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Chapter 342c
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 15:41:54 +0000 UTCChapter 342c
2-in-1-chapter
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Seeing the group of street thugs outside, blissfully unaware that disaster was about to hit them, Leo shook his head.
Compared to the thugs in other districts of Night City, the ones in Pacifica were pathetic.
In other parts of the city, if street punks saw a Delamain luxury cab, they would instantly know the passenger inside was not someone they could afford to cross. Forget trying to shake them down—they wouldn’t even dare approach.
But here in Pacifica, these street rats behaved like they’d never seen the world. The moment they spotted someone, they wanted to test if they could score an easy hit.
Then again, ever since City Hall had pulled out of Pacifica, no big shots had been willing to set foot in this cursed place.
As for the NCPD—forget it.
If someone had only started running the streets in recent years, it was no wonder they were clueless.
Inside the cab.
The AI’s voice chimed.
“Danger detected. For your safety, Delamain recommends engaging Combat Mode.”
“Engage Combat Mode.”
“Affirmative.”
…
“Why isn’t this guy reacting at all?”
“Bet he’s already pissing himself in there. Hehehehe—”
“Wait. What the hell is that?”
Before the thugs stunned eyes, the trunk of the Delamain taxi opened, and a rotary autocannon rose smoothly into view.
At that moment, even these clueless Pacifica punks realized things had gone horribly wrong. They shouted in panic and tried to bolt.
But remembering to run now was far too late.
The rotary cannon spat out a torrent of lead, shredding the troublemaking thugs into swiss cheese in under five seconds.
Terrified bystanders scattered as fast as they could, fleeing the scene.
As for calling the cops…
No one even considered it.
Because it was useless.
The late Mayor Lucius Rhyne had long since written Pacifica off. Though technically part of Night City, in practice it was no different from the Badlands outside the walls.
Even if someone did call, the NCPD would never come.
…............................
........
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They say once you hit middle age, you lose control of your own life. No one embodied that better than Bryce Mosley.
He had worked for NetWatch for twenty years.
Diligent, reliable, dedicated—yet his career never advanced. Because he was a married man with family responsibilities, his boss exploited his vulnerability, piling work onto him while knowing he lacked the courage of young single agents to just quit.
As if stagnation at work wasn’t enough, his home life had collapsed too.
His wife, unable to bear his constant absence, filed for divorce. That turned his devotion at the company into a cruel joke.
Out of “consideration” for his feelings, Mosley’s superior reassigned him from NetWatch’s U.K. headquarters across the ocean to Night City. A “kindness,” they called it— In reality, it was because no one else wanted the job.
That’s what they said, anyway. Mosley wasn’t stupid.
He had worked hard all these years only to provide for his family. He wasn’t naive enough to not see that this “consideration” was just another way of dumping someone else’s mess on him.
But though he knew it, Mosley didn’t resist.
His wife was gone, his marriage in ruins. His career had no future.
So he told himself: fine. Going to Night City would just be a company-funded vacation.
Besides, he’d never left the U.K. before. This would be his first time abroad.
Night City, they said, was a city of dreams—the West Coast’s answer to New York, an independent metropolis belonging to no nation. Surely, it would be a civilized, prosperous, beautiful place.......
That easy optimism shattered as soon as he arrived in Night City.
Only then did he realize why none of his colleagues had wanted to take this assignment.
This wasn’t a city of dreams—it was more like a cross between Africa and Latin America.
Sure, back in the U.K., he’d seen news stories about shootings in Night City, complete with casualty counts.
But he’d never imagined people would be out in the streets firing off machine guns and RPGs like they were toys.
Mosley had never believed British media could possibly tell the truth.
Now, for the first time, they might have been correct.
On his first day in Night City, he experienced the “warm welcome” of Pacifica’s locals: gang members blazing away at the sky and into the streets with Copperhead assault rifles.
If not for the fact that he was riding in an armored luxury car, he might have been cut down before even officially reporting for duty.
Fortunately, Mosley wasn’t just a random foreign tourist. He was a trained NetWatch agent. Before coming, he had done his homework. He knew that in Night City, no matter the problem, you could always go to a fixer.
A fixer was like a jack-of-all-trades contractor—someone who could arrange anything.
So after fleeing the shootout in his car, Mosley immediately contacted Pacifica’s fixer, Mr. Hands.
Through Mr. Hands, he hired the Animals gang for protection.
He established his forward base at the Grand Imperial Mall.
The fees for hiring the Animals were covered by NetWatch. That, at least, wasn’t a concern.
And the Animals lived up to their reputation as professional muscle. Rough around the edges, yes—but they treated Mosley, their employer, with genuine respect.
And with them around, it was no surprise that no one dared approach the Grand Imperial Mall, allowing him to work in peace without interference.
