Fresh out of surgery, I made my way up from Vik's clinic with the strange sensation of having something new sitting inside the back of my neck.
There was no real pain, but the newly installed neural processor made itself known through a constant stream of tiny status updates that MK was quietly monitoring in the background. Everything remained within acceptable parameters. The nanosurgical suite was collecting itself so I would be able to manually expel it via 'spit' later on, and the bridge software had so far done exactly what it was supposed to do.
It was still strange knowing that millions of microscopic machines were currently crawling through my artificial nervous system,.
I reached the top of the stairs, pushed past the bead curtain of Misty's Esoterica, and stepped into the dim, candle-lit warmth of the boutique. The ambient scent of sandalwood drifted in the air.
Misty was sitting quietly behind her counter, delicately arranging a spread of velvet-backed tarot cards. She looked up, her soft, retro-styled hair framing a welcoming smile as I approached the counter.
"Hey, Genos," she said, her voice a calm anchor against the distant city noise bleeding in from the storefront. "Vik finish wrapping up your surgery?"
"Yeah, it wasn't that invasive of a procedure," I said, leaning against the wooden edge of the counter. "Actually, I wanted to tell you, I've been going through those tarot cards you snuck into my bag, going through them whenever I get a job."
Misty's eyes lit up, a soft glow of genuine pride spreading across her features. "Really? I'm glad to hear that, the world always drops hints, Genos. You just have to know how to lay them out. Did any particular set stick out to you?"
"Not in any surprising ways," I stated flatly, my mechanical tone unblinking. "so far they've been pretty straight forward, though truthfully only when I look back at them, but, the incense you gave me has been a great help. The cedar blend completely freshened up my apartment."
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Misty leaned forward, resting her chin in her palms with a bright look. "Your immediate environment is a mirror for your inner space, if your home feels foreign, it's impossible to keep your spirit aligned, to unwind you know? Next time you drop by, I'll have a fresh bundle of white sage waiting for you."
"I'd appreciate that. Thanks, Misty."
I turned toward the exit doors, stepping into the busy alley street, Little China seemed pretty consistent in the vibe it gave off; a chaotic, multi-layered vertical community where the midday sun couldn't even reach the pavement, choked out by colossal neon billboards advertising food, chrome and BD's.
I was halfway toward the main parking lanes, walking past a couple of low-level Tyger Claw lookalikes leaning against a busted SCSM machine, when a thought occurred to me.
I stopped near the edge of the curb. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the vehicle driver shard I had attached to my car keys. I turned the small piece hardware between my fingers, the shard was thin enough to disappear between two fingers.
I slid the shard into the freshly calibrated slot behind my neck as I slid down the housing. The connection clicked, flush against the alloy plating of my chrome.
The response was immediate.
[DRIVER INTERFACE DETECTED.]
[VEHICLE LINK ESTABLISHED: Mizutani Shion MZ2.]
[LOCAL AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED.]
A second later, the vehicle's systems unfolded straight into my virtual layer.
I could suddenly feel the car in a way that was difficult to describe without making it sound more intimate than it actually was. Engine block core temperature, alcohol fuel reserves, auxiliary battery charge, tire pressure matrices, external optic feeds, local GPS navigation, and the internal diagnostic log of every major component became available to me through a single neural connection.
Then another option compiled at the bottom of the registry.
[AUTONOMOUS VEHICLE CONTROL: AVAILABLE.]
I mentally selected the autonomous summon function and assigned the navigation coordinate to my current location. The link immediately shifted from passive system monitoring into active remote deployment.
[AUTONOMOUS ROUTE CALCULATED.]
[VEHICLE EN ROUTE. DISTANCE: 0.4 KM.]
The system confirmed the handshake and locked out most of the active manual controls, leaving the vehicle's onboard autopilot to handle the short trip through the Watson traffic.
I found myself standing there with my hands in my pockets while I waited, leaning my back against a concrete pillar. The city continued moving around me.
A rusted Zetatech delivery drone buzzed heavily overhead, its stabilizing thrusters whining as it struggled against the windy weather. Across the narrow street, two street vendors were aggressively shouting over the other setting up so close to each other, their voices competing with the high-tempo J-pop music blaring from an electronics stall, it was loud and lively, but somewhere beyond the crowded intersection, a loud rumbling was what stood out to me.
That familiar mechanical hum came first, a low-frequency vibration that I felt through the pavement under my boots before the actual sound reached my ears. The engine note followed a split second later a deep, unoptimized mechanical growl becoming progressively clearer until the vehicle finally rounded the corner by.
The sight of it was enough to make me smile.
The car had definitely seen better days. The front fender was still bent inward from the previous dust-up in Santo Domingo, several prominent bullet dents marked the side panels, and more than one crude patch hole remained visible where heavy kinetic rounds had punched through the back of the reinforced bodywork. Despite all of that, the boxy, industrial lines of the machine remained clean enough that it still looked beautiful beneath the street damage.
More importantly, it was mine.
The vehicle slowed as it approached the curb, pulling to a neat, autonomous stop directly in front of my position. The engine dropped to a quiet, vibrating idle while the system cleared its pathing queue and waited for further instructions.
As I stepped closer, the door sensors registered my chips proximity. The locks clicked open with a heavy, satisfying thud and the driver-side door opened. I stopped beside the chassis and looked down toward the real-time network diagnostics displayed across my vision.
