“So,” V said. “What’s the deal with your family’s corp anyway? How come you’ve had to live in a Megabuilding in Arroyo of all places all this time?”

“…My mom was on the outs with the rest of her family,” I said. “They gave us enough to put me through corp school. But not enough to live anywhere nicer.”

“Brutal,” V said. “I guess things changed after she died.”

“Less than you’d think,” I said. “Had to pick up some side work to make rent. They still paid for school, but that was about it from them.”

“What sort of side work?” V asked. “I guess there’s XBD pushing, but it couldn’t have just been that. Were you Netrunning, too?”

“Not really,” I said. “I mostly just did commissions. Build programs, debug code, that sort of thing. There’s money in it if you end up racking up enough contacts. As long as you’ve got the skill.” I snorted. “Only reason I even won that race was because of my algorithm.”

“Then there’s also that chipped in attitude of yours,” V said. “Along with all the other stuff you got chipped to survive all those Gs you were pulling in that race.”

I looked at him, wondering what his deal with all these questions were. “The attitude’s all ‘ganic. It’s just my body that’s chipped.”

V hummed. “Still. All that side work was enough to let you buy a Caliburn in the end. Unless, of course, that was a loan from the Ryuzakis. Speaking of, where do they figure into your whole… deal? What did they buy you with?”

Fuck all, actually. They took me.

The one thing they gave me was a ticket into the Nightmare Rally, and that was suddenly enough for them to decide that they could just slap their name on me and call me a ‘vassal’.

“I owe them a bunch,” I lied. “Not like the family corp is picking up the slack much when it comes to me. I’d rather not depend on them too much if I can help it.” Better to make him think that I had a poor relationship with those people. He might not look into them as hard.

“One family’s a frying pan, and the other’s a fire,” V said. “Only difference is, one probably won’t toss you aside as easily. Unless I’m mistaken about your family.”

“Please don’t pry,” I said. “It’s personal.”

“Alright.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Vista Del Rey, right? How’d you end up right underneath the head of Counter Intel?”

“What’s there to say? Shorter and less interesting story than yours,” V snorted. “Raised in Vista by the grandparents, studied abroad at ‘Saka’s main academy in Tokyo. Got real lucky for that one: I got in on a scholarship.”

That was fucking lucky. The main branch academy offered those seats to a pool of perfect GPA applicants on a lottery basis. I had applied every year since getting into the NC Academy. Never got quite as lucky as V did.

He went on. “Enrolled into NCU after graduating. Couldn’t get a placement in Tokyo or anywhere in Japan for that matter, so I had to come back here for my degree.” Racism against the gaijin, I assumed. “After I finished up my two years there, NC’s risk intel analysis department seemed like a good enough gig. Wasn’t long before I found someone in sales acting shifty, moving corporate assets in ways that should not have been moved. I was new, wasn’t sure what I was looking at. But when I went to talk to them, tried to get a reasonable explanation, he tried to flatline me first thing. I did him first, obviously. Would have lost my job in the ensuing fracas if it wasn’t for Arthur intervening—only found out later thanks to him that Mr. Sales Bitch was spying for PetroChem. HR was actually accusing me of murder for a bit.”

“Huh,” I said.

“Half of what we do in CoIntel is dealing with our own people who are on the take from other corpos,” V grunted. “Let’s just say that being fired is the best case scenario in those cases. And in your case, I doubt those best case scenarios would be on the table.”

I furrowed my eyebrows at him. “You warning me about QianT?”

“No. Yes.” V shrugged. “Just reminding. You’re a good kid. But don’t get on the CFO’s bad side, ever, when it comes to your dealings outside the company. It ain’t worth it kid, trust me. Saying that as a CoIntel officer.”

The AV finally alighted somewhere in Westbrook. Just as I motioned to leave, V gave me a nod of respect. “Stay out of trouble, Martinez. God knows you’ve got enough of those now.”

I nodded at him, too. “You too, V. I’d hate to see you as a headline in the N-54.”

V laughed. “You think little old me would ever make the headlines if I bit it?”

