Chapter 5 : Negotiate for Realism

The job’s done, but last night I got an earful about how this kind of screw-up isn’t ideal.

I held back from hitting the body directly, thinking there might be a Sandevistan or some critical gear inside.
Should’ve just gone all out and blown off its limbs.
Sure, it’s a “mistake,” but getting the job marked as a success is something to be grateful for.
I can’t even complain about missing my Tom and Jerry marathon while enduring that ear-splitting lecture.
Quietly stepping back, I face the rising sun.

Sunlight should feel warm, hopeful, but the moment it hits the city, it’s just a sickening signal for another dystopian day.
With regret, I take a deep drag of the cigarette—the one thing that feels real.
Bitter smoke curls over my tongue, heavy air resonating in my throat.

“That’s five times stronger than regular. Even if you’re used to it, you should be careful.”
“Nah, it’s fine. Anything less, and I wouldn’t feel it.”
“Sounds like you’re already half-gone. That’s not a cigarette—it’s practically a drug.”
“Thanks for the concern, but I’m good. Never had a problem, never will.”
“…You’ve always been the same. Just keep it in mind—it builds up. I’ll treat you if something goes wrong, but be careful.”

Someone caring this much is rare in Night City—practically a mythical creature.
Having that kind of character in this era isn’t normal, and he’s anything but.
A former Trauma Team member, a living legend, though he’d rather you forget that.

“Thanks, as always.”
“Never seen you come in hurt, though.”
“Good’s good, right?”
“What’s good for a doctor, huh? Kidding, you know.”
“Jeez, cursing me like that.”
“Haha, stay healthy and come back.”

Come back to a hospital? Not sure if I should laugh.
The place feels less like a hospital and more like an empty spaceship, all dreamy and hollow.
I like that he’s still here, waiting for whatever future comes.

His joke gets a chuckle as I stand.
With his warm laughter behind me, I wave and leave the clinic, only to be greeted by a group in gleaming blue masks, mechanical like mine.

“Boss.”
“Yeah.”

On the surface, my job’s leading this gang.
It’s not a big crew, and if I went back to my true self, I wouldn’t need them.
But one hand can’t block ten, so I formed this vigilante group to avoid cleaning up messes after the fact.

“Let’s head to Afterlife.”

I nod to the guy opening the backseat door, and he gives a quick nod before sliding into the driver’s seat.

The road to Afterlife is about the only path in Night City worth walking.
But for those with cars, it’s not special enough to bother.
No one’s paying you to stroll.

“Boss, word is those Animal bastards are sniffing around our turf lately.”
“Animals?”

I fiddle with the lighter, opening and closing it, staring at the grimy skyscrapers scraping the sky.
A monotone voice from the front signals the usual report on what’s been happening while I was away.
But it’s not welcome news.
Like hearing about roaches in your house, my voice drips with irritation as I respond.

“Yeah, those juiced-up muscle freaks.”

Obsessed with boosting raw physical strength, they’re basically gorillas in human skin.
A beastly crew, hooked on their own synthetic “juice” steroids.
That’s why we call them drug muscles.

Say what you will, they’re a pain to deal with.
Strength isn’t the issue—it’s that they’ve got no fixed turf.
They pop up everywhere, like roaches, impossible to pin down.

Rumor has it they started out idolizing some freak who reached the top with just their body, no weapons.
But seeing how they attack civilians without hesitation, I don’t feel any fondness.
It’s pure disgust.

“Another damn hassle…”
“So, what’s the plan?”
“Roaches in the house—what’s there to plan?”

I snap the lighter shut.

“Wipe them out.”

“Clean ‘em up?”

The sight of those hulking figures fills my view, and a sigh escapes.
It’s not that they’re tough—it’s the eager, bloodthirsty glint in my crew’s eyes that weighs on me.
Sure, we could crush them or sweep them away like trash, but that choice means we’d never set foot here again.

“No one said anything about Dokkaebi showing up—especially not a person of interest.”
“What’s with that glare at the boss? Wanna die?”

My crew’s ready to throw punches, overflowing with loyalty—overkill, really.
I’m grateful, but where they find this devotion in my slouched, lazy self is beyond me.

“They say Sixth Street’s got a meeting here.”

I grab the shoulder of a guy about to swing, pulling him back.
We’re not here to fight.
The negotiation’s starting soon.

“…Heard you smashed a meeting with Maelstrom to pieces.”
“That was… uh… they were asking for it.”

Thanks to that, we’re still at war, but I don’t negotiate with bastards who tear kids apart in front of me.
They act cocky, provoke us—hell, even a saint like Viktor would draw a gun.
Dokkaebi was built to take down scum like that, after all.
My real goal—clearing the area to feel some semblance of reality—is something only I, the boss, know.
No need to spill that now.

“Anyway, lending Afterlife for this meeting is risky for us.”
“…”

Can’t argue when my actions speak for themselves.
Drag this out, and the guys grinding their teeth behind me might pull guns.

“Call Rogue.”
“Huh?”
“Ugh, call the owner!”

Whatever, she said she’d help with the negotiation.

“No need to yell, I’m already here.”
“Hey, Rogue. Been a while.”

Rogue steps out from behind the auto-opening door, hand still on her head.
As the “White Old Man,” I’ve taken her jobs plenty, a reliable connection.
But as Dokkaebi’s boss? We’re more like old frenemies—not exactly chummy.

I’ve never felt the need to reveal my true identity to her.
That’s why I only take jobs over the phone.
It’s not about trust—people’s mouths slip without meaning to.
If Arasaka or Militech, who want me gone, heard even a whisper from a famous fixer like her, my dream of a quiet, peaceful life would be kissing the pavement goodbye.
A calm world, resembling my old one, where I could feel reality and settle down—that future would shatter.

“Sixth Street’s already inside.”
“Soldiers, huh? Punctual as hell.”
“They’re pissed you’re late.”

Don’t say that. Can’t you see the glowing eyes behind me?
I didn’t want to max out their hostility before the negotiation even starts.
At this rate, everyone’s dead before we begin.

“I’ll provide the place, but no mediation. Stick to the deal.”
“Obviously. We take full responsibility. And we announce it like we discussed, right?”
“You’re quick. Fine, this way.”

In exchange for the venue, Dokkaebi’s promised to help protect Afterlife.
Just spread the word about the deal.
I hate to say it, but our crew’s solid—not too hot-headed.
In this sh*tty 2077 world, we’re almost too soft.

It’s not a high-profit deal, but it’s not bad for me.
Afterlife’s got a good rep, and owning a place that sparks nostalgia—something that feels real—is damn appealing.

“It’s in here. Like I said, if you’re gonna shoot, do it outside.”
“What, shoot during a negotiation? Come on, have some faith.”
“Trust a dog to stop sh*tting first. Handle it yourself.”
“Jeez, fine, thanks.”

Rogue slinks off toward Afterlife’s entrance, like she’s done with this hassle.
I want to complain about her lack of trust, but given my track record in this form, I’ve got no leg to stand on.

A meeting to carve up Santo Domingo.
Open this door, and the region’s fate—its future—gets decided.

“Let’s go in.”