Yucca Static
The road to Yucca is rude.
Not complicated.
Not beautiful.
Not mysterious.
Rude.
It sits there under the tires in cracked strips and dust-choked bends, pretending to be a road while actively trying to shake my teeth out of my skull. Every dip hits the Galena's suspension like a personal insult. Every rock kicks up under the frame with a metallic thunk that makes the car sound less like transportation and more like a box of tools being rolled down stairs.
"You're a piece of shit," I tell it.
The Galena rattles.
"Don't argue with me."
The windshield is ruined.
Not gone.
Ruined.
There is still enough glass left to technically call it a windshield if you are a liar, an optimist, or an insurance company. The middle is webbed from bullets and impact cracks, the rear glass is completely fucked, and every gust of wind pushes dust through the cabin like the desert is trying to move in with me.
My throat tastes like copper, grit, and old gunpowder.
The Grad is in the back seat, too long to fit properly, wedged at an angle beside the stolen ammo and the sad little pile of things I got from two dead idiots. The Nova sits closer, heavy in the passenger seat, wrapped in an old rag I found stuffed beside the emergency kit.
The emergency kit contained:
One cracked flare.
A bandage roll old enough to have opinions.
A stim-injector with no label.
A packet of disinfectant wipes.
And a folded paper map that looked like it had survived a war out of spite.
"Preem."
I hate that the word comes out naturally.
I hate that I know what it means.
I hate that I know which roads to avoid, which shapes on the horizon mean settlement, and which towers are probably still carrying enough signal to patch a call if the gods of static are feeling generous.
Not my memories.
Mine now.
Fuck.
The desert rolls past.
Low hills.
Scrub.
Cactus.
Old billboards with sun-bleached smiles advertising things no one out here can afford. Half a sign for a motel. A dead drone hanging from a power line like a mechanical bird that chose poorly.
The radio flickers.
♪ —to tear it down again— ♪
Then static.
Then a voice.
"—border advisory remains in effect for all commercial and private traffic entering the Night City Free State zone. NUSA customs authority reminds citizens that unauthorized transportation of restricted biological, military, or corporate assets is punishable by—"
I slap the radio off.
"Thank you, haunted future box. Very comforting."
The silence lasts three seconds.
Then my head supplies the missing context.
Border.
Package.
Client.
Not a client.
A job contact.
A man named Jackie Welles.
Big guy.
Valentino ties.
Heywood.
Warm voice.
Dangerous hands.
The memory of meeting him is not there.
Because I haven't met him yet.
But this body's plans are sitting in my skull like badly organized luggage.
Get to Yucca.
Fix the car enough not to die.
Find signal.
Call the contact.
Meet near the border.
Move the cargo.
Do not get caught.
"Simple."
The Galena hits a pothole.
CLANG
"Fuck!"
The car fishtails just enough to make my stomach climb into my throat.
"Simple if your shitbox isn't actively suicidal!"
The engine coughs.
Hard.
The temperature gauge twitches.
"Do not."
It twitches again.
"Do not fucking do this to me."
The engine coughs a second time, then settles into a rough idle that sounds like an old smoker laughing at me.
"That's what I thought."
Yucca appears slowly.
Not dramatically.
No grand reveal.
Just buildings baking under the sun, low and dusty and tired. A gas station with half the signage dead. A mechanic's garage with rusted shutters and a faded sign. A bar that looks like regret learned carpentry. A couple of parked cars. A dog asleep in the shade like it has seen too much and decided reincarnation is a scam.
People look when I roll in.
Of course they do.
The Galena is shot up, dusty, missing glass, and making noises that normally come from dying animals.
Also I probably look like I crawled out of a shallow grave and then robbed the gravediggers.
Which is, in spirit, not inaccurate.
I pull into the garage lot.
The Galena dies before I turn it off.
chk-chk-khhhhh
"Traitor."
I sit there for a second, hands on the wheel, listening.
