“No, the large crates stay on the bottom floor. I’m not hauling that shit up to the top,” one of The Pack grumbled, his voice carrying over the din of the GIM.
“Make sure you document what’s in there.” Anna’s sharp tone cut through the chaos like a whip. “We need a full inventory count.”
“It’s not all gonna fit down here,” another voice chimed in. “Should we start hauling it down to the Batty?”
The GIM was controlled chaos at its best. Members of The Pack were everywhere, lugging crate after crate through the abandoned shopping mall. Each container was marked with the unmistakable blocky letters of Militech on the side, their origins stamped loud and clear for anyone who cared to look. The contant sound of boots against the tiles of the GIM echoed through the cavernous space, mingling with the metallic screech of crates scraping concrete and the distant rumble of vehicles pulling up outside. Watching it all was like seeing a small army at work, each person focused on their small piece of the puzzle.
Deng stood beside me, smoke curling lazily from a cigarette between his fingers. I leaned against the wall, watching the organized chaos play out. Anna was in her element, stationed at the heart of it all like a general commanding her troops. She barked orders with a practiced authority, her voice sharp as she kept the whole operation running smoothly.
Next to her, a younger guy – someone John had apparently “deputized” – was busy with a tablet, rattling off inventory lists and coordinating the constant flow of vehicles. It was weird seeing John with assistants now. It somehow felt like The Pack was shifting into something more…corporate.
Outside, a convoy of cars and vans shuffled back and forth between the GIM and the old Militech bunker. If it wasn’t bolted down – and even a few things that were – it was getting packed up, shipped out, and unloaded here.
The bunker itself was a mess of memories. Despite having been through it plenty in the game, seeing it in person was different. The twisted corridors and cold metallic rooms weren’t built for comfort. My knowledge of the bunker from the game was fragmented and disjointed, filtered through the lens of a stealth mission and dodging a murderous robot gone berserk thanks to a rogue netrunner. This time, there were no killer robots – just The Pack systematically stripping the place of everything with value.
Sandra and her netrunners were still back there, plugged into the servers of the bunker, combing through files that probably were better off left untouched. Her voice from earlier lingered in my head. “This shit…I don’t know, boss. It’s bad. Like, ‘people getting disappeared over this’ level of bad.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Ever since our talk at Lizzie’s – when I’d explained to her about Mr. Blue Eyes, Night Corp, and the shadowy forces pulling strings in Night City – Sandra had become more cautious about any netrunning work I threw her way. And poking around an ancient bunker that was home to a whole bunch of corpo secrets wasn’t just risky. It was suicide-adjacent.
Still, I couldn’t ignore the potential in those files. Project Cynosure was Militech’s answer to Arasaka’s infamous Soulkiller program – a desperate attempt to keep pace in the shadowy arms race that had been raging for years, long before the Unification War had reshaped Night City’s power dynamics.
Arasaka’s Soulkiller program was horrifying enough on its own – a program that could rip someone’s consciousness from their body, digitize it, and either lock it away or torture it for all its secrets. They’d turned it into a cornerstone of their corporate dominance, a tool for capturing dissidents, fortifying their netrunners, and maintaining absolute control. But what Militech had cooked up with Cynosure freaked me out even more.
Militech had gone beyond the Blackwall for their project, reaching into the chaotic digital abyss where rogue AIs swirled like predators in a sea of corrupted code. Their plan was as bold as it was reckless: capture one of the rogue AIs, shackle it, and weaponize it. Turn it into targeting software for smart guns, or guidance systems for drones, or – hell – maybe even fully autonomous war machines.
And now, all of it – the data, the blueprints, the hardware, the remnants of the underground bunker – was sitting in my hands. More accurately, it was in the hands of The Pack.
The obvious play was for us to sell it. Militech would pay a fortune to recover their secrets and wipe the slate clean before anyone else got a sniff of what they’d been up to. But that brought its own risks. For one, it wouldn’t stay quiet. Not in Night City. Secrets like that didn’t just disappear. If I handed it back to Militech, how long before Arasaka or Netwatch found out? And when they did, would they think we were backing the massive corporation? Would we find ourselves on a list somewhere? Just another loose end to tie up?
