"What did you just say? Say it again."
V took a step forward, cornering Lukas, who reflexively raised his hands in front of his chest to shield himself.
"S-Snake Nation!"
The name shot out of Lukas's mouth like a curse—one Roqi and V knew all too well.
It was because of them that V had brought Roqi to Night City.
Is this one of those stories where old enemies suddenly reappear?
No, it wasn't that cliché.
But one thing was the same—Snake Nation, and certain people from the Buckler family, had indeed betrayed them both.
Roqi, having lost his memory, wasn't clear on the details. But from V's casual talk, he'd pieced together the basics: both of them had opposed Buckler's absorption into Snake Nation, and in doing so, made enemies on the other side.
It ended predictably—V got ambushed, Roqi saved him, and the two of them escaped into the Badlands amidst a flurry of explosions.
That last job with Jackie? It had been V's final gig under the Buckler name.
Nomads were divided into seven major factions—Snake Nation, Aldecaldos, Jodes, and others. Each Nation had multiple tribes, and each tribe had families.
Nomads always traveled as family units.
Panam Palmer's family, for example, was part of the Aldecaldos.
Roqi and V had belonged to the Buckler family—an independent group not aligned with any of the seven Nations.
After their legendary leader, Serita Buckler, passed away, the family collapsed in spectacular fashion—kind of like Shu Han after Zhuge Liang died. The phrase "no generals left, even Liao Hua leads the charge" felt painfully apt.
Each new leader lasted less than two years. One even died in a skirmish with the Wraiths. V had held a grudge against them ever since.
Indecisive leadership. Mismanagement. Failed contracts.
While others rose, Buckler fell.
Trent Buckler—Serita's grandson—had been the first to oppose the merger with Snake Nation. And the first to walk away when it went through.
He, like Roqi and V, was too young to change anything.
So the once-mighty Buckler family handed its legacy over to vultures—those who'd always coveted the carcass of the dying giant.
Think this is the part where the prince returns and reclaims the throne?
Sorry. Not that kind of story.
Roqi thought the whole affair reeked of corporate mergers. Same smell, different vultures.
"Hah. Snake Nation? What new pile of shit have those bastards stepped in now?" Roqi muttered, arms crossed, waiting for the fireworks.
"I-I-I wasn't part of that deal… I swear…" Lukas stammered.
He felt like the universe was out to get him.
Sure, the Scavs were working with the Wraiths and Snake Nation. But he had just been handling classic smuggling—none of the blood-soaked stuff.
If you asked him about Scav operations, he could give you a whole presentation.
For example—some biotech corps needed live human samples to test cybernetic penile implants. Fresh cadavers or actual people, either worked.
Or when a corpo kid needed a new liver? Just kidnap and import a few high-quality children for high-end transplants.
Sure, implants affected the body. But by 2077, gene meds were top-tier. Live organ transplants + anti-rejection drugs? Very popular among the rich who liked that "organic touch."
They even offered custom "field trials."
Like when a corp wanted to test a nerve gas in an urban setting? Just pick a slum. Perfect randomness. Real data.
Lucas could brag all day about that sort of thing. But when it came to Nomads—those dusty, unwashed bastards—he knew almost nothing.
Still, with V's glare drilling into him, he knew he had to say something. Fast.
"I-I-I know where the Wraiths trade with us! I know the location!" Lukas babbled, arms over his head. "They trade there—I swear!"
V's foot—moments away from kicking his head in—stopped short, thudding to the floor. His eyes burned with fury.
"Go on."
Lucas looked between V and Roqi and forced the ugliest smile in human history.
Roqi circled Wild Wolf Bar once but didn't spot Jackie. Instead, a few locals greeted him—the new rising badass.
He finally found Jackie on a rooftop above a squat three-story building.
Like most of Heywood, the place was all brutalism and zero style. Looked straight out of the late 20th century—function over form, plus some graffiti thrown in for flair.
Jackie and Gustavo leaned on the railing, arms crossed, lost in thought.
Or maybe just thinking about life's cruel jokes.
Jackie's thick brows were knit together. His forehead was lined. His jaw was clenched tight.
Anyone with half a brain wouldn't approach this walking pile of stormclouds right now.
