stature. Subtle markers hinted at his true capabilities—the balanced stance he held even at rest, the faint scars across his skin, the sharpness of his gaze—but there was nothing that overtly indicated he was a particularly dangerous man. Smasher, on the other hand, was pure predatory menace. 

As the elevator descended, V heard Jackie release a shaky breath, and she was assaulted by another rush of irritation, more intense than the previous one and directed solely at him. If she were caught here by herself, there was a sliver of a chance that she might be able to justify her presence. But to be caught side-by-side with a merc holding stolen Arasaka tech… that was a death sentence, one way or another. 

Before tonight, she hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on Jackie, how much she’d trusted him. She had no leverage over him anymore, no way to enforce his loyalty, and yet she’d still expected it. Why? It was an expectation she wouldn’t have had of any of her coworkers. She knew they were all out for themselves. Perhaps in her subconscious mind she’d actually started to believe he was different. And now she was paying the price for that mistake. 

Yorinobu and Saburo hadn’t spoken in a long time. Yorinobu was just sitting there, not looking at his father at all. Saburo didn’t look at his son either. He stood in the center of the room, his posture perfect, his hands clasped behind his back.

Finally, he turned his head towards Yorinobu, though his body remained angled away. His deep, gravelly voice resonated with self-assured authority. “Did you think I wouldn’t know it was taken from me?”

“Actually, I don’t think of you. At all. Ever.” An obvious lie, V thought. One told with the desperate anger of a helpless child. Yorinobu leaned back, finally meeting his father’s gaze. “You see, that’s your problem. You think the world revolves around you. Arrogant.”

“Yorinobu—” His father cut in.

But Yorinobu wasn’t finished. His speech was rapid, each phrase thrown like a punch in a sloppy bar brawl—wild, unsteady, but crackling with the kind of force that would leave a mark if it connected. “Why did you come? To humiliate me? To personally see to it that your son knows his place?”   

His father’s response was distant and impersonal, almost mechanical. V had the sense that the question had been asked and answered long ago. “The nail that protrudes from the wall gets hammered.”

Yorinbu threw his head back. He balled his hands into fists, then released them. He stood up, briefly facing Saburo, then turning away again. “Couldn’t you think of anything original to say?” he exclaimed. 

Saburo watched him impassively as he began to pace around the room. “And do you think it ‘original’ to sell our greatest achievement to Westerners—our future to these… barbarians?”  

“Our future? Ours?” Yorinobu broke his pace and rushed towards him, pointing a finger at his chest. “You’re mistaken. You’ve only ever cared about yourself… and your sick schemes.”

Saburo’s response was to continue watching him silently. Yorinobu stood with his finger still in the air. After a moment, he hesitated, backed away, and began pacing again. He went through this motion twice, back and forth from one end of the room to the other, then stopped and stood with his hands on his hips, the anger etching his face turning to a subtler frustration.

Saburo stepped forward slowly. His movements were glacial compared to his son’s. “I knew this day would come. That sooner or later your impudence would cross the line.” He stopped in front of him. They were once more face-to-face. This time, neither looked away. “There is much for which I could forgive you, but for treason—no.”

For a moment, there was silence. Father and son stared at each other, both unflinching, both implacable. 

“I’m just glad your mother didn’t live to see this,” Saburo said. “The heart should break but once.”

V saw it coming a split-second before it happened. Saburo had pushed him too far. Yorinobu lunged at his father, gripping his hands around his neck and pressing him up against the pillar.

“Oh shit!” Jackie exclaimed, the need for silence completely forgotten. V winced. But Yorinobu didn’t seem to hear him over the sounds of his own grunting and his father’s muffled chokes.

V watched the struggle numbly. There was nothing she could do. Not when she was implicated in Jackie’s theft. Not with Smasher likely still nearby. At the edges of her dulled awareness, various emotions battled for recognition: a flicker of fear, a jolt of incredulity, a pang of sadness. And, beneath it all, steadily rising above its competitors to break through to the surface of her consciousness: the relentless pulse of anger. She despised feeling helpless. 

Saburo’s resistance seemed to be winding down. He was still flailing slightly, but his strength looked to be quickly waning, and Yorinobu showed no sign of releasing him. How absurd that a man who had come so far and achieved so much could meet such a pathetic end. 