I chuckled, shaking my head. Yeah, fat chance of that.

I slid out of the AV and gave V one last grin of appreciation before he flew off.

Nanny materialized in front of me on the sidewalk, looking at me knowingly.

D: What?

[You like him.]

I walked through her. She dissolved into sparkles as I did, and rematerialized right next to me. [It’s true!]

D: He’s useful.

[He’s also nice. And you like that, you big softie. Even though he’s working with the enemy.]

I frowned intensely, shaking my head.

Yeah.

But so what?

I had other people riding on me. People that had been just as nice to me as he had been. Even nicer, actually.

If I had to choose between them and him, I’d choose them, any day of the week.

V was a gig. Nothing more, nothing less. I’d have to give it my all with him. Let myself ‘like’ him if need be. But when the chips were down, I had to do what was necessary to protect everything I had built.

Even if it cost V his life.

D: When have my feelings ever been relevant in pursuit of a dream?

I hailed a Delamain as I waited on the sidewalk, when suddenly, I received a call.

From Rogue.

Rogue: Tonight’s the night, D. You can’t push it any longer. Show up, talk to the rest of us. Tell us what you want.

D: Fine. What time?

Rogue: Seven. Afterlife. Show up on time this time.

D: I’ll be there.

000

Rogue Amendiares had prepped her club that night, rearranged the booths and tables to create one big round table for all the guests that were arriving.

And it was truly anyone who was anyone. Wakako Okada, the Lady of Westbrook Estate, had made a rare personal appearance. With her huscle, of course.

Muamar ‘El Capitan’ Reyes had arrived, of course. And he wasn’t shy about bragging about how much pull he had—or thought

he had—with D.

The ‘Mad Coyote’ Dakota Smith had left the Badlands and temporarily rejoined civilization for this meeting.

The one-eyed crackpot media shut-in known as Regina Jones had shown up too. Rogue had a feeling that she and D might get along swimmingly. They were both idealists, to an almost ludicrous extent. Her showing up at all was a sign that she wasn’t against D per se, as long as he would scratch her back and vice versa.

That was in contrast to the Lady of Westbrook, who had deep ties with the Tyger Claws. She would respect the sanctity of this neutral ground, but Rogue had the feeling that she wouldn’t hesitate to plot D’s death if these negotiations fell through.

There were other big names besides: the Valentino priest Sebastian Ibarra, the music magnate and former rockerboy turned Downtown fixer Dino Dinovic, and even the big (emphasis on big) time fixerDexter DeShawn had returned from his years-long sabbatical to represent, and perhaps see what all the fuss was about.

There were proxies for two big-time fixers as well. Standing among them was a chipped-in doll acting as the proxy for the shadowy ‘Mr. Hands’, the top fixer for the entire Pacifica district, a fixer so secretive that not even she knew his real identity. And some Russian was present as well, a subordinate of the foreign Soviet fixer who had recently arrived in Night City, Mikhail Akulov.

That was everyone that had dared to answer Rogue’s call. Everyone that wanted anything to do with D, whether good or bad. Night City was filled with wackos, but it really was a testament to D’s reputation that only these fixers had dared to make an appearance.

Ten fixers, or their representatives, and the forty-six hired muscle they had all brought with them, loitering about, stationed strategically around every entryway, and very importantly, armed to their teeth.

Rogue leaned against the counter of her bar, her body facing the seated fixers, as she stared at the time in her HUD.

6:56:54 PM.

No such thing as on-time, D. You’re either early or late.

Rogue hoped that for his sake, he’d slow down on all this pointless posturing and finally be ready to talk business. Hopefully, he wouldn’t try to make an entrance as grandiose as the one he’d made last Sunday.

Then again, those theatrics of his had paid off. He had come in with a plan, and he’d minimized the damage. Known how to treat prospective friends, while still projecting strength.

He was a kid. Impulsive. Eager to move. An out-of-the-box thinker. But he backed that recklessness up with an overwhelming amount of skill and power. But skill and power could only take you so far.

