"Good morning, Night City!"
"Yesterday's Dead Man's Lottery wound up at a neat total of thirty stiffs!
"Thanks to those endless gang shootouts, Heywood alone racked up ten corpses.
"But one was a cop, and I'd say you're all screwed.
"The NCPD definitely won't take that lying down.
"Santo Domingo had another blackout—the grid got sabotaged again. Yep, netrunners are at it, no doubt.
"Meanwhile, over in Westbrook, lTrauma Team's still scraping up remains from a cyberpsycho incident on the sidewalk.
"And Pacifica… well, it's still Pacifica.
"This is your best buddy Stan, here to kick off another day in the City of Dreams!"
(note: Forgot his name. Is this correct?)
Leo was awakened by the voice blaring from the radio.
He opened his eyes, realizing he'd been sleeping on an old, cracked leather couch.
No one else was around—Jackie wasn't there.
Leo switched the radio off and stepped outside the garage.
The sunlight was harsh.
After crossing the alley, he entered the El Coyote Cojo Bar.
Bars aren't exactly crowded in daytime. Pepe, the bartender wiping down the counter, greeted him:
"Hey."
"Morning."
"Never seen you before. You're not from around here, are you?"
"I'm a friend of Jackie's."
"Oh, so you're the guy Mrs. Welles told me about. That makes things easier. She said you can order whatever you want—on the house."
"In that case, I'll have a cola with ice. Thanks."
Pepe muttered under his breath, "Morning without booze might as well be death. You're young—why so health conscious already?"
Leo didn't catch what he was grumbling about. "By the way, have you seen Jackie?"
Pepe set the cola on the counter. "He took off first thing this morning. Didn't say where."
"I see."
Leo said no more. He took his cola and sat at a table.
He pulled out the laptop he'd taken from the decapitated Zank, got online, and started browsing.
He'd just finished reading "Society in 2077" when a familiar voice piped up behind him.
"Leo, there you are. I was about to let you sleep in if you were still out cold."
Leo started to get up, but Jackie stopped him. "No rush—I'm dying of thirst. Lemme get a drink first."
Jackie held two fingers up toward the bar. "Pepe, vodka on the rocks—lime juice, ginger beer. Double."
"Mrs. Welles said no more alcohol for you."
Jackie walked over to the bar. "I'll pay for it, then."
"Mrs. Welles said she wouldn't sell you any."
Jackie pressed a hand to his forehead. "Yep—she's definitely my mom."
Leo closed his laptop and drained his cola in one go. He brought the empty cup to the bar.
Jackie leaned an elbow on the counter and bent forward. "Don't worry, Pepe. I just saw my mom leaving. Some Valentino boys had a beef, so she went to break it up."
Then he glanced at Pepe again. "She won't know if you slip me a couple bottles."
Pepe sighed. "Don't put me in a bind, Jackie. I'm the one who'll get an earful."
Jackie pointed at the bar's sign. "Pepe, who owns this place?"
"Mrs. Welles, obviously."
"Full name?"
"…Guadalupe Alejandra Welles."
Jackie pointed at himself. "And me? My full name?"
Pepe looked baffled. "Uh… Jackie Welles."
Jackie grinned and spread his arms as if to offer a hug. "Pepe, see the coincidence? The owner of the El Coyote and I share the same last name.
"Think there's a chance—just maybe—that someday I might be the owner?"
Pepe had no words. He let out a long breath and was about to grab some liquor when suddenly, someone slipped in from outside, soundless as a trained assassin, stopping right behind Jackie.
Pepe's face changed. He gave Jackie a quiet heads-up: "Jackie, behind you."
"Ha, nice try. You think I'm three years old?"
Leo cleared his throat.
Jackie shot Leo a perplexed look. "You got a cough or something?"
"Jackie, maybe we should go…"
"Relax, Leo. I haven't forgotten you get a cut, and we'll settle that soon. I just want a quick drink. My throat's parched."
Seeing Jackie wasn't giving up, Leo said, "Then maybe just a soda? Tastes about as good as booze, right, Pepe?"
Pepe caught Leo's look and nodded eagerly. "Right. Exactly."
"What's with you two? You're acting so weird—"
"Jackie!"
The voice wasn't loud, but it carried authority that demanded respect. Jackie's cheerful grin instantly stiffened, as if he'd been tossed into Siberia in nothing but a T-shirt. Mrs. Welles beckoned to him like a mom calling over a misbehaving child.
"…Come here."
…
Half an hour passed before Jackie finally emerged.
"Okay, let's go, Leo."
"No more booze?"
Jackie coughed loudly and all but yelled, grabbing everyone's attention: "All right! I'm done with booze forever!"
Once they were out of the El Coyote's Bar, he added in a low voice, "…At least in this bar."
Watching him, Leo couldn't help but smirk.
In 2077, people aren't exactly obsessed with "healthy living" the way they were in centuries past. Why "centuries past" and not "the early 21st century"? Because this world's timeline diverged greatly from the Earth Leo was used to.
The CCCP still exists in 2077—yeah, who'd have thought? It was called New United China now. Meanwhile, some other superpowers weren't as lucky.
The USA split into five factions:
The New USA,
Western States,
The Republic of Texas,
Pacific Alliance—locked in endless conflict on the North American continent.
Night City isn't part of any nation. Geographically, sure, it sits within New USA, but it's basically been cut loose from California and the rest of the country, a corporate-run free city.
Here, the wealthy can replace any organ they want. They don't worry about booze wrecking their liver, cigarettes their lungs, or bedroom mishaps wrecking their… well, you get the idea.
So maybe you wonder about the less fortunate, who can't afford new organs. Most have minimal education or none at all, scraping by in unsafe slums rife with crime, forced to pay for their own social and medical insurance, plus "protection fees" to local gangs.
They can't just swap out failing organs. As for the homeless or the jobless, let's not even go there.
Then again, maybe they don't have the luxury to worry about liver disease. Far more likely they'll get gunned down by stray bullets or be unlucky enough to run into a gang war. Or maybe a corp exec, drunk on champagne, will plow a supercar right into them on the sidewalk without so much as slowing down—like squashing a bug. Next to all that, drinking yourself to death almost sounds merciful by comparison.
…
Back at the garage, Jackie pulled the rolling door shut before taking a thick stack of bills from his pocket and handing it to Leo.