And then there was the bigger picture. What would happen if Militech got their research back and kept going? If they kept pushing the boundaries and kept poking at the Blackwall? There was a reason it was there. A reason that Netwatch kept the divide so fiercely guarded. I couldn’t help but wonder if one wrong move on the part of Militech could bring something back across the wall that no one could stop.
There was a book back in my old life, something I remembered from Reddit threads and lore posts about the game and its tie-in media. I’d never read it, but I’d seen enough speculation to know the gist. It had to do with Mr. Blue Eyes and Militech still dabbling with rogue AIs, even after the Unification War had shifted their focus. Apparently, Cynosure didn’t die when the war started; they just buried it a little deeper.
I shook my head, brushing away thoughts of Project Cynosure and Militech and terrifying apocalyptic scenarios, and turned to Deng. He took a few puffs of his cigarette and I saw his eyes narrow, not from the smoke curling around his face but to closer watch the way Anna was orchestrating the chaos.
“Enny for your thoughts,” I said, tilting my head his way.
Deng didn’t answer right away. He took a long drag from his cigarette, letting the ember burn bright before exhaling a slow, deliberate plume of smoke. Then he nodded toward one of the crates, the bold Militech stencil catching the dim light.
“Those,” he said, his tone serious, “are bad news.”
I frowned, crossing my arms. “How so? It’s hardware. It’ll sell. What’s the problem?”
“The hardware isn’t the problem. The name on it is.”
I stayed quiet, waiting for him to explain, though I had a sinking feeling I already knew what he was going to say.
“Fighting 6th Street, the Animals, the VDB – that’s our thing. Street gangs, power plays, territory grabs. It’s messy and nasty, sure, but it’s our kind of messy and nasty. This?” He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette with an almost lazy gesture. “This is corpo business. It’s a whole different game.”
“How different?”
“There are two ways this goes,” he started. “Neither ends well. Option one, Militech – or Arasaka, or some other suit-run empire – finds out we’ve got their toys and decides we’re a threat. Maybe they think we’re making a move against them. Maybe they think we’ve got too big. Doesn’t matter. They come down on us like the hammer of God, and boom, The Pack’s on the chopping block.”
I nodded slowly. “What’s option two?”
Deng let out a humorless chuckle, dragging on his cigarette again. “Option two is that people start talking. They see us with Militech crates, and the rumor mill starts spinning. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not – perception is everything in Night City. If people think Militech’s backing us, it makes us look strong, sure, but it also makes us look like a problem. A problem with deep pockets.”
“And deep pockets attract.”
Deng nodded like I’d just nailed the punchline. “Every merc, gang, and psycho with a trigger finger and a death wish. Half the city will be gunning for us because they think we’re somebody’s golden good. The other half will be gunning for us to send a message to Militech or whoever they think is pulling our strings.
“You’re saying we’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t?” I asked, half-joking, half-resigned.
Deng gave me a sly smile. “Welcome to Night City, kid. Fred, Mor and I taught you a lot, but we never quite got to the part about this kind of shit.” His voice had that nostalgic edge, like he was hallway between reminiscing and shaking his head at me.
For a moment, he went quiet, just watching the chaos of crates being unloaded from the vans outside the GIM. The Pack was moving like clockwork, but now every crate with Militech stenciled on the side felt heavier than it had any right to. Finally, Deng grinned at me. “Hell, your first day here you got mugged. Who’d have thought we’d end up having to teach you about corporate politics and how it bleeds into gang life?”
I chuckled despite myself, shaking my head. He wasn’t wrong. From a dumb, wide-eyed kid fumbling around Night City to standing in the middle of this mess with Militech’s ghosts hanging over my shoulder, it was a hell of a trajectory.
I let out a slow breath and rubbed the back of my neck. “Alright,” I said at last. “We’ll offload the Militech gear as fast as we can. Unpack it all from the branded crates first, move it somewhere neutral. Sell it, trade it – whatever gets it out of our hands quick and clean. That’s the best I can do for now.”
