Chapter 59: Lizzie's Bar
Night City never truly sleeps.
The sky over Kabuki is sliced into fragments by massive, crisscrossing holographic ads. Garish, blinding light-pollution bleeds into every narrow alley, merging with the neon reflections in the wet pavement to form a hazy, chaotic sea of light.
The air is a mix of cheap synth-food, the sour rot of street-trash, and the faint tang of coolant from countless cybernetic heat-vents—it is the unique, vibrantly rotten stench of Night City.
Lizzie's Bar is nestled in the heart of this phantasmagoria.
Its facade is understated, even hidden, but the two female bouncers at the door—dressed in daring, high-fashion-combat-gear, their eyes sharp as scalpels—and the deep, thudding bass of the electronic music, all signal that this is no ordinary place.
This is Mox territory, a sisterhood-gang formed by joytoys and ex-joytoys to fight back against exploitation and violence.
Though their territory can't compare to the Tyger Claws or the Valentinos, their unity and untouchable ferocity have made Lizzie's Bar one of the few places in Kabuki offering a relatively "safe" environment.
Rebecca moved like she owned the place, passing through the identity-scanning sensor door. The deafening wave of music and psychedelic lighting instantly enveloped her.
The club's interior was spacious, with high ceilings. A large, circular stage dominated the center, where scantily-clad dancers moved within a swirl of holograms. Tiered booths surrounded the stage, separated by translucent light-screens, ensuring privacy without killing the vibe. The air was thick with high-end synthetic perfumes, alcohol, and the indescribable scent of desire and release.
Moxes were scattered throughout, dressed in wildly individual styles, the cold light of their chrome glinting as their eyes vigilantly scanned the room, maintaining order.
Rebecca's small form weaved through the crowd. Her eye-catching two-tone short hair and signature green cyber-eye made her instantly recognizable. A Mox in a leather backless top, her arms covered in complex tattoos, whistled and waved at her.
Rebecca gave a casual wave, her eyes scanning the booths.
She wasn't here for fun. She was here to meet someone—the solo netrunner known as Kiwi.
Rebecca had used her own contacts to do a deep dive on Kiwi's rep. The feedback was positive: skills are preem, she's professional, no loose ends, and she doesn't cause trouble after the gig is done. Good rep among mercs and fixers. Most importantly, no history of backstabbing her crew or shilling for a corp.
That assessment put Rebecca at ease. After reporting to Maine and getting his sign-off, she'd reached out to Kiwi and set the meet at Lizzie's.
She chose this place, first, because she knew it. She wasn't a Mox, but back in the day, she and Pilar had helped Susie Q, the Moxes' current boss, solve a few "problems." That gig had earned Susie's respect, and they'd been on good terms ever since. Meeting on Mox turf meant a higher degree of security.
Second, while Lizzie's wasn't The Afterlife, it was still a top-tier spot in Kabuki... it had the right mix of discretion and style that 'runners tended to prefer.
Rebecca found Kiwi in a booth near the corner.
Just as she'd pictured: Kiwi was wearing a sleek, high-tech, deep-red jacket, most of her face hidden in shadow, revealing only a metallic faceplate covering her jaw. A glass of untouched synth-sake sat in front of her. She radiated a "keep-away" vibe, an isolated island in the middle of the roaring club.
"Kiwi?" Rebecca pulled out the opposite chair and sat down without asking.
Kiwi looked up. Her eyes, sharp under the hood, scanned Rebecca. Her augmented eyes seemed to run a data-scan, making Rebecca feel like she was being analyzed by a cold instrument.
"Rebecca." Kiwi's voice was flat, emotionless. "Your message."
"That's me." Rebecca snapped her fingers at a passing server bot and ordered a hard drink, on the rocks. "Long story short: my crew needs a reliable 'runner. Heard your skills are preem. Wondering if you're interested in collaborating."
Kiwi swirled her glass but didn't drink. "Collaboration is fine. You have a gig, we set a price, I take it." She paused. "But a long-term contract, or joining a fixed crew, is not on the table."
That was exactly what Rebecca expected. Most 'runners in Night City were like that: used to working alone, trusting only themselves, unwilling to be tied down. Sasha had been the exception.
Rebecca didn't push. She took a big gulp of her drink. "Fine, I get it. So, when we have gigs needing tech support, I'll hit you up. Market rates. My crew pays fair. Let's swap contact info. Stay in touch."
Kiwi nodded silently, and they exchanged comm codes.
The primary goal of the meeting was done. The atmosphere relaxed slightly. They chatted for a few more minutes about Net-chatter and gig rates. Kiwi didn't say much, but every word was on point, proving she knew the gray market inside and out.
Just as Rebecca figured they were done and was about to pay her tab, something happened.
With zero warning, Kiwi's body went rigid. Her hand on the table twitched, fingers spasming. Her eyes, hidden in the shadows, snapped wide, pupils flickering with what looked like a frantic stream of data.
In the exact same instant, a forced pop-up window exploded into Rebecca's own visual interface!
The window's design was brutally simple: a black background with scrolling white text and data-charts, all framed by a pulsing red border that signified 'maximum priority'.
It wasn't just them.
The entire bar seemed to hit a mute button. The music was still pounding, but everyone—patrons in booths, bartenders, servers—had frozen mid-motion. Their faces showed a uniform mask of shock, confusion, and even panic.
Clearly, every single person's visual interface, every device connected to the local Net, had been force-fed this same message at the exact same time.