“So! You do much racing?”

I narrowed my eyes and gave him a sideways glance as we stepped out of the velvet-lined lounge and into a quieter hallway, the carpet soft underfoot and patterned like coiling snakes. We were on our way to get our cars, now. The races were beginning in about an hour, and there was a bunch of prep-work that the establishment needed from us. Like enforcing the disabling of our weapons systems and lobotomizing whatever self-driving programs we had on hand. The only high-tech edge we were allowed to bring were HUD line algorithms that would help advise us on what paths to take, and what speeds to take those paths with.

“You trying to psyche me out or something? It isn’t gonna work.”

Hiroto laughed as we passed a marble bust of some long-dead club founder. “Not at all, dude! I told you, didn’t I—I think you’re really interesting! There’s no data on you, so I was just wondering.”

That was kind of the point. “Keep wondering.”

“Ooh, I love surprises!” he said gleefully. I shrugged at that.

The hallway curved, subtly sloping downward, lit with soft amber sconces and lined with surrealist art—shapes that shifted depending on the angle. We passed a tall mirror etched with gold where two drunk financiers were still adjusting their collars, faces red with laughter. Hiroto didn’t even glance their way. “Still, with determination like that, I gotta ask: what are you racing for?”

I raised an eyebrow in annoyance. “Money,” I said.

“Oh! That’s… underwhelming, heheh,” he chuckled bashfully. “I expected you to have a more serious reason.”

I clenched my jaws at that. “Grew up rich, did you?”

“Eh, we were comfortable,” he shrugged.

“Well, we weren’t,” I said. “Money might not mean shit to you, but it does to me.”

We reached a large door guarded by a sleek-faced attendant in a white tux. He gave us a courteous nod and gestured toward the elevator alcove beyond. Hiroto walked ahead of me and turned around, backtracking in front of me, hands held behind him like he was strolling through a garden. “Fair. You wanna know what I’m racing for?”

“To be the best,” I said.

He grinned. “Nah.” Then he turned around and faced forward again, falling behind slightly so we were walking side by side down a gold-trimmed ramp toward the elevator bay. Jazz music from a distant piano bar faded behind us as the soft hum of the lifts grew louder. “It’s the reason why I’m in this game with those rich kids in the first place, actually.”

“The reason you’re racing for Alessandro?” I asked, eyebrow raised. “What was it—mil-spec biomods?”

He chuckled as we approached a black glass elevator. “Experimental treatment, actually. For my mom.” I looked at him. He was still smiling guilelessly. “He told me to do what I always do: win. And if I do, he’ll make it so that Biotechnica moves my mom up on the shortlist for this new treatment they’re developing.”

I frowned as we stopped in front of the elevator. The call button glowed a soft cyan as Hiroto pressed it. “Thought a guy like you would have enough money to take care of something like that,” I said.

“She has SYN-9 Collapse Syndrome,” Hiroto explained. Nanny filled in the blanks.

[It’s a degenerative disease that slowly corrupts the patient’s epigenetic regulation systems, unraveling the body's natural ability to interpret and repair its own DNA. It’d be a tough cookie to crack, even for me.]

D: But could you do it?

[It’s difficult to say. Probably not. It might actually be one of the few diseases that I would have little hope of curing you of. Good that it’s just a rare genetic condition and not contagious.]

“Ever heard of that?” Hiroto asked.

“I know the gist,” I said. “I didn’t expect you to try and guilt me into throwing.”

The elevator chimed softly and its doors slid open. He actually laughed out loud as we stepped inside, his shoulders shaking. I glared at him as he doubled over, still laughing. The doors slid shut behind us, the glass walls turning opaque for privacy.

“So—sorry, I just. Wow. That’s really funny,” he sobered up slowly and shook his head. The elevator began descending slowly. “No, I wasn’t saying that to psyche you out, or even get you to pity me or something. I don’t need any of that. The thing is, I really like your determination, but I can see that you’re really new at this. Even if you’ve got skills in plenty, I have to warn you—if you don’t race for something that you want really badly, something that is so important to you that you would do anything to win, then you’re never gonna win. So, for your own sake, you should hope that you love money more than I love my mom.”

He had no idea just how much I wanted this. It was a shame about his mother, but I really wouldn’t let something that small stop me from winning. She wasn’t my mom, and I owed absolutely nothing to this guy. “It won’t be your fault when you lose,” I told him. “Besides, experimental treatments are for shit—she’s probably better off without any of it. You can’t trust Biotechnica.”

