Roqi's guess turned out to be wrong—the call wasn't from Rogue, but from Regina Jones.
No surprise—it had to be a gig.
"Long time no see. How've you been?" Roqi answered with a smile. "Got a job for me?"
"You guessed it. A guy named Max Jones needs help. He might refuse, but if you don't step in, he's dead for sure," Regina said bluntly.
Steam? What steam?
Roqi couldn't help but think of a certain "cross-language pun," but wisely kept it to himself.
Max Jones?
Same last name as Regina?
Roqi raised an eyebrow, a mischievous look on his face.
"Max is a journalist… and a good friend of mine," Regina added. "I want you to bring him to me. If he resists, tie him up. I told you—he's stubborn as hell."
Roqi nodded, thoughtful.
Whether they were just friends or something more, the worry in her voice wasn't fake. Their bond clearly ran deep.
It sounded like they'd chosen different paths.
Regina used to work in media. Roqi didn't know the full details, but word on the street was this: don't be fooled by Regina's calm tone or her mild background. If you crossed her, you'd die a nasty death.
"Alright. Where is he?"
Roqi took the gig—it was life or death, and Regina had always treated him well.
"An old WNS broadcast building in the North Industrial District. He's holed up in there," she said, a little exasperated. "Bring him back safely, please."
"Of course," Roqi replied automatically. After a brief pause, he added, "But I'd like more details."
"Night City doesn't like people who stir the hornet's nest. And Max? He stirred all of them—and blew them all up too," Regina sighed. "There's a big bounty on his head. But me? I want him alive."
"We go way back to the days of exposing corporate scandals. We even ran a podcast together—about how Biotechnica's drones forced small farmers off their land. Ancient history."
"You changed careers?" Roqi guessed.
"Yeah. But what I do now isn't that different," she said lightly.
It wasn't.
As a journalist, she dealt in gossip and facts. As a fixer, she dealt in everything. But the skill ceiling? Much higher. Regina's reach and finesse went way beyond what most imagined.
"Max is still in the game. Too stubborn to even take my calls," she said, frustration and concern blending. "I'm afraid he thinks he can handle everything on his own. Like most wide-eyed idealists—thinking they're invincible."
"Maybe you can get through to him?" She placed her hope in Roqi. "If I can track him, others can too. Please, don't waste time."
"Relax. I'm on it."
Roqi could feel the weight behind her words.
To Regina, Max wasn't just an old friend—he was a comrade from the old revolution days. Maybe even more stubborn, more reckless than she had ever been.
He fought corporate tyranny by exposing it—dragging truth into the light.
That included the recent Maelstrom incident.
The Night City government had been trying desperately to cover it up. Any exposure would be a blow to its already paper-thin credibility.
If someone like Max made too much noise now, it could be fatal.
"I'm heading out," Roqi said, standing. He locked eyes with Mower, then patted Jackie's hand. "Rest up. I'll be back soon."
The WNS building was an old, crumbling tower at the edge of the North Industrial District in Watson—just one street away from the brutal, high-walled corporate aesthetic of Arasaka Waterfront.
The moment they reached the corner, they were hit by the stench of decay. This neighborhood had been rotting for years—graffiti, cracked concrete, weeds growing between tiles, and disabled homeless veterans huddled near garbage piles.
Honestly, a perfect place to hide.
Roqi looked at the flickering "WNS NEWS" sign above the building's rusted entrance and nodded.
"This is the place. Let's go in."
That was for Mower.
She took point. Her eyes flashed blue, and with a quick cyber-ping, she bypassed the building's front lock.
The power was still on, but the place was circling the drain.
The lobby was deserted. Only a loud, looping TV ad echoed through the silence.
Mower walked to a nearby terminal and began typing.
"Security system's still running. Just restarted recently," she said. Then she pulled up the camera feed. "Anti-personnel mines and turrets. Someone came ready."
"Has to be Max," Roqi said.
Those were clearly his defenses. But against real assassins, they were barely speed bumps.
WNS—World News Service. At one time, the biggest news network on the planet.
They had offices in nearly every city. Most were small—just a few rooms, some supplies, maybe one or two staffers, and a direct telecom uplink to regional HQ.
But this tiny layout made them unbeatable in information gathering.
