Alright Night City, lean in close ‘cause Maximum Mike’s got a tale that’ll make even this chrome-laden, cyber-sick city pause and say, “What the hell did he just say?”
Let’s talk about The Pack. Yea, I know you’ve heard the whispers and the half-muttered curses in back alleys, the fevered rumors zipping through the NET. But lemme spell it out for you: The Pack’s not just another gang. No, this crew’s been shaking Pacifica like a sandstorm in the Badlands, and it’s all thanks to their leader – a man who, and I’m not joking here, isn’t from this world.
I see those raised eyebrows, and I hear that laughter, but stay with me. This man, yea, the stories say he was a poor sap caught in the gears of some corpo science experiment gone wrong. Picture this: some lab deep in a mirrored skyscraper, chrome floors so clean you can see your trauma team bills reflecting back at you. The corpos get bold and decide to play God. They jack a body into the NET, flip the switch, and – drum roll please – invite whatever digital devil’s lurking out there to come in for a chat.
But this isn’t your run-of-the-mill A.I. spasm or data glitch. No. Whatever slipped through was something else. It wore the meat suit like a cheap jacket. This thing was able to read minds, could see movements before they were made, and tapped into neuroports and cyberware like a maestro plucking strings. A modern-day Frankenstein’s monster, but this time, old Frankie can read the city’s pulse like it’s his own personal playlist.
How else do you think The Pack stomped 6th Street when they tried flexing their wannabe-militia muscles? Or when the Animals came roaring in, all brawn, no brains, and ended up flat on their overly muscled backs, wondering where it all went wrong.
But here’s the real shocker, the moment that made every major player in Night City’s underbelly sit up and blink twice: The Pack’s showdown with the Voodoo Boys. You know them – netrunners supreme, lords of the digital jungle. They’d been keeping Pacifica on a tight leash for years, eyes everywhere, fingers in every rogue byte and shadow. But then, The Pack sweeps in, guns blazing, and leaves nothing but scorched circuits and ghost stories.
Why, you ask? Because their enigmatic leader, this city’s own modern-day Prometheus, isn’t in it just for the eddies or the street cred. No, chooms. He’s got friends in places that make even the bravest netrunner’s spine tingle – out past the Blackwall.
That’s right. While most of us wouldn’t touch Blackwall biz with a ten-foot pole, The Pack’s leader went toe-to-toe with the city’s toughest netrunners to keep his spectral comrades safe from a little digital incursion. And before you say this is just another fairy tale meant to keep you from jackin’ into the NET without a second thought – think again. Corporations don’t make deals with bedtime stories. Yet here we are, watching the suits sidle up to The Pack, offering discreet handshakes and backroom deals.
Why? Because whatever tech-turned-magic The Pack leader wields, it’s got Militech sweating through their Kevlar and Arasaka debating whether it’s time to send in their A-team. He’s the man who carved a path through 6th Street’s bravado, declawed the VDB, and sent a clear message to everyone else: Pacifica’s mine, and I don’t play by your rules.
&&&
Anna cut the engine, and Maximum Mike’s gravelly voice sputtered into silence. Cyndi twisted around from the passenger seat, her grin wide and eyes dancing with mischief.
“So, Noah,” she teased, drawing out the words with deliberate exaggeration, “when do we get to meet these friends of yours from ‘out of town’?” The way she emphasized the last words made Anna chuckle. I just sighed and rolled my eyes as I reached for the door handle.
“Let’s get this over with,” I muttered, pushing open the door and stepping out into Heywood.
The air around us smelled like gas and cracked asphalt and street food being grilled somewhere nearby. The sun was sinking behind the jagged skyline, casting long shadows over the city. Anna and Cyndi got out with me, flanking me, their postures shard and ready. Behind me was a convoy of trucks that had come to a halt and members of The Pack clambered out, their motions stiff and watchful after the drive. They stretched, hands on their hips or tossed in the air, while keeping an eye out, taking in the surroundings.
I swept my eyes over the scene, spotting Padre first. He was dressed in his old-man fashion – a sweater pulled over a polo shirt – that set him apart from the flash of the Valentinos around him. Beside him, sprawled in a faded plastic lawn chair like it was a throne, sat El Sombreron. The wide brim of his hat was pulled down, casting a dramatic shadow over his face, but I caught the flicker of a smile playing on his lips.