Hiroto narrowed his eyes at me and nodded thoughtfully. “You’re a good guy, I think. I liked that you cared enough to offer some words of comfort. But you don’t have to worry—I won’t lose. I might lose her, but… not this race, no. Not this race.”

I looked at him for a long moment. “You seem like a decent sort. Makes me think you ain’t even from this city, being honest.”

He laughed. “I’m a Night Citizen, born and bred. Don’t let the chipper attitude fool you, either. I will flatline you in half a second if you play dirty with me,” he grinned toothily.

My eyes widened at that. I couldn’t help but grin. The elevator doors hissed open onto a sub-level of the garage. A gust of cold, ozone-rich air met us, and the scent of rubber, oil, and metal washed in like a wave. “That’s me!” Hiroto said as he walked out.

“Hey, Hiroto,” I said. He turned around, eyes wide in curiosity. “Make sure you live up to your hype.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth, Daniel!”

My grin immediately fell. “It’s David!”

“Good luck, Davis!”

Fuck him.

000

“So basically, they only count as the racers belonging to a particular baby corpo if they agree to plaster their name or a specific symbol on their car’s crystaldome,” Lucy patiently explained to Rebecca and Pilar, who were seated beside her on a three-person couch. They were all inside one of Aldo’s warehouses, now set-up to be a make-shift media room for the impending watch-party. Kiwi wasn’t here yet, though she had been vague about whether or not she’d make it at all. Falco was there, but Maine and Dorio were still trailing behind, bringing the crew some good booze. Thankfully, it was on their dime. “D’s got a kid called Jin who’s betting on him, so he’ll put his name or symbol or whatever somewhere on the car—wherever he can, since the crystaldome’s all fucked.”

Pilar guffawed. “Hah! Hazards of buying second-hand—you always have to deal with the last guy’s bullshit mods.”

“A fucking superhero,” Rebecca said, wide-eyed. Then she took a deep swig of her can of beer. Then she cracked a wide grin and gently elbowed Lucy. “You know the first thing David told me after I asked him what the deal with the mask was? He told me he was a fucking superhero!” She began to cackle, kicking her feet in the air and holding her stomach. “What are the fucking odds that he runs into another one?”

Falco, who was seated a bit further away on his own chair and table, brought himself into the conversation. “So how’s it lookin’, anyhow. D still fixin’ to take number one or what?”

Pilar burst out laughing. “What a fucking gonk. I can’t believe that kid!”

Lucy sighed.

One million dollars down, all for a pretty dream.

Oh well. She couldn’t help the warmth bubble in her gut at having seen David so fired up. As far as she was concerned, it was money well spent.

“Sure as hell,” Lucy said. “He even set it up so that he could potentially beat the number one guy—Toge Oni.”

Falco let out a long whistle. Then, despite himself, he couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just—that poor son of a gun,” he shook his head.

Pilar looked at him in shock. “Weren’t you training him?!”

“I was!” Falco replied. “Didn’t pull no punches, either, that’s for damn sure. And let me tell you somethin’: that kid’s a fucking menace. If he had maybe a month, or even another week or two, he might have started rivalin’ me in a track like that,” he nodded at the projected screen still panning over the Nightmare Rally course. “Kid’s a genius, but he ain’t on that Toge Oni guy’s level. Which begs the question—is he on any of those baby corpo payrolls?”

“Not historically,” Lucy shook her head. “Apparently, he doesn’t take sponsorships. Never has. Now, the ones at top ten are a different beast. They all fly company colors.”

“Fuckin’ respect to that guy!” Pilar shouted. “Fuck yeah! He’s—nah, man, I fucking love him! Fuck David, I want him to win!”

Lucy and Rebecca both glared at him. Immediately, he must have remembered the agony of the beating he received about a week ago, because he didn’t just flinch—he grabbed the backrest of the couch, did a handstand, and flipped away, crouching low, ready for an assault.

That worked perfectly for Lucy, actually. Now, the fucking reprobate had left the couch, her and Rebecca could just share it while he sat somewhere else.

Falco pinched his goatee and stared at the projection. “I’m seein’ some pretty high-end names on them racers. Alfredo Lombardi—ain’t he the boss of Biotechnica in these here parts? Regional Managing Director of Biotechnica’s Night City operations.” Falco did mention that his family had a connect with that corp. Still was a bit surprising to see someone this close to the ground be aware of such things. He tried to play it down with those southern mannerisms, but the guy was sharp as a tack, no two ways about it.