'That's really fucking convenient,' I thought to myself, running one hand along the scratched metal of the door. 'But it also makes me realize how much of a security threat driving around in one of these actually is.'
The realization had arrived almost immediately after seeing the network map, I could monitor the vehicle remotely, summon it across districts, unlock it without touching the door handles. I could potentially alter its speed and routing while sitting inside a bar miles away.
That was convenient right up until I imagined what a halfway decent netrunner with malicious intent could do if they forced their way into that same local interface without permission.
MK brought up the vehicle's network architecture in response, highlighting the open ports.
[ANALYSING LOCAL VEHICLE SECURITY.]
[VULNERABILITIES IDENTIFIED: SHORT-RANGE WIRELESS HANDSHAKE EXPLOITABLE.]
I looked over the red lines while standing beside the open driver's door.
'Can you overhaul the security?' I asked, watching the interface populate with several obvious weaknesses that would have made me uncomfortable even without knowing what the car was capable of.
[POTENTIAL SECURITY IMPROVEMENTS IDENTIFIED. INTERNAL FIREWALL REWRITE REQUIRED.]
'Later,' I decided, looking at the damaged bodywork again. 'After I get her buffed out. Let's focus on making sure the neuroprocessor is firing on all cylinders before we start writing a whole new security code.'
MK's response appeared almost immediately.
[AFFIRMATIVE.]
I climbed into the driver's seat and let the door pull closed behind me, the familiar interior settling around me with a mechanical solidity that was beginning to feel oddly comforting. I had barely gripped the steering wheel when my internal interface flagged a high-priority incoming text message. The sender was Vik.
I opened the notification while the car's dashboard instruments came alive around me.
[Standard doctor stuff,] Vik had written, the text formatting showing it was probably a rushed sub-vocal dictation rather than something carefully typed at his terminal. [If you start getting anything weird--headaches, motor lag, sensory glitches, anything that feels wrong--call me immediately. I'd recommend a course of immunosuppressants for a normal patient to stop the meat from rejecting the chrome, but I don't think they'd do much for you. Don't forget to send me the details about those other modular modifications we talked about.]
I read the message as a snort escaped me. Even after everything I had shown him, Vik still approached my situation like an old-school doctor dealing with an unusually complicated patient rather than some impossible, walking nuke that had dropped into his basement clinic.
I opened the outgoing reply interface and typed back while the engine idled beneath my boots.
[Will do,] I sent, adding the second line after a moment's hesitation. [I won't be a stranger, Vik. You're the only ripper in Night City I trust.]
The response snapped back onto my visual overlay before I had even pulled away from the curb.
[I'll keep you to it.]
I put the car into gear, disengaged the autonomous override, and pulled away from the curb, letting the open lanes of Watson spread out ahead of me while MK quietly monitored the newly installed neuroprocessor.
There was something satisfying about driving the car myself again, even if most of the actual work involved pressing a pedal and turning a wheel while the vehicle's systems handled the things human drivers had historically been trusted to fuck up.
I followed the route MK had projected across the dashboard, weaving through the afternoon traffic while I continued testing the new interface in the background. The neuroprocessor was still new to me, but even at this stage, I could feel the difference it made. It was visible in how cleanly external information was being routed through the virtual layer rather than being manually translated by MK every time I connected to something. It was the difference between using a tool properly and repeatedly improvising around a missing handle.
I reached toward the dashboard and switched on the radio, cycling through several stations before finding one that actually played something I recognized enough to enjoy without feeling like I was listening to an advert disguised as music. The speakers filled the car with a familiar rhythm, the sound immediately making the cabin feel less like a machine and more like somewhere I might actually choose to spend time.
I had spent almost two weeks thinking of the Shion primarily as transportation, another piece of equipment that got me from A to B. But I had come to think of the bucket of bolts as mine. I was sure down the line I'd switch to a better car, but for now, given the jobs I'd be doing, it was fast and durable enough for me to make it my gig car.
I reached down toward the storage compartment beneath the passenger-side console and popped it open, revealing the small collection of chips I had gathered over the last several days. Most of them had come from those Wraiths I had looted way back when. I picked out the first chip and slipped it into the new interface.
[DATA CHIP DETECTED.]
[EXTERNAL STORAGE FORMAT: LEGACY.]
[READ-ONLY ACCESS: ESTABLISHED.]
MK began working through the encryption while I kept one eye on the road. The first file took less than a second to open.
[TEXT LOG RECOVERED.]
I glanced toward the display. It was a diary, not an interesting one, either just some guy complaining about rent, his girlfriend unfaithfulness with his boss, and the fact that his neighbour kept stealing his laundry from the communal dryer. I scrolled through another few entries before closing it.
"Well, that was depressing," I muttered, tapping the next chip against the slot before inserting it.
The second contained encrypted personal messages that turned out to be almost entirely arguments about money and somebody's brother supposedly owing three months of debt. The third was a collection of short video files documenting somebody's attempts to repair an old Yaiba motorcycle with increasingly questionable modifications.
The next chip finally produced something useful.
[CREDCHIP DETECTED.]
[AUTHENTICATION DATA RECOVERED.]
[BALANCE: €$720.]
I raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's better than reading about some dude's lady problems."
I transferred the funds into the appropriate holding account after MK verified the chip wasn't carrying anything malicious.
[TRANSFER COMPLETE.]
[CREDCHIP BALANCE: €$0.]
