While I mulled over my next moves, leaving the dead fixer's place, a message pinged through on a secure channel.
"Car's all set. Meeting tonight?"
Definitely. But instead of messing around and having a chat while hanging around Faraday's place, I got into Jackie's car.
"Faraday having a garage sale?" Jackie smirked, eyeing the bag and boxes.
"Yeah. Grabbed something just for you," I said, handing him the box of cigars.
"Ooo, gracias! Tonight I'll grab some rum from my mom's bar and feel like a Cuban mafioso."
"Let's roll, Don Wells. I've got plans tonight."
"Up to no good again, or is it a date?"
"A date? Well, in a way."
"In a way?" Jackie repeated, turning onto the next street. "You better figure out what you want from the girl."
"Well, for starters, I really hope she doesn't run away from me," I thought with a smirk, working on setting up a secure channel at the same time. I arranged to meet Lucy out of town after sunset.
I spent the rest of the day going through my loot. I rented another anonymous storage box for particularly sensitive stuff, then began sorting through the information.
Nice…
I already knew from Faraday's memories that there'd be plenty of useful data, but it's a whole different thing when you start combing through the details yourself. Sometimes you catch things even the fixer hadn't noticed. File sorting—seems boring, right? It used to drive me nuts at work, but now I was sifting through virtual documents with genuine enthusiasm. It's all preparation for my own plans.
"Decent. Useless. Doubt I'll need it. I'll deal with this later. Oh… got it!"
Some of the files had the potential to turn into covert operations. The kind of "pure crime" I'd been thinking about. I'd look at a document and feel the anticipation. It was like I could already hear the echo of gunfire.
Right now, I need to pick the operations that are time-sensitive but still doable with the resources we have. It wouldn't hurt to cross-check Faraday's info with some counterintelligence data… This could turn out pretty sweet.
Five hours of sifting through documents, and I don't feel like hanging myself yet? That's what it means to be your own boss.
But it was time to head out for my meeting with Lucy. And once again, my paranoia reared its head, a nagging anxiety scratching at the sensitive walls of my once-dead soul. Keep calm. Lucy isn't going to kill me, and she probably won't run off either. She needs me. I know it, both logically and emotionally, but the shadows don't let go, whispering:
'This is too good, too...'
Damn. Why am I so fixated on the idea that Lucy might try to bolt? This fear doesn't align with my memories from my first life. Paranoia? Most likely.
For the meeting, I dressed like a mix between a low-key corpo and an honest journalist. A white shirt made of synthetic silk, a casual dark gray blazer, and a red tie—just a hint of rebellion. Lucy thinks I'm some kind of rogue A-student? Might as well play the part.
I arrived about half an hour early. Parked the rented van behind a rocky outcrop on the empty lot and set up a camera on top.
I watched as Lucy arrived in an unremarkable dark red Thornton. A guy with a simple metal prosthetic arm was behind the wheel.
Falco? Yeah, I think that's him. Ex-nomad, former driver for the now-defunct Maine's crew. Their car came to a stop. Only Lucy got out and headed to our meeting spot. In about three minutes, she was sitting next to me in the passenger seat, and instead of a greeting, she said:
"Give me your hand."
I extended my open hand, and a moment later, three shards fell into it.
"Twenty-three," she explained. "Your share for the car."
"Had to sell it cheap?"
"It was stolen," she shrugged, leaning back in her seat. "We scratched it up."
"Oh, really? I don't remember that," I smirked.
Looks like we had a bit too much tequila last night. Especially me.
"The guy behind the wheel?"
"A friend. Helped me with the car."
"What does he know about me?"
"Almost nothing. I just said I found a new client. If we need a driver, Falco's good at it."
"Alright. I don't mind meeting him, but not now. For now, you're the only one who should know about me."
"Nervous?" she asked with a hint of provocation, turning halfway towards me.
"Of course. Paranoia is a key part of my job. It protects better than body armor. When you spend all day reading reports about failed agents, you start to realize how random stuff can get people killed. A carelessly dropped word, a scrap of paper in the trash. But enough of the gloomy stuff. First off…"
I pulled a Unity with a blue print, the one Faraday took from Lucy, and a shard from the glove compartment. I handed them to her, then reached into the van's cabin for a small box.
