22.0

January 5, 2070, at 1001
Gold Beach Marina, Slip #4, The Holy Ghost

Draped languorously across the plush deck of a flashy yacht, Crystal floated in the glitziest harbor Noir City had to show. On the other side, Padre was slumped, channeling a Corpo on vacay, decked out in tropical prints, garish shorts, and flip-flops that would trigger a fashionista's gag reflex.

Crystal, undisturbed by their current predicament's ins and outs, sank deeper into the deck chair. Meanwhile, Sgt. Fluffyfeathers, her ostensibly ordinary poultry accomplice, hacked into the yacht's systems with guileless stealth that bordered on the absurd.

Ever since this fowl sidekick was mysteriously bestowed upon her, she couldn't help but speculate about Sgt. Fluffyfeathers' potential past as a covert operative. But she tucked that puzzle away for a stormy day - if its origin ever turned pressing, she was sure the bird would squawk up. According to Nota, this chicken wasn't just any avian klutz but a brainiac in the realm of code.

"Chomping at the bit to find out why we're marooned here?" Padre probed, eyes flitting toward the hired muscle prowling the vessel.

"Wouldn't say I am," Crystal shot back, stone-faced. Their relocation to this floating fortress while turf wars were waged elsewhere wasn't exactly haunting her dreams. Padre, it was evident, preferred to keep his accomplices close and his prized tacticians closer.

Below deck, a ragtag group indulged in a raucous bash, a volatile cocktail of pulsing beats and unruly revelry. Amid the chaos, she identified a handful of familiar faces previously encountered in more restrained surroundings. Their connecting thread? As per Sgt. Fluffyfeathers were Valentino insiders - not the trigger-happy goons, but the intellectual machinery that ensured a steady flow of eddies.

"Figured you wouldn't give a damn," Sebastian Ibarra, aka Padre, sniped back, his smug grin barely concealed behind retro shades. Or perhaps, Crystal mulled, it was the kitschy shirt weaving some hallucinatory spell.

Life had taken an exciting turn with her newfound skill, One with all Shadows. It granted her the ability to blend seamlessly with dim light or shadows. A quirky tweak from Shadow Touched had altered the power slightly. Now, unless bathed in unfiltered sunlight like currently, she was as elusive as a phantom. Ideal for covert ops, not so much for late-night munchie runs at the food stalls.

"Didn't claim I cracked your scheme," Crystal retorted casually. "I just don't give a flying fig. If it were a big deal, you'd have blabbed by now. No storm clouds in sight, so why exert myself when I can work on my killer tan?" Her lips curved into a cheeky smirk, her sunglasses concealing her eyes' otherworldly glow.

"Solo’s, always unfazed," Padre chuckled. "But let me tell you, chica, your antics scared the pants off everyone. No clue who squealed to the Corpos, but they'll pay. No Corpo drone could pull off your brand of magic. Selling one of our own to their radar, it’s a death sentence. A slow one."

Mentally, Crystal added the nameless snitch to her blacklist. Not for execution, just for a one-way express delivery to Padre's domain. The Valentinos didn't take kindly to treason.

"Any hot gigs lined up post-war?" Crystal inquired, failing to mask her ennui. The yearning to unleash a killing spree was in a standoff with her current activity - stroking the clucking Sgt. Fluffyfeathers.

"Heard you've been skulking around Jig-Jig Street," Padre baited.

"Paid a friend at Clouds a visit," Crystal brushed off with a shrug.

"Funny, around the same time, the custodian and an aspiring unofficial second-in-command met untimely ends. Threats to your buddy?" Padre ribbed.

Crystal exhaled a sigh. "They were a Scav grunt and a poser infringing on my turf. Got a problem?"

Padre returned a coy smirk. "Why would I take issue with two Tyger Claw mooks dropping dead from heart attacks?"

"Gramps, your fangs are sharpening in your twilight years, huh?" Crystal jested, unleashing a holographic missile launcher targeted squarely at the old man. The hologram disrupted his margarita-guzzling, sparking a violent cough that shook his frail frame.

As Crystal idly fussed over her fowl companion, her grin took on a theatrically wicked edge that wouldn't have been out of place in a pre-chrome era flick.

"You got the mischief of a Netrunner seeping through your code," the priest huffed, nursing his post-coughing fit. "But I've got some cybernetic divine insight. So, spill it, chica. Why're you prowling around Tyger territory?"

"Let's just say there's more to milk than cream," Crystal quipped as she shot a file to Padre via encrypted ping. "Tygers are all fluff and no teeth. Complacent. Fat from feasting on the weak."

Sebastian sipped his margarita, soaking in the info on his AR display sunglasses. More than creds, she sent a blueprint of Eden, wired to make Clouds look like a schoolyard sandbox.