I inserted another one. The result was even better.
[CREDCHIP DETECTED.]
[AUTHENTICATION DATA RECOVERED.]
[BALANCE: €$1,580.]
I smiled. "People really should stop carrying their savings around in pockets."
The third one only contained a few hundred eddies, but by the time MK had finished processing everything, my total had climbed to something considerably more comfortable.
[CURRENT BALANCE: €$6,690]
[RECOVERED CREDITS: €$2,300]
[CURRENT BALANCE: €$8,990]
Leaving Little China, the route cut southwest, dropping out of Watson's suffocating sprawl and onto the multi-tiered highway system of the City Centre. The transition was sudden, a harsh shift from low-rent neon alleys to a forest of massive corporate monoliths. The Shion rumbled beneath the shadow of the Arasaka and Militech headquarters, their reflective glass spires piercing the overcast sky like rows of sterile blades. Holographic koi the size of warships drifted lazily through the upper air currents between towers, projecting flawless high-resolution advertisements over the grid.
Down on the lower decks, my beat-up car felt entirely out of place. The scarred, bullet ridden panels seemed to draw immediate diagnostic pings from automated corporate security drones patrolling the fast lanes. I ignored the alerts, keeping my speed locked as the highway descended once more, crossing onto the bridge straight into Heywood.
The cold corporate concrete gave way to the vibrant, high-density rhythm of The Glen. The skyline was still dominated by towers, signs, and the distant glow of corporate infrastructure, but down at street level, the neighbourhood felt lived in rather than merely occupied. Apartment blocks leaned over narrow roads, old brick and concrete mixed with newer construction, and small businesses filled whatever spaces hadn't been swallowed by parking garages or converted into another anonymous commercial unit.
This block of the city was beautiful in a raw, unapologetic way. Intricate, multi-story religious murals of Santa Muerte and local street legends covered the cracked building facades, painted in deep golds and brilliant crimsons. Lowriders and heavily tuned Quadras sat parked along the curbs, their custom parts and high-gloss paint jobs reflecting the neon glow. Street tech here was loud. Just like in the city center my black Shion stood out like a shadow in a carnival, its boxy, industrial profile drawing long, evaluating stares from the locals.
The Glen had its own rhythm, there was a sense that people here had carved out little pieces of normality and were stubbornly defending them from the rest of the city.
I drove deeper into Heywood while the radio continued playing. Silverhands's voice filled the cabin as the song chorus rolled over the speakers.
♪ A thing of beauty will never fade away! ♪
I eventually found a parking space a few blocks from the bar, close enough that I wouldn't need to spend ten minutes walking through unfamiliar streets while simultaneously trying to remember where I had left the car. I pulled into the space, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment.
I could still hear the distant city through the crystaldome, traffic murmuring across the avenue, music spilling from a nearby shop.
I wasn't in the mood to make some enemies out of some the locals here, my 6th tag probably wouldn't help, though thanks to the long-sleeved shirt, my augments weren't as obvious so I probably won't come across as a threat, but the custom edgerunner jacket I was wearing would draw some eyes.
The design was too distinctive to disappear completely, especially with the oni emblem across the back and the reinforced polymer sections built into the fabric. It looked outfitted towards getting shot at--which, I mean, is what I asked for--and given how often I seemed to be getting shot at, it was either this or the alternative which was dressing like a cheap street thug in disposable clothes.
I preferred the jacket. I stepped out of the car and locked it through the new interface instead of through the fob. The connection was instantaneous.
[VEHICLE SECURED.]
I started walking.
The Glen was busy enough that I could blend into the foot traffic without much effort, although my general appearance still earned the occasional glance from people, women especially, it's something I still couldn't figure out the cause of, 'Maybe my eyes?'
The neighborhood stretched around me in layers of graffiti murals and neon, with the occasional neon sign cutting through the grey wherever somebody had decided that visibility was worth paying for.
A food vendor had set up on the pavement, grilling seasoned carne skewers over a compact heating unit while a queue of people waited in front of him. Across the street, a pair of kids were arguing over a drone controller while an older woman yelled at them in rapid Spanish from a balcony above.
It was messy, crowded and a little rough around the edges. It felt so strangely familiar to me.
I found the bar without much difficulty, a bunch of younger guys in red-and-gold trimmed jackets stood watch on the corners, their posture relaxed but their hands never straying far from the heavy pistols tucked into their waistbands. This was Valentinos territory, and the security here wasn't automated, it was tribal.
The neon sign above the entrance read EL COYOTE COJO, a giant looming skull hung under it. I stopped outside for a moment.
There was something almost stubbornly alive about it. The sort of place where people knew exactly who belonged, which brought me to Jackie Welles.
I knew Jackie Welles, or more accurately, I knew a fictional representation of Jackie Welles from a video game I had spent a rather embarrassing amount of my original life playing.
Even with only those first few hours of actual gameplay before the story went sideways, it had been almost impossible not to like the guy. More importantly, Jackie had been my introduction to this entire fucking universe. I was introduced to Cyberpunk through the game, and for me and millions other people, Jackie was the guy who showed you Night City. He was the guy who introduced you to the people, the city, the gangs, the jobs, and the general insanity of the city before you had any idea what you were doing.
And then there had been his death, the ofrenda.
