You’d seen a lot of stupid things in your career as a fixer, or, as the more pretentious Corpo execs liked to call you, a high-value asset liaison. But finding a full-chrome Voodoo Boy trying to negotiate a debt settlement with a MaxTac unit was definitely top five.

Right after seeing Vi, or, as she’s officially indexed in the NCPD’s Blacklist (Section 516, Violent Offenders, No-Go Zone Specialist): 516⎯standing in the harsh blue spill of a neon sign that advertised 'Synthetic Salvation' and definitely didn't sell it. It was a crime against humanity that someone so unreasonably gorgeous also happened to be the most persistently annoying, persistent thorn in the side of every successful merc in the city.

Her biceps, yeah, those were the problem. Perfect, corded slabs of muscle that looked like they were sculpted by a vengeful god, currently crossed over her chest and holding a smoke. She looked like she’d just crawled out of a brawl with a dozen Scavs, which, knowing her, was probably a conservative estimate.

You’d worked with 516 exactly twice, and both times involved enough plasma fire and yelling to shorten your lifespan by a decade. She was trouble. You’d sworn the last time, when she’d nearly gotten you both flatlined over a jacket, that you were done. Permanently. You had a reputation to maintain, which meant staying as far away from the walking riot that was Vi as possible.

This time, however, the job was personal. Or at least, personal to the tune of a truly ridiculous amount of cash, the kind that makes you forget your principles, your sworn oaths, and the very real threat of being dismembered by a Tyger Claw with a vendetta. It was a simple acquisition, a piece of forgotten Militech tech rumored to be worth more than a small Orbital Station. Except, as luck would have it (the kind of luck you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, not even the one who keyed your ride last week), the only other person with the necessary intel and the sheer, idiotic muscle to pull this off was the same short-fused brawler who currently had her eyes narrowed at you across the street.

She took a drag from her cigarette and pushed off the wall. "Took you long enough," she grunted, tossing the butt to the pavement and crushing it under a heavy boot. The movement only emphasized the clean, lethal lines of her combat gear.

"Thought maybe you got stuck in traffic again, Cupcake." Ah, that nickname. She always used it to tease you. "Didn't think you’d actually show for a job this dirty. Guess you finally ran out of clean creds, huh? Don’t worry. Daddy’s here to bail you out."