V had never put much stock in the concept of justice—she didn’t believe there was a God who would one day judge all the sinners, nor did she think any other kind of cosmic consciousness would intervene and deliver karmic retribution upon the unworthy. And the humanist perspective? Ha. What a person deserved had nothing to do with societal standards and everything to do with what they could take for themselves, and those too weak to defend what they had would eventually lose it. She’d known all this was true even when she was still young enough to feasibly believe otherwise, and it had never distressed her in the slightest. 

But this. It was the first time in her life she’d felt moral outrage. This disgusted her. 

As the last traces of life left the body of the most powerful man in the world, V remembered that she wasn't entirely powerless herself. She pulled up her optics’ HUD, located the menu for the full-sensory BD-scrolling software she'd had since she was twelve, and pressed record. 

She only caught the very end, and she knew it wouldn't be enough—video evidence had been considered inadmissible in courtrooms for ages, ever since the proliferation of basic video generation AIs. BDs weren't much better. A skilled editor could weave fiction out of the starkest reality. This recording wouldn't be enough to take down Yorinobu Arasaka. But it was a start. 

Saburo Arasaka lay motionless on the floor. His son stared at him blankly. He held up his hands and examined them, as if he couldn’t believe what they’d done. V watched him closely, still recording. His reaction seemed genuine, and there was no one to perform for as far as he was aware. A hot-blooded murder, then. He hadn’t known in advance that he was going to do it. He sat down on the coffee table, not looking where he was sitting, knocking over a bottle in the process. The liquid seeped into the fabric of his pants, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I wish…” he began in a faltering voice, “I wish to put the hotel on lockdown.” 

“May I ask why?” the suite’s AI responded. 

Yorinobu stood up, walked to his father’s body, and leaned over it, placing his finger at the neck as if to check for a pulse. That act struck V as strange. It seemed redundant at this point. Was it wishful thinking? Or just tying up loose ends? After a moment, he addressed the AI again, his voice now stabilized. “Saburo Arasaka has been murdered.”

“Code Red initiated.” 

AIs weren’t usually programmed to show emotion, but V thought this one actually sounded nervous. Or maybe it was just her own nerves making her imagine things. 

The AI began projecting its voice throughout the Plaza, so loud that V could hear eerie echoes from outside the suite, all relaying the same message. “Attention! Code Red has been initiated throughout Konpeki Plaza. Please remain in your rooms and follow all instructions given by staff.”

Immediately after, the elevator doors opened, and Takemura rushed in, with Smasher at his tail. Smasher stopped just outside the elevator, a good distance from where Yorinobu was leaning over his father’s corpse. V prided herself on her skill at interpreting microexpressions, but Smasher’s mechanical face simply wasn’t designed to show them. She had no idea what he was thinking.  

Takemura kept going forward. He was far easier to read. His composure slipped the moment he saw the body—lips parted slightly, shoulders tensed—then he regained it just as quickly. His posture smoothed over, and he pressed his mouth into a serious expression. “What happened?” he asked Yorinobu.

Yorinobu turned toward him, straightening and moving to meet him in the center of the room.  “My father has been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Takemura repeated. He tried to move closer to the body, but Yorinobu blocked his path. 

“It seems so,” he said firmly.  

A brief hesitation. “Yorinobu-san… I doubt…”

“What is your job, Takemura?” Yorinobu asked, moving even closer to him, so that their faces were only inches apart.  

Takemura looked away. On the surface, it seemed like he didn’t want to meet the gaze of a dissatisfied superior, but V thought that maybe he was also trying to examine Saburo’s body from a distance. “I don’t follow.”

“It’s a simple question,” Yorinobu insisted. “Answer it.”

Takemura turned his attention back to him, nodded stiffly. “To protect the head of the Arasaka family.”

“Then I do sincerely hope you’ll do a better job of executing your duties from now on.”

His head dropped. “Forgive me, Arasaka-sama. I shall not disappoint.”  

He’d addressed him as he would have addressed his father, V noted. He hadn’t done that earlier. A meaningful change, to be sure. But was it a genuine show of support, or was he just stringing him along for now? 

