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🕑 Added 2025-07-01 16:44:46 +0000 UTCChapter 141: Intelligence +1
“Where’s Kuri Horu?”
The Voodoo Boys’ guy gave V and Jack Welles a sour look. Most Haitians in Night City weren’t exactly fans of city folk, and this one was no different. He scanned the crumbling, half-abandoned building with suspicion written all over his face.
With Kuri Horu dead, the place was being gutted and split up. The workers had mostly cleared out, scattered to Heywood and Santo Domingo. The operation was a hollow shell now, barely holding together.
“He’s dead. The biz has a new oyabun now.”
V spoke up, her tone sharp. This Voodoo Boys punk was lucky to catch her and Jack here. A little later, and this place would’ve been stripped clean, nothing but echoes left.
V and Jack had come with the Heywood crew. The goods and workers here had been divvied up by the Priest and the Old Captain, who were working to keep the community fed and thriving.
“Dead?!”
The Voodoo Boys guy’s face twisted in shock. Kuri Horu, a seasoned yakuza boss, taken out just like that? Silently, without a ripple?
“What, you only sell to him or something?”
Jack Welles raised an eyebrow. Behind this Voodoo Boys thug was a massive supply chain. The Haitians in Pacifica were under Voodoo Boys’ control, so naturally, their goods flowed through the gang.
“You think you can handle it?”
The Voodoo Boys guy sized up V and Jack, his tone skeptical but curious. The question was almost pointless. If they took out Kuri Horu, their crew had to be bigger, stronger. No way they couldn’t handle the supply.
“We’ll take everything you’ve got.”
V’s reply was blunt, her patience thin. She didn’t like this guy’s vibe—his condescending glare, like he was looking down on them as if they were zakko street rats.
“Follow me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the Voodoo Boys guy motioned for V and Jack to come along. They didn’t care who took the goods, as long as someone did. Kuri Horu was just a business contact, nothing more.
V and Jack exchanged a glance before following. V shot a quick message to Riku, just in case. If things went south, Riku could bail them out.
“Go for it.”
Riku replied from the surgery room, where he was watching another flesh puppet come to life. His expression was one of quiet satisfaction—this one looked way more human than the last.
As his surgeries got smoother, Riku’s control over Rc cells was leveling up. His mastery of kagune was getting sharper, more precise.
When he could craft flesh puppets indistinguishable from real people—maybe even sculpt some bishonen or bishojo types—his Rc cell manipulation would be top-tier, like something out of a shonen power-up arc.
Using the corpses of Kuri Horu’s meat peddlers, Riku had churned out four more flesh puppets. Lining up all five, you could see clear progress in his technique.
The first one was straight-up Eldritch horror—like something that’d give you nightmares. The latest? Almost human. That was huge.
It wasn’t just looks, either. The puppets’ abilities had improved. Flesh Puppet No. 5 could take on two No. 1s in a fight.
But after making the fifth, Riku hit a wall. Controlling all five puppets in a neat little row felt taxing, like his brain was lagging.
It was a mental bottleneck, a clear sign he’d maxed out at five puppets. Any more, and they’d barely function.
“Is this limit tied to Intelligence? Figures. That stat’s gotta be what handles brainy stuff. If we were in some isekai with magic, Intelligence would definitely be the go-to for spellcasting.”
Riku mulled it over. He still had one attribute point from last time, unspent. He’d been torn between boosting Physique or something else. The idea of hitting 20 in a stat to unlock a special talent was tempting.
Sure, the 20-Physique talents—[Bedrock], [Self-Heal], [Tireless]—overlapped with his Oni King abilities, but other stats? They might offer something new.
After all, Oni King was a Physique-based mutation. Its powers leaned hard into that stat. Other attributes’ talents were less likely to overlap, potentially giving him a real edge.
For 20 Physique, the talents [Bedrock], [Self-Heal], and [Tireless] were game-changers for normals. Unlocking a special talent at 20 was worth chasing.
After some thought, Riku dumped the point into Intelligence. It was an experiment. He’d always figured Intelligence tied to learning ability, and right now, he needed that boost.
His base Intelligence was already 1 point above the average Night City citizen—not genius-level, just “pretty good at studying.”
But that “pretty good” wasn’t cutting it for the complex future-tech knowledge he was tackling. He struggled to keep up, and he needed to sharpen his mind.
The moment he added the point, he felt it. Unlike Physique boosts, which hit the body, this was a mental shift—clear and immediate.
First off, his puppet control doubled. He could now handle ten flesh puppets instead of five. A straight-up shonen-style power spike!
“Now I can make five more. Hyakki Yagyo is still a stretch, but a Devil’s Ten squad? That’s doable.”
Riku grinned. This confirmed it—puppet control was tied to Intelligence. With 12 Intelligence, he could roll with ten puppets. One-man army status wasn’t far off.
Beyond that, his brain felt sharper, like it had been overclocked. Thoughts flowed faster, clearer, like he’d upgraded from a clunky rig to a top-tier netrunner deck.
He pulled up some study materials—dense, arcane tech manuals that’d made his head spin before. Now? He could parse them better. Not a night-and-day difference, but the improvement was real.
“Intelligence is clutch,” Riku nodded, pleased with the experiment.
Right now, boosting Strength or Speed wouldn’t give the same bang for his buck as Intelligence. With combat power less urgent, investing in learning was a solid move.
