Stealth-ish

They crept together along the hallway, the muffled sounds of gunfire growing steadily louder as they approached the door at the end of it. Johnny had takeb point, Malorian held out in front of him, his finger was on the trigger—undisciplined, but then Silverhand never was one for discipline. Upon reaching the door, Silverhand turned his head and placed his ear against the door's smooth, metallic surface.

Alt placed a hand on his shoulder. "They behind it?"

"Nah, one more room over at least, the sound of it. Could be wrong, though."

"And if you are?"

Silverhand cocked the Malorian, gave her a derisive look, then went to open the door. It slid open to reveal a backstage area where a large table lay shattered into several pieces on the ground, chairs strewn about all around it, three bodies dotted about the place in various states of damage. He stepped through and did a slow, clumsy sweep; you could see the echoes of what they'd drilled into him back in the army, but it was sluggish in places. Unrefined. Silverhand was an ageing mutt who'd gone so long without a master he'd started forgetting bits and pieces of his training; now he more likely to piss on the carpet and chew up the furniture than he was to go fetch, or walk dutifully on the end of a leash somebody else was holding. Alt watched him go about his routine, coming in behind him and inspecting one of the corpses. He looked like he'd been a member of the venue's staff, he wore a black t-shirt with the name of the place on it, and a little bit of iron that might charitably be described as a pea-shooter clutched in his right hand. A faint plume of smoke drifted gently from the barrel, and a few feet away a misshapen slug lay on the floor. The man had been shot too many times to count, the first half dozen were easily enough to kill him, the rest were just...target practice? Sadism? Alt wasn't so sure she wanted to find out. "We good?" She folded her arms.

"We're good. Looks to me like The Three Stooges over here all killed each other. Better for us that way, saves bullets. Alt's brow furrowed. "This our fault, Johnny? This...mine? All of this, I mean," She gestured at the ruined room around them. "Buddy boy back there and his pals...they're here for me. Makes it my fault, when you get right down to it."

"We ain't gettin' right down to it, Alt. We got attacked. Venue security weren't up to snuff, now they're the ones gettin' snuffed. It's Night City, just the way it goes sometimes."
Alt nodded, running her left hand through her hair. Next, she went over to the last man, similarly outfitted to the first, but wearing light armourjack over his staff shirt. His feet were brushing against a pile of cardboard boxes stacked high and packed with electrical components, almost flush with the section of concrete wall behind. Alt turned and lowered herself into a squat, running her white chrome hand over the single red spot where the killing shot had struck him through the throat. "Sorry, Choom," she muttered. "Wasn't your day, in the end." She let the silence sit for a scant few seconds, feeling Johnny's gaze boring into her as they ticked on by. "Not to cut short your moment, Alt...but we really oughta keep movin', no tellin' where the next hired gun's gonna pop out of—"

"HEY!" Johnny looked up at a point somewhere behind Alt, already raising the Malorian to train it on the speaker even as she heard a set of heavy footsteps coming up behind her. "Shi—" she began, cut off by the sensation of a rough hand on the small of her back. Alt went to get to her feet, and in the commotion the hand scrabbled for something to grab onto, landing on the first thing it found—Alt's skimpy white panties. "Johnny! Fuck!" Alt tried to turn, metal fingers curled into a fist and ready to punch the attacker's lights out, but he caught it in a heavy steel palm and drove all the momentum right out of the swing, while with the other hand he hauled her to her feet in the worst way possible: the other hand, just as metal as the first, went far down enough to enclose fully around the left leg hole of Alt's panties, causing that side to ride up a little. She winced, feeling a soft, round moon escape the confines of the underwear and come to rest against the coarse denim of her jeans. There was a split second where she thought that might be the end of it, but he clearly wasn't done.

Alt locked eyes with Johnny, lips slightly parted in confusion, right before the goon—unthinkably, ridiculously, mortifyingly—yanked the snug white panties of Alteria Cunningham up through her ass crack like a credit card through a reader. Immediately, confusion turned to indignation turned to humiliation. For the second time that night she was being manhandled by someone other than her man. That stung badly enough, but the bunched up length of white synth-cotton now wedged most of the way up her butt stung worse. It had caught her front, too, lips devouring the fabric and keeping it suspended among the warm, pink folds of her pussy. Alt whimpered—she hated the sound, all high-pitched and whiny, hated herself almost as much for making it—and pressed both sets of fingers to the crotch of her jeans.