That mission was hard to go through in a way I could never properly explain. It took a character I had already liked and showed me that there had been an entire person underneath all that bravado, there was somebody with a family, beliefs, deep-seated ambitions and a place he genuinely belonged to. I knew perfectly well that he hadn't been real, but looking back at it that hadn't stopped me from feeling like he was a friend, like I'd lost something by him dying.
So standing outside El Coyote Cojo, knowing Jackie Welles was somewhere inside, had me a bit nervous actually.
'It's just like Mistys all over again.'
I wanted to make a good impression, which was fucking ridiculous.
I mean, I was a grown-ass man wearing an armoured jacket with a cybernetic oni printed across the back, carrying enough concealed hardware to make an NCPD tactical squad nervous, and I was standing outside a bar because I wanted a guy to think I was cool. Clearly, reincarnation had done wonders for my dignity.
I had even gone out of my way to make the reason for coming here as organic as possible. I had carefully mentioned my car needing fixing to Vik because I remembered that Jackie had a cousin who worked on them.
It's fucking vreepy I know, but in my defense, I'm a social guy. I like having friends, I like having people around me that I can trust, that I can joke with, argue with, eat with, and eventually rely on without everything needing to become some complicated transaction.
And if my mind hadn't spent the last two weeks jumping from one immediate survival crisis to the next, this would probably have been a pretty depressing two weeks.
I mean, I still don't even know how I got here, into this body. I remembered stupid shit like the 'Let me do it for you' long-nosed dog meme, but I couldn't even tell you my own mother's name, or my father's. I was stolen from my life and woken up in another world; had acquired a homicidal collection of enemies, been shot at repeatedly and actually killed people.
And somehow, I was worried whether this dude inside would think I was cool. Maybe I really was losing it.
The doors to the Coyote opened as I made my way in.
The first thing that I noticed was, how lively the place was. Conversation rolled across the room in overlapping layers, heavy glass steins clinking against wooden tables while the bar itself carried the deeper murmur of half a dozen separate conversations happening at once. Low-tempo music played from speakers mounted somewhere overhead, loud enough to give the room energy without drowning anyone out.
The place was warmer than the street, and the lighting immediately caught my attention. Green neon ran along the back of the bar, reflecting off bottles and metal surfaces, while warmer red and orange light spilled across the worn floor.
Another large animal skull was mounted above the bar, positioned beneath an old mural that took up most of the wall behind it. The artwork was colourful, aggressive, and deeply religious all at once, surrounded by layers of smaller graffiti and signs that looked like they had been added at completely different points in the building's history. EL COYOTE COJO glowed in neon above the top-shelf bottles.
A few signs advertised local boxing matches, while an old glowing 18+ marker and the general state of the clientele made it pretty clear what sort of establishment this was. There were faux-wooden tables scattered across most of the floor, some occupied by local workers still wearing the high-vis clothes they had probably spent the day sweating in, others by neighborhood residents already settling into the evening. Near the stairs, several people were crowded around a pool table, arguing loudly over the latest shot while somebody leaned against the side and offered advice.
Another section had a row of arcade machines, their screens flashing brightly in the darker corner of the room as two people hammered away at the controls.
The bar itself stretched along the far wall beneath the neon and stacked liquor bottles, with people packed onto some of the stools or standing nearby with drinks in hand. There was even a second level overlooking part of the room, giving the whole place a cramped, vertical feeling that made it seem larger than it actually was.
The clientele was a mixture of locals, workers finishing shifts, street mercs, and a handful of Valentinos wearing various combinations of gold jewellery, intricate religious tattoos, and customised gang chrome, alongside older regulars who looked like they had probably been drinking here longer than some of the younger people in the room had been alive. Nobody seemed particularly surprised to see another stranger walk inside.
A few people looked my way. The jacket probably had something to do with that. A couple of others sat a little straighter, their shoulders squaring beneath gold-embroidered fabrics as they adjusted to an unknown silhouette crossing the threshold.
I stepped fully inside as the doors shut behind me, sealing out the loud occupied pavement of The Glen and leaving me with the thick, layered noise and heavy heat of the tavern.
I made my way toward the long mahogany bar.
The bartender, Pepe I think, was already moving dynamically between customers. He was dropping heavy condensation-ringed glasses, collecting empty bottles, and seamlessly wiping down the counter, keeping the whole delicate ecosystem running without breaking his stride.
I paused beside one of the worn barstools, giving it a quick, calculated once-over to estimate the density before sitting. I adjusted my chassis' kinetic dampeners, absorbing the weight distribution through my hips before the vinyl could complain. The chair creaked under the mechanical pressure but held.
A familiar digital mirror hung on the wooden wall to my right, its smart-surface flickering faintly as it registered I was looking directly at it. My reflection popped up on the display, rendering the custom edgerunner jacket and the flat black glass of my optics against the warm ambient backdrop of the room.
Pepe glanced over, catching my eye as he tossed a clean rag over his shoulder. "I'll be right with you."
"Yeah, it's all good. Take your time."
I settled in, my eyes scanning the ambient reflections in the mirrored glass behind the liquor shelves. I checked the booths and the parts of the upper balcony I was able to, trying to see if I could spot Jackie from here. No dice. Maybe he wasn't even in the building yet. Nah, I thought, Vik wouldn't have pointed me here if the lead was completely cold.
Then I felt it.
[ALERT: UNAUTHORIZED SCAN DETECTED.]
