Chapter 54: One Day, They'll Look Up to Us
"You seriously aren't going to see Vick?"
Rhys was getting out of the car beneath the Megabuilding in Arroyo. He looked at Maine and Jackie. "I'll go tomorrow or the day after. I've got another call to take that's going to eat up some time."
He smiled, adding, "We're free for a few days, right? Time's not a problem. Besides, I'm barely chromed up. No need for an emergency trip to the ripperdoc."
Maine nodded, resting his arm on the window frame. "Fine, your call. But what about your weapon? That katana's trashed, right?"
That was the sticking point. That thermal katana had been perfect—at least an Epic-tier blade in game terms. The world of 2077 was filled with unique weapons, but Rhys hadn't been a melee player and wasn't a lore master. Still, he knew of one legendary blade: the Byakko, or 'White Tiger'—jokingly called Wakako's secret, her passionate love. It was a favorite among katana-focused players, and even after later patches, it remained a top-tier weapon thanks to its sheer speed boost after kills, making it a natural fit for Sandevistan builds.
But given his current relationship with Wakako, she wouldn't just hand him the Byakko. So, maybe he should have a custom piece commissioned? The Arasaka thermal blade was deadly, but it lacked utility. Rhys needed something designed for a Solo-Netrunner hybrid: a blade that could aid in infiltration, maybe shoot a grappling hook, integrate a radar scanner, or even combine gun and blade tech.
"I've got an idea. I'll hit up Pilar later. See if he can brainstorm a concept for me," Rhys said.
Every seasoned merc was a weapon specialist in some capacity. You couldn't run to a tech for every little scratch on your gear. Pilar, in particular, was excellent. Wakako herself respected his technical ability, which meant he could have been a top corpo techie if he hadn't chosen the street. Rhys remembered Susan saying that modern weapons hadn't fundamentally improved much over the last fifty years. They looked flashy, with all the smart-targeting features, but the actual punch hadn't changed much. The corporations had monopolized the arms market, leading to flashy aesthetics, higher prices, and downgraded quality. That's why so many classic weapons from the past were still top-tier in the game. It was better to pay a good engineer like Pilar to build something custom.
"Alright, we're out," Maine said, accepting the plan.
"Cool. I'm going up to crash. We'll link up later tonight." Rhys was utterly exhausted. The adrenaline was gone, leaving him with a deep-seated fatigue. The 'Potential Overdrive' skill squeezed every drop of energy from his body, leaving a lingering exhaustion, though it wasn't clear if it was stimulating cellular breakdown or just pure exhaustion.
Rhys watched Maine and Jackie drive away, then headed upstairs. He walked into his apartment and collapsed onto the sofa. After a moment, he forced himself up, bought a synth-drink from the dispenser, and took a long swig.
Then, he made a call. After a few seconds, the screen connected.
Susan sat in an office chair, framed by digital displays. Her hair was pulled back, and she was watching him intently. "Why are you calling me?" she asked.
"I could ask you the same thing about your email," Rhys countered, leaning back on the sofa, nursing his drink.
"Just celebrating, of course. The rising star of the edgerunner world. Future big shot of Night City," Susan said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Rhys rolled his eyes, but a warmth spread in his chest. Her email had been full of genuine worry, but now, face-to-face, her mouth was back to its sharp, unforgiving default.
"I'm serious, Susan. I'm exhausted. If you can't talk straight, I'm hanging up."
Susan raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "What, got too big for your britches already?"
"I read the email. I know you're worried. But I'd rather hear you say it than read it," Rhys said softly.
The excitement, the thrill of the crew, was gone. He was alone now, exhausted. He missed the familiar chaos of the Mox. Lizzie's Bar was home, the place he'd spent five years.
"..."
"Your stunt made the news, Rhys. Even in a half-day, the rumors are spreading and getting wilder. They're saying you took out over a hundred Wraiths single-handed, that you can wipe out a whole gang. But I don't know what to do."
Susan's voice softened. "If we link you and your new reputation to the Mox, even those maniacs in the Tyger Claws would have to think twice before messing with us. The low-level Claws are psychos, but the ones running the show are businessmen, just like me."
"But linking your name to ours would ruin your reputation," Susan said, taking a shaky breath. "It was a joint decision—mine and Korna's. We asked Rita and Anna, too. Rita was furious, said we were crazy. But Anna... she agreed."
"The Mox, Rhys... what do they really think of us? The fixers, the gangs, the mercs?" Susan's face twisted in self-mockery. "We're nothing but a bunch of whores who banded together for mutual aid, a record shop selling dirty braindances."
"..."
Rhys ran a hand through his hair, picked up his cap from the table, and put it on, tilting the brim back to show the Mox logo—a pink and black skull with two little axes. He grinned.
"I was raised by those people. What's there to be ashamed of? You worried I'd be embarrassed?"
Susan paused, then lowered her head, muttering. "Fine. I get it. I'll make sure to work you to the bone."
"Susan."
"Spit it out."
"I'm going to change that," Rhys whispered.
"..."
"One day, when people talk about the Mox, they'll speak with respect and fear. I promise you, I'll make that happen."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it. I'm hanging up. I've got work to do," Susan said, and abruptly cut the connection.
Rhys just smiled. A hard shell over a soft heart. That was Susan. She and Korna were the closest people he had in this city. They were the ones who raised him. He knew where his roots were. Just as he'd told Maine—he would always be Mox.
He put his drink down, intending to go to bed, but collapsed onto the sofa instead. Screw it. The sofa's fine.
(Meanwhile, at Lizzie's)
"What did Rhys say?"
"Shut up! Why are you asking? Did you deal with that imported synth-booze like I told you?"
In Lizzie's Bar, Susan glared at the provocatively dressed woman in front of her—leopard-print bodysuit, pink and red jacket, fishnets, and combat boots. Anna Nox, the Mox's top fighter. She was packed with high-end chrome, Sandevistan, and Mantis Blades. That katana was no toy.
"That can wait," Anna scoffed. "I say, let the kid come home. He made enough noise that the Tyger Claws will think twice before messing with him again."
"Honestly, I can't believe how good he is. Even I couldn't pull off that kind of solo op."
"Get out," Susan said curtly.
Anna pouted, turning to leave. "The little bastard's got a good heart. You didn't waste your time..."
"What did you just say?" Anna poked her head back in. A metal crate flew past her head.
"You've been raising him like a son for years! Everyone knows it! You're just too stubborn to admit it! I know you, Susan! If you didn't care, you would have handed him over to the Tyger Claws to smooth things over. You're cold, selfish, but complicated!"
"Get the hell out! If you don't want to end up like Rita, running security for the radio station in Dogtown, then get out!" Susan's roar echoed from the office.
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