Winding Roads: Tourists 2.3 (ch. 6) (Patreon)

It had been a week since Ciri and Avallac'h arrived in this strange sphere, the Wild Hunt nipping at their heels after another near escape… and in that time, Ciri had come to a conclusion: She didn’t like Night City. At times, the city offered sights she couldn’t have ever imagined. It could be beautiful in a way that made her just want to sit and stare so she wouldn’t ever forget it. 

And the freedoms it offered were almost absurd. Men and women shaped their bodies however they wished -- some wanting to be twelve feet tall, or have bird wings and cat ears, or become so much metal and plastic that there was almost nothing left of what they were. There were the lights, the flying cars, the weapons- Ciri developed a special love for the weapons. And cars. And pizza.

However, all that was good about Night City was overshadowed by all of the bad. A thin veneer over a rotting city, propped up only by apocalyptic greed. It was monstrously corrupt. There might not be lords and servants, but there were absolutely masters and slaves. The smell was bad. The fact that there were no animals because the world was so toxic that they couldn’t survive was worse.  

It was a city that punished the righteous. Where cruelty became necessary for survival to the point that it didn’t even register for so many. Ciri had seen many horrid things in her time, but few could compare to what she saw in that Scav den. Ciri had genuinely thought she had seen the lowest humanity could go, only to be confronted by the fact that the only reason why the people of her world hadn’t sunk lower was that they couldn’t yet harvest organs or cyberware. 

“Where do you want this?” Rocinante asked, carrying a box as he entered a nearly identical apartment to his own. It wasn’t. The one difference was that it had two bedrooms. That, and it was three floors down. 

“Storage?” Ciri said, seeing it was full of things that had caught her eye over the past week. A knife that delivered a neurotoxin, a seashell fossil, and a Unity pistol to name a few. Rocinante carried it to the storage room nestled between the bedrooms. Both were a decent size, even if it meant the living room was smaller by half. “Thanks. And thanks for helping us get this place. And for putting up with us for a week.”

“No worries. I’m pretty sure Avallac'h hates my guts, but other than that, he’s an ideal roommate.” Rocinante replied, wiping his palms on his pants. 

He helped them more than Ciri expected. Through his connections as a mercenary, he arranged for her and Avallac'h to gain identities so that they could rent an apartment. He divided the loot gained from that job against the Scavs and Maelstrom rather generously, given he had done most of the work. The implants were sold in Dogtown, along with a few weapons, and she could keep a few that caught her eye. Because of that, she and Avallac'h had enough money to rent the apartment in the first place. 

A week was enough time for her to get a feel for his character. He helped without expectation of a reward but wouldn’t complain if he got one. On the job, he was professional and effective. He also expected the same from others if he worked with them. A dry sense of humor with a fondness for sarcasm. Steady. Reliable. The kind of person who had already had a grave ready when you told them you needed to hide a body. Trustworthy. 

‘He reminds me of Geralt.’ 

The thought made her feel a swell of homesickness. One strong enough that it nearly stole her breath away. She missed him. Yennefer. Triss. Her home. A home that she wasn’t safe in. Where none of the people she just thought of would be safe because of the Wild Hunt. 

Ciri thought Geralt and Yennefer would be able to live their lives in peace in Avalon. A quiet life that they both wanted, but would never take for themselves. Only for the Wild Hunt to find them, take Yennefer, and force Geralt to hunt them across worlds before he traded himself for her. In turn, forcing Ciri to reveal herself to rescue him. 

However, with what felt like practiced ease, she swallowed the feeling down when Rocinante continued. 

“You’ll be in the clear for two months with your cut of the eddies, but that’s without other expenses.” Meaning no guns. Or augments, as Rocinainte was still trying to talk her around the idea of bioware. “I’ll be honest -- I’m not sure how much of your experiences as a Witcher will translate to merc work here, but if you’re looking at a longer stay, I would consider it.”

Ciri offered a small smile, “I appreciate it, Roc, but… the Wild Hunt is never far behind.” She could hide herself. Did hide herself. The damned power in her blood drew their attention every time she used it. They would track her, and once they were close, they would hunt her down and force her to flee once more. 

Odds were, she wouldn’t even need the apartment for another week. 

“Don’t bite my head off, but have you thought about fighting back?” Rocinante said before raising his hands in surrender at her look. “Obviously, sure, but what I meant is… do you know what a nuke is?” 

“That thing that blew up Arasaka tower?” Ciri searched her memory for a moment, but she got it right as Rocinante inclined his head to her. 

“There are bigger versions in this world. Big enough to turn all of Night City into a smoking crater.” That was genuinely alarming, because what she had seen of this world, the people here didn’t have the restraint not to use them. “I’m not saying that it would be a walk in the park to get one or anything like that. I’m saying that this world has something I doubt the Wild Hunt would see coming. Other worlds might too.”

