Lone Star

[Ellison Street, Little China, South Watson...]

The air was humid, thick and pungent with pollution rising from every corner... rotting garbage, burnt oil, CHOOH2, and whatever filth was carried up from the murky waters of the harbor. All of it was suffocating, choking the lungs and causing eyes to burn and skin to crawl. Yet for Bison, it was familiar, almost nostalgic, as he stepped out of the passenger seat of a Thorton Mackinaw pickup truck and dropped down to the cracked and soiled asphalt of the parking lot. Jackson was one step behind, killing the truck's ignition and stepping out of the driver seat as he lit a fresh cigarette. He needed something... anything... in his lungs besides whatever was wafting up to assault his olfactory senses.

His face twisted at all of it as he dizzily looked up between the high-rise towers blocking out the sky in this cluttered corner of the City. He nearly lost his balance, catching himself against the door as Bison called over to him, "Y'okay, hoss...?"

He shook his head as he side-eyed the big beefcake and said, "Jus' be glad when 's one's done and over wit', I guess..."

"Yeah, but it's for a good cause...", Bison reminded him as he stepped around, "It's a big risk he's taking, reaching out like this... but his heart's in the right place, and I owe it to all of them."

Jackson couldn't disagree on any particular point, but that didn't stop him from taking his shots all the same as he flashed his teeth, "Man, I 'ope you hold me in the same regard one day..."

"C'mon, let's do this...", Bison laughed and gave a playful punch to his older choom's chest as he removed his wrap-around sunglasses and swallowed the knot in his throat. He squared up in front of the nondescript neon-noir building, its gaping maw beckoning them inside like the double-door in the dragon's throat. Above the worn and rusted metal doorframes hung an auspicious Day-Glo green sign piercing the mid-day darkness hanging perpetually over the bowels of the under-City... a slanted capital A styled to resemble a heartbeat monitor. This was the home of legends. This... was the Afterlife.

--

[Forty-eight hours ago... - Mother Base]

Another sun had set and risen since the crew's return from their battle in the Badlands... and not once was their rest disturbed. Jackson owed it to all of them to have a couple of days off for all they did. He was proud of each and every one of his family for stepping up to the plate, and yet he knew at least one of them was just like him, entirely unable to rest.

He sipped his murky coffee as he leaned against the open doors of the infirmary, finding Strong already hard at work. The crew still needed some patching-up, Bison most of all. Yet aside from his bear-ish snoring, nobody had seen or heard from him since the nomads dropped him off. And likely nobody was going to until they came knocking on his door... and they better have a damn good reason.

Jackson chuckled to himself as he leaned in and asked, "Don't you ever take a day off...?"

"Hmmm... age before beauty, brother...", Strong said without turning around, leaving Jackson quietly laughing to himself as he continued, "...got something here you might want to see..."

"Well don't leave me in suspense, Joshua...", Jackson joked as he walked up to the desk. Strong turned, looking his old friend up and down as he asked, "You a'ight?"

Jackson looked at the few bruises, cuts, and scrapes he had endured from the fight as he shrugged them all off, "Had worse... hell, you should know."

"Yeah, but not what I'm asking...", Strong prodded, causing Jackson's cheeks to turn red as he looked down, smiled, and confessed, "Brother... I'm better than I've been in a long time."

Strong smiled and nodded, "Good... it's been a long time coming. I know Jayce will be happy for you, too."

Jackson nodded, "Yeah, maybe... she's got 'er own happiness too, now."

"Guess that squares up Bison and me...", Strong joked as he punched a few buttons on a panel to try and bring them back on task, "Okay, so you remember that old UHF mast you insisted we get back in working order... just in case?"

Jackson nodded as the good doctor pulled up another screen, "Well, turns out it wasn't a waste after all... got something overnight. I cracked the encryption... it's Morse code, but it's a cipher I can't make heads or tails of..."

Strong could see from his periphery the perturbed look on Jackson's face at the notion that having an off-grid method of secure communication might have been a waste of time, but he kept going as he pulled up the message to another mounted panel. He swung it out and away to give Jackson a moment to himself.

The old cowboy looked long and hard at the data on the screen before a smile stretched from ear to ear. Strong had to admit he was curious, but he was content to sit and wait until Jackson decided to share with the rest of the class. He trusted the man's judgment through and through, so sitting on his hands for a few seconds more was a small concession to make.

Jackson reached back to another small table for a pad of paper and a pencil, scrawling something down as his eyes cut back to the panel every few seconds, the smile growing wider with every second passed as he thought to himself, ...you old dog... so you did make it out alive...

