If it were in any other place, surrounded by a different set of strangers, it could be said that Hugh had just “done fucked.” Yet somehow, it didn't feel that way. Could be because he was no stranger to roughing it for as long as it took in musty, out-of-the-way places like this. Or because despite being more than capable of ending him right then and there, this motley group of offworlders gave off unassuming, down-to-earth vibes. Including that rough yet handsome woman who he took for a seasoned veteran, as she was quite relaxed like a cat about to pounce on its prey even as she toasted him.
He'd have toasted her back too, if only he had a drink in hand. But more importantly, if the boss-man and his crew weren't staring him down right at that moment, eager for answers.
The Lumberjack pilot was more than happy to oblige. After apologizing for “moseying on in” uninvited, Hugh told the chief and everyone present his full name and how nobody refers to him by that anymore, and then his callsign which doubled as his new proper name (“it's a long story”). He saw that he piqued their curiosity at the mere mention of the word “callsign,” and so he told them that he was part of a citizens' cell of guerillas opposed to both the old corrupt regime and now the current brutal one – with special emphasis on the word was – and that he was perfectly fine drawing away fire for his erstwhile brothers-in-arms in his souped-up IndustrialMech until he found out that the “old college friend” he grudgingly took orders from had plans to sell him out for political gain.
“And just like that, I up and left,” Hugh said as he accepted a glass of water, which he gulped down greedily. “Ah, that sure hit the spot, thanks much. Just so you know, I don't really mind getting shot to shit by small arms fire and missiles and such if it's for the sake of friends, but I won't ever abide being set up as a sacrificial lamb just for a fucking leg up. But I digress. I know what y'all are really wondering right now – it's how I found this here place, isn't it? More like how I found the red bastards, actually. Those cocky pricks must be feeling invincible that lately they've been getting sloppy, and I'm sure y'all here would agree. Just followed them on foot, reckoned it wouldn't occur to them that some rando in the bushes was watching them from a safe distance at every turn. Reckoned you might show up to kick their asses, too. Goes without saying I was right on both counts.” He grinned. “Then I followed you right back here the same way I followed them. Not that hard really if you do it the old-fashioned way, like hide your 'Mech in the woods and go it alone on foot, but yeah, I understand it's also a very stupid way of going about it since either you or they could've easily squashed a suspicious stranger like little ol' me like some bug.”
Hugh's gift of gab took with the mercenaries as far as suspicious yet well-meaning strangers could be taken – that is, with the glaring exception of one. He could see that the foreigner wasn't that much older than he was, younger than the boss-man even, but already his dark hair was turning grey in places and his face was creased with so much worry and disquiet. Perhaps not a little distrust and anger too, from the way the mercenary kept looking at him. He could tell that the man wasn't from here, from light years away even, but clearly something was eating him anyway. Right now Hugh might be as free and unmolested, comfy too, as someone taken into custody could be, but he wasn't out of the woods just yet.
Eleanor wasn't as scared of heights as she was of things that ought to be familiar to her suddently turning unfamiliar, otherwise she would've been shaking like a leaf as soon as she stepped into the airship. No – it was the moment she was issued her rifle and instructions that she felt her legs start to buckle and wobble. Not that she was unfamiliar with guns altogether, as her grandmother kept a pair of lighter women's rifles for them to use whenever the local lord deigned to invite the two tavern keepers, also famous in their area for the way they prepared fresh game, on one of his hunts; it was when she saw the loading mechanism that the rifle wasn't the single-shot type that she was more accustomed to.
At least the newfangled contraption was handed to her pre-loaded but still, what in Hell's Kitchen was she to do once she ran out of bullets, not to mention when those... things would start to come at her? It looked so easy when she watched her squadmates work their weapons, but could she also pull it off as deftly as they did, and in a pinch no less? Could she keep the thing from jamming, or heaven forbid, blowing up in her hands? So long as this one thing kept worrying her, not even ten bandoliers of ammunition around her waist could make her feel better (an obviously stupid idea in any case), especially knowing that they won't be facing the likes of criminals or terrorists, but outright abominations and creatures straight out of nightmares.