Clack, clack...
Roqi's boots hit the rusted stairs. He stepped up beside Jackie and mirrored his stance—arms crossed over the railing.
"I was gonna let him go," Jackie muttered.
Roqi glanced over and saw the conflict in his eyes.
"I figured—he joined the Scavs. That was his choice. Same as me leaving Valentinos," Jackie said. Then paused. "No. I still can't forgive him."
"I know," Roqi said gently.
Jackie was classic Heywood—a "Son of Heywood," as the old street tales said.
Loyal, brave, honest, kind. A beacon of sunlight in Night City's darkness.
Yeah, he was loud, reckless, a little dumb sometimes—but always real.
To him, Lukas had betrayed not just a gang—but a family.
And worse, he'd joined the Scavs to kill his own people.
"Gimme a smoke, mano," Jackie said to Gustavo, his voice low and strained.
None of them were smokers. But in Night City? Sometimes you needed it.
"Here," Gustavo said simply.
He wasn't good with emotions. But when a brother hurt, he was there.
He flipped open a metal case covered in colorful gang tags.
Click.
The electric spark lit the flame.
Jackie stared into it, eyes unfocused.
Night City was like that.
Traffic moved. Neon danced. No one cared what happened—unless it messed with their eddies.
It never changed.
"Sorry…" Jackie said, taking a drag. "Wasted your smoke."
"It's nothing, mano," Gustavo replied.
Jackie dropped the cigarette and crushed it.
"¡Hijo de puta!" he hissed, grinding the butt into the rooftop until it turned to ash.
"Shit…"
Roqi winced at the frustration etched into Jackie's frame.
He always tried to turn enemies into friends. Always chased some fading dream of goodness.
But reality? Reality was ruthless.
"Hey, V," Roqi said through his Bluetooth. "You get anything? Jackie's not doing great."
"You did? Where?"
"Pacifica? Glen? You sure?"
"He said he can link us to a black market there? Screw that—snap his neck."
He hung up and sighed.
"He cracked. Says the Wraiths are working out of Glen and Pacifica. Doing trades. What do you think?"
Jackie didn't hesitate.
"Then let's go fuck them up."
"Yeah, that's the sitrep," Roqi whispered into his comm, peeking through a gap between cargo crates. "Got it. Over."
He hung up.
The sky was just starting to dip into orange—almost pretty.
They were at the edge of Pacifica and Santo Domingo, where abandoned Seaview projects met the warehouse jungle of Glen.
No corporations. No citizens. No cops.
Perfect black market territory.
Here, there was no single gang in charge. Valentinos, Scavs, even the Mox were here—hawking braindances and shady warez.
Tracking down Wraith activity? Took five words and some eddies.
No movie-level precision required. No exact times. Just follow the trail.
The Wraiths had been busy—pushing product everywhere.
Anything that didn't sell to corps got dumped into this secondary market.
Roqi and the crew? They were just here to wait.
The Padre, cautious but trusting, had given them the green light.
The missing civilians? The lost Valentinos? The Padre hadn't expected to save them.
This was a message: Don't touch my people unless you want to bleed.
Once they smashed the Wraiths here, the real mission would begin—clearing the gang from Haywood entirely.
Let NCPD chase justice. The Padre just wanted control.
A truck passed—a corp delivery.
Another—Tiger Claws.
This place wasn't exactly friendly, but it was always busy.
Then Roqi saw it—a truck he knew too well. The style screamed Wraiths.
It rolled into the underground market's side entrance and braked gently. Whatever was inside wasn't heavy.
The doors opened. A few nomad-looking guys jumped out and headed to the back.
"That's them. That's the Wraiths," V hissed, bloodshot eyes wide with fury.
"What're they doing?" Roqi muttered, raising his Ajax rifle and resting it on his shoulder.
He lowered his eye from the scope and focused on the container's rear.
The Wraiths cracked the latch with a rusty screech.
The doors groaned open.
Roqi's blood pressure surged.
Armed Wraiths.
And a pile of bound, gagged people—men, women, and children.
Blood. Piss. Feces. Oil. Water.
Every type of stain imaginable.
But none of it was funny.
Especially not the women—stripped naked below the waist.
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🤖 My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew?
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