The rest of the Valentinos lingered nearby, leaning against doorframes, clustered in groups, sharing murmured jokes and the occasional bottle of beer passed between them. A radio balanced on a ledge played out a soulful Spanish ballad, adding a soundtrack to this meet up.
It could have passed for any neighborhood block party, but this small meet wasn’t just a casual gathering.
“Padre. El Sombreron,” I called out, raising a hand in greeting as I closed the distance. Padre’s eyes met mine with a gaze that spoke of years of deals, alliances, and the careful balance he maintained between various powerful factions in Heywood. He stepped forward and pulled me into a quick embrace.
“Noah,” he said warmly, patting me on the back. “Glad you made it.”
“Appreciate you putting this together,” I replied, returning the gesture. For all his ties to the Valentinos, Padre wasn’t one of them – not fully. He walked the line as an independent player, using his sway to bring The Pack and the Valentinos together in this meeting. But his whole role in this thing was finished now.
El Sombreron’s grin widened as sat up a little straighter in his plastic lawn chair, tipping his hat back just enough to reveal his eyes.
“Been a long time, amigo,” he said, his voice a lazy drawl but with a slight edge that was hard to miss.
“El Sombreron,” I nodded, my eyes taking in his half-bored, half curious expression. “Figured our last deal worked out pretty well for the both of us. How about we make it a regular thing?”
I gave a signal to the convoy behind me and two Pack members stepped forward. They headed to one of the trucks and popped the bed open. With a grunt, they hauled out a heavy crate, the plastic composite hitting the ground with a solid thud, sending a puff of dust into the air.
I crouched next to the crate and flipped the latches and lifted the lid. Inside, the unmistakable neon green of Barghest weapons caught the last light of the setting sun. The color was as loud and as brazen as the Barghest brand itself.
El Sombreron stood from his chair and stretched with a lazy, predatory grace. He strolled over, his boots dragging slightly as he approached the crate. When he stopped, his eyes swept over the guns and he let out an amused scoff.
“What is this color?” he muttered, half to himself, his lips twisting into a smirk. The massive scar on the side of his face scrunching up along with his mouth. His words drew easy laughter from the Valentinos scattered about nearby. “Does Barghest like to blind people before they kill ‘em?”
I grinned, unfazed by the laughter dancing around us. “Aesthetic’s easy to tweak. I know how much the Valentinos love their flair.”
I reached into the crate and pulled out an HA-5 Grit. It was a reimagined version of the infamous Budget Arms Slaught-o-Matic, the cheap, disposable shooter sold in vending machines all across Night City. With the gun in my hand, my mind drifted back to my first kill. Choki. The memory of his raspy last breaths as he bled out near the basketball court, the Slaught-o-Matic’s barrel in my hand warped and useless from the heat. This Grit, though? It was an entirely different beast. Hansen’s engineers had outdone themselves: a fully automatic, rugged, and budget-friendly pistol with the potential to rewrite the rules of street firepower.
I turned the gun in my hand and presented it to El Sombreron like a prize. His eyes traced the Grit’s lines, intrigue softening the hard lines of his mouth.
“Barghest toys, huh?” His voice was casual, but the way he spoke made it clear he was already calculating the angles. “And how’d you get your hands on these?”
I let a sly grin slide into place, tilting my head slightly. “Cut a deal with Barghest. They’re looking to expand and push their hardware into Night City. I’m helping them open new markets. They handle production, I’ll handle distribution. Everyone wins.”
A slight moment hung between us. Around us, the Valentinos were exchanging glances, probably not fully grasping the significance of what I was saying. Barghest wasn’t just another supplier; their primary clientele were nation-states. Barghest tech was the kind that tilted the balance of power in global conflicts. Any gang armed with Barghest firepower would gain a brutal edge in the city.
“So,” he drawled, his tone probing, “you’re thinking of moving this stock to us. What about 6th Street?”
That got a chuckle out of me. “Fuck those gonk assholes. The last thing I want is those trigger-happy cosplay patriots loaded up with Barghest gear. They’d try and play war hero and cause a whole hell of a lot of problems. No, I’m not giving them shit.”