Deng gave me a curt nod, his usual easy demeanor replaced by focus. “It’s a start.”
I looked past him to Anna, still shouting orders, and then back to Deng. “I’ll leave the two of you to finish up,” I said, stepping back. “Gotta clear my head for a bit.”
The GIM was barely recognizable from the first time I’d stepped foot inside it. Back then, it had been a hollow shell of a place, dark and lifeless, a derelict tomb that reeked of abandonment. Now? It was alive. People had moved in, staking their claims and breathing life into the forgotten mall. What had once been a ruin was slowly morphing into something…real. Something ours.
Most of the credit for that went to John and Angelica. Those two had gone full throttle, tearing into the haul we’d pulled from the Scavs and VDB. They sorted through the weapons, tech, cyberware, computers, servers, and everything else we’d raided. A chunk of it went straight to Rogue for some quick eddies, but the rest we kept. Part of it was stockpiled as gear for The Pack, and the rest became seed inventory for shops springing up in the GIM.
The hallway to my makeshift office – the old theater and projector room – was quieter than the main floors, where the chaos of activity hummed nonstop. It was almost jarring. In the game, the GIM had been a death trap, a maze of threats around every corner. Now it was bustling and buzzing with life. Still, every time I headed to my office, I half-expected to hear Bryce Mosley’s voice out of nowhere, spinning some cryptic lines about the VDB, ranyons, or a virus worming its way into V’s system.
Instead, I found my office empty when I pushed open the door to the projector room.
The space wasn’t glamorous. Functionality had won out over aesthetics when it came to my office: a few mismatched chairs dotted the place, clutter piled up in corners, and there was the lingering scent of stale popcorn that no amount of scrubbing could erase. The room stretched out over the empty theater, its massive screen still intact but silent.
My eyes went to the corner of my office, where a massive Militech crate loomed, impossible to ignore. It was the tech I’d hauled out of the bunker for Reed – the supposed miracle cure for Songbird’s situation. Neither of us knew exactly what it was or how it worked, but the game had made it clear that it mattered. The thing had been a plot device, a McGuffin for the game’s story. Now, in real life, it was just a hulking mystery to me. I didn’t know who to trust with it, or even if we could use it the way we needed.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
I sighed and wandered over to my desk that overlooked the theater below. My eyes fell on something even more unsettling than the crate: a sleek, compact cyberdeck. The Militech Canto Mk. VI.
I’d smuggled it out of the bunker myself, hidden from Sandra and the others. I hadn’t even told Reed about it yet. The Canto was a legend in the netrunner community. The holy grail for anyone who jacked into the NET. Or it was a nightmare, depending on who you asked.
The Canto looked innocuous sitting there on the desk, its polished surface catching the faint glow of the room’s overhead lights. But I could feel its weight, even from across the room. Just looking at it gave me chills.
There were a few reasons why I smuggled the Canto out of the bunker, and I couldn’t decide which one felt truer. Maybe it was the simple reassurance of a backup plan – knowing that if things ever went completely to shit, I always had this piece of legendary cyberware as an ace in the hole. Or maybe it was greed, the allure of holding onto something so rare, so untouchable, that netrunners in this city would kill just to get a glimpse of it.
But if I was being honest with myself, maybe it was something darker, something deeper. I knew The Pack was skimming dangerously close to the edge. We were growing, fast and loud, in a city that punished both. Having a sort of netrunner nuke felt…necessary.
Whatever the reason, the Canto, as it stood right now, was little more than a glorified brick. Sure, it was legendary in reputation, but without a rogue AI to do its magic, it wasn’t living up to the hype. And let’s be real, finding a rogue AI willing to buddy up and “enhance” the deck wasn’t exactly a simple weekend project. Even if I did manage it, I’d have to plug that AI into my own head to make it work.
