Screeching tires and boosted bass always lit up your mood like a Dogtown shootout.

Yevgeny's Quadra turbo R 740 had this preem sound system he'd gotten done by some guy he knows in Arroyo, some car connoisseur with a funky haircut and way too much animal print, who sold him reinforced subwoofers and amplifiers, the works. Sitting in the passenger seat of his turquoise ride, you blew smoke out of the open door as you watched Yevgeny painstakingly wipe down the hood after waxing it.

Usually you'd complain at the mundanity of the activity, but you'd been pacified when he removed his tacti-fiber tank, vexed by the humid and hot atmosphere of the late noon on the parking lot he'd hijacked, alongside a fire hydrant to wash his simmering turquoise pride and joy. It was also a sign the end was near.

You were neither dead, nor blind to Yevgeny's lean build. Still, you knew that was where the appreciation ended. For all intended purposes, he was first and foremost an older (annoying) brother figure, and second, and most importantly - money hungry. You understood ambition, but the line ended at certain principles, which for lack of better words, Yevgeny was born without. He was a good guy, but he absolutely lacked the necessary brakes in the rat race that life in the NUSA was. You'd seen what happens to people who shoot too high - the target usually shot back, and we all know eagle's nest has much better visibility of your food chain bottom link ass. He had the drive of a corpo and the hunger of a streetkid, which was a deadly combo to live by.

Still, sitting in his hot wheels, listening to Konrad Oldmoney was an association risk you could afford to take. Stepping out of the vehicle, you leaned on the fender next to you, whistling low in appreciation of the squeaky clean expanse of the hood.

"Any more buffing and it'll become a mirror." You offered, half to get him to stop, half because you could genuinely eat off of it at this point.

Yevgeny's boyish smirk as he looked up to you from his haunches, where he was wiping his license plate, almost gave you deja Vu of when he used to spend the summer back with you and your brother in Atlanta, washing just as meticulously his old, beat up Mizutani hozuki in your driveway, alongside your dad's insurance company issued SUV, as a way of saying thank you for having him.

Ever the man of principle.

Still, always chasing eddies. When you grow up hungry, the hunger follows you for the rest of your life, you guessed. He was Night City born and raised, after all.

"If my input can't use it as a mirror to top up her lipstick, what are we even doing?" His cocky reply was to be expected.

"You don't have an input." You flatly shot back. His quick, incredulous laughter expressed no offense.

"Well I sure won't get one with a shabby car!" Straightening up, he dropped the microfiber cloth into the clear plastic box he used to store his cleaning supplies.

"It's not the car that gets you the chicks," you huffed out as he rounded the back to set everything in the trunk. "it's the guy driving it."

"That the kinda talk that got you a Barghest output?" He retorted, carefully closing the trunk and fishing out his card key. You watched his wet hair flick about as he shook it like a bathed dog, neon green and blond strands sticking to his temples and forehead.

"No," you said easily, taking one last look around the parking lot, where the water puddles reflected the sun in a far more idyllic way than you'd ever think this Santo Domingo neighborhood could offer. Still, you understood the appeal, and why Yevgeny kept coming back here nearly two years after he made enough scratch to move out and to the Glen. You inevitably always go back home.

"My Barghest output has a driver." You concluded, while descending into your seat with a cocky grimace you knew would piss him off.

"Ugh, shut the fuck up-" he groaned with a laugh, putting the car into gear, engine purring to life.

Pulling onto the highway with a speed that was almost dizzying, you watched as the scenery rapidly changed as you drove through Night city's blocks.

Yevgeny, much like your brother, knew when to shut up - a quality few men seemed to have mastered. Luckily, Jago was like that too. Letting the music and comfortable atmosphere do the talking, he focused on his self assured driving, switching lanes to finally pull up to the parking lot of this cool little bar in Haywood. Outdoor seating, Cerbeus blaring on speakers that could never hold a candle to Yevgeny's; but the beer was cold and their tacos were famous.

"So, They want you! to join Barghest." Yevgeny teased in a recruiter's tone, as you two finally sat on the high stools, taking a swig of his Broseph.

You paused halfway through your taco bite, eyes rolling endearingly.

