Chapter 27: IT TAKES THREE TO ROCK / Rock and Rub It In

Time Skip
Sometime in 2076 (Edgerunners Era) ——→ Sometime in 2077 (Cyberpunk 2077 Era)

The Badlands—a desolate wasteland stretching beyond Night City’s borders.

Even when storms rage across the scorched earth, the Nomads charge forward in their heavily customized rides. Drifting from country to city, chasing dreams on wheels, these car-bound wanderers eventually became known as Nomads. They formed families, built small mobile settlements, and kept moving.

You’ve got Nomad blood in your veins. So conquer the wilds.
Run free with the wind, live by your own code, and never stop moving.

...Or so I’d been raised to believe, thanks to my old-fashioned Nomad parents. The days after I left the nest as an adult were fun.

Really fun…

I swallowed those words and peeled off the patch on my chest—a replica of the Bakkers’ clan symbol. After everything that had happened, that memento of the past no longer meant anything. I tossed it into a nearby trash bin.

"…Huh. Pretty old model. Doubt I’ve got the parts for this."

"Then just patch it up. That’s fine."

I winked at the mechanic, and he shrugged before getting to work.

All I’ve got left is my ride and my looks, I mused, exhaling softly.

Coming near Night City had been a good call—I’d found a job listing on that antique, satellite-dish-modified laptop of mine. But after pushing my car too hard, the poor thing was wheezing its last breaths, forcing me to stop in this little town.

It was a bit of a shock to realize that the car knowledge I’d picked up as a Nomad was already outdated here, so close to Night City.

…Still, seeing those Bakkers tangled up with the Snakes made me act on impulse. And now? I think it was for the best.

"Whew… Managed to bring it back to life. But seriously, you should just buy a new one."

"Thanks, doc. You’ve got skill."

"Hah! Only car mechanic in town—gotta be good at something. If I were younger, I’d’ve hustled harder."

"Oh, what a shame. I’d better get going—don’t wanna be late for work."

"…Yeah? Well, let me see you off, then."

Charming men was second nature to me, thanks to my mother’s lessons. I loved the thrill of fiery romance, but I also knew how to slip through fingers like sand. That skill had kept me alive.

Not that I’d ever say it out loud, but an old-timer like him? No thanks. A quick lip-service kiss on the cheek, and I was out of the garage.

A salvaged bulldog-shaped bobblehead on the dash wobbled as the engine sputtered.

Ugh… Hearing my car’s weak growl sent a wave of unease through me. At this rate, even making it to Night City’s outskirts was doubtful.

I’d fallen in love with the look of my Thorton Galena at first sight, but its aging frame was barely holding together. Without serious reinforcement, it’d split apart soon.

Spotting a comms tower, I sneaked up and linked my laptop.

"…Oh? They’re still waiting, even though I’m late."

The new message gave coordinates—an abandoned warehouse near a ranch, sent just moments ago. Closing the laptop (which I’d strong-armed Willy into adding a wireless module to), I drove toward the warehouse.

The place looked less like a warehouse and more like a rusted-out container home, seemingly deserted. Parked nearby was a near-brand-new Galena, its sleek form a stark contrast to my own ride’s history.

Inside the container, a dead-eyed young man waited.

His worn suit screamed corpo wage-slave, and the cigarette smoke curling from his lips looked almost like a departing spirit. Despite his short brown hair and youth, those hollow eyes made him seem decades older.

Noticing me, he let out an exaggerated sigh before carefully stubbing out his cigarette in a pocket ashtray.

"Hey. ’Bout time. Gimme the passphrase."

"Junker Jacky Jack—that work?"

"Yeah. Guess you’re who I’ve been waitin’ for. Name’s V. Delivery guy for this gig."

"Oh? You’re V too? So am I."

We stared at each other, the awkwardness of sharing a business name hanging thick in the air.

My real name’s Valerie—a gift from my parents. But in this life, using it just invites trouble, so I go by the initial instead.

Maybe he’s the same? No—a corpo drone like him, looking like this, in a place like this? Something’s off.

Then again… maybe he’s not hiding his name. Maybe he’s ditching it.

