Chapter 231 c

Chapter 231 c

Thinking back to the basement of that ripperdoc front, the place where Scavs performed surgeries on ordinary people—it all made sense.

Shops like that one, in Night City, there were at least hundreds, if not over a thousand. For money, they'd toss any moral boundary aside.

“Let’s go. The cab I called is waiting outside. I’ll take you to meet Regina.”

Max nodded, then suddenly started to vomit violently.

“You okay?”

Max looked like he wanted to speak, but only kept retching.

Leo held him from behind, stopping him from smashing his face into his own puke.

Eventually, after retching out the last of what was in him, Max could only dry heave.

Leo dragged his limp body—his legs soft like overcooked noodles—into the waiting Delamain cab, then handed him a bottle of mineral water.

After rinsing out his mouth and taking a few gulps, Max’s face finally regained some color.

“So… where are we going now?”

Catching his breath, Max suddenly realized the cab wasn’t heading toward his apartment.

“I’m taking you to Regina. The job isn’t done until you see her.”

“Can I get out here? Honestly, I’m feeling fine now. No need to hitch a ride on your dime.”

Leo gave him a sideways glance.

“Would you go find Regina on your own?”

Max hesitated. “If I said I would… would you believe me?”

“If you hadn’t paused, maybe I would’ve. But since you did? No.”

Max slumped back in the seat.

"Why do you sound like you really hate Regina? Am I wrong?"

His tone was bitter, borderline cynical. “If it were you,” Max said without hesitation, “if someone you once raised the banner of justice with, a mentor who once swore to expose every injustice and fight against the darkness of the world… if they suddenly became a fixer in the underground, mingling with the scum, cutting deals, covering up for corpos, and turning their cameras into tools for lies instead of justice—how would you feel?”

“She ever hurt her friends? Innocent people?”

Max hesitated again. “N-no, but she doesn’t even turn down corpo jobs anymore.”

Leo shrugged. “If there’s money in it, why not? As long as she doesn’t harm innocents, and she’s true to herself.”

Max sat up straighter. “But—”

“Max, listen. Until the right time comes, blind resistance only gets you killed.”

“But even if we die, the truth we uncover stays behind. People will remember.”

Leo shook his head. “Trust me—they won’t. At best, you’ll be gossip at some bar.”

Johnny Silverhand dropped a nuke on Arasaka Tower. To many, what could have been more heroic than that? And now, decades later, this city welcomed Arasaka back with open arms.

Night City had seen countless reporters like Max. Militech field agents and corpo security teams had faked their suicides or staged their deaths as accidents countless times. These reporters died, yes—but nobody remembered them. Most people didn’t even know what their deaths meant.

Regina must’ve realized that, which is why she stopped being a journalist and became a fixer. Compared to her days behind a camera, now she had merc squads under her command, and she had cash flow.

More importantly, she had dirt on the corps.

She could sell intel on Biotechnica to Arasaka… or order her mercs to back off in front of Militech, "accidentally" leaving a chip full of Arasaka secrets behind… or walk into some Chinese diner in Little China and swap a baozi stuffed with Militech data for her own lunch.

Max thought Regina had fallen, had dirtied her hands as a fixer.

But to Leo, she was finally becoming someone the corps had to fear.

Corporate lackeys might scoff, calling fixers little more than hyenas fighting over scraps—but any corpo with half a brain wouldn’t dare ignore them.

Max fell silent.

Leo’s words had hit him harder than expected.

And what really made him think wasn’t just the reasoning—it was what came next.

“Max, you think you’re hot shit, but to a corpo, you’re just a buzzing fly. They don’t lose sleep over your reports. What they fear is the fixer who’s holding a bleeding-edge chip—someone with intel that cuts straight to the bone.”

Max took a deep breath, then let out a long sigh.

He couldn’t fully accept Leo’s view all at once.

But he couldn’t deny he was right.

“Alright… let’s say you’ve got a point.”

“No need to say ‘let’s say.’ I do have a point.” Leo clapped him on the shoulder. “Just go meet Regina. Don’t just listen to what she says—see what she actually does.”

Max finally made up his mind and nodded.

After dropping Max off at Regina’s safehouse, Leo left.

A few minutes later, his phone rang.

“Leo, you’re a damn magician. What did you say to that stubborn mule? He just told me he wants to try working with me for a while.”

Hearing Regina’s cheerful tone, Leo joked back, “Nothing much. Just cast a little spell. You muggles wouldn’t understand.”

“Normally I’d say you’re being a smartass, but today… I’m not so sure. You might actually be a Hogwarts grad.”

After the banter, Leo’s voice turned serious. “Don’t let him down, Regina.”

She matched his tone. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

---

Heywood. Inside Padre’s stronghold.

Marcus was chatting idly with some of the others when he saw Padre walking over from the other side.

“Marcus.”

“Padre. What’s up?”

Marcus and his companion quickly stood up, showing full respect.

Everyone under Padre’s command respected him deeply—not just because he gave them work, but because he paid well and treated them with dignity.

Whether they were brown-skinned Latinos or black-skinned Africans, the discrimination they faced in this city was the same.

Racism was like a curse in this land—one that never lifted. From the first shot fired in 1775 for independence, to the formal recognition of the United States by the British crown, through its bloodiest civil war, and all the way to the present day—three hundred years had passed in the blink of an eye, yet the plague of discrimination remained entrenched.

Latinos had long been stereotyped as criminals. And outside of Heywood, it was almost impossible for them to find decent jobs.

Even within Heywood, there was no real solidarity among Latinos. More often than not, it was one Latino stabbing another in the back.

In fact, the people who screwed over Latinos the hardest were usually other Latinos.

Marcus considered himself lucky to have been chosen by Padre—one of the few bosses in Heywood who didn’t discriminate, who paid fair, and treated his men with respect.

“Good thing you’re here. I need to get to El Coyote Cojo, but Carlo’s sick. Can you drive?”

“Of course, Padre.”

Marcus immediately tossed his cigarette and stomped it out.

The two of them headed outside and climbed into a Villefort Alvarado V4F570 Diplomat—a six-wheeled sedan, four wheels in front, two in the rear.

As the name suggested, it was a product of the Villefort car company. It came equipped with an engine powerful enough to turn heads wherever it went.

Despite its massive size, the Alvarado’s twin front axles made handling the weight a non-issue.

Unfortunately, that same innovative design also required constant maintenance and occasionally came with some pretty steep costs.