[INTRUSION ATTEMPT: LOCAL KIROSHI SENSOR SCAN DEPLOYED.]
My eyes shifted slightly. 'You know what to do,' I thought, letting the request loop into the subroutines, my internal VI understood the instruction instantly.
A moment later, the forged diagnostic sheet I had traded Rache Bartmoss' encrypted slate for pulled straight up to the frontend of my virtual network layer. Whoever was running the scan went right through the bait, skimming a perfectly constructed, messy history of street conflicts and old regional black-market cyberware logs.
I slowly turned my head.
The scan had originated from a man sitting exactly one seat down from me. He was wearing an incredibly distinctive, gold-plated cybernetic jaw that gleamed under the green neon. His dark hair was slicked back neatly into a tight profile, and expensive, gold-rimmed combat specs with narrow amber lenses covered his eyes. A handful of heavy gold jewellery caught the amber light around his ears and neck. In a neighborhood like this, he looked like he'd been engineered from the ground up specifically to make sure everyone in the room knew exactly how many eddies he had to burn.
He was sipping his whiskey slowly, holding the lowball glass like the crystal owed him money. He caught me looking. A slow, knowing grin spread across his metallic jaw.
"Nice jacket, vato," he said, giving the reinforced polymer panels another slow look. "Bit tacky to put your name on it, no?"
I glanced down at the cybernetic oni brand patch stamped across my chest armor. "Line of work I'm in, branding goes a long way." I turned fully on the stool, my gold optics locking onto his amber lenses. "Name's Genos, but you already knew that from the scan you just ran."
His grin widened as I continued on, my voice maintaining that flat, unbothered cadence. "Y'all don't ask people their names around this side of Heywood?"
"Ha." He lifted his glass slightly in a mocking toast. "Fair enough, choom." He took another slow drink before offering his leather-gloved hand. "Name's Alejandro. Most people call me Mandíbula, on account of the chrome."
I gave his hand a single, measured nod, acknowledging the introduction without reaching out to test his micro-servo grip.
He leaned his shoulder against the edge of the bar, studying my frame for another long moment. "No hard feelings, yeah? Just not used to a face coming in here that I don't recognize." His eyes flicked briefly toward the heavy line of my shoulders beneath the fabric. "Making sure I didn't see something I didn't like."
I raised an eyebrow, letting the text overlay on his file process. "And the 6th Street tag isn't raising any alarm bells?"
That got a genuine laugh out of him, the micro-gears in his gold jaw whirring softly.
"Nah." He waved it off with a casual flick of his fingers. "Ain't a kid in Night City that isn't tied to something. Where they grew up, who they grew up with, what blood-slicked street they learned to survive on. Sixers, Tinos, Animals, Tyger Claws... everybody's got ties. Besides, those corporate shill tin soldiers don't do affiliations anyway, you're either locked in for life or you're target practice."
He rolled the amber whiskey around in the bottom of his glass, watching the ice melt. "I'd be more suspicious of you if your background sheet came back completely clean."
He finished his whiskey with a quick, single gulp and set the heavy glass down on the mahogany counter with a dull click.
Then, almost casually, his fingers slipped a small, folded piece of note paper from his vest pocket. He tucked it neatly beneath the wet bottom of the empty glass, sliding it forward just an inch.
He stood up, adjusting the set of his stich trimmed jacket. "Since you're new here, you probably don't know the...parish rules yet." He tapped the wooden bar top once with a heavy ring. "This is neutral ground, yeah? People around here don't play around with the peace."
His expression hardened behind the amber specs, just enough to make sure the reality of the warning landed. "No fighting in here, not unless you want to find out how many small pieces you can walk out in." He turned toward the exit doors.
"Pepe! I'm headed out," he called out over the sound of the jukebox. "Keep the change, yeah?"
From behind the service hatch, Pepe's gruff response echoed back without hesitation. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here." He makes his way over towards me and leans onto the bar, He made his way over towards me and leaned onto the bar, wiping a clean section of the bar with a fresh rag. "Hey, Genos, was it? Name's Pepe. Welcome to the El Coyote Cojo. What can I get you?"
"I'll take a...Calavera Feliz" I said, my mechanical voice flat against the room's ambient hum. "And a favour."
Pepe stepped back to reach into the fridge behind the counter. "Good choice, hard to go wrong with a classic, and the favour?"
"I'm looking for someone," I said, leaning my synthetic forearms against the table. "A Jackie Welles. He around here?"
And I swear I'm not exaggerating when I say everyone within hearing distance turned toward us. The pool players froze over their cues, a couple of Valentinos at the nearby tables shifted their weights, and the room's volume dipped by half a dozen decibels in an instant. Pepe, to his credit, only hesitated for a single moment, his expression completely blanking out. He turned around, popped the cap off the glass bottle, and handed me my beer.
"No one here by that name, amigo," Pepe said, his voice dropping into a careful, territorial register. "I can't help you with that, that'll be twelve-ninety-nine you can finish it and be on your way."
I didn't reach for the beer yet. "I'm not looking for any trouble. I got some car problems, and a friend of a friend said Welles knew someone who wouldn't screw me over."
Pepe braced his hands on the inner lip of the bar, narrowing his eyes. "Car troubles huh? Friend of a friend?"
"Viktor Vektor," I replied, letting the name anchor the transaction. "Old ripper from Little China? Said they're in the same boxing gym or something."