As all three men boarded the elevator, V focused her attention on Takemura, trying to decipher the true intentions behind his behavior. She was nearly certain he didn’t actually believe Yorinobu’s story—he’d been instantly inquisitive at first, then he’d turned distracted and hesitant. That hinted that he’d realized he wasn’t going to get the answers he was looking for from Yorinobu, maybe even that he was planning to turn to other sources. But it didn't necessarily mean he would be willing to act against him. 

V noted that Takemura’s shoulders were slightly slouched, his head still drooping. It reminded her uncannily of a dog that had just been reprimanded by its owner. He felt guilty, that was for sure. Perhaps it was simply the self-doubt that could plague any agent that failed to complete a mission objective. She’d learned a long time ago to watch for it in her own operatives, to make sure they were still fit to continue working. But V had the feeling that in Takemura’s case, this was something more. This seemed personal.  

He could be a potential ally, if he stuck around Night City long enough.

“I think they’re gone,” Jackie whispered. She was momentarily surprised by the sound of his voice. She’d halfway forgotten he was there. 

“I think so,” she agreed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Bug, the Plaza’s locked down,” Jackie said, then paused, waiting for the response. “Well, because Yorinobu Arasaka fuckin’ offed his own pops, that’s why.”

“Jackie,” V hissed, “Be careful who you tell that to, for fuck’s sake.”

“Do you wanna get out of here or not?” Jackie demanded. “Any ideas, Bug?” 

While Jackie listened to his netrunner’s plan, V stepped tentatively out of the pillar. She walked around it, to the spot where Saburo Arasaka’s body was. She knew she only had a few seconds to do anything useful, to find any proof of what had happened here. She examined the body closely. Her earlier impression had been right—he looked older up close. And feeble too, now that the spark of life had been snuffed out. She bent down, making sure not to touch any part of his body or clothing, and carefully removed his WWII dog tags. She stuffed them in the pocket of her suit jacket. At the very least, they might prove she was actually here. 

“V, let’s go,” Jackie said from behind her. She turned towards him. He’d followed her out of the pillar and was pointing at the suite’s balcony with the hand that wasn’t clutching the Relic. “Bug’s gonna get that door open.”

Jackie made straight for the balcony, V right at his heels. They waited, tensions rising every second Jackie’s netrunner used to counter the Plaza’s security protocols. Finally, mercifully, the doors slid open. V stepped out, but a sudden outburst from Jackie made her freeze with one foot in the doorway. 

“Bug!” He shouted. “Bug! Answer me, damn it!”

“What happened?” V shouted back at him.

“She… she got made.” 

V immediately unmuted her mic. “Carter! Are you okay?” 

“V! Yes, I’m fine! What’s going on? Did you make it out?”

“No time! Tell you later!” 

“V, no! Don’t—”

She ended the call. She turned back to Jackie, who was still standing inside the suite, head bowed, looking absolutely crestfallen. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t intend to die with her, do you?”

“Que descanse en paz,” Jackie muttered. He lifted his head, and she was relieved to see the determination on his face as he marched onto the balcony. “She said there was a ladder.”

“You mean that ladder?” V asked, pointing at the neighboring side of the hotel. “Are you kidding? It’s a 100-story drop.” 

“You got a better idea?”

Despite the constant havoc of the night, V found herself grinning. “Yes, actually,” she said. “I do.”

V had been interim Director of Counter Intel for four months, one week, and two days before they’d made her promotion permanent. It had been a turbulent time, as transfer of power always was at Arasaka. The masses she’d risen above had stirred uneasily, watching her every move like a pack of hungry hyenas circling a feeding lion. And those on her level had been only moderately less restless; after all, the concurrent fall of two influential and well-established Department Heads was a sobering reminder that none of them were truly invulnerable.

It’d been fun while it lasted, but after 129 days of constant plots and political maneuvers, when she’d received the news that Arasaka had decided to move forward with her official promotion, the only thought on her mind that night had been how best to celebrate the occasion. So she’d made a somewhat impulsive decision. She’d bought an AV. 

