The sign above the entrance glimmered faintly in cursive English, its letters spelling out Heavy Hearts. Even in daylight, before the nightlife began to stir, the place already carried a certain aura. The neon glow felt almost flimsy against the washed-out sun, unable yet to unleash its true allure.
The club was more than just a hotspot for Dogtown's restless souls—it was infamous. The whole building was shaped like a modern pyramid, a strange nod to ancient Egypt. By night, piercing green beams shot upward from its peak, cutting into the sky like searchlights guiding the lost. That eerie glow was its banner, its identity, and its warning. The same could be said for its security: brutal, uncompromising, and unflinching.
No one could quite explain why this building, much like Sapphire Blue, had earned the audacity to become one of Dogtown's few landmarks. Perhaps it was because of the man behind the curtain. Rumors whispered that the elusive fixer Mr. Hands maintained his workshop on one of the higher floors of this opulent structure. And in a place like Dogtown, someone—anyone—had to take responsibility for keeping the chaos in check.
Two heavily armed guards stood at the entrance. Their expressions betrayed no warmth, only the mechanical efficiency of men who had long ago stopped caring about right and wrong. One of them gave William a cold once-over before his gaze landed on the kinetic rifle strapped across William's back.
"Sorry," the guard said flatly, his voice like gravel. "You know the rules here. I'll need to hold onto this."
William didn't flinch. Instead, he offered a small shrug and a calm smile, as though unbothered. "Fair enough."
The guard pressed a finger against the comm implant behind his ear. His eyes glazed for a moment as he murmured into the invisible channel. "He's here."
There was no question about whom "he" referred to. It had to be Hands.
The other guard, perhaps in a show of Dogtown courtesy, returned the smaller pistol William kept holstered at his waist. A pistol was harmless compared to the threats Hands must have endured over the years. No one in Dogtown, it seemed, could challenge the fixer's dominion with something as crude as a sidearm.
The guard swiped an access card against the security panel. The reinforced door hissed open with a metallic sigh, inviting William into the depths of the pyramid.
He paused for half a breath, straightened his posture, and cleared his throat. His first meeting with this so-called "big shot" was moments away.
William knew the rules of survival well. Lesser middlemen—those without reputation, without networks—could be treated with indifference or outright disrespect. But with someone as established as Hands, a single careless remark could poison a relationship before it even began. If William wanted a future in Dogtown, this was the first hurdle he had to clear.
Of course, if all he wanted was to waste his life away, passed out drunk in some black-market dive, he wouldn't be here at all. But the Colonel's shadow still loomed heavy over him. He couldn't afford to slack now.
---
The Meeting
The elevator chimed with a soft ding. Though it only carried him to the third floor, the environment transformed completely. Here, luxury muted the chaos of Dogtown. A plush carpet swallowed the sound of footsteps, and the walls radiated the warmth of polished wood. Even the air smelled faintly of sandalwood, carefully pumped through the vents to mask the stench of the city outside.
William stopped before a carved wooden door. He knocked gently, fingers brushing against the cool surface.
From inside came a voice—firm, commanding, yet smooth. "Come in, my friend. No need for so much formality."
William pressed the button on the electronic handle. The door slid aside with a muted whirr, unveiling a reception area that looked like it had been plucked straight out of some European aristocrat's manor. A sunken lounge, draped in rich fabrics and intricate décor, stretched before him.
And there, seated calmly on a leather sofa, was Mr. Hands. The fixer was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, a book resting in his hand. He read not with the distracted flipping of a businessman, but with the careful poise of someone who had the luxury of patience.
"Mr. Hands," William greeted softly. He stood at attention, like a soldier reporting to a commander, waiting silently for the deal to unfold.
---
[Character: Mr. Hands]
Faction: Dogtown, Pacific Island
Favorability: -10
Development Value: Extremely High
Stage Reward: Favorability reduced to 0, gain +2 Flesh, and receive the Epic Technical Sniper Rifle – Nekomata, Manufacturer: Tsunami
---
The glowing interface appeared briefly in William's vision, but he knew it well enough by now. His beginner perks had officially ended. The game board had changed; the hand-holding was gone. From here on, the city expected him to stand on his own.