Jumping from as high as they did was no less scary, but at least it took her mind off her rifle for a while. The thought that the dress with the shorter skirt she picked for herself wouldn't gather as much air as the others' would as they dropped cheered her up, but only a little, and not for very long.
Unlike the rifle, the parachute was much simpler to work: just yank the ripcord like so when you feel it's the right time to do so, and – voila! – arrive at your destination looking like an intact human being and not like a pizza that's botched, bloodied and flattened beyond all recognition. That easy! There was still the issue of extricating herself from the limp, clumsy thing once she landed, but thankfully Polina and the others were standing not very far from where she wound up. Free from her parachute, Eleanor unshouldered her rifle, inspected it one more time to the best of her ability, and quickly made her way to her squad. “Polina! Everyone! I'm coming with you!” she cried as she hurriedly let loose one shot, and then another, at the hideous things as soon as they reared their ugly heads. She wasn't really counting on her bullets hitting anything that mattered, but at least maybe she could distract the monsters for a little longer while the rest of the squad did their thing.
About ten klicks from the neodymium mine, Hugh suppressed a chuckle as he lowered his rangefinder binoculars, allowing them to dangle carelessly from a lanyard around his neck. All that manpower and gear on the side of those red bastards and yet not a single one of them noticed little old him lurking in the bushes, in that weather, watching the whole shebang go down. Come to think of it, neither did the Green Knight mercs, but that could be chalked up to them not being from here. While the rebel hated the NPDRE with a vengeance, as a fellow Espian he couldn't help but cringe with embarrassment on their behalf for not knowing as well as they should the lay of the land. Their land. Just as well though, or else they might've carried the day or tracked the Green Knights back to their base – terrifying prospects both.
But why though? Could it be that stomping and rolling around virtually unopposed with all that firepower at their disposal simply got to their heads?
Or maybe – just maybe – despite all that jingoistic “all-Espian” propaganda they've been putting out always and everywhere since taking power, not everyone fighting on the side of the NPDRE are actually Espians?
Those questions and others like them are better pondered over a nice stiff drink and in the company of like-minded people, Hugh thought as he remembered the Mason jar by his side, with its now dog-eared and faded green knight label. The empty jar and the rangefinders were the only things he carried with him after stashing his Lumberjack in the woods some distance away; after all, it stands to reason that the offworlders would be mighty suspicious of an unfamiliar native like him waltzing into their hideout just like that, not to mention still having some really itchy trigger fingers right after their sortie, common enemies notwithstanding. Not packing weapons of any kind might improve his chances of making it through without getting roughed up, or worse.
Hugh picked up the jar as he got up from his crouch and made his way to the mine, grinning at the thought that whoever made the hooch to sell on the black market must've done so on the sly, meaning he won't be the only one in hot water at the end of the day.
Arriving at the entrance, Hugh placed the Mason jar visibly at his feet then put his hands up in the air. “Hello? Anyone home?” the Espian called out. “I'm looking to buy some of this fine moonshine right here, heard you people happen to be making some.”
Nationality/Allegiance: Capellan Confederation Supporter caste, loyalist (“I ain't a diehard patriot though, more like better the devil you know”)
Background: When twelve-year-old Beau McKeough learned that he would be learning to pilot a 'Mech, he leapt in excitement right then and there, as rambunctious young boys are wont to do.
As soon as his father and older siblings told him what for exactly, however, that excitement quickly died down.
The reason he was to pilot a 'Mech, they told him, was twofold: for him to learn the family trade (for the McKeoughs owned and ran no less than the biggest timber company on Espia) as well as to render, in the words of the Ministry of Social Education, “some kind of volunteer work that can be interpreted as having made some contribution to the state,” which in the case of young Beau was to clear out swamps and forests using a Lumberjack gifted to him from the McKeoughs's fleet of IndustrialMechs.