"Huh. Looking to relax, are we?" Sebastian mused, skimming the file. "Just remember, even the high-fliers like Blackhand can't outrun the ticking time bomb. Every gig’s a potential graveyard."

"Retirement? No, too dull," Crystal chuckled. "I just fancy some extras. A custom ride, a pack of synthetic street samurais, and some kick-ass cyberware. You know, the good life."

"But that costs some serious eddies, chica," Sebastian chuckled, shutting off the file. He glanced at her over his glasses, an intrigued glint in his eye. "What if I just nab this and leave you in the dust?"

She threw back her head and laughed, her eyes flashing with mischief behind her sunglasses. "Then you'd better pray your goons to finish me off before I dive overboard. But here's the kicker: I do all the dirty work. Why hire a Solo when I can handle it in-house? My braindance gal can write mindfuck level BDs and have the clients singing sweet tunes as their wallets bleed out eddies. Plus, my Netrunner can sniff out any problems before they get cozy. So, Padre, do you feel lucky? Is the one on high telling you to visit today?"

Padre considered her offer, nursing his drink in silence. "Thirty-thirty-thirty split for us and Mama Welles, a dime to the Valentinos. In exchange, no recon gigs without our say-so. Your skills... best we keep them close to the chest. Deal?"

"Only recon, right?" Crystal asked, wanting to be precise.

"Strictly recon," he echoed back, initiating a private channel. "I pitched your skills, dropped hints that hog-tying you would be a bad move. You even got Campo Orta nodding after rattling off some high-tech gibberish about your experimental chrome and cyber-psychosis risks. He gave in to get me to zip it, but it stuck when Orta gave his word. It's not so much about wisdom but stubborn pride. To him, a man who can't keep his word might as well be worth zilch."

Satisfied with the deal, Crystal was already plotting her next move. She wasn't just eyeing Eden; she wanted the whole Warlock Twenty before exiting Noir City. But she had one more card to play.

"Just one small thing, Padre," Crystal began, her eyes wide and innocent.

He sighed, expecting a catch. "What is it now, chica?"

"I need blood. Lots of it. About 980 samples. Pure, un-chromed. No diseases, no surprises. It's a... personal project," Crystal explained, disregarding the raised eyebrow from the old priest.

"Something to do with your family, Moss?" Sebastian guessed, his mind already spinning theories.

"Close enough. If I crack this genetic code, even Blackhand might break a sweat," Crystal replied, calm.

A potential equal to the legend Morgan Blackhand. That was a compelling offer, but Padre smelled a rat.

"Are you in some shit, chica?" he asked, switching to a private channel.

Crystal shrugged, deciding to blur the lines between fact and fiction. "I'm not as superhuman as you might think. Whatever bio blessing my folks stole from some Corpo lab, it's starting to wear off. I need the right blood to patch it up, upgrade it even. And buying blood on the market is a little too flashy, don't you think?"

Padre's eyes widened, processing the revelation. It wasn't out of the realm of possibilities that some Corpo couple would meddle with biotech to make a chrome-plated super-soldier. And the Valentinos? They've been known to pull off spectacular heists from right under the Corpo's noses.

"That frames your story better, hermanita," Padre returned, his tone losing some of its gruffness. "Would a bigger pool of blood bags increase your odds?" He tried to lighten the mood, but the dual glare he received from both Crystal and her feathered friend killed the joke in its tracks. "What? Just asking!"

"It'd sure help, old man," Crystal shot back, her icy stare colder than a Maelstromer's heart. "No question about it."

Settling back, Padre smirked, "Then problem solved. Sit tight and wait for the drone to drop at your flat once you are off the boat. No stepping foot outside till this all blows over, deal?"

Crystal gave a curt nod, struggling to keep the grin off her face. Bagging a blood bank’s worth of product was a cinch for someone connected like Padre, way easier than for a Solo like her. The lure of a top-ranked who could outmatch the great Blackhand was too compelling to pass up.

Padre wasn’t just plotting for this war; he was already one step ahead into the next. In ten years or less, the machetes were bound to come out against the Tyger Claws. It was practically written in neon lights. Two big cats couldn’t coexist in Night City. If one side had a Blackhand and the other lacked an Adam Smasher, the outcome was pretty much decided.

With Padre backing her, Crystal signaled for Roundrat to bugger off. The dumb muscle goons on the boat were oblivious to how close they came to being vaporized by Eldritch Blast beams. Cleaning up the ship would have been a hassle, but luckily it hadn’t come to that. Now that Padre was firmly in her corner, the rest was dealing out the spoils.