Pepe stared at me for a long, silent moment, reading my unblinking gold optics. He leaned in a fraction closer, his forearms flat on the bar, dropping his voice below the music. The friendly bartender routine evaporated completely.
"All right. I'll take your word for it," Pepe murmured, his eyes tracking the dark, heavy lines of my collarbone plates. "But let's get something straight, amigo. I don't care what kind of heavy chrome you're packing or how big of a deal you think you are in Watson or wherever it is you're from. This bar belongs to Mama Welles, this whole neighborhood is family. You step out of line, or you bring trouble through those doors, and no chrome won't save you from what happens next. Clear?"
I gave him a single nod. "I hear you."
"Good." Pepe's posture relaxed just enough to grab the bottle opener. "Jackie was upstairs last I saw hi--"
He was cut off by a wave of loud, echoing shouting coming from the second-level balcony stairs.
"¡Vete a la mierda, tú y esa perra corpo!" a woman's voice screamed, the anger tearing through the bar's music. "¡Bastardo mentiroso!"
A familiar, booming voice called out frustratingly after her. "¡Camilla! I'm telling you, it ain't like that! It's just biz! ¡Mi boleto para un trabajo más serio, por favor, escúchame!"
They were arguing violently as they rounded the corner of the stairwell and descended onto the main floor.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
The woman appeared first, she was young, early to mid-twenties, with long black hair pulled into a loose ponytail that looked like she'd spent more time fighting it than styling it. She had the kind of beauty that was impossible to mistake for softness; sharp cheekbones, dark brown eyes lined heavily in black, a small gold hoop through one eyebrow and cybernetic chrome panel lines running sharply along the side of her neck. Her outfit was pure Heywood: tight black jeans tucked into heeled boots, a cropped red jacket with gold stitching, and a white lace-up top underneath.
She was absolutely furious.
"Why would some Arasaka cunt pick up a random street cholo when she could get any one of their corporate ninjas to do their dirty work?!" Camilla yelled, turning at the bottom landing to shove a finger into his broad chest. "I'm not an idiot, Jackie! This is the last time. We're done! Lose my number!"
Jackie froze for half a second.
He looked exactly like he did from the game, just dressed slightly differently. He was a mountain of a man, his massive, shoulders practically stretching the seams of his heavy black vest, his dark hair pulled tight into his signature topknot. Cybernetic interface ports glinted on his face, and his massive hands were held up in a gesture of frantic retreat, looking completely helpless against her onslaught.
"Camilla, come on--"
She held up a single, sharp finger to cut him off. "No."
Then she stormed past and right through the front doors without another word, leaving a faint scent of perfume behind her.
The entire room remained dead quiet until the doors slid shut behind her, Jackie stood there for a moment at the base of the stairs, staring blankly after her. Then he ran a massive, calloused hand through his hair and adjusted his vest. "Chinga..."
He exhaled a long, defeated breath, shook his head, and walked toward the bar. He slumped onto the empty stool right next to me, his heavy frame settling into the wood.
"Hey, Pepe," he muttered, his eyes still fixed toward the entrance. "Get me a Calavera Feliz."
Pepe looked at him, slide-delivering a cold bottle across the polished mahogany. "Was just about to call for you. Our friend here is looking for you, something about Rico."
Jackie blinked, finally turning his head to look at me, taking in the armoured edgerunner jacket and my deadpan expression. "Oh shit, didn't even see you there choomba."
"Rough night?" I asked, gesturing slightly with my bottle toward the front doors.
He twisted the cap off his beer with a sharp click and took a long, heavy sip. "You have no idea, hermano," he muttered, letting out a dry chuckle. He set the bottle down, leaning onto the counter and extending a massive hand. "Jackie Welles. What's this about Rico?"
"Genos Harker," I said, grasping his massive palm. "I need some help with fixing up my ride. Ran into some heavy trouble on a job a few days back, got shot up pretty good. Vik told me you might be able to point me toward someone who knows their way around a wrench."
Jackie blinked. "Viktor Vektor? El viejo Vik? You know him?"
"Yeah. Just came from his clinic in Little China, actually," I said, taking a sip of the beer. The synthetic alcohol hit my internal filtering, but I let it through for some social lubrication. "He's been helping me out with some hardware problems, your name came up when I asked about getting my car checked."
"¡No me digas!" Jackie let out a booming laugh, leaning his massive shoulder against the counter so he was facing me fully. "Small fucking world, hermano. You know, I've been meaning to check out his clinic setup down there in Little China."
"You should," I nodded, my voice maintaining its deadpan. "He's incredibly good at what he does. To be honest, I'm surprised you don't already go to him for your chrome."
"Nah, nah, it ain't like that," He said, waving a massive hand dismissively before taking a swing of his Calavera Feliz. "I don't know Vik from the ripper scene, choom. I know him from the old boxing club we're in over in Watson. The Night City Devils! Back in the day, that man was a heavyweight terror in the ring. Let me tell you, old Viktor can still throw down with the best of 'em if someone pushes him,"
He lifted his right arm, flexing his bicep until the fabric of his sleeve strained against the massive, dense muscle underneath. The gold tattoos shifted against his skin. "See this? No heavy chrome inside these guns just yet, this right here? All natural."
I looked at the density of his forearm. "What, not even some basic subdermal plating?"
