"Whoa, I've never seen a black market this... brazen."
Roqi's eyes lit up as he scanned the surroundings, practically buzzing with excitement like a kid walking into a model shop for the first time. High-tech gear, cyberware, and contraband were everywhere—he looked ready to explode from glee.
Black Market. BM.
Some folks in the biz used other terms—slang, abbreviations like "BM"—to keep it discreet. But in Night City, no one really bothered. Euphemisms were for amateurs.
Let's be real: who the hell shops at a legal market in Night City?
Even corpos send their goons to shop here. This wasn't just a black market—it was a goddamn underground megamall.
If it existed on the legal market, it was here too.
If it didn't? Still here.
Back in Watson, Roqi's favorite pastime wasn't clubbing—it was prowling the black markets.
He'd browse listings on his darknet PDA the night before, negotiate or lock in a price, then head to some stall in Jig-Jig Street or the UID (Upper Industrial District) to seal the deal or haggle face-to-face.
He hadn't seen every black market in the city, especially not in Pacifica or City Center, but he'd dipped his toes into most of them.
Santo Domingo's stalls were like street corner bodegas—6th Street hawking wares like a garage sale, and NCPD looking the other way. In Westbrook, it was subtler—hushed exchanges, hidden guns, quick glances. More cloak-and-dagger.
Bulk goods though? Different story.
Tons of electronics? Dirt-cheap Chinese imports.
Tons of organic produce? Same source—cheaper, faster, and better than Biotechnica.
Tons of armored tanks? Well... maybe that's pushing it.
Thanks to Night City's absurd customs regulations, importing something as innocent as tea legally cost five times more than smuggling it. And still, it sold cheaper than Biotechnica's synth brews—and tasted way better.
The black market thrived for a reason.
When selling something guarantees profit no matter what, it's probably illegal.
But in Night City? The law has a price. Pay your "Urban Small Vendor Protection Fee" to the NCPD and you're golden.
Black markets could pop up anywhere, but one this flamboyant? First time Roqi had seen it.
*A black market inside a megabuilding atrium.*
The entire 32nd and 33rd floors had been converted into a bazaar. In 2077's economic collapse, this was the only place that still felt alive.
"Damn," V muttered. "Just… damn."
Even after all his time in Heywood with Jackie, this part of Rancho Coronado was new territory for him.
Languages, accents, currencies—all clashed together in a humming, chaotic underground economy. People came here to make or break fortunes, day and night.
"Now you see why I never moved here," Jackie chuckled.
The vibe was something else—but living here? Bad idea.
Especially when this megabuilding doubled as a whorehouse, gambling den, and ripperdoc hellhole.
The moment they entered, Roqi's sharp eyes caught one particular stall.
It looked quieter than the rest.
Tables stacked with secondhand tech—PDAs, BD wreaths, external optics, holo rigs.
And only one product type: *humans.*
That memory again—Roqi winced.
A little girl from the USSR.
White hair. Blue eyes. Porcelain skin.
She wasn't just "for sale." She was a high-end "original," listed at over a million eddies. Premium merchandise. That post vanished seconds after he saw it.
The seller said someone from Arasaka's coastal division probably snatched her up. The black market wasn't far from Arasaka Waterfront, after all.
"Hey, Lucky? You good?"
Jackie glanced at him, then at V. "You're not... buying a girl, are you?"
Jackie could understand a bro needing to blow off steam—even behind Mo'er's back.
But this?
Jackie caught a glimpse of the screen.
Rows of girls. None older than thirteen.
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
"Salva a tu pueblo…"
To the Valentinos—especially those loyal to Padre Sebastian Ibarra—trafficking women or kids was unforgivable.
Murder, extortion, robbery? Sure. All part of the game.
But child trafficking?
You'd be lucky to survive a week in prison.
Valentinos weren't saints, but even they had lines they wouldn't cross.
Roqi lowered the PDA.
His eyes were cold. Not rage—just empty.
Emotionless.
Lifeless.
The vendor smiled, still oblivious. "See anything you like? All high quality. Got a fresh batch coming in tomorrow. Want me to give you a call when they arrive?"
He thought Roqi was just shy. First-time buyer nerves.
His job? Break the tension. Seal the deal. One sale meant one fat commission.
But as Roqi slowly looked up, locking eyes with him, Jackie suddenly stepped forward.
"!?"
Jackie rubbed his eyes—old habits die hard, even after a full ocular replacement.
But then—
"Lucas?"
Jackie squinted.
"Lucas!?"
The man flinched, spun around—too late. Jackie had him by the arm.
"It is you! Shit!"
Jackie stared, his face a mix of joy and disbelief.
"You..."
Roqi approached, hands in pockets, flowing white tang jacket and RGB katana sheath giving him the look of a street ronin.
"Friend of yours?"
"Yeah. Grew up on the same block," Jackie replied, smiling faintly. "He moved to Pacifica when we were like... eleven?"
Pacifica. A no-man's land.
More chaotic than Heywood in some ways—Voodoo Boys, Animals, rogue Valentinos, splinter 6th Street cells. Even NCPD avoided the area.
Jackie hadn't been back in years. They'd lost touch.
"I remember him," Gustavo said, stepping up, scanning the surroundings. "Been a while."
"Hey... yeah. Hey. Good to see y'all," Lucas replied awkwardly, nodding as he rubbed the back of his head.
"Who you working with now? What are you hauling?" Jackie asked, peeking at the crates.
"N-no one. Just... freelancing smuggling gigs," Lucas muttered, slapping a hand over one of the boxes.
It was hot in here. The place was packed. Sweat streamed down his temples as he hoisted four boxes. His leg and shoulder implants groaned under the strain.
Obsolete models. Third-rate cyberware. Dekker brand—barely functional knockoffs.
V scanned him. Then gave Roqi a look.
Yeah, the guy was struggling.
"Well, uh... keep at it," Jackie mumbled, giving him a half-pat before stepping back.
"Man… time flies, huh? Ha... ha…"
He tried to smile at Roqi.
But his downcast eyes and tense jaw gave him away.
Roqi, V, and Gustavo stood in a half-circle. Silent.
Just watching.
"Uh…"
Jackie scratched his head. The last of his forced grin faded.
He used to think he was barely scraping by.
But seeing Lucas?
He finally realized how far he'd come.
"I've never heard of a smuggler without a fixer," Roqi said, cutting through the silence.
It was bullshit. No solo operator lasted long in Night City.
And those crates?
Yeah, they weren't "imported fruit."
In Night City, if someone tries to sell you an apple—
You gotta ask:
*Is that apple even legit?*-
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🤖 My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?
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