Delamain had practically become Lucky and Mower's private chauffeur.
Anytime, anywhere, always on call—fully AI-controlled, bulletproof, blast-resistant, and mission-focused.
As one of the only two companies willing to operate in active war zones, Delamain's "Excellence in Every Detail" package was criminally expensive—but it backed up that price tag with performance.
The only other was, of course, the infamous Trauma Team.
That fat bastard Dexter hadn't died for nothing—at least he left them a lifetime subscription. Though really, the "Excellence" package only came in one tier anyway.
V had his own ride, Jackie preferred the style of his motorcycle, but whenever they needed to turtle up in luxury armor, Delamain was always just a call away.
"If Old D ever expanded into budget transport, every cabbie in Night City would be out of business," Lucky said as he stepped out, offering Mower his hand to help her down.
"Your feedback has been recorded. Client satisfaction noted," came Delamain's ever-polite tone. "Choose Delamain. Leave your worries at the door."
After several days of digging, Rogue had finally caught wind of Anders Hellman. She summoned everyone to the Afterlife for a meeting.
"Hey, Lucky. Long time no see," Claire called from behind the bar with a smile.
"It's only been a few days. Business good?" Lucky sat down on a swivel stool, eyes drifting across the liquor shelves behind her.
"You mean the bar? Same as always." Claire started prepping a drink. "As long as people want to drown their sorrows, we'll stay open."
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "The corpos are quiet—no noise, no movement."
Lucky blinked, surprised by how quickly she answered.
"This is Rogue's place. She knows everything."
Claire flashed a sly smile.
"Heh, alright. Send a drink to Rogue, on me. What's she usually drink? Especially when it's business."
"Just because she drinks it often doesn't mean it's her favorite. Wait here—I'll bring it over." Claire's smile deepened into something more mysterious.
Definitely not your average bar.
Lucky stood and led Mower through the crowd toward the private room from before.
Whoosh—the door slid open.
Lucky nodded at the same hulking bouncer as last time and stepped inside.
"You're late."
T-Bug didn't bother to hide her displeasure.
"Sorry. We were looking at apartments and ran into a little hiccup on the way," Lucky said, taking a seat with Mower right beside him.
"Let me guess. Another day in the life of a masked vigilante?" V joked.
"More or less."
That's when the Queen of the Afterlife finally spoke.
"Sounds like you cashed in on your last job."
Rogue's presence, even without raising her voice, carried weight. Not surprising—she had the kind of gravitas that made you sit up straight whether you wanted to or not.
"They say Rogue's got eyes everywhere. No need to pick on a little guy like me," Lucky said with a half-smile.
Sure, the mess with the "Clown Squad" was big, but uncovering the full story would've taken top-tier intel. Rogue wasn't picking on him—was she?
"Regina told me," Rogue said bluntly, without the slightest hint of coyness.
"That's it?" Lucky blinked.
"That's it." Rogue almost smiled at his surprise. "The Afterlife's in Watson. Regina's trying to move a batch of goods. Without my help, it could've taken weeks."
A batch of black-market armor worth 1.5 million eddies—Regina bought it for 500K, and Rogue would take a cut from the rest. On paper it looked like a loss, but cash-in-hand was all that counted.
Greedy people never lasted long.
Lucky understood that all too well.
"I sent the data to your PDA," Rogue said, her eyes flashing red. "Let's get down to it."
"There's no official record of Anders Hellman, but his name does appear in confidential files from Qiant."
Qiant—a Kang Tao subsidiary based in China.
"Kang Tao uses these shell companies to handle sensitive work. You get the picture?"
"Oh, I get it." Lucky grinned. "Classic corpo move. That's all Johnny."
[Damn straight. But did you have to say it like that?]
Johnny, surprisingly, wasn't immediately yelling.
"I figured you'd start with 'fuck you.'" Lucky laughed.
[Fuck you. Happy now?]Johnny muttered with an eye-roll.
Anders Hellman. Special Ops Director at Arasaka's biotech division. The man behind the Relic.
Every corp wanted what was in that head.
"This here is a decrypted route for a Kang Tao convoy." Rogue tapped a city-wide map littered with flight paths, zooming in on one. "Check it—solo AV, no ground support, no cargo manifest."
"Not unheard of," she continued. "Kang Tao does this when transporting blacklisted employees. But this payload? System cleared it, but the weight's way off—definitely no cargo onboard."
She pulled up flight 3D7894—an armored Surveyor-class AV, made by Zetatech in 2068. Seats 20. Designed exclusively for corp-level transport.
"Passengers?" Lucky asked.
"Security officers and bots—nineteen of them. And one VIP from Qiant," Rogue said, showing the seating chart. Four rows, five seats each, every spot filled.
"Damn, chingón," Jackie laughed, slapping his thigh. "Full-on armored escort. That's gotta be our guy."
