Chapter 41: We Meet Again
By the time Kiwi arrived, it was already evening.
Like Rebecca, Kiwi rode a motorcycle. As Rhys and Jackie were chatting outside the container, they saw her approach down the highway, lean into a sharp turn, and execute a perfect drift stop, planting one boot on the ground. When she looked up, Rhys couldn't help but stare.
Damn, that was slick!
So fucking cool!
In that instant, Rhys's vague idea of buying a car evaporated, replaced by a burning desire for a bike. Sasha, Rebecca, Kiwi... they all rode bikes. And while Rebecca's riding style was... functional, Kiwi's was pure art. The red trench coat billowing, the yellow hair flying, her tall, slender frame... even the usually jarring red-and-pink iron mask somehow looked cool.
"Get in here! Just in time for dinner. We'll talk while we eat."
Maine heard the bike and came out, waving Kiwi over.
Kiwi kicked down the stand, mentally locked her bike, and walked towards Rhys and Jackie.
They all headed back inside the container. Dorio had already laid out food on the table—all sourced from the local vending machines. Pilar was pouring drinks: two large bottles of rum and various mixers.
"Rogue wants us to handle something out of town," Maine began once everyone was seated. "I'm sending you the details now. Take a look, tell me what you think." He distributed the mission file to the crew's agents.
Rhys immediately opened it.
[From: Rogue]
[Subject: Gig Available]
Got a job. Guy named Babs, manager at a high-end hotel, sent a crew out to the Badlands to buy supplies from some Nomads. Lost contact, status unknown.
That's not important. Has nothing to do with your mission. He doesn't give a damn about the crew; he just cares how long those high-grade vegetables the Nomads have will last. If he can't get this shipment, he'll have to buy from the corps. And you know corpo prices. Yeah, a few lives aren't worth the price difference to him.
So, Babs needs a crew to go contact the Nomads outside the city. Nomad contact info attached. Head out, find him, bring back a shipment of fresh produce. Job done.
Simple, right? Pays well, too. Ten thousand eddies, plus you can skim a small amount of the produce for yourselves. Small amount, understand?
This is the first gig I'm giving you, Rhys, Maine. Don't disappoint me.
Rhys finished reading, then looked up at Maine, surprised. "Wait, buy what? Fresh vegetables?"
"What's wrong with that?" Maine looked back, confused by Rhys's reaction.
"Nomads have fresh vegetables? For real?" Rhys swallowed hard. Fresh vegetables... Forget cooking, he'd eat them raw! Radiation? Contamination? Rhys didn't give a single fuck. Was the synthetic crap he ate every day any healthier?
Vegetables... Five years. Rhys hadn't tasted a single fresh vegetable in five years. They weren't something street-level people even thought about. You ate synth-slop from food machines or protein sausages from the corner store. Vegetables, fruit, real-beef burgers, non-GMO sushi – that was food for the rich.
But now, someone was telling him Nomads had access to it?
"Choom, have you ever even left the city?" Jackie asked, looking at Rhys curiously.
Rhys nodded. Jackie continued, "Then it makes sense you wouldn't know. I've been out to the Badlands a couple of times. How to explain... Nomads are people who reject city life. They live off the grid in the deserts and wastelands. Fresh vegetables? They eat fresh meat, too. Raise ducks, chickens... the bigger families even have cattle ranches. You know the Aldecaldos? Used to be the biggest Nomad nation, supposedly had millions of members back in the day."
"But don't think their life is easy," Jackie warned. "Growing your own food violates federal law. Everything grown on this land technically belongs to the corps. So Nomads are constantly clashing with corpos. And it's not just the corps; the Badlands are full of psychos who couldn't cut it in the city. There are gangs out there too, real crazies. You deal with them with guns and blades, nothing else."
"What do you mean? If I grow something in my own place, it's not mine?"
"That's right. You start a little garden in your backyard, they see it, they show up with guns, tell you you're breaking the law," Pilar added from the side.
No fucking sense... But that was the reality. The corps owned everything. The only 'freedom' you had was choosing how you died: as a corporate slave working until you dropped, fighting back and getting zeroed, or just eating your own gun to end the whole miserable charade.
"Ten thousand eddies... is that enough to split?" Rhys asked, getting back to the practicalities. The crew now consisted of Rhys, Maine, Jackie, Dorio, Pilar, Rebecca, and Kiwi. Seven people splitting ten grand... somehow, it felt low.
Maine looked at him, amused. "You're getting spoiled already."
"You know, most rookie edgerunners are lucky to get gigs that pay a few thousand. We're pulling six-figure jobs now. That's pretty damn good."
"Ask Kiwi if you don't believe me." Rhys was new to the game; it was normal he wouldn't know the rates.
Rhys turned to Kiwi.
She nodded. "I've run with a lot of crews before I went solo. He's right. Most gigs are high-risk, low-pay, full of bullshit."
"Alright then. When do we leave?"
"Not tonight. Can't leave the city after dark. Tomorrow. Rogue already sorted the paperwork for us. We head out during the day," Maine said.
He paused, thinking. "Only problem is... this gig looks simple, but the Badlands... lots can go wrong out there. Sasha's not here. If we run into the Wraiths without a deckhead... could get ugly. We'll have to steer clear of them."
Kiwi immediately spoke up. "Stealth and reconnaissance aren't my specialties. I'm built for combat and demolition."
"Should we hire another netrunner just for this gig?" Dorio suggested.
Hearing this, an image of iridescent hair flashed in Rhys's mind. He was about to speak—
But Kiwi beat him to it. "I know someone. Can probably get her for eight thousand."
"Eight K? Not too expensive. But Kiwi, is she any good?" Maine asked. "If she's not skilled, she'll just be dead weight, taking a cut and causing trouble."
"She's very good," Kiwi stated confidently. "She just got to Night City from somewhere else, maybe two months ago. Doesn't know the scene yet, so she hasn't found a solid crew. I met her in Heywood."
"How does she compare to Sasha?"
Kiwi thought for a moment. "Not as well-rounded as Sasha-senpai. But when it comes to cracking systems, breaching firewalls, and data retrieval... I think she might actually be better."
In Kiwi's assessment, Sasha was a combat monster. You called her a netrunner, but she moved like a solo and fought like one too, tearing through security bots with her Mantis Blades. Then she'd hit you with Cyberpsychosis just to prove she was a deckhead. Sasha was a unique, terrifying hybrid, almost impossible to categorize. Definitely the most dangerous netrunner Kiwi knew.
But this girl... she was clearly academy-trained. Her skills, her knowledge—pure, high-level professionalism.
"Alright. Contact her. We leave tomorrow morning," Maine decided.
Dinner, drinks. The meal stretched late into the night. Around ten, people started peeling off. It was too late to travel, so Jackie planned on crashing in the container. But Rhys invited him back to his apartment. It was just for one night; the bed was big enough for two, or Jackie could take the sofa. Either way, it beat sleeping in a metal box. Good chooms share a roof.
...
The next morning, nine AM, Santo Domingo.
Outside the container hideout, Rhys stood watching a woman approach, a complex expression on her face. He just shrugged with a small smile.
"We meet again," he said.
She just pressed her lips together and gave a curt nod.
It was Lucy.