17:15 PM | Call to Padre
My shirt is still half‑buttoned when I ping Padre. The old fixer reclines in the leather back‑seat of a vintage Galena, rosary beads clacking softly with each pothole and filtered sunlight painting his silver hair gold.
"V, hijo mío. Word says you've been stitching chrome like a saint on speed. Jackie never told me you wielded a scalpel."
"Jackie's too busy talking about empanadas," I grin. "I'm assembling a tight‑circle crew—Chrome Angels. We only fly jobs that keep the soul clean: no snuff, no human cargo, and no corpo black‑ops unless innocents are on the line."
Padre's brows lift. "Mercenaries with a conscience—rare birds in Night City." He rolls the rosary once. "What do you need from an old priest‑fixer?"
"Curated contracts that fit the halo," I say. "And your moral compass to keep us honest. Gigs funnel through you; if the stain is too dark, we walk."
He chuckles. "Halo? More like thermal katana painted white. Still—I like angels who remember the verses. You have my Rolodex."
He thumbs his agent and a secure invite slides across my HUD: Rogue (Afterlife) — Padre Endorsed.
"Rogue's private line," Padre says. "She respects my word when I attach it to people worth saving."
"Gracias. Chrome Angels won't forget their first patron."
Padre softens. "I'll also earmark a stipend from every Angel gig to the orphanage in Vista del Rey. Saints need patrons; children need saints."
I nod, throat tight. "Deal."
He winks. "Just remember—wings melt if they fly too close to Arasaka. Bend, don't break."
I smirk. "We're about to make Arasaka chase their own tail. First flight's a feint."
Padre laughs, low and warm. "Then may the Angels soar—and fall on the wicked like fire."
17:25 PM | Rogue Answers
Rogue picks up mid‑smoke in Afterlife's back office, half‑lidded eyes flicking over my holo avatar. "Padre vouched, so I'm listening, Mr. Nobody. He says you've got 'jobs for the soul.' Cute."
I outline the scheme: drop David's ruined Sandy at Charles Bucks' scav clinic in Kabuki, seed logs so Arasaka thinks Bucks performed a midnight swap.
Rogue exhales a ribbon of smoke. "Funny—had a stealth solo queued for that sort of skullduggery. Quiet type, optical camo, surgically precise." She pauses, studies my feed. "But you're volunteering?"
"I'm my own ghost," I counter. "Military‑grade thermoactive weave, sub‑7 decibel footfall. One‑man op."
Her eyebrow ticks up; she leans closer to her cam. "Army surplus or corpo prototype?"
"Home‑brew. Reverse‑engineered Osaka photonic mesh with Kiwi's secret sauce."
She whistles. "You're collecting legends, choom. Alright—solo off the roster, you're in. Send me the Sandy telemetry."
I push the file. Rogue's optics flicker as she scans. "Logs encrypted, metadata clean—looks perfect."
"Drop window?" I prompt.
"Bucks' trash bay, second‑level chute. Scavs unload unrepaired chrome there at 1800 sharp," she says. "Plant the Sandy, slot this 'fingerprint' malware into Bucks' nurse console." A thumbnail shard pings my feed.
"Side job?" I ask.
"Leeches his client list; I'm mapping Kabuki's supply chain. Harmless to you." She tries to fish further: "And that photonic mesh—full‑body, or just a cloak?"
"Trade secret," I grin. "No splash, no trace."
Rogue taps her holo. "VIP in Afterlife, effective now. Plenty of stealth runs coming—might need that mesh."
"Looking forward to cashing that drink ticket," I say.
She smirks. "Bring your halo—Night City loves a fallen angel."
17:35 PM | Booking the Birds
Call ends; I flick Delamain's fleet app. Two gleaming Excelsior cabs spawn on the map like obedient ducks in formation.
"Chariot's here, chrome‑queens!" I shout down the hall.
Kiwi saunters out first, rolling her new jaw like she's tasting the air. "Sending us home already? I thought you enjoyed iterative stress‑testing." She over‑enunciates, voice‑mod purring.
Rebecca follows, still rocking a disposable clinic gown two sizes too big and a pair of combat boots. "Yeah, Wing‑Wing—you did calibrate that bite radius to your own specs, right?" She pantomimes chomping my forearm. "Rawr."
I grin. "Hotel sheets, not surgical linen. Charge room service to the Chrome Angels' totally fictional corporate account."
Kiwi elbows Rebecca. "See? He's nothing if not accommodating."
