Chapter 22

"Hello, Night City!! Last night’s death toll quiz had a shocking underdog—"

The always-noisy Stan’s Night City Bulletin blaring from the radio was mercilessly cut off by Lucy’s quickhack. Normally, they’d let the obnoxious noise play in the background, but right now, the mood didn’t need any flashy, over-the-top sound effects.

It had been a full week since they were told to "wait for the next update," and by now, everyone was growing restless with the aimless downtime. Holocalls and emails went unanswered, and when they checked the clinic, it was temporarily closed—no way in. The worry had dulled slightly after Rebecca dragged them out to blow off steam, but the unease lingered.

After all, it was hard not to be concerned when a stark-naked Kiwi had solemnly shared that rumor.

The day after that incident, word spread that the city’s legends had gathered at Afterlife, with Jugra taking the spotlight. Then came the gossip—riding off in an Arasaka aerial vehicle, whispers that the youngest up-and-coming fixer might now be under Arasaka’s wing.

But with no way to confirm the truth, all they could do was wait for contact.

Jugra was never an official fixer to begin with. More like a middleman handling jobs passed down from Wakako Okada—Tiger Claws’ (or rather, Japantown’s) representative fixer. So, taking jobs from other fixers wasn’t a breach of loyalty.

…Or so it should’ve been.

But Maine once said fixers were like back-alley ramen shops—some flavors hit hard, others missed entirely. Whether you came back depended on the customer.

And well… the point was, compared to Jugra’s jobs, the usual gigs now seemed sloppy and cheap. Their standards had risen.

Compared to that taste…

Maine groaned, clutching his head. Jugra had spoiled their team rotten with top-tier treatment, he muttered in frustration. Other fixers’ jobs lacked detailed maps, proper intel, or decent pay—just worthless trash with no upside.

Even Dorio, watching nearby, nodded with a grimace. Jugra had been that good of a business partner.

"…Alright, let’s hear it. Why’d you drag us all the way out here?"

Jugra, finally face-to-face with them again in their container house, wore a vintage jacket despite the early season. The tension that once clung to her was gone—no, more like a balloon that had lost all its air.

Here under the pretense of "discussing the future," Jugra looked lighter, almost unburdened. Her gaze, especially when it landed on me, was oddly gentle.

"First, an apology. Sorry for leaving you hanging. I wasn’t in the mood for work, and by the time things settled, you guys were… pretty low on the priority list."

"…We’ll take it. Your high-paying jobs kept us flush. Compared to before, it’s like getting change back from a stack of bills."

"Good. Now, the main topic—I’m officially operating as a fixer now. Before, I just distributed Wakako’s jobs, but I’ll be taking my own contracts too. You’ve been my priority team, but I want to formalize things."

"And that means?"

"Either keep working as my go-to crew like before, or get treated like any other mercs. After the Afterlife incident, my profile’s higher. Being my ‘pet team’ might paint a target on your backs."

"We’ve heard bits and pieces, but what the hell did you do?"

Jugra hesitated briefly before answering casually.

"Some washed-up Arasaka corporate hag was leaning on me through a small-time fixer named Faraday. So I flashed my military-grade chrome as a warning, made an example out of Faraday at Afterlife."

"Wait—you revealed you had it?!"

"Told them I’ve got two pieces installed. That fake corpo bitch fell out of her chair shaking. Worth it."

"……………WHAT?!"

The entire Edgerunners crew shouted in unison. Jugra tilted her head, confused, like a carefree cat.

Hold up—didn’t you lecture Maine on how dangerous military tech was?!

We all assumed it’d stay locked away. Never imagined she’d actually wear the Sandevistan like some Santo Domingo street punk.

Jugra tapped her chin thoughtfully before speaking.

"Ah, right. Forgot to mention—I was mid-surgery when David called that day. Guess I never explained."

"HUH?! You answered the holo just fine! When I got my Warp Dancer, I was under full anesthesia—out cold! How were you conscious?!"

"…? Local anesthesia’s a thing. No way I’d let some ripper touch my spine when I’m the best in this city."

Her tone made it sound like we were the weird ones.

Kiwi, hands over her face like she’d seen something unholy, seemed to piece it together. Under the group’s stares, she explained through gritted teeth.

