After parking his car, Mark went straight into the “office” of his Starter Base. Normally, in the game of Factorio, the Starter Base is either abandoned or deconstructed to provide materials for a larger base, or even help build the Real Base. Mark reasoned that, since he was in the middle of the city, he should make use of the abundance of human resources available. Perhaps, if circumstances permit, make life better for those under his employ, and the city in general. That is why Mark uses efficiency modules on all his machines: to cut on energy consumption and pollution generation.

The office is in a separate area that’s relatively unguarded, possessing only eight gun turrets for defense. The small building was decorated with simple and practical furniture, some of it taken and cleaned from the Maelstrom and Scavenger gangs.

“Hey Miguel,” Mark greets the man and goes straight to business, “sorry for being sudden, but can I see the Cease and Desist order?”

“Here. It’s even on paper too.” The former soldier hands the Engineer the letter.

After reading the full document, the letter could be summarized as such:

“You are hereby ordered to immediately halt all operations in the district of Pacifica. Your activities are deemed illegal under the jurisdiction of the Night City Government. Failure to comply will result in further legal action, including, but not limited to, the seizure of assets, fines, and imprisonment.”

Mark reads and rereads the letter, before asking for his friend’s opinion.

“Hmm, can’t say I have much knowledge of the Lawmen profession, my only experience was with the army JAG unit, and they were a complete joke.”

The Engineer finishes reading the letter one more time before giving up. “I will need to find local lawyers anyway. As soon as I have the time I will hire a lawyer firm. Now, you said someone responded to the ad?”

“Yeah, she’s waiting in the Waiting Room.”

“Great, I will go there. Please bring us some refreshments,” Mark looks at his System clock to confirm the hour, “and then you’re good to go.”

“I don’t,” Miguel begins to interject, but he catches himself midway through. “Sorry, I’m not used to your hours.”

Mark simply pats his friend on the back and moves to meet the potential new hire. The waiting room has better furniture, with comfortable furniture made with synthetic fibers and the few stacks of Wood available. Sitting on the couch is the woman that Mark is supposed to interview.

Despite being seated, Mark notices that the woman is tall with a slender build. She has her blond hair done in a bob cut, and most of her face is obscured by a red mask. The woman glances back to Mark when he enters the room, with narrow eyes that appear both relaxed and sharp at the same time. The closest comparison that Mark can make is that she’s high on both depressants and stimulants at the same time.

“Hello, my name is Mark Henderson. Sorry for making you wait.” Mark extends his hand to the potential employee in greeting, being met with stoic silence. The Engineer holds his hand in place until the woman relents and shakes his hand.

“Sorry,” the potential hire says with a flat, almost sarcastic tone, “not used to corpos bothering to touch mere mortals out of their initiative.”

“I chalk that to different cultural values,” Mark says with an amused smile, hinting at a joke only he knew about, “don’t worry about it. Now, could you please introduce yourself?”

“Call me Kiwi. I’m here for your job offer to handle the internal systems of your… venture.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Just Kiwi?”

“It’s not uncommon for orphans to not have a surname,” Kiwi bluntly answers, and Mark winces in response.

“Sorry for bringing up bad memories,” Mark is quick to apologize, but Kiwi waves him off.

“Not a lot of things require ID in Night City. For what is required you can just use your serial ID from your neuro port.”

“I see. Thanks for telling me that, Kiwi. Can you tell me about your work experience?”

“Legal or illegal?” She asks bluntly, not expecting an honest answer.

“Both, if you think they’re relevant to the job and you’re comfortable sharing.”

The woman stares at Mark impassively, taking her time to answer. Her body appears relaxed, almost too relaxed in Mark’s opinion.

“Room service!” Miguel opens the door with a yell, carrying a tray with simple food and drinks. “We’re out of whisky, but we have plenty of water.”

“Thanks. Now get out and visit your niece, tell her I will see her later.” The former soldier nods, turning back to the door. Miguel spares a glance towards Kiwi but leaves without saying anything.

Miguel's appearance seemingly broke the ice, as Kiwi took the initiative to pitch herself a glass of water. “Well, I suppose my entire work history would count as ‘illegal,’ if people bothered with the fiction of labor laws.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Mark blinks at her. From the little he managed to research, work conditions in the current world are brutal, with eighty hours of mandatory work per week being considered generous.

“My first job was at a factory, then I worked for a time with Mizu Shoubai, and right now I’m working as a self-employed independent contractor providing Netrunning consulting. Is that good enough for you?”

Mark runs the meaning of Mizu Shoubai on the System's internal dictionary and realizes that Kiwi spent some time as a prostitute, a Joytoy in the current slang. If she used that archaic euphemism, that means she likely worked for a Yakuza-owned brothel. It also meant she had experience working for corporations as she perfectly used the dry, neutral language of inoffensive marketing.

