Of course, planning to strike the Voodoo Boys hard didn't mean they would act immediately.
Trips that begin the moment you get the idea are impulsive. Acting the moment you speak is just brainless.
Even the hot-blooded Atlantis Squad—who once nuked Arasaka Tower head-on—had a meticulous plan behind their bold assault. Their action was aggressive, yes, but not reckless.
Johnny Silverhand, Rogue, Morgan Blackhand, Andrew Weiland, Spider Murphy...
Every person involved in that mission—back then and even decades later—had stories worth telling. Many of them went on to become legendary mercs.
Rogue, being one of them, was never interested in "no-plan, just hit" jobs. That simply wasn't her style. And on the flip side, a brute who only knows how to charge forward wouldn't survive long enough to become Night City's top fixer.
It was already clear that the Voodoo Boys were stirring up trouble behind the scenes. The problem now was how to find them.
Looking for something in Pacifica is like digging for maggots in a pile of shit—and somehow you've got to find the biggest, meanest, nastiest one.
From their perspective, those voodoo practices that look cult-like to outsiders might be cultural defense mechanisms. And their scorched-earth tactics in cyberspace? Just another survival strategy.
In any case, no sane person gets involved with them unless they absolutely have to.
The Animals might look like nothing but jacked-up thugs who worship brute force, but they made for excellent bodyguards.
First came visual intimidation. Then came physical threat. Anyone who still picked a fight with them probably meant serious trouble—and shooting first was often the best call.
In some twisted way, the Animals contributed to Night City's social ecosystem.
Compared to them, the Voodoo Boys? Screw it—just wipe them off the map.
But locating the Voodoo Boys' hideout and actually contacting them were two completely different challenges.
Back when PDG wanted to hire a netrunner to attack a Militech convoy, Dragan nearly reached out to the Voodoo Boys. If Roqi hadn't called in time, they might've already met face-to-face.
In the end, they ghosted the Voodoo Boys. No harm done—few people can stay calm after hearing about their "glorious legacy."
Dallas and his crew? Definitely not those people.
Roqi didn't know what V would've done if left alone to face the Voodoo Boys, who wanted both the Relic and Johnny Silverhand's engram.
But now that he had Rogue on his side, there was no need to cling to that lone-wolf mercenary mindset.
"I'll send someone to look into it. All you have to do is wait for my update."
Rogue, dependable as always, waved her hand and gave him that firm look—this wasn't going to be a problem.
As usual, if you were working for Rogue, she made sure everything was in order. After all, the person who stood to lose the most if the job failed... was her.
No one with a working brain would sabotage themselves.
And Rogue? Definitely not brain-dead.
"Sounds good," Roqi said, stretching his back. "I need to find a place to test some stuff—nah, scratch that. Today I'm going to have some fun."
"Fun?"
With business done, Rogue had nothing else to say—so she raised an eyebrow, a bit curious.
"Yeah. I promised Mower. Right before we handled the convoy and Knife Gang mess, I told her—when we're done, we'll take a real break."
"Well, now we're done."
It sounded like he was tempting fate at the time. But in hindsight, it all made sense. Of course, that kind of talk only feels ominous when things actually go wrong.
From a rational standpoint, whether things go sideways depends on the risk level—not the things you say. Most of that "jinx" stuff is just narrative fluff.
But when someone keeps fantasizing about what comes after a mission, it's often because, deep down, they know just how bad it could get.
Still, in merc circles, jinxes are something people try to avoid.
Maybe it's the job—live big or die fast.
When your head's always one trigger pull away from the floor, people tend to get superstitious.
But with Anti-Terror Riot Squad gear in hand, Roqi was like Night City's personal Doom Slayer. Against enemy solos, he was death incarnate. Against combat drones or armored gunboats, he could call in orbital fire support.
Ever seen the Doom Slayer afraid of an imp?
Death flag?
What the hell is that?
How about some double-barreled buckshot instead?
"Tell Johnny I said hi—been missing his foul mouth."
Roqi gave a two-finger salute to his forehead and swaggered out the door.
Rogue just smiled, watching Roqi and Mower leave together.
In her eyes was a soft, rare glow—one that said: "To be young again…"
The parking lot outside the Afterlife was always full of Night City's underworld crowd, but today it was even more lively—thanks to two parked armored motorbikes and two headless corpses lying nearby.
Dead bodies weren't unusual in Night City. It was how you died that mattered. Die flashy enough and you might end up on TV, winning fame from the afterlife.
The onlookers? Just here for the show.
Nobody really knew if North America still had the concept of "the afterlife." Maybe it was "the netherworld" now?
And if Roqi died—who'd handle his case? Would he need a visa for the afterlife? Or get deported post-mortem?
Thinking about crap like that always got his mind spinning.
"Men die for wealth, birds die for grain."
Roqi stepped right over the bodies and started his bike.
"Too bad you weren't protagonists."
Night City had no shortage of bold fools. Back then, V and Jackie were one hell of a pair. Too bad V had plot armor, while Jackie... not so much.