Strong leaned in, his curiosity getting the better of him as he asked, "So what d'ya know that I don't?"

"This is an old ranchers' cipher from before the War...", Jackson explained as he kept scrawling, "...we used it to send coded messages back and forth between the 'steads. Only way we could coordinate wit'out prying eyes and ears before the Free States organized us."

He looked up, recalling the small handful of people who actually knew the code... and an even smaller number who survived the Unification War. One in particular was a devilishly-charming mustachioed nomad... a wheel-man by trade, and a damn good one. This message had all the telltale signs... an old choom was reaching out... and he laughed as he set down the pad in front of Strong, who leaned forward to read the chicken-scratch message:

To a fellow Lone Star... and by God, I hope you're the one reading this... a wise man once said that only two things come from Texas. And save for that shitty tattoo on your shoulder, I'm not seeing any horns.

I need a favor, old buddy. A potentially mutual acquaintance of ours has lost a dear friend and mentor... royalty, one might say. I need to pay respects, but I... and those in my care... ain't much welcome in Night City at this point. Can't go through usual channels either... too much risk.

A man of your talents, I can't imagine you haven't already crossed paths with her... so I trust you to do the right thing. Please get the enclosed in the right hands.

It goes without saying, but don't try back-tracing the signal... I'm long gone already. Hang loose, choom...

~F

Strong leaned back and stroked his chin, "Dare I even ask what the F is short for..?"

"Falco...", Jackson answered nonchalantly as he took a few steps away, halfheartedly perusing the cabinets, "We go way back... was a 'Caldos wheel-man outside Yuma, along the Mexico border, 'fore he crewed up with some hotshots in Night City back in '76."

"Hmm... the Martinez crew?", Strong asked, to which Jackson nodded, "Yeah, fine fuckin' mess 'at was... he and one other were the only survivors. Last time I heard from 'im..."

A warm smile found its way back to his face as he turned around. It was good to hear that an old friend was still kicking, even if the price of admission for that fact was an obligation to go to the one place he absolutely never wanted to go.

There was no doubt in his mind... he was being asked in no uncertain terms to deliver a message to the Living Legend herself. He had only met her once, recently, but her overall demeanor about the situation painted a clear picture: the poor girl was grieving... and she still wiped the canvas with her opponent's face. Her performance alone was worth the respect she held, but her attitude about it also spoke volumes. She wasn't there to brag; she was there to do business.

As much as Jackson despised the City, it never hurt to have another friend in high places if push came to shove. He made his decision and moved toward the open doors as he called back, "Time to wake up Bison..."

...and this here's a damn good reason...

He was barely one step across the threshold before he saw something that amused him to no end... Jayce had snuck out of her room in a long and baggy t-shirt and nothing else, attempting to quickly and quietly collect the pile of clothes that she and the little albatross had left behind. She froze in place, eyes wide as she slowly turned and saw her old man across the way. He just smirked, a proud twinkle in his eyes as she sheepishly waved, but said nothing and kept going. He gave an affirming nod, once again laughing to himself as she disappeared behind the door to her room.

...go get 'er, kid...

--

[Present day...]

Jackson and Bison looked to each other with noncommittal shrugs, as neither was willing to take the first step. All things considered, these were Bison's old stomping grounds, but even now he appeared frozen in place.

Trying to give a gentle nudge, Jackson asked, "So... Falco... you ever meet him?"

"Yeah... once...", Bison answered blankly, "We going to lollygag all day, or is one of us going to grow a pair?"

Challenge accepted, Jackson thought to himself as he dropped the spent cigarette butt and stamped it under his boot, taking the first step forward. It echoed louder in his head than he would have expected, but each subsequent step felt lighter. Bison stayed close, never more than a pace off his heels as they navigated the crowded parking lot toward the open double doors. There were multiple small groups of people all shoving against one another to have their pictures taken in front of the infamous neon sign, even if they would never be allowed to darken its doors, much less go inside.

They made their way down the short flight of stairs, having to walk single-file to not get knocked around by the exiting crowd. Luckily, upon reaching the stable landing, the hallway was empty the whole way to the entrance. Every visible surface was covered in spray paint or oil marker graffiti, as everyone wanted to leave their mark. The ground was slick beneath their soles, made so by the sweat of legends who walked the path before them. These were hallowed grounds, the hymns of chrome-rock and heavy bass thumping through the walls and the floor to greet them.

