(Vaylin POV)
The cyan glow from the holoscreen cast shifting patterns across the apartment's darkened living room as I sprawled across the couch, one leg dangling over the armrest. My black leather coat with its teal patterns caught the light with each restless movement as I flicked through channel after channel. The remote felt absurdly small in my hand everything in this apartment did, really.
Click.
A cooking show. Some Twi'lek demonstrating how to properly season Braised Dewlap.
Click.
News. Another corpo war in Westbrook. Militech and Arasaka posturing at each other again.
Click.
A romantic drama. Two humans staring into each other's eyes, professing eternal love that would probably last all of three months before reality sets in.
I groaned and shifted position placing my feet against the coffee table. The apartment's climate control hummed softly maintaining that perfect temperature that somehow still felt wrong against my skin, everything here felt wrong. Too peaceful. Too quiet.
Through the half open door to the kitchen area, I could see the soft glow of Mother's reading light. The blue tinted illumination from the overhead strips mixed with the warmer amber from her lamp, creating an oddly soothing palette that reminded me of... something. Something back at home.
Click.
Another news channel. This one discussing the latest cyberpsycho incident in Pacifica. The reporter's voice droned on about response times and MaxTac efficiency while footage played of some chrome-junkie being neutralized. Boring.
I sat up abruptly, tossing the remote aside with enough force that it bounced off a cushion and clattered to the floor. The movement sent my lightsaber shifting against my back as I stood. I stretched until my spine popped, then padded toward the kitchen. The apartment's layout was burned into my memory now—three months of living here had made sure of that. Past the holo-displays on the wall around the decorative plant that Mother insisted on keeping despite its constant need for attention, through the doorway with its eternally flickering light panel that the building's maintenance kept promising to fix.
Mother sat at the small table near the window, a physical book in her hands. Like actual paper. She claimed it helped her focus better than datapads or neural feeds. The kitchen's blue-white lighting made her silver hair almost luminescent, and for a moment, I was struck by how different she looked here compared to my memories of her. Softer, maybe. Or just tired.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying her. She didn't acknowledge my presence, but I saw the slight flicker in her eyes that meant she knew I was there.
"That looks riveting" I drawled, injecting just enough sarcasm to be annoying but not quite enough to warrant a real response.
She turned a page, still not looking up. "It's a historical analysis of pre-spaceflight civilizations. Quite fascinating, actually."
"Mmm." I pushed off the doorframe and moved to the refrigerator, opening it to stare at contents I had no intention of consuming. "Sounds absolutely thrilling. Tell me, does it mention how they died of boredom before achieving interstellar travel?"
"Vaylin." Her tone carried that particular note of patience-wearing-thin that I'd been aiming for.
I closed the refrigerator with unnecessary force, making the bottles inside rattle. "What? I'm just making conversation. Isn't that what normal families do? Discuss their days over ancient literature about dead civilizations?"
She finally looked up, those blue eyes so much like mine, yet so different meeting my gaze with a mixture of exasperation and something else. Concern, maybe. Or disappointment. It was hard to tell these days.
"If you're bored" she said carefully, "perhaps you could find something productive to do."
I moved to the counter, drumming my fingers against its surface in an increasingly rapid pattern. The sound echoed in the small space, tap tap tap tap tap, faster and faster.
"Vaylin!" Mother's book slammed shut with enough force to make me stop. "Enough. If you have this much excess energy, then go outside. Do something. Anything. Just stop—" she gestured vaguely at me, "—this."
A slow smile spread across my face. Finally a reaction.
"Outside?" I straightened, affecting an air of consideration. "Well, I suppose I could check the board. See if there's anything interesting. Or" I added with deliberate casualness, "I could head to Padre's."
Mother's eyebrows rose slightly. "Padre? Where is he this time?"
"Holy Angels Church" I replied, examining my nails with feigned interest. "Apparently, he's doing one of his sermons. You know how he gets..thinks he can save souls between arranging hits."
Senya set her book down carefully, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. "If you're going to the church" she said slowly "perhaps you should actually listen to what he's preaching this time."
