A rookie mercenary had handed the Penguin a crushing defeat.
Rumors spread through Gotham's underworld like a rising tide. While V had some reputation before, she was now a household name—the kind used to scare children into silence. This sudden fame was no accident; Carmine "The Roman" Falcone's subordinates were busy ensuring everyone knew who had rescued Alberto. It was part of the agreed-upon reward: street cred.
It was another gloomy Gotham afternoon, the kind where the sky is perpetually trapped between gray clouds and drizzle. Valerie sat in a diner, staring blankly out the window. She was wearing the same yellow jacket she had worn during the rescue.
As a self-proclaimed "casual player," Valerie had a massive wardrobe from her time in the game, so wearing the same coat twice wasn't out of poverty. It was branding. In the mercenary world, a uniform creates a lasting impression. Besides, this was David Martinez's jacket, a relic from a crossover event. Ever since she had watched the Edgerunners anime in her past life, she had never taken it off.
"Isn't it about time?" she muttered. Through the reflection in the window, she tracked the digital clock on the wall.
"Excuse me, you must be the famous V." A respectful voice interrupted her thoughts. A well-dressed, bald man sat down opposite her.
This diner was one of Gotham's many "gray zones"—a place where the underworld conducted business. That morning, a Fixer (Middleman) had called her with a commission from a legitimate film company.
"The Fixer mentioned you needed a bodyguard?" Valerie got straight to the point.
"Yes... just call me Ollie. I'm with a production team under the Simon Group." The man looked nervous.
The Simon Group wasn't as monolithic as Wayne Enterprises, but it was a major player in Gotham's high-tech sector. Valerie actually owned one of their water heaters; it had leaked electricity after three weeks and was currently gathering dust in her apartment.
"Our crew arrived in Gotham two months ago. We hired local actors... but a week ago, we received a threatening letter. Just one word: 'DEATH'." Ollie pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket. "We called the GCPD, but you know how they are. Two days ago, our assistant director was found dead in a restroom."
Classic Gotham, Valerie thought. But if there was a murder, why hadn't the police shut it down?
"The police are still 'investigating,'" Ollie continued, sensing her skepticism. "We wanted to stop filming, but the investors refused. They wanted us to hire gang protection, but the streets are too tense right now."
"Afraid of being caught in the crossfire, huh?" Valerie understood. With Penguin in the hospital, Black Mask and Maroni were sharking around Falcone's territory. The city was a powder keg.
"The Roman recommended you personally," Ollie added.
"No need for the formalities. I'm a merc, not a hitman. I'll take the job," Valerie said, waving her hand. The payment had already been handled by her Fixer. This was her first corporate gig—a sign she was moving up.
"We hope you can start as soon as possible..."
"I'm ready now. Let's go," Valerie replied crisply.
As she went to the counter to pay her tab, she noticed a group at the next table. Most had left, leaving one man behind, clutching his head in a silent, desperate struggle.
Thanks to her Cybernetic Ears, Valerie overheard their whispers. They were a small-time crew planning to rob a bank near the chemical plant. To avoid heat, they planned to dress as the Red Hood Gang, using the man at the table as their "leader"—a fall guy to take the blame if things went south.
Valerie had no intention of playing hero. A mercenary didn't work for free, and Gotham had a million small-time crooks. But a thought crossed her mind: If I get famous enough, will people start copycatting me too?
She shook off the thought, followed Ollie to his car, and headed toward the film set.
—
A week had passed since the "death notice" arrived. At first, no one took it seriously—until three days ago, when the assistant director was found dead in a restroom.
Now, the crew moved in packs. Even a trip to the toilet required a three-person escort. Morale was at an all-time low until Ollie arrived with Valerie. To the terrified staff, she looked less like a mercenary and more like a savior.
"You must be the famous Valerie," a young man said, rushing toward her.
With her blue hair parted down the center, translucent skin, and iconic yellow vest, she was exactly as the rumors described. Valerie gave a sharp nod. "I'll be handling your security for the duration of the shoot."
"Thank you, Miss V. We haven't dared to film on location for days," he sighed.
The crew had come to Gotham specifically for its infamous, oppressive overcast skies—a perfect backdrop for their film. But the atmosphere was now a little too authentic. Valerie's eyes drifted toward the yellow police tape fluttering nearby.
The set was an indoor recreation of a Western desert: bright backdrops, fine sand underfoot, and wooden prop houses. Just outside the exit, however, was the unmistakable seal of the GCPD.
"That's where it happened," the young man said, noticing her gaze.
"This is still an active crime scene?" Valerie was shocked. Normally, a murder would see the entire building shuttered.
"The investors have a deadline. They bribed the police to keep the cameras rolling. Now the cops handle their business on one side of the tape, and we make a movie on the other."
Only in Gotham, Valerie thought, frowning.
Among the crew, she met Johnny Charisma, a newly debuted singer forced into acting by his label. Valerie felt a strange kinship with him; they both seemed to be chasing a legacy.
As filming resumed, Valerie retreated to a load-bearing pillar off-camera. She missed her old life sometimes, especially her "Kun." Another day of regretting not picking the male V body, she mused.
She pulled a personal link—a glowing USB cable—from her wrist and jacked it into her laptop. Through her cyberware, she bypassed the laptop's hardware limitations, forcing a handshake with the building's security network. It was an ability that felt even more powerful here than it did in the game.
She pulled up the footage from three days ago. The assistant director entered the restroom. Two others followed at different times, seemingly for legitimate reasons. An hour later, a third person entered, discovered the body, and chaos erupted.
The GCPD had already processed the witnesses and the body, but Valerie was barred from the restricted zone. Her job was to protect the living, but she knew the best way to do that was to find the killer.
Laptop in hand, she approached the cordon.
"No entry. Crime scene," a slacking officer barked, finally doing his job.
"I just need to use the facilities," Valerie said with a faint smile, adjusting her sleeve to reveal the crisp corner of a high-denomination banknote.
"No means no," the officer grunted, though his eyes lingered on the cash. He couldn't take a bribe so openly with other officers around.
Valerie pivoted. "I'd like to know more about the suspect." She flicked her sleeve again, this time revealing a small notebook—stuffed thick with bills. "Also... you dropped this."
The officer didn't own the notebook, but he recognized the "weight" of the situation. He snatched it, tucked it away, and cleared his throat righteously. "Thank you. Rules are rules, and I can't talk to civilians. But since you found my 'lost property,' maybe you should go grab a late lunch."
"The restaurant across the street is nice," Valerie replied, catching his drift. "I wonder when the crowds thin out?"
"Two o'clock sharp," the officer confirmed. "That's when the 'information' is freshest."