"You kiddin’ me…? A third one? Coincidences are scary."

"Or maybe it’s just that obvious a choice?"

"…Fair point. Call me Witt, then."

"Then I’m Val. Nice to meet you, Witt."

"Yeah. Oh, and that third V? Goes by Vanny."

With an old-man grunt, Witt stood up. He was tall—180 cm, easy. His joints cracked like he’d been sitting too long, a silent complaint about the wait.

Then, with a tired smirk, he glanced out the window.

"So… the package is in my car. What about yours?"

"Gotta retire it here. It’s on its last legs."

"Huh. Real Nomad of you, caring for your ride like that. Respect."

His unexpectedly straightforward praise threw me off. Maybe this was why he’d left the corpo world.

"Oh, thanks. Mind pulling your car up a bit?"

"Sure. Last moments should be private."

With a wave, Witt headed out, his movements practiced as he drove off.

I placed a hand on my Galena—my first car, my companion for years—and opened the door. Starting the engine one last time, I let it roar before it quietly died.

After a silent farewell, I closed the door, grabbed my bag and the dog figurine, then flicked my lighter onto the gas tank.

Flames licked inward as I watched, turning the car into a pyre. Only when it was fully engulfed did I turn away.

Witt, waiting in his car, had paid his respects too—crossing himself in the rearview mirror.

"Thanks. For giving me time."

"S’nothing. Four hours or four minutes—same difference."

"…Seriously, I’m sorry."

I had kept him waiting forever. But Witt just shrugged, no yelling, no anger.

Buckling into the passenger seat, I noticed his driving was smooth—controlled, just like his demeanor.

"Nah. Cigarettes make time fly. Besides, starin’ at this scenery’s kinda nice."

"Really? To me, this is just normal. Night City’s the weird one."

"Huh. Born and raised Nomad, then?"

"Guess so. To us, a car’s a home. Means we can go anywhere—even places we’ve never seen."

"…So you were burning down your house just now?"

"…Would you want someone else using your old place?"

"…………Point taken."

A long silence followed before Witt nodded solemnly. Maybe, as a fellow Galena lover, he understood.

Still… no visible implants. Is he really from Night City?

Noticing my stare, he chuckled dryly.

"Yeah, yeah. I don’t look like a City boy. Not a Buddhist, either."

"Buddhist?"

"Ah—right, guess you wouldn’t know. Asian religion. Some followers reject cyberware—all-natural types."

"Huh, what a waste—staying in Night City when you don’t have to."

"...Yeah, guess you’re right. Why am I here, in this city of chrome? Eh, whatever. Got my share of cyberware, though. RealSkin’s the trend lately—sellin’ chrome arms that look almost like the real deal. Plus, dressing like this keeps people off guard. Works for me."

He casually waved his left arm—then, to my shock, a blade snapped out from mid-forearm. The tip pointed at the ceiling, not me, so at least he wasn’t aiming to ruin my face or gut.

"Whoops, scare ya? Sorry ‘bout that. Just thought it looked cool. My bad."

"More like I felt betrayed. What is that?"

"Arasaka Mantis Blade. Corporate housing and accounts got seized, but this stayed. Love the thing. Hidden blade—cool, right?"

"Well, yeah... popping out of your arm’s a bit out there, but... it is cool."

As a Nomad, I’ve always had a thing for car parts—and this was undeniably slick. Not that I’d ever chrome my own arms, though. No need. Besides, full chrome hands’d ruin the feel of my baby’s steering wheel.

The conversation lulled, leaving only engine growl and tires on gravel.

"So, what’re you hauling this time?"

"C’mon, couriers don’t ask. ‘Don’t tell, don’t ask, don’t look’—basic rules, rookie."

Vitt’s blunt logic shut me up. He shrugged, shooting me a sidelong glance with wary eyes. Damn it—he’d pegged my inexperience. A faint sigh from his seat made my stomach drop.

"...Relax. Badlands instincts’ll get you far, but Night City’s different. ‘You only know you’re happy after staring into the abyss’—kinda place. Playing city girl’s cute, but don’t overdo it. This town respects strength. Keeping your guard up? Smart move."