Crystal didn't voice it, but she had a hunch Padre knew her involvement in the communication snafus and fried enemy netrunners. Her near-flawless recon combined with these disruptions had given the Valentinos and the Tyger Claws a serious edge. All they needed to do was bombard the opposition until they were buried in the rubble. The leadership would be deposed for pure incompetence if they couldn’t win when holding a royal flush.

"Don't forget your payment plus a sweetener for a gig well done," Padre murmured, transferring a cool seventy-five thousand eddies into Crystal's account. Her eyes turned crimson behind her shades as she looked at the balance. Based on Padre's usual thirty percent payout, that meant she'd pulled off at least a quarter mil in work.

But that was just for the jobs on the books. The sabotage against the Voodoo Boys and 6th Street’s systems? Worth way more.

Half a mil to a mil in eddies, easy. Crystal wasn't upset, though. Eden alone would rake in that much weekly once it was up and running. No, this was merely a down payment. The real cheddar would come from promised favors and cuts of profits.

"I gotta take care of the Scav lair once I'm free," Crystal stated, testing the waters.

"Two weeks," Padre replied flatly. “It’ll take that long to get all the insects in hiding and drown them. I can’t even let you hunt them down, either. The problems of being too talented.”

"Agh," Crystal grumbled, clearly annoyed. Just when she was about to build her den of decadence that would make the eddies flow, she got grounded. Two weeks on a boat, then probably two more in the apartment.

A cruel punishment.

Sgt. Fluffyfeathers squawked and fluttered off her lap to retreat below. Padre raised an eyebrow and said, "Did that chicken just take flight?"

"Isn't anything possible with a little divine intervention?" Crystal quipped, rolling onto her back to soak up some sun. Wearing a bikini usually means tan lines, but being a shapeshifter had perks.

Time cruised by on the boat. Crystal stayed in the loop, tapping into the comms network. It was a cinch to snack on those aboard the vessel too. With the proper set-up, her orgasm-triggering venom could be another kick-ass drug. Considering the stash floating around on this tub, it was a miracle no one had hit the dirt yet. Didn’t even need to nip at the neck; any vein would do in a pinch. A smear of HealQuick gel, a band-aid, and no trace left behind. She usually kept this trick on the down-low cause the gel cost a bundle but on Padre’s party yacht? The stuff was practically worthless.

Besides feeding, most of her time was invested in adapting to the enhancements from pushing Fluid Grace skill to ten points. Ramping Technical Ability to ten had been the next logical play, maxing out all her attributes. The next couple of Feats would twist her into the grim reaper herself. Hex would morph her damage from just magical into decay and corrosion. Meaning even chrome-dome borgs like Maelstrom would dissolve. The massive range compared to her sword meant she could deal with death from the comfort of an air-conditioned lounge.

After a week, even physical stunt practice lost its shine to sheer boredom.

Sgt. Fluffyfeathers coaxed her into the Net with the promise of chicken nuggets. Crystal hadn’t ventured in since her getaway from the old digs in H3. When she entered the lobby, her outfit morphed from noob garb into a mysterious witch’s hooded robe. Fluff settled on Crystal’s shoulders with a look that screamed, “Hold on tight, we're punching the gas!”

Exiting the Netlobby dropped her into a digital counterpart of the world around her. However, instead of plodding around on foot, she could blink with the help of her ninja chicken Netrunner, F.F. She warped from the Gold Beach Marina site into the Clouds mainframe in a blink.

Navigating the security barriers showed her why Nota, the Eldritch AI, was so blown away by Sgt. Fluffyfeathers. It was clear the birdbrain had a unique approach, an alien one, that made skirting human defenses child's play. As she made her way through the mainframe, a Netrunner appeared. The dude was butt naked except for strategically placed clouds shielding his bits.

"Take a hike before I turn you into a popsicle, lady," the Netrunner rival, Novick, blustered.

Crystal and F.F. exchanged amused glances. A quick bio scan revealed that this dude had a pretty shady resume. Offing him, though, would put Judy in the line of fire as the Cloud network would be wide open.

"Mr. Novick, didn't your mama teach you some manners, especially when you're dealing with someone higher up on the food chain?" Crystal countered, disregarding the volley of cloud bullets that evaporated against her egg-shaped shield. As soon as the guard materialized, Novick seemed to realize he was screwed.

Even though he ramped up his offensive, it was hopeless. Another egg shield sprang up around him, bouncing his attacks back and shredding his avatar into a cloud of mist.

"Bitch! You wait, F.F., when the mainframe defenses boot up, you'll be Kentucky Fried!" Novick spat as his avatar faded away.

Sgt. Fluffyfeathers clucked derisively. With her at the helm, the mainframe was no more threatening than the Netrunner had been. Crystal watched, intrigued, as her therapy chicken rewrote the entire code for the mainframe, leaving a labyrinth of backdoors, traps, logic bombs, viruses, and Daemons lurking. It was all keyed to Valentino's access codes, a clear message that the club would either be under their management or dysfunctional. Sifting through the overhauled network, Crystal located Judy’s inbox.