Rogue took a deep breath, getting used to the sensation of doing so with these new lungs. She sensed her new ribs expand and contract, mimicking her need for oxygen. She focused on the old aches that her new body mimicked, not to the point of discomfort. The familiarity was a comfort.

That was the trick: lying to her brain, getting it to believe that its new suit was natural when it wasn’t.

Undoing the neurological damage that she had sustained almost thirty years past had set her back by millions. And yet, it had taken her less than twenty-four hours at an in-patient RMC facility. Her subsequent adoption of the famed Raven Microcybernetics Gemini full-body conversion had taken an additional twelve hours.

That was only on account of the fact that she had ordered the Night Raven package. Light, surgical, and stealthy. But ultimately, ready for war when the chips were down. Ready to handle a beating, too. The Chitin-class subderm made sure of that.

Typically, all Gemini systems were nominally combat-rated, but if you had the necessary pull, and enough edds, you could commission Raven’s engineers to give you the in-house packages, reserved only for their highest enforcers, and tuned to your exact bio-signs. According to the rippers she had dealt with, over time, the Gemini system would smoothen its resonance and she would stop feeling the separation between meat and chrome as starkly.

At least, if she kept taking her meds dutifully: a cocktail of immunosuppressants, smart anti-psychotics and neurostimulators. She cracked a grin at that. Felt downright nostalgic to be back on all those pretty little pills.

…In all likelihood, a complete adaptation of her shiny new frame probably meant that her brain would… shift to better handle all that metal. She wondered what that would do to her. Doubtful that she’d go around acting a quarter her age, looking for trouble like in the old days.

No. The trouble she’d find was all the things that would eventually serve her bottom line.

All the things that would get herself closer to her goal of seeing those suits burn alive. Show them who this city truly belonged to.

She looked at the time again in her HUD.

6:59:56 PM.

She clicked her tongue in irritation. Late again. Silly power plays like that weren’t likely to win him any allies—

The lights turned off.

Every single huscle pulled their gun out as one. Rogue’s optics adapted to the darkness instantly as she looked around in bewilderment, Malorian in hand.

A second after the light had turned off, it turned back on again. “You wanted to meet me.”

The voice came from right next to her.

She backed away, gun in hand, and saw D sitting on top of the bar-counter, facing the round table.

Everyone aimed their guns at him.

Rogue holstered her weapon and tried not to let her irritation show. “Glad you could make it in time, D.”

The lights flickered off and on.

D was on the table now, crouched in front of Wakako.

But he wasn’t looking at Wakako. He was looking at the huscle behind her. Netrunner girl with a big blond Mohawk and mullet combo. She wore a red jacket. “I recognize you.” D said quietly. Wakako’s muscle aimed an enormous borg-killer handcannon at D while he spoke. He didn’t so much as twitch. “Your brother tried to scan me. I scanned him right back. Then you decided you wanted a piece of me. Said you’d make my net-handle a reality, remember?”

Wakako looked impassively at D, arms folded. “I will ask you to bring your grievance to me instead of speaking over me like an ignorant twit. Boy.”

The lights flickered again, and D was next to Rogue again, this time seated on a barstool. “Fine. Tell your girl to have more manners when dealing with strangers on the Net.”

The Netrunner seemed to try her best not to look utterly horrified at this turn of events. Rogue couldn’t help but crack a grin at her shit luck. Mouthing off to D of all people.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

“Come on, D,” Reyes chided him. “Let’s be professional for a moment. Leave our grievances at the door and talk work.”

“Course,” D said. “Thank you all for coming. I appreciate it a lot.” He stood up and faced them. “My name is D.”

“What’s under the mask, D?” Dino Dinovic asked. The rockerboy fixer grinned toothily as he spoke.

“A face.”

“Whose face?”

“Mine.”

One of Dino’s grunts growled. “Show some fucking respect—“

D appeared before him instantly, delivering an elbow to his throat. Then he grabbed the guy by the back of his head and smashed his skull into the table.