I snorted. "Listen to Sebastian Ibarra wax poetic about redemption while his hands are still dirty from the last job he orchestrated? That's rich, Mother."
"Sometimes" She said, her tone carrying that particular weight that meant she was about to say something she thought was profound, "the most important messages come from the most unlikely sources. Even fixers who used to be priests might have something worth hearing."
"Former Valentino priest" I corrected, pushing off from the counter. "There's a difference. One involves actual faith, the other involves gang tattoos and prison time."
"And yet he survived it all to become something else" Mother countered. "Sound familiar?"
The comparison hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I felt that familiar rage bubble up. How dare she I was... I had been...
"I'll consider listening" I said finally, the words tasting like ash. "But only if his sermon is more interesting than watching paint dry. Which, knowing Padre, is unlikely."
Mother picked up her book again, but I caught the slight upturn of her lips. "Try not to disrupt the service. Some people actually go there for spiritual guidance."
"In Night City?" I laughed, heading toward the door. "The only spirit anyone's looking for here comes in a bottle."
"Vaylin."
I paused at the threshold of the kitchen, glancing back. Mother was watching me with that expression again the one that mixed concern with something else I couldn't quite identify.
"Be careful" she said simply.
"Always am" I said then made my way to the armory.
The reinforced closet Mother insisted on calling an armory was barely large enough to turn around in, but it served its purpose. Weapons lined the walls in neat rows due to Mother's influence no doubt. Left to my own devices, I'd have scattered them throughout the apartment like deadly decorations.
My hand found the pistol automatically, a compact Unity that had been modified for improved accuracy and stopping power. Nothing fancy, nothing that would draw attention but reliable enough to drop someone if needed. The magnetic holster clicked against my thigh as I strapped it on, the weight settling comfortably against the patterns of my coat.
I reached back, fingers brushing against the lightsaber's hilt hidden beneath the fall of my coat. Still there, always there. The cylindrical grip was warm to the touch, as if the Kyber crystal within recognized its wielder.
Satisfied with my selection I headed to the bathroom. The motion sensors triggered too slowly, leaving me in darkness for a heartbeat before the lights flickered on. My reflection stared back from the mirror. Shoulder-length black with highlights streaked through it in a pattern that always reminded her of the constellations of home. Blue eyes that Mother said looked older every day. The teal patterns on my coat created an almost holographic effect under the harsh bathroom lighting.
I turned the tap, letting the water run until it was properly cold. Glenwood's water always had that particular chemical taste, over-processed and recycled too many times, but the shock of it against my skin helped center me. I cupped my hands, splashing my face once, twice, three times, watching the droplets run down my cheeks like tears and just scoffed to myself.
The towel was rough against my skin as I dried off, probably another one of Mother's practical purchases. Everything in this apartment was either practical, functional, safe or boring.
I made my way back through the apartment, pausing at the kitchen doorway. Mother hadn't moved, still absorbed in her book about dead civilizations. How fitting.
"I'm leaving" I announced, injecting just enough false sweetness into my voice to be annoying. "Don't wait up."
"Be safe" Mother replied without looking up, though we both knew 'safe' was relative in Night City. "And Vaylin? Try to remember that not everyone in that church is there by choice. Some people genuinely need hope."
"Hope" I repeated, tasting the word. "In Night City, hope is just delayed disappointment."
"Perhaps" Mother said quietly. "But sometimes that delay is all people have."
I left without responding, the door sealing behind me with its usual pneumatic hiss. The hallway stretched ahead, identical to every other floor in this building. Fluorescent strips hummed overhead, one flickering in that seizure inducing pattern that maintenance never seemed to fix.
The stairs were my preferred route fewer people, less small talk and more room to move if necessary. Each step echoed in the narrow stairwell, concrete and metal creating a rhythmic percussion as I descended. Seventh floor, sixth, fifth... The building's particular smell grew stronger as I descended. During the first week I investigated and found it was industrial cleaner failing to mask the scents of too many people living too close together.
By the third floor, I'd already activated my HUD, the interface responding instantly to my command. Data streams flowed across my vision with news feeds and local gossip.
The Mission Board materialized with a thought, my customized interface organizing jobs by district. The website I visited pulsed as it updated in real time as either fixers posted jobs or solos accepted them.
