Chapter 42: The Middleman and the Spa

Driving his car, Maine felt as though he were returning from another realm; the vibrant yet decaying hustle of Night City stood in stark contrast to the grim desolation of Dogtown.

Pilar rested his head on his crossed arms, looking thoroughly at ease. "Once we're done with today's gig, we need to go grab a proper drink... That shithole Dogtown doesn't even have a decent bar, and that bartender at what's-it-called—Heavy Hearts—is absolute garbage!"

As one of Night City's oldest districts, Santo Domingo bordered Pacifica and Heywood to the west, and Westbrook to the north. Aside from Trauma Team hovering overhead as frequently as bees pollinating flowers, the area was mostly known for the Sixth Street gang frequently holding down the Valley and the Coronado Farm.

These veterans of the New United States conflicts wore old-style Stars and Stripes, marched in combat boots, donned military caps, and still carried themselves like army grunts. They had formed their organization to protect the residents of Vista Del Rey, but that noble cause quickly became a convenient excuse for them to place themselves above the law.

Like any other gang, Sixth Street was an unmitigated criminal syndicate, at least in the eyes of the NCPD.

Yet, to their credit, Sixth Street still possessed a shred of code and showed a modicum of respect for other gangs' turfs.

Then again, the modified vehicles driven by Sixth Street were absolute top-tier machines—at least according to mercenaries like Maine. When pulling off a major job, Sixth Street's combat taxis were a merc's most reliable ride. As for Delamain... please! How many people could actually afford to hire them?

"That fixer still hasn't replied to your messages?"

Dorio gazed out the window, patiently waiting for a gang shootout up ahead to clear. Would it even be Santo Domingo if the streets didn't echo with a few rounds of gunfire?

A long line of cars leaned heavily on their horns while gang thugs ahead blasted away at each other with passionate abandon. In the next lane over, a police cruiser drifted to a halt, the officers flinging their doors open to plunge right into the fray.

The scent of freedom.

The flow of traffic slowly resumed, and Maine placed a call to Gloria. The dealer was excessively cautious, though Maine didn't really mind—as long as this supplier could provide enough cyberware and weapons, smuggling them through Mr. Lin's channel in Dogtown would net them a massive payout!

He just hoped Ms. Gloria's caution was actually matched by the quality of her goods.

"Ma'am, this excessive caution of yours is making things difficult... Can you just give us the meetup spot? We don't have all day to play ring-around-the-rosy with you in Santo Domingo."

Gloria finally picked up on the other end. Maine's tone wasn't particularly polite, mostly because a stray bullet from the recent firefight had scratched up his car's hood. With the job starting off on the wrong foot, a bit of irritation was inevitable.

"Apologies, my child has school, so... I couldn't answer the phone right away. Could we find a meeting place in the Wellsprings?" Gloria lowered her voice.

"Look, ma'am, you're the supplier, you pick the spot. Fine... is this your first time doing business? Let's settle on the Red Dirt Bar on Hargreaves Street. It's relatively safe, and we can grab a bite to eat or something while we're there." Knowing he was dealing with an amateur, Maine cut straight to the chase to avoid dragging out the conversation.

Gloria agreed. "Alright, I've got it. Three o'clock this afternoon. See you there."

Maine hung up the phone. "Drive over there and order a Silverhand rib plate. Who knows what kind of synthetic meat they use for that stuff, but it hits the spot!"

Dorio let out a cold sneer. "That burned-out rockstar?"

The car drove all the way to the container yards located behind the Red Dirt. Santo Domingo was home to numerous corporate industrial parks where public safety remained relatively stable. Aside from collecting protection money and shaking down locals, Sixth Street rarely stepped out of line, making the district feel practically like paradise compared to Pacifica.

Pilar shook his arms. "So quiet, just rock music playing—unlike dumbass Dogtown where people shoot at each other all day long, my ears are still ringing... I don't know what's gotten into that kid and Rebecca, refusing to come out even for a little downtime."

Just as the group was discussing heading into the bar, a classic Villaforte Alvarado Vato cut squarely across their path, nearly running over Pilar's foot and prompting an immediate stream of colorful curses from him.

A man stepped out of the vehicle, his optical cyberware thoroughly unsettling. Three separate ocular units were mounted across one half of his face, and his suit was impeccably, if strangely, tailored in reverse.

Maine looked at the stranger with narrowed eyes.

The man's voice carried a low timber. "I never expected to see you all still breathing. Truly wonderful news."

Maine reached out to block Pilar, who was ready to let loose on the stranger. That voice was entirely too familiar. "I thought you were dead for sure. A top-secret gig... meaning everyone on that end knew who we were running with? You've got some nerve showing your face. Did you really think nobody could touch you?"

