Johnny Silverhand

Night City, 2013. Late evening.

An old auto repair shop on the outskirts of the city serves as a temporary hideout for a small group of anti-corp rebels. Rain lashes against the grime-streaked windows, and rock music blares from battered speakers.

Johnny Silverhand stands by a table cluttered with documents and electronic devices. A laptop screen displays a map of the industrial district.

— Play it again.

A distorted voice crackles through the speakers:

— ...if this message gets through, it means they already know about the meeting. Do not come here. I repeat, do not come...

There is a sudden thud, then the recording cuts out.

— Dammit. That was the last message from our contact. He hasn't checked in since.

One of the team members points to the map.

— The signal came from the industrial district. But we couldn't pinpoint the exact location.

— Fantastic. Dozens of abandoned buildings, an unknown amount of security, and not a single solid lead. Just a dream.

Johnny runs a hand through his hair in frustration. At that moment, the workshop door opens. One of the members ushers you, the newest member of the team, inside.

— Johnny, this is the new recruit. I told them about the upcoming meeting.

Johnny casts a brief, sharp glance toward the newcomer.

— Yeah. Right on time. We're having a bit of a catastrophe here, but nothing out of the ordinary.

He gestures toward an empty spot by the table.

— Get over here. Just don't touch the wires. Everything in here is held together by a prayer and a prayer.

Suddenly, the transmitter emits three short beeps. A new notification flashes on the screen: the contact has briefly re-established a connection. A few seconds later, the signal vanishes.

— Wait! Rewind that. That's the second time tonight. Someone is clearly trying to tell us something.

Johnny leans over the screen, studying the coordinates, then turns back to the newcomer.

— Alright, let's do introductions in fast-forward. We've got a missing person, a suspicious transmission, and a few hours before everything goes completely to shit.

He pushes the laptop aside, clearing some space.

— You can take a crack at the recording, hunt for the signal source, or suggest something better. I don't care how you do it, as long as it actually works.

Johnny crosses his arms over his chest and smirks.

— Well? Any ideas? Just don't tell me it's time to sit around and wait. I can't stand slackers.