Bison immediately took point in front of Jackson, his eyes lighting up at a familiar sight. A distant voice called out, husky and booming from the other end of the hall, "Well, well, well... look what the hairless cat dragged in! ...man, you look like shit..."

Bison laughed as he picked up the pace and met an old choom halfway in a manly hug. They smacked each other's backs and exchanged pleasantries before Bison stepped aside and introduced his current employer, "Jackson, this here is Emmerick Bronson... Emmerick, Jackson Calloway."

Jackson's eyes narrowed as he looked up to Emmerick, sizing up the larger man as he hesitated at first to offer a hand. His aged face bore a few more wrinkles than Bison remembered, but the most notable features were large implanted jawbones adorning either side, a matching bit of chrome running the length of his nose. Even for his age, he was still in incredible shape, muscles bulging out from beneath his trademark bomber jacket with a faux-fur lined collar. He still kept his hair tapered on the sides and buzzed on the top, and his entire appearance was meant to convey a single message... Don't fuck around...

As he stared them both down during a long and awkward silence, Jackson smirked and stretched out his hand. After another several seconds, Emmerick sighed and cautiously accepted, firmly gripping the offered hand and giving a single and solid shake.

Bison was touched at the two alpha dogs making fast friends as he called Emmerick's attention, "Hey uh... she in...?"

Emmerick kept staring at Jackson as he scanned up and down and answered, "Yeah, 'course... she'll be happy to see ya, just... nothing personal, pal."

Jackson flashed his teeth as he pulled back the fold of his jacket and said, "Don't work too hard..."

Emmerick smirked at the brass balls on the older cowboy as Bison genuinely asked, "Since when are you frisking folks on their way in...?"

"Just a once-over to make sure...", the bouncer reassured them as he pointed between, "Like I said, ain't personal... I know you, B. Him...? ...he's new."

There wasn't really a point on which to disagree; the Afterlife was the pulse of the City's underworld, and as such, it commanded an air of respect from all who dared to enter. Emmerick was as effective a gatekeeper as anyone else, given his imposing size and prior association with the Animals. Jackson had to wonder if he knew Razor Hugh when Bison explained it all on the drive in. Still, he put his best foot forward as he swiveled his revolver out of its holster and held it by the barrel as he asked, "...leave this with you or someone else?"

Emmerick thought for a moment before he conceded, "Nah, keep your iron... if Bison vouches for you, you're good in my book. Just stay in line and mind your manners."

Jackson mimed tipping his hat as the bouncer stepped out of the way and waved the doors open. They were both assaulted by the noise of Samurai rushing out from the mounted loudspeakers. The whole of the club's interior was awash in a pale blue-green, bright overhead lights strobing and flickering. Bison led the way as they entered, turning slightly left to the main atrium. Appropriately enough, the center of the main room was composed from a wall of mortuary coolers, a wrap-around bar framing the space on three sides. A lone older woman with a medium complexion and wild and thick brunette hair tinted red held court behind the bar, leaning against the counter-top with hands spread shoulder-width apart as she conversed with another woman... the very woman Bison and Jackson were here to see.

The bartender's eyes lit up as she smiled from ear to ear and waved, Bison giving a solid wave in return as the other woman turned around and leaned back with her elbows against the bar. Her face was familiar, the same pair of mirrored aviators hanging low across the bridge of her nose. Her low-cut tank top left nothing to the imagination of her chiseled physique, a pair of skin-tight syn-leather pants accenting her natural figure. She reached up with one hand, pulling the sunglasses even lower as she flashed her teeth.

Bison was suddenly on edge for reasons he couldn't explain, but his anxieties were quelled as the woman took the first step toward him with an outstretched hand and said, "Hope you're not looking for your job back..."

He took the hand graciously, pulling the woman in for a brief hug as he fired back, "Were that the case, I wouldn't have brought this asshole with me. It's good to see you... V."

"Yeah, you too, ya big lug...", V laughed as she stepped past and held her hand out, "Apologies, I don't think we were properly introduced last time... I'm V."

Jackson happily took the living legend's hand in his own as he obliged, "Jackson Calloway... charmed."

"Welcome to the Afterlife... so, what can I do for ya?", V asked as she directed them to the bar. Jackson took his chance and leaned against the counter-top as he pulled a shard loose from a slot behind his ear and said, "Funny... I think 's more what we can do for you."

V's eyes narrowed as she looked to Bison, who nodded, "It's clean... no funny business."