Rebecca waggles her brows. "Too accommodating. Doc, one normal day off—without scalpels, syringes, or bullet holes. Is that so much to ask?"
"Night City definition of 'normal' is a statistical error," I sigh. Impossible to relax in this city. The irony tastes like antiseptic and adrenaline.
Delamain chimes over the lobby speakers: "Good evening, valued client V. Two Excelsior units have arrived. Complimentary anxiety mints included."
Rebecca snorts. "Heard that, Dela‑brain. Make 'em tequila‑flavored."
Kiwi tilts her head, jaw motors whirring. "Anxiety mints? What flavor is 'existential dread'?"
"Grape," I deadpan. "Now move before the AI starts charging idle fees."
Cabs dock at the private lift. Rebecca grabs a handful of disposa‑gloves from a supply cart—"souvenirs!"—while Kiwi syncs her HUD to the cab's mood‑lighting, turning the interior neon‑violet.
Doors hiss. Rebecca leans back out. "Jaw‑safe safe‑word is Ni‑Co‑la," she calls, finger‑guns blazing.
Kiwi adds: "Don't wait up—or do. Your stealth missions give me ideas."
The doors seal. Delamain's polite voice muffles: "Destination set: Cloud‑Nine Penthouse. Estimated arrival: ten minutes. Seatbelt usage mandatory for entities with detachable limbs."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, laughing despite myself. One day off, huh? File that under unlikely but worth dreaming.
---"
17:45 PM | Ghost Run in Kabuki
The Warlock idles three blocks north of Kabuki Market, exhaust dampers whisper‑quiet. I pop the hatch, shiver once as the mil‑spec photonic mesh floods over my coat—light bends, colors smear, I'm a rumor in the sodium haze.
Stealth bar maxed, I think—idiot grin forming. The rush hits like the first time I crouched in Skyrim's snow, longbow drawn, watching the unsuspecting draugr: one arrow, zero witnesses. Only now the bow is a suppressed Nova pistol and the dungeon is a scav‑reeking alley.
Approach
Rooftop parkour: magnetic palm pads kiss rusted vents, each landing <7 dB—holo HUD gives me a green "SNEAKY" icon I coded for kicks.Olfactory assault: stale fryer oil, cheap incense, ozone from busted neon—Kabuki's perfume.Heart rate: 58 BPM, steady.
Sliding down a fire‑escape, I spot Bucks' clinic—fluoro sign flickering BU _ _ S CL _ _ IC. Cameras? Two, fixed. A quick burst from my short‑range jammer freezes their feeds for sixty seconds.
Insertion
Rear trash gate sealed with a mechanical bolt—old school. My silent diamond‑bit saw eats through in ten seconds. Inside the refuse bay, flies buzz around half‑melted cyberware. Perfect cover.
I fish the scorched Sandevistan from a foil pouch, nestle it in a bio‑waste crate filled with defective optics, then thumb‑print Rogue's malware shard and slip it behind a nurse workstation panel. Green light: payload armed, client list siphon running.
Before leaving, I tag Bucks' logbook via RFID injector: "Procedure 742—Sandevistan removal. Client alive and well—installed stock Zetatech K2‑B "Agile" Sandevistan (baseline firmware v1.3)—parts unrecoverable. –Dr. C. Bucks".
Exfil
Back up the chute, roof‑run to the far block. Mesh cools down; I vanish into the crowd. Total mission clock: 44 sec.
Inside my skull, the Dovahkiin theme hums wildly—sneak archer strikes again.
17:46 PM | Confirmation
Rogue answers with the hiss of a lighter and Afterlife's bass throbbing behind her. "Drone feed shows Arasaka scouts already sniffing around Bucks. Under one minute, choom—that was lightning. Eddies tomorrow, or a favor better than cash?"
"I decided to speed‑run the quest—any‑percent, glitch‑free, stealth pacifist," I chuckle.
"Show‑off." I can hear keys clacking as she times me. "Merc with a heart and world‑record splits. Two‑fourteen flat. Take the fifty‑K anyway—tip for giving the suits tachycardia."
"If you insist. My ex‑wife always said I finish too fast; nice to see it finally pays."
"Speed's perfect when the payload lands. Afterlife bookies already running odds on 'Speedy V.' Think you can crack sub‑two?"
"Put ten on me: thirty‑second stealth steal, no dev glitches."
She snorts. "Cocky bastard. Credits wired." My HUD pings ₵ 50,000. "Buy your Angels some polish."
"Got 'em. Tell the bookies I'm just stretching."
"And, Speedy—don't give the corpos PTSD unless I get a cut."
