March 10th, 2068
Alex Mitchell (Volkov) POV
Returning to the city didn't exactly go smoothly.
I wasn't even twenty clicks out from Night City when the storm hit. Not rain — of course not. Out here, it was sand. Tons of it. A full-on dust storm came barreling in like it had been waiting just for me. Guess the universe figured I needed one more reason to hate the Badlands.
No choice but to find shelter and ride it out.
That shelter turned out to be the Sunset Motel, right on the city's edge. Cozy name. Not-so-cozy company.
As we pulled in, I clocked a bunch of cars already crammed into the lot. Visibility was crap — thick, grainy air turned everything into a sepia smear — so it took me a minute to figure out who we'd parked next to.
By the time I got close enough to make them out, my stomach tightened.
Raiders. Perfect. Looked like they had the same bright idea: wait out the storm indoors.
"Raiders. Same plan as us," I muttered, pinging Vega, who stood beside me with her hair whipping in the wind. Sand was already crawling down my collar. No way I was hanging out here a second longer than I had to.
"Should we head back to the car?" she asked.
"Yeah. But first, I'm grabbing something to eat. You've gone twelve hours without so much as a snack — not good."
"I can function without sustenance for extended periods," Vega replied, deadpan as always. "You designed my body that way, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah, but let me play the gentleman for once, will you?" I rolled my eyes with exaggerated flair and started toward the motel doors. "Wait in the car. I'll be quick."
Lucky for me, the door wasn't locked. I pushed it open and a little bell chimed, cutting through the muffled howl outside. Every head in the place turned. Some curious, some sizing me up. Mostly raiders — the Spirits, to be precise. Just my luck.
Keeping it low-key, I headed straight for the bar. The bartender looked young and twitchy — not exactly radiating confidence, but whatever. I'd take it.
Behind me, hushed voices floated through the stale air. Not subtle enough.
"Feels like a cheap western," someone muttered.
"Nomad for sure. Not a Hod — those guys tattoo their logo on their pillows. Probably a Snake or a Bakker." A woman's voice, rough and synthetic, like sandpaper over synth strings. Cheap voice mod, I guessed. Probably wrecked her vocal cords at some point... or wanted to sound untraceable for business reasons.
"Snakes are holed up in Idaho. I'm betting Bakker," another chimed in. Younger, smoother voice. I risked a glance. Two figures hunched in the corner, nursing beers that probably tasted like motor oil. Brozef, most likely — dirt cheap and got you wrecked fast. Ideal for broke bastards eager to forget how broke they were.
"You ordering or just here for the ambiance?" the bartender cut in, dragging me back to the present. Kid was putting on a tough act now.
"Food for four, and a couple cans of Ni-Cola to go. Keep the change." I slid a hundred across the counter and took the nearest stool.
"Twenty minutes. Want a drink while you wait?" His nerves vanished instantly — money always did the talking better than words.
"I don't drink," I said flatly. "Just water."
The bartender blinked, clearly caught off guard, but didn't push it. His eyes flicked for a second — probably running my biometrics or pulling up my ID — then he relaxed and slid a glass my way.
"Here you go, sir." Cold. Clear. Probably the only pure thing left in this dust-choked dump.
Of course, the peanut gallery couldn't resist.
"Hey, kid!" a voice hollered from the back. "What, mommy won't let you have booze?"
Laughter rippled through the room like wildfire.
"Don't worry, sweetheart, we won't tell her! Loosen up — drink like a man!" I ignored them. Not worth my time.
Instead, I drained the glass, set it down, and turned — slow, deliberate — toward the source of all that wit.
Exactly what I expected. A walking cliché straight out of a bargain-bin western. Cowboy hat, decent arm implants, and a faded military jacket sporting a Sixth Street patch on the sleeve. He clearly thought he was hot shit.
We locked eyes. No words. Just heavy tension, thick enough to cut with a blade.
Then, without warning, someone draped an arm over my shoulders like we were lifelong drinking buddies.
"Aw, don't be like that, handsome."
I tilted my head slightly — and came face-to-face with trouble. Early twenties. Cocky grin. Neon violet and green streaks in her hair. Eyes that knew exactly how to play and win.
She leaned in close, just to make sure I didn't miss the view. Down lower, though, was the real tell — a clan tattoo, bold and unmistakable.
The Spirits. No flashy logos, no patches. They marked themselves. Old-school. Brutal.