“These flesh puppets could use some tech upgrades. Slap Sandevistans on them, and their combat power spikes instantly. Good thing we nabbed some from the loot. Let’s test it out.”
Riku had been thinking about tech-flesh synergy since Puppet No. 1. Installing Sandevistans was step one.
From Kuri Horu’s stash, they’d scored two Zetatech Type-3 Sandevistans—top-end models, probably the best Kuri could get his hands on. Military-grade, no less.
V had already claimed one and likely slotted it. Riku planned to use the other on Flesh Puppet No. 10. It wasn’t made yet, but he was confident No. 10 would outshine the rest. The earlier puppets would get Zetatech Type-1 or Type-2.
No hesitation—Riku dove back in, hyper-focused on crafting more puppets. He wasn’t the type to get bored with research. He relished the thrill of creation, like sculpting his own figma models.
Riku didn’t need rest. Fatigue wasn’t a thing for him. A coffee here and there, and he could keep going. His rapid growth came from this—relentless study and training, treating one day like two. A born workhorse, a real-life Palworld grinder.
Soon, he’d churned out Flesh Puppets No. 6 through 10. The process was second nature now, his success rate climbing. No more failing multiple times like at the start.
One thing surprised him, though: No. 10 wasn’t much stronger than the others. His technique had plateaued. To push further, he’d need new materials or methods.
“Sandevistan, flesh-activated.”
Riku pulled out the Zetatech Type-3 and activated it with flesh. This was the new material. Flesh-activated Sandevistans could self-repair—a game-changer. It let the puppets go all-out without breaking.
The puppets could heal via Rc cells, too. Even if they got trashed in a fight, they’d recover as long as they made it back to Riku. Reusable mecha minions, basically.
He had Puppet No. 10 lie on the surgery table and started installing the Sandevistan. First time doing it, but it felt smooth—way easier than his first kagune transplant. Maybe the +1 Intelligence helped, or maybe he was just that good now.
The install went fine, despite a few hiccups. No big deal—both the Sandevistan and the puppet were fixable. Messing up wasn’t a problem. Good thing this wasn’t a real person, or those mistakes would’ve killed someone a few times over. Practice makes perfect.
No. 10 stood up, Sandevistan humming to life. It zipped around the surgery room at blinding speed.
“Success.”
Riku nodded, wiping his hands. He reflected for a moment. Maybe he should be more careful during surgery. Just because the gear and puppets were durable didn’t mean he should get sloppy. Bad habits could bite him later.
Sure, with his healing kagune, he probably wouldn’t need to play doctor for real people. But you never know when medical skills might come in handy. Better not let them rust.
“Keep going. Upgrade the others.”
Riku moved on, installing flesh-activated Sandevistans on the rest of the puppets. He even tried reworking the earlier ones to refine them.
No. 10 still didn’t pass for human, but it was less nightmare fuel than the first batch. Looks didn’t affect power, but Riku had standards. He wanted his “handcrafted figma” to look good, not like something you’d hide under the bed.
While Riku was deep in his puppet workshop, V and Jack Welles had been led to Voodoo Boys turf. They met Placide, the gang’s second-in-command, handling the group’s worldly affairs under their leader, Maman Brigitte.
Placide looked to be in his thirties, in the prime of his life.
“Damn, this guy’s built like a mecha,” Jack muttered under his breath.
V nodded. Placide stood out like a sore thumb among the Voodoo Boys. As a high-ranking member, he was a netrunner, sure, but he wasn’t your typical scrawny hacker holed up in a net-pod.
Most netrunners were frail, glued to their rigs, not exactly brawlers. Placide? He was a beast—broad, imposing, radiating danger like a kaiju. Standing near him felt like being caged with a bear. He looked more Animals gang than Voodoo Boys.
“You took out Kuri Horu?”
Placide eyed V and Jack, flashing a creepy grin that vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a poker face.
“Yup. Guy was all talk, no game. We dropped him easy, and his biz is ours now,” Jack said, jutting out his chin, playing the big-shot yakuza. Couldn’t let these Voodoo Boys look down on them.
“Oh? You think you can last longer than him?”
Placide’s cold laugh carried a thick Haitian accent. A true Pacifica native, he had zero love for Night City folks. To him, Pacifica was Haitian turf, and “city people” were outsiders, plain and simple.
Chapter 142: Kakuja
"Maybe I've been at this longer than your Voodoo Boys."
V shot back at Placide's question with no hint of politeness.
From the get-go, she couldn’t stand Placide. The Voodoo Boys member who brought them here had an air of superiority, sure, but Placide? In his eyes, V and Jack Welles were nothing—less than nothing. This jerk didn’t even bother to hide his disdain.
"Hmph, let’s hope your skills are half as good as your mouth."
Placide glanced at V, not losing his cool. He spoke slowly, a creepy grin spreading across his face.
"You’ll see if my skills match my words soon enough."
V wasn’t one to back down. For every jab Placide threw, she had a comeback ready, never letting anything slide.
"..."
Placide wasn’t thrilled with her attitude, but unlike the other high-caste Haitians in the Voodoo Boys, he was different. Sure, he looked down on Night City folks, but he wasn’t reckless. He knew picking a fight over personal biases wasn’t in the Voodoo Boys’ best interest.
V and Jack Welles, along with the forces backing them, had taken out Klee Hall—a feat that proved they weren’t pushovers. Placide wasn’t about to stir up trouble just because he didn’t like them.