Lucy had caught the screen panning over to a parked, driverless Caliburns still being inspected by the house, and saw the name Alfredo Lombardi in a stylized font next to a Biotechnica logo. Lucy frowned. “I guess the grown-up corpos are also playing this game.”

“Well, that’s a load of good news, ain’t it?” Falco said as Pilar went to sit with him on his table, casting angry glances at her and Rebecca. “Means David’s up against the kiddie pool, basically.”

It was good news.

And if David had any common sense, he’d try to hedge his bets and wager that he’d get ahead of those kiddie racers, instead of betting it all on taking number one.

But that wasn’t the psycho that she had fallen in love with. For better or for worse, he’d be going all in.

“Let’s talk bets!” Pilar clapped his hands. “Don’t you bitches try anything just because I’m being realistic, but I’m thinking—and here’s a crazy idea—let’s bet on the guy that’s actually likely to win! A hundred thousand on Toge Oni!”

Rebecca scoffed. “Do you even have a hundred grand saved up?”

“Was gonna ask for a loan—”

“Fuck. Off.”

“Bitch!”

“I’m not lending you shit if you’re betting against David—plus, I don’t have a hundred grand saved up either!”

“What about ten grand?”

“Fuck. Off.”

“You bitch!”

Falco’s eyes glowed blue as he consulted the net. “With odds as midget short as these, you’d be looking at a one thousand eddie payout even if you could front a hundred grand.” Falco frowned in disgust. “Kid’s fucking generational. Damn savants.”

Pilar laughed. “Sour fucking grapes from the smooth-as-butter ignition-fucking cowboy?”

“Fucking an ignition, Pilar? That’s new, even for you.”

Pilar cackled. “How’d you rate yourself against him, cowboy?”

“On this track?” Falco shrugged. “Poorly. The Oni knows it better than I do. But I’d smoke his Caliburn-drivin’ ass on the badlands, that’s the unvarnished truth right there.”

Maine and Dorio arrived through the door to the dark room, arms crooked together, and both of them carrying enormous bags of drinks. Lucy immediately perked up at the sight. “We talkin’ bets?!” Maine shouted. “I’m putting ten grand on D winning this thing!”

Dorio laughed. “You’re fucking delusional.”

Maine’s eyes glowed blue as he processed the Net and made his bets with the Casino. “Done!”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Dorio muttered. Lucy suppressed a giggle.

If only they knew just how much Lucy was willing to burn for that fool.

000

Out-of-towners coming into the Afterlife asking around for the identity of a certain merc usually never ended well for said out-of-towners.

Unless they were a procession of corpo huscle. Then, they would, on occasion, get the honor of walking out of Rogue Amendiares’ establishment with their lives.

The security department of this Biotechnica subsidiary had just enough pull that she felt it was wise to give them that option. And thankfully, those assholes were wise enough to take the mercy for what it was and leave while the going was good.

Augustus Gonzalez, huh? Rogue watched as him and his procession of goons left her establishment. Latin-American corporate enforcers weren’t rare this close to the border, but the ones that tended to have beef with Night City edgerunners tended to know better than to go straight to the Afterlife to rattle some cages.

As she watched the last of them disappear out the hallway towards the outer door, Rogue took a quick sip from her glass of gin and aquavit with a lonely muddled cherry floating atop the surface, and hummed inwardly. What the hell have you been up to, D?

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Whatever it was, Green Farm clearly wanted blood.

Might even be that they’ll be getting it soon, what with how their target had done everything in his power to spread his rep, including becoming an XBD superstar starring in some of the most high-octane braindances to come out this year.

He had gone all out in making a name for himself, only a few short weeks after his mother’s death, no less. And to her knowledge, he had been largely successful in concealing his civvie identity as well. He still went to Arasaka, and his enemies only knew him by D.

But between the Wraiths, the Maelstrom, and now a corp, those enemies might be abundant enough to invalidate his cover of anonymity. He was biting off more than he could chew: more than anyone could chew, really.

“Enny for your thoughts?” Claire, Rogue’s brunette bartender, asked her as she polished off a few glasses. They didn’t actually need polishing, but Rogue had trained her to always default to that display in case her hands were empty. It added to the Afterlife’s feel, after all.

