James sat at the workbench with both pistols laid out in front of him, their frames opened like steel skeletons. A small lamp lit the surface in a tight cone, and the rest of the apartment fell into dim neon shadow. He was adjusting the internals—spring tension, trigger feel, grip balance—making the weapons fit his hands like they were grown there.
With his current technical skill, the work didn't even feel difficult. It was almost relaxing.
Almost.
Because Lucy had just finished showering.
And Lucy had decided he shouldn't be allowed to work in peace.
She slipped behind him like warm water, wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing against his back with the kind of casual confidence that made it impossible to pretend he wasn't affected. Her hair was still damp, soft against his neck. The smell of soap mixed with that faint metallic scent every netrunner carried, like ozone after a storm.
"Stop messing around," James said, trying—and failing—to sound serious.
Lucy's reply was lazy, sweet, and dangerous. "You do your thing."
Then she swung around and straddled his lap, sitting there like a clingy cat that had decided its favorite spot was exactly where you're trying to work. Her hair brushed his throat as she moved, and she nuzzled closer like she was doing it on purpose.
James set down his tools and exhaled slowly.
"It seems I'll have to deal with you first," he murmured.
He stood, lifting Lucy easily, and carried her toward the bed.
He didn't even make it halfway.
The doorbell rang.
Then a loud, childish voice yelled through the hallway like it owned the whole building.
"HELLO? ANYONE HOME? COME OUT AND PAY FOR YOUR DELIVERY!"
Lucy clicked her tongue, irritated.
She had finally gotten James where she wanted him, and now some random delivery clown had decided to interrupt at the worst possible moment.
You're really asking for it, she thought.
"Coming!" James called back.
He patted Lucy's backside once—half apology, half promise—then walked out and opened the door.
A familiar face stood there, holding a heavy package like it weighed nothing.
Rebecca.
She looked annoyed, like the world had personally offended her by forcing her to run errands.
But the second she saw James, her expression flipped like a switch.
Her eyes brightened.
Her mouth split into a grin.
"Why, it's you!" she said, delighted. "The Pancake Vendor!"
James sighed. "Just call me James. I changed professions."
"No wonder I haven't seen you these past few days." Rebecca nodded like this was an important tragedy. "I was thinking of dropping by a few more times. You clearly had talent."
She stepped closer, stood on her toes, and patted his arm with exaggerated effort, like she was examining muscle quality.
"I'm Rebecca," she announced proudly.
"Hello, Rebecca." James pointed at the box on the floor. "Can I inspect the goods now?"
"Of course."
Only then did Rebecca remember the actual reason she was here. She shoved the package forward like she wanted to be done with it.
James dragged it inside and opened it at the workbench. Inside were tightly wrapped parts, precisely packed and protected. He cut through the layers and began inspecting each piece carefully, turning them under the lamp.
Metal plating. Reinforced connectors. Micro-servos. Stress-tested joints.
Clean work.
Very clean.
Rebecca leaned on the doorway, watching with curiosity.
"By the way," she said, "what are you even making? My brother said it's for some kind of kinetic assist equipment."
"Your brother?" James asked, still checking the pieces.
"Oh." Rebecca grinned. "Yeah. He's your contractor."
James paused for a moment.
So it was like that.
A few days ago, he'd asked Lucy to post a commission on the dark web for specialized parts—high requirement, tight tolerance, no cheap substitutes. He hadn't expected the job to end up in the hands of this brother-sister duo.
But thinking about it, it made sense.
There weren't many tech experts near Japantown who could meet the standards he'd listed. If Pilar had the skills, he'd naturally grab the commission.
James could've built the parts himself, sure—but he didn't have the right materials, the right manufacturing tools, or the right chrome implants that made precision work safer and faster. Paying for convenience was simply smarter.
And this small box?
It wasn't small at all.
Its real value was tens of thousands of eurodollars.
More expensive than buying two guns.
That was why Pilar sent Rebecca to deliver it—someone street-hardened, someone who could defend it if things got messy.
Rebecca looked young enough to fool people at first glance, but she wasn't underage. She was in her early twenties—older than both James and Lucy—and she'd lived long enough on the street to develop instincts most people never got.