Despite the dream having been turned into a chore, Beau nevertheless performed quite well at land clearing, even picking up a good deal of land surveying and speculating from the senior members of the government crew to which he was assigned. Upon turning 15, Beau passed his citizenship evaluation with flying colors and joined the older members of his family as a bona fide member of the Capellan Supporter caste, which counted among its number captains of industry and trade in addition to educators, economists, and members of the judiciary.
Such was Beau's performance in service of Espia that he was offered a spot at the Capella War College – which he promptly declined, stating that he knew that the chances of ever going home to one's home planet are slim to none should one become an officer, and that spending most of his boyhood day in and day out in the dank cockpit of his Lumberjack had left him burned-out and jaded as far as piloting was concerned. Desperate for a change of scenery, Beau matriculated at the University of Balya Gora (UBG), purportedly to major in civil engineering but actually to party like an animal and enjoy himself like he never did before. For not only was the “Bee Gee” Espia's number one institute for higher education, it was also the place where the best and the brightest from all over the planet got together to get drunk, get laid, and pursue a different kind of “higher learning” altogether. Nevertheless, in between the partying and the studying and the having to assist his siblings at the McKeough Timber Co. headquarters, Beau managed to graduate with honors and was given a sinecure by his father.
Beau had just completed his first year of graduate studies in geological engineering via distance learning with Sian University when news of the Capellan withdrawal broke out. Upon hearing this, Beau immediately rushed to the McKeough headquarters, where he found his parents, his siblings, their extended family, and their most trusted retainers and employees all gathered in the boardroom.
Steeling himself against the tears, Beau's father announced to all present that already he could sense where the wind was blowing, that he could feel it in his blood, for even on long-ago Terra the McKeoughs of ancient Ireland were no strangers to the never-ending cycles of calamity and upheaval. It was for this reason that the elder McKeough, in agreement with senior members of the family as well as members of the board, management, and the employees' union as well, decided to sell the company before the inevitable backlash from the increasingly-restive Servitor underclass would reduce everything they worked for into piles of worthless ash.
Before dismissing everyone for the final time, the patriarch added that while he would like nothing more during this difficult time than for his family and closest friends to accompany him to the Espian outback to lay low, perhaps it would be just as good for them, if they so wished, to go their separate ways and survive independently of one another to the best of their ability, for that was how the McKeoughs survived wars, famines, and genocides throughout the millennia; so long as a mere handful or even just one of them remained standing at the end of it all, the family could always begin anew.
With that final family reunion having adjourned as quickly as it had begun, Beau went over to his parents and informed them of his decision to find a way to stay and fight for his home, if not for the Confederation at large – but not the conspicuously unwieldly and corrupt planetary government, which as a university student he had grown to hate. After getting their blessing, Beau drove to the McKeough hangars out in the boondocks to retrieve his Lumberjack and got in touch with some politically-active loyalists he knew from university, who then put him in touch with a cell of the Capellan Citizens' Combine which during this time had not yet been subsumed into the Espian Free People's Movement.
To his horror, Beau found out that the leader running his cell was none other than Margaret Bo, an erstwhile UBG student council president. Hailing from the Directorship caste ("more like the Dictatorship caste, haha") and notorious for being a veritable Machiavellian queen bee even during their Bee Gee days, Bo didn't pass up the chance to poach him for her own cell, for he was the closest thing to a seasoned 'Mech pilot she could get from a pool of mostly civvies. Furthermore, she demanded that while serving under her, Beau should relinquish all claims to his first name, for there could only be one Bo/Beau in her cell – namely, herself.
With his first name taken from him and finding it irritating for others to either mispronounce his surname or lazily call him some variant of “Mac,” “Mackie,” or the slur-sounding “Mick,” the pilot eventually settled on just being called “you” by the others, which in time became “Hugh”: his callsign as well as the name he went by from that moment on.
Despite their working relationship having gotten off to a rocky start, the cell leader reluctantly agreed that in exchange for his unquestioning service to her excellency and as a hazard pay of sorts, as the cell's only pilot he was to be allowed to keep a moonshine still in his trailer as well as some grain and all the liquor looted from their raids in lieu of pay. After all, he reasoned, his job during raids and ambushes was to draw to himself as much enemy gunfire as he could take if they weren't close enough for him to hit with his chainsaw. “Booze helps to calm my nerves when we're not raiding, besides I'm literally a dead man walking now ain't I?” was his excuse to her. "I believe I'm entitled to that at the very least."
