Chapter 13 – Picking Up a Middleman
January 11, 2075.
The western coast of Neon—now a wasteland of whipping sand and rust-colored skies.
Decades of corporate warfare had turned much of the world into lifeless deserts. Once-bustling ports in western Japan had faded into obscurity, buried under layers of dust and blood.
In the distance, a lone figure approached through the haze. She wore a black windbreaker that fluttered in the gale, revealing strands of pastel blue and pink hair—vivid, chaotic, just like the city she was running from.
Her eyes burned with fear. And hope.
Ahead of her, the horns of a massive cruise liner blared as it prepared to depart. In thirty minutes, it would cross the ocean and leave this hellhole behind.
"Almost there," she whispered, breath hitching in her throat. "I'm almost out…"
---
Three days later – Taiping District, Night City.
"BANG! BANG! BANG!"
Gunfire roared through the ruined streets of Taiping. It was just another day here—no NCPD patrols, no city contracts. Just scavenger gangs and outlaw factions like the Voodoo Boys and the Animals, marking their territory in blood.
Today's shootout was business as usual.
"Fuck, T-Bug, I seriously needed your netrunner magic back there! I almost got carved up by those Voodoo psychos!" yelled a massive, out-of-breath man—Dexter DeShawn, known in the Afterlife as one of Night City's biggest fixers, literally and figuratively. Blood soaked his gut, trailing from a fresh wound, and his pistol hand trembled as he ducked into a shadowy alley.
"Shut up, Dex!" T-Bug snapped over the comms. "What were you thinking messing with the Voodoo Boys? You trying to speedrun your funeral?"
Dexter's labored breathing filled the channel. He slumped into a corner, gripping his side, blood oozing between his fingers.
"Heh… If a fixer like me wants to stay relevant, I gotta roll the dice sometimes."
T-Bug's voice crackled back. "Greed's the deadliest sin, not evil. That's Aristotle talkin', by the way."
In a hidden basement miles away, T-Bug's fingers flew over her deck, tracing escape routes for Dex through Taiping's network of alleys and rooftops.
Suddenly, her voice tightened. "Dex, listen up—Placide's up ahead. Get out. Now."
Dexter's pupils shrank.
The towering shadow stepped into view under a flickering streetlamp. Placide. Enforcer for the Voodoo Boys. No guns—just a monowire and a cleaver big enough to quarter chromeheads.
"Well, well. Dexter DeShawn," Placide growled, his Haitian accent thick as motor oil. "The Afterlife's fat Black Messiah come to steal from us. You're either stupid… or suicidal."
Dex felt a chill crawl down his spine. Fear—pure, uncut.
"Bug! T-Bug! Do something! ICE him, blind him—hell, just stall him!"
"I'm trying! His ICE is fortress-tier! Run, Dex!"
"BANG!"
"SWISH!"
"AARGH!"
Dex screamed as his right hand went flying, chopped clean at the wrist.
"DEX!" T-Bug shrieked. Her last hack went through—but it wasn't enough. Placide staggered, a bullet ripping through his shoulder.
Gunfire had come from behind.
A lean young merc sprinted in, grabbed Dex's heavy body, and tossed him into the back of a van without hesitation.
The rescuer? Riko Vega.
He didn't know who the hell Placide was—but he knew Dex. A middleman. A valuable one.
And in Night City, that counted for something.
---
River Valley District – Kay's Workshop.
Back at his hidden workshop, Kay had been off the grid for days—buried in his work.
Ever since unlocking the Cyber Pioneer system, he'd become obsessed with two devices: the Mind Cognition Tamperer and the Thought Accelerator.
He'd broken down outdated chrome, salvaging usable parts, then spent three straight days reconstructing both devices into working prototypes.
The Mind Cognition Tamperer wasn't just a chip—it rewrote neural connections. With the right neural access point, it could alter someone's beliefs, perceptions, even their memories.
The Thought Accelerator jacked up neural speed, improving reflexes and decision-making tenfold. But fusing the two systems proved volatile. Data interference. Cognitive errors. Meltdowns.
Still, Kay persevered.
Sixteen hours later, he held twelve finished chips. Not pretty, but they worked.
Enough hardware to boost four mercs into superhuman territory.
Just as he powered down his tools, there was a frantic knock at the door.
"BANG! BANG! BANG!"
"Kay! It's me—Riko! I picked up a fixer! You won't believe who!"
Kay furrowed his brows. "...Come in."
Riko burst in, pushing a stretcher. On it lay a mountain of a man, one hand missing, face pale as synthpaper.
Kay's eyes widened. "Dexter DeShawn…"