Ground floor. I pushed through the building's main entrance, stepping into Glenwood's eternal twilight. The air hit me immediately; that uniquely Night City cocktail of pollution, ozone, and whatever the vendors were cooking three blocks over. Sitting on a nearby bench I pulled up Glenwood's local board first hoping something interesting was already up.
[GLENWOOD - LOCAL CONTRACTS]
- Package Delivery: Secured briefcase to Westbrook. 2-hour window. 600 eddies.
- Debt Collection: Three targets, known addresses. 1,000 eddies plus 10% of recovery.
- Bodyguard Duty: Birthday party. 4 hours. 750 eddies. Must look "non-threatening."
I almost laughed at the last one.
Watson's board loaded next:
[WATSON]
- Gang Mediation: Maelstrom vs Tyger Claws territory dispute. 2,000 eddies.
- Asset Extraction: Prototype from Kabuki market. Stealth preferred. 1,500 eddies.
- Elimination: Ex-employees selling secrets. Make it look random. 3,000 eddies.
Better, but still mundane. I scrolled through Westbrook, City Center, and Heywood each offering their own flavor of violence and crime, none of it calling to me enough to make the effort worth it.
Pacifica's board stuttered as it loaded, the district's partial net isolation making connections unstable:
[PACIFICA - NCPD COVERAGE TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED]
- Cyberpsycho Bounty: Mall district. Extreme danger. 5,000 eddies. Bring proof of neutralization.
- Combat Zone Escort: Through Voodoo Boys territory. 2,500 eddies. High combat probability.
- Missing Persons: Three months cold. Last seen {Location}. 1,000 eddies finder's fee.
I closed the board with a gesture, deciding to head to the church after all. At least watching Padre talk always provided some entertainment.
The Glen's streets stretched before me like arteries pumping the lifeblood of Night City full of eddies, chrome, and broken dreams. I'd been walking for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, the afternoon light filtering through the gaps between buildings in fractured golden shafts that somehow made everything look worse. Cleaner maybe. But worse.
My boots found their rhythm against the pavement, the patterns on my coat catching the light as I passed through alternating pools of shadow and sun. Around me the Glen showed its dual nature as the elegant skyscrapers near City Hall giving way to increasingly decrepit structures the further south I wandered. Reconciliation Park was somewhere behind me now, that pathetic attempt at greenery that the corporations had planted to make people forget what they'd stolen. A Villefort Alvarado rumbled past its chrome body gleaming like liquid gold under the artificial light. The driver some Valentino with gold-plated teeth visible even through the tinted windows leaned out to whistle at a group of women near a food vendor. Classic. The car's throbbing bass rattled windows three stories up before it disappeared around a corner leaving a trail of exhaust.
I meandered, deliberately taking the longer route following the sidewalk as it curved toward the water's edge. The Del Coronado River if you could call that polluted sludge a river appeared between buildings, its surface reflecting the neon advertisements that crawled across every available surface. "CHROME YOUR BODY, FREE YOUR SOUL—RIPPERDOC SPECIAL!" one sign screamed in pink and blue. Another hawked "TRAUMA TEAM PLATINUM—BECAUSE YOU'RE WORTH SAVING."
I snorted leaning against the railing that separated the walkway from the water. The river's edge was lined with concrete barriers covered in graffiti Valentino tags mostly, their distinctive gold and red paint marking territory as clearly as any wall on Zakuul had marked the boundary between safety and slaughter. Different galaxy, same territorial pissing.
A Delamain cab glided past on the street behind me, a cheerful voice announcing its destination in that particular tone that made me want to Force-choke something. The vehicles here were a constant parade of noise and desperation. The tThorton's rattling with questionable modifications, Quadras screaming their owners' insecurities through oversized engines, the occasional Rayfield drifting past like a corporate ghost.
I pushed off from the railing and continued walking, letting the river guide my path northward. Vista del Rey rose on my left, the worst part of Heywood, according to everyone who didn't live there and the most honest part according to everyone who did. The megabuildings here were crumbling monuments to broken promises, their facades covered in gang tags and advertisements for services that probably didn't exist anymore. A group of kids who couldn't have been older than twelve ran past me, their laughter carrying that particular edge. One of them bumped my shoulder, probably testing to see if I was worth pickpocketing. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, and whatever he saw there made him decide against it.