Margaret Bo was more of a bureaucrat than a field commander, but Hugh didn't mind her hogging all the credit each time they scored a win against the regime they both hated, so long as he got his agreed-upon share of the spoils and was permitted to drink to his heart's content in private. Bo, being uncompromisingly domineering and a teetotaler to boot, continued to secretly resent him for this; at the same time, the Capellan Citizens' Combine and the Espian Free People's Movement began to closely associate with one another.
Unfortunately for Hugh, Bo was also ambitious – so much so that after being told that she was considered for a higher position in the Free People's Army, she thought it would be a good idea to seal the deal by seizing the pilot's stash of alcohol to give to the FPA honchos as a gift, and as a grandiose show of authority, to subject him, her top (and only) pilot, to "long-overdue disciplinary action" – all the better to remind all concerned of the pecking order.
Hugh found out about this and reckoned that it was high time to get out of dodge. Later that night, he loaded into his cargo bay all the worldly possessions he still had with him, including his still, his stash of alcohol, and just to spite Margaret, an old jukebox from the cell's mess hall that he figured was a Bo family heirloom.
After convincing the guards that he was on a solo covert mission to take the stuff in his hold to some potential allies (which was still technically true, he told himself), Hugh hopped into the cockpit, powered up his Lumberjack, and strode off in search of the source of that exotic moonshine he got from the black market whose label was stamped with nothing but a green knight's helmet. That fine hooch had been on his mind ever since his first sip.
“Pretty sure it's those mercs from offworld who made that good shit,” Hugh thought to himself as an ancient Terran song* started to play on his stereo. “Gotta be.”
Battlemech:
Hugh pilots a dull-gray Lumberjack, originally an LM1/A, which with the grudging approval of Margaret Bo he paid the technologically-inclined members of their cell a significant amount of liquor to upgrade with looted weapons. The souped-up ForestryMech now sports an LRM-10 in place of one of the dumpers, additional armor, and machine guns instead of its signature lift hoist. Painted on the 'Mech's left chest plate is the iconic green Capellan Confederation emblem, now weathered. And in case anyone's wondering, it still rocks its chainsaw.
Jk, actually it's this one below if the last one wasn't good for your immersion:
P R O F I L EThis pompous procurer of pleasures playful, provocative and perverse fancies himself to be an up-and-coming player in the Night City foodchain, even giving himself the clever(?) and catchy(?) nickname 3D.
But what does the self-designated diminutive mean, you ask? It depends on who you're asking: the man himself would tell you that it stands for Del the Debonair Dandy or some variation thereof that's just as pretentious-sounding if not more; people who like Del a little less than he likes himself might say something like Del the Dickish Devil; and finally, to a lot of his haters he's merely Del the Dirty Degenerate and little else.
In any case, there are still more words in the dictionary to describe the Fixer as he currently is: disarming, detached, deft, even dedicated and dependable for a glorified pimp such as he; and throughout his colorful career running the edge never was he, or ever will be, docile, doddering, domineering, or God forbid, disrespectful.
However, a recent, rueful twist of fate has brought 3D low, leaving him destitute and downtrodden – not unlike the way he once was when he first arrived in the City of Dreams.
D A Y S - G O N EThe son of Nomads Tyrone (“TJ”) and LaToya (“LJ”) Jenkins, Delroy or “DJ” as he was known back then ran jobs with his parents for the Steel Vaqueros as soon as he was barely tall enough to drive. Accusations of skimming got the Jenkinses kicked out of the Salinas-based Nomad Pack and forced the family of three to go to ground in Night City for lack of better places to go.
