Downstairs, at an Asian food stall lit by red lanterns labeled "Dark Night Street," two figures had clearly been waiting for a while.
"Lucky! You're way too slow!"
Jackie slapped his thigh and shouted.
V was already sitting in a chair, smiling at him without the slightest hint of irritation. "Wanna grab something to eat?"
"Ah, sorry—I was watching the news. V, you alright? Feeling off?" Roqi sat down and turned to the vendor. "Xiaolongbao and sushi, to go."
"Nothing major. Might've caught a mild case of poisoning." V waved it off.
"Hop in. We'll talk in the car," Jackie said, dragging Roqi—still holding his so-called breakfast—into the ride V had just gotten repaired. "I scored us a big job."
V, in the driver's seat, kept his tone measured. "Jackie, we haven't even met the guy yet. Don't get ahead of yourself."
"Heh." Jackie scratched the back of his head, sheepish. "Dexter DeShawn—Night City's top-tier fixer. No offense to Padre or Wakako, but this guy's a legend."
"Been off the grid for two years. Just now resurfaced," V added, clearly cautious of a fixer who came out of nowhere.
Compared to the more carefree Jackie, V usually liked checking in with Roqi—who was even more careful than he was.
"T-BUG made the connect, but I still feel like something's off," V said. "You know how fixers are. Always scouting for fresh meat, lowest bidder, then dumping your corpse in a landfill."
"You're just overthinking it, V," Jackie said with a shrug. "We've made a name for ourselves. It's only natural someone would come knocking."
"No, Jackie. You're dead wrong this time."
The moment Roqi heard that name, a vivid image popped into his head—a three-hundred-pound black guy, decked in gold chains, rocking the tacky '2077 nouveau riche' look of a thug-turned-baller.
And the sirens that would soon blare through Arasaka Tower.
Then something clicked.
"The lockdown in Watson…" Roqi's eyes sharpened. "It wasn't because of gangs."
"Huh? What're you talking about, Lucky?"
Jackie looked puzzled. How had they gone from talking fixers to lockdown conspiracies?
"Relic… No, forget it." Roqi shook his head. It was still just speculation. No point throwing it out now.
He leaned over and clapped V on the shoulder. "V, listen to me carefully. When you meet that fat bastard—only believe what you see. Don't trust anything else he says."
"Why?" Even V looked surprised. "You know him?"
A fixer hiding out for two years then suddenly reappearing—that did raise alarms. V instinctively trusted Roqi's read on the situation.
Roqi's instincts were sharper than either of theirs when it came to calls like this.
"No, I don't know him…" Roqi said, gripping the food wrapper but not taking a bite. "But I do know this—no matter how powerful a fixer seems, they're just foxes. Only the corps—the ones holding national power and economic lifelines—are the real hunters with shotguns."
He looked at V and the confused Jackie, his gaze drifting out of focus.
In his ears echoed Johnny Silverhand's final scream. In his mind, the image of a ruined body turned to fire. In this city—this world—no matter how history turns, capital always wins.
Brutal as hell.
Like a silent, pitch-black comedy.
"Hey, hey, Lucky—you good?" Jackie asked, waving his hand in front of Roqi's face, startled by the sudden shift in tone.
"It's pronounced 'Lah,' not 'Loo.' Come on—L-U-C-K-Y!"
Roqi rolled his eyes, roasting Jackie's Spanish accent with a savage smirk.
They rolled up to the corner of Bradbury and Brawn Streets. Behind the glass windows, dancers—male and female—were twisting around poles.
Roqi had zero interest. Especially the dudes flaunting too much skin—he nearly tossed his xiaolongbao in disgust.
"When Vik finishes your tune-up, come find us. We'll check out what Dexter's offering."
Jackie walked into Misty's shop, leaning on the counter as he launched into his usual flirty chatter—that "emotional connection" stuff he always went on about.
The place was packed with incense, flickering candles, and spiritual odds and ends. Statues, chimes, ceramic bowls—it looked like someone jammed every religion into one mystical hole-in-the-wall.
Misty, with her tousled hair, slouched blue sleeves, and fishnet stockings, was the shop's owner—and Jackie's not-so-secret crush.
God knows how many times they'd met. They were tight—almost inseparable. Yet somehow, still stuck on the edge between close friends and more-than-that. The way they talked, the way they laughed—it was obvious. Misty's laugh was a silver bell; Jackie's, a steel bar hitting the floor.
Viktor's ripperdoc clinic was behind Misty's shop. Outside, it looked like a dump in a shady alley. Inside? It felt like an underground lab straight out of a sci-fi horror flick.
When V and Roqi first arrived in Night City, Vik had been the one to check out Roqi's head. He'd handed over a bottle of painkillers and waved him off.
Roqi was confused at first, but when Vik told him it was just a mild concussion—give it a few days, maybe two weeks—it turned out to be spot-on. That calm confidence? 100% real.
Because if you went to a hospital? You'd die from the bill, not the injury.
"They're lizard people—from Alpha Centauri!"
Outside, Prophet Gary was back at it again. Screaming conspiracy theories loud enough to rattle the block.
Being a harmless cyberpsycho with zero combat potential, he'd basically become Bradbury Street's unofficial mascot. Tourists loved snapping pics with him. Security let him be—no one messes with a crowd magnet.
But Roqi knew his real name—Gerald Winkle. An ex-insider who once had the scoop on AIs beyond the Blackwall, the Maelstrom gang, and Arasaka. Maybe it was all too much. Maybe a shoddy implant fried his brain. Either way, he wasn't coming back.
Still, all that could wait.
Right now, V and Jackie came first.
Back when he had a keyboard and mouse, Roqi could only sit behind a screen, grinning while muttering curses under his breath.
Now, he was living it—sitting at a street food stall, ordering fried rice and steak. A few NCPD officers nearby were reconstructing a cyberpsycho crime scene. NetWatch techs were scanning the area further down the street.
The air was thick with city stink, but a single ray of sunlight cut between skyscrapers, landing gently on Roqi's face.
Sunlight belonged to the suits who lived among the clouds. Guys like him, V, and Jackie? They got the filth down here in the mud.
Even in death, they'd rot in a gutter or trash heap.
He bit his lip gently. Then let go.
He missed home—the one he could never go back to. The one not even in this world.
From the moment he arrived, he'd never stopped missing it.
But now—he had a new family: V and Jackie.
Roqi had to admit—Jackie might act like a lovable fool, but deep down, the guy was sharp and full of heart. Sometimes, the things he said cut clearer than anyone else's.
In a city this cold and dead inside, they'd found something like a home. And in that home, they were brothers.
A small family—just the three of them.
But it was warm enough to outshine the longest, darkest winter.
.
.
.
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