That thought was enough to send a shiver down my spine. Inviting a rogue AI into my neural systems was like hiring a serial killer as my bodyguard – equal parts reckless and suicidal. But…if shit hit the fan, if The Pack’s survival was on the line and I needed a weapon no one else had, I couldn’t say for certain that I wouldn’t do it.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone entering the room. I glanced up from the desk to see Reed strolling over to the Militech crate sitting next to the wall. He stopped in front of it, staring at the stenciled logo like he could will it to spill its secrets.
For a moment, he just stood there, his presence filling the room with a weight that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable but wasn’t too easy either. Then he turned to face me, his expression resolute.
“It’s time for me to go,” he said, a certainty in his voice.
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms as I gave him a once-over. “So, you’ve figured out your next move?”
Reed nodded, his gaze flicking back to the crate. “First thing’s first – I need to figure out exactly what this thing does. You said it’s supposed to help Songbird, but we can’t rely on blind faith. After that…I need to find a way to contact her. Quietly. Myers can’t know.”
I let out a low whistle. “Not a simple task. You think Songbird will trust you?”
Reed’s expression didn’t change much, but I saw a flicker of something behind his eyes – doubt, maybe regret. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Last time we talked…it didn’t end well.”
That was putting it lightly. I knew the story – how the NUSA had sold out Reed to Arasaka during the Unification War. Myers had given the orders, and Songbird had carried them out, setting up Reed to be victim to an Arasaka hit squad, all to secure a shaky peace for the NUSA. It was ugly, and I doubted either of them had come out of it without scars.
I stood and walked over to him, planting myself beside the crate. “Yea, she did Myers’ dirty work,” I said. “But if you show up with a real plan – something concrete that can get her free from Myers – I think she’ll listen.”
Reed’s jaw tightened, his hand flexing against the crate’s surface. “Maybe,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I guess we’ll see.” He placed his hands on top of the crate, the tension in his shoulders softening slightly. “But first, I need to figure out what this is. Whatever Militech cooked up, it’s supposed to help her – stop whatever the Blackwall’s doing to her. I just hope it lives up to the hype.”
I watched him for a second, then added, “Once this is all over – when Songbird’s patched up and you’ve dealt with everything – you two can come back here. The Pack can be a safe spot for both of you.”
He raised an eyebrow at me, skepticism clear in his eyes. “You’re sure about that? You’re already sticking your neck out with this Militech stuff. Throwing in with us after we’ve pissed off Myers? That’s even riskier.”
I shrugged, keeping my tone casual. “Maybe. But the offer stands.”
What I didn’t tell him was the selfish part of why I wanted him and Songbird here. Sure, I could paint the whole thing as generosity, a gesture of goodwill. But the truth was, the thought of having a solo who could rival Morgan Blackhand and a netrunner who could slip past the Blackwall under my roof? That was the stuff of legends. It would instantly make The Pack one of the most dangerous factions in Night City.
But Reed didn’t need to know that part.
&&&&
The roar of the crowd washed over me, a wave of energy that sent a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. The cheers were deafening, urging on the pair of Animals trading blows in the ring. Each punch sent the crowd’s energy surging.
We were in the part of the GIM that was where V squared off against Razor Hughes. There was a massive boxing ring there, surrounded by a crowd of spectators. Inside, two fighters clashed like freight trains. One was a hulking brute, muscles stacked on muscles, with snake tattoos that spiraled up his arms. The other was leaner and quick, darting around with movements that suggested he had a Kereznikov or some other high-end reflex booster.
The big guy threw heavy punches that seemed to rattle the air itself, while the leaner one danced around him, delivering precise counters that drew screams of approval from the crowd. The energy was electric, even if the place wasn’t as packed as many of the underground fights I’d been to. This wasn’t the grand reopening of the GIM, just a soft launch – a test run. But that didn’t stop the audience from feeding off the thrill of the fight.
Angelica’s people moved through the crowd, selling drinks, snacks, and occasionally something stronger. I spotted a few members of her crew taking another round of bets from a group huddled near the edge of the ring. The crowd was a mix of old and new. I recognized some faces from when The Pack and the Animals ran fights together back in the day, but there were plenty of fresh faces as well – people trying to decide if this scene was worth investing their time and eddies into.