"Pay first, then we deliver. That’s the rule. Accept it, and the job’s yours. If not, you can leave."
Placide laid it out plainly. This deal wasn’t a big deal for the Voodoo Boys—they didn’t rely on gigs like this for eddies. But for the regular Haitians under them, selling organic meat to the city was a key income source.
If Maman Brigitte, the Voodoo Boys’ boss, were handling this, she wouldn’t even bother with it. She didn’t care about the average Haitian’s struggles—her plans were all that mattered. Most high-caste members shared her mindset.
Placide, though, was different. He felt a sense of duty toward the everyday Haitians in Pacifica. As a leader, he believed it was his job to help them live better lives—a rare trait for a high-caste.
Not that he was against Maman Brigitte. He was loyal to her, and she didn’t mind his side projects as long as they didn’t mess with her grand schemes.
"No problem, but you’d better make sure the goods are clean. We don’t take faulty stuff—same deal as with Klee Hall."
V and Jack exchanged a glance before agreeing to Placide’s terms. It wasn’t an unreasonable demand. They were used to these kinds of delivery jobs. Back in the day, they were the ones running the errands. Now, they were the ones negotiating the deals.
"Naturally. Our arrangement with Klee Hall never had issues, and we’ll keep it that way. I don’t want any surprises either."
Placide nodded, no objections. Klee Hall had the same conditions, and since the Haitians ate the organic meat themselves, they were careful about keeping diseases in check.
"Here’s to a smooth partnership, Mr. Placide."
Jack Welles let out a sigh of relief and extended his hand. Striking a deal with the Haitians meant they wouldn’t be short on supply anytime soon. Dogtown and the Nomad tribes could wait a bit longer.
"To a smooth partnership, Mr. Welles."
Placide shook Jack’s hand, though it clearly pained him to do so. As a high-caste, it felt like a step down.
"Tch!"
V clicked her tongue. These Voodoo Boys Haitians were begging for a punch. To them, anyone who wasn’t high-caste was barely human—just some lowly, subhuman creature.
"See them out."
V couldn’t stand Placide or the Voodoo Boys, and Placide had no interest in keeping these irritating Night City punks around any longer. The deal was done, so he wanted them gone—ASAP.
V and Jack left the Voodoo Boys’ turf and passed the news to Riku, the Old Captain, and the Priest. The deal was technically under Riku, V, and Jack’s names, with the Priest and Old Captain handling the management. They had too much pride to hog the whole operation themselves.
V and Jack taking over the supply chain was the Old Captain and Priest’s idea—a way to keep things in check. If anyone strayed from the original plan, V and Jack could cut off the supply line.
"Next up, the Nomads and Dogtown."
Riku messaged V back. He was deliberately giving V and Jack more responsibilities to help them grow fast.
Riku had no interest in running gangs or corps, but V and Jack? They were different. Compared to running gigs and fighting on the front lines, being the big shot behind the scenes was the dream.
V and Jack, two street kids from Heywood, had always dreamed of becoming big names. They were all in for the jobs they were doing now.
Both wanted to be major players. Klee Hall might’ve died a messy death, but his lifestyle? That was the dream of every street kid. Of course, V and Jack had some principles—they weren’t about to make dirty eddies.
"Just keep waiting. They’ll come to us."
V replied to Riku, figuring it wouldn’t be long. It had been a few days since the last shipment, and Dogtown and the Nomads had probably noticed something was off. They’d send someone to check soon.
"Alright, you two hang tight for a couple of days."
Riku suggested they stay put to avoid scrambling when the others showed up.
"No problem."
Jack had no complaints. Waiting for someone to deliver goods to their doorstep? That was a sweet deal. Way easier than when Klee Hall was starting out. This was the joy of reaping someone else’s harvest—and a ripe one at that.
Sure enough, the next day, people from Dogtown and the Nomads showed up. V and Jack met with them and laid out the situation.
Business was business. Klee Hall’s death didn’t stop the grind. The Dogtown and Nomad reps didn’t waste words—they recognized V and Jack’s “inheritance” of the trade. They didn’t care who was running it, as long as the supply line stayed open and the eddies kept flowing.
"Dogtown or the Nomads first?"
V and Jack were torn. Neither was exactly a vacation spot.
The Nomad tribes lived out in the Badlands, the vast, desolate plains surrounding Night City. A barren wasteland full of pollution so bad it made Night City look like a lush oasis.
Dogtown, though, was a whole other beast. Even messier than Watson or Pacifica, it was basically an “enemy-occupied zone”—worse than Pacifica by a mile.
Dogtown was a product of the last war, just a few years back, when the New United States’ president launched a campaign to reclaim the Free States. Night City was a prime target.
At the end of the last century, the U.S. collapsed, and the western states went independent. Decades later, that sense of independence was deeply rooted.
When the New United States came knocking, the Free States’ fighters took up arms. Northern California, where Night City sat, was the strongest and most defiant Free State.
California had long split in two: Northern California waved the flag of freedom, while Southern California sided with the New United States. Night City, caught in the middle, became a frontline city.
Dogtown was occupied during that war. It wasn’t under New United States control anymore, though. Arasaka’s interference ended the unification war, leaving Night City independent.
