#soloexe

Bri: “Serves you right for being drunk at my house.” :|

Imagine even a merc misstepping and calling their night breaking into the director’s estate a loss. Bri keeps her safe up there for a reason...

A part of him had not expected to show, knowing well how busy he was with running his club, caring for his gang, demanding responsibilities taking the forefront of his mind rather than something as insignificant as a concert. Yet he showed, despite the heavy crowds and screaming fans, he took the time out of his busy day to endure it all just to see him.  

 Why he stood a moment, wide eyed and breathless as he caught sight of him, just as he left stage. Finely dressed and seeming to stand out from the crowd, it took a great deal of restraint to keep from running to him and throwing his arms around him.

but to business...

illegal matters were always handled in such remote backdrops.  𝐕 pulls into an old underpass facing japantown’s harbor to the plot.  a sharp right & then GRAVELLY CONCRETE littered with broken glass, busted up plastic bumpers of old automobiles.  parks & legs it.   the meeting spot is by the railing facing the waterfront directly.  

❛ ——i don’t really do none ‘a that small talk shit, ❜ she says to the SILHOUETTE of a man she can make out in the faint light.  heels clicking against what’s left of asphalt in her approach. 

she’s no idiot, the posture suggests experience.  waiting.  it’s her contact.

❛ let’s set up a comm link. ❜

   she doesn’t know why that entertains her   ,   something about it not being her fault this time probably   .   yet another solo bothering that group did kind of make her feel fuzzy inside   .

In the hearts of many, Japantown was the entertainment district of Night City. Little else could compare; the pulsations, light and quick much like a butterfly’s beating wings—beautiful but desperate for that release, however short and however sweet. And much like a Venus flytrap, you’d flutter inside its aromatic maw, patient and waiting … and it would snap shut. Those aromas, wafting from upscale restaurants and street-food vans alike, filled your thoughts even when the jaws of urban delirium coursed freely through veins. 

Japantown; it was disorientating, if you weren’t careful enough. With a click of finger and thumb, just like that, you’d lose track of the passage of time—and the amount of eddies tumbling out of your bank account. Treading too carelessly under the gaze of night, too, could land you in the lap of a particularly antsy Tyger Claw.

This time, however, it wasn’t just one; many Tyger Claws were antsy. They’d recently had a portion of their turf torn from their talons and so throngs of their members roamed the district, itching to blow off steam. Wakako knew that an antsy Tyger Claw was a dangerous one; they were reckless, impulsive, stupid. 

So, rather than dilly-dally in her office, she’d taken to a little nook next to her parlour. It was small, but undoubtedly hers—only the dullest tourist would think it a ripe spot to linger. She and a taller individual were caught in a conversation; the latter sporting a bob of wavy pink tresses, framing a face striped with gold. The chatter was loose, casual; far from her usual formalities. 

Just as an airy chuckle bubbled free, she caught sight of an approaching figure. No words, only a sideward flash of eyes. The pink-headed man dared not quip nor even stare at that which broke them apart; instead, he simply turned heel, hands jammed into pockets, and left the two by their lonesome. 

Wakako let Jakša encroach on her space. It was polite, formal—he knew well enough not to get too up close and personal. She didn’t wield this crown by being soft.

”Off the top of your head, how many people you think you’ve killed?” The question came seemingly out of the blue, laid out on the floor alongside the hookah he had set up in his living space, an array of records all over the floor from his constant change in music taste. He’d caught him off guard, not expecting a late night visit. 

“So... you’re not a solo.” It’s not posed as a question because it’s not. Vera has met a lot of solos in her life, so fuckin’ many after the Arasaka heist, and none of them have been like Jak. Johnny is in the corner of her gaze, smug grin on his dumb face, saying i told you so, because yeah, Johnny did say something was off about this guy. He starts saying something about how V should listen to him more and her eyes end up drifting to the man who’s not really there before she focuses back on Jakša who is not actually a solo but the leader of a gang-- and not just any stupid, weak gang-- but the Sons of Drakon. God, if Maelstrom was here... Royce would fuckin’ love that, the insane bastard. “So you’ve been underpaying me, because I know you can afford more eddies than what you’ve given me.” She pauses, tone not laced in anger the way it should be. Why? Because right now, she cares more about not dying to the relic’s effect than eddies. What’s the point of eddies if she’s going to be dead?