"As an engineer. I ain't running any laps."

"All things considered, a good gig." He admitted, taking ahold of his own pulled synthpork taco.

"The pay sure is," you mumbled, humming at the explosion of spices and special sauce the granny in the back guards with her life.

"You see your man on the daily now?" Yevgeny asked after a few bites, filling his mouth with some tortilla chips now that it was free of words.

"He's a busy man. We occasionally come across each other but I highly doubt it's gonna be a thing." You vaguely offered in turn, quick to wash down your food with a swig of your own drink. Yevgeny understood the secrecy - Barghest was no joke. He wouldn't poke around unless you gave him an in, and even then...

The sound of the holo made you both pause.

"Well well! Is this call business or pleasure?" You chirped, eyes glowing a soft blue. Yevgeny perked up, sharp eyes regarding your shift silently.

"How's our newest engineer feeling after finishing her first week?" Jago's voice rang, a smile playing on his features.

"That depends, is this call being recorded?" You laughed, eyelashes batting. Yevgeny snorted, watching his best friend's little gremlin sister transform before his eyes. Listening to you tease who he presumed was one of Barghest's top dogs, he took in your suddenly grown features and gestures.

"I'm sorry I've been a little absent, I... I've missed you." Jago sincerely admitted, a peach hue dusting his cheeks even through the holo. Your features softened like butter under a hot knife.

"Flattery will get you nowhere...but it certainly softens the blow."

His raspy laugh made your stomach flip.

"I was thinking, how about meeting tonight? I know it's a little last minute, but we all got the night off for the festival-"

"Aww you wanna go pickpocketing in Dogtown as a couple? I thought you'd never ask!" You bullied, knowing damn well he'd bolt out of that ghetto first chance he got.

"Is that how bad we're paying you?" He shot back while typing something on his computer, the combination of a flash of his pearly teeth and teasing you right back warming your chest. "But no, I was thinking more like drinks, dinner."

"You gonna have a chance to change this time, or are you showing up in uniform? Not that I'm complaining, I like a man in uniform."

His eyes found their way back to yours through the holo, crinkling lovingly.

"Oh my God stop flirting, I'm gonna hurl." Yevgeny suddenly groaned, forcing a surprised laughter out of you.

"Yeah because when you were hitting on my friends in Atlanta I didn't do you a solid and talked you up. Ghost off!"

Jago watched her talk to someone in her peripheral, his loving expression lingering, though subconsciously knowing Matty who sat across him in the office would fawn over it later. He blindly shut down his computer, straightening his papers, while he waited for his girl to stop bickering with whom he assumed was her friend.

"So," he finally prompted, making her pause and tune back in, "can I pick you up around 7pm? Or is that too early for you?"

"Is this code for me to doll up?" You inquired in turn, bringing your beer to your lips. His eyes lingered there.

"You could show up in your pajamas and you'd still look gorgeous." Jago replied, gaze shyly cast down, pretending to look at his documents.

"Yeah I bet you'd like that, especially the ones with the little sheep on 'em."

"They are quite delectable." the way they'd clung to your body when you'd worn them at his place certainly crossed his mind, but he tried not to let it show.

"I'll see you at 7." You hummed, flicking him your brother's apartment coords. If the newfound information that constituted another step closer surprised him, he made no show of it, either.

"I look forward to it. To you."

"You two are disgusting, stop flaunting your mainline before us single simpletons." Yevgeny grumbled as soon as the call dropped, earning himself a pinch on the forearm.

"Shut up, and finish that taco, I have a face mask to put on."

.

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.

Spinner stood in a mixture between awe and nausea before the room the bossy Scav had lead him to. The new "shipment" had been late, some merc had fucked their HQ in Westbrook, and the disarray had caused the majority of "product" to be redistributed in large quantities to all other sites. He didn't want to imagine what kind of quantity the Scavs were talking about. All he knew was, whatever goodwill he had had towards their cheap chrome, had all but withered away by this point.

