Thanks for 600 powestones, we're falling down the rankings!
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Night City's nights never truly slept.
Kabuki district's sky was carved into fragments by crisscrossing massive holographic billboards. Brilliant yet glaring light pollution seeped into every narrow alley, merging with neon reflections in wet ground puddles, forming a disorienting, clamorous sea of light.
Air mixed with cheap synthetic food aromas, fermenting street garbage's sour-rot stench, plus trace coolant scents exhausted from countless cyberware heat vents—this was Night City's uniquely vibrant decay.
Lizzie's Bar sat amid this bizarre spectacle.
Its storefront wasn't ostentatious, even somewhat concealed. But those two female guards at the entrance—boldly styled yet razor-sharp gazes—plus faintly transmitted electronic music's bass thump felt through good soundproofing, all proclaimed this no ordinary place.
This was Mox territory—a sisterhood gang formed by dolls and ex-dolls to combat exploitation and violence.
Though established recently, their sphere unable to compare with Tyger Claws or Valentinos, their unity and inviolable fierceness made Lizzie's Bar one of Kabuki's few spots offering relatively "safe" social environments.
Rebecca navigated familiar routes through that identity-scanning sensor door. Deafening music waves and psychedelic lighting instantly enveloped her.
Inside, the bar was spacious with high ceilings. Center held a massive circular stage where scantily clad dancers twisted bodies surrounded by holographic projections.
Around it, layered elevated booth areas separated by translucent light screens—ensuring privacy without losing atmosphere.
Air thick with premium synthetic fragrances, alcohol, plus some indescribable scent belonging to desire and release.
Mox members scattered throughout in groups—diverse yet highly personalized outfits, cyberware cold-glowing on bodies, vigilant gazes sweeping the venue maintaining internal order.
Rebecca's petite figure nimbly wove through crowds. That conspicuous two-toned short hair and signature green optics got her quickly recognized.
A Mox member wearing leather backless outfit, arms tattooed with intricate patterns, whistled at her, laughing greetings.
Rebecca casually waved, gaze searching the bar.
Today's purpose here wasn't pleasure-seeking but meeting someone—that well-reputed solo netrunner, Kiwi.
Rebecca had carefully inquired through some contacts about this Kiwi's reputation.
Feedback came back fairly positive: solid skills, efficient job completion, no dragging feet. After transactions finished, didn't meddle. Good reputation among merc and fixer circles.
Most importantly, no rumors about backstabbing or colluding with corps.
This assessment eased Rebecca somewhat.
After reporting details to Maine and obtaining his approval, she'd attempted contacting Kiwi, arranging to meet at Lizzie's Bar.
Choosing here—partly because Rebecca was somewhat familiar with this place.
Though not Mox herself, past street-hustling with Pilar had helped Susie Q—current Mox boss—solve some "troubles."
That collaboration made Susie favorably view this hot-tempered but decisive little firecracker. Back and forth built some rapport.
Meeting on Mox turf carried relatively higher safety coefficients.
On the other hand, though Lizzie's Bar couldn't match Afterlife as top merc gathering spots, it was still countable among Kabuki's famous venues—sufficient class, fitting characteristics netrunners typically preferred: low-key yet tasteful.
Rebecca found Kiwi in a corner booth.
Pretty much as imagined—Kiwi wore well-tailored, tech-fabric-looking deep red coat. Half her face hidden in shadows, only metal mask-covered chin exposed.
Before her sat barely-touched synthetic sake. Her whole presence radiated unapproachable aloofness.
Even sitting in noisy bars, she remained an island.
"Kiwi?" Rebecca pulled the opposite chair, plopping down unceremoniously.
Kiwi looked up. Gaze beneath hood sharply swept Rebecca. Those modified eyes seemed carrying data-stream-scanning functions, making Rebecca feel scanned by cold instruments.
"Rebecca." Kiwi's voice stayed level, emotionless. "Your message."
"Yeah, mine." Rebecca snapped fingers, ordering rocks whiskey from a passing service bot. "Long story short—our crew needs a reliable netrunner lately.
Heard your skills are solid. Wondering if you're interested cooperating."
Kiwi raised her glass, gently swirling without drinking.
"Cooperation possible. Got jobs, negotiate prices, I'll take them." She paused, tone unwavering. "But long-term binding or joining fixed crews—not in my considerations."
This answer was within Rebecca's expectations.
Night City netrunners mostly like this—accustomed to solo operations, enjoying security from information control, unwilling to be bound by crew relationships.
Cases like Sasha fully integrating into merc crews were minorities.
Rebecca didn't rush things. She downed a big gulp of just-arrived drink. Cold liquid jolted her spirits. "Alright, understood. Then future jobs needing tech support, I'll contact you first.
Prices follow market rates. Our crew always pays fairly." She looked at Kiwi. "Exchange contacts? Stay in touch."
Kiwi silently nodded, exchanging comm codes with Rebecca.
This meeting's main objective basically achieved. Atmosphere eased slightly.
They chatted briefly about recent Night City underground network rumors and common contract markets. Kiwi spoke little but each sentence hit key points, showing she genuinely knew this gray zone inside out.
Just when Rebecca felt discussions were sufficient, preparing to settle tabs and leave, Kiwi also seeming ready to depart—
Sudden change occurred.
Without warning, Kiwi's body abruptly stiffened. Her right hand fingers on the table twitched involuntarily.
Those eyes hidden beneath hood shadows suddenly widened. Pupils seemed showing frantic data-stream flickering.
Almost simultaneously, Rebecca's own visual interface violently popped a forced window!
Window design was minimalist to crude—only pure black background with scrolling white text and data charts, edges flashing high-priority red borders.
Not just them.
Entire Lizzie's Bar seemed hitting mute buttons.
Deafening music continued, but nearly everyone—booth guests, bartenders, passing servers—movements showed brief stasis. Faces showing bewilderment, confusion, even terror.
Clearly, everyone's visual interfaces—or all devices connected to local networks—were forcibly implanted with this information simultaneously.