“I’m just debating the merits of charity,” Rogue said. A screen on the corner of the ceiling caught her eye—tuned to the current big sport event to hit Night City. The Nightmare Rally. As far as sports went, few had a set-up where the highest likely payout wasn’t to vote for the consistent frontrunner—Hiroto Nakamura. You’d make more money betting who came second or third, but one thing was always true: Nakamura came first.

“If it’s for the right cause,” Claire shrugged. Then, she focused on the screen on the corner of the ceiling, and she snorted. Though she was an enormous racing fan, she’d never been too fond of the all-Caliburn races that usually went on in the N.O Country Club. According to her, using a Rayfield hypercar to race was just ‘cheating’. “To be honest, I’ve only ever found charity to be fulfilling if you actually believe in the cause, and know where your efforts are going to, you know? Better to hand twenty edds to a streetkid than to donate to some streetkid fund and let some corpo scumfucker pocket the lion’s share.”

Rogue laughed a little. Better to know the streetkid in person, eh? “Is fascination a valid reason?” Rogue asked. “Right now, I’m just a spectator. An impartial observer. I could tip the scales any way I see fit, or I could mind my business and let things play out.”

Continue watching as Martinez’s ironclad armor chipped away from the attacks of all the people he had offended in his rise to the top, or go out on a limb to lengthen some hopeless gonk kid’s life by throwing him some bones every now and then.

“It’s a real pickle, don’t you think?” Rogue began, “When your charity case is liable to fuck everything up on his own anyway. Might be more merciful to not extend the suffering for him.”

Claire gave a half-grin. “That depends. How fun is he?”

Rogue grinned. “He’s… kind of a spectacle,” she nodded slowly. Several solo-missions completed for Reyes, and several group missions for Faraday as well. And the kid was now a member in good standing with Maine’s crew, consisting of hardboiled edgerunners one and all.

From wanting to know how to get in touch with a fixer, all the way to having contacts with several, and driving an XBD emporium besides. The boy was a natural-born hustler. An ascended gutter rat.

She liked him, actually. Quite a bit, in fact.

The luster would probably disappear once he got older, and was an adult in truth. Then, he’d be more of a freak oddity than what he currently was, which was something rather magical. Distilled hope, almost.

Then she saw him. In a line-up of other racers, all wearing obscenely expensive clothes, he stood there in a dark red, almost black suit. Quaffed hair, defiance in the eyes, fingers that itched to do anything other than be there, at the moment. Even in that situation, he was forcing himself to see things through, see his plans through.

And what were those plans? To win?

Moreover, how was he there? Broke streetkid like him couldn’t possibly have been able to afford classes in racing. Not if he really had been broke the moment they had met.

And the kid looked a lot bigger now than she remembered him. Same face, and she recognized the spinal implant—she could see bits of chrome every time he turned his head. Therefore, it was probably the same kid.

The screen then flashed with his name, dashing every last shred of doubt. David Martinez.

Rogue couldn’t decide which possibility was worse for him—that he might have pumped himself full of Juice and growth hormone to get that big, or that he might have chromed up to this point.

One thing was clear, though: he was setting quite the blaze up for his eventual demise. She might as well already get started on testing recipes for the ‘D’ cocktail. She giggled a little at the silly name. Stupid. It’d never sell. She might have to consider calling it the David Martinez instead. Dead as he’d be, he’d have no use for a civvie name, and she knew that he no longer had a family—therefore, no one to be impacted if that information was out in the open.

“Fuck it,” Rogue grinned, picking up her own glass to polish it performatively. “Guess I’ll throw him a bone.” She didn’t expect that even her best efforts could stop a determined edgerunner from running headlong into certain death. But she might as well hold onto a favor from the kid if she did this for him.

“…Are you talking about the one they were asking for?” Claire nodded towards the door, where those Green Farm goons had left. “D?” She got closer and whispered. “Do you know who he is?”

The starstruck eyes she gave didn’t go unnoticed by Rogue, who only rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. Every era—damn-near every year—had their superstars. D was just the latest one. He wasn’t any more special than the last guy. She hadn’t watched any of his BDs, but she doubted they could be that impressive. And the rumors she had heard made it sound like those BDs were edited or staged, rather than authentic accountings of his missions. She hadn’t looked kindly on David when she had heard those second-hand accounts of those BDs, but she had to acquiesce that a boy had to live somehow in this fucked up city. Even a boy with as many prospects as he did.

