You can learn a lot about a city just by sitting still. And I had time to kill before I could set out.
That's all I did. For hours. Just sat on a bench in Memorial Park, blending in. Watched the world spin through its cycle. AVs slicing the skyline, corpo interns chain-smoking crap that had to be pure cancer, NCPD patrols walking like they owned the damn air, waving around heavy artillery. Made me stress out a little.
But it wasn't peaceful. Not by my old-school standards. Not even close.
I saw two corpos leap off the Arasaka tower. Probably brought the wrong coffee or missed a report. Clean-up crews had them bagged in under five minutes.
A couple of kids were running around with robot dogs. Those things probably cost more than half my organs.
I needed a foothold. Not some flashy break or dumb luck, something real enough. Food, shelter, money. I wasn't about to dive full merc or run into gangland for a few eddies just to get smoked before the week's out.
My edge was simple: I knew how to work. Hands, tools, instinct. No chrome, no hacks. Just memory and focus. That still meant something, even in a city obsessed with shortcuts.
I waited for the sun before I moved. Didn't feel like dawn—just a shift from pink neon to pale gray haze. The crowd thickened fast, and I slipped out without anyone noticing.
I walked with no particular aim, steering clear of shady alleys. Hunger was creeping in, but nothing serious yet. Some stalls even smelled decent, even if they were probably 90% plastic.
Less corpo presence out here. Fewer eyes. Buildings lost their shine, turned into stacked rebar boxes smothered in graffiti. The air smelled like old rubber, burnt coolant, and piss.
That's when I saw it, wedged between a shuttered minimart and a graveyard of busted vending machines:
"Sprocket & Wires" scrawled in red paint across a crooked metal sign.
A camera tracked my movement from outside. Good. Meant someone was home.
Garage door half-open. No digital signage, no scrolling ads. Just the sound of someone working.
That meant the place was still breathing. Good sign.
I stepped under the doorway but didn't go all the way in. No sudden moves. Just squatted under the frame.
Inside, a banged-up black Quadra hung mid-air on a lift, with a bent frame. Sparks flared beneath it, like welding jazz. A middle-aged woman was bent over the engine, sleeves rolled, arms covered in faded tattoos and oil. Bandana over her face, hair tied back. Huge cyberware fingers shifted mid-motion into a standard chrome hand with a soft hiss. Specialized stuff.
She moved with the kind of confidence that comes from doing something a thousand times without screwing it up. Or maybe it was the chrome doing the heavy lifting—it didn't matter. Things got done here.
She stood up, half-turned, hand behind her back, probably gripping a gun.
Cameras watched from every angle.
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. Fuck off."
"Not selling," I said, raising my hands slightly. "Looking for work."
She paused. Straightened. Faced me fully.
Her eyes were sharp. Not startled, pure focus. Probably scanned me. Eyes looked fake and plastic.
"Yeah?" she said. "You honestly don't look like you know shit. Sure you didn't get lost? What's your pitch?"
I shrugged.
"Figured you could use a pair of meat hands. Cheap."
(I wiggled my fingers a little. Genuine, organic hardware.)
She studied me for a beat, then wiped her hands on a rag and stepped closer. Tool-fingers folded neatly into flesh with a snap.
"You ever actually used your hands?" she asked. "Or just figured it out on the walk over? Maybe jacked a training shard and suddenly think you're hot shit?"
"Depends. You want someone who knows every inch of that Quadra, or someone who doesn't break things and follows instructions?"
She leaned against a support beam, arms crossed. Grease accidentally smudged across one of her tattoos.
"I don't train strays," she said. "Not my job to babysit."
"Good," I replied. "Not my thing to waste people's time. Bye then."
I slowly took a step backwards toward the exit.
She hesitated. Then jerked her chin toward the corner.
"Old Thorton's been running hot. Filter's probably clogged. Line's dripping. Tools are in the blue drawers by the car. Don't touch anything else."
"Got it."
Cheap labor's hard to pass up. Judging by the mess in here, she needed it.
