(three months after the Prologue)

  March 1, 2007 ~23:15 - Watson, Sector 8, Neon Hole warehouse

  The bass of the Chrome Saviour from a battered professional sound system thrummed low through the warehouse main hall, each pulse making the stolen Arasaka authenticity chips dance slightly in their protective cases. Zara Morrison leaned back in her throne - a salvaged director chair, combat boots propped up on the metal table, chrome and neon reflecting off the turquoise of her hair.

  Twenty-five thousand eddies. Each.

  "Boss lady, you're a fucking genius!" Kai bounced on his heels, cybernetic eyes flickering between readouts, tracing projected merc boards no doubt. Three hours on combat stims had turned the techwizz into a hyperactive puppydog.

  "Ha! My fucking-steaming-synthmeth-pumping baby Jesus!”

  Wire shifted, rattling the tech junk on the table audibly, Wire shifted, rattling the tech junk on the table audibly, a muscle twitched in one his crossed arms.

  “What?” Kai's optics flickered at him. “Just look at those messages. ‘Most audacious theft of this year, according to the NCPD press secretary Sara Krakosky.’ Sweet like the manna from heaven! They should have seen how clean that ice-break was. Raven just walked through their security like smoke."

  Raven sat cross-legged on a shipping crate, chrome fingers dancing across a holographic interface. Even celebrating, she couldn't disconnect from the net. Her silver eyes stayed fixed on data streams, expression unreadable as carved stone.

  "Arasaka subsidiary's countermeasures required adaptation," she said without looking up. Nothing more.

  Wire unfolded his bare arms - brawny and thick as cannons, and raised a tequila bottle in Zara's direction – the closest thing to a speech Diego would ever give. The gesture carried weight his silence amplified.

  "Served them damn right ." Zara grinned, running fingers through her fresh undercut. "Too bad you were deep under. You should've seen those corpo screamers when the alarms hit. Chickens with their heads cut off while we strolled through the front."

  She shifted in her chair, adjusting her position. The warehouse had been transformed into their private club – salvage disco lighting from the junk yard, ‘Night City property, perpetrators will be prosecuted and fined’, casting shifting patterns while Kai's liberated club sound equipment pumped bass lines that could rattle windows across the street at maximum volume.

  "So what's the plan?" Kai was already pulling out vials of glowing chemicals. "I've got new cocktails that'll make tonight legendary. This batch keeps you flying through heaven until noon tomorrow."

  "Time to paint Night City neon." Zara stood, moving toward their makeshift bar. Empty bottles already littered the metal surface, and smoke from various substances hazed the air.

  She grabbed a bottle of synth bourbon and took a pull. The liquid burned smooth down her throat, settling warm in her stomach.

  "Raven." She turned toward the netrunner, bottle in hand. "You planning to jack out anytime tonight, or should we just leave you plugged in?"

  Raven remained a puzzle. This was the second time since the legendary netrunner joined three months ago that she graced their warehouse, dubbed the Neon Hole, with her royal presence.

  Silver eyes flicked up. A pause. "I'm monitoring the data transfer."

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "The transfer's done. Has been for an hour." Zara stepped closer to the shipping crate. "Come on, legend. Even gods need to celebrate sometimes."

  Something almost like amusement flickered across Raven's features before disappearing behind that mask of control. "I don't celebrate."

  "Bullshit. Everyone celebrates. You just do it different." Zara held out the bourbon. "Unless the great Raven's afraid of a little synth alcohol?"

  It was a calculated insult, delivered with that grin that had talked her out of a dozen bad situations. Most people would bristle. Raven simply looked at her for a long moment, then reached out with chrome fingers to take the bottle.

  "Afraid," she repeated, as if testing the word. "Interesting choice."

  Their fingers brushed during the handoff. Raven's chrome was surprisingly warm.

  Kai whooped from across the warehouse. "Boss lady's getting the ice queen to drink! This is definitely going in the crew logs!"

  "Ice queen?" Raven's voice carried the barest hint of something that might have been either surprise or a threat. She took a sip of the bourbon, expression unchanging. "How... creative."

  Zara laughed, but found herself shifting weight from one foot to the other as pants pressed uncomfortably on her bladder.

  She didn't want to go now that celebration energy was building around them – Kai mixing chemicals while Diego started sorting through his arsenal deciding which of his iron babies deserved a night out. But the building urge was making her feel out of rhythm.

  "Be back in a minute," she announced, more to herself than anyone else.

  The warehouse's facilities were high end corpo design, probably had once decorated some executive's private suite. Zara relieved herself, but the feeling of emptiness didn't quite settle right. She sat for an extra moment, waiting, then gave up and pulled her pants back up.

  She washed her hands and splashed some cold water on her face. As she dried her hands, she studied the mirror. Blue script pulsed familiar, glitching at the edge of the posh synthobsidian glass. Green eyes stared back at her, pupils slightly dilated from alcohol, tattooed eyeliner lines crisp as ever. She reapplied her favourite emerald lipstick.

  Everything was perfect. The score, the crew, even getting Raven to drink. So why did she feel like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop?

  "There she is!" Kai thrust an inhaler toward her. "Custom blend – speed, euphoria, and my latest creation. This'll put you in orbit."

  The chemicals hit like frozen strawberry and undiluted clarity, sharpening edges and brightening colors. The warehouse transformed into a neon cathedral, and Zara felt that familiar invincibility flooding her veins.

  "That's the stuff." She spun toward her crew, arms spread wide. "Let's show Night City how the Neon Phantoms do business."

  The bass pounded. Lights flashed. And for a moment, everything felt exactly as it should.

  ***

  They spent twenty more minutes preparing. Zara sat on the crate next to Raven. Kai's stim was still lighting her blood. But the heat kept pooling between her thighs, breaking the spell, demanding her attention. Raven had nursed the same bottle for thirty minutes. She seemed slightly more relaxed now. Her chrome fingers moved slower across holo-displays, less precise. Her shoulders had dropped from their usual rigid line.

  Zara pressed her knees together. The pressure felt good for three seconds, then wrong. She spread them apart, searched for comfort that wouldn't come. Hitting the loo again so soon would draw everyone's attention. But she felt as if her bladder suddenly shrank to the size of a pea.

  "Usually you'd be bouncing off the ceiling by now," Kai said, tracking her posture. "This batch should have you demolishing walls."

  Zara knocked back tequila. The burn distracted from the pressure unmistakably building in her core, from the sensation of faint urge twisting into something sharper.

  Night City's neon bled through warehouse windows. The walls felt too close.

  "Fuck this place." She grabbed her jacket. "Lizzie's Bar."

  Diego glanced up from his arsenal, nodded once.

  Raven didn’t move.

  "The data protocols—"

  "Are complete," Zara cut her off. "You said so yourself ten minutes ago. Come on, legend. When's the last time you saw Night City from street level?"

  Something flickered across Raven's face – confusion, maybe, or calculation.

  "I don't... socialize."

  "Tonight you do." Zara pulled on her jacket, the movement sending a tinge of discomfort through her lower abdomen. "Orders from your crew leader."

  A pause. Raven's chrome fingers clenched slightly against the bottle's neck, as if processing the implied hierarchy, the casual assumption of authority. Zara waited. Most people would have expected the legend to bristle at being ordered around by a nineteen-year-old street kid. Most people would have been wrong.

  Raven set the bottle down carefully as surgery and stood up.

  "Interesting," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

  As the last of her crew had stepped through, Zara pivoted at the door.

  “You go ahead, guys. I'll catch up in a sec. Forgot my bike keys.