January 15, 2069
Alexandra Yakovleva
"You're already packing, I see." Galina watched her daughter with open curiosity as Alexandra stuffed the last of her things into a compact duffel bag.
"Yeah." The reply came without Alexandra even glancing up from her task.
"I didn't think you'd actually agree to something like this." Galina sat carefully on the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving her daughter's movements.
"Honestly? Neither did I. But the four of us talked it through, and we're all on the same page now."
With a grunt, Alexandra zipped the bag closed and finally turned to face her mother. "I don't know how to explain it, Mom. I just… I want to be near him."
"Like I told you a long time ago—this is your life. Only you get to decide how to live it." Galina smiled warmly and, with a familiar gesture, pulled her daughter into a firm, steel-strong hug.
"You're doing that thing again," Sasha muttered, only half-heartedly trying to wriggle free from the parental bear trap.
"Feels like it was just yesterday you stole my backup pistol to show off in front of the other kids."
Galina dropped the memory casually, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Alexandra flushed red and buried her face in her mother's chest.
"I was eight," she mumbled, clearly trying to avoid eye contact.
"Kids grow up so fast…" Galina mock-wiped an invisible tear, clearly enjoying the drama she was putting on.
"You missed your calling as an actress. Ever thought of starring in a braindance?" Alexandra shot back with a grin.
"It's rude to mock your mother," Galina replied, squinting at her like a hawk before tightening her embrace. A few years ago, that kind of pressure might have made Alexandra squirm, but now it didn't bother her in the slightest.
"Yeah, yeah…" With exaggerated ease, Sasha slipped out of the hold.
"When did you get so strong?" Galina narrowed her eyes, peering at her daughter with mock suspicion.
"You must be imagining things," Alexandra said innocently, feigning confusion.
"I'll pretend I believe that," her mother said with a knowing chuckle. Everyone had secrets—and Sasha was no exception. "But really… I'm happy for you."
"Thanks."
"And for the love of god, use protection. It's way too early for you to be a mom—or for me to be a grandma."
"Mom! Oh my god, stop!"
***
January 15th, 2069 — 7:25 PM
Richard Wagner (codename: Sorge)
Afterlife
One of the corner booths was occupied by a man who looked like he'd just edged past thirty. Most people didn't know he was already well into his fifties. Top-tier implants and elite medical care weren't luxuries in his line of work — they were lifelines. Richard liked his job and had zero plans to slow down. At least, not anytime soon.
Evenings at Afterlife were always loud — too loud for anyone looking for quiet conversation. But Sorge still made use of what the place had to offer. In his world, discretion wasn't optional — it was how you stayed alive. And in Night City, no spot beat this merc bar, run by one of the last old-school fixers still breathing.
Rachel Amendiares — better known these days as Rogue — was a legend. Queen of the Fixers. The kind of operator who could move a job from whispered rumor to full-scale op before most people even realized a contract had gone live. The nastiest, highest-stakes gigs in the city filtered through her hands, and her success rate danced dangerously close to mythical. In this business, your rep was your currency, and Rogue guarded hers like a loaded gun. She was myth and menace wrapped in one — and even the highest-level corpos gave her space. Not out of respect. Out of self-preservation.
"You don't drop by my place often," Rogue said, sliding into the booth across from him like she owned it. She moved with the calm confidence of someone who'd survived more wars than anyone cared to count. In one hand, she held a cocktail — a familiar ruby-red mix. His usual.
"Figured you were bored and needed someone to torment," Richard said dryly, raising an eyebrow as he studied her. No warning. No call. Just Rogue being Rogue.
"I don't consider curiosity a crime," she said with a smirk, taking a sip. "Especially when the subject of that curiosity can flip Night City on its head with a snap of his fingers."
"And you're no less capable of the same," he replied, his tone going flat. "Let's skip the compliments. What do you want?"
His amber eyes sharpened, the warmth vanishing in an instant. The shift was subtle, but clear — he wasn't in the mood for games.
"I don't want a repeat of last time," Rogue said, her voice losing its edge as she leaned back into the booth's plush seat. "That stunt of yours nearly cost me more than I'm willing to lose. Not even your money can fix that."
"You're really griping to me about the very thing that's kept you paid for over forty years?"
"I stay on the right side of the line — you know that better than most." Rachel scoffed, giving the last of her drink a lazy swirl. "If I didn't, I wouldn't still be breathing."
"That kind of info's just gonna give you a headache."
Sorge flicked his eyes toward the bartender and snapped his fingers with casual precision.
"Tequila. Agave syrup. Carolina Reaper extract. Double shot." He added the last part while checking the ETA on a certain hire he'd dispatched earlier.
"Two Johnny Silverhands. Got it," the bartender nodded, already moving with practiced ease. The liquor flowed into twin crystal tumblers like a ritual.