The car was as expected, neglected, dirty, leaking fluids I couldn't even name. I didn't dive right in. Just observed for a couple minutes, trying to figure out how cars of the future were different. Turns out, not by much.
Fuel line had a clean split near the mount. Filter was gunked up beyond belief. Definitely not gasoline, whatever it was, it reeked. Easy fix either way. I'd seen worse.
Drawers were chaos. Tools half-sorted, metric mixed with imperial. No smart tech organizing it. I would need good eyes to find anything fast.
Fine by me. No rush.
Grabbed a ratchet and filter wrench that fit by eye. Righty tighty, lefty loosey. Swapped the line, cleaned the housing, replaced the filter with a matching one from a dusty bin. I was wiping my hands when she came over.
"Done?"
"Yeah."
She checked under the hood. Ran her chrome finger along the new line. Gave it a tug, also probably scanned it with her optics. In-game scans did the most random shit from tracking tire marks to accurately getting the cause of death from corpses.
"You didn't overcrank the clamps," she said. "Most gonks think tighter's better."
I didn't reply. Let the work speak.
"You ever solo a block rebuild? Lay down decent paint? Any hidden tricks?"
"No. But I don't get in over my head. I can handle a thousand little jobs like this."
She nodded, thoughtful. Then turned away, talking as she walked.
"Live nearby?"
"Homeless."
She sighed so hard, bandana over her mouth strung like a sail.
"Room in the back used to belong to a guy who worked here. Probably flatlined by now. It's damp, dusty, and stinks. But it's got a lock and a bed."
I stayed quiet. Better than the street. Still wasn't about to sleep there without checking she wasn't some psycho trafficker or associated with those.
"You want it, you work," she continued. "Shop floor, deliveries, cleanup. I don't pay on time, won't feed you unless you earn it, and if you touch anything without asking, I'll shove your jaw into the lift controls and let it ride until you're dead enough."
"Understood."
Easy rules said rudely.
"You got a name?"
"Caelen."
"Fine. I'm Sprocket."
She nodded toward a dirty mop leaning on the wall.
"Start with the floor. I think even a half-brained gonk can manage that."
The mop clunked softly across the stained floor, dragging black streaks that probably hadn't been cleaned in years. A job's a job. Shelter's worth it.
Sprocket & Wires. So Wires was a person. What a genius I am.
Sprocket didn't hover over me, but she was always listening. Even while welding, I felt her tracking my rhythm. Cameras watching everything. Probably had a bullet ready if I acted stupid.
I liked that. This wasn't some half-assed chop shop. Real money moved through here.
Work was quiet. No music, no small talk. Just the sounds of metal, tools, and traffic outside.
Maybe an hour in of doing menial labor, she called out: I wasn't done cleaning but seems like Sprocket though I did decent enough.
"Grab the bin behind the stack. Sort through the parts. Toss anything cracked, melted, or smells like fried wiring into a pile."
I nodded. Basic stuff.
In Night City, silence isn't a weakness. It's survival. You don't ask what you don't need to know.
The parts bin was a graveyard. Melted modules, blown fuses, cracked servos. Some bits still had engravings, and looked like remote interfaces if I had to guess. Most of it was junk, but a few pieces were salvageable in my eyes. Sprocket clearly didn't waste anything. Frugal.
I was halfway through when, suddenly the cameras shut off, becoming limp and staring at the floor without any sign of them having power.
Hacked.
Then a knock. Three taps, two pauses, two more.
Sprocket froze mid-job. Wiped her hands and walked to the panel. Lowered the jack on the Quadra
I stayed in the back, a knife I picked from the tools tucked into my waist. Just for safety.
Her shoulders were loose, but her stride was different. Careful. Tense.
She hit the holo button with the side of her fist. The door creaked open halfway.
A man walked in.
Tall. Thin. Chromed out of his mind. What stood out was that he had a third glowing red eye right under his left one. Wore a heavy old coat that hid his whole frame. Hands in his pockets. Small smile on his face.