She skimmed a message printed on F.F.'s encrypted logo paper. Her eyes hardened as she realized the Tyger had decided to use Clouds as a dumping ground for their dead weight.

She shot back a reply instructing Judy to bounce. She directed the younger woman to her flat in Parque Del Mar. At the same time, she called in a synthetic moving company to pack up all her gear. A hefty sum of twenty grand was coughed up to break Judy’s contract once she vacated. Another thirty-five was set to trigger when her stuff was relocated. Cloud network defenses were tweaked to let the synths in and out. As a small mercy, she ensured any footage from the robots was wiped out when they exited the club.

"We better leave no trace. The best way is to make it look like it was all someone else's doing," Crystal told F.F. A backdated trail was fabricated, pointing to Mr. Novick as the one enticing Judy away. Further digging would reveal that he was a Maelstrom plant, prepping to body-snatch prime targets.

Loose ends always needed tying up, after all.

She monitored as Judy departed and hailed a Delamain cab. It didn’t set off any alarms as she had done it on her lunch break. Moments after she left, the synths showed up. The receptionist was momentarily puzzled, but a swift system check showed the order was greenlit by top brass. The droids had everything packed up and out in less than five minutes. Automated crates wheeled themselves out, and that was that.

Hiromi would catch wind of the departure, but not until after his braindance session. By then, it would be too late to track Judy down. F.F. had scrubbed the system clean of anything that could lead back to Judy.

Judy's departure would serve as both a warning and a veiled threat.

Tyger Claws were about to lose their top-shelf braindance engineer, but that was their problem, not Crystal's. She was more of a fix-it-and-forget-it kind of gal.

Plugging out from the Net, the digits on her internal HUD clock made a shifty slide. A message, incoming from the Padre - war's end, goodies' distribution, all sorted. Head home.

With decompression in a hot shower and a towel-down, Crystal chose her operational look. She zipped into her sleek Jinguji bodysuit, flung on a hooded coat, eyeshades, noiseless boots, and tech-fitted gloves. A red-lipstick smirk, the finishing touch.

Her outfit was not just all style. It was layered. The hood kept her hair under wraps; gloves allowed her fingertips to be chameleonic. Eyeshades? Night vision with a side of telescopic zoom. And the bodysuit, thermal regulation as a backup to her Prestidigitation skill, was the proverbial cherry.

Emerging from the ship, she ghosted past the guards. They had never been what kept her onboard. Corporation Street was swarming with Corpo-Sec, but her attire screamed 'cash,' so no trouble. Sliding into a summoned Delamain cab, she was apartment-bound.

The moment she walked in, Judy ambushed her with a hug, excitement rolling off her in waves. The alluring scent of untapped life force tickled Crystal's senses. But she had a lid on it, a mental lockbox for those urges. She was familiar with Judy's vibes, her neural cues. Without primo equipment, dancing with someone on the same frequency was less a pain, and more a pleasure. Double the joy, half the effort. And the cost? Dancing with someone on a different wavelength required specific software and hardware for a painless experience. That didn't come cheap.

Crystal knew the lure of her bite could make Judy a devoted partner. But she wasn't pulling a Julio; any such move would need clear communication.

As for using her bite to extract info from enemies? That was an avenue she might stroll down later. Info was currency, and why break a sweat earning it?

A glance around revealed her apartment was now fully kitted out, Judy's gear taking up residence in the bedroom. A city-facing sofa dominated the living room, snug against the door-facing bed.

Her gaze rested on Sgt. Fluffyfeathers, innocently roosting in a comfy nest corner. Below, Roundrat peeked out from a mini house with bead-like eyes. Her eyes narrowed at the duo and flashed red behind her shades.

"This place is bangin'!" Judy's voice yanked Crystal's attention back. "I've been earning my creds, gal. You're welcome to crash as long as you want," Crystal said, a quick ocular scan via net link confirming her lease terms.

"R-Really?" Judy's voice wavered with hope. Crystal nodded, "Just keep Sgt. Fluff off a grub-only diet, and don't pet Roundrat into a coma, deal?"

As Judy hugged her, Crystal had to suppress her instincts to take a bite. She had to pump some points into Icy Veins soon.

Just as well, a Scav Den was due for a clean-up. Judy's grin faltered as a shipping crate thudded onto the balcony. The mark of a hospital denoting precisely what it was.

Hell's bells, she was grounded here for another fortnight, researching genetic strands. Her cleverness cut deep sometimes!

Watching another crate touch down, Crystal rolled her eyes. Those damned Scavs had dodged the Reaper.

Again.