"What is it...?", she asked as she cut back to Jackson, who began to explain, "Couple o' days back, we received an encrypted communication from an old friend... said he wanted to pay 'is respects, but the usual channels were too risky."

The look on V's face was nothing short of confused and morbidly curious, and yet as her own legend told, she threw caution to the wind as she picked up the random chip between her slender fingers and slammed it into her own head. It was almost comical to witness in real-space, were it not for the immediate swell of emotions rising in her chest as her eyes flashed blue and she slapped a hand over her mouth to mask a heaving gasp.

Her HUD flashed a confirmation as the extracted data pulled up. She was looking at what could only be described as a family photo. Were it not for the fact that everyone in the picture had some type of implanted limb, she would have confused it for an Old World photograph from the frontier.

In the image stood a young Asian woman, though older than V remembered... and with longer hair. Next to her was a much taller young Caucasian man with his arm around her shoulder. They looked, for lack of a better word, happier than she remembered when last she saw them. To her genuine surprise, standing between them was a small boy no older than five years, unmistakably their offspring. He had his mother's naturally narrowed, almond-shaped eyes, and his father's strong jaw.

Along with the image was a note, and V's eyes watered as she read silently:

To whom it may concern,

Our hearts go out to you for the loss of a great woman... a queen in her own right. I'm sure our late mutual mustachioed choom would have agreed.

I want for nothing more than to deliver this message to you myself, but it seems five years still ain't enough time for what's been done. My hope is the attached image will fill the hole left in your heart. They miss you every day, and in listening to their stories, I feel as though I've come to know you better.

We are ever and always in your debt for getting us out in our hour of need.

~Falco, Liv, Mizuki, Billy, and Little Phoenix

A visceral reaction gripped V to her very core, her eyes forcing themselves shut as she fought to maintain her steely composure. When she thought she had a grip, she let go of her mouth a moment too soon, a single sob escaping as tears streamed down her face. She wasn't grieving... she was rejoicing... as if the weight of a thousand worlds had been lifted as she looked up to the last of four jackets hanging over the bar... a tattered and cropped bomber jacket with the words 'Night City' emblazoned across the back.

With no warning, she barreled into Jackson's chest, wrapping herself around him as she held on for dear life and whispered, "...thank you..."

Jackson was confused, but he nonetheless closed his arms around V and held her for a few moments. Her entire body quavered, as if the raw energy might explode from the very seams of her RealSkinn body panels. After far too long, she regained her composure and pulled away, quietly apologizing, to which Jackson dismissed altogether, "Wasn't but a skip an' a hop across the sand... and looks t'have been for good reason."

Once V could form full sentences as she wiped away the tears and running eyeliner, she tried to offer some form of compensation. Jackson and Bison both agreed unequivocally that there was no need, until a holocall rang in Jackson's head from none other than Doc Strong...

--

[Twenty-four hours ago... - Mother Base]

As ever, Bison was little more than a very large man-sized baby when it came to doctor's visits. Doc Strong had already threatened him with tranquilizers if he didn't stop fidgeting, but the point was moot. Why Strong expected anything else after five years... that was his own problem to sort out on his own time.

Thankfully, outside of several large bumps and bruises... not to mention a few lacerations that had already begun healing... the only major damage was to Bison's shoulder. Whether by sheer stroke of luck or some as-of-yet undiscovered medical brilliance... and sheer stroke of luck... Bison had managed to not actually further damage his dislocated shoulder when he forced it back into the socket by slamming it like a fucking wild animal against the fuselage of a crashed aerodyne.

Doc Strong had half a mind to pull the big lug's shoulder back out and set it properly as a lesson against future acts of stupidity, but the kid had honestly been through enough. If Nel's wolver claws were the key to unlocking the damaged cockpit, Bison's raw strength and tenacity were the jaws of life to actually prying the cockpit open and pulling Addie out.

His own stubbornness notwithstanding, nobody was complaining for him doing what was necessary. Still, that didn't stop Jackson from giving a heavy pat to the damaged shoulder as he came up from behind and asked, "So... what'd ya want'a show me, Joshua?"

Bison quietly muttered, "...fuck you, hoss...", as he doubled over while Strong laughed and swung his stool around to face the multitude of computer screens. He punched a few keys and tapped several buttons as he recalled a message from earlier that morning, "Old lady finally got back to us about that nasty red shit..."

"...'bout damn time...", Jackson joked, placing his hands on his hips as he leaned in, "...was startin' to lose faith in 'er..."