Ciri wavered. Rocinante didn’t know what he was talking about- not really. He didn’t understand the magic that the elves of Aen Elle wielded. The vastness of their forces. Still, she couldn’t say that the idea didn’t appeal. To go home and give everyone machine guns and rocket launchers, before just killing every last member of the Wild Hunt. 

But she swallowed that down because she knew it wouldn’t change anything. Not really. The Wild Hunt was a symptom of the problem -- so long as the White Frost was coming for the world of Aen Elle, the elves of Aen Elle would seek refuge elsewhere. And her home sphere was the most suitable location. She could kill Eredin, Caranthir, and Imlerith… and within the turn of a moon, another would take their place. 

“Think about it,” Rocinante said, lowering his hands and heading towards the door. “You have some time. Use it. Anyway,” he continued, letting the topic drop, “don’t be a stranger. And if the Wild Hunt swings by, give me a call. I want to see what my Nekomata can do against magic.”

That earned a light laugh from her, seeing him out. “Right back at you. I’m not sure if being a mercenary in this city is what I would want, but I wouldn’t mind having your back.” 

“Oh,” a woman's voice interjected, bringing Ciri’s attention to her. Bright red hair, seemingly in her thirties but Ciri learned it was impossible to gauge someone’s age in this sphere. She always wore a bright yellow jacket as she left her own apartment. “Hello. My name is Gloria, Gloria Martinez. Nice to meet you, neighbor?” 

“Nice to meet you, but I live three floors up. Ciri here is your neighbor. Just helping her move in,” Rocinante said, offering a hand that Gloria shook. Ciri gave Rocinante a lingering glance -- idly wondering if Rocinante was more like Geralt than she initially suspected -- before turning to the woman and smiling. 

“Nice to meet you,” she said, also shaking her hand. Ciri noticed her gaze going to the scar under her eye before refocusing. “Me and my… roommate are new to the city. Let us know if we disturb you or anything like that.”

Gloria let out a small laugh, some of the tension easing out of her. “Hard to do when we live on the same floor as a gun range, but sure. And let me know if my son David manages to keep you up. He’s a good boy, but very much a teenager.” 

Then the tension came back in force when one of her eyes flashed blue, and she held back a grimace. “Sorry, but I have to head to work. It’s nice to meet you, Ciri,” Gloria offered with a wave, moving along. Rocinainte watched her go, and Ciri watched him watch her go. When she rounded the corner, he glanced back at her before raising an eyebrow at her expression. 

“What?” 

Ciri just sighed and shook her head. 

…

There were a few pieces of meta-knowledge I had that I could take full advantage of in the year 2075. One of them was the serial killer Peter Pan. Or, rather, as he could one day be known as. At least seven victims, one of them being the nephew of River Ward. He groomed troubled young men, lured them into running away, before kidnapping them, taking them to his farm where he would force-feed them cow medicine until they died.

I wasn’t sure if he was active already. If he was, the NCPD wasn’t aware of him. The boys that Anthony Harris took were troubled teens, after all. I’m sure that the first couple of disappearances were dismissed out of hand. At least until the bodies started piling up. 

There was a common hypothetical that got passed around: would you kill baby Hitler if you could go back in time?

My answer was yes. 

Which was how I found myself outside of Night City once more. It had taken me a week to find the right farm. There were a lot of them outside of Night City, holdovers from before Night City became completely reliant on Biotechnica’s cloned proteins for sustenance. The afternoon sun seemed that much hotter without skyscrapers to block the sweltering heat. 

That was nothing compared to the smell. In Night City, there was so much trash just gathered on the streets that you eventually went nose-blind to it. The same could not be said to the towering mountain of refuse that gathered up in the Badlands. A literal mountain of trash was the backdrop to the small dilapidated cattle farm. Every breath burned my sinuses, but I accepted that over breathing through my mouth. 

Tried that once. And only once. 

My perch was a double-stacked container that had been left on the railroad at some point. A few years, at least, with everything in them long since been scavenged. It was the only bit of elevated ground around the farm. Laid out on top of it, my Nekomata braced against my shoulder, I took stock of the farm. 

It had a massive ten-foot-tall iron fence around it. A lesser problem compared to the hundred or so fragmentation mines scattered across the property. Or the three gun turrets placed in strategic locations -- at the front gate, which served as the only official entrance, with the other two on the farmhouse itself to avoid any blind spots on the property. There were also cameras slapped everywhere. 

None of it would make anyone who happened to be driving by bat an eye. They would take one look at it, think, ‘that’s about right for a house in the badlands,’ and keep driving. It was the kind of ordinance needed to keep the Raffen Shiv out, or any other scum of the Earth outside of Night City. Not realizing that the set up was also perfectly suited to making sure anything on the property stayed there. 

