11: Getting a Leg up

11: GETTING A LEG UP

Nearly a week passed before I deemed it safe enough for our little group to make our way back (discreetly) towards NC proper again. In that time, Big Pete had pulled through and managed to fix (or at the very least, cover) nearly all the superficial damage my beloved car had suffered at the hands of those Militech jarheads. Bringing him in, despite the risk, had proven to be the correct move, and not just for my state of mind (though that was a very welcome benefit for all parties involved as well), but for our continued (if relative) safety in general. In all the commotion, the bastards had managed to tag me.

Honestly, say what you want about Militech (and there's a lot to be said about them), but with their obsession with all things warfare, it shouldn't be much of a surprise that they got urban combat down to an exact science.

No, literally. They offer university-level courses specifically studying Militech's tactics in third world countries from the First to the Fourth Corpo War (nothing on the Unification War of course, since their tactics in that particular little dispute could basically be boiled down to 'bury Northern California beneath its own bedrock and Night City with it', which as you can imagine isn't a popular class here in NC). I've heard they're actually quite fascinating, though sadly I've never attended. Photographer couldn't fit me properly on the picture for my ID card. Though that could've been his shakes acting up.

Yeah, that's probably it.

As for the Militech jarheads back at the Night City Center for Psychiatric Health, they hadn't just settled for simply tagging my beauty with any ordinary tracker neither. The dataspike they chose turned out to be a sort of hollow casing with the tracker built inside of it, which they then shot into the body plating of the tuned Quadra Type-66, making it appear as just another bullet hole. I wasn't too proud to admit I likely would've missed it on my own, unless I went about digging the bullets out of my Avenger like I usually did with myself. Still, your average, decently skilled and chipped Techie would've noticed the embedded tracker and destroyed it on the spot.

However, even besides the fact that I had another plan in mind for the tracker and thus didn't want it destroyed on the spot, such a Techie likely still would've missed the fact the bullet housing the tracker in fact came from a Smart Gun and that it had already managed to upload a few nasty daemons to the Avenger's on-board neural computer.

Luckily for me, Big Pete, while certainly a raging asshole at times with piss poor judgement of character, wasn't just your 'average' Techie (which is why I even bothered keeping him around despite the whole 'raging asshole' part. That and as a favor to his brother). While he carefully extracted the tracker, bullet and all, from the gouge it had left in the back flank of my muscle car, Sasha had swiftly jacked her personal link into the Quadra's interface and began squashing bugs.

They worked quickly, but meticulously, the knowledge that even now Militech was likely busy triangulating our location breathing down their necks and giving haste to their movements. Considering the disruption thrown up by the sudden sandstorms that could swiftly sweep across the countryside, as well as the constant interference from the nearby Kang Tao solar-powered microwave plants, it was unlikely they had pinned us just yet, which gave us some breathing room, but considering Militech's sheer amount of recourses, likely not that much.

Sort of like a corset left just a smidge loose enough so we wouldn't immediately faint, but certainly tight enough we wouldn't be performing any suggestively athletic dances at Empathy any time soon. Or really even be able to bend over at all so we could kiss our asses goodbye should Militech roll up to the dilapidated chop shop in full force, which was at least a vividly enough metaphor (or is that analogy?) to light a fire under Pete's and Sasha's asses and get them to hurry the fuck up.

The commotion had stirred David from his vigil at his mother's side, the woman still out colder than a corpos heart and thus blissfully unaware of the shitstorm we were currently trying to sail ahead of. While he looked rightfully concerned when we gave him the cliff notes explanation of what was going on, especially when I brought out the corset analogy, neither Maine nor Dorio seemed all too worried about the prospect of a Militech convoy venturing out here into the Badlands.

Part of that was probably Maine still being buoyed by the last of his battle high (as well as the… other kind of high Dorio had given him) since we took out a bunch of Militech enforces with relative ease already, so he isn't exactly hesitant about a potential round two. And where Maine goes, Dorio is sure to follow, considering she can match her man almost punch for punch. Add me and even Sasha into the mix and sure, I'd give us easy odds against about 80 to 90% of the crews running on the Edge in a straight up fight.

Still, the reason why I wasn't particularly worried didn't really have anything to do with our chances in full-on combat, but rather my hope that it wouldn't even come to combat in the first place.

Autowerks was located in Jacksonplains, which was a Wraiths stronghold out here in the Badlands, which made it… unhealthy for corpo convoys, even heavily armed ones, to pass through on biz. I mean, the Aldecaldos could be considered as close to the 'good guys' as this world had and even they mercilessly gunned down an armed escort because they saw the Basilisk as too juicy a prize to ignore (and 'cause V was way too absorbed with his 'follow PanAss' questline to bother telling her what a reckless gonk she was being).

And Wraiths were those motherfuckers crazy enough that even the Aldecaldos said 'no, thank you' and kicked them out.

Would it be enough to dissuade any potential Militech pursuers? Possibly. Maybe. Honestly, it would more depend on the pressure that Biotechnica is placing on them to fulfill their contract, rather than any reservations Militech themselves might have about dealing with a potential Raffen Shiv raid. The Mad Max-wannabes were simply part of the larger cost-to-worth calculations corpos were always performing, so the question became: am I worth the trouble that crossing Wraith territory will cost them?

Now, I can't really influence the way corpos calculate that equation directly, since that would mean changing what those cold bastards see as 'worthwhile'. If I could, I would basically be the Messiah of the dystopian cyberpunk setting and, no matter how much Ma keeps telling everybody willing to listen (and whacking everyone who wasn't with a hammer), cyber-Jesus I was not.

That being said though, while I cannot change the math itself, I can change the sum. Sort of place one thick, clawed finger just ever so slightly on one end of the scales, stack the weight a bit higher, make the numbers turn out just that bit worse for any corpo bean counter. Which was the entire reason I had Big Pete carefully extract the tracker wholesale instead of destroying it immediately.