"I've got a couple of free days thanks to Tanaka. After that, it's back to ironing the most uncomfortable suit and returning to the office grind. So, I want to spend this little slice of freedom doing something interesting. Check out the shard."
Lucy slotted the chip into the port. Her eyes flashed a reddish hue.
"Blueprints for Jorge Luis's place," I explained. "Ex-Valentino gangster. Now he's a bit of a smuggler, a bit of a merc, a bit of a drug dealer. He left the gang on good terms, so they still have his back. Anyway… Faraday hired Jorge to smuggle a shipment of precious stones into Night City. The smuggler did his job, but Faraday being Faraday, tried to double-cross him. He started demanding more money while shopping for another buyer. So, the gems are still with Jorge. It'd be nice to grab them and anything else valuable before word of Faraday's death spreads through the streets."
"The stones are at his place?"
"I can't guarantee it," I admitted. "But it's likely. The place is well-guarded. Jorge strikes me as the kind of guy who likes to keep things simple. I read his file. 'My house is my castle' kind of guy. I wouldn't be surprised if the gems were hidden under the mattress or in the ventilation. So…"
I opened the box, revealing some portable cameras and relay devices—spy gear taken from Faraday's stash.
"The idea's simple. You break into the house, I cover you online. This stuff…" I patted the spy equipment, "gives me more control. Plant these little guys around the place, and Jorge Luis will have himself a nasty little ghost."
"Should we bring Falco along?"
"Fine by me. But you pay him out of your share, deal?"
Lucy nodded and asked:
"Ready to go?"
"To Jorge's?" I asked, surprised. "I thought we'd do this tomorrow. You know, take some time to plan, study the layout, strategize."
"The house has six rooms," she said with a smile. "Hard to get lost."
That adventurous spirit. I'd have preferred a day to stake out the place. What if a Maelstrom crew showed up to shoot a porn flick? Or more likely, a bunch of Valentinos to celebrate Grandpa Jose Pedro's birthday. Ah, whatever.
"Alright, let's do this! You and Falco take the lead; I'll stay back in the van. But first, give me your hand."
We linked through our ports to set up a communication channel. Now I could see through her eyes and use her as a proxy for my scripts. Runner covering a runner. Not the most balanced team, but it's unlikely tonight's targets will have military or corpo-grade ice.
"Good luck," I said.
She nodded and slipped out of the car. Looks like I've found myself some evening entertainment. I just hope our first job together goes off without a hitch.
As Lucy headed back to her driver, I prepped the van's autopilot. Once the engine started, I moved deeper into the cabin, closed my eyes, and switched to Lucy's perspective. She'd definitely notice, and I half-expected her to text back, but she didn't say a word.
Lucy had just climbed into the passenger seat, lighting up a cigarette as the ex-nomad began to pull out.
"So, what about this mysterious employer of yours?" Falco asked. "Is he going to keep us busy?"
"He already is," Lucy nodded. "We're about to pick up some cargo. Got a bag or something?"
"Already?!?" he sounded half-shocked, half-annoyed. "You gotta warn me about stuff like this, Lucy."
"I told him the same thing," she shrugged. "But he's all in. No turning back now. Said, 'let's go.'"
"Damn… I'd have scouted the place if I'd known earlier," the driver grumbled. "Who is this guy, anyway?"
Lucy glanced into the car's side mirror, winked at her reflection, and replied:
"Complete nutjob. Spent most of the time we talked — drunk."
Well... technically true. Most of my face-to-face interactions with Kushinada happened in clubs and during drunken nights.
"Also paranoid. But he gets a kick out of taking risks. Hangs out with gangs and even worse types."
The last part probably hinted at Arasaka.
"You know, the more I hear about this guy," Falco said thoughtfully, "the less I want to take this job. Are you sure about him?"
"I'm sure."
"Any particular reason?"
Lucy paused for a few seconds, taking a drag from her cigarette, then exhaled the smoke out the open window before replying.
"He saved my life."