Normal thugs wouldn't stand a chance against her.
Whatever her body lacked in "growth," her presence made up for in raw attitude.
James finished inspecting the parts and nodded, genuinely impressed.
"Excellent," he said. "Everything's correct, and the quality is superb. Your brother's got serious skills. We can work together more in the future."
Rebecca puffed up proudly, like she was taking credit even if she didn't build a single piece.
Then she pointed at James suspiciously. "Why are you looking at me like that? Don't expect a discount. Pay the remaining balance properly."
James laughed. He didn't argue. Instead, he sent the transfer.
A notification flashed across Rebecca's optic.
Balance paid.
And on top of that—a five-hundred-euro tip.
Rebecca's mouth dropped open.
"That much?!" she blurted, suddenly glowing.
James shrugged. "Delivery fee. Thanks for the hard work."
For a moment, Rebecca looked almost shy, like she didn't know how to react to politeness.
"No trouble at all," she said quickly, waving it off. "No trouble."
It had been a long time since she'd met someone in Night City who didn't open with threats, insults, or a gun.
And she liked it.
Rebecca stared at James's face for a second longer than necessary, then grinned and sent him a friend request.
"Let's be friends, buddy. If you run into trouble around here, come to me. I'm a professional edgerunner." She pointed at herself proudly. "I'll give you a twenty percent discount."
James accepted. "Alright."
Rebecca waved. "I'm off. See you next time, Pancake Vendor."
"I told you not to call me that," James muttered as she walked away laughing.
He carried the box back to the workbench.
Lucy appeared behind him, wrapped in a blanket, barefoot on the cold floor, her hair still slightly damp. She leaned against his shoulder like she belonged there.
"Who was that?" she asked softly. "You looked like you were having fun chatting."
"A little girl…" James paused, correcting himself quickly. "No. She's older than both of us."
Lucy's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I didn't realize you were so popular with women."
Something sharp flickered in her iridescent gaze.
James, completely unaware he was stepping on a landmine, grinned proudly.
"Of course."
Lucy opened her mouth and bit his shoulder.
Not hard—just enough to leave a shallow mark.
Then, as if offended by her own bite, she licked the spot gently with the tip of her tongue.
James's breath caught.
"Now that you know how wanted I am," he murmured, lifting Lucy onto the workbench, "you'd better hold on tight."
Lucy did.
Too tight.
James froze for a full three seconds, eyes wide, lungs forgetting how to work.
Then he gasped like he'd been punched in the soul.
And Lucy paid for her crime immediately.
Even with a netrunner's cooling system, her body temperature kept rising. Her bio-readouts flashed warning after warning—heat overload, strain spike, emergency thresholds.
In the end, she had no choice but to force an emergency discharge, panting like her systems had been pushed past safe limits.
When it was over, Lucy lay sprawled on the bed, barely able to move a finger.
James looked down at her and snorted with mock arrogance.
"With my three 'James' powers," he said smugly, "suppressing a single Lucy is effortless."
Lucy rolled her eyes weakly, too tired to fight back.
Satisfied, James returned to the workbench and began assembly.
The blueprint data was etched perfectly into his mind. The process felt like building blocks—slot, connect, reinforce, lock.
Piece by piece, the equipment took shape.
Soon, a compact device sat in front of him like a finished beast.
A rocket pack.
Essential kinetic assist equipment for a true Pilot.
With it, you could double jump, gain height and distance, and slide across the ground like a bullet. With the right control, you could even run along walls, cut sharp angles mid-movement, and change direction faster than an enemy's aim could follow.
Paired with it was the other half of the miracle.
A grappling hook.
Launch. Anchor. Reel in.
Close distance, gain height, escape, ambush—whatever you needed.
Together, rocket pack and grapple could allow aerial drifting, movement that looked impossible until you saw it done.
Of course, only experienced Pilots could fully use this gear.
Rookies usually ended their first "drift" by crashing into a wall.
James couldn't build everything yet. Stealth systems, shield modules, phantom tech—those were higher tier. The knowledge wasn't complete.
But this?
This was enough.
The only missing piece now was power.