"Dorio, Maine, you up for this?" I rumble out in a low voice as behind me I feel the large mercenaries shift and move, my eyes intent on Big Pete and Sasha as they're bent over the tracker sitting almost innocently on a nearby workbench.

Dorio just shrugs and stomps off towards Maine's purple Quadra without another word said, but the cyberpunk himself instead steps up closer to me, slapping me on the shoulder (he needs to reach a bit higher than he's used to) with enough force it would've sent a smaller man flying, though I barely even so much as budge.

"No sweat Boss. I'm not tight with Dakota or anything, but shooting her a message askin' for a little… discreet transportation? They're Nomads, it's what they do!"

"You up front with her? Tell her the cargo is hot?" I press, my voice lined with caution

"You expect us to be 'up front' with folks like them now? And here's me thinking you got a hateboner for fixers, one and all?" Maine says with a prodding elbow and a challenging grin, though he backs off as I shoot him a glare from the corner of my eye.

"I do. Which is the whole reason I don't go around needlessly pissin' 'em off and giving them any more of a reason to try and come after me and mine. Soon as the 'Mad Coyote' thinks I set up one of her drivers as a sacrificial lamb on Militech's chopping block just to save my own hide, suddenly every Animal's gonna learn real quick why you don't get into a stranger's van, 'specially not out in the Badlands." I growl out, the deep timbre of my voice rumbling out over the dilapidated workshop and Maine holds up his beefy hands at me as he backs down.

"Easy there Boss. I hear ya. Gave all the detes to Dakota, at least those needed for the biz. No worries, told her cargo was hot, pursuit inbound. Also told 'er we were good for the scratch, no questions asked. She was cool with it, already flicked the driver the coords. Geo tag for pick up confirmed." The hardened mercenary quickly explains and I lower my raised hackles with a considering hum.

"Pete?" I call out to my Techie and mechanic.

"Little bug is still sending, though as far as Sasha and I can tell it's exhausted its on-board daemons. So no more slipping bugs into car mainframes, it's just passive now." Tiny Mike's brother immediately responds, taking hold of the unusually large bullet and tossing it my way.

My clawed hand shoots out like lightning as I snatch it out of the air with pretty much literal cat-like reflexes, my warm palm completely engulfing the cool metal. I shoot Sasha a raised eyebrow, but a quick nod from her confirms the Techie's words and I grunt in acknowledgement. Raising up the 'bullet' between the curved tips of my claws, I address the merc at my side.

"Well then, pedal to the metal Maine. You got the coords: you and Dorio drop off our little friend here with Dakota's driver. Straight there, don't bother asking him where he's gonna drive off to, he won't tell you. After, take the 101 North. It'll take you the long way 'round NC, but it should get you into Watson through Industrial Street. From there, it's a straight shot past Grand Avenue in Westbrook towards Rancho Coronado."

Maine takes the tracker from my large paw with an annoyed scoff.

"Not some rookie, Boss. I know my way around, stop worrying already, would ya?" He says in a tone that manages to sound both irritated as well as bored while he makes to move past me, but my loose grip on his shoulder halts him in his tracks.

"I know that, Maine. But there's a lot riding on this and I need you to take this seriously, even if you ain't happy with it, or consider this type of gig beneath you. I understand-"

"Look, Boss. I know what you're gonna say, so just lemme be the one to say it first, aight? I get that I ain't 'cactly the most… subtle choombatta around. So yeah, being reduced from up-and-coming Night City legend to a gangoon's errand boy…" Maine trails off, tossing the bullet up and down in his hands for a few moments as he shakes his head.

"It's buggin' me, sure. So, I get why you're ridin' my ass on this, I do. 'Cause you're right, I ain't happy 'bout it. Here's the thing tho: I gave you my word. Vouched for me and my crew. And to me, that shit means something. And 'sides all that, the more time I'm spending with you, the more I'm startin' to think I'll see more bodies drop just runnin' your little errands, than my crew ever could've managed to put in the ground even if we gave up the edgerunner-life and opened up a funeral home."

Maine's morose expression shift into a mischievous grin as he gives me a friendly slap on my shoulder.

"So, like I said. Stop worrying so much already, would ya, Boss? I'm in your corner."

I briefly lock gazes with the cyberpunk, before agreeing with a heavy sigh. I'd figured that Maine wouldn't have left his dream behind that easy, even if he gave it all up without much of a fight because of his loyalty to his crew. My biggest concern had been whether or not I had to fear any potentially lingering resentment over the thing boiling over into outright betrayal, because that's exactly the type of dramatic shit Night City thrives on. So if Maine had brushed me off saying everything was just fine and dandy, I paradoxically only would've become more paranoid.

As it stood, this was about the best I could hope for. Yes, he was still clinging on to his ridiculous dream of dying stupidly enough the Afterlife would name a drink at him (a level of morbid marketing even corpos would applaud at with jealous awe), but he at least seemed to try and find ways to adapt to his new lot in life, to make the best of things.

Can't ask a man for more than that.

"Alright. I'm trustin' you on this Maine. Drop the tracker off, double-back to NC, make sure neither of us picks up a tail. God knows Ma has already been trying to fit me with one since I was eleven." I mention, moving past Maine as I ignore his baffled slow blink.

"Pete, Sasha. Take Shannon's Rattler, make your way back to our safe house in Rancho Coronado, link back up with Ma. Old Nomad vehicle like that on the outskirts of town won't draw much attention, and once you cross into Animal territory, you should be safe. I'll take the kid and his mom, follow you after, try and stick to the side roads." I order as the two larger mercenaries squeeze themselves in Maine's purple Quadra.

With a roar of the classic Type-66 engine, they peel out of Autowerks in a great cloud of dust and burnt rubber, off to meet one of Dakota's drivers. Pete doesn't seem to care much either way, already moving to Shannon's Galena, but Sasha looks a bit conflicted.