“I know everything,” Rogue grinned. “Our boy D once patronized this bar months ago, unmasked,” she said. Shame she hadn’t kept that footage—lucky for him, definitely. “He was humble, back then. Polite. He tipped me well. Thought I was working your job. And you know what he asked me for?”

Claire beamed and got closer. “What’d he ask for?”

“The lowdown on the solo life,” Rogue chuckled. “As though I was just a humble teacher that would show him the way. But he had guts to come in here, being a no-name. And he was respectful even while he was asking. Tipped me a hundred percent. On a five eddie drink, sure, but I could tell that was a powerful gesture from a guy as strapped for edds as he was.” And personally, she was inclined to accept it for the gesture that it was. “Course, comin’ in like he did with that Sandy of his, I didn’t think much of throwing him a bone. He was handling it well, despite his scrawny ass.” Scrawny back then, at least.

“The charity case,” Claire looked awe-struck at that. Ugh. Had Rogue accidentally fed into the girl’s celebrity worship by revealing all those things about D?

“He’s not invincible, dear,” Rogue grinned. “I’d reckon that he does need some kind of help. Probably my help, too.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “If… if you don’t want to get involved, I could try letting him know myself. I know Rebecca fairly well—”

“Nah,” Rogue shrugged. “I’ll tell the kid myself. Anyway, are you watching the Nightmare Rally?”

Claire sighed. “Might as well. Nothing else is on.”

“Are you betting?”

“On a sport I don’t give a shit about?” Claire tilted her head.

Rogue laughed. “Betting’s bad for you, anyway.” She entered the Net and started digging around for the boy she had seen on the screen. David Martinez. The name matched the scan she had taken of him weeks ago. Seventeen years old. An Arasaka Academy student. Current resident of Arroyo, Santo Domingo. Mother dead. Father, no information. A world out to grind him into dust, and yet there he was, still alive.

And not just alive.

Fucking thriving.

He was, in his current state, a fucking myth. A beautiful bedtime story to tell the kids. The gutter rat that made it.

A gutter rat with a disgusting three thousand to one odds. Three thousand and one to one odds to be precise. Still baffling.

But all the more tempting.

Because she was a responsible and mature woman, she only decided to bet one thousand eddies on him. One thousand eddies would be enough to feed a family of five for two months if they stretched the cash right. A baffling amount of money to throw away on this well of wishes, but one that she would bet anyway, because try as she might, she just couldn’t help but like the kid.

“Are you betting?” Claire asked. “Who? And why? Could you tip me in, at least?”

“Just a random bet,” Rogue chuckled. “You would hate to hear who.”

“Who is it?!”

“One of the newbies. No data, apparently,” Rogue smiled, keeping an eye on Claire’s face.

She scrunched her nose up. “Why?”

Rogue shrugged. “It’s the thrill of gambling. ‘What if I win’ and all that. Like buying a lottery ticket.”

Claire shook her head fondly. “Whatever floats your boat, boss.”

000

Jin could do nothing but watch now.

The dice had been cast. The alcohol had been drunk. Both physically, and in any abstract terms, there were no other actions left for him to do for him to either win big or not at all. He could try and hedge his foolhardy bet on that fucking idiot motherfucker, that stupid fucking, idiotic fucking guy—by going around and enticing the other people into making bets that he would for sure win. But that would signal weakness. His desire to continue playing would only tell the others that he knew, knew, that he had just gotten on a fucked up pony, with cerebral palsy and full-on blindness.

David, you fucking—

Jin had been tricked. David had practically dazzled him with those words of his. A million fucking Eurodollars that he would bet on himself with. Money that a broke streetkid like him couldn’t touch in a million years.

Sure, sure! The Caliburn he owned was pricy. Probably not a rental, either. He went to school every day on a modded Kusanagi, but those weren’t really that pricey. He had appeared in some parties wearing reasonably priced clothes: ranging from twenty to almost ninety thousand. And today, he had decided to wear something worth one hundred and fifty grand.

He had money.

But enough to throw a million away on a bet? Guy like him? Salt of the fucking badlands?

Nah. Not him. Not him.

That meant… David had lied to him.

That motherfucker.

In the corner of his eye, in the expansive first floor of the executive’s lounge—where the descendants of the big corporate powers were at least allowed to be without interference from their betters—he caught sight of Mei Jing Fei, sitting alone on an artsy couch, her left arm resting on an armrest as she watched the big screen.