"Wouldn't dream of it, boss."
"See you in Afterlife. First round's on you—no speed‑running the drink," she finishes, cutting the line.
I close the holo with a grin. Mission complete, loot collected, XP blinking—now where's my in‑game achievement? If only life had a pause menu.
17:52 PM | Cab Calls
Still buoyed by the speed‑run high, I thumb open the contact list.
Jackie first—video pops: he's elbow‑deep in taco meat, salsa on his cheek. "¡Órale, hermano! What's cracking?"
"Drop the carnitas, throw on something that isn't stained. I'm buying dinner—Embers Terrace, Corpo Plaza."
Jackie wipes his hands on an apron. "High‑rise romance, huh? Fancy suits and koi ponds? You sure they'll let a Heywood street rat in the door?"
"That's why Delamain invented tinted windows. Besides, new crew news—Chrome Angels. Tight circle, bleeding‑edge chrome, only gigs that keep the halo shiny."
Jackie barks a laugh. "Moral mercs? Hermano, I grew up brawling rent outta corpos; my soul's got duct‑tape on it."
"Yeah, but it's still beating. Think Robin Hood—but with smarter implants."
He grins. "Count me in. Just make sure the food's good and the politics come with salsa verde."
"Cab in five. Wear a shirt with buttons."
Next up: David. Lucy answers, welding goggles pushed up, a soldering iron parked in her ponytail.
"Dinner invite?" she repeats.
Behind her David flexes, spine LEDs scrolling a rainbow. "Testing latency—zero dropped frames!"
"Good. Bring the walking benchmark and your bandwidth queen. We're doing steak and strategy."
Lucy winks. "Make it two cabs—one for us, one for his ego."
David fires finger guns. "Hey! Also—update: Rebecca's brother, Pilar, wants to join Chrome Angels. Apparently word travels."
I raise a brow. "Rebecca neglected to mention while stealing half my glove stock."
David shrugs. "Sibling love‑hate. Yesterday she threatened to flash‑brick his neural link; today she's vouching for him. He's off installing a fresh Sandevistan—finally scraped the eddies."
I groan. "Nothing says 'welcome to the team' like emergency firmware patches."
Lucy laughs. "So tonight's boy‑band dinner?"
"Boys' out," I confirm. "Ping Pilar—if his Sandy doesn't cook him, seat's saved."
David smirks. "If it does, we'll bring the parts as tapas."
Delamain pings: Two Excelsiors dispatched. ETA: 8 min.Party assembling… with optional side‑quest DLC.
18:00 PM | Embers Terrace, Corpo Plaza
I reserve a corner table at Embers Terrace—linen napkins, koi pond, and a skyline view dripping neon. A Delamain cab deposits Jackie first; he steps out in a button‑down that still has the tag on.
"Chingón place, hermano. Hope they serve Birria."
"Only the thousand‑eurodollar kind," I laugh.
Jackie eyes the koi. "Wonder if they'll let me spear‑fish."
Five minutes later another cab glides in. David and Lucy emerge—David rolling his shoulders like the spine is part of him, Lucy's optics humming.
Jackie greets them with a friendly slap to David's back—scans the new chrome. "Military harness under a discount paint job? Figures V would hide a railgun in a lunch box."
David grins. "It pings as a bargain‑bin K2‑B, but inside? Corps would cry."
Lucy chuckles, then turns to me. "Sorry for crashing boys' night, but Arasaka drama's got me clingy."
"It's handled," I assure. "Rogue fed the sharks a decoy; you're off their sonar."
Jackie's eyes go wide. "Rogue? You're dealing with the queen herself?" He rubs his hands together. "Been dying to hit Afterlife VIP."
"Invitation's live," I say. "But tonight— steaks first."
David adds, "Falco's swinging by later. Something about traffic and a turbo thruster."
Jackie laughs. "Falco plus Pilar and tequila? That's a fireworks recipe."
Lucy shrugs. "I'll pack a fire blanket."
The maître d' arrives; we're led past the rippling koi to a secluded booth where menus glow with obscene prices. Time to eat like the moral mercs we pretend to be.
18:20 PM | Menu & Memories
Wait‑drones glide in, depositing lacquered menus that cost more than Jackie's truck. I barely taste food anymore—chrome test‑suites dull the palate—but the ritual still feels human.
Jackie flips pages, wide‑eyed. "Thinking Kintō Wagyu. Kids back in Heywood never gonna believe this." He chuckles, then sobers. "My viejo was a tyrant till I got big enough to plant him through a doorframe. Lucky compared to some." He nods toward Lucy.