I watched as the lean fighter ducked a wild swing, then snapped up with a sharp uppercut that sent the big guy stumbling. The crowd erupted, fists pumping, drinks spilling. I couldn’t help but grin wider. This wasn’t the roaring chaos I’d imagined for the GIM’s rebirth, but it was something. It was a start.
Another cheer went up as the leaner fighter landed a crisp combo, and I spotted Angelica standing by the edge of the ring, arms crossed and a smirk on her face. She had company – the four guests I’d invited tonight. They weren’t just spectators; they were people we’d need on our side if The Pack was going to solidify its place in Pacifica’s future.
Angelica had them eating out of the palm of her hand. She leaned against a post with a drink in hand, her signature mix of charm and edge and sex appeal on full display. She’d always been great at working a room. I saw her chatting with Ivan Vassiliev, the gruff-looking President of Rancho Coronado Workers United. He didn’t exactly scream ‘life of the party,’ but he undoubtedly had a presence – broad shoulders, sharp eyes, and a knack for dirty politics. The Pack had worked with him during the elections – one of those partnerships born out of mutual need rather than trust. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.
I took a breath, watching as Angelica’s practiced confidence drew Ivan in further, her words no doubt laced with promises of opportunity. The way she was handling herself, you’d think she was the one running The Pack.
Next to Ivan were the three Night City councilors who owed their cushy positions to us: Brad Norwood, Eva Cole, and Emilio Gutierrez. They looked as out of place as a yacht in the Badlands, decked out in tailored designer suits that screamed ‘money’ and cyberware enhancements that shouted ‘corporate-shill’. They’d spared no expense sculpting their appearances for the city’s political arena. And yet, here they were, standing ringside at an illegal underground boxing match.
But that was the point. Favors were the real currency in Night City, and tonight Angelica was ensuring they remembered just how deep their debts to The Pack ran. Even if none of the three councilors had wanted to be at the GIM tonight, they’d have come simply because The Pack owned them.
I strolled over to Angelica, catching the tail end of her sentence as she laughed at something Ivan said.
“…but that’s what makes it fun, doesn’t it?” Angelica finished with a sly grin, her gaze flicking to me. “Ah, and here’s our man of the hour.”
All eyes shifted my way. I straightened a little, returning a practiced smile and nodding.
“Ivan. Councilors,” I said, keeping my tone smooth and casual. “Enjoying the show?”
Brad Norwood, the slimiest and smoothest of the councilors who owed us, was the first to bite. “You’ve got something here, Mr. Batty. Feels like Old Night City – raw, a little dangerous, but…controlled.” He waved a hand toward the ring, where the Animals were still hammering away at each other. “This place has potential.”
Emilio Gutierrez nodded, his eyes fixed on the fighters pounding away at each other. “A spectacle like this? It’s got broad appeal. From street punks to corpos slumming it on their night off – you’ll pull them all.”
Eva Cole, on the other hand, was a little less enthused. She stood a few steps back, arms crossed over her chest, her face painted with polite disinterest. Her gaze flicked to the ring and then back to the crowd, searching for something more stimulating. I’d seen that look before. Violence wasn’t her vice. Eva preferred the city’s more decadent offerings – lust, indulgence, and luxury. Fistfights between Animals weren’t her scene.
Unfortunately, the Mox still hadn’t gotten back to me about opening a Lizzie’s-style club in the GIM. If they had, I’d already be escorting Eva to a velvet booth bathed in pink neon, pouring her something strong enough to burn.
But since that wasn’t an option, I pivoted quickly. “What say I give you all a little tour?” I asked, gesturing toward the rest of the mall. “The fights are great, but they’re just one piece of the vision. Let me show you what The Pack is building here. There’s more to this place than blood and bruises.”
Brad perked up at that, his grin wide and eager. Whether he genuinely wanted a tour or was just buttering up the guy who’d gotten him elected, I couldn’t say. “A tour? I’d love one. Let’s see what you’ve got cooking.”
