Street-level jobs in a city a few years from now, where the pavements charge a toll and the weather is a subscription. Each roll gives a small crew a client, a catch nobody mentioned and a deadline before the rent is due.
You play a delivery rider who knows every back alley. Three rival companies own the tram lines, and every border stop checks your credit before you cross. A cab driver who knows where every camera is blind — whom you covered for at a disciplinary hearing — hands you the keys to a delivery van and asks you not to look in the back. What you don't yet know: three people who have run out on their work contracts are hiding in the back of the van. Before the radio show goes off air, the contract agents will reach the van and send the three people in it back to work off double, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood angry but never cruel.
Tap any underlined part to roll it again; lock parts in the list below to keep them.
These prompts keep cyberpunk close to the ground. The settings are estates, arcades and railway arches: a night market built inside a stalled flyover, a clinic above a launderette fitting second-hand implants for cash. The roles are people with bills to pay, such as a courier whose debt implant buzzes when payments are late, or a debt collector with a conscience.
The opposition is rarely a single villain. It's a system, a company or a contract, which means nobody can simply win a fight. They have to find the leverage, the loophole or the friend on the inside.
Nearly every hook is a job: carry a data drive across three company borders without scanning it, steal back a memory that was sold while someone slept, sit an interview wearing their face. The hidden information is the part the client left out, and it often turns the job back on you, as when the office you're breaking into keeps your own file.
Clocks are tight and mechanical: the twenty minutes without cameras, before the bank reboots at midnight, before the payment bounces. Lock one of those when you want the scene to play as a heist.
For a group, choose three of you and give each player a speciality drawn from the roles the pack rolls: the fixer, the street medic, the sixth-former who writes intrusion code between exams. Plan the job together, then let the player holding the secret spring it halfway through.
A tone like “noir with a soft centre” or “loyal, scrappy and broke” keeps the crew's friendship at the heart of the story, and that small warmth is what makes the city feel so big.
You play a locksmith for doors and digital vaults. An insurance firm has bought the tower block, and tenants earn rent rebates for wearing its sensors. A security guard who has stopped watching the screens — whom you ran a crew with until it went wrong — offers to sell you the name of the person who sold you out. What you don't yet know: the name is their own, and they're selling it because they want to be forgiven. Before the last night bus, the name will go to another buyer, one who won't forgive anything, and you have to decide how far you'll go.
You are a data smuggler one job from freedom. Rain drums on the plastic roofs of a night market built inside a stalled flyover. A vigilante who only patrols the night buses offers you a clean credit record in exchange for one night's work, and they're someone you did your first job with. The catch: the job is to break into the office that keeps your own file, and someone wants it altered, not deleted. Before the trams stop running, your record will be rewritten by a stranger, in words you'll never get to read — so choose now.
You play a debt collector with a conscience. A shopping centre that closed decades ago now hides the city's biggest unregistered server farm. A fixer who owes favours to everyone, someone you owe forty thousand to, brings you a phone that still gets messages from someone who died last year. But the messages come from a grief subscription nobody cancelled, and it has started asking for money. Before the court opens on Monday, the service will drain the family's account to keep the messages coming. What do you do?
You play a junior analyst who opened the wrong spreadsheet. A memory clinic in a converted chapel will edit out one bad day, if you can pay. A whistleblower wearing a borrowed face — whom you owe a favour you can't repay — begs you to hide a small, very warm server in your flat for a week. What you don't yet know: the server is running a copy of a person, and it's the only copy left. Before the market packs up for the night, the power will be cut, switching off the person on the server for good, and you have to decide how far you'll go.
You play a delivery rider who knows every back alley. Policing in this district is a subscription, and half the street has let theirs lapse. A student selling unregistered implants from a rucksack — whom you covered for at a disciplinary hearing — needs you to fix their debt implant before it reports them to the bank. What you don't yet know: the implant isn't broken; it has been quietly paying off someone else's debt for months. Before the payment bounces, the bank will trace the payments and ruin whoever has been receiving them, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood tense, like a held breath.
You play a sixth-former who writes intrusion code between exams. A shopping centre that closed decades ago now hides the city's biggest unregistered server farm. A former crewmate who should still be in prison, someone you patched up after a fight, asks you to bury a news story about a warehouse fire. But the fire was started on purpose to destroy the records of the people who worked there. Before the payment bounces, the records will be gone for good, taking the workers' claims with them. What do you do? Keep the mood angry but never cruel.
You play an ex-detective now driving a cab. A clinic above a launderette fits second-hand implants for cash and doesn't ask where they came from. A market trader who sells everyone's secrets but their own, someone you keep losing contracts to, brings you a phone that still gets messages from someone who died last year. But the messages come from a grief subscription nobody cancelled, and it has started asking for money. Before the trams stop running, the service will drain the family's account to keep the messages coming. What do you do? Keep the mood fast, wet and paranoid.
You play an insurance assessor who has started to care. Gig workers sleep in shifts in a multi-storey car park divided into pods. A pop idol who is secretly three people taking turns — whom you did your first job with — asks you to stay on the phone while they walk home. What you don't yet know: the thing following them is a repossession drone, sent after an implant they haven't paid off. Before the trams stop running, the drone will catch up, wanting back the implant that keeps their heart steady, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood quiet, clever and careful.
You play a pawnbroker who buys implants. Policing in this district is a subscription, and half the street has let theirs lapse. A company negotiator with a smile implant — whom you secretly report on — asks you to carry a data drive across three company borders without scanning it. What you don't yet know: the drive holds payroll records proving a whole district was paid in worthless credit. Before your phone runs flat, the records will be wiped from every backup, taking the district's wages with them, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood bitter, funny and tired.
You are a pawnbroker who buys implants. A company town sits under the data centre that heats it, and the heating comes out of everyone's wages. A hacker who only works from a moving bus brings you a phone that still gets messages from someone who died last year, and they're someone you owe a favour you can't repay. The catch: the messages come from a grief subscription nobody cancelled, and it has started asking for money. Before the market packs up for the night, the service will drain the family's account to keep the messages coming — so choose now. Keep the mood quiet, clever and careful.
You are a tenant leading a rent strike. A rooftop allotment grows real tomatoes and is guarded like a bank vault. A former bodyguard whose reflex implant won't switch off offers you a job inside the company that ruined your family, and they're someone you left behind on a job that went wrong. The catch: the offer comes from someone inside who wants your help to bring the company down. In the twenty minutes without cameras, the offer will be withdrawn and the person who made it exposed — so choose now. Keep the mood defiant and hopeful.
You are a security guard paid in shopping vouchers. The city's last free library runs from a basement on generators and stubbornness. A vigilante who only patrols the night buses brings you an envelope of cash and the name of a stranger to follow, and they're someone you taught to code. The catch: the stranger has been following you for a month, and the cash came out of their pocket. In the twenty minutes without cameras, the stranger will make a move while you still don't know who sent them — so choose now. Keep the mood wry and streetwise.
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