"You sure you wanna split up?"

"Got two cars Sasha and we need 'em both back. I'm sure as hell not leaving my Avenger here, and Shannon will literally claw my face off if I leave her old rust-can behind, especially in Raffen country, given that she's ex-Nomad. Her old clan might consider her a Static now, but bad blood like that just don't wash out." I explain as the netrunner worries her lip.

"I get that, but shouldn't I ride with you?"

"Best you stick with Pete, keep an eye out on him, as you're the better combatant. 'Sides, someone's still gotta watch over the Martinez' and they'll be safest with me."

Seeing her downcast expression, I step a bit closer, extending the wicked bear-like claws on my thick paws with a fierce grin, reminding her of her own thin ones currently hidden away underneath the chrome of her fingers.

"I ain't sayin' I don't wanna ride with ya, Sasha. I'm sayin' I'm trustin' you on this. We're the only ones here worth a damn in a fight, so putting all our eggs in one car won't help us any. And considering just how small the Galena is, puttin' Gloria and David both in that little rust-bucket won't be doin' anyone any favors. So, you are the huscle on the Thorton, I am the huscle on the Quadra and I'm countin' on the both of us to make it back to Squash's pack in one piece. Got me?"

No need to explain to her the real reason as to why the mere thought alone of the Martinez' in an old Thorton Galena is enough to make my hair stand on end. Especially considering the gang responsible for their fateful and fatal accident in the original timeline…

Sasha sighs, but acquiesces as she gives me a final nod.

"Got you. Meet you back in NC, Sim. Stay safe." She shoots over her shoulder, Pete having already fired up the old Galena, letting it's tuned engine rattle and roar with impatience.

The moment she's hopped on the passenger seat, the Techie wastes no time in peeling out of Autowerks as well, much like Maine disappearing in a cloud of dust, clearly worried about running into a Militech convoy on the road and thus eager to get off it asap.

That leaves just me and the scrawny would-be protagonist huddled at my side.

"Collect your Mom's things, and make sure to clean up after ourselves. Best to leave no clues behind for corpo dogs to sniff us out with. I'll go and get Gloria. Wait in my car and don't. touch. Anything." I instruct the teen, who hurriedly holds up his hands in a placating motion as he gulps.

"Sure thing, Sim!" as he goes about collecting our gear with hurried motions.

Like I said, best not to leave any clues lying about, especially not a NUSA-exclusive, top-shelf, Luna-engineered piece of chrome advanced enough to have your neurons leak out through where your eyeballs used to be. Remember kids, it's important to always clean up after yourself. Even though it would seem I'm literally the only Animal in existence that actually got that particular memo. While Ma never got on my case about cleaning up my room when I was younger, I still turned out much tidier than any Animal, especially when it comes to military grade equipment.

For instance, I actually bother to regularly wash and clean my clothes from the inevitable sweat and blood that my lifestyle puts them through, unlike say, just ripping them straight off when I'm done with them because I can't be bothered with all the belts, zippers and buckles that is essential to cyberpunk fashion, instead simply haphazardly throwing them across the common room where they just might smack a far too young and innocent youth, who had just finished showering, right in the fucking face.

I never forgave Uncle Randy for that.

Then again, he never forgave me for biting off his nose, all over some "underwear that was only barely a week old, there weren't even nuthin' wrong with 'em, honest, they were just too tight, really riding up the crotch-area, you know, so what's he so fuckin' mad about anyways?".

I don't much like Uncle Randy. 'Sides, we got him a new nose anyways. Eventually.

It's telling what Animals are like when you realize most of my 'family' sided with Randy over me though. When it comes to cleanliness (that being, not living like a literal toddler who just throws anything anywhere and never bothers to shower) many of them just think I'm weird. Ma even tried to have me tested on OCD once back when I was just a kid, but the psychiatrist she kidnapped to run tests on me ended up fainting too often for her tastes and she didn't much appreciate his eventual diagnosis neither. Nor did I, for that matter, since his only response to Sasquatch's question of "well? What's wrong with my son?" had been a very quiet and disturbed "… everything?"

Naturally, Ma had wanted a second opinion.

Going up to the upper levels of Autowerks, I shrug off the memory as I lift the petite Gloria Martinez off the couch she had been resting on, her face still utterly blank and emotionless as she remained submerged in an artificial sleep. Harsh as it was, this was probably the most rest the woman had gotten in literal years, likely since David's birth. Hopefully it would allow her body to recover enough strength not to fail her as it had in the show, though I had my doubts if the 'doctor' had spoken the truth on that matter. In fact, I seriously questioned whether or not little David had actually received his mother's ashes in that urn. I mean, even the Valentinos tended to see them more as convenient smuggler-cannisters than receptables of the dead, as that one gig in the La Catrina funeral home in Vista Del Rey proved. Considering the plans that Shipman had for Gloria…

Well, no matter now, I supposed. Whatever the true reason for the woman's disappearance had been, I had made sure it wouldn't come to pass this time around. How that would affect the Martinez' in the long run I couldn't know and some part of me didn't want to know, beyond making sure Gloria got a new set of legs and, if possible, get David and Lucy to hook up again.

Not that I'm really looking forwards to having even more sexual energy in my squad of hardened criminals, but I suppose something like that would be unavoidable in a horny city like NC.

Scanning the upper floor a final time to make sure I hadn't missed anything, I make my way downstairs again towards the main area of the garage, pleased to see that David was finished with collecting everything down here as well. As he throws the large plastic bag, once again containing Norris' Sandevistan, in the trunk of my Avenger, I gently place the comatose Gloria in the backseat. As I squeeze myself behind the steering wheel (despite the modifications, I'm still stupidly large compared to most transportation design standards), David hops in the seat next to me, and then with a deep guttural rumble of the engine and the tearing squeal of the tires, we roar out of the dilapidated Autowerks building and speed off into the dust-covered Badlands.

