"Good morning, Night City!"
"Yesterday's body count lottery came in at a nice round thirty!"
"Thanks to the never-ending gang wars, Heywood alone racked up ten."
"But hey, one of those was a cop, so I'm guessing some of you are losing money on that bet..."
Ethan's fingers twitched. The massive drone of an AV thundering past his window mixed with the TV's endless chatter.
This was his place. Compared to the half-finished construction sites scattered across Dogtown, it was a decent enough hole to crash in.
The original owner's memories had fully integrated now. Ethan looked around at everything—familiar and strange at the same time—and dragged his aching body out of bed.
"Heh. A new day in Night City... no, Dogtown?"
He flexed his chrome, grabbed a Gold Crown Burrito off the table, and took a few bites. Only after confirming his vitals were back to normal did he relax.
His phone rang. The face on the other end belonged to Otto, expression as exaggerated as ever.
"You little shit—you went through three MaxDocs on me yesterday. Seriously, bro, you need to save up and replace that janky old chrome of yours."
Ethan nodded. Fair point.
But wasn't this guy huffing my Glitter supply too? Is he here to collect?
"Relax, I'm not some debt collector. If you've got time, swing by the camp near the checkpoint. Hansen says we gotta return the hardware to our 'warriors.'"
"Oh, and remember—the Colonel's business comes first. Don't go fucking around."
"Later, bro! Let's grab drinks sometime!"
The line went dead. Ethan sat in thought.
Yesterday, Hansen had sent him to Heavy Hearts—one of Dogtown's landmark establishments—but he still didn't know who he was supposed to meet.
A figure materialized in his mind: a voice like gravel wrapped in silk, face hidden in shadow.
"Could it be... Mr. Hands? The top fixer in Pacifica?"
It was 2075. Ethan wasn't sure if Mr. Hands had already built his reputation as the go-to middleman around here. If it was someone he didn't know, things would get complicated.
His biggest advantage right now was his rough understanding of these people's personalities.
Fixers. The brokers who navigated every faction in Night City. High risk, high reward.
Plenty of edgerunners thought the job was just passing things from one hand to another—why let some middleman pocket the markup? But the truth was, these well-connected operators had a way of landing big clients and smoothing over problems for the people who did the dirty work.
Without a fixer's touch, most jobs that couldn't see daylight would never get done.
Ethan stepped out of his ramshackle building, feet clanging on the rickety metal stairs leading down to street level. In the distance, a massive tree hung with countless candles caught his eye—and memories came flooding back.
He'd stood there before. As V. Talking with Johnny beneath the Tree of Remembrance, both of them wondering what came next.
Now it was real. All that defiance, those friendships, that fire—none of it had reached its destined end yet.
Wonder what V's up to right now? Are they a guy or a girl?
Ethan cracked a small joke to himself. It helped ease the weight in his chest.
His phone buzzed.
[INCOMING CALL: Unknown]
"Hello, friend. I'm Mr. Hands."
Bingo. At least he knew this one. Ethan nodded. "The famous Mr. Hands. Pleasure."
On the other end, the mysterious fixer—face still invisible—let out a soft, surprised laugh. His voice was cultured, measured. "It's rare for Colonel Hansen to pick someone so... personable. Come to the Heavy Hearts club. I heard you got banged up pretty bad yesterday, so I've given you some time to recover."
"Of course, I won't wait forever. Some things need to be discussed face to face."
Ethan nodded. The line went dead without ceremony—Hands wasn't the type to waste words.
Ethan headed toward the outskirts of the unfinished high-rises. A beaten-up road connected to Dogtown's main district lay beyond. But before he could take more than a few steps—
A glob of spit landed right next to his foot.
"Stupid fucking Barghest. And now you're just a useless piece of shit. Ptooey!"
A vendor crouched under a makeshift stall, hawking junk and cursing nonstop. Ethan suddenly remembered—yesterday, he'd still been one of Hansen's enforcers. A tool the Colonel used to keep Dogtown's residents in line.
Now? Looked like Barghest had kicked him to the curb.
Stay calm. Don't panic.
The next second, Ethan's chrome hand clamped down on the vendor's jaw.
Locals stopped in their tracks, drawn by the commotion. Some looked scared. Some looked excited. A few were egging the vendor on to fight back.
"Hey! Easy, man—"
The vendor hadn't expected the ex-soldier to still have cyberware. The iron grip squeezed his face until his facial implants threatened to crack. He folded instantly.
Whatever Barghest had done wasn't Ethan's doing. He wasn't about to swallow that shit quietly. So he made sure this guy learned a lesson right now.
"I'm gonna need you to keep your mouth a little cleaner. Whether I'm Barghest or not isn't the point—but that doesn't mean I won't deal with you."
"We clear?"
Ethan knew if he'd just walked away like nothing happened, the trouble would only pile up later.
Luckily, his chrome was more than enough to handle one loudmouth shopkeeper.
"I live here. You run your business. We don't have a problem. OK?"
The vendor nodded frantically like a chicken pecking grain. Ethan released him.
The crowd watched him walk away, hands in pockets, muttering "friendly" remarks about his parentage before dispersing.
The game made it look quick, but in reality Dogtown was massive. The road behind the unfinished buildings stretched forever. By the time Ethan reached the camp, he was actually winded.
Blame the original owner. Every paycheck went to Glitter cut with sketchy shit, or gambling. Couldn't even afford a busted car...
Two hours of walking later, Ethan entered the Barghest camp.
The moment he stepped through the gate, soldiers stopped what they were doing. Every eye locked onto the young man who clearly didn't look like one of them anymore.
Still, the guards had let him through, so they didn't bother making it their problem.
"Your gun. And some eddies Hansen sent. Oh, there's a handling fee. Call it my commission."
A female soldier with a mohawk had her jacket tied around her waist, rose tattoos climbing her arms. She took a drag from her cigarette and tossed Ethan his rifle.
His account pinged: 1,000 eurodollars.
"How much did you skim?"
"Three hundred. Don't like it? Go tell the Colonel. Now get lost."
Ethan blinked. He wasn't leaving. "Give it back."
The woman clicked her tongue, about to go off, when a male soldier next to her exhaled a cloud of pungent Glitter smoke. "Just give it to him, sis. No point. Otto already—"
"Fine. You win."
The remaining three hundred hit his account. Ethan turned to the male soldier. "Where's Otto? Wasn't he supposed to hand me my gear?"
The soldier stood, clapping Ethan on the shoulder and steering him toward the exit. "Who knows? Probably died in some girl's bed. Anyway, get moving. Stop asking questions."
Ethan tried calling Otto. Wanted to let him know he'd picked up his stuff.
Basic courtesy.
The phone rang and rang. No answer. Eventually Ethan gave up.
He looked toward the horizon, where the Heavy Hearts club rose like a gleaming glass pyramid under the afternoon sun.
He took his first step—well, his God-knows-how-many-th step in this world.
Whatever. It's a start, right?