Since the early 2000s, they had reporters in every war zone—from Central America to the Korean Peninsula.
First, they sold intel to the highest bidder. Then, they launched their own media channels—and became a media empire.
But like most American media, they ended up under the thumb of massive corporations. Just look at Channel 54—where even the news got filtered and twisted.
By the 21st century, the FCC had become so corrupt it decided who could speak and what got aired.
You could rot, but you couldn't speak the truth.
That's why Roqi hadn't watched TV in years. The guests were absurd, the experts moronic—truth didn't stand a chance.
This building had once been a beacon of truth.
Now, it was just a mausoleum.
"Check this out," Mower said, calling him over.
She pulled up an untitled document—like end credits from an old show.
There were two names: Regina (producer), Max (editor).
Most important files had already been deleted or moved. But occasionally, scraps like this survived in forgotten corners.
June 6th, 2070 – 7 PM.
Global News Network. Anchor: Nari Bly.
Headlines:
Sacramento was carpet-bombed last night. Casualties rising.
Russia provides "humanitarian" aid to Night City—analysts say it's just weapons.
Texas Free State closes borders to Night City refugees.
It was a teleprompter script—news text for anchors reading on camera.
"The Unification War wasn't over yet," Mower reminded him.
She'd never forget those years. At fifteen, she'd already completed Militech's supersoldier program.
The war between NUSA and the Free States had turned California into a battleground.
Night City was flooded with refugees. Survival rates were worse than the 10% who escaped from South America.
Sacramento had been flattened. Even after the war, it never got the corporate aid Night City had.
This news broadcast? One of WNS's last acts of defiance.
Everyone listed in those credits had once fought for truth.
October 24th, 2074 – 7 PM.
Global News Network. Anchor: Nari Bly.
Headlines:
Cyberpsycho rampage in Kabuki—three dead.
Earthquake in Italy—98 killed.
President Myers proposes Militech deployment to protect Night City—met with harsh criticism from NCPD Chief.
Even in 2074, WNS had held the line.
Four years after the war, President Rosalind Myers still wanted to "save" Night City.
But the NCPD? Their Chief had already become just another corporate puppet.
Who benefited from keeping Night City "independent"?
The megacorps.
Night Corp, Arasaka, Militech, Biotechnica, Petrochem—they were the real bosses.
Even Militech, despite its NUSA ties, couldn't dominate Night City alone.
The corps had taken everything—and now, they wanted to silence truth itself.
That must've been when Regina walked away.
Because she'd realized something:
News couldn't save Night City.
Mower glanced at Roqi. He looked grim. She reached out—ready to comfort him.
But then he smiled.
"I used to think this world was always this bleak. Turns out—hope and light did exist once."
Suddenly, the building's PA system crackled to life.
"...a grenade blast went right through my leg," a deep voice said.
"Same here. I got blown up too," another replied—higher-pitched.
"Just a homemade IED."
"Yeah. We weren't even out of ICU, and they came filming us—for PR."
"Show was called 'Blood Sacrifice,'" a third voice—smooth, professional—joined in.
"Right. They gave us top-grade implants, elite care. Even board members showed up..." said the second voice.
"Then packed up, left—and took the implants back?"
"Exactly. Replaced them with this gen-one junk," the first said bitterly.
"They used us up, tossed us aside..."
"It's okay. I understand..." said the third voice.
Then—silence. Static buzzed, and the feed cut out.
Roqi and Mower looked at each other, reading the same thought.
It was a hidden recording—an exposé.
Two wounded vets. Betrayed. Used for corporate PR, then abandoned.
In Night City, every corp claimed to treat its vets with respect.
But the alleys were full of crippled, forgotten soldiers.
Those who could fight became mercs. The rest begged for scraps.
Roqi had met many—vets asking for just a few eddies to last another day.
And they always thanked him like he was a saint.
A good person.
He wasn't.
But in their eyes, he was.
Because their lives had already been ruined. Things couldn't get worse.
Nobody gave a shit whether they lived or died.
Even Mower—once a supersoldier—had just been corporate property.
"I hate corps," Mower muttered, pouting.
"It's okay."
Roqi cracked his neck and fingers with a satisfying pop.
"I hate them too."
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