Still, the rewards dangled in front of him were no joke. An Epic sniper rifle from Tsunami? The only weapon tier above that was Immortal – Legendary. And for someone like William, scraping his way up from the gutter, that was the kind of prize worth bleeding for.
Mr. Hands shut his book with a soft thump. His eyes drifted to William's prosthetic arm, and a subtle frown touched his lips.
"It's hard to believe," Hands said dryly, "that with such crude chrome, you could be Hansen's confidant."
William's jaw tightened. Once again, his prosthetics had been dismissed as second-rate junk. But the bigger question nagged at him: since when was he considered Hansen's confidant?
Confidant? Shouldn't that role belong to the leader of the Nether Hounds? The one lounging in Sapphire Blue with endless cash, drowning himself in pleasures? Just yesterday, William had been kicked out of their ranks. It made no sense at all.
---
The Buffalo and the Lion
Mr. Hands rose slowly, his movements deliberate, his presence filling the room even without effort. He paced, then spoke in a voice that carried weight.
"Have you ever heard the story of the buffaloes in Africa?" His tone was almost conversational, but his eyes locked sharply on William. "They are mighty creatures. Even lions—the kings of the grasslands—do not attack them lightly. When they meet, they stare, testing one another. Waiting."
Hands paused, lips curling into a thin smile. "And you, my friend… you are the lion sent to deal with me."
The words cut like a knife. William could feel the implication—the Colonel had set him up, throwing him at Hands like a test, maybe even a weapon.
But William was no fool. He lowered his gaze respectfully and replied, "I think the Colonel is just… unsettled by what he's lost. You know how it is, Mr. Hands. In Night City, the Nether Hounds can't exactly afford to investigate openly. I'm just a helper. Not a lion. I'm at your service."
The fixer studied him for a long moment. Then, to William's relief, a small, approving smile softened Hands's face.
"Very good. You're sharper than most."
Hands sank back onto the sofa, steepling his fingers. "I don't know what Hansen has planned, but if you're smart, you'll leave your military instincts behind. Dogtown doesn't need soldiers. It needs people who can dance with fixers and cyberpunks. Stay close, observe, and you might just survive."
William inclined his head. "I understand."
Hands leaned forward, eyes narrowing with paternal weight. "I'm not like you young guns. I have a family. A daughter. For me, some things must be done cleanly and efficiently. Cause too much trouble here, and you'll find yourself at the gates of Dogtown before you know it."
"I won't forget," William replied firmly.
"Good. Be obedient. Be flexible. Now, let's see if you can handle a simple task."
---
The Assignment
Hands's gaze sharpened. A data packet streamed across William's interface, burning into his retinas with glowing blue text.
"Some of our old friends," Hands explained, "cyberpunks from the city, aren't willing to let things go. We're all just trying to make a living. No need to make life harder than it already is. After you've reviewed the file, you'll handle it."
The screen displayed a dossier.
[Name: Sasha Yakovleva]
William's heart skipped. Sasha.
So, even in 2075, that resilient team of cyberpunks had already carved their name into the city.
Hands's eyes narrowed. "Do you know her? An old friend?"
William forced a calm expression, masking the flicker of recognition. Slowly, he shook his head. "Just surprised. She's so young, yet already has a dozen NCPD criminal records."
"Age doesn't matter in this line of work," Hands said, lips curling. "The young adapt fast. The NCPD hates that."
The file displayed Sasha grinning playfully, flashing a peace sign in front of the NCPD's surveillance cam. She looked more like a rebellious student than a hardened criminal.
Hands shrugged. "Whether you know her or not—that's your business. I don't care."
He leaned back. "Go find a hacker I trust here in Dogtown. He'll help with offense and defense. As long as he doesn't drag you or Hansen into his mess, it should be straightforward. If nothing useful comes out of it, the team will eventually give up."
A chip containing the mission briefing slid across the coffee table. William picked it up, tucking it into his pocket.
"Oh, and my 'lion'—" Hands's smile was sharp now, almost playful. "Take a look at the Mewtwo on the table. It'll give you an idea of what the Colonel is really paying attention to."
William reached for the sleek headband. The moment it touched his skin, a burst of dazzling light flooded his vision. His perspective shifted, senses plunging into another reality entirely…
---
(End of Chapter)