Jing Fei…

What the actual fuck was her whole deal?

Shackled to Katsuo for a few months, she hadn’t been particularly subtle about how she really felt about Jin’s own dumbass paternal cousin. Guy was a fucking pussy—everyone with Kiroshis could see as much. He tried to cover his deficiencies up with great purchases, but a pussy would always be a pussy, no matter how much chrome he packed.

And it wasn’t nearly as much as the stuff Jin was rocking either. And yet it had been enough to tip him over to psychoville.

Pussy. Just a fucking pussy in the end.

And Mei Jing Fei had thankfully escaped from the nuclear meltdown of his cousin’s pussydom, at the very least getting away with her life even when her brother couldn’t. In Jin’s honest opinion, that shit fucking stung. It reeked of a sense of incompetence, of powerlessness. Of ineptitude, pure and simple. Now, someone else’s family would have to bear the brunt of Katsuo’s weakness.

It really fucking sucked. Having that black mark on the record—and being so closely associated to that black mark.

But what was she up to now? Newly liberated debutante, her family’s estate on a perilous freefall, older brother and heir to the company dead, and instead of securing some prospects by shopping around on the corpo marriage mart like an old-school noble-lady from an English period drama, this bitch was watching races!

Was she stupid?

Jin considered that question seriously, and came to a conclusion.

Maybe.

But, she would definitely be more fun to talk to than any of these other chucklefucks. Certainly Masaki, that red-eyed fucking FUCK—who kept looking at him like these races were already over, and was relishing in Jin’s annoyance rather than wanting to focus on his own losses.

Or that smug fucking Alessandro!

How the fuck had he managed to swing Hiroto like that? Jin would get to the bottom of that soon.

But first—he refocused on Fei.

Time to de-stress.

Jin ordered a pair of drinks from the bar—two lowball glasses filled with the highest-grade Japanese whiskey available

. The Macallan 2000s would have done the job, too, but… no need breaking the bank when dealing with the likes of her. Plus, she might appreciate the irony of being served Japanese whiskey.

Or, at the very least, react to it in the incendiary way that Jin sort of… wanted.

What else was there to do, after all? Nothing could stop the races from happening, so he might as well jerk some people around a little. That always promised fun!

A servant carried both their glasses on a tray. With that servant to Jin’s left, he approached Fei’s couch. Her eyes widened in practiced delight as Jin didn’t ask for any permission to just sit right besides her, and stare right up at the television screen. The bartender quickly handed her the drink.

“Oh! Why, thank you, Jin,” she grinned at the glass in her hand.

“It’s an authentic Mitsunashi 2010,” Jin said. “What do you think?

Fei took a healthy sip. She slowly swallowed, and then grinned. “Yum. Spicy juice.”

She put the glass down on the nearby coffee table.

Jin couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Spicy juice, indeed!” he took a sip of his own and found that, yes, the juice was quite spicy. Not particularly tasty, by any means, but that was only because his tastebuds hadn’t been properly calibrated to the good shit yet. He still needed a bit of practice before that happened.

“Do you think that David will win?” Jing Fei asked, out of nowhere. It almost gave Jin whiplash, how sudden she had been. No foreplay, no niceties. Just, an immediate desire for verbal combat. “I mean,” she continued. “He’s your rider, after all.”

“I think the best racer will win,” Jin shrugged, not trying to reveal anything.

Fei took her eyes from the screen and looked into his instead. In those eyes, she revealed wonder, mischief, but not quite… naivete. She seemed aware, in a way that no joytoy could possibly be.

Then again, she was practically an ascended joytoy. Maybe she really was capable of just rewiring her entire brain-chemistry so that she would be more receptive to a given mark.

Her eyes narrowed in realization. “So you don’t believe in him, then. Pity. He told me a lot about how much he valued being in your confidence. How much he relished being your friend.”

She was telling him about how deeply she was in David’s confidence. How much she had already worked his psyche over with her fucked up tricks.

Was she willing to trade psychological levers, perhaps? That was interesting, at least. “Then,” Jin said, “am I to believe that you are confident in him?”