"Hmm. So I should drop the act?"

"Nah. That ‘hostess’ vibe’s refreshing—not some JoyToy or doll. Open a little bar, you’d make bank."

"You’re telling me to be a snack mama?"

He smirked and shrugged. Fine, a compliment’s a compliment—but it still felt like a pat on the head.

The scenery shifted, gravel fading to asphalt. The Badlands were truly behind us. Oddly, the unfamiliar clutter of the city sparked a thrill.

"State border ahead. Don’t fidget."

"I won’t...! Ugh—what’s the plan?"

"Relax. Our little boss covered everything. Same cargo, different shell. No way we’re moving it raw—it’s in a cooler now. If asked, say it’s beer for nostalgia’s sake."

"...Slick. You used to smuggle?"

"Nah, first time. But I prep properly."

"Good."

For amateurs, they’d prepped well. Maybe we wouldn’t even need the forged L.O.A. docs. I tucked them back, finally grasping why a Nomad like me was involved: to blend in as a returning local or a couple. Nomads make great alibis—win-win.

"Stop. ...Scan clear. Ah, Corp-affiliated? My apologies. Proceed."

"Yeah, keep up the good work."

...No way. Last time, customs dragged me to inspection. Yet Vitt’s tired-corp aura got us waved through—cooler and all. Night City hospitality, huh?

"Heh. Confused? Simple—I’m ex-Arasaka, crossed this checkpoint plenty. Night City bows to power. Arasaka’s top-tier here. Even juniors get respect. They assumed this was personal."

Makes sense. Even here, corpo ghosts linger. That weary salaryman act was convincing—pity included.

We pulled into a safehouse garage disguised as a home. Vitt parked and exhaled—end of the line.

"And that’s a wrap. Sending your eddies now. ...Cash better?"

"Don’t patronize me. I’ve got optical implants."

"My bad. There’s your cut."

2,000 eddies hit my account. Enough to start fresh. I reached for the door—but it locked. Vitt stayed seated, lighting a cigarette with violet flame.

"Now, the real pitch. My team’s hiring—need a skilled driver."

"...So that’s why a Nomad got this gig. The real job’s recruitment."

Honestly, Vitt could’ve solo’d this run. A talented driver, huh? Nomads live on the road—driving’s second nature. And only a clan-exile Nomad would bite on a job ending in Night City.

"...You in Arasaka HR or something?"

"Nah. Counterintel, deputy chief. Till my useless, backstabbing boss cut me loose. This team? Actually fun. Makes my corpo days feel like a bad joke."

"...Huh. Lucky you, then. Just so happens you’ve found yourself a clanless Nomad with time to kill. Good catch, huh?"

"Heh."

"You snorted!? I’m leaving—!"

"Nah, nah. Just laughin’ ‘cause the Little Boss called it. Wasn’t at you."

"You keep saying that—who* is this ‘Little Boss’?"*

Vitt made a grunt that defied interpretation, then shrugged. "Well, facts are facts. She’s a fifteen-year-old tech genius, ripperdoc-turned-fixer. Girl’s so sharp she’s already top-tier in Night City—and boyish as hell. Our team leader, Jackie Welles, runs with her. That’s how we get jobs. ...Seriously, you hit the jackpot."

"You’re laying it on thick... So, what’s the name?"

"Mine?"

"...Ugh. The team’s name, obviously."

He lit a second cigarette, smirked, and exhaled smoke like a punchline.

"We’re the Jackals. Welcome to Night City—where only the hungry survive."

With a nihilistic grin, he tossed me a small object. A fabric patch: a black jackal crushing a vertical bone between its jaws. My eyes flicked to Vitt’s suit lining—the same emblem stitched inside his pocket.

"...Let me guess. Little Boss’s idea too?"

"Yeah. Kid’s obsessive with details. Also weirdly maternal."

I peeled off my old Bakker clan patch and slapped the jackal in its place, flashing it at Vitt. We burst out laughing, then stepped out of the safehouse garage—toward the team’s hideout.