El Sombreron’s grin returned, more genuine this time. “Good,” he said, his gaze fixed on the crate, clearly imagining the possibilities.
“There’s on more thing,” I started. “I’m rebuilding Pacifica, and there might be a place in it for the Valentinos.”
A rasping laugh erupted from him, rough and jagged and harsh, like gravel grinding through an industrial shredder. I was glad I wasn’t the only person who was unnerved by it as I could see more than a few onlookers shift uncomfortably.
“Pacifica?” he asked, disbelief and amusement both bleeding into the question. “Every poor bastard who’s tried to pull Pacifica out of the ashes has either ended up dead, bankrupt, or hightailing it out of Night City with their tail between their legs. What makes you think you’re different?”
I didn’t flinch. My eyes locked onto his, steady and unwavering. “Because I am different,” I said, letting the certainty in my voice cut through all the doubts. “Look, your chop shops are already printing eddies for you. But imagine Pacifica alive again – buzzing with corpo execs chasing the kind of thrills they can’t find in their sterile office towers. They’ll come to gamble, and drink and party and watch some fights. And when they win big – or lose big – you know what they’ll be looking for next?”
El Sombreron cracked a grin that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “What any man who just won or lost a fortune looks for.”
I matched his grin. “My next stop is to the Mox. They’ll have that part covered. But after they’ve blown off steam there, they’ll want more. They’ll want a ride that announces their status. A souped-up Quadra. A Shion tricked out with after-factory mods that would make an Arasaka engineer blush. And where do you think they’ll go for that? Straight to the ‘tinos. To the new Pacifica garage that’s packed to the brim with the best cars from all your chop shops.”
El Sombreron’s gaze drifted, eyes losing focus as he ran through my idea in his head, tallying up the profits and possibilities. The nearby Valentinos exchange looks that said they’d heard what I planned for Pacifica. The potential for wealth and influence was turning heads.
“You’re ambitious,” El Sombreron said, a flicker of admiration buried in his rough voice. “I’ll give you that.”
“I have to be,” I replied. “Pacifica isn’t going to rebuild itself, and it sure as hell won’t thrive without the right partnerships.”
He nodded slowly, hands still cradling and caressing the HA-4 Grit, the lines on his face softening just enough to betray a hint of approval. It wasn’t a victory – yet – but it was a start.
&&&
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I slouched in the passenger seat of Anna’s Archer Hella, watching the city blur past us. I hadn’t been lying when I told El Sombreron that my next meeting after him was with the Mox.
It had been a while since I’d set foot in Lizzie’s Bar. When we’d rolled up, memories of the alcove flashed through my mind. The place was still thriving, still a haven for the homeless of Watson looking for a shred of peace. But I had no intentions of visiting. Fred and Mor were gone, and the sight of the alcove without them hit like a gut punch.
Instead, Anna and I had beelined into Lizzie’s. Rita had waved us through with a simple nod before going back to keeping order out front. And our meeting with Susie was…okay. The Mox hadn’t forgotten what I did for them when I took out Jotaro, and that gave me enough credit for my sales pitch. I’d laid it all out to Susie: rebuilding Pacifica, creating something bigger and better; a place that could turn profits like no other district in Night City. I painted a vision for the Mox – a second Lizzie’s. A BD bar tailored for corpos, execs, and VIPs. A place where they could escape the weight of the boardroom and lose themselves in fantasies designed and controlled by the Mox.
Susie listened, weighed my words, asked a few sharp questions, and then left me with a polite “I’ll think about it.” No yes. No no. Jut a door left ajar. It was more than I’d expected, and less than I wanted.
I glanced at the rearview mirror, catching sight of the tail car that followed a few lengths back, subtle as ever, sandwiched between a delivery van and a beat-up Makigai Mai Mai. It wasn’t paranoia; it was survival. The Pack had a crew that was meant to shadow me – a rotating cast of handpicked members trained by Diego or Zion.
Since The Pack had taken Pacifica, security had become mandatory for me. Gone were the days of tearing through the city on my Kusanagi, the roar of the bike and the wind carving away all my worries. Now it was cars driving me to places, eyes on every side, and the constant press of responsibility. Freedom traded for safety. Thrill traded for security.