Jackie shook his head, his smile dipping into a slightly more serious, grounded expression as he took another sip of his beer. "Nah, to be honest, I've never been a huge fan of that heavy internal work. You start replacing too much of what makes you you and you forget what it feels like to just be a guy from the neighborhood. Plus..." He cracked a self-deprecating grin, tapping his glass against the counter. "I don't exactly have the eddies sitting in my account to pay for high-end military plating just yet. Street gigs keep me fed, but they don't buy full-body conversion kits."
Jackie paused, his dark eyes scanning my frame again, tracking the sheer width of my shoulders under the fabric. A wide, knowing grin broke through his face.
"Oye... shit, you look like you can throw down yourself, hermano. You work out? What's your routine, heavy iron?"
A faint, flat smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth. "Well technically speaking yeah."
I reached up, casually tugging the collar of my shirt and edgerunner jacket down a few inches. The fabric pulled back to expose my upper chest, revealing the seamless, matte-black chrome plating and the heavy industrial housing of my cybernetic frame. "Just not the way you're thinking." I added deadpan.
Jackie froze, his beer bottle stopping halfway to his mouth. He let out a long, low whistle that carried right over the jukebox music, his eyes widening at the sheer structural density of the cybernetics.
"Santa madre..." Jackie muttered, leaning in closer to peer at the chrome like a kid looking at a new Quadras engine. He suddenly caught himself, his eyes flicking back up to my face. "Ahh, shit man, what I said before, I didn't mean it like--"
"Nah, I get what you meant," I cut him off with a slight chuckle, letting my collar snap back into place to hide the plates. "And you're not wrong. There's only so much carving the meat can take before the person gets lost. I'm not offended."
He grinned a bit nervously but took the response for what it was, leaning back against the bar counter. "That is some seriously heavy-looking hardware, man. What are you, a Solo? Some sort of ex-corpo heavy hitter?"
"Freelance," I said. "I just started out after moving back to NC. Fixer I work with has got me doing small jobs for the moment, testing me out I think. I'm about half a month away from just calling her and demanding more serious gigs."
"¡Puta madre! Tell me about it!" Jackie laughed, slapping the bar top hard enough to make the glasses jump. He took a heavy swig of his Calavera Feliz and shook his head. "I've been dealing with that exact same wall for a long while. Most of the jobs I run are small-time Heywood hustle, but things seem to be coming up all Jackie Welles..." He leaned in, his voice dropping into an excited, confidential whisper. "I recently got an in with an Arasaka corpo, still low in Counter-Intel but that just means she's starting out too, she needs some street hustle. If I do well on this side-gig, she might actually hire me for some real, serious jobs. It's unbelievable, right? Hell, it's the exact reason my girl just stormed off out there."
"I was about to ask about that, actually," I admitted, swirling the last of my beer. "You seem pretty lively for someone who just got dumped."
Jackie waved his hand dismissively, letting out a booming chuckle. "Ah, that's just how Camilla gets, choom. Hell, it isn't even the first time this year we've 'broken up'. She's got fire in her blood, you know? She just needs a couple of days to cool off, clear her head, and see that I wasn't lying to her about it just being biz."
Camilla. This had to be the girl he was with before he eventually met Misty, if this is what his exes were like, I could see why he fell for Misty so hard. I wondered if I could play matchmaker and somehow engineer his meeting with Misty two years earlier than it was supposed to happen. It would certainly save him a lot of broken plates.
I was pulled from my plans for social manipulation when Jackie suddenly clapped a hand down on my shoulder, changing the topic completely.
"So, this ride of yours," He chuckled, his mood completely flipped from the drama with Camilla a minute ago. "Rico's shop is just a few blocks down near the highway overpass. He's my cousin, familia, so he won't swap out your parts when you aren't looking. What kind of ride we talking about?"
"A custom Mizutani Shion," I said, setting my bottle down. "Stole it off a couple of Raffen... uh, criminal nomads on my way into the city, its tricked out to hell and back."
Jackie slammed his empty beer bottle onto the counter, his eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas. He stood up from the stool, his massive frame towering over me as he gestured toward the exit doors. "A Nomad modded Shion?! Oh, hell no, I've gotta see this thing right now. The way you're talking about it, leaving it sitting out on a curb is practically a sin."
He turned back toward the counter and barked over the jukebox volume. "¡Pepe! Put both of our drinks on my tab! We're heading out."
Pepe just waved a rag dismissively in our direction. "Yeah, yeah. Don't break your mothers bottles."
We made our way out of the warm, amber glare of the bar and stepped back onto the pavement of The Glen, the sun had set, making the red and gold neon signs of the neighborhood bleed across the night sky. As we started walking down the block, I pulled up the virtual interface and sent a silent command to call the car to our position.
While we waited, Jackie kept pace beside me, his massive hands interlaced behind his head. "So, you said you got her shot up pretty good? What happened? Ran into a checkpoint?"
"Ambushed," I explained, tracking the Shion's real-time GPS coordinate as it navigated the lower avenue. "I was on my way to tie up some loose ends from a... well it's a long story I'll tell you later maybe, anyways a Thorn tried to run me off the road, there aren't any guns on my ride plus it's a crystal dome I couldn't roll down the window, so I had to lean out the door and shoot the lead driver at seventy miles an hour, all while actively dodging oncoming traffic."
Jackie let out a low, appreciative bark of a laugh. "Damn, hermano. Sounds like something out of a BD, your engine take a hit?"