“Yes,” Mark gives her a small nod, “thank you for trusting me to share this information.” He lets the somber air linger for a moment before going after the next topic. “So, here is what I expect you to do during the working hours.” Mark slides over a piece of paper containing a list of her expected duties, “and this is the contract. You can read and tell me if it interests you.”

Kiwi glances at the analog document with distrust, but she picks it up and starts reading. After a few minutes, she looks back at Mark with an unreadable expression.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Mark tilts his head in confusion, wondering where that came from. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

Kiwi shows Mark the proposed contract. “You don’t expect me to believe this is real.”

Mark picks up the contract and reads it, wondering if he made a mistake. After he finishes reading, he confirms that there are no mistakes. “No, this is it. The working hours, salary, provision for holidays, benefits, everything is in order.”

“No one offers conditions that generous unless they want something in return.”

This time it is Mark who looks strangely at Kiwi. “I do want something in return.” Kiwi's eyes narrow for a moment. “I want you to do your job. That’s why I’m paying you a living wage that’s fitting for your position.” Mark motions towards the rest of the city, beyond the walls of his Starter Factory, “other corporations achieve competitive productivity by squeezing blood out of rocks, exploiting their workforce to the limits, using fear and violence as motivators to keep their workers in line.”

Marks stares at Kiwi’s eyes, trying to convey his sincerity. “My strategy is simple, remove the factors that would demotivate my employees, like a slave-like working condition and low salaries, and then provide with reasons to be motivated.”

Kiwi finally shows proper emotions, being visibly incredulous, while Mark shrugs. “The ‘normal’ corporations almost get it at the middle management level, except they do it in the most stupidly evil manner possible. So, not what I plan to do at all.”

The Netrunner regains her composure, before taking another look at the contract. “Alright, I will bite. Where do I sign?”

They quickly are done with their obligations, and Mark welcomes her to the team. “Since I’m not incorporated yet, I will pay you this month's salary in advance. You can start your job immediately, come with me.”

Mark motions Kiwi to follow him and they both arrive at a single computer terminal. “This is the server,” Mark points to a small tower PC, “it’s not connected to the city net yet. Your first job will be to connect to the city net, and either deal or forward me any issues regarding that, from licenses to required infrastructure.” Mark motions her to continue following him until they arrive at an area marked with warning concrete.

“This area marks the safe limits before entering a hazardous location. The gun turrets use a proprietary FFI system, so tell your other employer to have good luck hacking them.”

Kiwi visibly freezes, eyes widening at the admission, her right hand slowly drifting towards her hidden Unity gun.

“I suggest you not touch your gun,” the Netrunner hand freezes in place expecting the worst, “before you have this.”

Mark gives Kiwi an identification card, “Always keep it in your person. Right now, I have disarmed the gun turrets to show you how to prevent any accidents, but in the future that ID-Card will be required. This area we’re standing,” Mark points to the ground, “is the safe limit before you become a valid target. Here, let me demonstrate.”

Kiwi notices the odd item that Mark pulled out of the inventory, and despite the cold fear settling on her stomach she can’t help but ask, “What is that?”

“This is a Marketable Plushy Faraday™. I’m thinking of selling a series based on famous figures of the Night City underworld, like some fixers and Edgerunner crews.”

The Marketable Plushy Faraday™ resembles the man, with his sour expression, unique cyberware, and burgundy suit. Mark throws the Faraday™ plushy towards an area beyond the same markings, and the object is riddled with bullets.

“How did you know that Faraday hired me?” Kiwi asks in a calm tone, and Mark notes that it is far too calm for his liking.

“I didn’t, you said it,” the Netrunner curses under her breath as she realizes she’s been had, “it does make sense though. Faraday made a fool of himself when we first met, and he strikes me as the type to seek revenge over petty bullshit.”

“So, you made that thing to intimidate me, or anyone else that works for Faraday?” Kiwi points to the destroyed plushy.

“Oh no, I made this to shoot later. It was just a good target to demonstrate the gun turret range and tracking capability, as per the tour outlined detailing your duties, obligations, and rights. It’s listed under ‘basic training.’”

Kiwi gingerly looks at the document tucked away, noticing the section about training related to familiarizing with the job site. ‘To be fair, maybe this part is normal for a company. No, wait, I’m focusing on the wrong thing right now.’

“Do you still want to employ me, despite knowing that I took a job from Faraday to spy on you?”

“There’s not a lot of information you can spy that will be useful to Faraday. Keep working for him, and if you somehow manage to find a way to milk him twice, more power to you.” Suddenly, Mark's tone changes from casual to menacing, and to Kiwi his silhouette turns sinister, as if his body is shrouded in shadows. “So long as you don’t directly become a nuisance, or try to threaten someone close to me, I don’t have a problem with your side jobs. Understood?’”

“Good enough for me, boss.”

Mark grins, “I’m glad to hear that. Now continuing our tour…”