He then pulled his head off the table and tossed him aside contemptibly. He looked around at the spooked huscles and spoke resolutely. “None of you have earned the right to speak in this room. This is between me and your bosses.” Then he looked down at Dinovic, who looked ready to explode, and shrugged. “Sorry for your boy. He needed more discipline.”

“You got a lot of fuckin’—”

“He’s right,” Rogue said as she stepped up to the round table, pulled a chair, and sat down, back against the table as she faced D, still sitting on the barstool. “We all came here for a specific reason. No point in getting sidetracked on bullshit,” she looked at Dinovic as she said the last part. “So, D. To recap: you took your crew and a couple hundred of our finest all the way to TJ where you proceeded to bust up a corp HQ, almost entirely on your lonesome, before making out with millions. And instead of retiring on a private island with your bounty, you’re still here. In this shithole of a city. Still wearing that gonk mask of yours. I think I speak for everyone when I ask… why?”

“It’s not about the money,” D said. “Of which I have plenty. I’ll put it simply for the idiots in the back: this is about taking back our city. The city that people like you and me shed blood, sweat and tears to build. The corps have become too powerful. I’m here to even the odds.”

Rogue had suspected as much.

David Martinez had initially come to her asking for advice on how to become an edgerunner. To put himself through school.

That had obviously been a lie, whether he had known it or not. He entered this business cuz he was pissed. He wanted to break something. His mother’s death had tipped him over the edge, plunged him into the deep end of something dark, something… beautiful.

Kid was a gifted Netrunner. He was also just talented enough to do something as bonkers as winning a big-time race on his first attempt. If all he wanted was money, he could have bagged that rather easily.

“And the gangoons you keep pickin’ off?” Dexter DeShawn asked. “You done made an enemy of the Tygers, the Maelstrom, and the Bratva. That ain’t even gettin’ into what the corps are gonna do to you when they get their paws on your reflective ass.”

“This city is filthy,” D said. “It’s rotten. It’s disgusting. And it needs cleansing. A baptism of blood and fire.”

“The Tygers will kill you,” Wakako said. “If you persist in hunting them down, they will show you their teeth. And not even your Sandevistan will be able to save you once that happens.”

“Is that why you’re here?” D asked. “To warn me about the Tygers? Do you speak for them?”

“For all intents and purposes, yes,” Wakako said.

“I’m not so narrow-minded as to go after every gangoon in my way,” D said. “The truth is, I have a certain level of respect for gangsters. The state, in this case, the city, maintains legitimacy in their rule based on how much they can monopolize the use of violence. The more actors and groups take a piece of that violent pie, the less it can be said that Night City belongs to the quote-unquote ‘legitimate’ powers that be: the corps and the council. In effect, Night City doesn’t solely belong to them at all. It belongs to the Tygers, too. And Sixth Street. The Animals, the Valentinos, the Maelstrom even.”

“What’s your point?” Wakako asked. “I don’t have time for this ideology-laden bloviating. Just say what you mean.”

“The gangs serve my purposes, but they need guard-rails. Healthy boundaries. A reduction in how much cruelty they are allowed to dispense. That’s where I come in. I’ll say it simply, Wakako: I will kill every Tyger that breaks my rules. Even your relatives if need be.”

Wakako glared at him. “You came in here alone. And yet you speak this way to me.”

“Your snipers are down.”

Wakako’s eyes widened.

“All the snipers are. Not just yours,” D continued. “Before I came here, I canvassed the area, made my own preparations, got rid of the bugs, raised some jammers.”

“What the fuck?!” Dinovic roared.

“This is outrageous,” Wakako growled.

“I’m a wanted terrorist,” D said. “Moreover, I don’t intend to be taken in just because I naively trusted the sanctity of neutral ground. No offense, Rogue.”

“None taken,” Rogue said. If anything, she was impressed at his prudence. He had an inflated opinion of his invincibility, but he at least took the proper precautions where it mattered.

“If need be,” D continued. “I will take down every single hired grunt in this room within seconds, and then we can maybe cut past the pointless posturing, and you can hear me out.”

Rogue grinned. “You said rules.”