"Ah… That sounds like a solid recommendation. Tell him thanks from me. I'm tired of losing people. Pilar, Maine, Dorio. And now I don't even know what's up with Kiwi. Have you tried calling her?"
"We're not working together anymore," Lucy replied coolly.
"Did something happen? Did you two have a fight? I tried calling her a bunch of times. She didn't pick up, then out of nowhere, she calls me saying she wants to leave town for a while. So what's going on between you two?"
"Drop it," Lucy said coldly.
Interesting. So she doesn't plan on getting revenge? I was almost ready to offer my help—after all, I've had some recent practice in dealing with traitorous netrunners.
"Damn…" Falco sighed heavily, staring off into the distance of the dimly lit street. "We had a crew, and now we don't. In my book, people should stick together."
I thought back to that moment on the observation deck. Back then, we were really holding on to each other, like we were afraid one of us might disappear.
Lucy and Falco stayed silent for the rest of the drive to Jorge's place. It was just an ordinary two-story box on the city outskirts—yard, fence, light in one window. The house looked run-down, like the concept of comfort was foreign to its owner. The only decoration on the worn-out walls was a colorful graffiti of a golden bull's head, breathing flames from its nostrils. Neon initials glowed between the horns: "J. L. B." Jorge Luis Berlanga.
Falco's car pulled to a stop about two hundred meters away from the house, positioned so it couldn't be seen from the windows.
"Give me fifteen minutes," I told Lucy as she gathered up cameras and other spy gear.
Falco rummaged in the trunk and handed her a silencer. Lucy shook her head, still focused on her equipment.
"Just take it! Sometimes it pays to be quiet."
"It's loud anyway," she replied. "If it comes to shooting, the silencer won't matter."
"Suit yourself. What about our mysterious employer?"
"We're waiting on him."
I left her to it and started scanning the area for any useful devices. After completing the scan with my virtual tendrils, I reached out to Lucy:
"West of here, there's a gas station, and a little shop further north. If you can give me access, I'll be able to monitor both approaches."
I could have taken control of the cameras with a more direct method, but that would have taxed my synchronization. Lucy could handle it manually, saving my virtual energy for more critical tasks.
Soon, her silhouette flickered under the weak streetlights of the poor suburb. Lucy moved like a shadow, a blend of decent chrome and excellent physical conditioning. She placed a beacon relay at the access point in the gas station and did the same for the shop, breaking through their ice with ease and giving me full access to the systems. I was starting to enjoy this style of mission—observing, directing, and conserving my strength.
Then it was time for the house. Lucy slipped over the fence on the side where the windows were dark. I could see through her eyes, hear the faint sound of her footsteps as she crept through the shadows toward the building.
"Watch out. There might be some old-fashioned traps not connected to any network," I warned.
Lucy reached a first-floor window, scanning it and the connected devices before fiddling with it using a flexible metal tool. After a quiet click, the window opened. She lifted it and reached inside, catching a near-invisible wire. Holding it carefully between her fingertips, she slipped into the room, closing the window behind her. The wire was connected to a modified flashbang grenade—an old-school tripwire. Not deadly, but it would have alerted the whole house.
It was dark and relatively quiet inside. Voices were coming from somewhere down the hallway.
Breaking into a house that was probably filled with gang members, without proper recon... seemed like Lucy enjoyed taking risks. I wasn't sure how to feel about that yet—whether I should adapt or try to rein it in. But we'd see how this adventure played out.
The adventure continued with a little bit of cyber-spiritualism. Lucy was inviting a dark spirit into Jorge's house—me, that is, straight from the depths of the Net. With little trouble, she hacked two access points on the first floor and set up relays. The house's local network, plus the cameras from the shop and gas station, all tied together into a system I could navigate without straining my capabilities.
"The ice here is a joke," she whispered over the link, finishing up with the second access point.
"That's exactly what worries me," I replied. "No security cameras inside. A tripwire on the window. Seems like Jorge doesn't trust networked tech. Alright, give me a moment to check what devices are in the house."
Household appliances, lights, a hydraulic lift in the garage… No turrets, no drones, no alarms. Ah, but something interesting on the second floor.
"No cameras here. So we'll have to put up our own. There's a safe on the second floor. Not too fancy."
