Dream City - District II - Night
John dropped at The Dead End, a rundown bar tucked in the shadows of District Two—Dream City's forgotten artery. The kind of place that smelled like rust, old bourbon, and bad decisions. A bar for everything wrong with the world. Crawling with cyber-junkies, data-rats, and mech-tweaked criminals still pretending they had souls left to sell.
This was also where retributors like Sam Plukett—former elite, now hand-for-hire—liked to drain her evenings into liquor. Brutal, brilliant, and batshit unpredictable, Plukett was chaos incarnate. And chaos always followed her like a tail.
For John, stepping into The Dead End was always a mistake waiting to happen.
He sighed and walked in.
The place was unusually quiet. Somewhere in the far booth, someone whimpered in pain. No one moved to help. The only person at the bar, of course, was Plukett—lounged sideways on a half-broken stool, a half-empty bottle in one hand and a severed mech-limb twitching on the table in front of her.
"Glad you could make it," she slurred without looking at him. "Let me guess, they gave you an A-plus. Gold star on your psych chart, good boy Ripley."
Her cyber-glasses caught the bar light, hiding her glowing red eyes like a smirk in the dark.
John sat down cautiously, eyes scanning the bar. Tension curled in the air like smoke. Half the regulars were armed. All of them looked angry. It felt like a gunfight waiting for a reason.
"What happened here?" John asked, tone even.
"That simpy over there," Plukett said, jerking her thumb toward a chrome-heavy man with more metal than skin, "asked if I needed a hand. Said I was drinking too much."
Her voice twisted into laughter. "So I thought about it—and turns out I am going to need a hand for tonight!"
The mech-limb twitched again on the table like it agreed.
John turned to the cybernetic man, who growled low, glowing jaw plates grinding. "You Bineth boys think you're untouchable. But the rest of us—we're tired of your bullshit. One of these guys—"
"You don't want to lose another," John cut in, voice like a knife. "Do you now?"
"I won't go for another," Plukett added, spinning the bottle in her hand with grace. "Might need a head this time."
Her laughter hit the man like acid. He stepped back. Fast.
John stood up. "Let's get out of here, Plukey. You've had enough."
"I'm not leaving till I've had my fill," she spat. "These damn Bineth mods make it impossible for a girl to even get tipsy anymore."
She hurled the mech-limb back at its owner. He caught it like it might explode.
John took her hand, gently. "C'mon. I got work."
She jerked her arm free, grinning. "Don't go soft on me, Johnny boy. I could laser you like I did him."
"You got something to show me?" he asked.
That sobered her a bit.
Without a word, she led him outside to the alley where her grimy red hovercar was parked. She popped the trunk with a flick of her wrist.
Inside was the charred body of a woman—part metal, part flesh, burnt to unrecognizable crisp.
John stared. "Who the hell is that?"
"Cynthia Balfin. Wife of Steven Balfin."
"The missing scientist?"
"Yep. Called her forty-five minutes ago. Came around to chat. Found her cooked to perfection before I could knock."
She took a swig from her flask, wiped her mouth.
"Nothing stolen. I jacked her comm before it went up—only one untraceable call made after mine."
John's mind raced. "She was paid off?"
"Twenty-five thousand units dumped into her credpass ten minutes after the ghost call," Plukett confirmed. "She didn't know she was buying more than groceries—she was buying her exit."
"Execution style?"
"Worse. Shot clean through the chip. Memory fried. No trace left."
John was about to respond when his comm buzzed. Priority ping.
Plukett snorted. "Your boyfriend's calling."
John ignored her. "Yeah?"
Midas' voice burst through, thick with sarcasm and that brash London accent. "John, where in the bleeding moon are you right now?!"
"Something came up. What's happening?"
"You forgot what day it is, princess? War Games! Today! The greenies are coming in, son!"
John swore under his breath. He glanced at Plukett, who just shrugged, amused.
Midas wasn't done. "Cox is ready to lose her mind. And guess who's showing up? Sakarah Mishima. Yep. Her. The golden girl."
John blinked. "She's real?"
"More than real. And if you don't flap those wings back here, I'm going to replace your damn spine with a mop."
"I'm coming," John muttered, ending the call.
Plukett smirked. "Fly away, Johnny Bird. I'll trace that call. I bet Sweet Elvis knows a thing or two."
"Call me if you gott something."
"Always, Johnny."
They parted at the alley's edge. One heading for the war. The other into the shadows.