“There you are,” I said, looking at Anthony through one of his own security cameras. He had some decent security, so it had taken me the better part of thirty minutes of slowly cooking in the sun while I hacked my way through it from afar. He was in the middle of fiddling with one of the masks that would be put over the face of a cow to force feed them, a little smile on his face as he held it up to inspect it. 

One made to fit a human instead. 

If I had any doubts, that did the trick. Pulling the trigger, my Nekomata bucked against my shoulder as a tungsten spike tore through the air and the thin metal of the barn. He didn’t know what hit him when his head was reduced to a fine mist, splashing blood over the gurneys he arranged for his would-be victims. 

Letting out a breath, I broke down my perch and into the trunk of the Centurion. The Maelstrom paint job had been scrubbed away, replaced with a rustic blue. It was a handy car to have when moving loot. A lot of trunk space. Perfect for a job like this. 

Controlling the truck remotely, I had it drive me over to the farm. My eyes flashed red when I gave the order to open the gate. Part of what took so long to crack the ICE was that I needed to grant myself friendly status with the net’s IFF. Otherwise, I’d be digging in the sand for a hundred mines. Which was also why I couldn’t do the job at night. 

Walking through the minefield, I walked by a security turret as large as I was, before entering the house on the property. The interior was something of a mess, but in an organized chaos kind of way. Leaning on my metaknowledge, I found the hidden room upstairs that had the computer to deactivate the security measures and…

“Fuck me,” I muttered under my breath, finding the messages between Anthony and the first of his would-be victims. Still in the talking stage, but it made my flesh crawl reading the messages, especially knowing what fate would have befallen Richard. Still, it was something of a relief to know that I’d put an end to Peter Pan before he could even get started. 

With a shake of my head, I went to work. Killing Anthony was what I was here for, but the man had a stupid amount of hardware on the farm that was worth taking. A hundred and twenty landmines and three security turrets. I had absolutely no idea how he managed to pay for them, but that wasn’t really my concern anymore. 

Luckily, he kept the boxes in the barn. Grabbing them, even with a map of their locations, it still took over an hour to find and pack them up in the back of the truck. The turrets, thankfully, were pretty simple to uninstall. They were mostly bolt in place and play. Loading them into the truck was a challenge I’d prepared for, though, and with a lift jack each made their way into the trunk. 

Covered in a layer of sweat, I cranked the AC to high before leaving the farm behind me after taking everything of value. I had no idea when someone would find the body, but that really wasn’t my problem. The Centurion was on the verge of being too big for the roads of Night City, so autopilot was necessary for me to make my way to the garage I had been using. 

I’d looked into the records. Apparently, an Alexander Verdun had been paying rent for the garage since the year 2038. Six thousand eddies a month down the drain, and for a guy like him, it was no different than a subscription he forgot to cancel. The garage had been used by many before me, and I’m guessing it would be used by many after. 

Loading the truck up, I began to dump my newfound loot inside. Boxes full of mines, with security turrets to be installed at a later date. Some would likely be offloaded in Dogtown-

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I saw it was Wakako, “I have the information that you requested.” She began without any preamble. It was a little difficult to tell with her, but I think she liked me. 

In the two weeks since that gig at All Foods, Wakako threw a lot of work my way. Usually, I got a gig every other day, but sometimes she doubled up if the one she sent me on was something simple like a snatch and grab. None of them could hope to match the sheer violence of that first gig, but it wasn’t uncommon for a body to get dropped if it needed dropping. 

“William Blake. Southside Night City has maintained a subscription with a CryoFreeze life support system since the twenties and is due to expire this year. I am sending you the bead,” Wakako informed, making my lips curl into a small smile. 

“I appreciate it.” I didn’t need to flick her eddies since I already paid in advance with services rendered. 

“Keep your phone close, young man. I will have work for you soon,” she informed, ending the call. My phone buzzed once more, and it was coordinates for a ‘William Blake.’ 

Or, as the world better knew him, Rache Bartmoss. It had taken me one whiff of that putrid landfill to convince me that there was no way in hell I was going to go digging through garbage to find his corpse. So, I crossed my fingers and hoped that I got to him before his subscription had expired. My luck held, apparently. 

It was somewhat of a risk to hire a netrunner to find him, but if Bartmoss had managed to avoid every corporation searching for him, I figured whatever false identity he used for the subscription would hold up to scrutiny. 

Leaving the garage behind, my optics flashed as I summoned the one vehicle I had legally acquired. A Thorton Galena G240 -- the physical manifestation of necessity over style. Cheap as hell, ugly as sin, and I didn't even need to lock the doors. No one would steal it from me even if I left the keys in the ignition. It was the very last car anyone would expect from someone with a cave full of luxury vehicles. Or, that was my hope, at least. Especially when I had finally learned how much of a fortune I was sitting on.

