Cyberpunk: The Ultimate Saga

The Badlands.

Lena Fox frowned at the info flashing on her wrist display. "Tsk. Risking your life for that small a payout? Cheap bastards."

A bounty of one million eddies sounded like a fortune—enough to change a person's life. For most families in Night City, that amount was more than they'd earn in a lifetime.

But to take down Goro Takemura, the legendary personal bodyguard of Saburo Arasaka?

Not nearly enough.

Still, plenty of muscle-brained hotheads in the city would chase that number blindly. Their greed made them reckless, and now they were all out combing the city like dogs, hoping to be the lucky one.

If Leon Black had ordered them to pursue the bounty, Lena would've joined in enthusiastically. But since he hadn't, it meant the team wasn't interested—and chasing the bounty solo would only get her killed.

She slapped the roof of the desert rover with a scowl. "Hey! Are you even trying? What's taking so long?"

"Don't rush me! I'm doing my best!" Ethan Cross retorted, eyes glued to his laptop as the screen scrolled with data feeds.

They had intel that Lily Cross—code-named "Su Shihua"—was hiding somewhere in the Badlands. But the Badlands were vast, and tracking a mobile target there was like chasing a ghost in a sandstorm.

Fortunately, rats always knew where the snakes hid. While tracking down Lily directly would be difficult, finding someone who could find her wasn't. Every region had its own fixers—middlemen who knew how the underworld moved.

Here in the Badlands, that fixer was Dakota Smith.

A shadowy figure with deep ties to smuggling rings, black market trades, and local merc networks. If anyone could help them, it was her.

But Dakota didn't make herself easy to find. As a city techie who had only been to the Badlands twice, Ethan had resorted to an old-school method: posting a bounty.

It worked better than expected. Dozens of hopefuls came forward, each swearing they could locate Dakota. Some were legit. Others were just baiting law enforcement.

Mike Taylor handled those.

Thanks to him, the rover—once carrying just their core gear—was now loaded with weapons, tools, and "relics" stripped from unfortunate scammers who had tried to con them.

Apparently, the Badlands still had plenty of "good Samaritans."

Now, they were heading to the latest address from one such hopeful. The location ahead—surrounded by stacked cargo containers—looked more credible than most.

Lena leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the automated turrets and patrolling mercs. "Taylor, this looks legit. They even have mobile artillery."

"Yeah," Ethan muttered, uneasy. "This might be one of those places where we're better off calling for backup."

He could handle security cameras easily, but those turrets were another level. He could hack them, sure—but the time it'd take might get them all fried.

He briefly considered calling Lena Fox for remote support. Hacking was her forte. But Lena wasn't on-site. If he reached out, it'd tip their hand.

"We're not using outside help," Lena said sharply, stepping out of the sunroof. "Stop the car. I'll handle it."

Mike stopped the vehicle about 100 meters from the camp. In the Badlands, cover was almost nonexistent. There were no forests to hide in—just sand, rocks, and scrub. Hiding during the day was practically suicide. One good sniper on a tower would spot you instantly.

That's why Lena raised her hands and walked slowly toward the camp, signaling she meant no harm.

Inside the compound, the auto-turret locked onto her, tracking her every step as mercenaries watched her from behind barricades. When she reached about 50 meters from the camp's edge, a man called out.

"Stop there! What do you want?"

"Looking for someone," Lena shouted back. "Dakota Smith. Is she here?"

"Not here. Move along," came the curt reply.

"A guy named Dashi gave me this address. I've got his reward. Can I see him?"

The guards murmured to each other. One disappeared into the camp while the other barked, "Walk over. Keep your hands up!"

"Sure, sure." Lena flashed a thumbs-up back toward the car before moving forward.

As she approached, the guard aimed his rifle at her and stepped forward to frisk her.

Lena quickly shifted to the side. "Hey, come on. No ladies in your camp? I'm not used to being groped by men."

The man rolled his eyes and signaled a female teammate to search her instead. She obliged, patting Lena down professionally.

"Just a pistol," the woman reported, showing Lena's sidearm.

As the team's mechanic and fixer, Lena rarely carried anything more. Now, if it had been Mike Taylor, the camp would've probably gone into lockdown. The man was basically a mobile weapons depot.

Then came a new voice.

"Bring her in."

A middle-aged woman stepped forward. She wore faded green robes, a strange air-purifier jar strapped to her chest, and a permanent frown. Her skin was sun-worn, and a blue mole above her left brow marked her uniquely.

Dakota Smith.

"You're Dashi?" Lena asked.

"You figured it out," Dakota replied dryly, inhaling from her oxygen canister. Without another word, she turned and walked toward a building inside the camp.

Lena followed without hesitation.

She had heard Dakota had a strange habit—constantly breathing pure oxygen. She claimed the outside world was too polluted, and the air "infected" her soul. Whatever the reason, it made her even more distinctive.

Inside a repurposed conference room, Dakota didn't waste time.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, sitting across from Lena.

"We need to find someone. Su Petrochemical. Can't locate them directly. Figured you might have a way."

"What do you need from them?"

"That's none of your business," Lena replied curtly.

Dakota raised an eyebrow. "Then I can't help you."

"Can't we place a formal order?"

"Nope."

Lena's patience started to wear thin. Time was critical. Arasaka had just descended into chaos. They couldn't afford delays. And biotech agents were already on their tail.

"We want to make a deal with them," she admitted.

Now Dakota was interested.

Middlemen feared vague jobs more than dangerous ones. Clear terms meant stable commissions.

"I'm not asking for much," Dakota said thoughtfully. "I'll arrange contact. No extra fee—just one-tenth of the deal's final amount. Fair?"

Lena chuckled. "Fifty grand. That's my ceiling. I pay now."

Dakota blinked. She'd rather pay 50,000 now than agree to 10%?

That meant the full deal must be in the millions.

Dakota wasn't new to this. She could sense opportunity buried in Lena's urgency. The girl was either too young or sitting on something massive. Either way, she smelled profit.

"Alright," Dakota said finally. "I'll give you an answer tomorrow."

"Can't you do it today?" Lena frowned.

"No can do," Dakota said with a faint smile. "Those Su Petrochemical types are twitchy. Takes finesse."

Lena sighed. Thinking about Lily's condition, she reluctantly nodded. She left her contact info and walked out.

---

As Lena exited, Dakota didn't immediately relay the request. Instead, she sat in her chair, sighing softly.

"So young," she muttered.

Her assistant approached, making a slicing gesture. "Boss, should we take her out?"

Dakota inhaled from her oxygen tank and frowned. "No. We're not butchers. We're brokers. We got here by having some principles."

The assistant backed down, but muttered under his breath, "Dakota, you've gone soft."

---

Meanwhile, in the car, Ethan Cross grinned as audio signals danced across his laptop screen.

The bug he'd planted was tiny—barely the size of a fingernail—but it picked up the whole conversation. The signal wasn't perfect, but with a little cleanup, it gave them exactly what they needed.

"Nice work," Lena said, sliding into the passenger seat.

Ethan shut the laptop and smiled. "Some people just don't know what they're sitting on."

Lena kicked her legs up on the dash. "Looks like Mike's up next."

Mike Taylor, calm as ever, shifted the vehicle into gear.

"Another day, another death wish," he said with a grin.

And with that, the car roared to life, kicking up dust as they drove into the heart of the Badlands once again.

pàtreøn (Gk31)