Big fish wouldn't travel like this. Small fry couldn't afford it. Only someone like Hellman made sense.
"But here's the bad news—this whole route flies over Night City."
Rogue drew a wide circle on the map, encompassing all six districts.
From Watson to City Center, Heywood to Pacifica, Westbrook to Santo Domingo—right through corpo airspace.
Taking action there was suicide.
Forget Kang Tao's security—Max-Tac would be gunning for them before they could blink.
"Also, it's too close to Kang Tao HQ," Rogue added, shifting the view to Rancho Coronado.
Kang Tao had land and facilities all over. From Santo Domingo to Pacifica, their footprint rivaled even Arasaka's.
"But check this out—Jackson Plains," she said, zooming out to the south.
Biotechnica's protein farms—those glowing domes full of insects and edible bugs.
Crickets. Worms. Whatever worked.
In Night City, you didn't get to choose. You ate what was available.
"A blind spot. Perfect place to hit them," T-Bug said, eyes bright.
Out there, Kang Tao couldn't respond fast enough.
"You'll need a local, a tactician, and a gear handler. I've got the last two covered," Rogue said.
"What about that beast of an AV?" V asked. "Fast, armored, top-end defense grid."
"Don't need brute force," Rogue said. "You need the right method. And I've got someone perfect for it."
She turned to T-Bug. "T, my contact will reach out. Time to prep a surprise party for Kang Tao."
"No problem," T-Bug nodded.
"We still need a local. Know anyone?" V asked.
"Just one—Panam Palmer. Had a falling out with her clan, but she knows that area like home."
A nomad?
Lucky and V exchanged a look.
Nomads—wasteland wanderers living on the move, driving modified rigs across the Badlands.
Their camps were mobile cities. Garages, clinics, tents. Fully cyberpunk.
Of course Night City pulled them in—like peasants to a medieval city-state. Resources flowed inward, and people climbed the class pyramid.
"Nomads don't usually deal with city folk," V said warily.
"Depends on the clan," Rogue replied. "The Aldecaldos don't normally mix with us."
"So she gets kicked out and suddenly wants to help?" Lucky asked.
"She left. Something about clan ideals and the future. Honestly, I tuned out halfway through."
"I thought you liked knowing everything." Lucky teased.
"Knowing enough is enough. If someone's spouting about ideals, they're after power."
"Damn. That's a quote," Lucky grinned. "Ideals aren't for talking—they're for doing."
"No argument here," Rogue nodded.
"She seems solid," V said. "Anyone who breaks from their clan and makes it solo… that says something."
"She's helped me before. Knows the terrain. Last time out, she got burned—lost her car and the goods. She'll want payback. Trust me."
"She's a nomad and a merc. Her rep is her livelihood," Lucky added. "Same as us. Same as fixers like you."
"I know," Rogue replied, confident and calm.
"I spot opportunities and take them," she said. "If I told her everything, she'd rush in guns blazing—and die. I'd rather not lose good people to naïve heroics."
For once, emotion flickered in Rogue's eyes—memories dancing somewhere far away.
"I like her," Jackie whispered to V.
Too loud, as always.
Classic Jackie.
Lucky laughed, then turned to Mower with a smile.
[Someone's throwing shade, huh, Little Rogue?]
"I'm just stating facts," Rogue shot back at Johnny.
"If it weren't us, you'd have sent someone else eventually, right?" Lucky asked.
"It's her car. Someone else's cargo. But the job? It's mine."
No mistaking the power in her tone.
"And now I don't need to send anyone else. Go to Rocky Ridge—a ghost town outside Night City. Panam knows where. Bring back the goods—and her ride."
"Oh, so we're just your puppets now?" V said, half-joking.
"Quick learner, little puppet," Rogue smirked.
Sharp as ever. She never missed a beat.
"Drinks are here—six Johnny Silverhands."
Claire entered with a tray.
Dark red liquid swirled over ice in faceted glasses.
"Claire, what the hell?" Rogue frowned.
"He ordered them," Claire said, flashing a grin and vanishing.
It wasn't the drink—it was that Claire revealed it.
Only a handful knew Rogue's favorite. A memory in a glass.
"Two ounces aged tequila, one teaspoon agave nectar, dash of bitters, stir with ice. Orange peel oil on top. One ounce beer. A few drops Tabasco."
Lucky recited the recipe like a veteran bartender.
"One Johnny Silverhand, please."
[Motherfucker. This guy's for real.]Johnny sounded almost proud.
Lucky picked up the cold glass.
"To you. Me. And him."
Not to gods. Not to fate. Not to Night City.
This world isn't worth it. But your own story? That is.
So long as you're breathing—possibilities exist.
Everyone raised a glass. Some sipped. Some downed it all.
Lucky's face turned red.
Cough cough cough!! "Too spicy!!"
Mission failed: Couldn't look cool.
.
.
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🤖 My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?
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