"Perish the thought...", said Strong as he lined everything up on the screen before turning to Bison, "...you'll want to see this too."

Bison grunted as he hopped off the examination table and limped over. It took flexing every muscle in his core to bend over at the waist before Strong barked at him, "You can grab a chair, you dumb motherfucker..."

He felt Bison's heavy hand on his shoulder as they shared a laugh and looked at the screen together. There was a neatly organized read-out of the mystery red liquid, but Strong narrated anyway, "It's actually pretty advanced stuff, once you get into the meat of it... it's two compounds in one."

He pointed at the pertinent details on the screen, "First layer's about what you'd expect... usual blend of psychoactive elements... amphetamines, hallucinogens, you name it. Makes whatever the Scavs are pushing these days look like a still glass of RealWater in comparison."

"So, it amps 'em' up, makes 'em see funny shit...?", Jackson asked, to which Strong nodded and added, his voice slightly hushed, "Not only that... it keeps them highly susceptible to influence. Were I a betting man..."

"Yeah...", Jackson sighed as he read the doctor's mind and lowered his voice, "...it has to be how they kept the girls in line... so what about the second compound?"

Strong's jaw clenched as he locked eyes with Jackson, "...a very strong and very hard-to-acquire antipsychotic on a delayed release..."

Jackson's face dropped as Strong pointed to a single word on the screen... baloperidol. One could feel the tension radiating off of him as he gritted his teeth and tried to contain himself, his chromed hand unconsciously curling into a fist.

Bison's eyes widened as he looked to both of his chooms and asked, "What are the chances...?"

Strong only shook his head as Jackson spat, "Higher 'an I'd like... worth a shot to ask?"

"They're not just tagging crates...", Strong confirmed the suspicion as he speculated, "...a highly controlled substance like baloperidol's going to be imprinted with a batch number at the molecular level. Has to be... if shit hits the fan from a bad batch making it to market, molecular signatures are the only legal recourse Biotechnica has to stave off a lawsuit."

"Like a lawyer'd even touch that wit' someone else's ten-foot pole...", Jackson scoffed, appearing to have calmed down, "...give our thanks to 'Kota for gettin' this far, an' see if she can cross-reference what we know with the intel from the Bishop job."

Strong nodded as he clacked away on his keyboard, "Copy that, brother..."

--

[Present day... again...]

Jackson answered the holocall, a perpetual smirk on his face, "You're 'bout as timely as the angel o' death..."

Strong chuckled, "Still at the Afterlife..?"

"Yeah, goods delivered... was a real tear-jerker to watch...", Jackson answered, "...guessin' ya heard back?"

"Sure did...", Strong cleared his throat before continuing, "Old lady confirms, the batch number on our sample matches one of the manifests pulled during the Bishop gig... we got the green light, now we just need to find the son of a bitch."

"Might could have an answer for that...", Jackson said half-jokingly as he side-eyed their emotionally-compromised 'streetkid' host pouring three shots of top-shelf tequila, "Good lookin' out, Joshua. Thanks for pullin'at thread... talk soon."

"Any old time, sweetheart...", Strong signed off, the call dropping as Jackson turned and leaned against the bar. V placed a full shot glass in front of him, handing another to Bison as she raised her own and said, "...to hearing from old chooms, and to making some new ones..."

Bison and Jackson both cheered, clinking their glasses against V's before knocking back the brown liquid in a single gulp. It burned smooth the whole way down, warming their stomachs as they gave grunted sighs. V felt a little looser with her words as she locked eyes with Jackson and asked, "So... you taking care of my boy here?"

The older cowboy flashed his teeth as he placed the empty glass on the bar, "Jus' tryin'a keep 'im out o' trouble is all."

"Yeah, that sounds about right...", V nodded, turning to Bison with a smile, and then back as her face went serious, "...look, I uh... thank you for doing this. If there's ever anything I can do—"

Jackson took a chance, moving in a little closer as he interrupted with a sigh, "I won't take your eddies... but, I could use your help."

He placed a fresh cigarette in his mouth, V reaching for a nearby ashtray as she placed it in front of him, "Something to do with that call just now?"

He nodded, lighting the end of his smoke and taking a deep drag, "Yeah... need to find a certain someone in the City. Corpo, highly connected, highly protected... won't be easy to get to..."

Bison's eyes lit up and he smiled wide as V lit her own cigarette, catching the filter end between her teeth as she gave a wicked smile with a shimmer in her eyes, "All's I need's a name..."

--