Anna shot me a glance as if she could sense the storm brewing inside me. I tried to shake it off, but the meeting at Lizzie’s still gnawed at me. Susie’s noncommittal response could mean anything: caution, consideration, or just a polite brush-off. It sat in my chest like a weight, dragging down my mood and turning everything just a bit darker.
My internal Agent buzzed, Rogue’s name flashing across my vision. I let out a low sigh, already bracing myself.
“Rogue. What’s up?”
“Still sorting through all that loot your people hauled out of Pacifica,” she said, getting straight to biz. “Guns, cyberware, tech – enough to equip a small army. But you’re keeping quiet on the real prize. What did you pull off that VDB server?”
My eyes flicked to the window, watching the streets of Westbrook move past. My mind went back to all the gear we’d secured at the GIM. It was Scav gear mostly, but not just the usual shit. Guns, hacked cyberware, tech salvaged and stripped from anyone unlucky enough to get snatched by those jackals.
And then there was the goldmine: the data Sandra had cracked from Rezo Agwe. It wasn’t just blackmail material – although there was plenty of that – it was blueprints, proprietary tech specs, cutting-edge cyberware that could shift the power balance in Night City. The kind of data that could be turned into a fortune. Or a whole shit-ton of chaos.
I still hadn’t decided what The Pack would be doing with all of it. Blackmail and leverage was one thing. But the tech documents and the proprietary information? There was no doubt in my mind that the VDB had been in the business of selling all that stolen info to rival corporations, but The Pack could put it to better use. Factories, production lines, mass production of cheap cyberware and drones and weapons – it was all possible. Dangerous as hell, sure, but possible.
“Still weighing my options,” I muttered to Rogue, avoiding any specifics.
“Figured as much,” she shot back. “Listen, kid. There’s something you might want to hear. The Bratva’s been sniffing around Night City.”
I frowned, the name tugging at the edges of my memory. Bratva. Russian organized crime. Not exactly heavy hitters in Night City. “Can’t say they’re on my radar. I think I heard that they back the Scavs, but…that’s about all I know.”
I tried thinking back to the game to remember if there was anything about the Bratva in any of the missions, but that was a dud.
“They’re not big players here,” Rogue confirmed. “But don’t underestimate them. They’re patient, brutal, and about as psychopathic as they come. Normally, they’d ignore whatever mess you’ve stirred up in Pacifica. But here’s the thing – you’ve been making moves. The Pack’s growing, and you went after a lot of Scavs. You’ve probably put a target on your back without even knowing it. Plus, I’ve been hearing tales that the Soviets are trying to expand a bit. Do a few deals with some Night City corporations. The Bratva are…they help out a bit.”
I sighed at that, trying to figure out what it meant for The Pack and our plans for growth. Rogue wasn’t one to cry wolf, and if the Bratva were trying to establish a presence in the city…that might not be something I could brush off.
“So, you’re saying we should keep our heads down?”
“I’m saying it might be time to play it cool. Watch your back. Beef up your security. The city chews up anyone who doesn’t.”
I let Rogue’s warning settle in the back of my mind as I stared out the window. Part of me wanted to shrug off her concerns. The Bratva were just another name to add to the list of threats lurking in Night City. But a deeper part of me knew better. As much as I might chafe at the security Diego, Zion and Deng had foisted on me, I couldn’t ignore the truth. The Pack’s rapid growth, the untapped potential of Pacifica, my deals with various gangs and organizations, it all made us a bigger target than ever.
Still, I wasn’t about to let a new organization keep me awake at night. Most of my focus would be in Pacifica soon enough. If I could mold that fractured district into something truly mine, a place where my people knew everything about every cracked slab of pavement and every busted neon sign, then it didn’t matter who came knocking.
As my thoughts churned, a spark of an idea ignited. Rogue’s rolodex was insane. It wasn’t just netrunners, fixers, and mercs who took her calls. In one of the Johnny sequences in the game, Rogue was friendly with a Nomad. I think his name was Santiago.
