Chapter 48: Ripples in the Shadows
Night City's neon pulsed, a restless circulatory system weaving a complex, brilliant web through the humid air. As the 'Edgerunners' crew's reputation grew, discussions about them began to circulate in certain circles, spreading through the Net's nodes and the city's dark corners.
In the Afterlife, the usual roar of heavy metal music acted as an auditory shield, separating each booth into its own private domain. The air was a permanent cocktail of synthetic alcohol, the heat rising from active bodies, and the faint tang of coolant from high-performance cyberware.
"Scrap, has Maine's crew hit some legendary luck? The gigs they're pulling are on another level," a gravel-voiced merc muttered to his companion over a glass of synth-whiskey.
"Luck? That's not luck, choom, that's just weird," his companion, a brute with a fresh scar, leaned in, his eyes a mix of jealousy and caution. "That Biotechnica convoy last week. Hard target, high-security detail. Guess what? Maine's crew used something... new... and just melted a hole straight through their armored transport. A bright blue light, and zap! The composite armor just... dissolved like paper."
"That's no off-the-shelf hardware," the first merc mused, tapping the table. "Sounds like that old corp-war legend... plasma. The stuff the labs could never stabilize."
"And Dorio! She was always tough, but now? Gods, she's not human. I heard she tore the door off an APC and used it as a shield. You don't get that kind of strength from just chems and chrome."
"They've got a new patron," the scarred brute stated. "Got to be. Some high-end, off-the-books ripper or weaponsmith who plays for keeps. We need to find out who. Either to get a piece... or to know when to stay the hell away."
These whispers spread through the merc bars, the ganger hangouts, and the black-market nodes. Fixers, crew leaders, and even top-tier solos were all turning their gaze toward Maine's crew. Their sudden spike in performance and their new, exotic wargear were signals no one in the business could ignore. Some wanted to partner, others wanted to investigate, and most were simply assessing the impact of this new, rising power.
In contrast, the corporate response was, as always, slow and bureaucratic.
In a sterile, high-floor office in Arasaka Tower, a Section Chief briefly scanned an addendum from a junior analyst, noting an anomalous energy-weapon signature recorded during a recent street-level conflict. The report concluded: "Signature does not match any known, mass-produced armament. Presumed to be small-batch or non-standard modification. Current threat-level assessed as low."
The Chief swiped the report to 'Low Priority.' Non-standard tech, high instability risk, he noted. Maintain routine monitoring. Allocate no additional resources. In his world, new, flashy weapons appeared and disappeared daily. A few mercs using exotic gear was just background noise, unworthy of his budget unless it directly threatened corporate assets.
At Militech, the situation was similar. A report detailing faint, anomalous energy fluctuations from the 'Flint Town' sector landed on a supervisor's terminal in the reclamation department. He vaguely recalled the file – something to do with a long-dead, archived project called 'Ursa Minor'.
"Faint signals... could be anything. Scavengers, geologic activity, or just a sensor-net glitch," he muttered, dragging the report into the 'Pending Review (Low Priority)' archive. "Outpost Seven? That's ancient history. Maybe we'll send a drone if there's budget next fiscal year." In the vast, complex list of Militech's corporate priorities, this faint blip didn't even register.
Despite the corporate indifference, Maine's crew felt the increasing pressure from the street. The scrutiny from their peers was becoming more direct, more probing. Gigs they were offered now sometimes felt like tests, designed to draw them out. They had to constantly check for tails, both amateur and professional.
Radical street gangs, hearing rumors of the new, powerful weapons, even tried to ambush them on their supply runs.
One night, returning from a resource-collection gig for Joric, the crew was cutting through a narrow, derelict industrial park. "Scrap, I don't like this," Maine rumbled, his hand already moving toward his weapon's activation stud.
The words were barely out of his mouth when the night was split by the sharp crack of high-velocity rounds! Armor-piercing slugs hammered their vehicle's energy shield, causing it to ripple violently.
"Ambush! Three o'clock, roof!" Maine roared into the comms.
In the same instant, Dorio was out the side door. She didn't dive for cover. With a curse, she charged at the gunfire. Her augmented muscles exploded with power, allowing her to scale the side of the building in two massive leaps. The rooftop erupted in surprised shouts, chaotic gunfire, and the sickening sound of metal being torn apart. A moment later, Dorio reappeared at the edge, holding the smoking, wrecked chassis of an auto-turret. She tossed it to the street below, where it landed with a deafening crash.
"Clear," her voice came over the comms, cold and steady.
At the same time, several more attackers, heavily armed, broke from the shadows on the other side. Rebecca simply raised her plasma pistol. A condensed orb of superheated energy lanced out. It didn't explode, but rather, melted a clean, fist-sized hole straight through the thick steel plate the gangers were using for cover, vaporizing the weapon-emplacement behind it.
The fight was over in minutes. The crew's practiced coordination, combined with their new, overwhelmingly superior wargear, had turned a deadly ambush into an efficient field test. They quickly sanitized the site of any identifying evidence and melted back into the night.
These constant harassments, while not yet lethal, were increasing the cost and complexity of their operations. The crew became more vigilant, their movements more covert.