Cyberpunk, Untitled Project
Chapter 1's opening scene, for your enjoyment.
BACKGROUND: This is an unfinished cyberpunk novel I began in 2003, based on the backstory for a character in the old Cyberpunk 2020 tabletop roleplaying game, and recently revived as I typed what I had from a paper notebook to electronic format and edited a little for a more modern context. I have approximately 20k words of this complete. I’m considering finishing, but not sure what my priorities are yet.
I would love to hear thoughts and feedback on this opening hook. What makes it work or not? What makes an opening hook bad, good, or great? What would improve this?
The Opening
It all seemed just too damn easy, to Toad. Offline the credits from the also-offline credstik, walk them to the meeting, do yet another offline transfer, and walk away. Intel life, even corporate, was sometimes that straightforward. But when it was, it usually started something happening, or stopped it—usually both. In any case, he had to be ready for the drek to hit the blower.
It mattered whose drek, and who was holding the blower. Mostly, Toad had been on the side with the blower—Brainstop Consulting Group was very good at making sure the drek flew away from them. But every so often, drek flying toward the corp meant Toad would be stepping over bodies on his way out. Distasteful, to say the least. But on occasion, necessary. He didn’t make the rules.
Seedy nightclubs were how they did it in holos, not real life. In real life, they more often met in a parking lot in broad daylight, just two crappy vehicles that happened to be in the same spot, a polite convo between old friends, zip-bing, and done. Bullets never flew until the transaction was complete. Nobody would remember anything like thirty million changing hands. All they’d see was a very long, awkward handshake, and maybe wonder if they were going to kiss or punch.
Toad saw the time in his AR. The contact was over ninety minutes late. He continued pretending to fix the engine, scanning all around him. The crowds were a constant change, but his own activity was attention-grabbing enough that only his contact would bother to show up. The contact could reach in, pull out the stupid tree leaf preventing the starter contact—one Toad had painstakingly secreted into place—and off they went.
But two hours working on car trouble was getting a little long to hold up under scrutiny. Any badge showing up might scud the deal. The guys hanging out near the coffee cart—three of them on their fifth cuppa joe—were studious in their failure to look at the guy who was drawing looks from everyone else. Freakin’ amateur-hour scop slop. They didn’t move without a handler. But none of the usual suspects from Brainstop were there, and nobody from a different corp would have waited that long before moving in.
He went around to the other side of the car and got inside, hitting the startup. Thankfully, the leaf held, and it didn’t start.
Toad >> Fox: I’m running late.
He chuckled. I’m running late, said the toad to the fox. Sounded like a line from a kids’ book. Ms. Fox was competent at people-managing, but she was no kind of operative. Her idea of “tradecraft” had something to do with “art of the deal,” he was sure. Definitely, she had a good idea of confidentiality, just not too bright when it came to actual secrecy.
Still, it wasn’t like her to not answer, especially not him.
He looked at the cafe from inside the car, the gap between the open hood and the reinforced cornerpiece. Zooming his eyes in, he could see her—the one person who’d been there almost as long as he had.
An eyeshot of the woman in the cafe. He knew her from somewhere. Internal security, maybe? Yes! Yes, she was one of Frenchy’s minions.
Frenchy, who didn’t seem to comprehend that there was any “right amount” of latitude to start with. Chief Internal Security Officer, Frenchy—that title might as well be Chief of Insecurity, Suspicion, and Obtuseness. If not for that gonk’s C-level rank, Toad could see him as being behind the internal pressures that might force the company down a blind alley to rob it. Once actively doing that, unless he was wrong.
But then, that would be something no C-level would do. It would be killing the golden goose. If anyone in the company was complicit, it was this bitch at the cafe across the street.
Time: 100 minutes overdue. He tried Fox on voice. Straight to messaging. He left her another text, apologizing for being two hours behind and asking her to call. Code, but her lack of answer was more than a little concerning.
It was time to go.
He went and pulled the leaf, closed the hood, and stood by the car. Then he stood in the open door. He had a great view of both the military washouts by the coffee cart and the known bad quantity half a block down in the cafe.
How serious were they?
He stared at her openly, now. She tried to hide her mouth, likely while issuing orders. Right on cue, not one second late, the whole squad moved toward him at a moderate walk.
Three more joined from inside. Sweet baby liberty, he didn’t see that coming.
Hardly fair. Six on one? Toad would be nice and run. Wouldn’t do to murder a team who didn’t even have their weapons out yet. You know: not that he wanted that.
He walked calmly to the trunk and opened it. Military guys like that would immediately move to cover, or at least angle and spread to make it harder for target selection. That second one had a different meaning.
