Woodhaven Street, more and more people gathered, the pungent burnt smell in the air was now overwhelmed by the cheap scent of alcohol, and the grease from synthetic meat drifted within this alcoholic haze.
Though everyone was eating cheap food, the atmosphere of the whole place was unusually lively, and the people eating were genuinely happy.
The reason was simple: 15% of Night City's population has an annual income under 2000 eddies, with a monthly income of less than 170 eddies, and more than half of these people live in Santo Domingo.
The cheapest available food, take a Pink Burrito XXL for example, costs 10 eddies per serving, more expensive than many bullets. A bucket of chicken nuggets at a fast food place costs at least 30 eddies.
Street snacks made from black-market synthetic meat or other cheap ingredients might be a bit cheaper, but not by much.
In summary, 170 eddies is barely enough for rent, and people often have to scavenge garbage once or twice a month to survive.
The reasons behind these twisted prices are many: corporate wars, the unification war, and all sorts of financial crises and inflation triggered by wars.
One could say that since the early 21st century, the world has been trapped in terrifying inflation, with basic necessities seeing especially outrageous price hikes.
Nobody knew what nerve 6th Street hit, but free food and booze?
Unthinkable.
Even ignoring the homeless, the per capita annual income of Santo Domingo is only about 3000–4000 eddies. A free meal is still not something they can just shrug off.
For these people, every single eurodollar is split in half if possible.
"Fuck yeah!" A man missing an arm used his remaining cybernetic arm to guzzle liquor. "The American Dream is fucking awesome!"
The nearby soldier on guard laughed: "Feels good, huh?"
"Good." This man, emboldened by booze, swayed his head and threw his hand on the soldier's shoulder, giving a thumbs-up. "This is the American Dream."
A 6th Street member handed him a small power wallet: "Look, charge this thing up and bring it back, and you can trade it for more booze."
"For real? No problem! 6th Street business is my business! Killing, I can't do — but stealing power? That's my specialty!"
Then the man collapsed on the ground with a smack, completely unconscious.
Lying there, he kept babbling nonsense even the translator software couldn't decode.
On the rooftop, V saw this and chuckled: "He's down already?"
[Leo: That man won't last long anyway, his neural resilience is so low he's barely functional when sober.]
"Getting drunk means bad nerves?"
[Leo: To be precise, sobering up depends on whether the body can secrete certain catalysts. Before that, you'll feel awful and dizzy.]
[Leo: But for the same blood alcohol level, whether you pass out depends a lot on neural health. A man with weak nerves collapses at a sip.]
"So are we poisoning them?"
[Leo: No — without the booze, he wouldn't last long anyway. This is more like giving him a last big meal before he goes.]
No one knew whether the man passed out from sickness, nerve damage from overwork, or some other blow.
All they could know was he couldn't handle even a single drink now.
When people here relax, there's always a hysterical tension, as if they want to drown themselves in the pleasure of booze and meat.
Yet in truth it's just a bit of cheap alcohol and synthetic meat.
Jackie turned quiet, just watching the merry scene and eating meat in silence.
Soon, David brought the two netrunners in the crew — Lucy and Kiwi — over to V's "table."
More precisely, their "barrel." Beer and synthetic meat were laid on a rusty metal barrel, with a fuel canister nearby, and an iron mesh on top serving as a makeshift grill.
"This job was supposed to be just escort duty, but we don't have time for long-term guarding, so it turned into this."
V got straight to the point, explaining the job breakdown.
But once she spoke, she felt awkward: this kind of thing always made her uncomfortable.
Luckily, she just needed to repeat Leo's instructions — reading them off was enough.
David sat upright and nodded.
[Data transmitting]
"We mainly have four defense zones. First is overhead — the highway above the Petrochem Dam, but another team's on that."
The Petrochem Dam counts as its own district. It's wide open up there, no cover, and it's nearly impossible for enemies to sneak up and snipe from the dam.
With Woodhaven Street's main event area as the center, there are three zones to the north. The direct north sector is deepest; the other two are more like small arcs, part urban blocks and part abandoned construction sites and wasteland.
In city blocks, netrunner can tap into hijacked street cameras, cars, and smart devices for surveillance, but on the open wasteland with no cameras, only patrols work.
These two zones were David's to cover with his people.
"In short: patrol. If you see anyone suspicious, shoot."
Lucy raised her hand: "I want to know — what kind of enemy? Dangerous?"
"Mercs, like you guys. Should be skilled. As for dangerous..." V paused and looked at Lucy curiously. "Didn't you mug Leo — the Burger King — the first time you met him? Weren't you scared then?"
In V's memory, Lucy was a pickpocket when David was still a good student. Now, David's the reckless one, and Lucy's grown timid?
According to Leo, Lucy was the street brat and David the upstanding citizen, wasn't it?
Lucy looked awkward: who knew stealing a chip on the subway would land her on the big boss!
"...That was an accident."
As for why she'd grown timid —
David boldly slung an arm around Lucy and grinned: "Relax. Sure, saying nothing will happen is too absolute, but we'll handle it!"
"Sigh... we'll take Zone 2 then, go check it out first."
Lucy rubbed her forehead, grabbed two drinks and some synthetic meat off the ground, and the two left.
Kiwi stayed, watching their backs with a thoughtful look.
V glanced at her: "Those two look pretty close, huh?"
"They are. They sleep together."
"Oh~ no wonder." V shook her beer can. "You seem like an old hand. You know them well?"
Kiwi scratched her head and sat on a broken wall: "I brought the girl in. She's probably not like us street kids.
When I first met her, she was aimless — knew some hacking but nothing else.
Then, somehow, she got motivated, like she'd found a goal.
Like you guys now."
"What do you mean." V pointed to herself, not quite catching this vague remark. "What do you mean, like us now?"
"I mean... full of energy. Can I ask — what drives you to do all this crazy stuff?"
"Why?" V thought about it.
If she had to say, her childhood dream was simple: she'd seen so much badass shit, she just wanted to be Night City's biggest badass — and show off.
But saying it like that felt cheap.
[V: You hear that? She's asking you too!]
[Leo: Me? She's asking you, not me. I was just trying to survive at first! Still one of my goals.]
Her external brain refused to supply a classy answer, so V fell into thought.
Then Jackie spoke up. He looked at the crazy party crowd, and suddenly thought — wasn't this just his favorite kind of kick-ass Thursday?
Free booze, good brothers, a wild time.
Being able to treat people, earn respect — that was his goal: be a respectable man.
So he said naturally: "Of course, to be a respectable man. A big shot."
Such a plain answer — but V felt it matched her own thoughts perfectly.
Kiwi looked at this "big shot," her eyes calm, then glanced at the distant skyscrapers: "Everyone in Night City thinks like that."
"So? You have something to say?"
"I just think people like us, these so-called 'punks,' are either running from shameful pasts, or chasing grand dreams and losing themselves."
Hearing this, V snorted, chugged the beer, and said disdainfully:
"Sounds like a loser's confession. Earn enough money and you won't think that way. Stick with us, I promise you'll earn plenty."
"That's true — just a bit too exciting sometimes."
"Alright, time to work."
As she finished, 6th Street powered up the surrounding speakers, blasting frenzied rock music that pushed the vibe to a peak. Morton's voice roared out —
"Hey, you little punks, stuffed full on the American Dream yet?"