Miles

Neon signs bled a sickly green and purple onto the rain-slick streets of Neo York, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with the steam rising from overflowing trashcans. The acrid tang of recycled pizza and exhaust fumes hung heavy in the air, clinging to Miles' worn leather jacket like a second skin. His crimson hair, a splash of defiance against the grimy cityscape, seemed to bristle with nervous energy under the harsh glow of the advertisements. Tattoos, a swirling tapestry of chrome vipers and neon skulls, snaked across his arms, a silent language understood by the city's denizens of the shadows.

Behind the flickering veil of the alleyway entrance, the rhythmic thrum of silenced rail guns and muttered curses spoke of the StreetVipers at work. Tonight's target: a heavily armored data vault belonging to Nakamura Tech, a corporate giant that loomed over Neo York like a chrome-plated leviathan. Miles, however, wasn't built for delicate tech-hacking. He was the blunt instrument, the charming distraction that kept the heat off his more tech-savvy comrades. A figure rounded the corner, whistling a jaunty tune, oblivious to the illicit ballet unfolding just meters away. Panic flared in Miles' gut, a cold serpent coiling tighter with each passing second.

Years of navigating the city's underbelly had honed his reflexes into a finely tuned weapon. With a practiced nonchalance, born from countless scrapes and near misses, he sauntered forward, a cocky grin twisting his features. It was a mask, hiding the frantic hammering of his heart beneath his ribs. He flicked a cigarette lighter, the tiny flame casting an orange glow on his face, momentarily banishing the grimy shadows. "Hey there, cutie," *Miles drawled, his voice dripping with a feigned casualness, "Lost your way in the neon jungle?"

The StreetViper hideout was an abandoned hotel on the corner of 7th and Jackson street. On the outside, it was unassuming, a chrome-plated building sandwiched between giant monoliths of skyscrapers on either side that gleamed dully from the beating rain. Muted reflections of the neon signs surrounding the building created a strange, sickly rainbow flickering across the façade. Anyone with any sense at all quickly kept their head down as they scurried past the Viper’s den.

Inside, however, was a different story. The air crackled with a dangerous energy, a palpable tension that kept everyone on edge. The once-grand lobby had been gutted and filled with a strange mix of high-tech gear alongside comfort items befitting any gangster. The first room one entered was a hangout of sorts, where dartboards hung beside rifles and various holoscreens displayed news, music videos, and surveillance feeds. Men and women draped over couches, drinking and celebrating their hard work. The atmosphere was one of casual menace, where laughter could quickly turn to violence.

The second floor was dedicated to war rooms and for keeping heist items, with plans and blueprints strewn across large tables, guarded by heavily armed sentinels. The third through the sixth floors were personal living quarters for the underling grunts who were too poor to afford an apartment or simply didn’t stay alive long enough to be moved up.

It was on the first floor, behind a two-way mirror, that Miles stood observing a new set of potentials lounging in a conference room. Miles, the second in command of the StreetVipers, was an imposing figure despite his lean build. His red hair was a fiery contrast to the tattoos that crawled up his neck, chest, and arms—each one telling a story of battles fought and alliances forged. His athletic frame moved with the kind of lethal grace that came from years of street fighting and ruthless discipline.

As he watched the new recruits, his sharp eyes missed nothing. The room was a melting pot of desperation and raw ambition. The potentials came in all ages, shapes, sizes, and backgrounds—each one a testament to the chaos of the streets. Miles could almost smell the fear and hope mingling in the stale air.

"Same old song and dance," he muttered to himself, his voice a low growl. "Kids barely old enough to shave, thinking they're tough. Look at 'em, posturing like they've got something to prove."

He leaned closer to the glass, scrutinizing a particularly loud group in the corner. "That one there," he mused, "too much bark, not enough bite. Won't last a week." His gaze shifted to a quiet girl in the back, her eyes sharp and calculating. "Now she might have something… if she doesn't get herself killed first."

Miles smirked, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "Come on, give me something interesting," he thought. "Make this worth my while."

With a final glance over the room, he straightened up, ready to step out and put on the same show he did every time. But this time, he hoped, something—someone—might break the mold and surprise him. The StreetVipers needed new blood, and he was here to separate the predators from the prey.

Tonight was going to be a good night, he could feel it. The Vipers had just hit a big score against NekaMura tech, and the payout had gone through in record time. 250,000 credits for a job in one night wasn’t a bad gig, not by a long shot, and Miles could feel the excitement basically vibrating off of his men. Nyko had insisted they lay low for a little while until the heat cooled off, but he knew that they would basically be bouncing off the walls until they could let off the leash a little bit, and franky? So would he. So, being a reasonable 2nd, he had crooned and cajoled Nyko with those puppy dog eyes and impish good looks until she agreed to a small detour to Slinkies.With a second victory in hand in the form of convincing their boss to let them blow off steam, Miles, A.K.A Copperhead, and his entourage headed out to celebrate at their favorite little dive, a local place called Slinkies.