A fortune that came with no small amount of risk to offload. It was a revelation to discover that Rayfield had a militarized asset recovery division, who routinely poked at Militech and Arasaka to recover stolen vehicles. Many a merc thought he was being smart by stealing a flashy car, only to find himself black-bagged later and served up to the person he stole from. It made me really thankful I had restrained myself and went ‘small’ with the Outlaw first. 

It wasn't an insurmountable problem, of course. Just that I needed some major upgrades and a few more degrees of separation before I tried selling half of the cars still in my possession. 

Until then, I was content with my Galena and made my way to Southern Night City, on the very edge of Pacifica. On the drive over, I heard the sound of sirens, and I poked my head out to see a flying cop car rushing between the buildings. Not Max-Tac, thankfully. Their destination was revealed a few minutes later when I saw a floor of a half-abandoned skyscraper explode in a spectacular fashion. 

Always something going on in this city. And it was a little unnerving how fast I adapted to it. 

“I used to be normal,” I mused, reaching my destination. A conapt building that hadn't been used since the twenties by the looks of things. About six stories tall with the first floor not having a single intact window and so much overlayered graffiti and mold that it was impossible to tell what the original paint job was. Bartmoss was on the fourth floor, according to the intel. Room 444. 

It had only really started to settle after the gig at All Foods. I’d killed those Scavs, but there was an argument it was self defense. Of the preemptive variety, sure, but the best defense was a good offense. All Foods had been a straight massacre. Thirty five bodies, thirty two of them I dropped myself, adding to the nine Scavs from Deadmuse's crew I killed beforehand… I had been in Cyberpunk four days by that point, and I killed forty-one people. 

I didn't know if stepping into Rocinante's shoes made me some kind of psychopath or if I had always been capable of this. If I had ever been ripped from my mundane life, I was willing to just drop bodies for the sake of convenience with what felt like zero heasitation. I’m not sure which one I would prefer either. 

Even now, as I walked up four sets of stairs, paying no mind to the homeless people who eyed me warily or with vacant stares as I made my way up, I felt calm. Like I wasn't about to plunder the corpse of a Legend of Night City. 

Finding the right door, I pressed the keycard to the lock, and it flashed green. Stepping inside the apartment, I saw a utilitarian space stripped down of any sentimentality and covered in a thick layer of dust. I had no idea if Bartmoss had boobytrapped his corpse, but if he did, they were on the net, and I made damn sure not to be connected to it while I was graverobbing him. 

My attention was drawn to two things in particular: his computer set up and a familiar ice box tucked in the corner. The wall was covered with monitors, all curved at an angle so you could see most of them as you sat at the desk. An old school-looking computer, just scaled up by a factor of three, sat next to the desk. Tucked in the corner was a netrunning chair, and I knew enough to recognize it as a high end model. In what was meant to be the second bedroom, I instead saw it had been converted into a server room. That was hardware worth taking. But the real prize… 

Opening up the icebox, I saw a cryogenically frozen Rache Bartmoss. He wasn't handsome, but he wasn't ugly either. Short dark hair, a little bit of stubble, wearing a netrunning suit that revealed he was on the scrawny side. 

“I'd apologize, but that'd imply I wouldn't do this again if given the chance,” I told his corpse, reaching inside to grab the cyberdeck. 

It was an unceremonious grave for the man who made the world what it was today. The Data Krash had plunged the world into chaos that it just barely managed to crawl itself out of. Insane military AIs were unleashed into the Net, and to this day, the people of Cyberpunk didn't have a better solution than to build a really big wall to keep the AIs out. To netrunners, he was admired and despised in equal measure. 

He was acknowledged as the greatest netrunner. Period. His statblock proved it. The man was closer to an AI on the net than he was a human. However, with how he shattered the world, the Net became fragmented. And fell under the control of megacorporations in the exact opposite way he wanted. 

“But I won’t take it for free. Here you go,” I said, pressing confirm on a transaction and watched ten thousand eddies drain away from my account as I extended Rache’s subscription for another year. Closing the icebox, I turned my attention to the cyberdeck. A SGI Technologies Elysia cyberdeck. 

SGI Technologies went under for a decent bit due to a persistent rumor that interfacing with a program called Virtual Vickie 2.2 on an Elysia would make you sterile. No idea if it was true or not. The Elysia, as a cyberdeck, was decent. Not the best at anything, but not the worst either. In all the relevant fields you would want from a cyberdeck in the twenties, it ranged from good to decent. 

The Elysia in my hands had been extensively modified to the point that the only original tech of it was the casing. It was also completely useless to me at the moment. I would need two high-level netrunners to crack it open, and I couldn’t even find one that I could trust with my ICE, much less the personal cyberdeck of the Netrunner.

What it was, however, was an excellent ace to have up my sleeve. I might not be able to get any use out of it, but someone like Rogue from the Afterlife would. 

