"Good morning, Night City! Yesterday's death lottery—"
Stan's unmistakable radio voice echoed through the workshop, sharp and energetic, cutting through the hum of machinery.
James sat at his workbench, hands steady as he worked, the radio serving as background noise. In front of him were two Arasaka military-grade drones, both stripped open, their internal components exposed like mechanical organs.
One of them had already been fully modified.
Its frame was reinforced with bulletproof steel plating, a Shingen smart SMG mounted beneath its body, and a compact bomb-deployment system installed near the rear. This drone was no longer just for scouting—it was a flying execution platform.
Lucy was connected to it through her neural interface, finishing the final software debugging. Since she would be the one controlling it in combat, she had rewritten large portions of its internal logic, reshaping the system to better match her habits and reflexes.
The second drone was different.
James had no intention of turning it into a weapon. Instead, he focused entirely on enhancing its reconnaissance abilities—optical camouflage, advanced thermal imaging, anti-electromagnetic interference modules, and reinforced signal relays.
One drone killed.
The other watched everything.
All the equipment, spare parts, and experimental components came from V's backing. Ever since earning Jenkins' favor, V could casually write off "equipment wear and tear," and that alone was enough to fund all of James's current upgrades.
Once the drone work was complete, James planned to move on to the Chevillon Emperor 620 Ragnar. The modification plan was already finalized. All that remained was waiting for the remaining materials to arrive—then he and Pilar would tear it apart and rebuild it properly.
The workshop walls were lined with weapons.
Pistols. Assault rifles. Shotguns. Even a few heavy machine guns.
Some were trophies taken from fallen enemies. Others were purchased through Wakako or various shadow brokers. As a tech specialist, James had developed a natural tendency to collect weapons—not out of obsession, but preparation.
In Night City, being prepared was survival.
---
(Are you there? Are you there?)
Sasha's message popped up on James's optical interface.
Before he could reply, a burst of high-resolution photos flooded his vision.
Sasha was dressed in a Black Cat cosplay, black fabric hugging her form, playful and mysterious at the same time. The outfit wasn't particularly revealing, but her poses were bold, confident, and unmistakably intentional.
(How do you like my new outfit? Pretty, right?)
James glanced sideways at Lucy, who was completely focused on her work. He replied calmly.
(Any more? Send them.)
It wasn't a lack of discipline. It was simply an unfair battle.
Sasha, clearly pleased, sent a few more photos—each one pushing the line just a little further.
Hacker girls in Night City were like that: direct, fearless, and unapologetic.
James saved the images deep in his brain-computer storage. His pulse ticked upward. Deciding that continuing was dangerous, he quickly changed the topic.
(How's your body?)
(Fully recovered. No scars. Want proof?)
(Yes—)
He stopped himself too late.
More images arrived. Clean skin. Perfect recovery. The ripperdoc had done excellent work.
(I've been so bored lately, hiding at home. Come keep me company?)
James snorted softly.
(Serves you right. Who told you to mess with Biotechnica and try to expose them on a news channel? Didn't you know everyone's in bed together? And you call yourself a hacker.)
Sasha sent a pitiful photo in reply.
(Don't do that again. I can't always protect you underground. Cats don't always land on their feet.)
(I'll listen.)
She had learned. Not surrendered—just adjusted her priorities.
(Maine found another hacker. I might be unemployed. Will you take in a homeless kitten?)
(You mean Kiwi? I recommended her.)
(What?! You're seeing other hackers behind my back?!)
(You're the third party. I knew Kiwi first.)
(If I lose my job, it's your fault!)
Before James could reply, a call cut in.
Jackie.
(We found the guy. Ready when you are.)
(Coming.)
James closed the channel, pulled Lucy closer, and gently pinched her cheek.
"Work time."
---
Jackie was waiting in the underground garage, already astride his motorcycle. When James and Lucy arrived, he climbed into the driver's seat of the Ragnar.
Jackie was officially part of James's crew now—driver and street liaison.
He had the contacts. The instincts. The ability to deal with street trash and gang politics.
This job came from Rogue.
A member of the Animals gang had betrayed her.
For the Queen of the Afterlife, betrayal had only one ending.
Death.
"The target's in Pacifica," Jackie said while driving. "Steroid distribution. He's got muscle backing him."
"Pacifica…" James frowned. "That's Sasquatch's territory."
The Animals were everywhere in Night City, but Pacifica was special. Each region was ruled by the strongest, and Sasquatch was infamous.
"These guys live on muscle and injections," Jackie continued. "Bodyguards. Underground fights. Pure brute force."
"Sounds fun."
Jackie hesitated. "Uh… James, can I do more than drive this time?"
James glanced at him. "You're already earning your share."
"I know. I just… want to pull my weight."
James considered it, then nodded. "Alright. You lead."
Jackie's eyes lit up.
That meant James would need another driver.
A reliable one.
He thought for a moment, then called Maine.
"Falco?" Maine replied instantly. "Yeah. Solid driver. I'll send you his contact."
That problem solved itself.
---
Pacifica came into view.
Once planned as a luxury resort, it had rotted into a gang-controlled wasteland. Unfinished hotels loomed like concrete skeletons. The government had long since abandoned the area.
No NCPD.
No corporations.
Only gangs—and survival.
Jackie parked near an old factory.
"That's the place."
He opened the door, peeked inside—
Then slammed it shut.
"…There are a lot of them."
James smiled. "So what?"
He pushed the door open and walked in.
Inside were ten Animals members, each one swollen with muscle, veins bulging, eyes filled with aggression.
James raised his middle finger.
"Rogue says: eat shit."
They charged.
James slid on his brass knuckles.
Jackie roared and followed.
---
The fight was brutal.
Fists like hammers. Bodies crashing into walls. Concrete cracking under weight.
Minutes later, James spat blood onto the floor and tossed his shattered brass knuckles aside.
The target lay dead—neck twisted cleanly.
Everyone else lived.
The Animals weren't Scavs or Maelstrom. Killing them all wasn't necessary.
Jackie leaned against the wall, swollen and bruised, barely able to open one eye.
"I told you," James said calmly. "You need more practice."
Jackie said nothing. Talking hurt.
Taking on three Animals bare-handed was already impressive.
But James?
He had crushed ten.
Jackie finally understood.
Some people weren't built the same.
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