When the Arvin Accord was signed, the New United States troops deep in Night City were abandoned. Led by Colonel Kurt Hansen, they refused to stand down and instead raised a rebel flag in Dogtown. Five years later, they were still a rogue faction.
"Let’s hit Dogtown first. I’m coming with you."
Riku messaged V. He was tired of being cooped up in the operating room and needed a change of scenery.
Over the past two days, Riku had dug deeper into his research on Rc cells, focusing on half-kakuja and full kakuja states.
For Riku, this was a game-changer—especially full kakuja transformation. The ability to envelop his body in an Rc cell armor was a massive buff. It meant he could shrug off sunlight even if his subdermal armor failed, giving him a daytime edge.
Through constant surgeries, Riku honed his control over Rc cells, experimenting on flesh puppets—corpses, really. Hands-on work skyrocketed his understanding and mastery of Rc cells. Nothing beat getting your hands dirty.
After transplanting a few more kakuja sacs, Riku unlocked full kakuja transformation, skipping the half-kakuja phase entirely. He’d mastered it completely.
"Kakuja."
Rc cells surged out of Riku’s body, wrapping around him before hardening into an exaggerated suit of armor—a true demon form.
Blood-red scales, like those of Rize Kamishiro’s rinkaku, covered him. His body bulked up massively, muscles hard as iron and brimming with power. His feet turned to cloven hooves, his hands sprouted sharp claws, and horns on his head gleamed menacingly. He looked like he’d just crawled out of hell.
"This is way flashier than my ghoul form. At least the ghoul form could pass as some Animal gang modder. This kakuja form? Straight-up monster. Even for Night City, this is a bit much."
Riku tested his movement, releasing his four unique kakujas. Crimson rinkaku tentacles hung behind him, a tail-like bikaku swayed, massive ukaku wings flapped, and blue-purple koukaku armor coiled around his arms.
"Alright, that’s too much."
Riku quickly dialed it back. The tiny room couldn’t handle him, and he wasn’t about to wreck Old V’s secret base.
"Three stages now. Why do I feel like I’m turning into a final boss?"
Riku chuckled, reverting to his stage-one humanoid form—the weakest, still hampered by debuffs. Stage two, the ghoul form, was his baseline. Stage three, kakuja demon form, was his strongest yet.
Kakuja wasn’t just an external armor; it boosted his physical abilities too.
Still, Riku hadn’t cracked freeform kakuga manipulation—the ultimate control over Rc cells.
"Maybe this demon form is shaped by my subconscious."
It made sense. The kakuja form turning him into a demon, complete with his four unique kakujas, felt too perfect to be random. It had to be his mind shaping the transformation.
When Ken Kaneki went half-kakuja, he looked like a centipede—likely a subconscious manifestation. Kaneki only mastered freeform Rc cell control during his fight with Furuta, and even then, it was pure metaphysics. Riku was still clueless about it.
"Take it slow."
Riku packed up, left the operating room, and took a shower. Days of obsessive research had left him reeking of blood.
Cleaned up, Riku headed to Pacifica to meet V and Jack. Dogtown, once part of Pacifica, was now its own beast.
"Getting into Dogtown isn’t easy. They’re strict, but I’ve hooked you up with Mr. Hands. He’s your guy."
The Old Captain didn’t have much pull in Pacifica, but he knew people who did. Mr. Hands was the middleman.
"Thanks, Old Captain."
Riku, V, and Jack contacted Mr. Hands, who’d clearly been tipped off by the Old Captain. He sent them an address to meet him.
The trio set out, moving smoothly with Mr. Hands’ people guiding them. They waltzed right into Dogtown—Mr. Hands had serious clout in Pacifica.
"Heavy Hearts Club? What a weird name."
At the address, Jack Welles eyed the bar and couldn’t help but comment. It didn’t have the same badass vibe as the Coyote Cojo.
"Built like a pyramid. Is this Mr. Hands guy a pharaoh or what?"
V joined in, poking fun at the bar’s pyramid-like exterior.
"He does want to be the pharaoh of Dogtown—and Pacifica."
Riku smirked. He knew more about Mr. Hands than the man would like—enough to make the mysterious middleman sweat.
"Big ambitions. Wonder if he’s got the chops."
Jack had heard of Mr. Hands but never dealt with him.
"Can’t believe you’re out here questioning a fixer’s cred now."
V teased, reflecting on how far they’d come. Not long ago, they were nobodies.
"Haha! Thanks to Riku, we’re big shots now. Even fixers work for us!"
Jack laughed, half-joking. They were technically partners with the Old Captain and Priest, but their rise was undeniable. They used to just take gigs—now they called shots.
"Let’s go meet this Mr. Hands."
Jack strutted toward the Heavy Hearts Club like he owned the place. The guards checked their IDs and let them through.
Chapter 143: Mr. Hands
Under the guidance of a burly man, Riku and his two companions climbed to the third floor. They entered Mr. Hands' office, a spacious and lavishly decorated room with a massive aquarium as the backdrop. This was where Mr. Hands conducted his business daily.
“Devil, V, Jack Welles—welcome.”
Mr. Hands rose from behind his desk, spreading his arms in a warm greeting. He clearly knew who was who among Riku, V, and Jack Welles, a sign he’d done his homework in advance.
Dressed in a sharp suit, impeccably neat and refined, Mr. Hands exuded an air of “old money” sophistication. There wasn’t a trace of street grit about him, and his manners were polished to perfection.