Something Diego had told me, ages ago, had stuck with me. The Nomads weren’t just drifters scouring the Badlands for adventure and salvage. They were builders. Rebuilders, actually. They laid roots when needed and helped mend the broken bones of city infrastructure.
Rogue’s voice carried on, her warnings about the Bratva weaving into the background of my thoughts, but I cut her off.
“Rogue. Got a proposition for you.”
The pause on the line told me she wasn’t used to being interrupted. “Go on,” she said, cautiously.
“Pacifica needs something more than just muscle and tech. You still got contacts among the Nomads? Think they’d be interested in helping me rebuild Pacifica?”
Rogue went quiet for a moment, probably trying to keep up with the sudden shift in our conversation. “You know, you might be onto something. Nomads could teach the corps a thing or two about logistics. If you find the right family, they could pull it off. But I should warn you, it won’t be cheap.”
“Won’t be a problem,” I replied. With the kind of eddies The Pack was about to rake in, hiring a Nomad family to help us rebuild the district was well within reach. “Can you make the introductions?”
Rogue turned thoughtful for a moment. “Yea, I can reach out. There’s a clan I know who might be interested in a project like that. Just don’t expect them to play by city rules.”
Anna’s car slowed to a stop, jerking me out of my thoughts. She’d parked us outside an ornate restaurant in Westbrook and I took in the scene outside from the passenger seat. Red lanterns were strung above polished glass windows. A pair of Tyger Claws, clad in silk suits and radiating the quiet menace of seasoned killers, stood guard at the entrance.
“Everything solid with the meeting?” I asked Rogue.
“It’s good,” she said. “Got Wakako’s blessing, and you’ve got mine. Between the two of us, that should keep things civil – at least for tonight.”
The sudden tension in my chest eased slightly. With both fixers having organized a meeting between me and the Tyger Claws, any sort of violence would be limited. The Tyger Claws didn’t take orders from Wakako, but they knew better than to piss off the Lady of Westbrook Estates. And nobody with a functioning brain dared to cross the queen of the Afterlife.
“Thanks, Rogue,” I said, ending the call. Her image flickered out, leaving my interface clear. I turned to Anna, who gave me a small nod, and we stepped out of the car.
The Tyger Claws guarding the entrance didn’t move, their faces carved into masks of stoic indifference. My ears caught the faint rumble of our backup vehicle parking a little farther down the street. That was a small comfort. If things went sideways, The Pack would hit this place like a thunderstorm. But even with their firepower, it would probably be too late for Anna and me if the Claws decided to start shit here and now.
We stepped past the guards and went into the restaurant. The inside of the place was a maze of soft lighting, gold accents, polished steel, and luxury that was woven into every surface. A young hostess glided toward us, dressed in red silk. Her voice was soft and profession as she guided us deeper into the restaurant.
The small meeting we were led to felt cut off from the rest of the world. The low hum of the main dining room faded and was replaced by silence. At a lone table in the center of the room was the man I was here to meet: Jun Azegami.
Even seated, the man screamed danger. He was bald and had intricate tattoos that crawled across his face like war paint. His pale white eyes were rimmed in crimson and he looked like a demon that had stepped out of an anime. His attire wasn’t any less intimidating: a white pinstripe suit with a black silk shirt, both immaculate save for the glint of gold from his cufflinks.
Before I could walk to his table two of his guards stepped forward, blocking my path. Their muscles strained against silk suits and their faces were hard and unblinking. One of them jerked his chin and raised a hand, signaling that we needed to submit to a pat down.
I shook my head, my patience wearing thin. It was some bullshit that I didn’t want to deal with. Some kind of stupid display of bravado from the guard, trying to either intimidate me or play power games before this meeting.
One of the guards scowled, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face as he stepped closer, clearly ready to escalate. Before he could, Anna moved. Her stance was relaxed, but the speed which she put herself between me in the guard, and the look on her face, both radiated danger. The guard barked something in Japanese, frustration twisting his features.
I let out a sigh and then raised my voice, keeping calm but cutting through the tension. “If your boss is so afraid of meeting me that he needs his lackeys to pat me down, then this meeting is already pointless.”
