FALCO

Gig work was gig work.

I'd never been the best student. Always left in the dust when it came to classwork, hydroponics, hell, even range time. Scoffed at by peers for my low brow way of talkin', and applicable dead weight when it came to family work. Falco, the wannabe cowpoke. Heh, it never got old, but few of them realized ol' Granpappy was a big fan of the classics, and why dear old Dad was Amadeus. But when it came to vehicles? I was the one leaving others in the dust. I was a Nomad, and drivin' was what we did best. Wasn't no slouch with routine shop work, neither.

Except there was only so much cruisin' or mechanical drek that the Family could offer, and it left me lookin' for greener pastures. Just like Granpappy did, back when the dustbowls rocked the Midwest in the early century. Between the environmental disasters, and the corps breathing down his neck for real estate, he'd packed up his old trailer and hit the road. He met a choom at a CHOOH2 station, and one car became two. They helped someone out of a bad situation, and then there were three. Soon enough, he was leading a full on convoy, crossing the very dangerous, shattered remains of a war-torn middle America. Or what was left of it anyhow, right up till they hit the coast. And that, as they say, was history.

Jodes didn't come from nowhere, and LA didn't rebuild itself in a day, after all.

Everyone had a sob story. Didn't end up in a place like Night City without one. But sob stories didn't pay the CHOOH2 bills, cheap as they were, nor fill a hungry man's belly. Which was how I'd ended up pickin' up fast food for Maine and his crew. Well, it was more than just eats, and resupplyin' sounded better. Almost done with their self-imposed exile as too, it'd be nice to get back into good honest biz. He always tipped well, too.

That, I could respect.

But what I couldn't respect was amateur hour, with the way these gonks were goin' about it. All wrong! Now, normally I wouldn't be one to interpose myself into these kinds of dust-ups. Far too many folk with itchy trigger fingers, especially the one with the big iron on his hip. And even prideful tyger cubs needed to keep their heads down before they became endangered too.

"Gentlemen." I slid smoothly between the pair, hands clapping them on the shoulders. 'Ganic for the kid, and chrome for the meaner, older gonk, "Why don't we settle this like civilized folk? I know a few chooms that make a livin' in the Night City circuit. Now how 'bout it?" I offered them a bristly moustache smile, and a charming wink for the little lady, "A lap of the Coronado Classic, winner is the first one atop the Dam."

"Pff, as if, loser. Kid's just got a case of verbal diarrhea, terminal." The mean gonk snorted, and brushed my arm off, "Besides, even if it were for pink slips, I don't want some shitty MaiMai." He jerked a thumb out of the diner's window, where a little beater was parked.

The kid didn't take that one well, "Bull! I keep tellin' you I got a Caliburn!" He gestured out to the parking lot, "See?" I followed his arm, and was actually surprised that the ride in question was pulling into the lot. No driver either, so either this was some divine comedy level timing, or the kid was legit. Question remained, was he all talk and eddies, or was there a lead foot buried somewhere under that youthful exterior?

I flicked the pair a set of nav-data, as we meandered outside, "Meet at the startin' point, while I make a few calls." The Rayfield had parked itself between a pair of Quadra, one of which was equipped with a CrystalDome. A Type-66? Interesting. I gave the diner a quick scan, but nobody really stood out as a Pack member. While the mean gonk got into the more conventional morph, the young lady that had been hanging around the equally young blood moved over towards the Nomad special. Very, very curious.

Impromptu races happened often enough that it wouldn't be too much trouble, and I could even make a few eddies on the side. Question was, did I want to get involved more than I already was? I quietly strolled over to my own noble steed, and saddled up. The Quadra was the quintessential street racer, and had everything one could want. Horsepower, curbweight, good handling, better looks, and the ability of customize the frame to whatever the occupant desired. It was also mass produced and readily available at an affordable pricetag to a semi-successful individual. Best part, arguably, was that they were easily jailbroken - which allowed the common man to get access to a muscle car.

Conversely, anything from Rayfield was luxury, and the Caliburn was no different. So much so that if you had to ask for a price, you probably couldn't afford it. Which was why it was a pleasant surprise that the boy had one. Doubly so given his apparent background, because Rayfield products weren't mass produced, weren't exactly accessible by the general public, and came with a plethora of features that voided the warranty if removed. Hell, getting one serviced by an unlicensed techie would do the same. It was luxury defined, and pushed into the supercar marketset.

"Welcome back, Falco."

But the Herrera Outlaw was just markedly better in nearly every consideration. A hypercar from the Smithy's newer production line. And though the trim was geared towards urban execs, trimwork was easy squeezy. It even came equipped with an onboard AI system that synched with my Agent, and was smartlink capable. And while jailbreaking one of these bad girls wasn't exactly squeezy, having skill and connections helped.

"Evenin', Roach. Might be lookin' like we're gonna go for a longer ride than expected."

"Excellent. Shall I contact Maine, and inform him we will be late?"

I gently shifted out of the lot, and merged with traffic, cueing up a few messages to send to interested parties, including the fixer in charge. Muamar Reyes, or El Capitán as he preferred, was an old hand at such things. He was also the genius behind Autofixer, the local vehicle trading hub. He had NCPD on his payroll, specifically to look the other way when groups of streetracers got together. Besides, races could get heated - people flatlined.

Which was another plus of the Outlaw over conventional whips. It had built in weapons systems, which was always a plus in a dangerous place like Night City. The simple presence of a better equipped ride would keep the rowdier crowd in order, and coming at the bottom of the podium had a charm of its own. You didn't blow all your entire tank of NOS on the first lap, after all.

"Tell him that something came up, and we'll be along shortly..."