Sep 29, 2022 3:00 pm
Night City, Japan. 2065.
The dark, narrow streets run inland from the bay beneath a sky the color of a dead television screen. Perched between the towering corporate arcologies of Chiba City and the dizzying heights of the Arasaka megacomplex in Neo Tokyo, Night City is a border town of sorts. Too dingy for the corps to give their full attention but just close enough to be a thorn in their side. A veritable melting pot of cultures where people speak in jumbled mixes of Japanese, English, and African slang and home to some of the most dangerous black markets in the world. Chromed out psychos roam the shadows alongside nip-tucked corpo clone-boys and exotic joytoys, everyone looking to either spend or steal a few eddies the hard way.
Your crew is no different. For six months now, an eternity in Night City, you have run together on the razor's edge in pursuit of the all-mighty eurobuck. Your crib, a condemned warehouse in the old port where the neon floodlights are all that keep the boosters away. A motley crew by any measure, you were put together by circumstance, the circumstance of debt.
Ira Vikktor was a blackhearted son of a bitch. The kind of choomp you'd rather see torn apart by dogs than anything else. An infobroker of some great talent, he ran most of the half decent fixers in Night City and as luck would have it, he also runs you. Vikktor has a stack of the blackest of mail on each of your titanium heads and for the last six months you've been running jobs for him out of pocket. Even your wheelman Carlisle owed that jag the rims off his ride with fuck-all to be done about it.