It was time to go home.

//

Several days had passed since then. I had given orders to everyone in our group to fall back to a safe house near the Tripple Extreme Gym that Ma and I had recently taken over. The former paint factory itself may be a hotspot for our Animal gang, but it was hardly a defensible or low key position. Better it serve as a distraction while the more vulnerable among us hide somewhere a bit more discreet. Considering this part of Rancho Coronado is filled with empty warehouses and residential buildings, that proved to be rather easy, especially as Ma's hold on this territory was practically uncontested, ever since the sudden death of the previous Alpha at the hands of yours truly.

It certainly helped that the loathsome man proved to have been as unpopular as Sasquatch was intimidating, meaning we weren't even hearing rumblings from the Alpha's own pack that got rolled into Sasquatch's larger group.

Between them making a ruckus and with Dakota giving me a call to confirm her driver had led a (surprisingly small) Militech team out on a wild goose-chase throughout the edges of the Badlands all the way down towards our border with Southern California, I felt the pressure on my lungs leave as I realized we had gotten away with rescuing Gloria practically scot-free.

No Militech hounding our asses and you could barely even see the scars from the bullet-holes on both me and my Quadra. Really, the only lasting proof of the woman's imprisonment in one of the most horrifying institutes in Night City were Gloria's legs, or the lack of them, rather.

The less visible proof of the whole ordeal was how David was dealing with it all. He hadn't been back to Arasaka Academy since the accident, even though physically he had healed up pretty well considered how severe the crash had been, not to mention the beating Tanaka Junior had given him the day before that. Considering his absence from class and his refusal to pick up their phone calls (not that I would've let him communicate and potentially blow our cover anyways), I wouldn't put it past those 'Saka corpo cunts to have revoked his enrollment at their Academy as punishment for the near two weeks of missed lessons.

Not that the young teenager seemed to mind much, though it wasn't hard to see the guilt flashing across his face whenever he looked at his mother. I wondered how Gloria would react to her son throwing away what she had worked her ass off for so long to provide. Then again, I didn't feel much for pushing the teen to go back to the Academy either, just for him to be sneered at and beat up again.

For all his naivety, David had been right about one thing at least: the corpo world would never accept him, not truly.

It promised to be one hell of a fight once the woman wakes up and hears what her son has been up to while she was unconscious, which was partly why we had decided against trying to wake her from her coma. The shock of both David's un-enrollment as well as her own severe injuries might be too much for her to take.

I had some ideas in mind to try and mitigate the potential fallout, especially since I was forced to wait a little while until my other two targets became available anyways. Sasha was still hounding Lucy's steps, who according to my netrunner had either been good enough or just paranoid enough to realize someone was trying to track her down, right after her mentor had mysteriously disappeared. There was no way of telling whether or not Lucy was aware that Kiwi had been fried, but if she knew, it would explain why she'd rather bolt than stick around to see if she'd be part of NC's weekly bodycount lottery.

It's not being paranoid if they're really out to get you, even if it's just with a job offer.

As for Shipman, I had my other netrunner Vasili try and dig up intel on the despicable Biotechnica researcher, which was a bit of a hassle considering the man, as expected, wasn't on any of the corpo's payrolls. Not exactly a good look on your quarterly audit when there's a budget labelled 'baby-killing' after all. And while Vasili was decent enough a netrunner, he wasn't exactly what you'd call top-tier, not yet at least. Compared to the best of the best in the 'runner biz, like Lucy, V or even the Voodo Boyz, I wouldn't trust my Animal-turned-hacker with breaching a datafortress as secure as Biotechnica's.

Not that his brother Dominic would've allowed Vasili to commit suicide by security-deamon in cyberspace.

As a megacorp that dealt in the world's food, fuel and medicine supply, Biotechnica of course had their fair share of skeletons in their closets, though in this case calling it an entire graveyard was probably more accurate. And since Sasha was hellbent on putting on her gravedigger-cap and had already unearthed one of those many skeletons, the corpo's security likely had gotten even tighter than before.

That meant cracking Biotechnica communications and data storage for clues about Shipman's current whereabouts were beyond Vasili (and the majority of your run of the mill netrunners too, I'd reckon). Still, sniffing around their periphery, flagging outgoing and incoming signals from third parties and the like, that was entirely doable, if of course still risky. As both of my netrunners were preoccupied and Ma didn't really need my help beating the local Animals into shape, that left me with a bit of time on my hands, which I intended to make good use of.

Not in the least because Sasquatch had practically been hounding my steps, clearly wondering why her 'cub' suddenly returned with a comatose woman in tow and a kid that was glued to either his mother's side or (to my surprise) mine. As that was a conversation I'd rather not have, considering I could already tell which dangerously embarassing way Ma's thoughts were turning by her expression alone, I threw Maine at her instead (quite literally too, to his great surprise) and swiftly jumped out of the nearest window (to the shocked surprise of the next door neighbor, considering we were three stories up) so I could heroically run away.

After all, I had biz to attend to.

As said, David spent most of his time moping around his still comatose mother whenever he wasn't following me around like a lost puppy and that situation likely wasn't going to change until Gloria woke up, which as it stood right now (pun not intended) wasn't the best idea, considering her lack of legs and David's lack of future prospects.

Now, getting your hands on replacement limbs wasn't too much of a hassle here in NC, especially the low-grade, basic steel contraptions that barely had any modern electronics in them. In many cases, they were barely a step up from the prosthetics that my old world had been capable of, even if they were far cheaper and thus more ubiquitous. Hell, in some of the poorer districts like on the outskirts of Dogtown, I had even seen crap that barely qualified as more than a metal peg leg soldered to chrome joints.

