January 28, 2069 | 7:35 PM
Afterlife – Private Lounge
Richard Wagner (Codename: Sorge)
The blond man — known in certain circles as Sorge — paced slowly through the cramped room. A couple of others lounged nearby, watching him with thinly veiled curiosity as their fixer tried to get a grip after the evening's chaos.
"She's a grown-ass woman — what the hell was she thinking?" he snapped, barely holding back a flood of expletives.
"So… we're mostly here for emotional support, huh?" Marco quipped, his tone light, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at Jeremy.
"Looks like it," Jeremy replied, the dark-haired merc keeping his eyes fixed on Sorge.
"Alright," Sorge exhaled, finally turning to face the two wisecracking operatives. "As I'm sure you've figured out, things are… not great. The market's overflowing with job offers — which should be good news, right? But this time, it's the opposite. You remember that merc who showed up about six months ago?"
"Dan Fei, right?" Jeremy nodded, picturing the assassin who once came gunning for Richard.
"Yeah. I've got intel he's back in Night City — and this time, he's not alone. He's rolling with a crew. Coordinated. Professional. Take a look." Sorge dropped several datachips onto the table. Silence followed — the kind that buzzes with tension.
"A Chinese corp hired the Legion?" Marco asked, narrowing his eyes as he spotted a familiar tattoo on the neck of one of the women standing next to the Asian man. "I thought they stuck to Eurasia. Since when do they start meddling on other continents? Or did we miss something?"
"We've hit what I'd call the point of no return," Sorge said, grabbing a rugged black case from the floor and placing it on the steel table. "You've got two options now, and they lead to two very different outcomes. I'm not twisting your arms — this has to be your call. Consent matters in this business. Otherwise, we all know how sideways shit can go."
He flicked open the mechanical locks. Inside were two sleek, obsidian-black chips — nothing like standard-issue tech.
"What are these?" Marco asked, lifting one under Sorge's watchful eye.
"Citizenship credentials," the fixer said. "Soviet Union. Along with the basic briefing for your next job."
The weight of those words hung heavy.
"This isn't some street-level gig for trigger-happy punks. Compared to this, that Kan-Tao office raid was a daycare field trip. One last mission — that's it. After this, no more black ops, no more cloak-and-dagger. But make no mistake — once you take this job, there's no going back to the States. That chapter's over."
"So it really is that serious," Martinez muttered, his mind already spinning through the possibilities.
Two voices warred in the ex-chief of security's head. One whispered of escape — a clean break from the blood-soaked hustle, a final ticket to disappear and vanish off the grid for good. The other reminded him of Jeremy's family. Sorge had only mentioned documents for the team. Nothing about their loved ones.
"What happens after the mission — assuming we actually pull it off?" Martinez asked, probing.
"Your skills and experience will be put to use elsewhere," Sorge replied evenly. "You'll train the next generation. As for your families — relocation assistance will be provided. We'll make sure they reach the Union safely. Now, if that covers your questions, I'll give you time to think it through."
He leaned back against the cold armor-glass wall, arms crossed, silently watching the two men across from him.
Jeremy turned the chip over in his hands, inspecting every edge like he was trying to read its soul — or distract himself from the weight of the decision. Truth be told, even proposing to Gloria hadn't stirred up this much inner conflict.
"I'm in," Marco said suddenly, breaking the tension and snapping Jeremy out of his spiral.
"If I'm being honest," Martinez sighed, "your jobs always came with this kind of baggage. Alright. I'm in too."
"In that case," Sorge said, straightening up, "insert the chips into your ports and listen closely. One warning — once they're in, they can't be removed without specialized tools. They're built as insurance. If the mission fails, the chips ensure you're not going anywhere. This is your last chance to walk."
Neither Marco nor Jeremy flinched. If anything, they looked almost relieved. The built-in risk was oddly comforting — it meant the op was real. Serious. In their line of work, it wasn't uncommon for governments or corps to quietly tie off loose ends. Better to erase a liability than risk a leak.
They exchanged a glance, then nodded. Wordlessly, they slotted the chips into their neural ports.
The moment the shards locked into place, Sorge's tone shifted into briefing mode.
"Your task is brutally simple. Just follow the plan. Every step has already been mapped out."
"So, clean execution on our end," Jeremy said, skimming the data now streaming into his HUD.
"Exactly. The prep phase will take several years. A colleague of mine will handle oversight," Sorge confirmed with a nod.
"Several years?" Ramirez latched onto the timeline like a drowning man to driftwood.
"Five to seven," the blond replied. "This mission's the opening move in a long-term campaign to take over the Chinese market. End goal? Full control. So — congrats, gentlemen — you're now part of a state-level operation."
There was a dry bite of sarcasm in Sorge's voice as he studied his newly committed operatives.