Clipping the deck to my belt, I went about grabbing the computer and lugging the thing down the stairs since the elevator was busted. Loading it up in my Galena, I started driving back to H4 Megabuilding. It was on the way when my phone buzzed. At first, I thought it was Wakako about the gig, only to find it was someone else. 

“Jackie? What's up?” I asked, uncertain why he would be calling. 

“Roc -- I got a gig from Padre. The issue is, I need some extra muscle and I’ve been hearing solid things about you from Wakako. Livin’ up to your name, Work Horse.” Jackie greeted me with a laugh, but there was an undercurrent of stress. I’m guessing that the gig, whatever it was, was a step above his usual stuff. “And ideally, could you talk Ciri into tagging along? Gig calls for a heavy, ‘runner, overwatch, and a face.”

“I’ll run it by her, but can’t make any promises on her behalf. I’m game, though.” I had been spending a lot of time in the training sim improving my sniping. Dev mode did wonders for the sim, simulating weather conditions, battlefields, and enemy types. Even if it wasn’t as good as the real thing. “Any deets I should know to help sell her on it?”

“Eh,” Jackie wavered for half a second, “we’ll be robbing a corpo?” 

I laughed, “That’d probably do the trick.”

“Nova, choom.” There was an unmistakable edge of relief in his tone. Enough so that I got the impression he was calling more for Ciri than for me. Why was up in the air, but Ciri did have a few unique qualities about her that he knew about -- she was an organic, beautiful, and a mercenary. “I can give you both all the deets at the Coyote in three hours. Let me know what she says before then.”

“Gotcha,” I replied, and Jackie ended the call. I let out a small hum in thought, wondering if this happened in canon. Jackie and I weren’t partners, not like he and V were. Or would be. Both of us were firmly solos who had occasional team-ups when the occasion called for it. On my part, that was Ciri when a gig fit her moral standards. Not sure about Jackie. 

Meaning that Jackie had either stepped his game up in the last few weeks enough so that Padre was giving him bigger jobs. Or this gig happened in canon, and whatever the result was, it hadn’t launched Jackie into the major leagues like he clearly hoped it would. Something to keep in the back of my mind. Whatever the gig was, Jackie survived it, but I was expecting a wrench to be thrown into things somewhere along the lines. 

Giving Ciri a call, the phone rang… and rang… and rang… a sigh escaped me when I hit her voicemail. “How many times are you going to forget your phone?” Though maybe ‘forget’ was the wrong word. Since she learned that megacorporations could track people with it, she treated her phone much like one would a live hand grenade. 

Continuing onward to the megabuilding, I deposited Rache's computer in my apartment first before heading down to Ciri's apartment. It was a happy accident that she landed the apartment next to the Martinezs. I had seen David on occasion dressed up in his Arasaka Academy uniform making his way to school in the mornings.

“Ciri,” I knocked on the door. “Gotta gig if you'd answer your phone.” A beat passed. Then the door opened to reveal Avallac'h. 

The elf was a hair taller than me at 6’1, his pale eyes expressing nothing as he met my gaze. Then it dipped to the Elysia on my belt and he gave the barest tilt of his head to betray his interest. “Cirilla has gone to retrieve that filth you insist is food,” he informed. And instead of slamming the door in my face, he made a gesture for me to enter. “She will return shortly.” 

“Okay…” I said, entering the room but my guard was all the way up. Avallac'h was on the side of the angels, but that sure didn't make him one. In the books, he outright kidnaps Ciri to be raped by the Aen Elle elven king. An elven supremacist, whose conflict with the Wild Hunt had more to do with the power struggle with Eredin than any moralisms about committing genocide. At best, he viewed Ciri as a tool. At worst, he despised her for being a human with the Elder Blood. 

He was also the only one Ciri could trust in her present circumstances. 

I didn't like him, to put it simply. And he didn't like me. Probably because my presence meant Ciri would have some kind of support outside of him, making it more difficult to manipulate her. Witcher 3 had sanitized the hell out of him. 

“I understand that you are something referred to as a… ‘spell slinger?’” Avallac'h questioned, standing with his hands behind his back while I chose to lean by the door. Just in case I needed to make a hasty escape. 

“Not in the way you're thinking, but yeah,” I admitted. My ICE was an ongoing problem, but I wasn't yet desperate enough to shell out for Corpo ICE. And especially not for an untrusted netrunner to make it for me. However, I had gotten good with quickhacks. And the net was full of trials and training for enterprising netrunners for me to polish my skills on. “Why? Taken an interest in tech?” 

“Hardly,” Avallac'h said in a tone that told me that I asked a particularly stupid question. 

I waited a beat, half hoping for elaboration. It wasn't coming. “Why not?” I decided to ask, cocking my head at him. “You have the right temperament for it. Would need to learn how to code, though.” 

“I would not,” Avallac'h replied dismissively. “A simple translation spell is all that would be required to manifest my will in this ‘net.’ I bring it up solely because, as I understand, it is the closest thing your people have to magic.” 