Honestly, this threw V and Jack Welles off a bit. They were used to people like Padre or the Captain, who had that unmistakable street edge. Even Rogue, the so-called king of fixers, had a certain roughness to her. It was as if fixers were supposed to carry that vibe.
Padre and the Captain were like two sides of a coin. Padre, once a high-ranking Valentino, now clutched a Bible, while the Captain, a former corpo dog, had transformed into a respected fixer on the streets, shedding every trace of his corporate past.
But you could still see the street in their bones—those little tells in their gestures. Padre, for instance, carried the indelible mark of the Valentinos, a past he could never shake. Jack Welles was the same, his Valentino roots clear as day.
Mr. Hands, though? He was a different breed. A polished success story, not a whiff of the street on him, past or present. For street kids like V and Jack, it was... unsettling.
“Mr. Hands, the Captain said you could hook us up with a pass,” Jack said bluntly. “One that lets us move goods in and out of Dogtown, no hassle, full smuggling access.”
Jack didn’t mince words. It wasn’t clear how strong Mr. Hands’ crew was, but his wealth was obvious. The entire Heavy Hearts Club belonged to him, and with the steady stream of patrons, he was clearly raking it in.
“Indeed, I have some pull in Dogtown,” Mr. Hands replied with a nod.
He studied the trio—two men, one woman. Jack Welles seemed like the talker, but not the leader. The quiet one in the back, Devil, felt more like the one calling the shots. Those cybernetic eyes of his scanned the room, cold and piercing, the kind of gaze that belonged to someone who’d killed more times than you could count. Jack kept glancing at Devil, as if waiting for a signal.
As for V, she screamed “muscle.” From the moment they entered, she’d been casing the room, checking for ambushes, ready for a fight.
“What do you need from us?” Jack asked, cutting straight to the point. Fixers always wanted something done before they’d help you out.
“Alright, I like the directness,” Mr. Hands said with a smile. “One of my people got nabbed by Kurt Hansen. I want you to get him out.”
He watched their reactions closely. V and Jack looked surprised, clearly not expecting this kind of request. Devil, though, remained unreadable.
“You might’ve misunderstood, Mr. Hands,” Jack said carefully. “We’re not here to make enemies in Dogtown or take on Kurt Hansen. We’re just here to do some smuggling business.”
“My apologies for the assumption,” Mr. Hands replied, nodding as if he understood. In truth, he was probing. The Captain hadn’t told him what these three were up to, but he was curious.
“Cree Hall’s business? Smuggling organic meat?” Mr. Hands dropped the bombshell casually.
As a top fixer in Pacifica, he knew plenty about the recent upheaval in the district. The fall of Cree Hall’s group was the talk of the town, and word was spreading that Riku, V, and Jack Welles were the ones who took him down. None of them seemed interested in hiding it.
Riku, with his synthetic humanoid form, didn’t care about being recognized. Jack and V, on the other hand, were practically itching for fame and had no reason to suppress the news.
Mr. Hands had come to meet them in person because of their reputation. Strong mercs like them were a fixer’s dream—sharp blades to wield. Every fixer wanted to cozy up to capable cyberpunks, because the good ones never lacked for work. If you didn’t play nice, some other fixer would.
Those high-and-mighty fixers who treated mercs like dirt? They didn’t last long.
“Exactly. So we can’t stir up trouble in Dogtown. It’d mess with the deal,” Jack said, glancing at V and Riku. No point hiding it—Mr. Hands already knew.
“But this has nothing to do with Kurt Hansen,” Mr. Hands said as he brewed tea. “If this was an official Dogtown deal, if you were trading directly with the Barghest, you wouldn’t need to jump through hoops for a smuggling pass. It’d be green lights all the way.”
He handed each of them a cup of real, honest-to-god tea. Riku didn’t touch his. V and Jack drank, though they privately thought Riku’s stash was better. Some things, money just couldn’t buy.
V frowned. “He said he wanted to test our skills. If we can’t even secure a smuggling pass, there’s no point in doing business.”
Mr. Hands smirked. “He’s pulling a fast one. Probably just cozying up to some mid-level Barghest officer. Hansen doesn’t keep his crew on a tight leash—they run their own side hustles.”
“Son of a—! That bastard played us!” V growled, baring her teeth. She hated being strung along. That meat smuggler was gonna get a piece of her mind.
“He’s probably scared of you three,” Mr. Hands said with a chuckle. “After hearing you took down Cree Hall, I was shook myself. That kind of rep? It’s why I’m meeting you in person.”
“Who are we saving, and where are they?” Riku finally spoke, agreeing to Mr. Hands’ request.
If you had to pick a fixer to trust, the Captain was top-tier. But for sheer ability? Mr. Hands was among the best. A calculating, resourceful fixer, he was easily in the top two in Night City, even compared to someone like Rogue, the “king of fixers.” Rogue had fame, sure, but Mr. Hands—real name Wade Bleecker—preferred to stay in the shadows, unlike Rogue, who still did media interviews.
Wade Bleecker was a former corpo, high up in Petrochem before he got caught in a power struggle and was made a scapegoat. In the corporate world, that’s a death sentence. Just look at Arthur Jenkins, Arasaka’s counterintelligence chief in the game—same deal.