“Yes,” D said. “Rules. No more scavenging. No more human trafficking. No more murdering innocents. In short: don’t fuck with the civilians, or we will have a problem.”

“Just to get this straight,” DeShawn said, “you’re a revolutionary. That’s your game. You wanna bat for the little guy and bring equality to all. That it?”

“Think bigger,” D said. “All this time, we’ve subsisted off of what little drips down from the corps. And we’ve convinced ourselves that there’s no way that what they have can be ours. I say: fuck that. We propped those fuckers up. We’re the reason they’re rich. And we want our due. So let’s take it. All of it. Every single fucking eurocent until it’s done. You want money, right? That’s money right there. And it’s power, too. You won’t have to hide in the shadows any longer, doing backroom deals, playing slumlord for society’s lowest. You can be kings and queens of this city. Our city.”

Rogue closed her eyes, grinning in delight. That’s how you do it, Martinez. Carrots. Enough carrots to choke an elephant.

Maybe he had more noble intentions than simply changing Night City’s ownership to the people in this room. Maybe he genuinely wanted the city’s wretches to live better lives as well. But that sort of talk didn’t belong in this room. Not if he wanted to convince anyone to join his side.

Greed, however… well, greed was ever-green. Human nature.

“So let’s join hands,” D said. “Let’s pull together. Become strong. Stronger than any of the gangs.”

The Mad Coyote scoffed. “We don’t have the numbers. All told,” the Nomad fixer looked around the room. “I’ve got influence over maybe a thousand fighters tops. The Tyger Claws practically run this city, and they’re eighty thousand strong. Even if only a tenth of that number are combat ready, they’d still outnumber us ten to one. And that’s if we all pulled together as you said, which… let’s be honest, it’s a pipe-dream.” She took a huff of her oxygen after that.

“And,” DeShawn drummed the fingers of his gold-plated hand on the table. “We side with you and declare war on the corps, not only will our money dry up: they’ll be huntin’ our asses on top of that. Why the fuck would I wanna deal with that?”

“I thought you of all people would understand me,” D said. “Hungry bastard that you are.”

Rogue chuckled, along with Dino and Reyes.

“This is about becoming independent from the corps,” D said. “This is about calling the shots. Having the money. Having the power. Of course the fucking corps will hunt us. They would have to. Corpos always hunt anyone or anything capable of threatening their high and mighty thrones, regardless of reasonings. Countervailing power. Ever hear of it, people? If we’re powerful enough to take down the worst of them and make the rest fear us, we can axe out for ourselves a way bigger chunk of the rewards of our fucked up society, instead of starving on crumbs. No matter how much they scream.”

“And what happens after we take over?” Regina Jones asked. The eye-patch wearing woman folded her arms over her bulletproof vest. “How will we be better than the corps?”

“Did you know that the cyberware that the corps peddle is purposefully designed to cause cyberpsychosis if you mix and match with different chrome brands?” D asked the room. “It’s not a conspiracy theory. It’s real. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. If you want proof, get me into contact with anyone you know that might be teetering on the edge, and I will personally redo their cyberware software.”

Regina Jones nodded. “We’ll be in touch, you and I.”

“That’s just one thing,” D said. “One of the many different ways that the corps maintain superiority over everyone else. An invincible tech advantage. They have better weapons, better vehicles, better intelligence and better programmes. Given time, we could have those things too. Take the tech from them. But we would just be monkeys operating advanced machinery. They would kill us all, every time, effortlessly. The only true way that we can cross this chasm of tech advantage, is if we figure out a way to get past this cyberpsychosis problem. Which I have, to an extent. I did software work on my friend, and he experienced immediate relief, as well as a ninety-five percent reduction in neural strain.”

“Pixie dust,” Wakako scoffed. “Snake oil.”

D snorted. “You’re saying I can’t do it.”

“Does my stance truly require additional clarification?” Wakako asked.

DeShawn shook his head. “How do we even know it works?” he asked. “I ain’t gonna deny that you might have some skill in cyberspace. BDs say as much. But how do we know that you’re not just pushing forward the symptoms of cyberpsychosis? Immediate relief? That sounds like a hot load of bull.”