The Russian stood behind him, struggling to light up a cigarette with a dying lighter, as the ripperdoc struggled to take in the rows upon rows of cyberware parts, in various stages of removal/cleaning. Several scavengers, each standing in front of a makeshift slab of their own, cleaned parts by either removing body matter or blood with precision tools and rags, no different than a butcher would clean cut meat. Bodies lay before them no different than scrap metal, as if they hadn't been living, breathing beings shortly before. Some, seemed to still be breathing shallow, drugged breaths, though your brother willed himself hard to ignore that, lest he emptied his lunch before this swarm of surprisingly perceptive Scavs.

The smell of copper and rubbing alcohol was so strong he thought he would choke. The Scavengers were smart enough to have their mouths covered by surgical masks and cloths. He did not have that kind of foresight.

"So," the Russian started, "front to back." He paused to take a drag of nicotine. "Go, pick, 3 pieces." He thumbed the shard your brother had handed him earlier.

Pulling the crook of his elbow over his mouth, Spinner figured he'd get this over with. Walking through the long makeshift corridor between slabs, he glanced at each row, looking for a cyberarm, specifically a toxic monowire, though beggars can't be choosers, a para bellum and a Dynalar Sandevistan, ideally, though any mid to higher quality Sandevistan would do for this one particular client. None of the Scavs paid him any mind, too busy removing gore and polishing mechanically, as if it were another day pushing paper in the office.

He kinda understood your aversion now. God he was so stupid, not that he would ever admit any of this to you. Shit, the less you knew, the better. He'd be drinking himself into a stupor tonight if he had a say in it. He needed to forget this, pronto.

A woman with a gnarly, pink scar across her left cheek, seated on a crate, had been the first to show any signs of acknowledgement as he walked up to her and pointed at the para bellum that she'd just carved out.

"Hi, uh, can I have this one?" He politely asked, and she couldn't help but scoff at the way he held his arm over his mouth, eyes watery. Soft and pliable, a true American.

Without a word, she set it on his open palm, slick with blood, just to watch him cringe. She felt her mouth twist into a grin under the mask.

"Uh...thank..you?" He feebly offered, and she couldn't help the snort that escaped her. Shaking her head, she went back to freeing the reinforced tendon she had been hacking at before his appearance. As he turned to walk away bewildered, still holding the bloody chrome away from himself, she shot him another glance, then back at her boss who regarded him from the front of the room with predatory eyes she'd recognize anywhere - this ripper had something useful that could be taken away. Bad thing to expose to the Scavengers.

"You should apply silicone gel to that scar," he offhandedly said, making her snap her head back to him, where he was lingering at the egde of her working area. She raised an eyebrow at him, the offense taken barely veiled. You don't tell a Slavic woman shit like that.

"It'll help with the scarring! The skin won't raise. It's easy to find on the market... After that, quality SPF and a retinoid should do the trick." He added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if they were friends. All she could do was nod at this odd NUSAian guy, who felt the need to have a chat with a Scav while chrome dripped-

"Blood. On your shoes."

She pointed out with a jerk of her chin, and watched with a bit of sick satisfaction as his face showcased several stages of grief. Groaning as he held the chrome as far away as possible from himself, he slinkered off, throwing a light-hearted goodbye over his shoulder.

Yeah, she thought with something akin to sadness, which surprised her. He was not gonna walk out of this unscathed.

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.

"This is...quite the view." You whispered, breath caught in your throat as the terrace before you oversaw the sprawl of the corporate plaza. The giant holographic Koi fish swirled leisurely as the last light of the day painted the surrounding skyscrapers in golden hues.

"You mentioned how the fish were the first thing that left you speechless when you arrived to Night city," Jago casually explained, fidgeting with his black shirt's cufflink, "so when I remembered this restaurant, I figured it would be to your liking."

Turning to look at him, you shifted from one heel onto another, the open waiting space offering you enough privacy to lean into him softly, intimately, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I love it. Thank you, for always being so thoughtful."

Jago paused, gray eyes studying you for a second. His arm came to snake over your shoulders, pulling you further into him. He felt butterflies at the mere slip of your hand across his vest.

"The bare minimum, I believe."