But Bleecker wasn’t your average suit. He was cunning, resourceful. He survived the hit, escaped Petrochem with his family, and reinvented himself as Mr. Hands, Pacifica’s shadowy fixer. His past, his face, his real identity—all locked down tight. Only those he truly valued got a face-to-face.
“Amadou Diallo, 42, been with me a long time. Got nabbed yesterday, locked up in Dogtown’s old NCPD prison,” Mr. Hands said, sending Riku the details. “Photo and address are in there.”
He’d been right—Devil was the one in charge.
“Dogtown has an NCPD?” V asked, incredulous. Pacifica’s NCPD was a joke, and Dogtown still had a precinct?
Mr. Hands laughed. “Not anymore. It’s an old NCPD prison, repurposed by the Barghest. NCPD doesn’t set foot in Dogtown unless they’re undercover. Night City has zero pull there.”
Kurt Hansen’s Barghest were no joke—New America’s elite vanguard, well-equipped and battle-hardened. If Hansen was that easy to take down, he’d have been wiped out ages ago.
“No promises we’ll get him out,” Riku said, glancing at the photo—a middle-aged white guy, looked honest enough. He kept it cautious. Rescues were messy, way harder than just killing someone.
“Fair enough,” Mr. Hands said calmly. “Do what you can. You’re the best I could find, so it’s worth a shot. Honestly, he might already be dead, but at least we tried.”
With the deal sealed, Mr. Hands handed each of them a chip. “Plug this in, and Dogtown’s people won’t check your cargo. It’s what the smugglers use.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hands,” Riku said.
The trio said their goodbyes and headed straight for their Thorton, driving to the meet with the meat smuggler.
“This Mr. Hands guy... he’s got a lot going on in that head of his,” Jack said as they drove. “Not like Padre or the Captain. They’re real. He feels... fake.”
“That’s just how it is,” Riku replied coolly. “Not every fixer’s like Padre or the Captain. Padre watched you grow up. The Captain’s a hero who’d die for his home. They’re the exception. Fixers like Mr. Hands? They’re in it for profit, power, control. That’s the game.”
Jack nodded. “Guess I got too used to Padre and the Captain. Forgot what fixers are really about.”
V piped up, eyes gleaming. “Heard Dogtown gets airdrops—Hansen’s good stuff. People have gotten rich overnight picking those up.”
Riku grinned. “Wanna try your luck? If we don’t have to tangle with Hansen, we could grab a few crates. No harm, right?”
Dogtown’s airdrops were legendary. Supplies, contraband—open a crate, and you might strike gold. But it wasn’t easy. You had to outrun scavengers and face Barghest squads sent to retrieve the drops. Those guys didn’t mess around.
Chapter 144: The Moth and the FIA
After leaving the Heavy Hearts Club, Riku and the others headed straight for the spot they’d agreed to meet the meat smuggler—near the Long Beach Junkyard.
Grabbing airdrops could wait. Those didn’t happen every day, and you needed to be ready. Airdrop hunters came prepared; anyone rushing in on a whim was just feeding the Barghest.
First, they had to deal with the meat smuggler who thought he could play them. Trying to scare them with Kurt Hansen’s name? Big mistake. These three weren’t the type to back down.
Soon, their Thorton pulled up at the Long Beach Junkyard, Dogtown’s so-called “living area”—if you could call it that.
The vibe here wasn’t great. To Riku, it felt like Diamond City from a post-apocalyptic wasteland, but worse. The security, the environment—everything was a step below.
How to put it? In a futuristic world, this city’s residential zone looked like a settlement from a nuke-ravaged wasteland. It was honestly hard to wrap your head around.
At the center of the Long Beach Junkyard stood a barren, withered tree, surrounded by glowing lanterns and photos of the dead. This was where people mourned—a grim landmark of the area.
“They say it’s the only living tree in Dogtown,” V said, sharing another local rumor. This one sounded more legit than the airdrop-get-rich-quick tales, at least. No danger involved.
“Is that supposed to be ironic? The only living tree in Dogtown, turned into a memorial for the dead?” Riku chuckled. They parked the Thorton nearby; the place they were looking for was right here. He spotted the sign.
“The Moth Bar. Nice name.”
Compared to something like “Heavy Hearts,” Jack Welles definitely vibed more with “The Moth.” Animals were more his style.
“This little bar’s got nothing on your Coyote Cojo,” V teased as they climbed the creaky stairs. The Moth Bar was clearly a down-to-earth joint, blending perfectly into this junkyard-adjacent living area.
“The Moth. This is it.”
Riku glanced at the sign. The bar’s door swung open, and the three stepped inside. It was a small place, cramped and rundown. Good for drinks, but don’t expect entertainment—this bar wasn’t built for that.
“Welcome! What’re we drinking, handsome? Ladies?” The bar was tiny, with just one bartender doubling as a server. Riku glanced at her—a blonde girl, pretty easy on the eyes.
“Got any good stuff? Ever heard of a Jack Welles?” Jack plopped onto a barstool, grinning as he chatted up the bartender. He loved the cocktail recipe Riku gave him and made a point to mention it at every bar. Free to use, as long as they kept the name.
“Huh? What’s that?” The bartender looked puzzled. She gave Riku, V, and Jack a quick once-over, sizing them up fast. These three weren’t pushovers, and they were definitely new to Dogtown.
“The Jack Welles is my exclusive recipe, named after this big guy. Mix one up for him, and something random for the lady,” Riku said, sitting next to Jack. He was talking about the cocktail recipe he’d copyrighted, then tossed in an order for V, who sat beside him.
