Chapter 23: Preliminary Agreement
"Beirson, where are we eating today?" Tarkov asked, grinning as he threw an arm around his friend's shoulders.
"How about some high-end Japanese cuisine?" Beirson replied, casually organizing the stack of intel files in his hands.
"Nah, man! Hotpot is where it's at!" Tarkov protested. "Forget that fancy stuff—Chinese food is the real deal."
"Alright, alright," Beirson laughed. "Little Chinatown it is."
Ever since he started working with Ash, life had taken a sharp upward turn. Every piece of intel he passed along got processed quickly, and payment arrived faster than he could count. It was strange. Tarkov once told him that fencing goods and moving information took time, but not with Ash. Not with Sandayu Oda around.
She had the sharpness of a fixer and the decisiveness of a warlord. She could assess the value of stolen assets on the spot and connect with fences to get them appraised in real-time. The moment a price was locked, she and Ash would front the payment personally. Settling accounts with their clients came later.
That setup made Beirson feel unstoppable—maybe even overconfident.
In a smoky Little Chinatown eatery, hotpot bubbling with crimson oil, the two drank pungent Chinese baijiu. Beirson's face turned a shade redder with every gulp.
"Damn, this is the life!" he hollered, slamming the glass down.
Tarkov chuckled, far more composed. "You've changed, man. Used to be mopey as hell."
"No kidding," Beirson agreed, laughing at himself. "Back then I didn't know what the hell I was doing. Now? I finally feel alive."
"You've got a family, a baby on the way. That's what it's all about."
Beirson smiled, flushed from the booze. "You'll find someone too, Tarkov. You've got the eddies now. Shouldn't be hard."
"Actually... I'm almost broke again," Tarkov said, the mood shifting.
Beirson blinked. "Seriously? What happened?"
"You know how I sell intel too. But lately, it's dried up. Security across the city is tightening. Orders are down."
Beirson frowned. "That's weird. I haven't noticed anything. I've been busier than ever."
"You too, huh?" Tarkov raised an eyebrow, knowingly.
"Yeah. And I'm thinking of bringing someone in to help me sort through all the requests. You interested?"
Tarkov smirked. "Actually, I've got something better. A special order. Want it?"
"Me? Why not your crew?"
"They can't handle this one. It's from Militech."
The words hit Beirson like a cold slap.
"You crazy? I work for them! You trying to get me killed?"
Tarkov leaned in. "Listen carefully. What do you really want? A steady job and a paycheck? Or the kind of money that lets you sleep in silk sheets and burn euros for heat?"
Beirson's gut twisted. He glanced around nervously. "Wait… You mean the guys asking for intel weren't from Militech?"
Tarkov nodded, placing a finger to his lips. "Now you get it. You've been feeding intel to outsiders."
Beirson's stomach churned. The realization hit like a freight train. He had never even verified who these clients really were.
"So I'm compromised."
"Exactly," Tarkov said. "You're in deep now. Cut off contact and they'll know you've caught on. They'll come for you."
"So what do I do?"
"Break free, Beirson. While you still can."
Back home, his pregnant wife welcomed him, removing his liquor-stained coat with a soft sigh. She didn't ask where the money came from. In Night City, money was survival, and Beirson had been bringing in more than ever.
He slipped into a bath, steam rising around him as his thoughts churned.
"No such thing as a free lunch," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. The night sky beyond the window was black—no stars, no moon, no future.
In the aftermath of the Corporate Wars, the world was still reeling. Earth's habitable zones were barely ten percent of what they once were, and yet… humanity continued to fight. Scheme. Kill.
What was the endgame? Did anyone even know?
The next morning.
Sandayu Oda handed Ash a fresh dossier.
"New intel. Straight from a Militech insider."
Ash, practicing Tai Chi in a tranquil courtyard, smiled without opening his eyes. "Perfect."
Meanwhile, in a basement in Santo Domingo...
V screamed as Dexter smashed a brass knuckle into his jaw.
"Where is Evelyn?!" Dexter snarled.
"I... I don't know," V gasped. "I'm looking for her too."
"Don't lie to me!" Dexter slammed his fist down again.
V winced, blood pooling in his mouth. He felt dizzy. Weak. But alive.
Dexter paused, panting. Years of decadence had bloated his body. Even this much exertion exhausted him.
"Thought you'd send someone else," V muttered, spitting blood. "Didn't expect you to get your hands dirty."
"Shut it," Dexter growled. "I trusted you with that chip heist. Covered your ass. And look what happened."
"We can still fix it," V wheezed. "But if you kill me, Arasaka will wipe you off the map. You know what they're capable of."
"Unless you die without a trace," Dexter hissed.
"I saw something," V said quickly. "Something you'll want to know."
"Don't—"
"Yorinobu killed Saburo Arasaka. I saw it."
Dexter froze, eyes wide.
"That chip we stole—it recorded everything," V added.
Dexter's face turned ashen. He beat V a few more times out of blind rage before collapsing onto a nearby chair and lighting a cigar.
"You're not scared of dying, huh?"
"I wouldn't be me if I was," V smirked. "Remember what you asked me? Be a nobody or be famous?"
Dexter stared into the smoke curling above them. "If what you're saying is true... we could bring Yorinobu down."
V met his gaze. "And become legends."