“Check the localnet,” D said. “I’ve just uploaded a document containing my findings. I’ve even spelled out precisely how the corps manage to create this increase in the likelihood of cyberpsychosis through the mixing of chrome brands.”

“Something you can fix,” DeShawn said dryly. “You and only you.”

“As far as I know.”

“That is very impressive,” Padre Sebastian Ibarra spoke for the first time. The Valentino priest looked inscrutably at D.

“Thank you,” D said.

Padre nodded, seemingly accepting those words. “Who taught you to do all these things?”

“Take a wild fucking guess,” Dinovic scoffed. “You know damn well this sort of bullshit’s got megacorp black ops written all over it. Who the fuck are you, D? Give it to us straight.”

“You think I’m a corporate plant.” The room was quiet as D took a beat before answering. “The answer is no. I’m not corporate. I wasn’t raised by a corporation, nor was I trained by them. I have never received anything from them. Everything I have from them was taken. Cobbled together. Fused into something workable. I was cursed with their refuse. Haunted by it for years.” D clenched his fists, and Rogue couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth at this point, or lying. It didn’t… feel like a lie. “They say I’m a pawn in the corporate games. A piece belonging to either Arasaka or Militech. They are so eager to take credit for what I am. So eager to decide my worth based on whose product I am. But I am not a product. I am a human. I’m alive. I breathe. I sleep. And I will kill every single one of those bastards if they get in my way.”

“Even innocent corporate workers, like the ones you slaughtered in Mexico?” Ibarra asked quietly. “The middle management? The lowly office drones?”

“If they get in my way, then yes,” D responded almost instantly. “To be clear, I am making a clear delineation between the value of a corpo’s life, and anyone else. They are not my allies. Even the ones scraping by, doing their best to change their destinies. Especially if this labor of theirs involves punching downwards, or getting in my way. This is a war, not a demonstration or a protest, and certainly not activism. It’s war. Plain and simple. And to be abundantly clear: I don’t need you. You need me. Eventually, the corpos will retaliate. They will want their due back in blood. Only then will you finally know in your bones that this is war. That fence-sitting is no longer an option. My activities—my repeated demonstrations that Night City’s nominal leaders do not maintain a monopoly on violence—will not stop. And their reactions will invariably be to quell you all.”

“They’ll start with the gangs,” Dinovic scoffed. “And we’ll just lay low. No money in going to war with the corps.”

Dakota Smith scoffed. “You want to twist our arms into fighting alongside you. Turn the world against us so that we only have…” she looked around dubiously. “—each other to fall back on. You expect way too much loyalty from city-folk. And us nomads can do without the drama of a peasant uprising.”

“I am out,” Wakako said. “For obvious reasons, not least of all your terrible attitude.”

“This is fuckin’ stupid,” DeShawn said. “I came here expectin’ to hear some crazy shit, but this is even worse than I thought. I’m out, too.”

“My apologies, but I am… noncommital,” the doll speaking for Mr. Hands stepped forward, its mannerisms urban and germane in a way that was totally at odds with its otherwise gigolo joytoy attire. “As you know, D, I represent much of Dogtown and the greater Pacifica, and my people have little use for the council’s law indeed. To say nothing of our city’s vaunted corporations. But if you wish to… change, Night City, then you must demonstrate a great power indeed. And I don’t see such a thing yet. No offense to your personal skills intended, of course.”

D looked at the doll, tilted his head curiously. “You want to see an army, huh.” He nodded. “We’ll play it by ear. Soon.”

“Armies are for war, and war is hell,” Ibarra said. “This saying has persisted throughout all of human history, and yet… it is only the old that remember to consider this fact. What it truly means. For that reason, I too, am out. I pray for your soul, but I will not wage war alongside you for a lost cause.”

“I expected as much,” D said, nodding to him. Then he faced the room at large. “I only came here to explain my side of things, and warn you all of what is to come in the future. I neither ask, nor expect any of you to commit to my crusade.”

D gave Rogue a call.