Lucy shrugs, swirling water. "Arasaka labs weren't big on fathers. Just test scores." She taps her temple. "They'd jack fear sims into us—if we screamed, firmware got throttled."
Jackie exhales. "Chica… eso es brutal."
David runs a hand over his buzzcut. "Mom worked triples to keep me in school. I thought sending her to that ripper clinic would fix everything—turns out it was a scam chop shop. I don't even know if she was really dying. Guilt's a Sandevistan set to max."
An awkward hush settles. I lift my glass. "Mistakes are data. We suffer them, parse them, and—if we're smart—never push the same patch again."
Jackie snorts. "Philosopher‑doc. Alright, maestro, parse me a tequila flight."
Lucy smiles, tension easing. "Add a neurocalm chaser for David—keeps the guiltware from overheating."
I flag the drone. "Order doubles of everything. Falco's inbound—guy burns calories like jet fuel."
David's holo pings. "He's five out—something about turbo thrusters and a Tyger‑Claw roadblock." He rolls his eyes. "Classic Falco."
Jackie laughs. "We'll keep his birria warm."
Menus finalize; jokes fly about Wagyu versus "gentrified burritos," Lucy betting Jackie he can't pronounce foie gras, David threatening to hack the waiter drone for extra churros. By the time Falco's ETA counts down, the table hums with easy banter instead of ghosts.
20:00 PM | Toast to Tomorrow
Falco strides in right as the mains hit the table—dust‑dusted boots, aviator shades, and that perpetual engine‑grease cologne.
"Apologies, chooms. Tyger‑Claw checkpoint tried to tax me; I taxed their bumper instead." He claps my shoulder. "Thanks again for scraping me off the freeway last week—Owe you a clean getaway."
"Plenty more where that came from," I grin. "Even with Delamain, chrome Angels will need a human wheelman—Badlands dust, narrow alleys, AI hates improvisation."
Falco sits, eyes the koi. "I get paid per mile. But if you're covering materials on defensive chrome, count me in. My bankroll's in my engine block after the last upgrade."
"Members only pay parts cost," I assure. "We'll fit you with sub‑derm plate and anti‑whiplash augments—no stray‑bullet worries. We'll deduct it from jobs at cost."
Falco raises a glass. "Then here's to bulletproof seatbelts."
The table digs in. Between bites, more stories surface—
Jackie recounts racing a Valentino on a busted Caliente moped ("Still won—he blew a piston crying").Lucy confesses her first illegal net‑diver handle ("Pix3lPhant0m"—everyone groans).
Laughter peaks when Falco mimics David's spine LEDs—"Disco Stick incoming!"—prompting David to dim them in mock shame.
20:45 PM | Rebecca's SOS
My agent buzzes. Rebecca: "Bro over‑clocked his fresh Sandy, flat‑lined. Can you fix? I'll be at your lab in an hour."
I sigh. "Send vitals, keep him on coolant. See you soon."
Lucy winces. "Sibling love‑hate, told you."
David shrugs. "She'll hug him after she revives him, then shoot him for being dumb."
21:00 PM | Bill & Break‑up
The waiter drone hovers with the damage: ₵ 10,000. Jackie nearly chokes.
"Relax," I say, thumbprinting the bill to Chrome Angels R&D. "Consider it morale R&D."
Delamain pings—two cabs outside. Lucy and David hop into the first; the second rolls up, doors open… only for Jackie to pat the roof and wave it off so he can ride shotgun with Falco ("Shotgun—literally," Falco warns). The bewildered AI mutters a polite apology and motors away empty, no fare logged. That leaves exactly zero robo‑chauffeurs for me.
I chuckle, slinging my jacket. "Figures—I feed Delamain half my eddies and still end up driving myself." A thought flickers: No wonder the cars went rogue in that other timeline—overworked AI rebellion.
I head for the Warlock.
21:20 PM | Night City Drive‑By
Neon reflections strobe over the hood as I cruise the high‑road. Smog smells like melted glow‑sticks and burnt coffee. A twitchy junkie steps into the lane, shaking a prefab pistol at a trembling woman.
I swerve close, pop the passenger door—thunk. The junkie spins off into a trash pile. In the side mirror, the woman mouths "thank you," eyes wide.
"Car‑mageddon bonus," I mutter, rolling the door shut without stopping. "Five points for style."
The skyline glitters ahead; Rebecca's emergency awaits. Night City never grants pause screens—but at least the side quests are interesting.