March 6, 2068
Alex Mitchell (Volkov)
Incoming video call — Zorge (Fixer)
I'd barely slid behind the wheel when an unknown number started lighting up my comm. Rubbing the bridge of my nose thoughtfully, I didn't rush to answer. My mind raced, wondering why a fixer like Zorge would suddenly take an interest in someone like me. After a moment's consideration, I sighed deeply and finally took the call, leaning back comfortably into the driver's seat.
Call accepted — Establishing secure connection.
"Good day, Alex. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important?" The blond man spoke politely, carefully walking the line between courteous and ingratiating.
"Not at all. Your timing is suspiciously perfect, actually. Mind telling me why you're suddenly calling me out of the blue?"
"The thing is," the fixer began cautiously, pressing his fingertips together thoughtfully, "I find myself in need of your particular skill set."
"And which skills would those be, exactly?" I shifted slightly in my seat, subtly adjusting my posture.
"Your primary area of expertise," Zorge replied cryptically. He paused, and a file-transfer request popped up on my screen. "Have a look at the data first. Then give me your answer."
Old habits die hard. My instincts kicked in immediately, scanning the files meticulously for nasty surprises. Finding nothing suspicious, I opened several text documents and spent the next fifteen minutes carefully combing through the details. Zorge waited patiently, allowing me all the time I needed.
"This is seriously sensitive stuff," I finally said, scowling at one particularly troubling line of text. "You're really comfortable trusting something this delicate to someone you hardly know?"
"I wouldn't exactly call you an unknown quantity," Zorge replied smoothly. "We share several acquaintances, and they speak very highly of your talents — and your discretion," he added, his tone clearly meaningful.
"Well, who should I kill first for running their mouth? Marco or Jeremy?" I asked provocatively, earning a deep chuckle from the fixer.
"Neither." Zorge smiled cryptically, drawing out the suspense. "Can't you guess?"
"I give up," I said, raising my hands in mock surrender. Zorge shook his head slightly, apparently disappointed I wasn't playing along quite enough to entertain him.
"A certain lady from Japantown gave you an excellent recommendation. Her opinion holds considerable weight," he revealed at last.
"So that's how it is..." I murmured under my breath, slipping unconsciously into Russian. Zorge didn't even flinch at the switch — clearly, he'd done his homework. "Alright, then. A few more questions first, if you don't mind?" He nodded in agreement, prompting me to continue. "Can I refuse?" My intentionally provocative question still failed to draw any real reaction, fueling a nagging suspicion that I was being deliberately toyed with — an idea that seriously annoyed me.
"You can," Zorge replied calmly. "But the real question is — do you really want to?" He smiled faintly, resting his chin on his right hand.
"You're not even going to threaten me?"
"Why would I?" Zorge raised an eyebrow, once again steering me away from the typical dialogue script I'd grown so accustomed to. Night City had trained me to expect business conversations filled with veiled threats and implied violence. "I'm here to offer you a partnership, not to make yet another enemy."
"I have to admit, you caught me off guard," I sighed, mildly annoyed but quickly slipping back into my usual smile. "Fine. Let's say I'm in — but I'll need details."
"I'll provide everything you need," the fixer replied, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture, his smile broader than usual. Clearly, he was pleased he'd managed to get me onboard, even if only tentatively.
"First things first: payment. Money doesn't interest me," I fired back instantly, catching the blond off-guard. After all, I'd soon have enough cash flowing in to start worrying about my mental health.
"Then what does interest you? Information? Connections?"
"Resources — rare-earth metals and strategic alloys, specifically," I clarified. If you're going to play, play big.
"That's… certainly unexpected," he said, clearly startled. At that moment, a vague suspicion crept into my mind.
Maybe Wakako deliberately withheld some key details — but why would she do that? Perhaps it was her way of keeping me close. Part of me understood her reasoning. After all, an aging fixer from Japantown couldn't easily compete with someone backed by an entire nation.
Unlike most countries, the USSR had successfully reinvented its ideology, adapting enough to remain competitive. The Union was no longer the socialist utopia it had once aspired to be, but its core principles still strongly reflected socialism. People born there enjoyed genuine opportunities — free education, healthcare, and numerous other benefits had survived intact. True, the state only provided you with a decent starting point; what you made of it afterward was entirely your problem. In other words, they'd help you stand, but the rest was on you.
"Unfortunately, certain materials I need aren't exactly easy to acquire, hence the unusual request," I explained briefly.
"We could supply everything you're asking for," the fixer probed cautiously. "Any additional requests?"
"No. Just deliver the raw materials. I'll handle the rest myself."
"Good. Then do we have a deal?" The blond raised an eyebrow.
"Will you personally oversee the transfer, or will you use an intermediary?" I asked, posing my final question.
"Our mutual acquaintance will handle it," he answered, waving casually.
"Wakako?" I asked, theatrically raising my eyebrow.
"Jeremy," Zorge corrected me, smirking and clearly amused by his childish prank. "Anyway, thank you for this fascinating conversation. We'll finalize the details of our arrangement in a more private setting. How about dinner at Ugli?"
"I have a tight schedule, but I suppose I can squeeze you in."
"Excellent. Thank you for your cooperation. See you soon, Alexander Volkov."
Call ended — connection terminated.
"Well, that was unexpected..."
"What exactly?" Vega asked, interrupting a conversation she'd obviously been eavesdropping on the whole time.
"The fixer clearly knows my real identity, which means he could've easily dug deeper. I doubt Wakako had a hand in this; otherwise, he wouldn't have seemed surprised by my unusual choice of payment. Then again, this revelation isn't exactly shocking. Given his resources and connections, uncovering the truth about me wouldn't have been too difficult. And it's not like I've been perfectly discreet."
"Could this become a problem?" my assistant asked, concern creeping into her voice.
"Probably not. Until today, he might have suspected something, but my big mouth essentially handed him confirmation."
"I don't recall you mentioning anything specific enough to reveal your true identity," Vega countered.
"Maybe not explicitly — but the damage is done, and it's entirely my own fault. No point in regrets now. Even if I'd been more careful, it wouldn't have changed much. My priority now is avoiding deeper entanglement in this questionable partnership. Clearly, the Union's interested in my techniques for boosting neuro-drift compatibility between augmentations and humans." My eyes drifted again to the blueprints of some highly unconventional implants — definitely not designed for civilian use. "And there's another slip-up. I should've installed safeguards in Marco's and Jeremy's implants to prevent deep-level code analysis. A skilled netrunner could easily discover some very interesting things."
"So what's your next move?"
"Nothing drastic. If nobody's grilled me with tough questions or dragged me into interrogation before now, they're probably not overly concerned about me. Still, something might've recently changed if they're actively trying to recruit me. But I can only speculate about their true motives."
"Give me a few minutes to analyze this," Vega suddenly requested, surprising me.
"I have no idea what you're planning, but go ahead."
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