Population growth rate of Night City in 2076: minus thirty percent.
Minus thirty.
Minus thirty.
Minus thirty.
Remember that. It'll be on the test.
Who made up that number?
Guys who died in style.
The Riot Squad's anti-theft methods were unique, too. Some used electromagnetic pulses—not bloody, but the half-cooked meat smell was nasty.
Which was a problem—Roqi had steak plans tonight.
So, to avoid scaring anyone, Roqi took a cab to the restaurant.
Delamain had been slammed lately. Hard to get a car without booking way in advance.
"We sincerely apologize. Our system is experiencing technical difficulties."
Delamain's voice hadn't changed—but hearing it again was surprisingly comforting. That familiar bald blue head reading apology lines with horror-movie seriousness just doubled the nostalgia.
"Can I get a refund? Don't need the corporate speech."
Roqi chuckled. He was in a good mood.
The plan Dexter paid for was lifetime service—biometric, fingerprint, DNA, password, retinal ID—you name it. Refund? Dream on.
"Compensation will be issued once service is restored. We apologize for the inconvenience."
Delamain's tone was as polished as ever.
By policy, if compensation was due, it was paid—no more, no less.
Roqi couldn't afford a service like this on his own—and he wasn't the type to nitpick over minor issues, either.
After all, Dexter paid for it. That alone made the whole thing sweet.
Honestly, Roqi figured Dexter's only real contribution was buying him that deluxe package. Decades from now, when his memory faded, he'd still remember the overweight, shades-wearing fixer who got him "The Perfectionist Plan."
He patted the seat, touched Mower, glanced out the window, touched her again, hummed a tune, then touched her again.
"Delamain's ride really is the best. Cheap human-driven taxis? Torture. And not that much cheaper."
Mower looked at him with a mix of helplessness and exasperation. She was used to it now—how Roqi always looked proper but acted anything but.
This time, she had disabled all those fancy military-grade "elevated heart rate" and "increased hormone level" alerts.
"You're blushing. So cute. Hehehe…"
Whenever they were alone, Roqi turned into a grinning idiot—pure "abuh-abuh-abuh" energy.
The moment she shot him an annoyed glare, he'd switch to "deep thoughtful man staring at the cityscape" mode.
If it weren't for his wandering hands, she might've believed the act.
Of course, Delamain's presence was as glaring as his hairless blue head.
Roqi instinctively turned off the dashboard. No way he'd let some glowing chaperone ruin his moment.
But good times never last.
Just as he was basking in their syrupy atmosphere…
They arrived.
The high-end steakhouse appeared, its black car aesthetic radiating subtle luxury.
"Suddenly I don't feel like steak…"
Roqi pouted as Mower dragged him out of the car.
Smack!
She slapped his hand, grabbed his shoulders, and shoved him toward the restaurant.
If she let him keep groping, she was gonna snap.
She let loose a flurry of weak punches—probably the least damage she'd ever done since getting her cyberarms.
The restaurant, near City Hall, was famous for steak prices so high you'd forget your own mother.
Their signature dish? Wagyu. Imported straight from Japan.
Roqi looked at the menu.
First thought: Damn, that's pricey.
Second thought: It's 2077. Wagyu still doesn't have a second head?
"Two of these, one of that, not this, but this."
First time in a place this fancy, and Roqi sounded like a clueless foreign tourist who'd learned one word—"this."
The elegant waiter's dialogue flew over his head. All Roqi got from it was "you talk way too much."
Still, he and Mower didn't need to study upper-class dining etiquette. They had the basics down.
"No extra service needed. Just let us eat in peace. Thanks."
The ever-smiling waiter drifted away gracefully.
Two steaks, some sides, and dessert came out to nearly five figures.
Was the quality good? Absolutely. But the price came more from brand hype, purity claims, and monopoly.
In the end, beef is beef. Roqi couldn't care less about whatever "A-whatever" grade it was.
They weren't here to chase some bourgeois lifestyle. Nor did Roqi care about romantic gestures.
He just figured—with all the money he'd made, over a million—it was time to give Mower something special.
Viktor had told him that Mower's trauma had left some lingering damage, even if she seemed fine now.
Too much stress could still mess her up.
Going out, relaxing a bit—that was good therapy.
In Night City, enjoyment was a luxury.
But at some point, deep inside his heart, Roqi had made a promise:
That Mower would say goodbye to all inhuman suffering.
And never return to those dark days again.
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MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW?
🤖💘 MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW? 💘🤖
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📢 LOVE MEETS CYBERPSYCHOSIS! 📢
My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew? has 100+ chapters ahead available on Patreon! 💘💥
Romance is already complicated.
Now add:
🌃 Night City🦾 Cyberware🔫 Gunfights💀 Cyberpsychosis💥 Property damage❤️ And a girlfriend who might snap at any moment
Love hurts.
In this case, it might also come with bullets, broken walls, and emergency trauma care.
Don't wait for the madness — read ahead now on Patreon!
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