"…High-end ripper chairs have auxiliary arms for assistance. Don’t tell me you remote-controlled your own surgery?"

"That’s what I said."

"NO, YOU DIDN’T! What kind of mental fortitude do you have?! And I say this as someone with netrunning implants—spinal work isn’t pain you just tough out! Let alone installing a Sandevistan—that’s a full spinal swap!"

"…Just cut the bioelectric signals to the somatosensory cortex. No nerves, no pain. Neck device to block everything below the head—anyone could do it."

"NOBODY THINKS LIKE THAT! At least trust a ripperdoc!"

"…? But I’m that ripperdoc."

"Ugh! A perfect, paranoid genius, aren’t you?!"

"Why am I being insulted and complimented…?"

Genuinely baffled by Kiwi’s outrage, Jugra kept tilting her head cutely. For once, she looked her age.

…Though, given how she’d acted around Mom, maybe she just craved parental affection.

Still tilting her head, Jugra shrugged off her jacket, revealing her back—and the military Sandevistan Mom was supposed to trade to Maine.

"…The hell? It’s huge."

The once-flat, scaly implant had bulked up, each segment now fist-sized.

"Hm? Obviously I customized it. Tuned, upgraded—of course it looks different."

"…What kind of upgrades?"

"Military Sandevistans have artificial spinal nerves, right? Swapped those out, added more, tweaked signal speeds using data from my old ‘Stans… and stuff. Messed with a lot, honestly—what else was it…?"

Jugra tilted her head, murmuring "Was it this? Or that?" as she began her explanation, swaying gently side to side like a metronome.

Honestly? I didn’t understand a damn word.

Pilar nodded along at first, but soon his whole body leaned sideways at a 90-degree angle, his confusion deepening.

…Yeah, our mistake was asking an amateur question to a goddamn expert.

I’d almost forgotten—Jugra wasn’t just a ripperdoc. She was a techie to the bone, a mechanic. The chrome-slinging was just a side gig; her real talent lay in taking things apart. Back when she crashed at our place, she’d spend weekends disassembling high-end cyberware for fun.

So of course Arasaka’s military-grade prototype wasn’t some trophy to her—just raw materials.

"Jugra Custom Sandevistan… huh."

Hell, the idea never even crossed my mind. Most mercs just slap on store-bought implants and call it a day. But tailoring chrome to the user’s biology? No shit it’d perform better.

Which meant Jugra hadn’t just acquired military tech—she’d remade it. Even if someone ripped it out of her spine, it wouldn’t be the original Arasaka prototype anymore.

…And that led to a real fucked-up question.

"Hey, Jugra."

"—I mean, swapping the spine to install a Sandevistan is already backwards—why not optimize the artificial nerves for the implant first, then—Hm? What?"

"What happens if someone else gets your custom Sandevistan transplanted?"

"Mmm…" She tapped her chin. "Most would reject it—spinal necrosis from immune mismatch. The nerves are cultured from my cells. Even if they survived, the bioelectric pulse would fry their brain unless their wavelength’s nearly identical. Full cyberpsycho, guaranteed. Not that anyone’s dumb enough to try."

"…Jesus fuck."

"That’s the point of ‘custom.’ It’s mine." Kiwi groaned, raising her hands in surrender. "…Which makes it worse that she somehow improved my cyberdeck without telling me."

"Oh, that? Just cross-referenced your health scan data for compatibility tweaks."

"…When a ripperdoc’s also a med-tech engineer, this is the horror you get," Kiwi muttered, defeated.

We’d long since lost the thread. Maine, still bowing stiffly on the couch, cut to the chase:

"So. About being your ‘pet team’—what’s the catch?"

"No catch. Just more paperwork. If you refuse, you’ll need your own intel, maps, med checks—"

"We’ll take it. Please."

"Good. Wasted effort otherwise." She shrugged. "Tools are useless if you can’t use them."

Post-Afterlife, Jugra’s rep had skyrocketed—along with the target on her back. More jobs meant more heat, and we’d be the ones soaking it.

…Not that I minded. She’d always stacked the deck for us. Even when Tiger Claws idiots got themselves shot, they’d stagger into her clinic by dawn—no hard feelings.

Jugra played by her own rules, but she took care of her own.

And hell, after tonight? I wasn’t just okay with that—I was all in.