Sprocket didn't greet him.
"Morning. How are you feeling lately?" he asked. Voice smooth. Practiced non-threat. Corpo.
He glanced at me, then back to her. Probably scanned me, saw nothing. Even if he had thermal vision, seeing the blade in a pocket is less likely than seeing my cock through my pants. Lucky him.
"Cut the bullshit," Sprocket said. "What do you want?"
"Need a fix."
Her eye twitched slightly. Tension.
"No riddles."
"Van outside. No tags. Running hot. Core's rattling. I want it quiet, within the hour."
She folded her arms.
"Gonna explode? Anyone gonna jump me?"
"Just personal stuff inside. Can you do it?"
"I need to see it."
He hesitated. Eyes flared orange, probably messaging someone. Then nodded.
"Alright."
She glanced at me. No warning. Just checking I was on the same page.
I nodded.
"Drive it in," she said. "Slow."
The van rolled in. A matte black Militech of some kind. Reinforced panels, mesh wheels. Engine wheezed like a smoker on life support. Clearly repurposed by someone who knew just enough.
He parked center bay. Killed the engine. Didn't move till Sprocket waved him out.
He leaned against the wall. Hands seemingly never left his coat.
Sprocket popped the hood.
"Who tuned this thing?" she muttered. "Wiring's cooked. Someone tried to boost output with tape and hope."
Guy kept watching. Not the van. Not her. Me.
Sprocket turned.
"Caelen. Get the clamp light. This one's a two-person job."
I handed it over and crouched across from her. Watched the parts.
Fucker was level 100 boss of staring.
The van was wrong. Heat scars, missing plates, no serials. Even had bullet holes. Sloppy cleanup job. Stolen, for sure.
Sprocket worked fast. Too fast.
"Core's cracked," she muttered. "Might run another day. Maybe less."
"What do you need?"
"Short brace. Mesh wrap. Top shelf."
I grabbed them. She worked fast. Her hands moved like a blur.
Too quiet.
The guy still hadn't moved.
That wasn't patience. That was discipline. Someone who'd done worse before.
We stabilized the core. She flushed the coolant, patched a frayed cable. Closed it up.
"All set," she said. "Won't explode. You're good. Rush fee applies."
He nodded. Eyes flashed blue. Payment sent.
"If it breaks down," she said, "don't come back."
"Appreciated."
He turned to leave. Paused. Turned to Sprocket.
"You sure you want to stay here? We could give you a real place."
"No."
"Worth a try."
He drove out. Slow, probably not to break the van any further.
Garage door clicked shut. Sprocket let out a breath. Flipped the cameras back on.
"If he ever comes back," she said, "charge triple."
She added:
"In this business we don't think, Caelen. We fix. You need cash right?"
She walked to the back. Came out with a bundle of eddies. Physical cash. Clean.
Counted out 120 eurobucks and slid it to me. Seems like this job paid well, or just this client did.
"Rule's simple, make sure they leave before something starts leaking. Oil or blood."
"Want me to torch the lift tray?"
"Don't take too long."
She tossed me gloves and a cleaner tab. Headed to the back.
A few minutes later, she returned. New clothes. More clean, tattoos mostly covered. Car keys in hand.
"Let's go."
"Where?"
"Food. I'm starving."
"To where?"
"Nearby. I'll pay for the CHOOH2, you buy the food."
She slid into her Quadra. Gestured lazily at the passenger seat.
Mom always said don't get in strange cars. But she'd had plenty of chances to screw me over. She even paid me. Either she's a genius manipulator or we're cool.
Too early to tell.
"Nah, I'm good."
She lowered the window.
"Your stomach's been louder than the lift. Get in, you fucking gonk."
Ah. She's just a grumpy old lady who actually gives a damn.
I got in. Garage door closed behind us. I made sure of that.
The car made weird noises sometimes, but ran smoother than it looked. No music. Just the road.
I think we'll get along.