Pilot gear required serious energy output. James couldn't craft a nuclear battery like the Titan world used, but he didn't need to. Night City tech might not match interstellar civilization, but it still powered heavy combat drones and armored machines.
It would work.
He'd already asked Lucy to pre-order several military drone batteries.
They were supposed to arrive yesterday.
They still hadn't arrived.
Now that the rocket pack was finished, James's patience snapped.
He messaged the seller.
Waited.
The reply that came back made James frown.
In Night City, no surprises were the real surprise.
James stood, dressed quickly, and checked his holster. His modified Arasaka Kenshin rested against his waist like a promise.
Lucy lifted her head slightly, worry showing through her tired expression.
"What's wrong, James?"
"Some guy swallowed my deposit," James said calmly, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "I need to go have a 'talk' with him."
"I'll go with you," Lucy said immediately.
James shook his head.
"Don't be silly. Your legs are jelly right now." He pressed her gently back onto the bed. "It's a small issue. Rest. I'll be back before dark."
Lucy hesitated.
Then she nodded, but her eyes stayed serious.
"Keep communication with me."
"Of course."
James leaned down and kissed her.
Then he left, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Outside, the city rail line was nearby. It would take him close to his destination.
Still, he caught himself looking at passing vehicles—cars, bikes, drones skating above traffic.
Not having personal transport in Night City was inconvenient.
He texted Lucy while walking.
(How about we buy a Kusanagi CT-3X?)
A motorcycle felt right—fast, flexible, perfect for two people.
Lucy's mind instantly pictured it: riding along the coastline, neon reflecting off the water, wind cutting through city heat.
She hesitated anyway.
(Do we have enough money?)
(Used one's fine.)
James had spent a lot on the rocket pack and grappling hook. They hadn't earned anything recently. Money was tight.
(Go with what you think.) Lucy replied.
She trusted him.
(Then you start picking one out.) James sent.
Reliable dealers were rare. Finding a good one would take effort.
By the time their messages slowed, the rail had arrived at the industrial district in North Night City.
This place had once been a proud industrial center, built over old shelter infrastructure. It used to be full of engineers and logistics workers, full of ambition.
Then an earthquake hit.
Corporations pulled out.
Factories died.
The district rotted into a poor, isolated zone.
And in that rot, something worse was born.
Maelstrom.
The most dangerous gang in Night City—people addicted to replacing flesh with metal, chasing sensation through chrome and madness. Their obsession made the industrial district a nightmare.
But it also created business.
Old equipment. Abandoned tools. Forgotten routes.
Illegal braindance. Weapon dealing. Smuggling.
That was why James could buy military drone batteries here in the first place.
He stepped off the rail.
Buildings leaned like dying giants. Streets were full of homeless and unemployed people who looked through him like he was already dead.
The seller's address led toward the docks.
From a distance he heard ship horns and the low groan of cargo cranes. The wind carried salt, cutting through the industrial stink.
And over the port—like an insult—stood an Arasaka logo.
A newly built factory fortress behind walls more than ten meters high, sealed away from the district's chaos like wealth pretending poverty didn't exist.
Arasaka guards and combat drones watched every entrance.
James followed navigation to a warehouse entrance.
A spider-skull pattern marked the wall—Maelstrom territory.
Pedestrians avoided it instinctively.
Several Maelstrom members stood around a burning barrel, their bodies twisted by cyberware. Half their faces were replaced with crimson metal plates. Their limbs weren't limbs anymore—just machines shaped like limbs.
They looked less human than the gang's own banner.
Some stared blankly, still deep in the sensory haze of black-market braindance.
They didn't notice James at first.
Because the real defense wasn't them.
It was two old turrets, tracking motion with lazy menace.
James glanced at them and judged it instantly.
With his strength and speed, dismantling them would take one second.
He raised his voice.
"Hey. Six Eyes here?"
The Maelstrom members turned their heads, faces struggling to form expressions that didn't look sick.
"Looking for Six Eyes?" one of them grinned, teeth sharpened like saw blades. "Heh heh. He's inside. Go in."
"Thanks," James said.
The Maelstrom guy laughed louder. "Thanks? Should I say 'you're welcome'? Hahaha!"
James didn't answer.
He walked toward the warehouse door.
And the real conversation was about to begin.
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