D: We need to talk biz later. That is assuming you’re not out, too.

Rogue: Not quite yet.

D hung up an instant later.

“If any of you need to reach me, contact Reyes,” D said. “Good talk, people.”

The lights flickered off and on, and he was gone. Fuckin’ kid. Rogue shook her head in mild amusement.

Reminded her too much of two annoying bastards of her past. A rabble-rouser without an ounce of subtlety, and a terrifying presence that relished in preparation and presentation.

Yes. He would do nicely for what was to come.

000

Jackie Welles left the Afterlife, and entered Padre’s Villefort Cortes after him. The luxury car was stretched out like a limo, and the passenger seats were facing one another.

Padre had travelled light for this gig. He’d only brought three hired guns: Jackie himself, and the two guys sitting up front, one riding shotgun and the other being the driver.

A quick in and out, Padre had promised. And he had delivered.

A moment later, Padre’s eyes shone blue, and Jackie received the payment request. Five-thousand eddies. Jackie grinned. Score.

“Much appreciated, Padre,” Jackie gave him a respectful nod. Five thousand to stand around for less than an hour was good money in his book.

Five thousand to witness a living legend up close.

D was… truth be told, he was fucking terrifying. Not ‘mildly’ or ‘somewhat’ terrifying. Just straight up… fucking terrifying. The way he warped around the room, took control of the entire scene, came alone, unarmed, and still completely confident in himself.

That was only the half of it. The other half was all the shit he said. Waging war against the corps, klepping them for all they were worth, cleaning up the city.

“Padre,” Jackie said. “What do you think about D?”

“I think his campaign will lead to more pain than not,” Padre replied easily. “I hope that he is a mere conman, and not a true ideologue. The best case scenario is if he’s simply an agent of change from one equilibrium to another. The vehicle of Night City’s changing of hands. From Arasaka to… whoever’s next.”

“Who, Padre? Militech?”

“If they are next,” Padre said with a shrug.

Best case scenario, he was a corpo plant after all. “What do you think the others will do?”

“Follow him,” Padre said. “If the money is high enough. And it will be. He will make sure of that. The fixers of Night City chase power and money above all. They will follow any cause if it serves their bottomline. But I’ve said what I’ve said. War is hell. I will not seek to profit from it.”

Jackie nodded. Padre was the honorable sort like that. Honorable as far as Night City fixers went, at least. Couldn’t be pure in this line of work, but the priest kept a clean operation nonetheless. “And what if the war comes to us?”

Padre closed his eyes. “Then, I will do what is necessary for the good of our people. Whatever that may be at that particular moment.”

Jackie realized almost instantly, then, the defeat and resignation in his tone. He spoke as if D was inevitable. As if no matter what he did, this… ‘peasant uprising’—as Dakota Smith had called it—was going to happen no matter what anyone said.

“I know you’ve been talking to V,” Padre said. Jackie froze then. “Soon, that will no longer be possible for you. The divide between the corpo-rats and the gutter-rats will continue to widen, become starker and starker. The more influence and notoriety D gains, the harder the corpos fight back, the worse this divide will become. And our people will begin to see anyone with relations to corpos as collaborators. Traitors.”

Jackie calmed down slowly. “V is good people, Padre. You’ve known him for years.”

“You heard D himself. Good or bad is not the language of this war. It is corpo and street.”

How the fuck did that even make any sense? Ninety-nine percent of the corpos were just one bad day away from winding up on the streets anyway. There was practically no difference between them and the rest of Night City, except that they were just marginally luckier. Sure, the people of the street would grumble and moan about the corpos in jealousy or resentment, but it never got any worse than that.

Why would it?

“MaxTac needs to hurry up and put that motherfucker down,” Jackie grumbled.

“Let the others worry about that,” Padre said. “You worry about yourself, Jackie. Lie low and wait for this to blow over.”

Dammit. Jackie fidgeted in irritation, unsure of what to do. Double down and sing to V, or take a trip down to Mexico for a month all this heat finally died down?

He couldn’t leave V in the lurch, though. Shit. The things I do for my chooms.