No engines following.
No gunfire.
No screaming brothers with rifle problems.
Good.
I get out.
The heat hits again, worse now that the car isn't moving. My vest sticks to my skin. The goggles around my neck are warm from the sun and smell faintly of rubber and metal.
A man in a stained shirt steps out from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag that lost its war with grease years ago.
He looks at me.
Then at the car.
Then at me again.
"That's a lot of holes."
"Noticed that, yeah."
"Yours?"
"The holes or the car?"
He squints.
I stare.
He decides, correctly, not to ask follow-up questions.
"Need work?"
"No, I parked here because I enjoy being judged by mechanics."
"Smart mouth costs extra."
"Everything costs extra."
He snorts.
"True enough."
I walk around to the front of the Galena and pop the hood.
It takes three tries.
On the third, the latch gives with a sound like a dying beetle.
The hood opens.
Heat rolls out.
"Ugh. You smell like bad decisions."
The mechanic leans in beside me.
"Cooling line's cracked. Fuel coupling's ugly. Radiator's seen better decades. Battery's loose. And that windshield—"
"Yeah, yeah, the windshield found religion. Can you make it move?"
"Move? Sure."
"Move without exploding?"
"Depends how far."
"Border."
He stops looking at the engine and looks at me instead.
The air changes.
Just a little.
Not fear.
Calculation.
"Border's closed for people who don't like paperwork."
"Good thing I love paperwork."
"You got blood on your boots."
"I filled out the wrong form."
He stares at me.
I stare back.
Somewhere behind us, a dog sneezes.
The mechanic looks away first.
"I can patch the line. Tighten the coupling. Clear the intake. Get the engine from dying before the gate. Windshield, best I can do is knock out loose glass and seal the worst cracks. You want pretty, go to a city."
"I wanted alive. Pretty can get fucked."
"Alive costs."
I reach into my pocket and pull out the eddies from Desden and Tieler.
Not many.
Enough?
Maybe.
The mechanic counts them with his eyes.
"That's not enough."
I add the chipped knife.
He looks unimpressed.
I add one of the inhalers.
His face changes.
Very slightly.
"Where'd you get that?"
"Found it."
"On who?"
"Someone done using it."
He considers that.
"Fine. Half now. Half when you leave."
"That's not how halves work."
"Out here they do."
I close my eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Do not murder the mechanic.
Mechanics are useful.
Useful people get patience.
Even when they are annoying.
"Fine."
He gestures toward the garage.
"Pull it in."
"Car's dead."
"Then push."
"...."
I look at him.
Then at the Galena.
Then back at him.
"Push."
"Yeah."
I walk to the rear of the Galena, plant both hands on the hot metal, and shove.
The garage smells like oil, burnt plastic, hot dust, stale beer, and old metal. The kind of place where nothing is clean but most things are where they need to be. Tools hang on a wall by size. Real tools, not decorative bullshit. Wrenches with worn grips. Ratchets. Jack stands. Patch kits. A workbench stained with fluids that have definitely shortened someone's life.
My hands itch.
Not metaphorically.
Actually itch.
I know where to start.
That is worse than not knowing.
The mechanic lifts the hood again and starts poking around.
I see the cracked line before he points it out.
I see the coupling.
I see the shitty clamp.
I see the grime clogging around the intake.
"Clamp's wrong size," I say.
He pauses.
"You a mechanic?"
"No."
"Could've fooled me."
"Don't worry, I'm fooling me too."
He gives me a look.
I ignore it and reach for a rag.
Then stop.
"Can I?"
He hesitates, then shrugs.
"Break it worse and you pay."
"Generous."
I wipe blood and dust off my fingers before touching anything. The habit arrives without asking.
Clean what matters before you touch what matters.
Mamá?
Dad?
V?
Someone else?
Fuck.
I grab the tool he was about to need before he asks for it.
He looks at my hand.
