"What now?" V asked under his breath, scanning the chaotic black market around them.
Plenty of potential leads. Too many, actually.
They'd spent the last while digging, but not only had they failed to find any concrete trace of the Wraiths, they'd almost been mistaken for NCPD or rival gangs sniffing for trouble.
Any Wraith with half a brain wouldn't get involved in the black market side of things, especially not in someone else's backyard.
They were better at dirty, hands-on jobs.
"I'm positive the Wraiths were here," Roqi said, echoing V's sentiment.
V's nose for Nomad activity was sharp. Just the sheer number of Badlands-style items they'd spotted—worn, weather-beaten, some clearly stolen—was enough of a sign.
Not to mention how mismatched they were in terms of make and age. It screamed "looted from other Nomads."
The Aldecaldos wouldn't let gear like that slip out. Corps wouldn't even bother using it. But the Wraiths? That was textbook for them.
"Looks like the Wraiths aren't just tied to the missing persons," V muttered. "They've got side hustles too…"
He glanced at Gustavo. "Anything on your end?"
Gustavo had been checking in with the local Valentinos. Sure, the gang was split into internal cliques, and they weren't exactly eager to help—but dropping the Padre's name still got him a few polite answers.
The picture that emerged, though, was murky. There were a lot of signs pointing to the Wraiths, but not one solid piece of proof.
Most of the merch had changed hands multiple times. Sellers had no idea who the buyers were. Plenty of people claimed to have seen the Wraiths around—but no one had actually dealt with them face to face.
The Wraiths, known for being loud, aggressive desert raiders, were now acting like ghosts.
They'd gone from "big dumb raiders" to "shady operators in the shadows." The sudden change in tactics made them harder to find—and even harder to understand.
A few black marketeers voiced some concern, but business was business. As long as the goods were solid and the deals smooth, who gave a damn about the politics?
And the more they kept asking around, the more eyes they drew.
But charging in headfirst would just scare the prey away.
While they mulled over their next move, Roqi's eyes locked onto a familiar face in the crowd.
Lucas. Jackie's old buddy.
He only needed one look to confirm. Then he played it cool, folding his arms and glancing toward the ground like he was just chatting.
"Don't move. Keep it casual," Roqi muttered with a yawn. "Seven o'clock, near the wall. It's Lucas."
Jackie instinctively turned, caught sight of him, then froze and spun back around, pretending to check out a shoddy-looking firearm.
"Damn, this crap's expensive! Hah, what a joke…"
It was technically true, but Jackie's awkward improv made Roqi want to groan.
"Shit—it's really him!"
Jackie could feel his skin crawling.
He wasn't some clueless idiot. Beneath the casual bravado was a sharp mind, and it quickly began piecing things together.
"And I thought we were bros... The guy's spying on us."
Just earlier, they'd seen Lucas rushing off "to work." Now he was lurking in a corner, trying to stay out of sight. It stank of something fishy.
—
What the hell are they doing here?
Lucas squinted, trying to sharpen the image in his cyberoptics.
Truth was, he didn't have much love for Jackie anymore.
Their childhood wasn't exactly rosy. And with a messed-up home life, things got worse.
That's why, around age twelve, his family bailed from Heywood and moved to Pacifica—not because they had a plan, but because they'd pissed off the wrong people and needed to lie low.
They never came back.
The Unification War in 2069 had shaken Pacifica to its core. New fixers, new bosses, new rules. Some died overnight. Others soared.
Lucas clawed his way up during that chaos.
No family left to drag him down. Nothing holding him back.
He'd already cut ties with his past long ago. That became crystal clear the day he got a Valentino kid killed.
Time moved on. The past was dead.
The future? That was survival.
Business had been tight lately.
Especially in the Seaview area of Pacifica, where Voodoo Boys, Animals, and scraps of the Valentinos and 6th Street jostled for turf. Even the NCPD didn't like going there.
And with the canceled West Wind Estate development leaving a big chunk of unclaimed turf? Competition exploded.
More rivals. Stricter recruitment. More shootouts.
Getting by was getting harder.
If you wanted to climb the ladder, you had to get ruthless.
Want to succeed? Be willing to be even more ruthless than that.
Rules? Honor? Brotherhood? Useless words when there was eddies on the line.
Didn't matter if you were a fixer, a merc, or a gangbanger—if you didn't play dirty, you didn't last.
Teaming up with the Wraiths—people he used to laugh at—was just business.
That's how he ended up back in Heywood. Vista Del Rey was a mess. The perfect kind of place for dirty deals.
Just yesterday, a cargo shipment from South America had arrived at Arasaka Waterfront. Four hours later, a few "legit smuggled goods" had mysteriously disappeared. Someone inside slipped them out.
Flip it right, and the payoff was huge.
High risk. High reward.
Lucas squinted again, tracking the group. Something felt off.
Jackie's cheerful grin made him want to hurl. Why do you get to be happy?
And now, with multiple deals hanging in the balance, nothing could go wrong.
Anyone getting in the way was the enemy.
But then—wait.
One of them is gone.
Lucas blinked. Rubbed his eyes.
The pretty boy wasn't in the group anymore.
"Hey, friend, can I ask you something?" a voice said beside him.
"Fuck off! Can't you see I'm busy!?"
Lucas barked back, still scanning—
Where the hell did that punk go?
"Oops, sorry. I'll leave you to it," the man replied and stepped aside.
Lucas kept looking, frustrated. The good stuff was running dry, and this idiot thought now was a good time to nag him?
He turned to see who it was—
And the "pretty boy" flashed a smile and waved.
"Hola?"
Roqi gave him the friendliest smile he could muster.
Lucas's heart stopped.
CRUNCH.
"Mmmghhhhhh—!"
Lucas was slammed against the wall in a blink.
His gun hand twisted at an unnatural angle, cybernetics screeching in protest.
His mouth couldn't open—Roqi's hand had it sealed—and his knee had just been shattered by an unforgiving kick.
And the pressure on his jaw? Nearly crushed his cheekbone.
"Relax, friend," Roqi whispered, smiling.
That smile should've been reassuring.
It wasn't.
Not with those eyes—cold, gleaming with violence.
This guy's gonna kill me.
Lucas couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
The last time he felt this weak was facing down a Soviet-built mining hauler.
"You lied to me," Roqi said.
He glanced around. No one noticed.
"Now I'll give you one more chance… Who are you working with?"
He loosened his grip just enough for Lucas to choke out a name.
"Yevgeny… it's Yevgeny…"
"A Russkie?" Roqi's brow arched.
No surprise. Russian names were common enough in Wellsprings, especially south of Heywood.
And sure enough, Lucas confirmed the suspicion.
Roqi tapped his Bluetooth mic, then knocked Lucas out with one punch and broke his other leg for good measure.
"We've got a lead," he said into the comms.
He looked down at the unconscious, crumpled body.
"Things are worse than we thought—it's the Scavs."
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🤖 My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?
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