"I'm guessing a job this big doesn't land on just two guys," Martinez said, narrowing his cybernetic eyes, watching Sorge for a tell.
"You're right. You're one of several teams. But yours isn't fully staffed yet," Sorge said without missing a beat. "We need four. I'll be handpicking the other two."
"So what are we supposed to do until this thing kicks off?" Marco asked, raising a brow. He clearly wasn't thrilled about years of downtime.
"The same thing you've always done — run the occasional job for me, keep sharp. You'll also be getting some new chips soon — think of them as a professional upgrade."
The two men exchanged a final look, then let out a breath in unison. No use pretending they weren't already in it — deep. Much deeper than they'd planned.
But they'd had every chance to walk away.
Now, all that was left was to wait… and be ready.
***
January 28, 2069 | 6:30 AM
Idaho Territory – Temporary Camp of the Buckers Clan
Susan Mitchell
Susan wandered through the camp at a slow, unhurried pace, a steaming mug of coffee cradled in her hands as she took in the bleak, repetitive sprawl of the North American wastelands. Most corps hadn't bothered re-greening these zones, and vast stretches of the New States of America still looked dead on arrival. For someone who'd spent most of her life under the neon-streaked skies of a megacity, the emptiness never got easier to stomach.
A sharp gust cut through the air, making her shiver. She took another sip of the coffee, savoring its bitter warmth, then reached absently for her forearm — only to flinch at the touch and pull away. Even after a full year back in her original body, having real, biological arms still felt strange. But there was no denying they made quiet moments like this — cold, still, alive — feel real in a way chrome never could.
"Up before everyone else again, huh?"
John's voice came from behind her as he wrapped his arms around her waist.
"Habit," Susan murmured, leaning into him. "Still... that little bastard was right. The war really has started." Her tone turned bitter at the mention of a certain cocky, sharp-tongued young man.
"I was hoping he was wrong too," John said. "But yeah… deep down, I knew. And turns out Idaho really is the safest place north of California."
"I worry about him," she said softly. "Al's always been… different. Even as a kid, he looked at the world like he'd lived through it twice already. I remember him digging through my workshop junk like he'd struck gold. Always building something — sometimes it even worked. Usually though… just scrap wired together from tech that was obsolete fifty years ago."
"You know that kinda sounds like you're bragging about your kid," John said with a grin. "Just, you know, in a roundabout way."
"Maybe I am," she admitted, smiling faintly. "I remember forging his papers, back when things started getting serious. We had a conversation kinda like this one, actually. Ended up listing me as his older sister."
A nostalgic smile crept across her face as the memory surfaced.
"Getting all cozy before sunrise, huh?"
Brooke strode past, tugging her jacket tighter against the cold. Her voice cut clean through the moment like a scalpel. "Hey, either of you know who the hell tagged that thing?"
She jabbed a thumb at one of the haulers, where someone had sprayed a strange, looping design across the trailer's side.
"No idea," Susan said with a shrug. "Probably one of Khan or Shiro's little pranks. Why? It's actually not bad — kinda decent, even."
"That's the thing," Brooke replied, frowning. "I don't remember either of them going anywhere near that hauler. Whatever — forget it." The blonde nomad waved it off and headed toward the makeshift shower stall set up in the middle of camp.
"Middle of the night, bored out of their minds, figured they'd tag something while everyone else was asleep. Not exactly groundbreaking," O'Brien snorted, watching Brooke disappear between the tents.
"Morning!" Vincent called out cheerfully, waving as he approached the group. "Hey, Dad — the shower free?" he asked, glancing at his father.
"Yup. Everyone else is still dead to the world," John grinned, clearly enjoying the rare peace before the usual chaos kicked in. He could already picture it — his own personal apocalypse, otherwise known as the Camp of the Living Dead.
"Cool. Then I'm hopping in." Vi returned the wave and disappeared in the direction of the showers.
"We should probably clean up too," Susan said, stepping back slightly. "Rachel'll be up soon, and the rest of the camp won't be far behind."
"First come, first served, huh?" John said, still holding her by the waist.
"Mind letting go?" she asked, glancing up at him.
"Buzzkill," he muttered, finally letting her go.
"Love you too," Susan shot back with a quick kiss on the cheek before jogging off toward their tent, leaving John alone in the camp's quiet center.
He sighed, long and deep, and stood there a few more seconds, reluctant to break the calm. But he knew better. Rachel would be up any minute now, and leaving her unsupervised was basically inviting disaster. The kid was a whirlwind with legs — and if you blinked, something would catch fire. Or blow up.
"Kids are adorable when they're sleeping — especially when they've got their backs to you and you can't see what they're plotting," O'Brien muttered to himself, smirking at the old joke as he cast a glance at the pale, washed-out sky stretching over the wasteland.
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