"So?" she purred, close enough now for me to smell the synth-scents clinging to her jacket. "How do I measure up?"
I didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
"Solid three out of ten," I said, brushing her arm off and putting a little space between us. "By the way… why don't you tell me what you did to get booted from the clan? And spare me the sob story. I'm not buying."
Her eyes widened — caught off guard. She clearly wasn't used to being shut down, let alone called out. But she recovered fast, slipping right back into her game.
"Bit personal, don't you think? We just met." She dragged the words out slow, sweet, like honey off a spoon. "But if you're curious..." She gave me a playful wink. "Maria."
Before I could reply, someone at her table chimed in, voice thick with sarcasm.
"Someone's desperate for attention tonight."
Maria ignored them. Her eyes stayed locked on me.
Didn't matter. I was already pulling her file — quick facial rec running through my neural HUD. Two seconds later, something juicy popped up.
"Maria Rose. Twenty-four. California State PD's got a bounty on you — twenty-five grand, dead or alive."
Her smirk cracked.
"Suspected in multiple homicides. Grand theft. Armed raids on corporate convoys. Official ties to the Spirits. Ex-Hod Clan, too."
The room went dead still. You could hear the flickering neon outside humming like it had something to say.
Then — click.
Someone thumbed a safety off.
"Give me one good reason not to put a bullet in your head right now," Maria said coldly, her flirty mask gone without a trace.
"Because you're not strong enough." I kept it casual, almost bored. "Do yourself a favor and crawl back to your crew before I make you eat your own gun."
[THREAT DETECTED]
[Activating combat mode]
She barely had time to blink before a pistol came up — Unity, heavily modded. The shot cracked out.
Too slow.
Sandevistan kicked in, and the world dragged to a crawl. Every detail lit up. Muzzle flash. The bullet slicing the air toward me.
Plenty of time to choose how messy I wanted this to get.
I went with subtle. No need to redecorate the room with blood. The owners wouldn't appreciate scraping corpses off the tiles — and neither would I.
Nanites flooded my hands like liquid silver. I snapped my fingers up, catching the bullet mid-flight. The kinetic energy bled harmlessly into the swarm, dissipating like steam.
Not exactly new tech. Somebody saved the Emperor the same way last year. Not that Maria needed to know that.
Before she could even process what just happened, I was already behind her. One hand rested lightly on her shoulder — careful. With combat amps running, a careless squeeze would've turned her into paste. Shame to waste something that pretty.
I dropped out of combat mode and back into normal time.
In one smooth motion, I plucked her pistol away and pressed the barrel under her jaw.
"See?" I murmured in her ear. "Told you — not strong enough. Now do us both a favor and stop testing my patience."
She swallowed hard and gave a stiff, robotic nod.
"Smart girl." I dropped the spent round into her palm like a gift. "Now, be a sweetheart and rejoin your friends. Stay out of my way."
"This? Stays with me. Call it… moral compensation." I held up her pistol, wagging it like a trophy.
"Hey, bartender." I tilted my head toward the kid who'd been frozen in place with a shotgun aimed at us. "Drinks on Maria. Abydos shots all around. She's feeling generous. Aren't you, darling?"
Maria, cheeks burning with frustration, nodded stiffly.
"Attagirl. Pay up."
I gave her shoulder a light tap. Her eyes flashed blue as the payment processed wirelessly.
"Transaction confirmed," the bartender said flatly, keeping his poker face locked tight.
"Perfect." I spun the pistol lazily around my finger, letting it twirl like it was part of me. "If anyone else here's got a problem, speak up now. I'm happy to settle this face-to-face."
Silence. Nobody wanted to be next.
Smart move. Raiders weren't known for their brains, but even they knew when to stand down. Still, I kept them all in my periphery as I leaned back against the bar. Turning your back on scavengers like these? That'd be suicide.
"Hey, pal. Which crew you with?" The cowboy — same guy from earlier — asked, his tone different now. Less cocky. More curious.
"Bakkers," I said simply. No reason to add more. I wasn't here for small talk.
"Figured. Heard you nomads are always chasing gigs. Any interest in earning some crisp eddies?" He leaned in, voice low. "Could use another gun."
"Not interested." I shot that down without missing a beat. "And if you're serious? Go through a fixer. Try Dean in Arroyo — assuming no one's put him in the ground yet."
From the side, a woman chimed in — synthetic voice, sharp tone.
"So… settled down, huh?"
"Does it matter?" I raised a brow.