The transition from Vista del Rey to Corpo Plaza was jarring like stepping from one world into another. One moment I was walking past shuttered stores and suspicious eyes, the next I was surrounded by gleaming towers that stretched toward the sky like monuments to greed. The Richard Night Ringroad rumbled with traffic. AVs overhead, ground vehicles below with all of them moving with the frantic energy of people convinced that being five minutes late would end their careers.
Memorial Park dominated the center of the plaza, a massive ring of greenery that surrounded the corporate headquarters like a garden throne. The park had been built to commemorate the victims of the Fourth Corporate War ironic, really since the same corporations that had caused that war now used the memorial as a scenic backdrop for their lunch meetings. I found an empty bench near the edge of the park, its surface still warm from the afternoon sun. Around me, corpo suits rushed past in their identical uniforms of ambition and anxiety, their neural links flickering with data streams they probably couldn't even process. NCPD officers patrolled in pairs, their presence less about protection and more about reminding everyone who owned these streets.
I sat, letting the bench take my weight, and closed my eyes.
The Force responded immediately, as it always did. Despite the chaos of Night City, the currents here were strangely accessible perhaps because so many people lived in such close proximity, their emotions bleeding into each other like watercolors left in the rain. I let my awareness expand, feeling the pulse of the city around me.
Fear. That was the dominant note the constant undercurrent of terror that everyone in Night City carried like a second skin. Fear of losing jobs, of losing chrome, of losing lives. It mixed with ambition, with greed, with the desperate hope that tomorrow might be better than today.
I breathed in, letting the emotions wash over me without drowning in them. Somewhere to my left, a woman was considering stealing from her employer. To my right, a man was thinking about his daughter's birthday and whether he could afford the cyberdeck she wanted. Behind me, two security officers were debating whether to report a colleague who was skimming eddies from the checkpoint. The minutes passed like water, flowing around me while I remained still in the current. Eventually five minutes? Ten? An hour? I opened my eyes, feeling something that might have been peace.
Time to move.
The walk from Corpo Plaza to Northside took me through Watson's twisted streets, past Little China's neon-soaked markets and Kabuki's maze of alleyways. The further north I traveled, the more industrial everything became warehouses replacing shops, the smell of machine oil replacing the scent of street food. Maelstrom territory, technically, though the cyberpsychos kept to themselves this time of day.
Holy Angels Church appeared between two factory buildings with stone walls and a bell tower rising defiantly against the chrome and concrete surrounding it. The building was modest by Night City standards, its origins visible in every weathered brick and stained glass window. Father Kevin's domain, though today belonged to Padre.
A small crowd had gathered near the entrance ranging from what looked like regulars such as people who came for the sermons or the sanctuary or simply because it was one of the few places in Night City where you could sit without being asked to buy something. I approached the heavy wooden doors just as an elderly woman shuffled toward them, her cane clicking against the stone steps.
I caught the door before it could close on her, holding it open with what I hoped passed for politeness. "After you."
The woman looked at me with eyes that had seen too much and expected too little. "Thank you, dear." Her voice carried the rasp of too many cigarettes and not enough hope.
Behind her came another a young man with nervous eyes and fresh gang tattoos that he hadn't quite learned to wear comfortably. Then a mother with two children, their small faces solemn in that way that children's faces became when they learned too early that the world wasn't fair. A factory worker still in his industrial jumpsuit. A woman in corporate attire who'd clearly come straight from her job, her heels clicking against the stone with the rhythm of exhaustion.
I held the door through all of them, my arm starting to ache with the effort of maintaining the casual pose. More kept coming a steady stream of humanity that seemed endless, as if the church had become some kind of beacon for everyone in Northside who needed a moment of something resembling peace.
Then the larger group appeared.
