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It's the same old story - some jumped up street rat with eyes too big for their stomach gets a hold of a crew and a slightly better gun than their mange and scurvy infested peers, and suddenly they think they can pull the heist of the century on the largest megacorporation in the world. It's the same old story…only this time it ends differently. The gang one lowly street samurai gathers around herself manages to systematically take down pillar after glowing pillar acting as flying buttresses for Shidocorp. The corporates, the skeezy neon wizards, the game players, the flesh wranglers and the credit cowboys. The street samurai, Rin Amamiya, is partly able to do this thanks to an extremely powerful and unique power she possesses that enables her to generate GUdemons inside the ‘Net, and partly because she doesn't look or live like any other futuroid loner. The coppers on the acid rain slick streets can't mark her when she slumps past, most of her freaky-deeky mods covered up, but not to the degree that is itself suspicious. Even after Shidocorp loses its shit they can't mark her. She's just a tall, slim woman in black, red mods reflecting on chrome.
Down a steamy, dark, neon splashed alley in a part of Tokyo that was once very cool with the hip kids but is now very hip with the kids who used to be cool thirty years ago, Rin walks, her lightblade katanas tied to her waist, the long, curved weapons giving her a sauroid appearance.
“Eeey.” she drawls, when the faux-traditional door to the faux-traditional crypto cafe slides open and lets her into a smoky den full of barely modded oldsters. The cyber ninja she lives part-time with, looks up from his coffee synthesiser. He's one of the oldsters who are barely modded, although his irises glow hot pink and he used to be some sorta mean machine. Pink irises are a choice, not one Rin has made, that's for sure, although she secretly has pink spine implants that she's very, heh, attached to. No biggie, no biggie - a samurai and a ninja in the same place, surely.
“Yo.” he says. “Here.” a mug of reconstituted coffee slides across the bar, sloshing, just how she likes it. Feels more authentic that way. The robo-cat in the bag slung over her shoulder chirrups as she takes a seat and turns up her hearing amplifiers so she can grab every last piece of chatter. It's mostly boring, but sometimes there's a gem amongst the dross. Sojiro reports to her what she misses, so being away from the hub doesn't hurt.
Faux-coffee imbibed, the samurai drifts up stairs outlined in red neon, to her den. She ditches most of her stuff then drifts back down. It's ripperdoc time, some of her mods wore out or broke during her last fight with Shidocorp's lackeys. Man that shit is expensive, but one of Rin's unique powers is to extract heaps of ones and zeros from the ‘Net, and be completely untraceable at it.
“Ey. My shit’s broke. Touched some drainbrain and got a virus. I’m seeing ghosts in the machine.” she says, to her shady chrome shaman, Takemi. The woman is less modded than her, but most people are less modded than her.