The others nodded their agreements, though Eva’s slow response and skeptical expression told me she wasn’t entirely sold. Still, she followed, arms loosely crossed, as I glanced back at Angelica. She caught my eye, smiled, and then turned her attention back to the crowd. Angelica thrived in the loud, chaotic moments of Animal fights. She didn’t need me hovering around while she did what she was good at.
We left the ring behind, weaving through scattered groups of spectators who’d drifted away from the main event to explore the rest of the GIM. The place wasn’t fully operational yet, but there was enough happening to give the councilors a taste of its potential.
I raised my arm, gesturing at the wide-open space around us. “This,” I began, “is going to become the beating heart of Pacifica. Fights, gambling, entertainment – all the vices Night City thrives on, centralized under one roof. We’re in negotiations to open up a BD club and a car showroom for people to spend all their hard-earned eddies. And the best part? You three already have an in with the owner.” I punctuated the pitch with a wink, earning a brown-nosing chuckle from Brad. God, he made me hate myself a little.
We strolled past a few shops that had already set up, their neon signs flickering like promises of things to come. A steady hum of activity buzzed around the vendors as a handful of curious Night City denizens browsed wares. One store displayed sleek cyberware on glowing racks. Another shop had walls covered with weapons, from sleek handguns to heavily modded rifles that looked like they belonged in a warzone.
“See that?” I pointed to cyberware shop. A Pack member stood behind the counter, talking animatedely to a customer inspecting a metallic arm. “That’s our own line of affordable tech. The factory equipment we…’acquired’ a while back? It’s pumping out solid, reliable gear that gives people a reason to skip the corpo shops. We’re nowhere near the level of competing with a cyberware corporation, but our prices allow customers to get more bang for their buck.”
Emilio nodded appreciatively, his eyes scanning the merchandise. “That’s smart. Pacifica’s always been underserved when it comes to tech. Affordable gear? You’ll corner the market.”
“That’s the plan,” I said, flashing a grin.
As I spoke, I caught a glimmer of movement out of the corner of my eye. John was standing a few feet away, half-hidden. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes darting toward me and then quickly away. I could see him working up the nerve to come over.
I nodded toward the shop we’d just passed. “Why don’t you all take a closer look? Get a feel for what we’re offering here.”
The councilors wandered into the store, their curiosity piqued.
John took his chance, shuffling over with that same cautious energy he always carried. He’d come a long way since I’d yanked him out of Jotaro’s hellhole, but old scars don’t fade easily, and his confidence still wasn’t what it could be.
He fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket, eyes darting to mine before he spoke. “Uh, there’s a guy here. Soviet fixer. Says he wants to meet with you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A Soviet fixer? Any idea what he wants?”
John hesitated, then shook his head. “Not exactly. He said something about wanting to make inroads with, uh, ‘one of the new powers in the city.’” His tone made it clear he wasn’t convinced that was the full story.
I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “Shit.”
The timing couldn’t have been worse. The GIM was just beginning to find its rhythm, and our grip on Pacifica was still solidifying. The last thing I needed was to have some unknown element running around while we were still trying to stabilize everything.
My thoughts drifted back to the game – specifically, the few gigs I remembered involving a Russian fixer. Regina had sent V to check out a guy who’d recently set up shop in Night City. I hadn’t really paid much attention to that storyline, but I did remember that there was something to do with the Chinese. It didn’t tell me much, but it was enough to spark a faint sense of unease.
“Alright,” I said, turning to face John. “Go find Angelica. Tell her to take over this tour. She’s good at pitching the vision. Let her walk them through what The Pack’s got planned for the district.”
John’s shoulders relaxed slightly as I gave him clear orders, though he still looked a little tense. “And what about you?” he asked, already stepping back toward the crowd.
“I’ll handle the fixer,” I said, glancing over toward the quieter part of the GIM, away from the noise and chaos of the fights. “I’ll meet him, figure out what he’s playing at, and set up a meeting for later. We’ll sort out what he really wants then.”
John nodded, muttering a quick “Got it” before he melted back into the crowd to track down Angelica.