Not that I'd saddle Gloria with scrap like that of course, considering that with my budget I could easily afford more than just some simple off-shelf Zetatech repros. It wouldn't be corpo levels of Neo-Kitsch, but then again it didn't really need to be. Gold inlay is tacky anyways, in my personal, unbiased opinion.

Though Ma once had almost managed to convince me to install the bright golden dentures (complete with enormous fangs) she had gotten me as a birthday present when I turned twelve. I blame my teenage stupidity on that near mishap. Pretty sure I ended up turning those teeth into a wicked set of knuckle dusters, though I can't remember where I left them. Probably up Uncle Randy's ass or something. Huh, I should try and find them one of these days.

As for Gloria, she hardly needed the solid gold cyberware. That being said though, David had already mentioned a few times that his mother had an aversion to plain chrome implants as well. Considering her side hustle had involved ripping said chrome straight out of fresh corpses to sell to cyberpunks (with much of that currently residing in one of my employees in fact) and I could see where the woman was coming from.

Thankfully, my unique upbringing meant that I was more familiar with alternatives to cyberware than most. Which led me back to an abandoned shack on the outer edges of Watson, again. Being the poorest district in all of NC (though Heywood comes pretty close, especially since tensions between the Valentinos and Sixth Street have been on the rise), it shouldn't come as a surprise that most of my underworld contacts tend to congregate around this miserable collection of waste-filled streets and crumbling concrete towers.

'Still, I wouldn't mind expanding my operations more towards areas like the vibrant Westbrook back alleys, if only to get away from the smell.' I thought to myself with a grimace as I stepped over a pile of something I hoped was just another soggy pile of Buck-a-Slice boxes.

The shack I'm looking for is one of many situated on one of Watson's expansive labyrinthian network of back-alleys and side-streets lurking in the shadows of dilapidated megatowers. Quite literally in fact, as Megabuilding H10, rising like a monolithic steel mountain out from Little China, towers high at my back, easily visible even from amidst the rundown houses.

The one I'm moving towards doesn't seem to be that different from any other on this little side street, the aged concrete floor littered with magazines, spent cigarettes and the foulness that accompanies any population just shy of being destitute. The street wears its filth like a badge of dishonor: puddles reflecting the garish glow from neon signs above as grime-streaked walls bear the graffiti scars of countless rivalries, turf wars, and in one case, the fury over a dishonest lover exposed for all to see.

Wherever you are, Jeff, know that the streets of Watson won't soon forget you're a 'cheeting basterd!'. And whoever you are that Jeff cheated on… I hope you've gotten some spelling lessons to soothe your aching soul.

Tearing my amused gaze away from the impassioned neon-green splattered over the nearby wall, I instead turn towards the shack itself. The building doesn't look much better than the rest of the street, truth be told: colorful yet ominous gang insignias (mostly new Tyger Claws tags sprayed over older, faded Maelstrom logos) clash with political slogans and corporate mockery. Posters, frayed at the edges and half-peeling, depict idealized cybernetic beauties advertising long-forgotten BD-shows. Whatever bare concrete remained exposed has either been covered by tags, graffiti or insults, or just straight up mud and filth, the grime coating the surfaces seemingly almost sentient, as if it, too, is trying to etch its own narrative into this urban canvas. A sliding garage door, once painted, now weathered and stained, stands defiantly shut, though on second thought that could just be less 'defiance' and more a lack of power and an overabundance of rust. Beside it, a regular door, locked tight, bears the battle scars of countless attempts at unauthorized entry.

'Well then… time to say hello.' I muse, my eyes roving over the front of the dilapidated building.

My boots crunching heavily over busted tarmac and scattered gravel, I step closer towards the door, my large knuckles rapping heavily against the scratched and dented metal. My hearing picks up a curse from the other side of the door, deeper into the building, quickly followed by hurried footsteps. Nothing seems to happen at first, but then the camera at the top of the building swivels around to focus down on me.

I had spotted it a mile away of course, and had this been one of the gigs Rogue had lined up for me and Benedict in the past, I would've started my approach much like I usually did while playing the game in my former world, during my previous life. I'd first jump onto the rooftop and take the camera, and any potential others, out first. That is, if I wasn't playing on a netrunner-build and simply zeroed the target with a daemon, my hands stuffed in my pockets while idly standing all the way on the other side of the street (like I said, my corpo V was a fucking nightmare). As I didn't have a cyberdeck in this new life, I couldn't remotely hack them, but manually shutting them down wasn't a problem.

And by 'shutting down', I of course mean 'tearing them straight out of the wall as if they were a band-aid' before giving Benedict the 'all-clear' signal.

Still, as I'm not here to bust heads and am in fact here as a customer rather than an edgerunner, I just look up at the camera and give it a jaunty wave and a big, friendly smile-

"Oh… oh fuck, it's you…" a terrified voice comes over the intercom.

Why do people never appreciate my smile? Is it the massive teeth?

"Whatever the fuck you want, go find it somewhere else! Little China is right there, or else Japantown! Lotsa smugglers there, they'll have what you need! Fuck it, go over towards Kabuki, tell Wakako to put everything on my tab, just fuckin' delta the fuck away from me!"

"Aw, come on Hayes! If I didn't know any better, I'd say you ain't glad to see me!"

"That's 'cause I ain't!"

"And here I thought that last time you were interested in my body… ~" I trail off with a suggestive wiggle of my eyebrows.

"Don't say it like that!"

"I know what I heard~" I purr and I can almost hear the retching noise through the thick steel of the front door.

"Look, all I said was that the way your body functions is fascinating-"

"Ha! Told ya, choom! You're just fascinated with me!"

"That's not what it means!"

"Just admit it Hayes. Why lie to yourself? You're obsessed with me." I grin up at the camera, leaning against the gritty doorway as I cross my arms over my chest.