She didn't blink. Definitely liked pushing buttons.
"But if you're dying to know — yeah. Been outside the clan for over a year now."
"Just curious." She gave a faint smile. "Emily Scooter. Aldecaldos."
"Alex Mitchell," I said with a nod.
"Thought you looked familiar," another voice joined in — male, friendly, casual. "You're the doc from Fourth Megatower, right? I'm Scott Hammer. Good to finally put a face to the name."
"Fantastic," I muttered, already regretting how fast word spread. "Guess I'm more popular than I thought."
Footsteps approached from behind.
"Your order's ready, sir." The bartender slid a tray onto the counter. His voice was polite — not forced polite. Just natural. Genuine, even. Kinda rare out here.
"Manners make the man…" The old phrase surfaced in my head, and I smirked as I glanced toward the entrance.
Vega had arrived.
"Deja vu," I mused, watching every set of eyes in the place drift to her. Carrying the tray, I made for a nearby table.
"Minor misunderstanding," I said as she approached. "Handled now. Got tired of waiting in the car?"
"I heard a shot," Vega replied evenly. "Thought you might need backup."
"Still a solid three out of ten," someone snarked — the dusky-skinned nomad woman, tossing clear shade at the raider girl from before.
"Since you're here, might as well eat," I said with a grin.
I pushed half the food her way and got started on my own.
Surprisingly, it wasn't the usual cheap synth crap Badlands dives liked to pass off as food. No bitter aftertaste, no plasticky chew. Just real, honest food.
For once, eating didn't feel like a chore.
***
A few minutes later, the attention around our table finally died down. People lost interest — fine by me. Gave us a chance to finish our meal in peace and relative quiet.
Still, judging by the looks we got after clearing all four portions by ourselves, we hadn't exactly gone unnoticed.
Not my fault. My body burns through calories like a black market hovercar burns fuel. And Vega? She just likes the taste of real food. Technically, she doesn't need much. Her biocomponents are efficient — she only requires about a quarter of what a grown man does.
But skipping meals for too long? Bad idea. Eventually, her systems start to break down. The organic parts go first — rotting, failing — which comes with all the fun stuff: pain, numbness, and finally losing any sense of touch at all.
At that point, all that's left is a metal frame. It can still walk, sure — but it won't feel warmth, texture, or another human ever again.
Not exactly something I'd wish on anyone.
Of course, it wasn't accidental. I built her that way on purpose. Part of her humanization process. A way to teach Vega the basics of survival — and empathy — through simple, unavoidable truths.
Call it training. Before she earned the right to a real body.
Outside, the storm was still tearing up the horizon. Forecast said at least another hour before it blew past. Which meant we were stuck here, holed up in this dusty little motel for a while longer. Surprisingly, the Spirits kept to themselves. Even the raider girl from earlier stayed quiet. Just goes to show — a little display of strength, timed right, works wonders.
Not everyone was like that, though. I'd dealt with a different breed before — the kind who thought they were untouchable. Immortal, even. People like that don't care about consequences. Not even death breathing down their necks stops them from pulling stupid, suicidal moves.
I remembered it clearly. The docks. Back during the big purges. I was pulling a police squad out of a tight ambush when I ran into Maelstrom. Yeah. They lived up to the legends. Completely insane. Zero regard for consequences. That night, they didn't care if they lived or died — as long as they took everyone else with them.
I didn't miss those bastards.
By the time the storm started to ease up, my comm unit chimed softly — multiple notifications stacked up, all impatient for attention.
Spam, mostly. Ads, junk. The usual city noise. But a few stood out.
"SovOil officially terminated its trade agreement with Kang Tao. No public comment from SovOil, citing confidentiality. Kang Tao responded by announcing plans to seek new raw material suppliers immediately."
I leaned back, frowning slightly.
So the Soviets finally pulled the trigger. Smart play, politically. But anyone paying attention knew this wasn't just about killing a contract.
This was step one of something bigger.
The Cold War — version two-point-oh — had arrived sooner than Vega and I expected. Good or bad? Too early to tell. But one thing was certain: this was going to rattle global politics to the core. Militech, for one, wouldn't waste a second. No chance they'd pass up a golden opportunity like this. While SovOil and Kang Tao tore each other apart, the rest would swoop in, picking the bones clean. And for people like Myers? A distraction like this was all the excuse they needed to drop the act and get ruthless.
"Nothing ever goes the way we plan it, does it..."
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