“Vodka, on the rocks, lime juice, ginger beer. Sounds good—no love for me, though. And a special mix for the lady. What about you, handsome? Not drinking at a bar?” The blonde bartender flashed a charming smile, winking at Riku.
“He’s a coffee guy. Name’s Jack Welles, by the way. This is Devil and V. What’s your name, choom?” Jack jumped in, steering the conversation away from Riku.
“Call me Daphne. Be right back with your drinks,” she replied with a grin, not pressing further. She turned to mix the cocktails. It was just getting dark outside, and the bar was still quiet—only two other customers besides Riku’s crew.
“He’s not here yet,” V said. She and Jack had met the organic meat smuggler before; Riku hadn’t. Identifying him was on them, and these two customers clearly weren’t the guy.
“I messaged him. Said he’s on his way,” Jack replied, tapping his finger lightly on the counter. He was already planning how to deal with this punk who thought he could pull a fast one, talking about “testing their skills.” Let’s test his survival skills first.
“This Daphne’s got something off about her,” Riku messaged V and Jack, leaning back slightly. The two looked confused—they hadn’t picked up on anything.
“No surprise you didn’t notice,” Riku added. Daphne was using a “mimetic disguise mask,” one of Militech’s cutting-edge toys. Normal cyberoptics couldn’t see through that kind of camo.
“What the hell? Who is this chick, snagging tech like that?!” V and Jack were floored. They’d never even heard of a “mimetic disguise mask.” That kind of tech was next-level.
It was actually five-year-old tech, but the secrecy was tight. Regular folks wouldn’t know it existed, let alone get their hands on it. This was spy gear, built for operatives.
Daphne’s real identity? An FIA agent named Alex, born in the Los Angeles slums. She’d dreamed of being a braindance star, but her insane acting talent got her recruited by the FIA instead. She became their master of disguise.
During the Unification War, she was sent to Night City. In 2070, the Arvin Accord ended the war, but she got stuck in Dogtown. For five years, she’d been slinging drinks at The Moth Bar.
“No way. You think the meat smuggler picked this place to meet because he’s FIA too?” V and Jack were stunned by Daphne’s real identity. This was their first brush with the FIA. They kept their cool on the outside, but inside, they were wondering if this was just a coincidence.
“No chance. This guy’s too deep underground to be running a gig like that,” Riku reassured them. Alex had kept her cover airtight—no connection to the smuggler.
By now, Alex had finished mixing the drinks. She sauntered over with two glasses, all smiles, not looking at all like someone trapped here for five years.
Her acting was top-tier, her commitment unshakable. No wonder she’d stayed undercover for so long.
“One Jack Welles, one special mix. Hope you like ‘em, chooms,” Alex said, still playing the charming Daphne. She had no idea Riku had already blown her cover wide open.
“Daphne, drinks! Let’s go!” Before V and Jack could respond, a group burst into the bar, shouting right away.
“Hold your damn horses! Keep it down, you’re bothering my customers,” Alex shot back, shaking her head. Daphne couldn’t do much about these punks, but Alex? She could take them out without breaking a sweat.
“There he is—the bastard!” V stood up, locking eyes on one of the newcomers. Not the leader, but definitely their guy.
“Hey! Over here!” Jack called out, catching the group’s attention. Sure enough, they headed straight for the trio.
Chapter 145: Destined to Be Big Shots
“That’s them, boss.”
A group of six approached Riku’s trio. The guy V had been glaring at introduced them to his leader, his eyes flickering, avoiding V’s piercing stare.
“You’re the ones who took out Cree Hall?”
The leader of the group was a young man, barely in his early thirties—a real up-and-comer in Night City. Smuggling organic meat might not scream “success” to everyone, but it sure screamed money.
“Damn right,” V snapped, not holding back. “You better show some respect, or Cree Hall’s fate might just be yours.”
V didn’t play nice with people who rubbed her the wrong way. She’d been the same with Cree Hall, and these punks were no different. Her aggression was dialed to max.
“Who the hell do you think you are? This ain’t Night City! Don’t come here acting tough!” one of the smuggler’s lackeys barked, stepping forward before his boss could even respond.
Crack!
In a flash, Riku’s hand shot out, clamping around the loudmouth’s neck like a vice. With just a little more pressure, he could snap it clean.
“Whoa!”
The smugglers drew their weapons, aiming at Riku’s trio. V and Jack didn’t hesitate, pulling their own guns, ready for a standoff.
“Hold up, hold up! Not in my shop!” Alex shouted from the side. She wasn’t trying to break up the fight—she just didn’t want her little bar trashed. A brawl here would wreck the place.
Before she could blink, both sides had drawn weapons, tensions sky-high. Talk about a conversation going south fast.
“Aren’t you here to do business?” McCall, the smuggler’s leader, said, frowning at the handsome man. He’d been watching the big Haywood guy, Jack, but it was this guy—Devil—who made the first move.
“No need to get heated,” Riku said with a faint smile, his grip still tight. “I’m just teaching him a lesson in respect.”
The smuggler was turning red, gasping for air.
“He’s gonna die!” McCall growled through gritted teeth. It was six against three, but he had zero confidence. These weren’t small-time punks. The rumor about them taking down Cree Hall? He wasn’t sure if it was true, but he wasn’t eager to find out the hard way.