"I don't care about you, I just care about your body!"

For a moment, there's a beat of silence in the street as I just raise an eyebrow, while from the other side of the door I can hear a palm smacking into a face.

"Jeez, Hayes, didn't realize you were that shallow. Honestly, men these days…" I say with a huff as I brush my wild mane of hair out of my face.

"… just… what the fuck do you want, Simba?" the tired voice eventually concedes in a defeated tone.

"Honestly, I just want to put in an order. It's not even for me, hell, it's not even for one of my Animals. Nothing gangoon-related, this is genuinely honest biz, all above the table."

"You know full well I don't do honest biz, Simba. You wouldn't have come to me otherwise. If you actually had biz that was fully legit, you'd go straight to the corpos themselves."

"Well, sadly, they prefer not to be seen with criminals of my caliber."

"Shocking. And here I thought birds of a feather conspired together." Came the deadpan response and I once again shrug.

"Fine, even if it's not entirely legit, it's still risk-free. No heat on it, nada."

"If you're the one bringing me biz, then there's always heat attached."

"So you-"

"No, I don't think you're 'hot', stop twisting my words dammit!"

I chuckle at the outburst, before shrugging again.

"I'm bein' honest over here Hayes. Just need a set of replacement limbs. Legs, to be exact. Woman I know lost 'em in a traffic accident, doesn't do to well with chrome neither. You're her best hope at gettin' her life back on track choom." I explain and the other side remains silent for a long moment.

"… she's got a kid, Hayes. Barely a teenager. It's just the two of 'em and with her out like that… they've been through shit, Hayes." I press a bit further, laying it on thick.

A bit too thick, apparently, I quickly realize.

"Boo-hoo-hasn't? Look, I ain't runnin' a charity and I ain't willin' to stick my neck out for some sob story that you came up with just so you can get me workin' on gene-splicing for you again! That shit burned me once, I ain't gonna let me burn it again! Only way to fall even lower than Watson is to get buried six feet under it and I like breathin' too much, even if its unfiltered Night City air!" the former corpo snaps back with some anger, and I can hear the 'click!' as the intercom shuts off.

"Well now… that's just rude." I muse aloud, but there's no reaction even as the camera is still fixed on me.

I turn towards the door I'm leaning against, once again raising my hand and rapping my knuckles against its dented surface. Though this time, it's not to announce myself, but rather to listen to sound of the knocks themselves.

'Hmm… dense. Too dense. Probably reinforced from the other side after my last visit. That, or it's just common interior decorating when you're living in Watson.' I muse as I listen to the metal.

Could I bust it down? Maybe. Judging by the dents and scuffs that cover the faded, flaking paintjob of the door, many other have tried before in vain. Gangoons I'd bet, looking for their 'protection' money most likely. I've seen it plenty of times before, since Ma's pack run rackets like that as well. I've even done a few of those myself, back when I was younger and hadn't yet build up my own squad. Even back then, I had shown my worth to the other Animals by functioning as a human battering ram, even when terrified shop owners tried barring their doors to us. Considering my growth since those days and I should be able to do the same here, even with how heavy and reinforced the door had sounded. Depends on whether or not the reinforcements are anchored into the walls themselves. The concrete here is strong, but weathered and aged, so simply ramming the door, frame and all, straight out of the wall itself should be possible. Difficult perhaps, but possible.

It reminded me of a time in my youth, during a raid on a rival gang's main hide-out. They had been one of the innumerable small ones that plagued Night City, probably some kind of off-shoot of the Valentinos if I had to guess, judging by the sheer number of times I was called an 'hijo de puta'. Considering their small size, clearly their boss had decided to go all out in safe-guarding their little stash. Their main safe had all the works and despite it's humble locale above a run-down diner in the ass end of town, the vault wouldn't have looked out of place in Yorinobu's penthouse in Konpeki Plaza itself.

The sheer thickness of the safe's door alone meant that there was literally no chance we'd ever crack it. But, here's the thing, while the safety mechanism might've fit right in with Konpeki Plaza, the rest of the building was close to a century old and made as much of graffiti and grime as it was of brick and mortar.

So instead of going through the door, we instead went straight through the walls. Granted, it'd be a bit more difficult here with solid concrete and outer walls instead of the connecting ones from adjacent rooms, especially since I didn't have Ma's hammer with me, but still doable if tedious.

'Sides, I know these types of buildings so I know they don't have a back exit (what's that? A fire hazard? Here in NC? You're joking). Meaning that if Hayes wants to escape or stop me, he'll have to go through the same door I'd be trying to bust through.

'Then again…' I muse to myself as I glance to the side, a smirk on my face as I think an almost heretical thought to any proper Animal.

I approach the shut garage rolling door, bending my knees and worming my clawed fingers right underneath its bottom edge.

'Work smarter, not harder.' I think to myself, trying to ignore the affronted grunt of shock my mother would've let out if she'd heard me say something so blasphemous aloud.

My claws find purchase, my enormous muscles bulge and flex, as I tense my entire body, before extending my frame to its full height with a straightened spine (remember kids, always lift with the legs) as the metal groans and deforms around my hands, rust shaking from the slides and above my head. As my legs fully extend, I get more room to place my hands properly against the bottom side of the rolling garage door and a rumbling growl comes from deep within my broad chest as I force the ancient structure further upwards. The torturous groan of bending metal and the screeching sound of rust grinding away fills the street, while from inside the shack come panicked and surprised shouts, but I ignore it all, gritting my teeth and with a final heave, I shove the rackety garage door up and over me.

I extract my hands from the deep imprints they left in the door, shaking them out a little as I bow my head and duck underneath the yawning opening, stepping further into Robert Hayes' workshop.

