January 16th, 2069 – 7:00 PM
Alex Mitchell (Volkov)
Stepping out at Allison Street Station, I didn't waste time. I made straight for a familiar little courtyard. Afterlife's location was damn convenient — just a short walk from the metro. Trying to park in nighttime Watson? Lost cause. I wasn't about to fight traffic or circle the block like a scav. The metro was the smarter move.
The club entrance was lit up like a Christmas tree — impossible to miss. Afterlife ran out of a heavily modded basement and didn't exactly roll out the welcome mat. At the door were the so-called gatekeepers — glorified bouncers doubling as a checkpoint. No one got past without clearance, and that came straight from the queen of local fixers herself: Rogue Amendiares. Used to go by Rachel, but she ditched the name decades back. Never looked back.
I headed down into a narrow hallway split by a buffer zone. The inner door was open, so I kept moving — until a wall of muscle blocked my path.
"Who the hell are you? Don't recognize the face," he growled, throwing out an arm to stop me.
"Lex. Got an appointment," I said flatly, waiting for him to ping his boss.
"Rogue's expecting you, but she's tied up," he said after a pause, stepping aside. "One step back, and I shoot."
I turned just in time to see some wannabe trying to tail me in. Slick, but not slick enough. The guard spotted him before I did.
No sign of Rogue, and I wasn't about to start poking around. Instead, I slid onto a barstool, figured I'd wait it out with a drink.
The bartender — a sharp-looking guy in a dark suit — stepped over with a shaker in hand.
"What'll it be?"
"Something non-alcoholic. Dealer's choice," I said, sliding a fat bill across the bar.
"Not often we get new faces," he said, putting on a bit of flair as he mixed. Smooth hands, pro-level flash. He poured a glowing blue drink into a curved glass.
"Iceberg," he said. "Careful — it'll make your teeth ache."
"Merc. For now." I took a sip, squinting with approval. The guy knew what he was doing.
"Busy crowd," I noted, giving the room a quick scan. Packed with regulars and rookies — each probably had a story to tell or a price on their head.
"It's always like this — unless it's not," he smirked. "Got a name, or is that redacted?"
"Lex."
His pupils flared just a bit. Guess it rang a bell.
"You're the one who cleared out Ebunike, right?"
Not what I expected to hear.
"Feels like half of Night City knows about that by now."
"Trust me, not everyone does. But that job... it hit personal. I just wanted to say thanks."
"For what, exactly?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"There was a guy — solid one. Cop. Went in trying to pull some civvies out. Didn't make it." The bartender gave a small, tired smile.
"You know how he died?"
"They found him with his guts spilled out. Word is, Mike stayed conscious for five minutes after... Rough way to go. He didn't deserve that."
I didn't know what to say. Truth is, I could've saved him. Had the window. Just… didn't take it. The moment demanded something else, and I made the call.
Every action has consequences. So does inaction. And sometimes, you never get to know which one really mattered.
"Cops have the shittiest job in this city," I said, not sure why. Maybe to ease the mood. "Crap gear. Worse conditions."
He chuckled.
"Mike used to say the same. But he never let that stop him. 'If I don't do it, no one will.'"
The way he said it — no doubt whose words those were.
"That's the truth, right there. Some folks wait for fate. Others just do the damn job."
"To a good cop." I raised my glass.
Then knocked back the last of the drink — pale pink, cold, gone in a blink.
"Well, well — look who it is! Choom, guess you're not here just for the nightlife." The voice came from behind me.
I turned to see a familiar face — one I'd only met once, but apparently, once was enough for him to remember me.
"I surprise myself sometimes. What brings you here, Cain?"
"Got a gig for my crew. But you being here? That's the real twist." He slid into the seat across from me like he owned the place, eyes locked on mine.
"Same streets you walk, I walk too."
"I've been meaning to talk to you, actually. Couldn't ever track you down."
His grin didn't fade. If anything, that unsettled me more.