"Engine's fine, wrapped it like a tank, hell I think it's more protected then the cockpit actually..." I said. "But the it isn't fully armored all the way around the chassis. The back of it took a heavy spray of heavy rounds, and... well, I might have clipped a concrete guardrail trying to slide around to look cool. Left a nasty gouge down the entire right quarter panel."
"Hey, if you don't scratch the paint, you aren't actually driving in Night City." He joked. "As long as the frame isn't twisted, Rico can--"
He was cut off as the low, aggressive mechanical growl of the Shion echoed from the intersection.
The custom matte-black machine rounded the corner, its unlit, shattered left headlight giving it a mean, asymmetrical look as it decelerated and pulled perfectly up to the curb right in front of us. The engine dropped to a deep, rumbling idle that vibrated right through the soles of our boots.
Jackie stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the boxy, aggressively widened wheel wells, the heavy-duty off-road suspension components exposed beneath the frame, and the scratched paint and bullet holes. He let out a long, high-velocity whistle.
"You weren't kidding about it being a nomad ride, hermano," Jackie whispered, his eyes scanning every inch of the scarred chassis with absolute reverence. "Look at the stance on this beast. Madre mía..."
"You know what... here get in, it's as fun to drive as it looks," I said, tossing the physical keys "but you scratch it up, I'm using it to get a discount out of your cousin."
Jackie caught the ring effortlessly, a massive, toothed grin breaking across his face as he unlocked the driver-side door.
"I think you and me are going to get along, Genos," he laughed, pulling his massive frame into the interior as the custom engine roared to life under his touch.
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Authors Note: That's it for Chapter 19, The Three of Cups!
A quick note on the Spanish used throughout the chapter:
I know there's quite a bit of Spanish sprinkled throughout this chapter, so for anyone who doesn't speak it, here are the translations:
El Coyote Cojo -- "The Lame Coyote" or "The Limping Coyote."
Calavera Feliz -- "Happy Skull."
vato -- roughly "dude," "guy," or "man," depending on context.
amigo -- "friend."
hermano -- "brother," though it can also be used casually like "bro."
El viejo Vik -- "Old Vik."
cholo -- a street slang term for a Mexican/Latino man; the exact tone depends on who is saying it and how.
"¡Vete a la mierda, tú y esa perra corpo!" -- "Fuck you, you corpo bitch!"
"¡Bastardo mentiroso!" -- "Lying bastard!"
"¡Camilla! I'm telling you, it ain't like that! It's just biz! ¡Mi boleto para un trabajo más serio, por favor, escúchame!" -- "Camilla! I'm telling you, it isn't like that! It's just business! It's my ticket to a more serious job, please, listen to me!"
"¡No me digas!" -- literally "Don't tell me!", but more naturally "No way!" or "You don't say!"
"¡Puta madre!" -- roughly "For fuck's sake!" or "Fucking hell!"
Oye -- "Hey."
Santa madre -- "Holy mother," basically an expression of shock or disbelief.
Madre mía -- "My God!" or "Good grief!"
Mandíbula -- "Jaw."
I'm using the Spanish partly because it fits the cultural identity of Heywood and the Valentinos, but also because I think it makes the setting feel a little more lived-in. Hopefully these translations help anyone who doesn't speak Spanish follow along without having to constantly reach for Google.
Anyway, that's it for Chapter 19, The Three of Cups! Thanks again for reading, and I'll see you guys in the next chapter!
I really wanted to get this chapter out earlier, but if I'd done that, I would've had to cut it down by almost half, and I really didn't want to bombard you guys with cliffhangers. That's not what you subscribed for.
I named this chapter The Three of Cups because the card felt like a really good fit for what I wanted this chapter to represent. The Three of Cups is strongly associated with friendship, community, celebration, shared happiness, and the kind of connections that gradually become your support network. It's not really about one dramatic relationship; it's about the people you start gathering around yourself, the friendships that begin forming, and that feeling of finding a place where you actually belong. A lot of interpretations also connect it with chosen family and the idea that happiness becomes more meaningful when you have people to share it with.
I wanted this chapter to breathe a little and show Genos actually trying to connect with people. He's a social guy, he likes having friends, and I think it's important that we actually get to see that side of him rather than having him constantly be in combat mode.
Which brings us to Jackie.
I tried really hard to make Jackie as likeable as I remembered him being, while also making the meeting feel as natural as I possibly could within the story. I didn't want Genos to just randomly walk into the bar and immediately become best friends with him because the plot demanded it, so I tried to build the meeting through something that already made sense with the story, including the whole car mechanic connection.
Jackie was also one of the first characters I ever encountered when I was introduced to the Cyberpunk universe through the game, so there's admittedly a little bit of personal bias there. Even with the relatively short amount of time you spend with him early on, he's the kind of character that's difficult not to get attached to, and the more you learn about him later, especially through the ofrenda, the more you realise how much there is underneath the surface.
So yeah, I definitely wanted Genos to make a good impression on the guy.
Did the meeting feel natural? Did Jackie come across as likeable and in-character? Did Genos being a little awkward about meeting someone he remembers from another life come across properly, or did any part of it feel too forced?
I'm always trying to make the story better, so genuinely let me know what you guys thought. I take your suggestions seriously, and if something isn't working, I'd rather hear about it and fix it than blindly assume everything is perfect.
Anyway, thanks for reading, and I'll see you guys in the next chapter!