Various workbenches covered in tools and tables littered with various odds and ends greet me, the entire area a complete mess. Further towards the back are various vats filled with a green-yellow, almost viscous liquid and absolutely covered in bio-hazard warning signs and stickers. Cables feeding electricity and coolant run haphazardly over the dirty floor, leading towards a smaller office area deeper towards the back of the building where various screens show a live feed from the outside area.

Seated at the desk is a balding, slightly overweight middle-aged man, whose most striking feature are his bright yellow irises with those weird squid-like squiggles for irises, the inhuman artificially grown eyes almost glowing in the dim light of his 'office'.

Robert Hayes was a former Zetatech employee before an unspecified falling out (that he always adamantly refused to talk about) led to him suddenly finding himself trying to scrape a living together on the brutal (and not to mention, filth-covered) streets of Watson, with only his wetware and biotech expertise to keep him afloat. For a while, that had meant cloning and vat-growing various vermin such as rats (the rodent, not the Scavenger rank) for the various scop-stands throughout this part of Night City, though that business of his had pretty much tanked after the plague of 2072.

Suddenly, people lost their appetite for rat after roughly three million deaths.

Luckily for him, that was around the same time I had finally received permission from Sasquatch to head up my own sub-group within her pack, which had led to me looking into upgrades for myself as well, beyond the bio-sculpts Ma had always arranged for me in the past. Or if not a power-up, at least a better understanding of just what I was, exactly, and what my body could be and would be capable of in the future. Hayes had been the one I had approached for that, getting his contact detes through various intermediaries in the bio-sculpt world that my Ma knew, since I couldn't remember anyone from the game who had the expertise I needed.

I had eventually found Hayes, but unfortunately, so had a small mob of Night City's most desperate and destitute, who blamed the vat-grower for the outbreak of the horrific zoonotic disease. Ridiculous of course, as the meat he grew wasn't really 'alive', but he had been a convenient target for any who had lost loved ones during the plague to focus their pain on. Even though I saved his skin that day, by 'encouraging' the mob to disperse, for some reason Hayes had gotten it into his head that I had somehow led the angry people to his doorstep.

Hence the frosty response I had gotten at the entrance.

Despite that however, the jab at his fascination over my body had some truth to it, as I had given him some bloodwork to go over. He had tried to explain to me just how my body produced its own Juice, but my high school-biology knowledge from my previous life hadn't reached far enough to fully understand the techno-babble. Apparently, my body naturally possessed several of the more expensive stimulants, organelles and cellular structures various militaries all over the world were developing to implant into their own (super)soldiers as an alternative to heavy-duty chrome swapping.

After all, Colonel James Norris was an excellent example of what could happen if you go overboard in 'borging out your trained killers.

Lactic Acid Recyclers gave me my enhanced stamina and allowed my already impressive musculature to keep preforming at peak-efficiency for extended hours, without the need of supporting them with unyielding steel. An increased Dendritic Protoplasma production meant my brain and nervous system were literally firing away at superhuman speeds, taking over the function of similar (and intensive) cyberware such as the Kerenzikov.

Which would actually mean that the aforementioned Colonel's Sandevistan shouldn't be too heavy for my body's neural processors to handle, come to think of it.

While all of this was somewhat difficult to create artificially in a way that wouldn't be rejected by the host-body, it was a vastly more efficient (if less extreme) way of upgrading your military forces. Far cheaper too, because instead of needing to develop, buy and repair costly cybernetics, you relied on the cheapest and most readily produced and available of all recourses: people.

Not that any of those superhumans would operate on anything near my own level, considering my unique heritage and upbringing, but overall, simply upgrading a regular human's body rather than replacing entire parts of them was still substantially cheaper and with less chance of a cyberpsycho attack to boot.

The most valuable enhancement Hayes had found that time however, had been the Pseudo-Embryonic Cell Builders that flooded my bloodstream and lymphatic system, which were apparently the cause for my advanced healing factor. When he had discovered those, the former Zetatech corpo had almost jumped towards me with the intention of dissecting me on the spot.

From what I could make out of his ranting and raving, they could be the key to vastly improving even the most advanced life-extending treatments the world's wealthiest could currently afford. Considering those could comfortably add half a century onto someone's life expectancy already…

However, even with the prospect of unraveling the secrets of near-immortality on the table, I had refused to let the man operate on me and considering he didn't have the scratch or the facilities to do a CAT-scan on me to peer into my body and study my enhanced musculature and altered bone-structure from the outside, that put a hold on our cooperation.

Though a large part of that stemmed from his sheer mortification when he had practically begged me for my seed after I had destroyed the blood samples I had given him, before he realized exactly how his request for tissue-samples had sounded. Which of course was why I relentlessly teased him whenever we met, much to his immense frustration and my amusement.

Despite the less than welcoming reception I had gotten at the entrance, and despite the way I had just left said entrance in my wake, I could see that even now, that frustration was warring with an undeniable hunger visible in those artificial yellow eyes of his as they rake over my body when I step into his little 'office'. Despite my innuendos and phrasing, there was absolutely nothing sexual in the way his eyes trace the outlines of my massive arms and in a weird way, that made it all even creepier.

I imagine this must be what ants feel like under a microscope.

As I duck through the doorway, instantly making the small office feel even more cramped, Hayes is drawn from his daydreaming as he whirls towards his desk, snatching up an older A-22B Chao, Kang Tao's entry into the Smart Gun market and rival to Arasaka's Yukimura. Not surprising, since there were rumours abound that the Chinese megacorp had quite literally stolen the engineer of the Yukimura out from under their Japanese rival's noses. If that was the case, they should've bagged the designer too in my opinion, considering how much sleeker the 'Saka Smart Gun looks.

As corrupt and foul to the core as Saburo's company may be, they have pretty much perfected appearing spotless on the outside.