&&&
I left the councilors in Angelica’s capable hands, trusting her to lay out The Pack’s vision for revitalizing Pacifica. She’d keep them entertained while planting seeds about the eddies and influence we could bring their way, all while subtly reminding them that they owed The Pack. With any luck, my meeting with the Soviet fixer wouldn’t drag on too long, and I could get back before anyone started asking too many questions.
As I made my way through the GIM, the chaos of the central fight ring gave way to quieter corners where the energy dimmed to a low hum. I scanned the place with my Kiroshi’s, tagging clusters of Pack members and curious newcomers mingling in the shadows. Toward the edge of the GIM, a duo caught my attention: a sharp-dressed man with the poise of someone who always got what he wanted and a blonde woman whose every movement screamed control.
My optics gave their names: Mikhail Akulov and Nadezhda Tiurina.
Mikhail was beside a stack of crates with the Militech logo stenciled on the sides, his attention fixated on them as if trying to unlock some hidden secret. Nadezhda, meanwhile, was a step away from him. Her eyes roamed the GIM, calculating risks and advantages, dissecting everyone in sight. Watching her, I realized her stillness wasn’t a sign of passivity. She was a coiled spring. She reminded me of Diego and Reed; the kind of people you clock immediately in a crowd because they’re more than just simple muscle – they’re predators.
I approached at an even pace, making no effort to hide my entrance. Mikhail glanced up, his sharp features softening into a practiced smile. “Ah, Mr. Batty,” he said, his Russian accent thick but his English fluid and confident. “I’ve been looking forward to this introduction.”
“Call me Noah,” I replied, stopping a few paces away. My eyes flicked to the Militech crates he’d been eyeing, then back to him. “And you are?”
“Mikhail Akulov,” he said with a small bow of the head. “And this is my colleague, Ms. Tiurina.”
She gave a faint nod but said nothing, her icy gaze still locked on me, measuring.
I gestured lazily toward the crates. “So, what brings you to my part of town, Mr. Akulov? Can’t imagine those things caught your interest.”
Mikhail’s smile deepened, his hand sweeping toward the crates. “Oh, but they did. It’s not every day one finds Militech supplies so openly…displayed.”
His tone was polite, but I could tell there was a question there. I kept my own reply casual, giving a slight chuckle. “Those? Probably fell off the back of a truck somewhere. My people are good at scavenging. Night City’s full of surprises if you know where to look.”
The smile stayed on his face, but his eyes narrowed just slightly – enough to let me know he didn’t buy the excuse. Still, he didn’t call me out on it. “Resourceful. I respect that. It takes a sharp eye to spot opportunities where others see only debris.”
“Something like that,” I said. “But I don’t think you’re here to talk about my crew’s recycling habits.”
“Indeed,” he said, dipping his head in agreement. “I’ve recently arrive in Night City. While I’ve made connections globally, my ties here are still…limited. I believe we could build something mutually beneficial – a partnership. I have access to a lot of things that one cannot find in Night City. Illegal weapon modifications, machines of war, even full-body conversion sets.”
I folded my arms, glancing towards the noise of the fight behind me. “Sounds intriguing. Unfortunately, I’m in the middle of something at the moment – hosting some friends. Your timing’s not ideal.”
“Of course,” Mikhail said smoothly. “I wouldn’t want to intrude. Perhaps we can arrange a proper meeting to discuss this in detail at a more convenient time?”
“Works for me. You’ve met John, yea? He’ll handle the scheduling. Let him know when you’re free, and we’ll set something up.”
Mikhail inclined his head, his smile never faltering. It gave me odd vibes. “Excellent. I look forward to it, Noah.”
As I turned to leave, my gaze briefly shifted to Nadezhda. Her expression remained impassive, but her eyes locked onto mine for a beat. There was something unnerving in that look – a quiet, lethal awareness. She didn’t see me as a threat, and that realization churned my stomach more than I cared to admit.
I broke the stare and headed back toward Angelica and the councilors. Mikhail and his bodyguard girlfriend were questions I wasn’t eager to answer right now. Instead, I filed them under things I’ll regret dealing with later and tried to get back in the mindset of schmoozing the Night City politicians.