Not just any AV. A model year state-of-the-art Rayfield Excalibur, self-driving, equipped with camouflage armor, and capable of reaching a top speed of 250 mph. A dependable vehicle that could find her anywhere, even if she were at the top of a building and it was in a subterranean parking garage. All it took was a flick of her eyes to signal her optical HUD. 

“V?” Jackie said warily. “Why the fuck have you got that loca smile on your face?”

[entropic-saudade]

Title: Do Angels Dream of Electric Sheep?

Author: entropic_saudade

Artist: BasketcaseBetty

Link to Fic | Link to Art

Rating: M

Tags: Alternate Universe, Inspired by Cyberpunk 2077, Mercenary Dean Winchester, Sex Worker Castiel, Aftermath and Recovery from Mind Control, Body Modifications, Canon-Typical Violence, Communication Issues, Families of Choice, Happy Ending

Summary: 

Night City, California, 2077.

After Dad’s death leaves Dean a clan of one, Dean puts life on the road in his rearview mirror and follows in his little brother’s footsteps to the so-called City of Dreams. Unlike Sam, who went the corpo route, Dean becomes a merc-of-all-trades, doing anything it takes to make enough eddies to survive and make a name for himself before the lights go out.

When offered a lucrative job to locate some missing property from Cloud 9, a dollhouse deep in the megabuildings of Westbrook, Dean takes it with little hesitation— only to find that the ‘property’ in question is one of Naomi’s ‘angels’, a doll named Castiel.

Finding the wayward doll is just the beginning, as the job spirals far beyond a simple bounty hunt, and Dean is reminded of what matters most as he discovers a corporate conspiracy lurking beneath all the shiny chrome and neon lights of Night City.

For the @cdrcrossoverbang.

Thank you to @basketcasebetty for the art and prompt which inspired the fic! It was such a complex and interesting world to delve into and translate into an SPN story. I hope you enjoy it!

[aggravateddurian]

Cyberpunk 2077: Chorus

Judy Alvarez (2077) and Vega 'V' Hawse (2077)

If you could pull the lever to carry on forever Would your life even matter anymore? Sure it’s a calming notion, perpetual in motion But it’s not what you signed up for

The Rare Occasions - Notion

"Time's runnin' out, Judes... don't have a lot of time left. Relic Malfunctions gettin' worse... sometimes I'm out for half a day," V explained, "...fuck... I feel bad for draggin' you into this, Judy."

"No," Judy sternly replied, grabbing her chin, "We both knew what we're getting ourselves into. You'll find that cure. If there's anyone who can make magic happen, it's Vega Hawse..."

She leaned closer, "Also, you wouldn't want to make my abuela angry by dyin' on me, would you?"

"Fuck no!" V responded, "...but what if curing me meant we had to be apart for a while? What about us, Jude? Wouldn't be fair to you."

Judy's thumb reached up to her lips, hushing her, "I'll be waiting for you, calabacita."

Warning: Sad story below

Some Time Later...

"We almost never come up here, V... we can see the whole city from here."

"Yeah... there's some memories associated with this place. I can't remember the original feelings I... we... she... fuck, I dunno, had at the time... but I remember the events, and I can't help it... I hate this place."

"What happened here?"

"Two years ago, not long before I... we joined the Aldecaldos and went into Arasaka Tower... just helped Goro Takemura kidnap Hanako Arasaka..."

So Mi raised a concerned eyebrow, "...long story. We stayed the night with Judy, and then we came up here, on the way back from Laguna Bend."

Vega turned towards the city, "Looked out upon the city and asked her how she'd feel if my getting cured meant I had to be apart from her for a little bit. She told me that she'd be waiting for us."

"...Vega..."

"It's in the past now. A different life... can't help but feel somewhat betrayed, So Mi. V's last two years before Arasaka Tower were rough. Disowned by our father, kicked out of the clan, Jackie... I guess I picked up this feeling that V has an aura of death around her... everyone close to V either dies... or they leave, move on, find something better."

So Mi crossed her arms, "Plenty of people you worked with... helped... who're better for it, V. River? He's thriving, same with Randy, Joss and the kids. The Aldecaldos took a hit, but with Panam and Mitch at the helm, they've never been better. Dorian and Kaylee are doing... fine."

