Yes, But... What if it was Shadowrun (Part 6)?

Like the other posts in what has become something of a series, this is not actually Shadowrun but relies on tropes from the setting for my home campaign. 

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The music in the ballroom pulsed like a living thing—deep, synthetic techno-bass threaded through with something almost orchestral, as if the past were being politely strangled by the future. Light cascaded from the chandeliers, reflecting against chrome limbs, subdermal implants, and cybernetic eyes that glowed faintly.

Raven stood at the edge of it all, a still point in a sea of motion.

The tuxedo, delivered to his rented room just hours earlier, along with an invitation that implied an offer of employment, fit him as though it had been tailored by magic rather than machine. It concealed much, but not everything. The faint crystalline dusting across his pale skin caught the light just enough to suggest something… other. Something not entirely of this world. His swords—subtly worked into the ensemble, disguised but not hidden—rested at his side like old friends who didn’t trust the room either.

He took a slow sip from his glass. The liquor was expensive.

Raven didn’t look around the room. He didn’t need to. Years of adventure had burned that habit into him—doors, windows, cameras, anything that could trap him or save him. The world had changed since 2012. The rules hadn’t.

The gala floor was a web of corporate loyalties, private grudges, encrypted communications flickering between implants. He could almost feel it, like the tension before a battlefield charge—only here, the weapons were quieter and the casualties less visible.

A woman passed by him, her spine blinking with soft blue lights beneath translucent fabric. Not fashion—data transfer. Two men near the bar weren’t drinking; their eyes flickering in practiced rhythms, checking the door, scanning the dance  floor, watching everyone all at once. The only question was whether they were corporate or private security.

And somewhere in all of it… Mr. or Mrs. Johnson.

Raven set the glass down on a passing tray without looking. His fingers flexed once, subtly. Old instincts. The kind that had kept him alive in places far worse than this—though perhaps not more treacherous.

A voice slipped in beside him, “You don’t look like you belong to anyone.” No accent. Perfect enunciation.

Raven didn’t startle. He turned his head just enough to regard the speaker.

The figure was perfectly composed—too perfectly. Female, brown hair, brown eyes, beautifully tailored black gown. Her attire walked the razor’s edge between timeless elegance and algorithmic precision. She radiated stillness. She did not sway as she stood. Her chest did not rise and fall with her breathing. Not a soldier. Not quite. Something else.

“Funny,” Raven replied, his tone quiet but edged. “I was just thinking the same.”

A faint smile.

“Then we understand each other already.”

There was a pause.

“You led a security team on a merry chase through Sector Twelve tonight," the figure said casually, eyes drifting to the dance floor as if discussing the music. “Three minutes, forty-two seconds of sustained misdirection before vanishing. Impressive.”

Raven didn’t react outwardly.

Inside, the calculation shifted.

“You’ve done your homework,” he said.

She replied, “I prefer to invest wisely.”

The woman finally looked at him directly.
“There is something in this city that does not belong to this world.”

That got his attention.
Not visibly—but deeply.

“I’ve been told,” the voice continued, “that you have… experience with such discrepancies.”

Raven’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.
“Depends on the discrepancy.”

The faint smile returned.

“A piece of technology,” the figure said, “that behaves less like a machine… and more like a gateway.”

Now the music seemed distant.

Raven turned fully to face them.
“Where?”

The answer came without hesitation.
“Somewhere even the corporations are afraid to map.”

The silence stretched between them.

“Will you take the job?”

Around them, the ballroom glittered and laughed and spun, oblivious.

Raven thought of the neighborhood waiting on that payout. Of the kids he’d sent into the night. Of the worlds he’d already walked through—and the cost of every one of them.

His hand brushed, briefly, against the hilt concealed beneath silk and shadow.

“…Tell me everything,” he said.