In that moment, V and Jack felt the weight of their reputation. Their name alone made people think twice before crossing them. When the cost of a fight was dying faster and harder, most would swallow their pride to stay alive.
Thud.
Riku tossed the guy aside like a ragdoll. The smuggler hit the ground, gasping, unable to speak.
“Now, let’s talk,” Jack said, stepping forward with a grin that made McCall’s skin crawl. These three weren’t just tough—they were ruthless.
“We’ve got a deal with Colonel Kurt Hansen. We run things in Dogtown,” McCall said, trying to regain some ground. “You’re clearly capable, but mutual respect is the key to a lasting partnership.”
He was pulling out the big guns, name-dropping Hansen to earn some cred.
“Cut the crap,” V shot back, rolling her eyes. “Get Hansen over here, and we’ll see if we can blow his head off.”
McCall went silent. Either they’d seen through his bluff, or they genuinely didn’t fear Hansen. What the hell was wrong with Cree Hall, picking a fight with these psychos? Now we’re all paying for it, he thought, cursing inwardly.
He played it safe. Why tangle with a bunch of cyberpsychos? All he had to do was wait—guys like these didn’t last long in Night City with attitudes that loud.
The negotiation wrapped up quickly. McCall, seeing the writing on the wall, made concessions. Jack didn’t push too hard, just stressed their bottom line: no faulty goods. McCall agreed, and they sealed the deal.
“To a successful partnership,” Jack said, raising a glass.
McCall and his crew clinked glasses, then hightailed it out of there, not wanting to stick around a second longer than necessary.
“Didn’t peg you three for such big shots,” Alex said, sidling up with a smile after McCall’s crew left. “Night City’s heavy hitters, huh?”
“Not quite big shots yet,” Jack said, puffing out his chest. “But give it time. We’re headed for the top.”
Riku chuckled, shaking his head. Jack was really leaning into this. The guy adapted fast—bold, silver-tongued, never intimidated, always acting like he owned the room.
“Well, I’m honored to serve future legends,” Alex said, playing along perfectly. Whether she meant it or not, she was fully in character as Daphne.
“Don’t forget the Jack Welles cocktail,” Riku teased, winking at Alex. She laughed along with him.
“Trust me, it’s my signature drink now. My pride and joy,” Alex said, making Jack beam. Even if it was half-joking, he ate it up.
“Alright, time to go, Daphne,” Riku said, checking the time. “We’ll be back.”
They had to check out the old NCPD prison. Whether Amadou Diallo was alive or dead, they owed Mr. Hands at least a look for helping them out.
“Catch you later, Night City’s future legends,” Alex said with a wave, smiling as they left. But once they were gone, her face hardened, her eyes narrowing in thought.
Did I slip up? No way, she wondered. Devil’s attitude hadn’t raised any flags, but after she mixed their drinks, she caught something off in V and Jack’s reactions. They were trying to hide it, but their looks were... strange.
Alex touched her face, a mix of emotions swirling. She’d been living with this face for five years. Sometimes, she forgot what the real Alex looked like. She’d become Daphne, as if that was who she was meant to be.
“Maybe I’m overthinking it,” she muttered, shaking her head. Five years without a hitch—there was no way three strangers would clock something off about her on their first meeting.
Riku’s trio had no clue what Alex was thinking, and they weren’t about to stir up trouble. So what if she was an FIA agent? It wasn’t their business, and she wasn’t after them. Why snitch and get on the FIA’s bad side? Riku knew Alex had cut ties with the FIA, trapped in Dogtown, but V and Jack didn’t. They just didn’t want to mess with whatever backed her.
Driving their Thorton, the trio headed for the address Mr. Hands had given them. They soon reached the old NCPD prison, a small building right next to the former NCPD precinct. Both were now Barghest territory, no longer serving any public good.
The Barghest’s management of Dogtown could be summed up in one phrase: bleed it dry. They weren’t here to play heroes—they were here to squeeze every last eddie out of the place. Kurt Hansen didn’t know how to govern, nor did he care. His rule was pure warlord exploitation, focused solely on his own gain. The residents’ suffering? Not his problem. In fact, misery made them easier to control—and recruit. The Barghest needed fresh blood, after all.
In Dogtown, the Barghest were the elite, living like kings. Think of it like the “little days” in an occupied zone—though, to their credit, Hansen’s crew had some humanity. He had a line he wouldn’t cross.
That privileged life made joining the Barghest a dream for Dogtown’s residents. One enlistment could lift you out of the slums and into the upper crust.
“This place isn’t gonna be easy to crack,” Jack said as they parked the Thorton a safe distance from the prison. The defenses were tight for such a small facility, and the old precinct next door—now a barracks—meant reinforcements were a stone’s throw away.
“Too tough,” V said, frowning. “Even if we pull it off, getting out’s gonna be hell. They’ll have us surrounded six ways to Sunday.”
“I’ll try sneaking in first,” Riku suggested. “If I can’t make it work, we pull back.”
He’d use his optical camo to slip in and check if Amadou Diallo was still breathing. If he was dead, they’d report back to Mr. Hands and call it a day. If he was alive, they’d figure out the next step.
“Be careful. If it goes south, get out fast,” V said.
Jack nodded, and Riku slipped out of the car, activating his optical camo. He moved toward the prison—not through the front gate, but over the wall.
(Chapter End)