My eyes narrowed a fraction. “Don't know enough to comment on that,” I admitted. He didn't seem surprised, but he inclined his head to me ever so slightly. Praising me for knowing my limits or something. “But rewind a bit. You're saying that if you did… what, something like a barrier spell, that would translate to a barrier in the net?” 

“Most likely,” Avallac'h replied, sounding like he couldn't be bothered to test the theory. “On the assumption, of course, this net is in any way similar to magic itself.” 

Fair. The net might as well be magic with how outlandish it was at times, but that didn't make it magic. Still, it was an idea worth considering. Magitech. 

The issue there was I trusted Avallac'h even less than a random netrunner I met on the street. But, if I wasn't going to trust him with ICE… 

“So, spitballin’ -- could you do something like a… rune of frost to keep a system cool?” A vague insulted expression was my answer, along with a raised eyebrow as if to say, ‘Why would I ever do such a thing?’ “Cooling is the bane of all cyberdecks, internal or external. More you use them, the more powerful they are, the more heat gets generated. Pushed to the limit, they can cook your meat or melt the plastic around the handheld.” 

That was the biggest barrier, really. The more powerful the setup, the more coolant was required. It’s why high-end runners had their entire backs removed and replaced so they wouldn’t need an ice bath every time they took a dip in the net. For external cyberdecks, it turned them from handheld devices to a full-on backpack weighing fifteen to twenty pounds. 

The reason handheld cyberdecks couldn't measure up against higher-end internal decks was their size limit. Half of my Requiem was dedicated to cooling. More than half of the Elysia was. But if I could just scribble a rune of frost on the case, then… that opened some serious potential. 

Potential worth exploring because, if I understood correctly, a translation spell would allow Cyberpunk technology to interact with non-Cyberpunk technology. I might not be able to ignite some gonk's brain with a thought anymore, but I would still be able to hack systems in a similar manner. 

“How… primitive,” Avallac'h replied, his lips curling. 

Didn't this guy live in a medieval fantasy world? 

“Sure,” I replied, just to move on. “But could you do it?” 

His eyes narrowed just a touch. “It's within my abilities, but I struggle to think of a reason why I would do such a thing.” There was the rub. 

“Uh huh,” I returned, distinctly unimpressed. “What reason would it take for you to consider it?” I asked, though, I already knew the answer. 

To Avallac'h's credit, even if I was loath to give him any, he didn't beat around the bush. “Stay away from Cirilla,” he demanded in a clipped tone. “Your services were appreciated during our initial days in this… trying sphere, but your presence is no longer necessary. Undue attachments to you, or this sphere, will only cause harm when the Wild Hunt tracks our location and we must leave once more.” 

Something they would not do for months. Not that he knew that. 

“Nah,” I denied bluntly enough that his composure cracked to reveal a flicker of annoyance in his pale eyes. “I like Ciri. She's good people, and she's in a tight spot. You, on the other hand… you might not be a corpo, but you're cut from the same cloth.” 

“Your meaning?” Avallac'h asked, an undercurrent of irritation in his tone beneath the cold indifference. 

It probably wasn't smart, but I just couldn't help myself. “You might have been capable of feeling love once upon a time, but those days are in the rearview mirror. Now you only know how to use people.” Smart or not, I poked a raw nerve and was rewarded with a flinch. 

He stilled in a way that told me the remark hit home, his expression tightening while a flash of genuine anger ignited in his eyes. He opened his mouth, maybe to use Power Word: Kill, but before he had the chance, the door slid open, revealing Ciri and two stacked bowls of ramen. 

Ciri blinked at my presence, “Roc? What are you doing here?” 

“Jackie needs help with a gig. Which you would know if you kept your phone on you,” I said, nothing in my tone hinting at the spat with Avallac'h. 

“Sorry, I just… don't like that it can be used to track me,” she admitted, setting the bowls down. “If he needs help, then sure. I don't mind. Though, it depends on the gig?” 

“All I know is that it involves screwing over a corpo. Meets in a few hours to learn the who, what, when, where, and why,” I answered, earning a broader smile. 

“In that case, I'm in,” she agreed readily, earning a chuckle from me. Corpos were a close second on her shit list, just after Scavs. 

“I'll let Jackie know and swing by in a couple of hours to take us to the gig,” I said, letting myself out of her apartment. I felt Avallac'h's piercing gaze on my back, even after the door closed behind me. 

I didn't trust Avallac'h in the slightest for very good reasons. Still, magi-code or magitech was something worth exploring. Heading back up to my apartment, I spared a glance at the computer before I set the Elysia next to it. Neither would be turned on until I was in a position to deal with the consequences, whatever they might be. 

“Never thought I would consider going to school again,” I muttered to myself, sliding into my desk chair and looking a few things up. School was something of an interesting thing in Cyberpunk, particularly after the rise of brain dance technology. I did a little digging into it back when I was doing recon on Katsuo. 