"How'd you—"
"Guess."
"That's not a guess."
"Then ask fewer questions."
He does.
For about five minutes, there is only work.
Good.
Work is better than waiting.
Work has edges.
The garage narrows around the engine. Heat. Metal. Clamp. Wrench. Rag. The crack in the line. The pressure point. The wrong sound when a bolt wants to strip. The right sound when it gives.
The Galena stops being a shitbox and becomes a system of failing parts, and failing parts are at least honest. They do not lie about morality. They do not ask why you survived. They do not say Prometheus in the voice of a news anchor while cities burn.
They just break.
Then you fix them or you don't.
Simple.
Beautiful, in a fucked way.
The mechanic watches me tighten the coupling.
"You sure you ain't a mechanic?"
"I am absolutely sure of nothing."
"That's not reassuring."
"Wasn't trying to reassure you."
A shadow falls across the garage entrance.
The mechanic's face changes.
Not fear.
Irritation wearing fear's jacket.
"Hey, Mike. Didn't know you had a customer."
The voice comes slow and smug and local.
A man steps into the garage like he owns the dust.
Sheriff, probably.
Badge polished more than the man wearing it. Hat low. Hand near his sidearm but not on it. Boots too clean for someone pretending to belong to the dirt.
Mike starts wiping his hands again.
"Rolled in a few hours past. I thought he'd at least called in."
"Don't you swear to mind," the sheriff says. "We're gonna hash it out."
He looks at the Galena.
Then at me.
Then at the blood on my boots.
Slow.
Not subtle.
"Don't you know you owe the sheriff a word when you pay his town a visit? Tell him what's brought you here. Maybe even over a cup of coffee."
"No need to worry. I won't be staying long."
"Didn't answer my question now, did you?"
"Didn't know it needed one."
His smile thins.
"Name's Andrew Jones. Probably heard of me."
"I can't say that I have."
"Served in spec ops during the last war. Silver Shoguns ring any bells?"
"I can't say that it does."
Mike suddenly looks like he wants to become part of the wall.
Jones takes a step closer.
"Don't like to get along, do you?"
"Depends who I'm getting along with."
His eyes move to the Galena.
"That a nomad vehicle?"
"Might have expected that."
"I'll just fix it and go. I have no reason to linger."
"No. You sure as shit don't."
There it is.
The smile leaves.
"Nothing boils my blood like a fucking stray."
Ah.
There we go.
"Where'd your clan pitch camp?"
"There is no clan."
"No clan?"
"No camp."
I close the hood.
"I'm here alone."
"Ain't buying it. Nomads always stick to their packs."
"My family's in pieces. That's why I'm headed for Night City."
The words come out too easy.
Too true.
Not all mine.
Not all his.
Still true.
Jones studies me.
"Makes you an outcast among outcasts."
"Guess I collect hobbies."
Mike coughs into his rag.
Badly.
Jones doesn't look away.
"Sure as hell hope you'll be on your way before long."
"Saw a broadcasting comms tower on my way in. My antenna's down, and I need to radio someone."
"What you need is to hightail it out of here without another word."
He steps closer.
"I ain't got no mind to see you drifting around these parts."
"Got it."
He waits.
I wait.
He doesn't move.
"You like the sound of your voice, don't you?"
"What's that, drifter?"
I blink once.
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all."
The garage breathes too quietly.
I can feel the shape of the room.
Garage entrance behind him.
Tool wall to my left.
Jack stand by my boot.
Nova in the passenger seat.
Grad in the back.
Mike between the lift and the bench, trying very hard not to exist.
Jones' sidearm is clean.
Too clean.
Either he takes care of it or he doesn't use it much.
Both options matter.
His gaze moves over me again. Neck. Eyes. Blood. Dust. Back to my face.
"You're trouble."
"Currently? I'm a customer."
"Customers don't usually come into Yucca full of bullet holes."
"I'm not full of bullet holes."