Everything seemed way too easy. Jorge wasn't exactly small-time—more like a solid mid-level gangster with decent connections. And yet he didn't seem to care much about security? People like that don't last long in the underworld, but our generous host had made it past forty.
"Set up the cameras. Especially in the hallways. Something feels off."
Lucy managed to place one camera in the main hallway on the first floor before she had to duck into a side room. A middle-aged Latino came out of the lit kitchen, heading toward the bathroom. Armed and dangerous, with a submachine gun on his belt.
I wondered how many people were in the house. The kitchen definitely had a few voices coming from it. Not a full squad, but maybe five or six.
Taking out the bathroom guy quietly? Too soon for that. This isn't Skyrim where you can wipe out a gang and the last guy just sits by the campfire, singing about orcs and ale while surrounded by the bodies of his buddies. Here, these guys were ready for surprises, even if they didn't trust networked tech—they still guarded their hard-stolen goods.
'Чтоб деньгам спокойнее было в кошельках тугих.
Охраняют их разбойники от разбойников других' I sang to myself with a mental hum.
While the guy was stuck in the bathroom, Lucy took a look around the room she was hiding in. A mess. Not as bad as the late Okamura's place, but it was clear no woman's touch had been here. Well, Lucy showed up, though she didn't plan on taking out the trash—at least not that kind of trash.
The room turned out to be a makeshift armory. It had more of a Wild West or post-apocalyptic vibe to it than a cyberpunk one. Almost no smart tech, just a gun bench for reloading ammo, some basic machinery, and a pile of tools. On one of the tables lay a dismantled Defender machine gun. Here's hoping Jorge doesn't have any working models on hand right now.
Once the coast was clear, Lucy left the armory and edged closer to the kitchen. The door was open, and voices along with clouds of tobacco smoke drifted out. They were speaking Spanish, but language barriers hadn't been an issue in this world for anyone with decent chrome for a long time. The gang members exchanged brief remarks, probably playing cards:
"Take it."
"Three of a kind."
"Folding two."
Clearly, they were deep into a card game. By the sound of it, five or six people. Exactly what I had thought. After a couple of minutes, just as Lucy was about to move on, the gangsters shifted to more serious talk.
"Your backdoor fixer still hasn't replied?"
"Not mine. He's still silent. No worries. If he flakes, I'll fence the stones myself."
"Wouldn't be surprised if that kiss-ass ratted us out," a third voice grumbled.
"Yeah, wouldn't put it past him. Last time I deal with that prick."
And they were right. He had ratted them out in a sense. Well, and after this, they wouldn't be dealing with Faraday anymore.
Lucy listened for a bit longer, but they didn't reveal anything specific about the stones or other valuables. They just went back to playing cards. Guess we'd have to find the goods ourselves.
After setting up two cameras on the first floor, Lucy headed upstairs. The second floor turned out to be more interesting. It looked like Jorge used it as a storage space. Crates of booze, boxes of cigars, clothes, shoes, smuggled pharmaceuticals. The stash was easily worth a hundred thousand eddies, maybe more. But to haul it all out, we'd need a truck.
The only portable valuables she found were a cigar box filled with chips.
Besides checking for valuables, Lucy also scouted for potential escape routes. That's where the problems started. Some of the second-floor windows were bricked up, while others were fitted with bars. Breaking through those would require brute force—loud, time-consuming, and inefficient. I was liking this setup less and less.
"I'm putting up the cameras and then heading for the safe."
That gave me two viewpoints on the first floor, two on the second, plus the store and the gas station. Decent coverage.
The safe was almost as old as the house. An ancient model Lucy could probably have cracked when she was seven. Basic electronic lock, a simple alarm, ice as thick as a sheet of paper.
She fiddled with it for a couple of minutes, then started to slowly open the door, and—
Ding! Ding! Ding!
A loud chime echoed like it came from the walls of the whole house. Great. The safe had been rigged mechanically. Just opening the door triggered some additional mechanism inside. If Faraday had a timed bomb, this thing blared out a noise every time it was opened.
Jorge Luis Berlanga now knew he had uninvited guests in his home.