Public schools weren't really a thing anymore. Not in Night City nor beyond it. There wasn't a point, not when at-home learning wasn't just cheaper but easier. A kid would put on a wreath and pop in a BD, only instead of porn or snuff films, it would be a lesson plan. Some guy scrolled a brain dance of himself learning something; an editor enhanced the sensation of learning, which tricked the brain into retaining the information. It wasn't perfect, of course. 

To gamify it a bit, it was the equivalent of a x2 learning modifier. What's more, it was fast. An eight-hour seminar could be condensed into an hour-long BD. So, if you needed a refresher, it was just another hour with a wreath on to make sure the information stuck. 

Then there were skill shards. They weren’t as simple as slotting one in to instantly learn a skill, but they did allow you to use a skill. Functionally, they were an external skill that you could pop in as needed, but upon their removal, you would lose access to the skill on the shard. 

With the guitar skill shard, I would know what chords were, how to read sheet music or tabs, how to tune the strings, and so on. However, I wouldn't learn anything outside of that very specific information delivered. Which was fine for something like playing the guitar, just far less so when applied to something like programming, the other skill shard in my possession. 

It delivered a specific path of information into your head, and depending on how you used it, it could make learning anything outside that narrow path difficult. 

“University is out of the cards,” I continued to muse, looking at the tuition prices. The old-school universities were still a thing, though Harvard didn’t carry the same weight it once did given the NUSA was a third-world shithole. Still better than Night City, though. While traditional schooling was a thing of the past, a diploma from the right university or academy still had some weight. 

Universities boasted of using the best tech, the highest quality BDs that taught twice as much as their competitors in half the time. And it was true. Like with everything, there were scales of quality. Expensive universities did have better-tuned BDs to deliver more information with greater ease. Though I’m still pretty sure that half of the multi-million dollar tuition fees was equal parts to keep out poor people and for the university brand. 

Going the legal route was a dud. In that case…

“Herold, I’m thinking of getting a higher education. Know where I can find one?” I asked Herold Lowe, my… point of contact in Dogtown. Herold primarily sold guns, but he was a real entrepreneur at heart. One who had taken a liking to me after I'd offloaded about sixty thousand eddies worth of guns and cyberware on him, then spent about a third of it on ammo and more guns from him. 

I trusted him about as far as I could throw him, of course. Still, he was very well connected in Dogtown and the black market at large. 

“You know it, choomba!” Herold’s synthesized voice echoed through my phone. “Can’t sell you a diploma, but I can get their lesson plans. Who needs diplomas these days, anyway? Whatcha’ thinkin’, choom?”

“Criminology, cryptology, programming, cybersecurity, electronics, physical and software engineering, and physics,” I rattled off. It sounded like a lot, and it kinda was, but it also wasn’t outside of the norm anymore. A big part of what made a degree so valuable was the time invested in obtaining it, and with BDs, the time required was reduced. Meaning the alternative was picking up a baker’s dozen degrees for the same ‘wow’ factor on a job application. 

“Oh, so the netrunning techie package? With a dash of detective tossed in, hm? No problamo, choom.” Herold deduced my intent with ease. “Got a preemo collection of Tokyo University seminars in physics of all kinds -- astro, theoretical, but I’m guessin’ you want the computational and ballistic variety, right?”

“That you would be,” I confirmed, swallowing a laugh at how easy it really was. 

“Dealer's choice of what flavor of university you want for the others. I can get my hands on ‘em, no sweat. Course, easy doesn’t mean cheap,” Herold warned. “Particularly if you want an expensive education.”

No surprise there. “How much would it run me if I do?” 

“Twenty thousand eddies, choom. College ain’t cheap,” Herold informed and I swallowed a sigh, feeling a headache coming. I knew it would be expensive, but…

“I don’t suppose that’s for the whole lot?” I tried, and a laugh was my answer. It was a lot better than being forced to spend millions for a piece of paper, but I couldn’t say that it didn’t sting just a bit. The money I made from gigs was decent. I was recovering from my spending sprees on gear. 

But if I wanted a full spread of classes, then I would need to offload a car or two. Not unexpected. It just stung a bit. “Not cheap indeed. In that case, start me off with coding and engineering. And if you can get your hands on any relevant skill shards, throw them my way,” I added. It would take me time to fully digest what would be years of education condensed into a couple of BDs. In the time between, I could work gigs and sell a car or two. 

“Woo~! I do love a man that's a big spender and dedicated to self-improvement! I’ll let you know when I have something lined up!” Herold said, ending the call. With it came a request to transfer funds, a full twenty thousand as a deposit for services rendered in carrying out the request. I paid it without any fuss, even if it did mean any progress I made fluffing up my account vanished.

With a sigh, I hopped in the shower and prepared myself for the meeting with Jackie.  