“Fairly,” she said. “After all, he did demonstrate quite the bit of confidence.” Bullshit. “He is indeed my ticket to success!” Her eyes brightened. “Yes, indeed. I shall use him and suck up every last ounce of value that he can produce. Like a vampire!” She grinned, baring her teeth at him and hissing slightly. Then she relaxed and slid her back on the backrest, still grinning, but shaking her head a little. “Or. I’ll just let these games play out, and do what I can to sweeten any hard feelings.”

Jin barked out a laugh. “You know, he won’t fall for any of your shit, you know?”

Fei looked at him with wide-eyed astonishment. “Is that what you’re scared of, Jin? Is that jealousy?”

Jin grimaced. Accusations, now? She seemed quite eager to have her solitude.

“David’s… served me well, in the past,” Jin admitted. Reasonably okay, given that he was a fucking high school student and not a proper corpo plant. “And to be honest, I’m not really jealous so much as I’m disappointed that he let himself fall for someone like you.”

Fei’s eyes darkened for a moment. “Someone like me?”

“Corpo princess down on her luck, promising a poor gonk the world and willing to deliver far, far less,” Jin grinned as he eyed the screen and kept his peripheral view on her. His Kiroshi’s widened the perspective so that he could see both.

“You don’t think he’s a partner at all, do you?” Fei asked, stunning Jin for a moment. Partner? So, that fucking guy did blab about it. And he told her of all people.

Typical. Amateur fucking hour.

“Of course, I do!” Jin lied. “He’s—”

Fei rolled her eyes, “A gutter-rat, streetkid, no-good, piece of shit, whatever you wanna call it. But he’s not your equal, according to you. Never has been. Probably never will be. And quite frankly?” Fei laughed. “Actually? I think that’s actually fucking hilarious! You have any idea what he’s been through, how hard he’s working?”

Jin frowned. What? She… believes in him? “The fuck’s any of that to you in particular, anyway?” Jin bent over to pick up his glass and give it a sip.

She chuckled. “I think… I might have been the first true friend he’s ever made in this world that he’s fighting tooth and nail to enter.” She paused for a moment, then stared directly at him. “I want you to fuck up your working relationship—I do. And when you do, and he decides he no longer has any use for you, I want him to be free. To rise up on his own merits. Or at the very least, have people having his fucking back when things don’t always seem sunny. That’s what it actually means to be a partner, Jin.” She turned to look at the screen again. The stage where the drivers would arrive one by one in single file, from right-screen to left-screen, saying their names in front of a podium containing over two dozen different mics from a bunch of different media houses, before proceeding to left screen to leave and enter their cars. It was… David’s turn right then and there.

David Martinez. Seventeen.

Jin grinned at Fei. “And what if I told you that he told me, he really was betting a million on himself?”

Her eyes widened. Then she grinned. “Fucking idiot.” She started laughing.

Jin didn’t understand. He chuckled uneasily as well. “What, so… you believe him?”

She shrugged. “That’s probably what he bet. And… frankly… whatever he wins out won’t be enough to truly encapsulate how much he’s worth.”

Jin rolled his eyes. “And how much is that?”

“Indescribable.”

Fucking dumbass. “Put it in round figures.”

“A quintillion.”

Jin had had just about enough of this shit. “Alright, o’ concubine of the forbidden city. Let’s see how much this discount emperor’s gonna net ya.”

“Jin?”

“What?”

“I will literally just beat you to within an inch of your life you if you say that racist fucking shit to me again. I could swear on everything holy to me, but honestly, I will just trust that you take me at my word. Alright?”

The fuck?

Wait—could she?

Jin looked at her carefully. Nothing came up on his scans. Nothing seemed to outwardly suggest that such a thing as her beating him up could possibly happen, too.

She sounded convincing, but clearly she was just bullshitting. “Alright, princess,” Jin chuckled. Finally, this talk had paid back its dividends, returning much entertainment on his own investment, which was bothering to speak to that weirdo bitch in the first place. That almost sounded like a genuine freakout. Pretty fun.

Another fun idea occurred to Jin just then. Maybe she wasn’t actually playing him. Maybe her feelings were genuine? She had made that abundantly clear with her rants, but brutal honesty could often be a mask for smaller lies.

Jin grinned. Turns out, he had underestimated David all along. Romance-scamming an heiress was pretty ballsy, even for a former streetkid. It was a shame that she wouldn’t be worth shit in a few months.

Maybe David was just practicing with her, training for when he went harpooning for some real whales? In any case, it wasn’t any of his business.

But he was curious to see where this whole thing between them would go.

Hopefully, nowhere predictable.