"Your car is."
"Rude to judge a man by his car."
His hand shifts a little closer to the gun.
My right hand hangs loose.
I wonder if he can hear my pulse.
I wonder if I can hear his.
I can hear Mike's.
Fast.
Too fast.
"Careful," Jones says.
I smile.
I do not mean to.
It feels wrong on my face.
"That's good advice."
The old me rises for a second.
Not Prometheus fully.
Not the fire.
Just the part that knows badges are costumes and power hates laughter.
"I'll try it sometime."
Jones holds my eyes.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then he looks away first.
Not much.
Enough.
"Yeah," he says. "Best that way."
He turns toward the door, then stops.
"Border's tight."
"So I've heard."
"Cargo checks are worse."
"Useful information."
"Not advice."
"Didn't thank you."
He looks back once.
This time his eyes are colder.
"Don't make me remember your face, V."
I look at him.
Then at the badge.
Then back.
"Wouldn't dream of wasting your memory, Sheriff."
He leaves.
The sound of his boots drags across the garage floor and into the dust outside.
The garage breathes again.
Mike waits until Jones is gone before whispering, "You trying to get killed?"
"Tried that. Didn't stick."
"What?"
"Nothing."
He stares at me again.
I point at the engine.
"Car."
"Right."
He goes back to work.
So do I.
Neither of us mentions the sheriff.
The patch takes twenty minutes.
Maybe thirty.
Time feels slippery now. Too many lives have been shoved into my skull and none of them brought a clock.
When we are done, the Galena starts.
Ugly.
But alive.
brra-khk-khmmm
"That sound healthy to you?" I ask.
"No."
"Will it reach the border?"
"Maybe."
"You're a terrible salesman."
"I'm an honest mechanic."
"Terrible business model."
He wipes his hands.
"You still owe me."
I hand over the rest of the eddies.
It hurts.
Financially and spiritually.
He takes them.
Then, after a pause, tosses me a bottle of water from a cooler near the bench.
"On the house."
I catch it.
"Why?"
"You look like shit."
"Kindness. My favorite insult."
I drink half the bottle in one go.
Warm plastic taste.
Slight mineral bite.
Best thing I have ever had in my mouth.
Possibly.
There are too many memories to verify.
I pour some over my hands and scrub dried blood from my fingers. The water runs brown-red into the dust.
"Bathroom?" I ask.
He points with the rag.
"Through there. Don't steal the soap."
"Wasn't planning to."
"People don't usually plan to steal soap."
"Yucca sounds fascinating."
The bathroom is small and hot and smells like rust, old soap, and despair. The mirror is better than the car's and worse for my mental health.
My face looks back.
Mine.
Not mine.
Dark hair half up, rest loose and messy from heat and violence. Lightly tanned skin. Sharp cheekbones. Tired mouth. Silvered eyes that catch the light wrong. Lines beneath them, metal under skin, like tears drawn by someone who had never understood crying but liked the shape.
My neck looks worse.
Ink and chrome.
"Subtle," I mutter.
I wipe my face with a rag.
Bad idea.
The rag is filthy.
"Fuck. Why."
I turn halfway, trying to see my back.
Impossible.
Then not completely.
The mirror catches a slice of shoulder.
Black wing curve.
A thorned line.
The hilt of the sword rising at the top of my spine.
My stomach twists.
I know the rest without seeing it.
Sword down the spine.
Gothic architecture.
Script.
Funeral ink.
Funeral architecture.
All old ink.
Mine.
The cyberware was new.
That distinction mattered for reasons I did not have time to unpack.
"Still me then."
Maybe.
Probably.
Close enough to drive.
I wiped my face with the edge of my shirt, immediately regretted that because it was filthy too, and headed back out.
The sheriff was across the street, watching.
I ignored him.
Mostly.
The Galena started on the second try.
That counted as progress.
~brra-khk-khmmm~
"Good girl. Do not make me praise you twice."