In a flash, the team's weapons were drawn and pointed straight at the man in the suit.

The man didn't seem the least bit bothered by the barrels aimed at his chest. Instead, he chuckled lightly:

"Allow me to reintroduce myself."

"I am Faraday, a good Samaritan who teaches edgerunners how not to end up as corporate lapdogs."

---

Lin Lin jammed his hands into his pockets, cigarette clamped between his teeth, as he navigated past the drug addicts sprawled across the sidewalks of Dogtown and the sharp-eyed thugs eyeing him from the corners, making his way toward Slider's hideout up the slope.

Rebecca trailed closely behind him, chattering incessantly.

Lin Lin was already dealing with the headache of being screwed over by the corporate agent V, and his behavioral imprint face-plate issue was still unresolved, leaving him with little patience as he waved a dismissive hand. "I already told you to wait for Mann and the others to get back. That big contract with the Animals is something we need to handle together. I can take care of the corporate business on my own, and quickly."

Of course, Rebecca refused to buy it. She stubbornly shadowed his footsteps, growling, "Mann said getting mixed up with corps is a one-way ticket to an early grave—are you deaf, you asshole, or do you just not understand plain English?!"

She had originally planned to spend the downtime browsing braindances, but she hadn't expected Lin Lin to suddenly decide to meddle in corporate affairs. Worst of all, he hadn't even thought about looping in the team, preferring to plunge headfirst into a solo suicide mission.

Lin Lin came to an abrupt halt, causing Rebecca to fail to stop in time, smacking her forehead squarely into his back.

Lin Lin crouched slightly. "Do you remember what Mann's golden rule is?"

Rebecca paused to think for a second. "Don't mess with corps?"

"Wrong. It's that you guys don't get involved in corporate business, so..." Lin Lin grabbed Rebecca's shoulders and spun her around. "Go down to the stadium, pick out a few braindances you like, or hit up a city BD editor to score some fresh stock. My business is not your concern, and I don't need you worrying about it. Understand?"

Rebecca felt like a wooden doll being manipulated at will.

She clenched her fists, her voice dropping a few octaves. "At least wait for the others to get back so we can handle it together..."

By then, Lin Lin was already several paces away, not even bothering to look back. "Got it. Just stop following me."

Sensing that Rebecca wasn't tailing him anymore, Lin Lin let out a sigh of relief.

He had messaged Samir back at the stadium, only to find that the fixer not only ignored him but had blocked him entirely, leaving him stranded without a backup plan.

If he dragged his feet until Arasaka's people arrived, his chance at securing the behavioral imprint face-plate would truly vanish into thin air. Lin Lin couldn't afford to wait, nor did he dare to—that piece of tech was of paramount importance to him.

While Lin Lin knew that the NUSA Federal Logistics Agency agent Alex possessed that exact piece of cyberware, he wasn't suicidal enough to go hunting for New United States operatives. He wouldn't even know what hit him if he did—those loyal hounds working for Myers would consider wiping out a Ghost Dog who knew so many of their secrets to be getting off easy.

They'd probably subject him to interrogation just to squeeze out how he managed to dig up all those buried skeletons.

Lin Lin kept climbing the winding mountain roads of Dogtown. Based on his memories, Slider's Black Magic workshop should be located right next to the unfinished Lucrezia Health Spa.

If Scavengers were the first gang Lin Lin had zero desire to deal with, the Voodoo Boys were a close second.

These Haitians, devout followers of a Voodoo-esque cult, wore dark netrunning suits embedded with neural interface ports, accented by the distinctive ritualistic cloth strips of their sect.

They loved poking holes in the Black Wall on the Net, ruthlessly ostracizing anyone outside their immediate circle, and would throw mercs and newcomers under the bus without a second thought, treating everyone else like disposable rags.

Though Slider had broken away from the Voodoo Boys, he remained an unrepentant, veteran netrunning specialist and executioner.

Spotting a decaying concrete overhang above a doorway choked with overgrown weeds—where the space meant for an advertisement sign was instead tagged with glowing blue Voodoo Boys tribal totems—Lin Lin knew he had found the right place.

A few Voodoo Boys members stood outside the entrance, cradling their weapons and chatting among themselves.

Some sported massive dreadlocks, while others wore netrunner helmets bristling with optical sensors. Their dark skin, arms, and necks were smeared with white skeletal tribal paint, and they murmured quietly to one another in a creole patois that translation software failed to decipher.

Lin Lin stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath.

He just hoped they were open to a conversation.