You bit back a smile, eyes gazing adoringly into his. You'd almost gravitated into kissing him, when suddenly the hostess calling out to you two popped your little bubble, despite Charles managing to stop her halfway. Sheepishly, you thanked him as Jago pulled you by the hand to your table, Charles only nodding in acknowledgment. This time he'd have to linger away from the two of you, closer to the host stand by the only entrance. Other, high profile patrons, would not take kindly to his staggering form lingering over their tables.

At least they let him perform a preliminary scan of the dining area.

.

.

"I don't understand, we had an agreement." Spinner complained, though it sounded more like a feeble attempt at reasoning, and they both knew it.

"You bring good blueprints and notes. I want more."

"I don't have more, just this took almost a week of research and days of tinkering and testing!" Your brother was exasperated by now, which did him no favors. This backroom smelled of mildew, and he had to stand with sticky, drying blood between his fingers, blood that came from some poor soul snatched off the street. He was now acutely aware of how close he was to joining them.

"Call engineer to come and show my guys, then you can take chrome home." The Scav coarsely ordered, and your brother had to pace himself from unloading on this Russian gonk.

"No. I already told you, no engineer."

"You not fix yourself. I know you have woman in shop, engineer. Call." He snapped in turn, leaning back in his ratty office chair. Spinner was sure he'd lose his lunch by the end of the hour now. This is NOT how he wanted to spend his evening.

"You're stalking my clinic now? Is this how you treat good partners?" He bit back, quickly relaxing his defensive stance when he saw a shadow pass the man's face.

"We are not partners." the Scav flat out said, crossing his leg loosely over his knee. The scuffed boots were splattered with dry blood, the stain profound even on black synthleather.

"Look, my engineer is not even in Dogtown. She's on vacation for the festival. Why can't we all just enjoy that tonight, and come back to this topic another day?" He placated, eyes darting between the cyberware haphazardly scattered on the plastic covered table between them, and the drawn eyebrows the Russian was hiding his gaze under. This was not good. This was not part of the plan. It's officially shitting our pants o'clock.

A sudden gust of anger flushed through your brother, one that felt almost costly. Almost.

"You know what?" He decided a bluff could be the easiest way out. "Forget the chrome. We're good. I'm no longer interested. You can keep it, and the notes." He suddenly said, throwing his hands up. The Scav finally looked at him, sucking his teeth. As soon as Spinner turned to walk out of the makeshift office, it was like a switch had been flipped.

"Sit. Down."

Spinner, now in the doorway, paused. He felt his hands start to shake, so he balled them into white knuckled fists. The two Scavs that had been eating, and spitting the shells of some kind of seed just outside the door, just watched the interaction with barely concealed interest. Their stupid holographic masks felt both dizzying and mocking as they assessed him while he couldn't gauge them.

"Look man, I have an appointment with a Barghest officer for an implant check-up, I'm gonna be late-" he fibbed, knowing damn well he'd closed shop two hours too early out of nerves. No walk-ins today.

"You talk too much, nahuj." the Scav barked, cutting him off. Your brother turned to face him, a cocktail of faux bravery and adrenaline pulsing through his system now.

"No choom, you're the one constantly changing the rules. We made a deal, then you fucked me with gonk chrome, and now you wanna fuck me again."

The Scav grimaced, a twitch of his mouth promising nothing good, and before Spinner could register the shadow from the corner of his eye, the burnt of a tire iron to the head smacked the next words right out of his mouth.

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.

The sound of shattering glass had made the tables in the vicinity look your way, but you paid them no mind as you barely grasped the bottle from falling too. Your mortification at the clumsy wave of your hand that had resulted in the mess was evident, but Jago's soft "hoppá" had drawn some of your embarrassment into a state of nervous laughter. His hand was over yours in an instant, warm and reassuring.

"No evening is successful until someone breaks something." He jested, easing the tension as a couple of waiters swiftly cleaned up the mess and replaced your glass with a new one.

"Somehow I doubt that's the saying." You sheepishly replied after thanking them quietly, hands now in your lap, fingers fidgeting with the silk napkin.

"Hey," he prompted, drawing your gaze back to his, "it happens. Don't worry about it."

"Maybe I need to calm down a little." You laughed nervously again, quietly.