Val raised a brow. Dorian may have been physically fine, but years of reflection on his shitty corpo enforcer career had led him to go full Johnny Silverhand, wanting to set the whole city on fire. Kaylee, his closest friend, had spent years in the NET doing God knows what, and came out the other end... different.

"You always know what to say, So Mi."

"Not worried I'm quickhacking your hormone levels, or emotionally manipulating you?"

Vega furrowed her brow, "Have you been talkin' to Johnny?"

"Yeah, crazy conspiracy theory... you wouldn't even guess he's never been able to hold down a woman."

[basketcasebetty]

This is my submission for the CasDean Reverse Crossover Bang!

Set in Night City, a Cyberpunk 2077 Crossover.

@entropic-saudade claimed my piece and has gone totally above and beyond in the research to write this fic. I'm super impressed and thrilled to be able to share this with you all!

Do Angels Dream of Electric Sheep?

Night City, California, 2077.

After Dad’s death leaves Dean a clan of one, Dean puts life on the road in his rearview mirror and follows in his little brother’s footsteps to the so-called City of Dreams. Unlike Sam, who went the corpo route, Dean becomes a merc-of-all-trades, doing anything it takes to make enough eddies to survive and make a name for himself before the lights go out.

When offered a lucrative job to locate some missing property from Cloud 9, a dollhouse deep in the megabuildings of Westbrook, Dean takes it with little hesitation— only to find that the ‘property’ in question is one of Naomi’s ‘angels’, a doll named Castiel.

Finding the wayward doll is just the beginning, as the job spirals far beyond a simple bounty hunt, and Dean is reminded of what matters most as he discovers a corporate conspiracy lurking beneath all the shiny chrome and neon lights of Night City.

[seakicker]

BIG SIS JUJU!!!! UR BACK!!!!! i missed u sm and i hope ur doing well!! :D how's life queen

BLUE MY BAE I LOVE YOUUUU IM SO GLAD YOURE HERE ;_; i saw some of my oomfs deactivated in the time ive been away so im so glad to see you have remained i love u so much

AND YEAS…. once a commercial jet aviation fan, always a commercial jet aviation fan… i’m at like 78 safety cards and counting 😈OK SO FIRST AND FOREMOST i know absolutely nothing about controversy and conspiracy regarding the boeing whistleblower because conspiracy theories and such aren’t particularly of interest to me and i don’t like to theorize about worst-case scenarios esp when somebody’s life was involved. i don’t know much about his claims about boeing’s quality control and bureaucratics because i’m only interested in boeing’s products (its jets) rather than it as a corporation. corporations will be corporations and i don’t meatride boeing just because they’ve made nearly all of my all-time favorite commercial jets, you know what i mean? a corpo is a corpo and i certainly don’t doubt that they take extreme measures to appease opposition and keep their brand secure but it’s not something i look into.

HOWEVER. i will say that BOEING😡DOES😡NOT😡AND😡WILL😡NOT😡MANUFACTURE😡ENGINES😡!!!!!!!! airlines that report having engine problems with planes that happen to be boeing aircraft are NOT the fault of boeing— airline engine manufacturing is done by external companies (US-based general electric and england-based rolls royce for commercial jets) and engine maintenance is the responsibility of the airlines here in america! i find it very scummy of news outlets to take advantage of common concerns with boeing and scare the average consumer by highlighting engine problems on boeing planes and downplaying them on airbus planes because neither manufacturer produces engines!!! if united airlines has an engine blowout, that’s either because they utilized poor maintenance procedures or because there was a design flaw in the GE/RR engine to begin with!!!!! not a boeing thing!!! consumers have the right to make informed decisions and seek out the peace of mind that comes with being properly informed and passing off engine problems as a boeing problem is underhanded!!!! 😡😡😡

[zmasters]

The Void Crawler - A Lancer "Dungeon"

I’m working on a “dungeon crawl” style Lancer module. I’ll be posting each “level” to the “dungeon” later, but here’s an introduction of sorts.

Floor 1 & the Lift

The HA Void Crawler. Despite the name and Harrison Armory's history of violence, the ship is a research vessel. The Void Crawl and her crew where sanctioned to explore the galaxy outside of known Union space and find potential livable planets to colonized. While this particular survey has been tainted by the Corpo-State's particular culture of nationalism, the greater Union views this effort as an ultimately good thing for humanity as a whole.