While losing one's childhood home was a massive pain in itself, even worse was seeing even the little love his parents used to have one another go away for good, and while they continued to live together out of habit, nothing the young Nomad did could ever make Tyrone and LaToya see eye to eye on anything ever again. Frustrated and tearful, Delroy gathered up all the eddies he had saved up to that point and left them for his parents with a note that read “I'm sorry I couldn't do anything to help,” then drove off into the night with Tyrone's battered Mahir Supron FS3.
The years that followed went by in a blur as he drove gigs for various Fixers and their motley teams, all the while making sure to never get himself caught in the crossfire whenever shit got down and got real as it often did. It was in the course of his driving career that he made the acquaintance of a Solo named Zhenya Makarova (nicknamed “the Mad Bitch” by The Street) as they often found themselves working together for different employers as wheelman and heavy, respectively. It was also around this time that he started playing cabbie to streetwalkers of all stripes as a side hustle between gigs.
While the Beast from the East relished the thrill of car chases and getting shot at, the more conflict-averse Nomad secretly hated being everyone and their mother's chauffeur of choice even though people kept telling him that driving was the one thing he was really good at. They were wrong, Del thought, for he believed deep down that a lot of the shit he kept finding himself in could've been smoothed over somehow if only everyone involved were to lower their weapons even for a moment to hear him out.
No longer interested in risking getting shot in the head for his trouble (Delroy observed that smarter enemies would often try gunning for the driver first), the Nomad began to ignore offers of gigs from his old employers in favor of driving sex workers from place to place, both independents and those attached to pimps or madams or sometimes even some high-end agency. He earned a lot less than he used to at first, until the idea came to him to help them “market” their “goods” to clients who could pay more in exchange for a significant cut of their earnings. The Night City creatures of the night were doubtful of Del at first, until some ladyboys who were regular passengers of his kept gushing about how the driver helped them score some high-paying johns who up until that time didn't realize they had a thing for chicks with dicks all along.
(to be continued)
M E M O R I E SZhenya "Zen" Makarova - Del's go-to gun thug like Del was her go-to wheelman back in the day. Works as Del's bodyguard when he meets with high-powered gangsters and corpos, as additional security during big occasions at his pleasure place, and as his enforcer during those times when words and offers just fail and all that's left to do is to unleash on those stupid schmucks the meanest and maddest bitch there is. Del has no idea what she does with her hard-earned eddies.
Del's Darlingz - Those escorts and entertainers knew what they were getting into when they joined Del's outfit of their own volition, he made sure of that. Those that survived the raid on the bordello have gone into hiding all over Night City and even beyond, and it shouldn't be too difficult for a Fixer like Del to find each and every one of them and reestablish ties once more.
G E A R & C Y B E R N E T I C S
"aka the shit I'm stuck with for now"
Agent - The most powerful tool in Del's arsenal, second only to his people skills. Allows him to surf and scan the Data Pool, record audio and video, and issue gigs to his associates among other things.
Disposable Cell Phones - For those times he doesn't want to be tracked.
Smart Glasses - Has a lot of uses, but in Del's case it's mostly for lipreading.
Del's Pimp Suit - Deliberately gaudy and ostentatious to conceal all that Kevlar® and plastic meshes woven into the fabric, but also because Del's so into Neokitsch being a pimp and all.
Del's Deadly Swagga Stick - Actually a Japanese cane-sword given by Shin Kanzaki as a token of friendship and gratitude.
Sanroo HelloCutie - Literally the gun Del had in hand when he fled his pimp palace, as he was thinking of new ways to promote the sassy sidearm to a wider audience just moments before; not exactly Del's preferred piece but it'll have to do for now.
The heat Del's packing.
"Da Pimpmobile" - Or so he insists on calling it. Del's current ride and mobile office, a rickety old Makigai MaiMai P126 obtained from an impound lot. Again, not his preferred choice of wheels; Del's OG Pimpmobile, a Herrera Outlaw GTS he left back at the palace, must've been stripped or stolen by now if not outright totaled.
I'm checking out the anime right now. No less than Cyberpunk's creator himself got on Reddit to say that the show "FUCKING NAILED IT". Not only that, there are people who aren't even the least bit into anime admitting to enjoying the show, so I suppose it has to be a really good place to start lore-wise.