They came around the corner like a wave—twenty people, maybe thirty, all of them moving with the coordinated shuffle of a tour group or a scheduled congregation. Most wore the weathered look of Heywood residents, their clothes practical rather than fashionable, their faces carrying the particular weariness of people who worked too hard for too little. Mixed among them were a handful of Valentinos, their gold jewelry subdued but visible, their presence suggesting that Padre's reach extended beyond mere spiritual guidance.
The door grew heavier in my grip. Or maybe I just grew more aware of how long I'd been standing here, playing doorwoman to a parade of Night City's hopeful masses.
My neural interface buzzed with an incoming call cutting through the ambient chatter of my HUD. The caller ID resolved into a familiar name: PADRE.
The last stragglers of the crowd finally shuffled through the heavy wooden doors, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor of Holy Angels Church. I let the door swing closed behind them with a satisfying thunk then stepped away from the entrance as the request continued chiming with Padre's incoming call.
I found a quieter spot around the corner of the building, leaning against the weathered stone wall where the shadows were thicker and the ambient noise of Northside's industrial district couldn't quite reach. The church's bell tower loomed above me, how quaint.
"I assume you didn't call just to compliment my door-holding technique" I said, keeping my voice low. The security camera above tracked my movement, its red light blinking.
Padre's voice carried that particular weight it always did when business turned serious. "I have an emergency job, mi hija. If you're interested."
"Emergency?" I pushed off from the wall, my interest genuinely piqued for the first time today. "That's convenient. I was just walking up to the church."
"Perfect." There was a pause, and I could almost hear the old fixer's mind working through the details. "A friend of mine is in trouble. She's being chased and heading toward the city. Maelstrom and some other gunmen I haven't identified yet."
Maelstrom. The chrome-obsessed psychos who'd traded their humanity for metal and madness. I'd encountered their type before zealots who worshipped at the altar of their own twisted beliefs, convinced that augmentation made them superior.
"What's the catch?" I asked. "Friends don't usually get chased by cyberpsychos without a reason."
"The reason doesn't matter right now." Padre's tone sharpened. "What matters is that she has her kids with her. Two children, Vaylin. They need to make it back here to the church, alive and unharmed. Whatever it takes."
"Send me the location" I said
My HUD flickered as data streamed across my vision a moving marker in the Red Peaks area of the Eastern Badlands, heading west toward Night City at high speed. The trailer park territory, where desperate souls lived in the shadow of Highway 101 and the Wraiths hunted anyone stupid enough to travel without protection. Not the worst place to be chased through, but far from ideal.
"There's a speeder bike behind the church" Padre continued. "In the old maintenance shed. It'll get you there faster than any car. I'm sending you the keycode now."
A speeder bike. Now that was more like it.
I felt the familiar smile spreading across my face the one Mother always said made me look like a predator scenting blood. "Done."
"Vaylin." Padre's voice softened, just slightly. "Gloria Martinez. That's her name. She's a good woman an EMT who works herself to the bone for her family. She doesn't deserve what's coming for her."
"Nobody ever does" I replied, already moving toward the back of the church. "But that's what people like us are for, isn't it? To balance the scales."
The call disconnected as I rounded the corner, my boots crunching against gravel and debris. The maintenance shed was exactly where Padre had indicated—a rusted metal structure that looked like it had survived the Fourth Corporate War through sheer stubbornness. The lock disengaged with a soft click as I entered the keycode, and the door swung open to reveal something that made my heart actually skip.
The speeder bike wasn't Night City standard it was something else entirely. Sleek, dark, with orange accent lighting that reminded me of the racing crafts I'd seen online. I swung my leg over the seat, feeling the leather conform to my body as I settled into position. The keycode Padre had sent activated the ignition system, and the engine roared to life with a sound that vibrated through my chest like a war drum. The handlebars felt perfect in my grip solid, responsive, ready to answer my commands.
"Let's see what you can do" I murmured.
The speeder shot forward, tearing out of the shed and onto the cracked pavement of Northside's industrial streets. Buildings blurred past as I accelerated, weaving between abandoned vehicles and startled pedestrians who barely had time to register my passage before I was gone. The wind whipped at my coat, the teal patterns catching the afternoon light like flames against the darkness.
The speeder screamed toward Rancho Coronado and I smiled.