I turned sharply, fully ready to push my way through the restaurant to get outside. The hostess, who’d been hovering on the sidelines like a rabbit trapped between two wolves, snapped into motion. In a blink, she was in front of me with a pleading smile on her face and her hands raised in a placating gesture. “Apologies. Please, there’s no need. Of course, a guest of your status does not require such formality.”
I stopped. I didn’t know all the ins and outs of Tyger Claw culture. In the game, it always seemed like an odd mixture of Bushido, old-school Japanese values, and tropes from classic samurai movies. My only real knowledge of anything Japanese from my past life was filtered through half-remembered anime tropes, but I figured this whole thing was something about pride and ‘saving face.’ The request to disarm us might’ve been about control, and my refusal seemed to have forced some kind of face-saving pivot.
But I honestly couldn’t give less of a shit. All the subtle gestures, the unspoken rules, the posturing – it all felt hollow. If there was a point to be made, I’d make it, no dance required. I nodded to the hostess, acknowledging her efforts but keeping my voice firm. “Thanks, but do me a favor: let Wakako know this meeting wasn’t necessary after all.”
A ripple of tension passed through the room. The Tyger Claws exchanged quick glances. Even Azegami’s demon eyes flickered with something – surprise, maybe irritation or annoyance. Either way, it didn’t stop me. I turned toward the door, fully intending to leave.
“Mr. Batty,” called a voice behind me, calm and authoritative.
I stopped mid-step, turning back to face him. Jun Azegami had risen from his seat, his presence filling the room in an instant. He wasn’t just a towering figure, there was a weight to him – a sense of danger coiled just beneath the surface. His tattooed hand gestured smoothly towards the chair across from him.
“My apologies for the rudeness of my guards.”
I let the pause stretch for just a beat longer than necessary, then nodded and walked back to the table. I eased into the chair across from him and Azegami followed suit, sitting with an elegance that clashed with the ferocity etched into his appearance.
“I admit, this meeting has me intrigued. To my knowledge, the Tyger Claws and The Pack have no unresolved business. So, tell me – why did you call me here?”
A waiter approached silently, placing two glasses on the table. The liquid inside glinted amber under the soft lights. Whiskey. Maybe something stronger. I waited for him to leave before answering.
“Well, I’m going to be spending most of my time in Pacifica from now on. That’s where my focus is. That’s where The Pack’s focus is. Westbrook’s never been in my plans. And I don’t foresee The Pack stepping on Tyger Claw toes around here.”
Jun’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle shift and a slight tilt of his head. It was like he was listening a bit closer now.
“I’ve got no real interest in Watson, either,” I continued. “Your territory is your own. We both know what kind of power you hold there, and I have no intention of stirring up anything pointless. Like I said, Pacifica is where my priorities are and where they’ll stay.
“That said, I do have some legacy business holdings in Watson. Specifically, the gambling houses. They’re solid earners, steady streams of eddies. And I’m sure you’re already aware of just how many spots The Pack currently owns there.”
Jun’s expression stayed unreadable, but I could see a hint of recognition in his face. He knew exactly what I was talking about. Of course he did. The Pack’s gambling interests in Watson had been a quiet point of contention between our two gangs. They’d had that underground market cornered for as long as anyone could remember, and the thought of another gang stepping in – and making a ton of eddies in the process – had likely rubbed them the wrong way.
“I know it’s caused some friction,” I went on. “Your people probably think we’ve stepped on some toes. And maybe we have. But that’s exactly why I’m here. That’s why I asked for this meeting. I’m here to offer a solution.”
Jun’s brows rose a fraction, signaling slight curiosity.
“I’m willing to sell The Pack’s stake in those gambling houses,” I said, letting the offer hang in the air for a moment. “The whole operation. I’m moving everything to Pacifica, and running those spots just doesn’t interest me anymore. But…I also know how much they’re worth.
“Beyond the gambling houses, The Pack’s also partnered with Barghest. I know Arasaka’s usually your go-to for firepower, but Hansen’s Armory has some solid alternatives. If you’re willing to agree to terms on the gambling front, I can talk to Barghest about setting up a weapons deal for you. That way, your supply chain isn’t relying on the goodwill of a single corporation.”