The car limped out of Yucca.
The tower stood south of town, rusted metal stabbing up into a bright, empty sky.
It looked unsafe.
Of course it did.
I parked at the base, got out, and looked up.
"Violence," I muttered, because apparently that was my professional assessment.
Wind slid through the tower struts with a low metallic whine.
The ladder was hot enough to cook meat.
Naturally, I grabbed it.
"Ow. Fuck."
Boots scraping metal, dust getting in my mouth, sun cooking the back of my neck. Yucca shrank behind me. The road stretched out toward the border. The Badlands sat around everything like the world forgot to finish rendering mercy.
Halfway up, I stopped to breathe.
Not because I couldn't continue.
Because falling would be stupid, and I had hit my stupid quota for the morning.
At the top, the platform swayed.
I froze.
It swayed again.
"Don't."
The tower ignored me, because apparently every object today had chosen violence.
The control box was bolted to the frame. Old paint. Bad lock. Sand in every seam. Someone had shot the casing once.
Probably for fun.
Probably because they were bored.
Probably because this world had no shortage of armed idiots and I had already met my daily allowance.
I pulled the Nova and smashed the lock.
~CLANG~
The lock snapped loose.
"Subtle."
The box opened.
Inside was a dead little mess of relays, wires, cracked insulation, and dust.
I stared.
The body remembered enough.
Not all.
Enough.
I checked the line.
Bad contact.
Loose relay.
Power there, but dirty.
I reseated the connection, scraped corrosion with the edge of the screwdriver, twisted the wire tighter, and smacked the side of the casing when the light refused to come on.
The indicator flickered.
Red.
Red.
Green.
"Good."
The old radio unit hissed to life.
Static.
A little music.
Someone speaking Spanish too fast under signal bleed.
Then more static.
I tuned through it, jaw clenched, one hand on the box to keep the wind from rattling the whole bastard thing loose.
"Come on."
Static.
"Come on, you prehistoric piece of shit."
The channel cleared just enough.
I keyed the transmitter.
"Hello? Come in. Come in."
Static.
Then a voice.
"Ah. Raised you finally."
Willie McCoy.
The name clicked into place with a tired old weight.
"It's good to hear your voice, V."
"Wish I could say the same."
He chuckled.
Dry.
Badlands dry.
"I need your help one last time."
"One last time? Again?"
"Had to find the client with my payload, but I don't know where he is."
"Right place, right time. You were there."
"Of course I was."
"Maybe the client left a message. Could you check for me?"
A pause.
Static scratched the line.
"Sure. Last time though. I mean it."
"Client's name is Jackie Welles."
Another pause.
Longer.
The wind pushed hair across my face.
I spit it out of my mouth and waited.
"Actually left a message."
"Where?"
"He's waiting on a farm. Flicking you the loc data now."
The radio unit crackled. The small screen on the box blinked, struggled, then spat up a dirty little map marker.
Farm.
Outside the border route.
"Thanks, Willy."
"You owe me one."
"I know."
"You do. And don't get yourself killed."
"Trying not to."
"And don't call again."
The line cut.
Just like that.
"Warm man."
The radio returned to static.
I stood there a second longer, hand still on the transmitter, looking out at the desert.
Yucca behind me.
Farm ahead.
Border after that.
Night City beyond the border, waiting like a neon tumor with teeth.
Jackie Welles waiting on a farm.
Cargo waiting somewhere in the dirt.
A plan pretending it wasn't already fucked.
"Alright."
I closed the control box as best I could.
It hung crooked.
Good enough.
I climbed down.
The ladder burned my palms through the dust.
At the bottom, the Galena was still there.
Still ugly.
Still alive.
"Alright, girl."
I got in.
The engine turned over.
The map marker glowed on the little dash screen like a bad idea with directions.
I stared at it for a second.
Then shifted into gear.
"Let's go meet the next problem."