If it had been someone else, upon realizing he’d effectively been exiled here, he probably would have chosen to lie flat and give up. After all, the Animals protection fees weren’t coming out of his own pocket. Just enjoy life with the funds needed "for the mission".
And though Pacifica was chaotic, with the Animals guarding him and as long as he stayed inside the Grand Imperial Mall, whatever happened outside wouldn’t touch him. On top of that, he was thousands of miles from the UK, far beyond the reach of any oversight.
He could have taken it easy.
But Mosley wasn’t that kind of man.
He was meticulous with his work. Even without supervision, even with the chance to slack off, he would still complete every task with precision. Otherwise, he would feel uneasy, like a parasite, a salary thief.
Perhaps this was the very reason why, despite his diligence, he had never earned a promotion—while younger, later‑arriving colleagues had surpassed him.
Though the Animals protection ensured his safety, Mosley still felt troubled.
The problem was, he had no idea how to accomplish the task his organization had assigned him.
NetWatch had sent him to Night City to eliminate the Voodoo Boys, a constant source of trouble, forever poking holes in the Blackwall meant to safeguard humanity.
But after spending time in Night City, Mosley realized there was no clear way to strike.
Even after reaching out to Mr. Hands, Pacifica’s fixer, Mosley couldn’t get any concrete intelligence on the Voodoo Boys.
What Mr. Hands could provide was the usual:
The Voodoo Boys were a gang composed entirely of netrunners, extremely skilled, known for hacking into personal systems, small businesses, and corporations, then extorting them for cash…
They were all Haitians, intensely xenophobic. While they sometimes hired outsiders, every one of those outsiders was treated like a doormat—used and discarded.
Thanks to their exceptional hacking prowess, some still dared to hire them despite their infamous reputation, but most would rather deal with third‑rate netrunners than risk working with the Voodoo Boys twice even if the Voodoo Boys were known to have the best netrunners.
It wasn’t just their foul reputation or the risk of being treated as disposable. It was also their arrogance—every one of them carried themselves like their eyes were fixed above everyone’s head. Whether you were White, Black, Asian, or Latino—if you weren’t specifically Haitian, you were beneath them.
They were like a lesser Haitian version of the KKK, acting as if every race but their own was inferior. The only positive thing you could say about them was that at least they didn’t go out and hang people like the KKK.
Mr. Hands’s intel wasn’t uninteresting, but it wasn’t what Mosley needed.
What he wanted was:
The Voodoo Boys exact numbers—including both their gunmen and their netrunners.
Just how strong their hacking abilities were—were they limited to extorting civilians, or could they break into megacorp subnetworks and escape intact?
Where their bases were located—and whether they had additional branches.
Whether other Haitian immigrants in Pacifica supported them with manpower, funding, or protection.
Whether the Voodoo Boys had backing from a megacorp—were they operating as someone’s black‑glove unit? If not, then what was their source of funding—how did they sustain their operations?
And most crucially: their leaders, Maman Brigitte and Placide—aside from names, could any detailed profiles be provided? Past experiences, histories, anything?
Unfortunately, none of this valuable intel was in Mr. Hands’s reach.
It wasn’t a matter of money—he simply couldn’t deliver. Even as Pacifica’s fixer, Mr. Hands was no Haitian, and the Voodoo Boys didn’t respect him enough to share real secrets.
Mosley had even considered asking the megacorps for aid. After all, if the Blackwall were compromised, all humanity—including the corps—would suffer. No matter how many netrunners they had on payroll, they couldn’t stand against a mass incursion of rogue AIs.
But even with this in mind, Mosley still underestimated their arrogance.
Both Arasaka and Militech politely but firmly declined his requests.
It wasn’t that they lacked cooperation with NetWatch—quite the opposite, in fact, their ties were close.
They just didn’t care about a low‑level operative like Mosley.
Their representatives were perfectly polite, offering him every form of “support” except actual help. They assured him that in spirit, they were always standing with him.
No matter how earnestly he argued, none of the megacorps believed his warnings would truly come to pass.
In the end, it was the Warlord of the Animals who introduced Mosley to Rogue.
As the head of the Animals largest faction, the Warlord had access to the Afterlife, and naturally knew Rogue.
Being a native of Night City, he also understood that if anyone in the city could solve Mosley’s problem, it would be Rogue.
After a phone call with her, Mosley was both shocked and relieved.
Relieved because Rogue not only had a way, but also promised she could resolve the issue that even Mr. Hands couldn’t touch.
Shocked because Rogue wasn’t satisfied with the five million eurodollars he had offered as payment.
Wanting to compare prices, Mosley contacted other fixers in the city after Rogue—but the moment they heard the job involved the Voodoo Boys, they didn’t even ask about payment. They flatly refused, then hung up.
The sheer rejection left Mosley stunned for a long while.
Just as he hesitated over whether to contact Rogue again, an unfamiliar call suddenly came through.
