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Another dry, sweltering Night City evening, filled with the sound of distant sirens and ever-present advertisements. There was no escaping them, people were always killing each other and companies were always trying to suck in customers. When Zen first came to NC she was confused by the constant stream of commercials blaring from every screen and speaker, the vast array of choices a little unsettling for someone used to the comparative dearth of options in Neo-Sov.

She adjusted once she figured out that any brand she could afford was trash, just like back home. 

Zhenya spat derisively, attempting to clear the foul taste of synthetic food out of her mouth. No dice, the cheap-ass burrito she had polished off an hour ago wasn't giving up that easy. She'd have to treat herself to an actual meal once the job was over. 

The gig itself was simple enough in the description, the actual execution likely trickier than the instructions implied. Find some chromed-up dickhead, shoot said chromed-up dickhead in the torso, rip the chip out of dickhead's skull. It was the sort of simple, no-bullshit job Mak liked. No corporation was going to miss this guy, the screamsheets would barely bother to put his death on the third page. 

As long they could handle Rex and whichever of his chooms were hanging around they'd be home free.

The Doc's question was instantly analyzed and translated by the circuitry shoved in Zen's head, the Russian shrugging her bearish shoulders. [color=E8372D]"Same thing we always are: icing gonks and getting paid for it."[/color] 

The cool, collected tone of her artificial English was incongruous with the wry smile she wore, eyes looking the younger man up and down. Pristine armor, two fancy guns that saw more recalibrations than they did magazine changes, clothing that didn't seem like it had even been worn in, new gear for a new field agent. Doc's shiny loadout stood in sharp contrast to the well-worn and much-mended armorjack she had on, the revolver holstered across her chest dinged up from years of use.

Doc was a good guy but he was probably better off in the operating room. 

[color=E8372D]"Ask him what Rex looks like, and if he's a social type. I wanna know how many gonks I'm chewing through."[/color] 

She had the fifty cal waiting and ready in the trunk of her Galena in case they were dealing with a proper gang hideout but she sure as shit wasn't about to load it up if she didn't have to. The thing went through ammo like monowire through flesh and it wasn't like she was firing off bulk surplus. At roughly two eddies per round careless use would see her eat through most of her take.