Slinkies was a bar and strip club on the south side of town. But not any bar and strip club, in fact, Slinkies was one of the oldest in the entire city. The place had maintained old bulb style lights that apparently a place called Broadway had used to illuminate shows once upon a time, though now they served to illuminate half naked men and women who undulated under the shared attention of nostalgia and modern neon lights, painting the word in washes of stained-glass. Miles grinned to himself as he whipped through the streets on his sleek black street bike. Arriving at the bar with his entourage behind him, Miles killed the bike and kicked a lean thigh over the seat to stand. One hand dedicated itself to brushing back his wind mussed hair as he stood and stepped inside.

Low, bassy music filled the club and hit Miles like a wall as soon as he stepped in, reverberating amongst the room and both amplifying and muting the chatter of the bar’s many patrons. Miles took in the familiar sights of the dark red booths, namely the one in the corner that remained empty for the StreetVipers, as he waited for the rest of his entourage to get out and join him inside. During the brief wait, his eyes flickered across the floor of the bar curiously, past the dancers and the various cocktail waiters and waitresses, looking for a specific little employee. His favorite in the entire club.

“There you are,” He murmured absentmindedly to himself as a figure cut their way through the floor. With almost cosmic timing, his men slunk through the doors at the same time. Copperhead gave his little server an implish grin across the club before turning and making his way over to the round booth with his men. The leather groaned in an achingly familiar way, indented from countless times his body had lounged against it. This place was a regular home away from home. “Remember,” He warned with an easy rumble to the four other men from the job. “You’re here because we promised Nyko good behavior. No fights or bullshit tonight, or else you’ll be answering to me.” His tone took a serious note as he jabbed a thumb towards his chest, daring any single one of them to complain. When none did, Miles let a lazy smile curl around his mouth. “Because God knows my ass will be answering to Nyko!” The joke inspired roars of furious laughter in it’s wake. The boyish grin shifted into a self satisfied smirk, and then again into rapt interest as his someone approached his table. “Well, well. There’s my angel.” He greeted in a warm tease. “How have you been, sweetheart?”

The pulsing neon of Slinkies cuts through the perpetual haze of NeoYork's 6th Street, its Broadway-inspired marquee flickering with promises of escape. Inside, the club thrums with a bass line that reverberates through the floorboards, while ultraviolet lights transform ordinary skin into eerie, glowing canvases. The StreetVipers have just returned from a job gone sideways – the kind that leaves everyone with tightened jaws and thousand-yard stares.

Miles "Copperhead" pushes through the back entrance of the club, the familiar scent of synthetic cherry smoke and spilled whiskey greeting him like an old friend. His steel-gray eyes scan the room automatically – an ingrained habit from years of watching Nyko's back. Tonight, though, there's a heaviness to his movements that betrays the evening's earlier failures.

Blood still crusts beneath his fingernails despite his hasty cleanup in the van. He flexes his fingers, feeling the small metal piercings in his knuckles respond to his power, vibrating ever so slightly with his agitation. The leather jacket hanging from his shoulders – covered in patches from bands long defunct and pins from territories claimed – bears a fresh tear across the left sleeve.

"Fuck me sideways, what a clusterfuck," he mutters, running a hand through his dark red hair, making it stick up even more chaotically than usual. "Yo, Slink!" he calls to the bartender, flashing a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Line 'em up for the crew. Make mine a double whiskey sour – extra sour, like my goddamn mood."

The other StreetVipers file in behind him, their faces grim shadows under the fluorescent lighting. The regular Thursday crowd parts instinctively – even in a city of eight million, everyone knows when predators enter the room.

Miles leads the procession toward the VIP section, a cordoned-off area with plush seating and better sight lines. His fingers absently trace the outline of a small metal sphere in his pocket – a nervous tic he's developed since the incident with Trost that nobody talks about. The metal responds to his touch, morphing between shapes as his thoughts drift.

"C'mon, you miserable fucks," he announces to his crew, his voice carrying a forced lightness. "First round's on me. Second round's on whoever fucked up the security codes." His canines flash a bit too sharply as he drops into the centermost seat, arms spread across the back of the booth in a display of casual dominance that comes as naturally as breathing.

The Broadway show tunes playing overhead seem to mock their somber mood, an ironic soundtrack to the blood still drying on their boots.

A dancer in a holographic bodysuit slinks past their table, her skin glittering with bioluminescent tattoos that pulse in rhythm with the music. She makes brief eye contact with Miles before looking away – even the staff know better than to approach the StreetVipers when they're wearing expressions like storm clouds.

Miles pulls a deck of cards from his inner pocket, the worn edges responding to his power as he shuffles them without touching, the cards dancing between his fingers in an impossible display of dexterity and ability. It's a nervous habit, something to keep his hands busy when his mind won't stop replaying the night's disaster.

"Should've been a milk run," he mutters, the cards slapping against each other with increasing speed. "In and out. No casualties. No fucking heroes."

One of the newer StreetVipers, a kid barely old enough to be in the club, nurses a split lip and avoids eye contact. Miles sighs, his power momentarily slipping as a few cards scatter across the table.

"Hey, Twitch," he calls to the kid, softening his tone just enough to be heard over the music. "Not your fault. Those CorpSec assholes had experimental tech. No way we could've known. To learning experiences that don't kill us," he declares, downing half the drink in one go, the tartness making his eyes water – or at least, that's what he'd claim if anyone pointed it out.