The next morning, the sun—or rather, the sickly orange glow that filtered through the smog—found Lucy waking up with a renewed sense of clarity.
Her abdominal wound had been treated with military-grade sealant the night before; it was already a dull ache rather than a sharp bite. In Night City, scar tissue was a choice, not a consequence. Any ripperdoc could restore her skin to its original state for a handful of Eddies.
But Lucy's mind wasn't on her scars. It was on the technician across the hall.
She had spent the night tossing and turning, her internal processors whirring. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the clinical, terrifying efficiency of Kael's movements in that alley. The way he'd sidestepped a cyber-brute with the grace of a high-end combat sub-routine—it didn't make sense for a "pancake maker."
Why not form a permanent team?
The idea took root. Lucy was a skilled Netrunner, above average and possessed of a high ceiling, but she was a loner. Her past—the cold, sterile walls of the Arasaka facility she'd escaped—made trust a luxury she couldn't afford. But in this city, a solo Runner was a dead Runner. She'd spent her time picking up scraps on the dark web or boosting chips on the NCART just to afford her inhibitors. It was a degrading existence for someone with her talent.
She needed someone to watch her back while she was in the Deep Dive. Someone like Kael.
With a deep breath, she pulled up her contacts and dialed his link. She lay back on her bed, her legs pulled tight against her chest, feeling an unfamiliar flutter of nerves.
The line clicked open.
"What are you doing? Just woke up?" she asked, trying for her usual bored, sultry tone.
"What else would I be doing? Working," Kael's voice came through, flat and professional.
"Working on what?" Lucy closed her eyes, imagining him cleaning that Omaha pistol again.
"Flipping cakes. What else?"
The romanticized image in Lucy's head shattered instantly. "You're... you're actually at the stall?"
"Look, if you need something, say it. I've got a line forming."
"...Never mind." Lucy hung up, scowling at the ceiling. She didn't know if she was mad at him for being so mundane or at herself for expecting a "Calculating Survivor" to be doing something more cinematic.
At the street stall, Kael was moving with focused intensity.
"Bro, I'm starving. Can we kick it into high gear?"
Kael looked up at the counter. A short girl with pale skin and glowing red cyber-optics was glaring at him. It was Rebecca. Beside her stood a girl with short, fluffy hair that masked her ears and two distinctive cyber-marks on her cheeks that gave her the look of a predatory feline.
"Almost done, Rebecca," Kael said. He turned to the other girl. "Miss Cat? You want the usual?"
Sasha's eyes sparked with genuine surprise. In a city where real animals were extinct, the term "cat" was an archaic reference. "You know your history, Techie. I'm impressed."
"Extra spicy for the little one?" Kael asked, gesturing to Rebecca.
"Pile it on! I want to feel the chemicals burning!" Rebecca reached for the sauce bottle, but Kael's hand was a blur, slapping her wrist away before she could grab it.
"At this stall, only one person controls the heat," Kael said calmly.
Rebecca didn't get angry; she let out a jagged laugh, poking Kael in the ribs with her elbow. "Damn, kid. You're fast. Not bad."
Kael handed over the rolled flatbread and tossed a bottle of iced soda to her. Rebecca's eyes lit up as she caught it, squatting on a nearby concrete block to dig in. Sasha ate more gracefully, her movements fluid and cautious.
Business was good. By mid-morning, he'd cleared a hundred Eurodollars. To a civilian, it was a decent haul. To Kael, who now thought in terms of weapon upgrades and "Power of Three" requirements, it was a joke.
I worked four hours for enough to pay my protection fee and buy a bag of starch, Kael thought, his smile fading. How does anyone live in this city without becoming a corpo-slave or a psycho? One nuclear bomb really isn't enough.
"You're actually still doing this."
Lucy appeared at the edge of his stall, looking at the griddle with genuine disbelief.
"It's my primary income, Lucy. Respect the hustle." Kael rolled his eyes.
Lucy leaned in, her voice dropping. "We both know this is a front. After last night? You're no vendor. What's your actual side-gig? Merc work? Hired gun?"
"Does fixing your gun count? That was my biggest payout this week."
"Are you serious? Don't play with me," Lucy hissed, her eyes narrowing. "You zeroed five Scavs without breaking a sweat. You didn't even look scared."
Kael leaned over the counter, his expression darkening into that "Calculating Survivor" mask. "That was an act, Lucy. I went home and scrubbed my hands for two hours because that chromed-out pervert's grey matter got under my fingernails. I hated every second of it."
Lucy stared into his eyes, looking for the lie. She didn't find one, but she did see the logic. In Night City, looking "cool" was a survival mechanism. If you didn't look like a predator, you became prey.
She couldn't help but laugh, the tension breaking. "You're crazy. Doing all that just for the 'cool' entrance?"
"It worked, didn't it?"
Lucy's expression softened. She reached across the counter, hooking her arm around Kael's neck and pulling him close until their foreheads almost touched.
"Boss! One wrap—" a customer started, but Lucy pulled her Omaha and leveled it at his head without looking. The man vanished instantly.
"Be my partner, Kael," she whispered, her voice sincere.
Kael felt the warmth of her breath. He was tempted—highly tempted—by both the strategic advantage and the undeniable allure of the woman in front of him. But he was cautious. "Partner? In this city, that usually means one person dies for the other."
"I'm not a good person, Kael. But I'm a loyal one."
"Let me think about it."
Lucy felt a pang of disappointment, but she hid it well. She brushed her thumb against his cheek—an ambiguous gesture that was half-threat, half-caress. "Don't make me wait. I don't like being ignored."
Before he could answer, she grabbed his wrist. "Come on. I've booked you for the rest of the day."
"I have a business to run!"
A notification pinged: [+1,000 Eddies Received].
"Pancakes can wait," Kael said, turning off the griddle.
They ended up at Lucy's apartment. It was a mirror of his—minimalist, gritty, and functional. However, her bathtub was filled with half-melted ice, a sign of her "low-budget" cooling system for deep-diving into the Net.
She handed him a heavy, blood-stained industrial bag.
"The Scavengers from last night," she explained. "I went back and harvested the chrome from the leader. That cyber-arm and his optical suite are worth a few grand."
"You want me to help you move stolen Scavenger chrome?" Kael asked, smelling the copper tang of blood.
"Fifty-fifty split. I need a buyer who won't lowball me because I'm a 'girl.' And I need someone who can keep their eyes open while I handle the data-side."
"Fine. But I choose the buyer."
An hour later, they were in a basement in Northside.
"Is this your 'reliable buyer'?" Lucy whispered, looking at the group of thugs grinning at them. They weren't legitimate dealers; they were another pack of Scavengers who used the dark web to "fish" for sellers to rob.
"Technically, they're targets," Kael replied.
Gunfire erupted. It lasted less than sixty seconds. Kael walked out of the basement carrying the original bag, plus three new sets of Kiroshi optics and a handful of credit chips.
"We came here to sell goods," Kael muttered, "how did it turn into a shopping spree?"
"Scavengers are trash," Lucy said, counting the chips. "Only three thousand Eddies. They spent all their money on junk and chrome."
She looked at Kael, her eyebrows raised. "Alright, 'Techie.' Your turn. Who's the real buyer?"
Kael checked his internal map, a confident smirk on his face. "We're going to see a professional. Ever heard of Viktor Vektor?"
"The ripper in Watson? He's too honest for this kind of chrome."
"He's honest, yeah," Kael said, "but he knows who's looking for parts. And more importantly, he's the only one I trust not to slot a tracker in our heads while we're looking the other way."