While a valid contender to what used to be Arasaka's death grip on the Smart Gun market, I knew the Chao came with an odd little quirk of its own: thanks to its internal brain, it can 'do the thinking for you' as the Kang Tao slogan proudly advertises, which includes assisting in the reload. Once the last of the 21 cartridges is used (expelled in bursts of three), the empty magazine is automatically discharged. Easy-to-use, practical... unless the empty mag hits an unsuspecting shooter in the foot, that is.

Being the magnanimous gangoon that I am, I decide to protect Hayes against any such potential mishaps, so before his Smart Link even has had a chance to interface with the gun, my own claw sweeps out and slaps it from his grip, sending it clattering against the wall. He hadn't even managed to properly aim it my way and I can see him blink a few times in confusion at his empty hand, before slowly glancing from the broken pieces of his gun back up towards me, as a lazy grin slowly grows over my heavy features as I loom over him.

"Come now, Hayes. You could've hurt someone with that."

"Someone. That someone not being you, I'm guessing, judging by those scars on your chest… which leaves… well…" he stammers somewhat, and even though I don't say anything, my grin widens further, causing the geneticist to suddenly pale even more.

Man's looking like a ghost that saw another, scarier ghost at this point.

"R-right. You've made your point, Simba. You got biz? Alright, let's talk biz. You finally gonna give me some new blood samples after you trashed the ones you first gave me? Maybe even some spinal fluid? You know I could-" Robert continues, his tone picking up in intensity as he keeps talking and I can almost see the ugly, clinical fascination rear its head in his mind's eye.

In his actual eyes too, actually, a hunger in them making them almost glow with excitement.

He's getting so enthusiastic, in fact, he's rising up out of his chair. His mad-scientist vibes are seriously creeping me out, so I cut him off by placing my palm on top of his head, halting him mid-rise. Considering the sheer size of my 'murder-mittens' as Sasha called them, that means practically the entire upper half of Hayes' head is engulfed by the steel grip of my claws, their curved tips digging into, but not piercing, the man's skin. Effortlessly, I silently push him back down in his seat, only removing my hand when I feel his manic energy subside somewhat.

He blinks wide, yellow eyes up at me, the inhumanly weird pupils suddenly narrowing to thin focused lines, even in the rather dim light of his workshop. I bend in closer towards him and even stooped like this, I loom over the other man.

"Just biz, Hayes, like any other customer. No experiments. For now at least. Know you don't work for free; I could wire you ennies, or I could give you some samples. Tissue and blood, had plenty of that following a little… escapade of mine. No spinal fluid and none of my seed, don't you bother beggin'." I finish with a mocking grin, seeing as Robert pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"And I assume the same rules still apply: no data goes out, it all gets routed back to you?"

"Naturally."

"That's the whole fuckin' point, you being natural. Simba, imagine if we could sell this to some corpo fat cat! I mean, they say the Emperor's health is finally starting to decline after a century, just imagine the sheer wealth he'd give-"

Again, I grab him by the head, but instead of pushing him down, this time I instead lift him up in a smooth, effortless motion, all the way nearly to the ceiling so that he's eye level with me, all with a single hand. My narrowed gaze bores into his terrified artificial eyes and he gives an odd little shrug as his body dangles helplessly several feet above the floor.

"R-right. Right, no corpos. No riches, and no corpos. Got it, Simba. Crystal. Honest. Can you… could you put me down now… please?"

I hold his terrified look for a moment longer, before I loosen the grip of my claw, letting him heavily fall back into his chair as he lets out a small 'oomph!' I remain forbiddingly silent as the scientist tries to regain his composure.

"Alright. Regular biz it is. Legit, no heat attached. Payment in tissue-samples. All on the down-low, naturally." Robert mutters, more to himself than me, as he straightens up in his chair and moves closer towards the set of screens on his desk.

"Glad we could come to an agreement so quickly, choom." I rumble leisurely as I lean against his desk, the wood groaning underneath my weight as Hayes shoots me a disgruntled look.

"You know, considering your biz-tactics and your ideas of 'arrangements', you and corpos really are alike. I think you'd make an excellent suit."

"I can't tell if that's a compliment or an insult."

"Yes." He bites out through gritted teeth.

I chuckle as the geneticist cracks his fingers before holding his hand out towards me, palm out flat.

"Detes of the patient, please. I'll need genetic markers, preferably a complete biomon read-out so I can attune the new meat to what the old one is used to. Minimizes rejection from the host. The more data, the better." He explains, familiarity giving a rote feeling to his voice, as if he's said this so often, his mouth is simply running through an autopilot program.

I fish a datashard from inside one of the many, many pockets and pouches lining my Entropism-styled cargo pants. On it is everything Hayes might need to graft a new set of legs for Gloria, considering Shipman had been thorough in examining her, disgustingly so.

Can't wait 'till the heat has died down enough for that Biotechnica slimeball to slip up and tweak one of Vasili's surveillance programs. I need to make a doctor's appointment.

Depositing the shard in Hayes' hand I lean back as the man goes through the data, setting up the process that will aid the Martinez' in setting their first step on the long, rough road to recovery, quite literally in this case. Still, despite the good deed I'm performing here, playing the Samaritan somehow leaves a persistent tingling at the back of my scalp and some small part of me worries if perhaps the price of getting Gloria back on her feet again might end up being higher than I anticipated.

AN: Sorry this took a bit longer than expected. I didn't save correctly when editing this chapter, so an hour of work was just poof! Gone, reduced to atoms.

So we're finally wrapping up the second arc in this story. I originally wanted to get more done in this chapter, such as getting Lucy on board and overall just insert more violence in general as that has been lacking a bit. However, the introduction of Robert Hayes ran away from me a bit, though I think there's a benefit to that. As a wetware and biomod expert, he'll be our window into exploring the features of Simba's body more… you know, even when I'm the one saying it, it still comes out sounding wrong... anyways, keep an eye on my Pa Treon, as I'll be uploading the next polls up there sometime tomorrow! Cheers chooms!