"About what?" My muscles tensed, ready for a conversation that might end with broken glass and flying fists.
"You remember that mess at the docks? Lotta bodies left behind." Cain paused — just long enough to make me brace for a threat.
"Wanted to say thanks. Those assholes were a problem. We were about to hit them ourselves."
"Well damn," I exhaled, tension draining from my spine. "You know how to keep a guy on edge."
"So, what happened?" I asked. "Why'd things fall apart?"
"Same old shit. Power grabs. Ego. They wanted it all, didn't care who or what they had to step on. My crew figured best not to stir the pot — especially with Arasaka sniffing around, itching for a reason."
"Makes sense." I nodded slowly, reading between the lines. Cain wasn't just playing the game — he was staying alive in it.
He wasn't stupid. He knew better than to poke the kind of people who could erase all of Maelstrom with a single boardroom nod.
That splinter group? They believed in their paper-thin dominion over Watson. And now they're six feet under — exactly where they were always headed.
And the kicker? I did that job solo. And corps? They've got a hundred more like me on retainer. Worse ones, too.
"Looks like you're enjoying yourself," a new voice cut in, smooth and cool.
I turned to see her.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said. "Some things came up. Had to deal with them."
"No problem. I wasn't in a rush. Besides, gave me time to catch up with an old friend."
"In that case, let's move somewhere more private."
The silver-haired woman gestured toward an empty table off to the side.
"Duty calls," Cain said with a grin, standing up. "Take care, choomba. And don't forget your old pal Cain."
He gave a lazy salute and vanished into the crowd, heading for the far end of the club.
***
"Chuck, get us a drink," Rogue said, settling into the plush sofa. Her gaze locked onto me like a targeting reticle — cold, precise, and impossible to ignore.
"Gotta say, I pictured you a little... different in person," she added, studying me like she was scanning a ticking bomb.
"Happens," I said with a shrug, not quite sure how else to answer a line like that.
"Plenty of rumors floating around — some of them flat-out absurd. Took a lot of digging to separate fact from fairytale. And even now, I've still got questions."
"Fire away."
"Let's start with your skill set. From everything I've pieced together, you sound like a damn urban legend. Techie, doc, netrunner… and somehow, one of the most effective mercs in the city. I won't even ask how you ended up wearing that many hats — that's not what matters."
Her eyes lit up for a second — data sent. A file dropped into my inbox, heavy enough to make my cyberdeck groan. I skimmed it. Plenty of juicy details.
"From where I'm sitting, you like clean jobs. Quiet. Surgical. No splash, no collateral. That about right?"
"I'm not big on noise," I admitted. "But lately, I've realized staying invisible... is just wishful thinking."
"Exactly why I called you," Rogue said, leaning forward slightly. "I need something retrieved. Used to belong to someone I knew."
"Someone important?"
"You could say that. Then again, he turned out to be a selfish asshole. And that's me being generous."
"Oof. That's some eulogy for Johnny Silverhand. But even with all that, you still followed him. So he had something worth following, yeah?"
"Johnny stuck to what he believed in — whatever the cost. That part was real," she said, her voice softening for a beat. "But his ego? That's what did him in."
She paused. Let it hang in the air a second.
"The job's simple on paper — just one small hitch. The arm — Johnny's arm — is in the hands of someone who's basically Night City's personal bogeyman. I'm guessing the name Adam Smasher rings a bell."
"So the chrome freak's hideout... is a rusted freighter out at the docks?" A grin tugged at my mouth before I masked it with a straight face. "Charming. I'm in."
Rogue gave me a long, unreadable look before smirking faintly.
"Everyone's got their reasons, don't they?"
"Maybe." I kept my voice flat. No point unpacking mine — at least not yet.
"Then good luck. And one last thing…"
"Yeah?"
"If you get the chance — do something he won't forget."
"I'll think of something," I said, already weighing the possibilities.
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