Cyberpunk mission

The chants and yells of the protesters almost drown out the feed from the shotgun mic. Those damn signs keep breaking the sight lines of the camera feeds, too. “I’ve lost visual! Switch to the fountain camera!” Smart move holding this meeting here. Dick.

Clenched teeth. Packed crowds. Concealed weapons. That guy’s gotta be security. Corporate, or one of Boyle’s guys? Stay cool. We just need to wait for the hand-off…


A company man, Colin Boyle, has defected from Yamato Heavy Industry, who is now hiring the team, and taken a classified data chip with him. Yamato now knows that Boyle is handing off the chip to a rival team of shadow operatives soon. The team must recover the data chip before it falls into the hands of the second team’s employers, Dynadyne.

The Meet

In the rain-slick neon haze of the city, Rook’s comms buzzed, its electronic pulse breaking through the hum of the city’s digital underbelly. It was Evans, a name from Rook’s Yamato days, a ghost from another life. Evans had always been a slippery sort, whispering dissent into the shadowed corners of the corp’s break rooms, but ever the opportunist, ready to stab a comrade’s back for a fleeting shot at ascension.

Amid the maelstrom of synths and cyberpunks, ”The Sly Pilgrim” stood, a relic from an era before chrome and silicone took over flesh and bone. It was here, among the dim lights and soft hum of ancient tech, that Rook found Evans. The man was different, something about his pixels seemed askew. His avatar jittered nervously, its resolution slightly off— a subtle sign of distress in the metaverse.

Drawing in a pixelated breath, Evans leaned in, his voice digitally distorted. ”Colin Boyle, that code-slinger from sector 7G, has taken something… something big.” He divulged about a data chip, pulsating with Yamato’s secrets, coveted intel that Boyle was peddling to DynaDyne. Such revelations had the potential to send Yamato’s stocks crashing down the data streams, turning Evans’ digital empire into vaporware.

The details were scant. Boyle had been off-grid, and word in the digital alleys was that the exchange was set for the weekend. Rook, draped in his digital leather jacket, paused, letting the virtual raindrops slide off him. With a nod, his voice resonated through the metaverse, ”Alright, Evans. I’ve got a crew, high-frequency runners. We’ll intercept the datastream.”


In the depths of cyberspace, Rook’s digital visage flickered to life before his team. The neon web of data around them pulsed and buzzed with activity. Without preamble, he uploaded the latest mission parameters. The team knew well the price of unpreparedness, so they jack into the Matrix, diving into the data streams, on a hunt for intel.

Null, his fingers dancing on the virtual keys, weaves into the CCTV feeds around Boyle’s office and residence tower. Algorithms dance to his command, and the surveillance nodes become his eyes, their AI set to flag Boyle’s pixelated shadow in the binary corridors of the city.

As Null works his digital magic, Sister Mary connects with the legendary Father Nolan, a beacon in the Matrix, his sermons resonating like melodic code, captivating thousands. Despite the electronic facade, Nolan’s virtual church feels real, every digital pew packed. His reputation is that of an omniscient priest, one who knows the 1s and 0s of every soul logged in. Sister Mary poses her query, hoping Nolan’s expansive database of confessions would have a record of Boyle.

Nolan’s pixelated face breaks into a smirk. ”Ah, Boyle,” he says, digital robes flowing. ”The man’s codes speak of gambling and desperate attempts to clear a mounting debt with the Yakuza.” He suggests a possibility, perhaps it wasn’t DynaDyne but the notorious ”Dai-Shensugami” that Boyle intended to trade with.

With time against them, waiting for Boyle’s virtual imprint to show up in Null’s trap wasn’t an option. Sister Mary, merging her online avatar with her physical form, takes to the streets. With a fusion of persuasion and Null’s electronic sleight of hand, she breezes past the security protocols of Boyle’s tower.

Inside Boyle’s sanctuary, the air feels charged, a subtle tension hinting at hasty exits. Scanning the room, amidst the digital clutter, Mary zeroes in on two pieces of tangible evidence: A digitally signed lease for a place in DynaDyne Plaza, pulsing at the heart of the metropolis. The other, a scribbled note, its simplicity chilling: ”Meet Sword at Plaza on Saturday”.

In the neon-lit corridors of the Matrix, a message blinks into existence. ”Sword isn’t unfamiliar,” Sparrow types with urgency, his digital aura shimmering with recognition. ”He was once Ronin, like me, unshackled from the grip of Dai-Shinsengumi. This sort of maneuver feels like his handiwork.”

Almost instinctively, Sparrow reaches into the web of contacts nestled in the underworld, contacting Kimiko, an enigmatic pleasure model renowned for her ties to those who’ve disentangled from the Yakuza’s dark embrace. Her intel aligns with Sparrow’s inklings, hinting at Sword’s plan brewing in the heart of the DynaDyne Plaza, backed by a team of renegades. The puzzle pieces snap into alignment.

Yet, as shadows dance and information unfurls, they’re unaware that their inquisitions have caused tremors in the digital realm. Boyle, sensing the crescendo of whispers, allows fear to propel him from his supposed sanctuary in the plaza, leaving only silence and echoes behind.