"I've gotten used to migraines," Rogue muttered dryly. "So don't worry about my health. But tell me — do you have to order that cocktail every time I'm around?"
Her silver brow lifted with the kind of poise that could cut glass.
"Just showing proper respect to a drink that deserves it," Richard said with a casual shrug, his tone just sharp enough to jab.
"I've been hearing whispers," Rogue continued, changing lanes without warning. "Apparently there's a new player in town. Name's been bouncing around the merc channels out East. What's strange is — he's been here a month, and he still hasn't set foot in Afterlife."
"Then keep it that way. Watch from the sidelines — and stay out of what's coming," Sorge said, voice low and even.
"Two Silverhands."
The bartender set the drinks down at the bar. Richard raised a finger, pausing the conversation. He stood, walked over, collected the glasses, and returned — placing one in front of Rogue.
"If you're giving me a warning, it must be serious," Rachel said, resting her chin on her knuckles. Her mind was already racing through every worst-case scenario.
"Alright. I'll take the 'friendly' advice. But let's talk about why I really came over."
Her eyes glinted with that dangerous curiosity of hers as she slid a folder across the table.
"What can you tell me about this one?"
Inside was a photo of a young man — dark hair, striking face. At the top of the page: his handle. Below that, his real name. That level of intel didn't come cheap, and the fact that she had it only deepened her interest. Most rookie solos made noise, tried to leave a mark. But this one? This one played ghost.
And in Night City, ghosts were always the deadliest.
"Lex…" Richard glanced at the crisp photo for a moment, then looked up at Amendiares. "What exactly do you want to know?"
"Everything," she said. "And the more detail, the better."
"I don't usually hand out info on my business partners," he said, shaking his head. "If you want dirt, find another source."
"You know what I hate more than liars? People with principles," Rachel muttered, throwing an arm over the back of the couch in frustration.
"You tell me that every time we meet," Sorge replied, smirking faintly. He reached for the drink he'd nearly forgotten and took a sip.
"Mind if I ask what you need him for?"
"Thinking about offering him a job. Something tailored to his… unique talents." She wasn't bluffing. Her tone had shifted — genuine now.
"Other fixers say good things. Word is, the guy's building a rep. I just want to see how he handles a trial run."
"He's selective. Doesn't jump at every gig."
Richard leaned back slightly, his voice dropping an octave, something quieter — almost personal.
"Off the record? Lex has a code, same as me. Don't expect him to roll over the second you flash a stack of eddies."
"Are you seriously lecturing me on how to handle people?" Rachel snapped, sharp as broken glass. "I've seen his file. It's because of those skills I'm interested."
"Then why ask me?" Richard tilted his head, genuinely curious now.
"Because I figured you'd have insight the file doesn't." She shrugged. "Doesn't matter either way. I'll speak to him myself and see what he's made of."
"Well then — best of luck, Rachel." Sorge chuckled, doing a decent job of hiding the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I see you two are having all the fun without me," Jeremy had appeared beside them like a ghost.
"You're early," Richard noted, nodding as he gestured toward the untouched drink still sitting on the table.
"Here. That one's yours."
"What's the occasion?" Martinez took the glass with a nod and knocked it back in one smooth motion.
"We've got some details to iron out about this little celebration of yours." Richard turned to Rachel. "But for now, Rogue, I'm afraid I'll have to step away. We need a moment in private."
"You've got fifteen minutes." Her eyes flashed blue for a beat, just before the far door hissed open. "Don't keep me waiting."
"Relax — we won't be long."
Wagner downed the rest of his drink, stood, and straightened his suit with practiced ease before heading toward the soundproof room beyond.
That was where he planned to discuss the finer points of a new contract — one tied to Kang-Tao and their latest pet killer, who'd recently started nosing around for dirt on Sorge. Richard didn't like it. Actually, it pissed him off enough to skip the warnings and go straight for a counterpunch: neutralize the threat, then drop a not-so-subtle message on Kang-Tao's doorstep.
Apparently, they'd forgotten the rules of Night City. Someone needed to remind them — this city was a warzone. You didn't move here without caution. You moved, or you bled.
"I'll keep this short, Jeremy…"
As the door sealed behind them, Sorge activated a cascade of additional security protocols. Just habit. In Night City, trust was earned — and even then, never left unchecked.
"Kang-Tao's trying to claw their way back into relevance," Richard said. "And I'm in their way."
"This a solo gig?" Jeremy asked. His tone was calm, but his eyes were already scanning possibilities — crew size, weapons, logistics.
"Not even close. You'll need at least three bodies."
"What's the op?" Jeremy frowned, putting the pieces together.
"Take out a high-value merc," Richard said, voice low and deliberate. "Then stage a secondary distraction to muddy the water."
He smiled — but it was all frost, no warmth.
"In other words, your specialty."
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