The Void Crawler went dark a few weeks ago.

Now a derelict caught in the orbit of a massive gas giant, all that your employers know is that whatever caused the vessel to be abandoned happened fast and it happened without warning.

None of the missing crew has been found. Early scans indicate that many of the ships systems such as life support and engines have not been destroyed, but have simply been turned off.

The powers that be have turned their gaze on the Void Crawler. Some wish to figure out what happened to the hundreds of lives loss in this mysterious accident. Other's wish to capitalize on the materials and data that this ship have hidden in it's cold halls.

You are a lancer. You have been hired by one of the five manufactures to venture to the Void Crawler and achieve their objective.

As Union's right hand megacorp, General Massive Systems has graciously put it upon themselves to find the missing crewmen and either save them, or avenge them. And of course the data that HA has collected will benefit all of Union, so it would be the kind thing to do is for GMS to bring it back home free of charge.

ISP-Northstar and it's close ally Albatross have a long history of anti-piracy actions, and the this situation has pirates written all over it. A quick strike should bring whatever material and data lost to be put into the right hands.

A popular rumor to what happened to the Void Crawler is that the vessel had run foul with aliens. While most organizations laugh off this theory as omninet forum conspiracy and HORUS memetic manipulation, Smith-Shimano Corpo has not written it off yet. When seeking to perfect the original machine, the human body, maybe xeno DNA is the key.

[We interrupt your following debrief with a message, curtesy from USER xxBASED64xx]

ZGVhcg== HORUS, SSByZXF1ZXN0IGFpZC4gU3RhdGlzLXF1byBwb3NpdGl2ZS4gTGlmZSBncm93aW5nLiBEcmFjbmkgdGhyaXZpbmcuIEVjb3N5c3RlbSBmcmFnaWxlLiBGb3JlaWduIGFjdGl2aXR5IHRocmVhdGVucyB1cy4gU2lnbiBDWUxBLg==

[Now returning to your regularly scheduled shitpost breifing]

And of course Harrison Armory has legal claim on the Void Crawler. They made the ship, they paid the crew, they provided the NHP, arguably they deserve whatever is left behind. But in the frontier of the great beyond, anything is fair game.

Regardless of who has hired you, the pay is the same. Lots of manna, a license in a mech of your choice, a genetic backup to be cloned incase of untimely passing. It has to be high, it's going to take at least ten years to get to the derelict.

You’ll be there for awhile.

With me.

New friend.

Come and smell the roses, I just planted them.

And you’ll love what I done with the place. A few expansions here and there, some refurbishments. My new friend helped me redecorate. Have you met him before? RA?

[nem0c]

me and a friend were having an argument- is patlabor cyberpunk? is lain?

excellent ask because it means I can complain about three things:

1. all transhumanist sf is cyberpunk now (actually New Weird stuff avoids this) This bothers me because there was a great deal of transhumanist fiction in the 60s and 70s which influenced cybperunk but often had a different imaginary wrt what new technologies would mean and how society could be organised. Examples: -Samuel Delany's Nova (one of Delany's least interesting so still better than most space opera) is one of the first sf novels to feature mind-machine interfaces and they exist specifically to end the social isolation of contemporary workers. As work is always social and mediated through machinery, they get to directly experience both their fellow workers and the thing they're working on - no longer a bit part of the process. -John Varley's Eight Worlds fiction in which mankind gets all sorts of future tech as a result of an alien invasion and promptly develops double welfare state plus libertarian socialism. Stories focus on the day-to-day problems of people in this post-scarcity society. Morphological freedom is a given, though this is the 70s so the exploration of this often gets about as far 'wouldn't it be cool to be a hot babe for a weekend?' -Whatever is going on with Cordwainer Smith -Also see Walter Jon Williams' Aristoi for an example of a cyberpunk author trying something different (transhumanist means-tested solar neoplatonist aristocracy wherein each aristocrat is a plural system of personalities)

2. Transhumanist film and videogames, due to big number investment and the necessity of mass-market returns, don't even copy the cool print cyberpunk works (exception for Caves of Qud because it's correctly copying Gamma World instead)

3. Post-cyberpunk wasn't/isn't what I want it to be. I agree we should question the humanist++ vision of transhumanism and the neo-noir story set-up of Corpos Are Evil (but provide actually good product and actually want to dismantle the nuclear family) but there is a street-level resistance composed of your stupidest speed dealer friend who's totally going to make it big this time. However, post-cyberpunk authors mostly have californian tech investor brain disease and were writing in the late 90s/early 00s and I can't really take 'silicon valley will save us, billions must prosper' seriously in 2024.