Armed with fragmented knowledge, the team steers their course towards DynaDyne Plaza. But the real world is rife with obstructions, materializing in the form of police barricades and pulsating masses of humanity. A massive rally emerges, a collective cry against the government’s stance on the enigmatic ”Sixth Day” faction.

As the physical path is blocked, Null dives into the Matrix, only to be blindsided by a spectral avatar wielding a shard of ICE. But in the dance of digital warfare, Null’s prowess shines, and he melts the threat swiftly. As ephemeral as the attacker was, it left behind a digital whisper, a name: ”Gaius Vulpa”.

The team’s net comes up empty in the real world; Boyle remains an enigma, his tracks meticulously erased. A collective realization settles: they’ve been played. Their next move? To dissolve into the teeming masses on Saturday, hoping to pin either Boyle or Sword amidst the chaos and enact a showdown on their terms.

Go time

In the simmering unrest of the plaza, Sister Mary marshaled her clandestine ensemble, each of them carrying the eerie uniformity of identical masks and the foreboding weight of homemade smoke bombs. At her signal, they’d melt into the crowd, a sea of disguised chaos meant to divert attention.

Perched from a vantage point in a dimly lit parking space, Rook’s fingers danced on the controls, steering his aerial sentinels above the throng, while Null, bathed in the blue hue of the Matrix, fervently scanned for traces of Boyle. An abrupt digital interruption from Gaius Vulpa broke his concentration – ”Wave to the cameras.” Chillingly, their visages began to populate billboards and streamed across cyber-feeds. The stakes were heightened, and the deck, predictably, stacked against them.

With masks shielding their identities, Sister Mary and Sparrow navigated the dense sea of bodies, each zeroing in on the Plaza from divergent trajectories. The synthetic canopy of cherry blossoms, radiant and artificial, beckoned them; it seemed a sanctuary hidden from prying lenses.

Just as the weight of uncertainty grew, Null’s interface pulsated with an alert. Boyle, a shadow among the luminescent trees, was in the midst of an exchange with an obscured figure. Without missing a beat, Null relayed the intel.

Sister Mary and Sparrow, poised on the edge of confrontation, diverged in tactics. Mary, fueled by adrenaline, charged headlong, her mask slipping away, exposing her to the crowd’s astonishment and fury. Sparrow, meanwhile, took a methodical, stealthy approach. Amidst the disarray, Mary’s singular focus became the illicit handoff. Boyle’s exchange with the unmistakable form of Sword crystallized before her. She readied her lethal monofilament whip, every muscle taut for the impending strike. But fate was not on her side. A sharp jolt coursed through her body, courtesy of a man wielding a taser. As darkness consumed her vision, she crumpled, her mission thwarted.

In the frenetic heat of the moment, a signal from Rook’s drone identified what was unmistakably a getaway vehicle, parked a stone’s throw from the Plaza’s edge. Slamming his foot onto the pedal, Rook propelled ”Bishop,” his trusted vehicle, forward, every gear and circuit straining against its own limits, hellbent on interdicting the impending escape.

While Mary’s plight was unfolding, Sparrow’s focus became razor-sharp on one target: Sword. With relentless determination, he surged forward, shoving aside the masses that obstructed his path. In one fluid motion, he drew his blade, and with an overhead swing, aimed for the kill. The blow was less than perfect, severing Sword’s cybernetic limb, sending the coveted package spiraling into the undulating crowd.

From the neon-tinged recesses of the Matrix, Null watched the tumult unfold. The plaza had transformed into a pandemonium of smoke and screams. Gunshots echoed as security personnel targeted any perceived threats, leading to an indiscriminate crossfire. Linking to Rook’s overhead drone, Null sought a vantage point to oversee the fates of Mary and Sparrow.

Sword, realizing the grave disadvantage he was at, began to retreat, his voice tinged with both pain and respect. ”Perhaps we can settle our differences in a more refined setting later?” Sparrow’s only response was a silent nod as he re-sheathed his weapon.

As Rook skillfully drifted around a bend, the silhouette of the getaway vehicle loomed, bearing down on the plaza’s crowd. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rook unleashed the full might of his autocannon, shredding the car and surrounding structures. As he sped past the smoking carcass, it became evident: the vehicle had been remotely operated.

Amidst the chaos, Null’s drone pinpointed the location of the package. Yet as it prepared for retrieval, a rain of bullets forced it to retreat. In the anarchic setting, Null relayed the package’s location to Rook. Acting swiftly, Rook maneuvered his remaining drone, orchestrating a desperate retrieval amidst the mayhem.

Sparrow, unable to locate Mary, vanished into the shadowy embrace of a nearby alleyway. Meanwhile, Mary, her world spinning, felt the cold steel of cuffs encircle her wrists, as she was herded into a waiting police van.

The objective had been achieved, but the aftermath left a bitter aftertaste. What had victory truly cost them?

Författare av detta inlägg:

Niclas har spelat rollspel sedan 90-talet. Som för många andra började allt med Drakar och Demoner. Nu på senare år har han påbörjat ett flertal kampanjer både som spelledare och spelare i alla möjliga slags spel.

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