There was a brief pause as Jun digested what I said. His lips twitched with just a hint of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Interesting.” He folded his hands in front of himself and stared at me for a second before speaking again. “Very interesting. Word is that you’ve offered the Valentinos a potential partnership stake in Pacifica.”
I shook my head at that. I’d figured that Wakako or any of the dozens of other information brokers in the city would’ve spread the word about my talks with them. But I didn’t want the Tyger Claws thinking it was more that it was.
“It’s not a stake in Pacifica,” I clarified. “I simply offered them a spot to sell their goods once the district’s up and running again. Nothing more.”
“Sounds like a partnership to me,” said Jun, leaning back in his chair.
“It’s not,” I said after a beat. “They’ll be tenants, not partners. I’m not signing over Pacifica. If the Valentinos and I build up a better working relationship because of it, that’s just the benefit of doing business.”
Jun absorbed that and tapped his fingers on the glass of maybe-whiskey in front of him. He didn’t rush to respond, letting the silence linger for a moment before speaking again. “And what about the Tyger Claws? Are you thinking of offering us the same deal? It could be profitable for you. The Pack is going, but we’ve been around for a very long time. Eventually, you’re going to be dealing with real money, and you’ll need people with our expertise in how to move it around. It could work for both of us.”
I kept my expression neutral, but the thought of bringing the Tyger Claws into Pacifica made my stomach churn. I didn’t need their particular brand of chaos in my district. Sure, financially, a partnership with the TC made sense – on paper. They had their hands in a lot of illicit businesses that could help grow Pacifica. They were deep into financial crimes, laundering money and the like. Their army of accountants could definitely make sure the cash The Pack pulled in wouldn’t be tracked. But there were too many risks to consider.
First off, the Tyger Claws weren’t just big – they were the biggest gang in Night City. Letting them into Pacifica would be like opening a floodgate I couldn’t close. Once they established a foothold, they’d dig in deep and I’d end up fighting for scraps in my own district.
Then there was the human trafficking. I didn’t kid myself about the people I worked with – Barghest, the Valentinos, even the Mox. Everyone had dirty hands. But trafficking people? That was a line I wasn’t willing to cross. I wasn’t about to let filth like Jotaro Shobo infect The Pack or Pacifica. I didn’t want the stain on my hands or on my people.
I exhaled slowly, shaking my head. “I think it’s better if we stick to the original plan. The Pack will sell off its gambling interests in Watson, then we set up the deal with Barghest and your people. The Pack will handle the delivery, and you won’t have to worry about being outgunned in future conflicts. And we should do this soon as Barghest wants to open up more markets. I’d rather go to them with offers from you rather than to Maelstrom. Those borgs freak me out.”
Jun sat back, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the table. His eyes were locked on mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell if he was sizing me up or just processing the offer. Finally, he nodded, stood from the table, and held out a hand to shake.
“Let’s let the accountants fill out all the paperwork. Let me know when those guns are ready.”
&&&
I stood next to Reed, feeling the gritty air of South Pacifica settle into my lungs. It was absolutely horrible. Behind us, Diego, Deng, and a few members of The Pack were lounging, leaning against vans and looking as relaxed as you could be standing outside a massive military structure on the outskirts of the city.
“Almost there…” muttered Sandra, her fingers typing away on her cyberdeck plugged into a small latch on the side of the door. “And…we’re in. Door’s unlocked and ready.”
I glanced over at Reed who was standing stiffly beside me, his focus on the bunker door as if he expected something to jump out and attack us. I could feel the tension in him; that twitch of impatience. He didn’t like waiting.
“Let’s do this,” I said, slapping Reed on the back. The dude didn’t move, which wasn’t much of a surprise considering how solidly he was built. He shot me a look, and then turned back to the bunker door.
It let out a groan as it slowly started to slid open, revealing the dark, concrete space beyond. To most, it might not be something too special – just another abandoned spot in this mess of a district. But I knew better. It was a goldmine, filled with treasures for The Pack and some weird computer thingy that Songbird could use to reverse all the damage she was doing to herself by hopping out past the Blackwall.
I turned back to Reed, grinning wide. “Welcome to Project Cynosure. Top Secret Militech project, and place where we’re going to find what can save Songbird.”