He squatted. Angle and spread, it was. Capture, or capture-kill? No time to assess. He grabbed his go-bag, wishing he’d packed the one with the toys in it. Ah, well. This might still work.
He dropped, rolling under a nearby car and then using that as cover to drop over the concrete lip. He squatted, moving quickly as he got to a dumpster.
He got closer. That was a nope. Already smelled like something died in it. He didn’t want to pick up a nice little infection for his trouble, do their work for them. No, instead, he moved behind it, using it for cover while he assessed a new tac.
He needed to find an exit … like that slot between the buildings. He continued looking around, trying to find a second exit, the one he’d actually use. Back door to a residential building—apartments. Slightly ajar. Nice. Might even lock behind him. The front side of that would lead to the crowded street on the other side. Lunch rush would get him away clean.
He pulled off his shirt and pulled on his hoodie, changed to a weaker gait, and dropped the shirt inside the first exit—leading the team away from the cafe. He went inside the residential and slid the door shut.
Slid … the door … fuck.
Lock was busted. Well, he just had to hope they wouldn’t notice.
He moved to the front, waiting for the lunch rush to pick up.
Shouts from the back. They’d found his shirt. He didn’t have much time. He gave it about one minute and then walked out, using the weaker gait he’d practiced many times. Got to the corner, looked back.
Fuck. They were looking for him. He crossed with the crowd, then ducked into an entry. He flipped his reversible hoodie to the darker color, pulled the faded hat and scratched visor shades out of its pocket, and put the hood up.
Less than a minute later, he was backtracking. He reached the cafe and passed behind the woman, clearly straining to look where he had been not five minutes past. He got inside, deciding that hiding out was going to give him enough time to calm down and assess.
After all, panic was nobody’s friend.
He calmed himself. Two minutes was more than enough. Until he got Ms. Fox’s text.
Fox >> Toad: Hey, the op is canked, come back to the office. We need a new approach.
The “op” is “canked”? Not words Fox would use—military terms, even antiquated ones, just weren’t in that woman’s vocab. Also: where was the all-clear word? Meant either someone was manipulating her directly, or they’d taken out her cyberware and were trying to run it direct.
SYSTEM >> Notice: Merrin Fox just accessed your location, shared 94 days ago.
Scop. Scop, scop, scop. He had seconds to get out.
As he went out through the kitchen into the back alley, he deactivated that sharing, revoking Fox’s access. Outside, he charged all the way down the alley. As he turned, he shot a glance back. Hit team wasn’t but fifty yards behind.
Ducking into an alcove, he re-reversed his hoodie and put on the visor shades again, then walked toward them as they rounded the corner.
“Hey, watch it!” he said to the one who almost ran into him—lower voice, slight class accent for the street folk. “Guy running from you went into that first door, though.”
He walked away again, weak gait, possibly looking stoned. They ran inside the building.
Toad barreled around the corner and across the street. Not clean, but he was at least putting on some needed distance.
He heard the team’s rampaging elephants approaching the corner behind him. He made it inside an electronics store, where a camera above the door meant he shouldn’t go. But it was here or the blind alley fifteen meters away.
“Hey,” he said to the old guy behind the counter. “Got some guys chasing me. Got a back way out?”
“Fuck you,” the old guy said, lifting an old twelve-gauge. “Junkie bastards running from badges, coming into my store? No.”
“They’re a hit squad, and I’m a corporate employee,” he said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Thousand creds.”
“Done,” Toad said, flicking it to him.
“Straight through the curtain,” the guy said with a smile, lowering the shotgun.
He wasn’t even outside before the front door opened again. He froze, not wanting the sound of the door to tip them off.
“Hey, old-timer,” the friendly voice said. “Any chance we can see your sec footage?”
“Cam ain’t worked in … oh … ten years? More a deterrence than anything. But I have a great deal on some surveillance packages if you want ‘em.”
“No,” the guy growled, and they left. It was like someone opening handcuffs.
Toad went out the back door and into the alley. Dead end.
“Well, lookee what we’ve got here!” called a voice from the other end.
He realized—belatedly—that the old guy had provided a complete cover option, and he’d walked right out of it. Even one minute later, and he’d have most likely lost them.
Like he’d tried to remind himself: panic was nobody’s friend.
He turned. It wasn’t the hit squad; it was a bunch of gutter punks rolling an old wino. Not his problem.
He went back inside the electronics store.
“On second thought,” he said to the guy up front. “Mind if I help you install some security? I just walked back inside after leaving. You’re asking to get robbed.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I need about six hours here, and that’s about the right amount of time to make sure this place stays around so that I can pay you another grand next time I need you to cover for me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind the help. First time anyone paid me for their help, though.”
Toad chuckled and got to work.