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It was already evening by the time Kiwi arrived.
Like Rebecca and Sasha, Kiwi's preferred mode of transport was a motorcycle. As Jax and Jackie chatted by the container door, they watched a sleek silhouette tear down the highway. She executed a stylish drift stop, a plume of dust rising as she planted one foot firmly on the ground. When Kiwi looked up and pulled off her helmet, Jax's eyes widened.
Damn, she's cool.
In an instant, Jax's long-standing plan to buy a car evaporated. He needed a bike.
In stark contrast to Rebecca's frantic, high-energy riding style, Kiwi on a motorcycle was pure poetry. The red trench coat billowing behind her, the shock of yellow hair, and her slender frame leaning into the machine made even the metal mask on her face look like a high-fashion accessory.
"Come on in! It's just about dinner time. We can eat while we talk," Maine called out, waving from the container entrance.
Kiwi propped her bike up, a faint mechanical whir echoing as she engaged the remote locks via her neural link. She gave a curt nod to Jax and Jackie as she brushed past them into the hideout. Inside, Dorio had already laid out a spread of synthetic food scavenged from a nearby procurement machine, while Pilar was busy mixing large bottles of cheap rum with carbonated sodas.
"Rogue sent the first job," Maine announced once everyone was seated. He tapped his temple, and a data-burst hit everyone's internal mailboxes. "Take a look, then give me your thoughts."
Jax opened the file immediately.
[FROM: Rogue]
Target: Babos, manager of a high-end hotel.
Situation: Babos sent a small team to buy supplies from the Nightwalkers (Nomads) outside the city. The team went dark. Babos doesn't give a damn about the people, but he's losing sleep over the cargo: a shipment of high-end vegetables. If he doesn't get them, he has to buy from the Corps at a markup that would bankrupt his bonus.
Objective: Head into the Badlands, contact the Nightwalkers, and bring the fresh produce back to the city.
Payout: 100,000 Eurodollars. Plus, a small "sample" of the goods for the crew.
Note: This is your first official Afterlife gig. Don't disappoint me.
Jax stared at the text, his throat suddenly dry. "Wait... procure what? Fresh vegetables?"
"What's the problem?" Maine asked, looking up from his drink.
"The Nightwalkers actually have fresh greens? Real ones?" Jax asked, subconsciously swallowing.
In five years in Night City, Jax hadn't touched a single piece of real produce. For the lower class, "food" was a slurry of synthetic proteins, algae-based pastas, and sausages made in the All-Foods factory that tasted more like cardboard than meat. Real fruit and vegetables were luxury items reserved for the upper-tier Corpos in their ivory towers.
"Mano, you've never been outside the city walls, have you?" Jackie asked, noticing Jax's shock.
Jax shook his head.
"Then it makes sense," Jackie said. "The Nightwalkers—the Nomads—refuse to bow to the city-states. They live in the wastes, self-sufficient. They grow their own crops, raise chickens, even cattle. You ever hear of the Aldecaldos? They used to be the biggest family out there. A million people, all living off the land."
Jackie's expression turned serious. "But don't think it's a paradise. Growing your own food is technically a federal violation. The Corps claim everything that grows belongs to them. So, the Nomads are always at war—with the Corps, with Raffen Shiv (exiles), and with the desert itself. Out there, your life is only worth the ammo in your magazine."
"Wait," Jax frowned. "Federal law says if I grow something in my yard, it's not mine?"
"Exactly," Pilar interjected. "If a Corp sees a tomato in your backyard, they'll come with a warrant and a heavy machine gun to tell you you're a thief."
It was a grim reminder of the world they lived in. Freedom was a choice between being a corporate slave or a well-armed fugitive.
"Seven people splitting 100k..." Jax mused. "Isn't that a bit low for leaving the city?"
Maine chuckled. "Kid, you're getting spoiled. Most rookies would kill for a four-figure payout. We're starting at six figures. That's the Rogue premium."
"He's right," Kiwi added. "I've worked with dozens of crews. Usually, it's high risk, zero reward. This is a solid start."
"We leave tomorrow morning," Maine decided. "Rogue handled the gate paperwork. But we have a problem: Sasha is still in Dogtown. Without a dedicated scout-netrunner, navigating the Badlands is suicide. We need someone who can spot Raffen ambushes and hack Nomad encrypted frequencies."
Kiwi spoke up before Jax could. "I know someone. She's new to the city, doesn't have a fixed crew yet. Eight thousand eddies should get her to sign on for the ride."
"Is she good?" Maine asked. "I don't want a liability."
"She's an academic," Kiwi explained. "Not as versatile as Sasha in a fistfight, but when it comes to breaking firewalls and deep-data searches? She's better. She has professional training from... well, from wherever she came from."
"Contact her," Maine said. "We move at dawn."
The next morning, the crew gathered in front of the Santo Domingo hideout. The desert sun was already beginning to bake the asphalt.
Jax was leaning against the red car, chatting with Jackie, when he saw a familiar figure walking toward them. He froze, then a slow, amused smile spread across his face.
The woman stopped, her iridescent hair shimmering in the morning light. She looked at Jax, her expression a complicated mix of surprise and "of course this is happening."
"We meet again," Jax said, pushing off the car.
Lucy pursed her lips, adjusted her jacket, and gave a stiff nod.
"Seems so," she replied.
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