"Never, I'd be devastated at the prospect." He teased, hand reaching across the table again, open palm inviting yours. You tentatively met it.

"I think we should call it a wrap." You mused quietly, glancing around to find everyone immersed in their own conversations again.

"You know, in Hungary we consider broken glass bad luck, but other countries, like Greece, say it will bring money." He offered, though it did little to soothe your mood.

"One can do with less bad luck and more money in this city." You groaned with an eyeroll, but your nerves smoothed over with the gentle swipe of Jago's thumb on your hand.

"You know," he started after basking in the intimacy of the moment for a bit, "I think a walk by the waterfront would be nice, get some air."

You eagerly agreed, unsure why you suddenly felt so nervous. Watching him signal for the bill, you glanced back to see Charles, who stood alert and positioned exactly where you'd left him. By the time you'd turned back, Jago's eyes were lit up a soothing blue, and the mousy waiter was thanking him warmly at what seemed like a generous tip.

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.

The Gold Beach Marina was quiet, the only sound being the occasional, distant noise of the main road, and the lapping of waves onto the docks. Hand intertwined with Jago's, you slowly walked in silence towards the edge of the big dock, perusing yachts. The lingering presence of Charles a few paces behind you felt somewhat reassuring, despite the awkwardness it also brought. You'd gotten used to his ghost of a presence by now, though the need to break the ice with a bad joke always lingered (yet seldom acted upon).

"I always liked the sea," Jago suddenly spoke up, tone low and velvety, "it's a shame how polluted it is around the NUSA."

"Right? Sometimes on windy days it looks so clean and inviting. Too bad it'll give you 18th stage cancer." You chuckled, and Jago mirrored you.

"Still, it is nice to look at," he said as you reached the end of the walkway, turning to face you, "and to listen to."

Humming, you easily slipped from the hold of his hand, and proceeded to sit on the edge, legs swinging. With a playful glance upwards, you motioned at him over your shoulder to join you. Despite the expensive material of his pants, he did, with no hesitation. That was Jago, picky and eclectic, but never afraid to roll his sleeves back to get to work.

Watching the occasional sliver of silver light on the dark waters, eyes reaching for where the horizon had long since blurred into a charcoal vastness void of stars, you leaned into his body warmth; the light breeze nipping at the tastefully exposed skin of your going-out top. He easily moved his arm to accomodate you, setting his palm flat behind you on the wooden platform.

God his cologne was good, a rich, cypre scent, mixed with some kind of expensive aftershave. Resting your head onto the expanse of his broad shoulder and into the crook of his neck, you felt him press a tender kiss on the crown of your head. The quiet lulled you into closing your eyes. The calm was intoxicating.

Calm he brought you.

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.

.

The apartment was still as dark as when you'd left it.

The only light on was the same one by the windowsill, Blue Royal radio playing softly in the background.

Calling out your brother's name, you got no reply. Weird.

You checked your messages - nothing. He'd at least text you that he's working late. He could be out with Savannah, at the festival, having the time of his life, while you worry over nothing. Shrugging, you slid out of your shoes.

Fine, be that way. Grown man can make grown decisions.

Starting your bedtime routine, you lethargically reflected on the date you just had. Jago's care and genuine interest was as refreshing as always; warmth burned steadily inside you like a furnace, fed with the coals of his attentiveness. Ever the gentleman, he had walked you to the entrance (you'd refused the walk up to the apartment, in case your brother decided to play guardian). Removing your eye make-up, you thought back to the kiss he'd planted on your knuckles, and then on your mouth, smearing your lipstick over both of you.

"Kissproof my ass." you mumbled as you rubbed off what little remained of it from your upper lip. You smiled fondly at your own reflection, thinking of the gentleness of his fingertips, as he'd wiped it off of you both. The chuckle you shared in one breath, faces still so close you exchanged air.

The sound of his voice as he bid you goodnight echoed in your mind as you switched off the radio, but left the light on for your brother - a habit your mother had started the tradition of; last person in needs to know the light is always on to welcome them home.

As you slept soundly that night, you dreamed of a leisurely day of mundane tasks with your boyfriend, a promise that the future held wholesome normalcy.