Night City's nights never truly died.
The sky above the Kabuki district was fragmented by a crisscross of giant holographic GG ads, and the dazzling, garish light pollution seeped into every narrow alley, merging with the neon reflections in the damp puddles on the ground, forming a hazy and boisterous sea of light.
The air was a mixture of the scent of cheap synthetic food, the sour smell of fermenting street garbage, and the faint odor of coolant discharged from countless cybernetic heat vents—a uniquely NC blend of vibrant decay.
Lizzie's Bar was nestled within this kaleidoscopic scene.
Its facade was unassuming, even somewhat hidden, but the two Moxes guards at the entrance, dressed in daring styles yet with eyes sharp as knives, and the faint electronic music whose bass vibrations could still be felt despite excellent soundproofing, all indicated that this was no ordinary joint.
This was the Moxes' turf, a sisterhood clique formed to fight against exploitation. Their unity and fierce inviolability made Lizzie's Bar one of the few social venues in Kabuki that offered a relatively "safe" spot.
Rebecca, familiar with the place, passed through the induction door that required an identity scan, and immediately, the deafening music and psychedelic lights enveloped her. The bar's interior was spacious with high ceilings, and at its center was a large circular stage where provocatively dressed dancers swayed amidst holographic projections.
Rebecca's petite figure weaved nimbly through the crowd; her striking two-toned short hair and iconic green Kiroshis made her easily recognizable. A Moxes choom in a leather backless top with intricate arm tattoos whistled at her and greeted her with a smile.
Rebecca casually waved back, her gaze searching the bar. Her purpose for coming here today was not to party but to meet someone—Kiwi, a solo Deck-jockey with a good rep on the street.
The feedback on Kiwi was positive: preem technical skills, quick to take on gigs, no fuss, and no subsequent heat—a solid solo. Crucially, no history of backstabbing or colluding with corpos. After getting the green light from Maine, Rebecca had arranged the meet here.
Lizzie's offered a higher degree of safety and was a known, reputable spot in Kabuki, classy enough for a veteran Netrunner who preferred to keep a low profile.
Rebecca found Kiwi in a booth near the corner.
Just as she imagined, Kiwi was wearing a well-tailored, dark red jacket that looked quite high-tech, with most of her face hidden in shadow, revealing only a chin covered by a metallic mask.
A nearly untouched glass of synthetic sake sat before her, and her whole demeanor exuded an aloofness that kept others at bay. Even sitting in the noisy bar, she was like an isolated island.
"Kiwi?" Rebecca pulled out the opposite chair and sat down unceremoniously.
Kiwi looked up, her gaze sweeping sharply over Rebecca from beneath her hood. Her modified eyes seemed to have a data-stream scanning function, making Rebecca feel as if she had been analyzed by some cold instrument.
"Rebecca." Kiwi's voice was steady, devoid of emotion. "Your buzz."
"Yeah, mine." Rebecca snapped her fingers and ordered a strong drink with ice from a passing service bot. "Straight to the punch: our crew is short a reliable Netrunner right now." She leaned in. "Heard your skills are preem, so I'm askin' if you're interested in runnin' some biz with us."
Kiwi lifted her glass, gave it a slow swirl, amber light catching the edges. Didn't drink.
"I collaborate," she said, voice flat, cool. "You bring a gig, we talk creds, I take it."She leaned back, eyes unreadable. "But stickin' with a crew? Long-term ties? That's dead. Not my scene."
"Alright, I get it." Rebecca wasn't phased. She took a large gulp of the freshly delivered drink, the cold liquid invigorating her. "Then, if we need technical support for a gig, I'll hit you up first. Prices are market rate; our crew always pays fair eddies." She looked at Kiwi. "Wanna trade comm codes? Keep the line open."
Kiwi nodded silently and exchanged comm codes with Rebecca.
The main purpose of the meeting was achieved. The two briefly chatted about recent noise in Night City's underground and the going rates for common contracts. Kiwi didn't say much, but every word was on point, showing she had a thorough understanding of the grey market.
Just as Rebecca felt they had discussed enough and was about to pay and leave, and Kiwi also seemed to be preparing to depart, a sudden change occurred.
Without any warning, Kiwi's body stiffened abruptly, and her right-hand fingers, resting on the table, twitched unconsciously. Her eyes, hidden in the shadow of her hood, suddenly widened, and subtle data streams seemed to flash wildly in her pupils.
Almost at the exact moment, a forced, uncloseable window violently shoved itself onto Rebecca's own visual interface!
The window's design was stark to the point of crudeness, with only a pure black background and scrolling white text and data charts, its edges flashing with a pulsating red border indicating EXTREME PRIORITY OVERRIDE.
It wasn't just them.
The entire Lizzie's Bar seemed to have been flatlined.
The deafening music continued, but almost everyone, whether guests in booths, bartenders at the counter, or circulating service bots, experienced a momentary pause in their actions. Expressions of astonishment, confusion, and even terror appeared on their faces.
Clearly, everyone's vis, or rather, all devices connected to the local network, had been forcibly injected with this information simultaneously.