…

El Coyote Cojo was a bar owned by Guadalupe Alejandra Welles, better known as Mamá Welles. It was located near the heart of Heywood, the Glen specifically, and in the shadow of megabuilding H3, and while not formally a gang bar… it was frequently visited by the Valentinos. Meaning that when Ciri and I stepped into the bar, we were greeted by the sight of gold. 

Gold chains, gold clothes, and golden cyberlimbs. The Valentinos started off as a poser gang of lady killers, and while it hadn’t completely left its roots behind, it had grown into a proper gang. One that controlled a vast swath of territory, boasting more than six thousand members, and fell into all the pitfalls of a protection gang turned sour. 

Ciri drew more attention than I did, eyes following her as we walked towards the bar. The man behind it, Pepe, glanced our way with a neutral expression on his face. “Jackie told us to meet him here?” I ventured, and Pepe’s eyes flashed red for a second. A beat passed before he nodded. 

“He’s upstairs in the private booth. Stairs on to the left,” he said, offering a jerk of his chin in the right direction. His gaze followed us on the way up, but I paid it no mind. Jackie was the owner's son and was well liked by everyone here. We were the unknowns that he would be trusting his life with on this gig. 

Jackie was waiting in the booth, a foot bouncing in place, but his expression lit up when he saw us. “Roc! Ciri! You made it,” he said, throwing us an easy smile. “Let me introduce you to the ‘runner we’ll be working with. Roc, Ciri, meet Kiwi.”

I recognized her instantly. She was seated across from Jackie, a cigarette dangling from her face mask that concealed her cyberport. The same long scarlet jacket and blonde hair cut in a bob. Her eyes bounced between us for a moment before Kiwi made a noise of interest. “A spell slinger and a ‘ganic walk into a bar. Feels like the start of a bad joke.”

“Depends on what the punchline is,” I said, taking a seat as I considered this new information. Kiwi was a solid netrunner, as far as I was aware. I wouldn’t put her on the same level as Lucy, much less people like Alt, but solid. She just had a nasty habit of betraying people when she saw a ship was sinking. So long as the ship was steady… Well, I still wouldn’t exactly call her loyal. Just not planning to stab you in the back as part of her exit strategy. “You said this one is corpo related?”

“Right. Yeah, it is,” Jackie said, starting to stand up but aborted the action halfway through to remain seated. His gaze flickered to me, Ciri, then Kiwi before clearing his throat. “The gig is a snatch and grab. Client wants info from a Ronald Rockerfella, corpo rat working for Meditech.” 

He leaned in, glancing at Ciri because he knew he had to sell her on participating, “Ronald is an executive at the company, but he’s been in a shit-slingin’ competition with some of the other higher-ups. No idea why. But they’ve been up to the typical corpo cloak and dagger stuff -- spying, blackmail, yada yada yada. He might be doing it a bit better than others because he got his hands on a preem prototype for some new medicine. Some kind of pure bioware like nanosurgeons, just without the nanites.”

Ciri’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and I think I might be able to swing her around on the idea of bioware. “Sounds simple enough. But experience tells me that’ll be anything but.”

Jackie chuffed, “Got that right, chica. The gig is to get our hands on the prototype and any relevant files. The issue is that his info-spec is top-notch. To say nothing of the fact that he’s a paranoid cabron because of the shadow war. It won’t be easy to get the prototype or the deets.”

“And how do we do that?” I asked, making Jackie glance at me, then at Ciri again, before stealing a final glance at Kiwi. 

“Ronald… he’s a, ah…” he started to search for the word, but Kiwi had one ready. 

“A massive degenerate who thinks it's socially acceptable if it's called art,” Kiwi droned in a monotone voice, thumbing off some ash in a prepared tray. “His recent obsession is the human form and its purity.”

“Ah.” Ciri understood instantly, leaning back in her seat. “I’m guessing that's where I come in?” She wasn’t rejecting the idea out of hand, which reassured Jackie. 

“It is,” Jackie confirmed with a vaguely apologetic nod. “Ronald is part of an artsy club. Kiwi can slip you into it, Ronald is going to trip all over himself, and when he invites you to his pad…”

“I accept,” Ciri said, following along.

Jackie nodded again, this time with obvious relief. “Don’t need to sleep with the gonk or anything like that. Just need to get through the door.”

“Once you do,” Kiwi picked up the thread, “I can get access to his apartment’s security. Disable sensors, block distress signals, and crack whatever security he’ll have protecting the proof we’re looking for.” 

“And I’ll be there to play the scary cabrón to move things along,” Jackie continued, before looking to me. “Roc, you’ll be our eyes in the sky. Some shit comes our way, you can give us a heads up about it. And if we can’t avoid the storm, then you’ll clear the path.” He said, reaching over to clap me on the shoulder. 

It sounded simple enough. 

I fully expected the gig to go hell in a handbasket all the same.