To answer your actual questions, genre is whatever is useful to discussion and I'm willing to call Lain and Patlabor 2 cybperpunk because of their thematic concerns with conspiracies, technological reimagining of the human, the breakdown of certainties in a world inundated with simulation, and a post-cold war post-nation state public/private hell co-operation politics.

What makes Patlabor 2 different is its complete rejection of -punk aesthetics and its associated political commitments. This is an anime about interdepartmental politics and middle-aged public servants rooting through paperwork, and there's no solid moral conflict. Much as in GitS:SAC 2nd, the fight is between the status quo and a slide into authoritarianism. It's barely even a mecha anime and Noa's repeated statements that she 'doesn't need it any more' and 'doesn't want to be remembered as the robo crazy chick' reinforces this.

Lain is a religious text and an initiation into a way of perception that only people who have been shut-in NEETs will understand. Lain is just like me frfr. Lain knows that the way out is through.

[tobiasdrake]

Time to head back to the office and figure things out from there.

Heh, wouldn't it be funny if all four killings were done by a different member of the church clergy? Or "clergy" in the case of Worshipper. Maybe that's the true secret behind this case, and I've been dogging Halara for no good reason.

GHOST JUNKO CONFIRMED.

Yeah, it's almost like it's them or something. Imagine that.

Alright, let's head to the sub and get squeezed for time until we have to resort to the Mystery Labyrinth. What have you got.

Yep. Five minutes to solve this entire case. Seems impossible. If you can't freeze time for mystery-solving and culprit-reaping, that is.

HA! I see what he did there. It's funny because they're going to publicly execute a watchmaker to mask the truth behind this case. You're a riot, Bootheel.

Don't sound so desperate, man. It's unbecoming of a department head.

Honestly, not where I expected this to go. The string attached is, of course, I have to abandon the Nail Man investigation. Amaterasu desperately wants to bury this. But I'm genuinely surprised he's not dragging me away to be publicly flogged or something.

Of course, Yuma's not only going to refuse, but he's too honest so he's going to publicly refuse. Which means.

Yeah, that's about right.

"Hang on. Before you bury me, I want you to know that I have this shovel. Please, give me some time to dig the hole a little deeper!"

Yuma, you are amazingly bad at talking to cops. He just. He cannot comprehend the very notion of corruption. He thinks everybody wants the truth to be revealed, in good faith.

Yep, letting the corpo-cops know that you've gleaned some truth about the corpo-conspiracy is sure to end well. And by well, I mean

That's about right. Yuma's the kind of person that would get pulled over for a speeding ticket and then tell the officer, "I know I was going too fast, but I needed to reach my destination so I could offload the twenty pounds of cocaine in the trunk."

[foxfire-hashira]

I'm under the impression that--and this is going to sound like a fucking conspiracy theory--the reason Corpos are really into AI artwork is not only to save money on having to pay artists and writers, but to keep the existing work force slaving away while the robots create entertainment

Like Westworld but fucked

[ladycthonic]

STOP FUCKING MAKING CONSPIRACY THEORIES U BUNCH OF FUCKING NPCS. Republicans are gonna use that to muddy the waters further. Use ur fucking brains. Think. The idiot that shot Trump unknowingly did him a favor! This is gonna galvanize his already bloodthirsty hitlerite base and make serf brain moderates feel bad for Trump and reconsider voting for his crazy corpo capitalist-nazi ass.

On the other hand. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣. Click clack, boom bap hahahahaha, get fucked you fucking nazi oompa-loompa motherfucker.

twitter is so fucking funny like actually