NOVEL NEXT Chapter 119: Fermentation
(Early May, pre-dawn)
Hour of the Tiger (4:00 AM). Dogtown.
Roosevelt Street, half-abandoned and bordering Kress Avenue. Back when Dogtown was still being developed as a resort destination, its main streets were named after famous presidents from both old and new America.
In the rustling silence, a gaudily dressed street punk covered in full-arm tattoos stopped in front of an old, run-down restaurant.
"This is the place?"
The sign overhead featured an embedded cup-shaped beverage icon, marked with the name: Capitán Caliente.
"'Dog whistle,' initiate..."
The man muttered to himself.
According to the emergency orders he received, he was to initiate contact following a strict protocol—through a secret communication line—to locate a dormant FIA agent lost somewhere in Night City.
"...That ace agent is really still alive? It's been years. Hope they're not screwing with me."
He turned to survey the surroundings.
There were no blinding neon signs. This part of the city was equally desolate and rundown. Abandoned construction projects littered the streets. Shops were sparse, their facades peeling. Rust-colored oxidation flakes fell off with the lightest touch, giving the air a pungent, stale scent of decay.
It was just past 4 a.m.—barely light out—and the streets were empty.
After confirming the area was safe, he activated the scanner in his cybernetic eye and peered through a gap in the restaurant's blinds.
Just as expected—"Fucking Kurt Hansen." Aside from the surveillance cameras, there were also infrared laser tripwires—infrared-triggered landmines.
Roughly two months ago, Dogtown's warlord Hansen had climbed the social ladder by cozying up to Konpeki Plaza. After returning, he'd rebranded Barghest under the Arasaka name and began a sweeping purge of suspicious individuals.
Captain Caliente's Restaurant's previous owner had once insulted Hansen—and publicly made pro-unification, pro-Washington comments in bars and similar venues. In those volatile times, even minor offenses became death sentences. The man committed suicide.
Since then, the long-standing affordable diner had been left vacant.
Confiscated by Barghest. Listed for sale. Waiting for a buyer.
As an intel operative, the man had already scouted this intel in advance.
However—"Tapping power, huh? Night City folks, I swear..."
He turned his head.
Noticing the electrical layout, he followed an unauthorized cable running from the side window of the restaurant to a junction box.
Climbing up, he found the external relay box and got to work—zzzt! After a bit of fiddling, he reset the power distribution.
Scanning again—the internal security system was down.
He successfully entered the restaurant.
After searching for a while, he pushed aside a pantry cabinet in the back kitchen and uncovered an old, yellow landline phone with a cracked plastic casing.
"Antique. Hope it still works."
He picked up the receiver.
Access code...
[0931]
Beep... beep...
The call went through.
On the other end, someone answered. "Hey, long time no see, friend. Miss the corn tortilla joint back home...?"
Though he didn't understand the corn tortilla reference, he knew it was the prearranged passphrase. He replied in a casual tone:
"The corn tortilla joint back home?"
After a moment, a deep male voice responded.
"Didn't think anyone would still mention that... Corn tortillas—the kind you dream about, smell and all. Yeah, let's grab some. Andrew Jackson Street. Basketball court. This morning. I'll be waiting."
"Got it."
Click.
He set the receiver down, squinting slightly.
So the FIA's most legendary intel agent really was alive...
Just as that thought settled—
Click.
A cold muzzle pressed silently against his ribs.
"Wha—"
A thick, dark-skinned arm clamped down around his neck.
"Stay calm, friend from back home. Don't turn around. Act natural. I ask, you answer."
The voice was nearly identical to the one he'd heard on the landline, making the man obediently raise both tattooed arms.
"Hey, buddy, must be a misunderstanding—I'm not here to collect debts."
"I know. But I still need to verify. Who sent you?"
"I've got a commemorative coin." He didn't answer directly. Instead, he reached into his pocket with two fingers and pulled out a blue-silver presidential commemorative coin. "You should recognize this."
"...Mm. Wait."
About six or seven seconds later—
"Apologies for the earlier treatment, Agent Joseph."
The big man released his grip.
Exhaling deeply, the street punk-dressed FIA agent finally turned around to face the towering figure behind him. The man's cybernetic eyes glowed with blue data streams as he stared intently at the commemorative coin.
Tall. Black. Bearded. Dressed in a white tank top under a dark coat.
"Just a precaution, don't take it personally." Seeing Joseph's wary gaze, the man added, "Follow me. This isn't the place to talk. Name's Reed."
"Solomon Reed," Joseph stated the full name. "Didn't expect you'd been lying low in Night City for six years. We all thought Arasaka Security had taken you out."
"Almost," Reed said, glancing at Joseph.
They continued deeper into the storage room, where a section of wall had been breached. Outside was a green container-style dumpster, leaving just enough space for one person to squeeze through sideways. Reed had entered via this path earlier.
In a blind spot beneath a roadside overpass camera, a black Thorton Merrimac was parked.
Click.
The two moved through the shadows and got in the car.
Reed started the engine.
"How'd you guess HQ would wake you now? And even stake out the area?" Joseph asked.
"Dogtown's intel network was purged by Kurt Hansen. Many were killed. Though I lost contact while in deep cover, meaning I don't know who among them were ours, I do know the Moth Bar got swept, and Alex fled. She's still wanted by Barghest..."
Reed spoke while driving.
"At this point, I might be the last usable deep agent the Bureau has in Dogtown. That line you just used—the Bureau set it up pre-war. It's the last channel linking us. When it's time to walk into hell, President Myers won't forget me. And right now, anyone can see the situation is dangerously bad for the nation."
As he spoke, he activated the vehicle's holographic news display.
It was tuned to WNS News.
Headline: "Toward Freedom—Victory!"
The focus: Kurt Hansen.
Still in his signature outfit—combat pants and a T-shirt, dog tags slung across a gun belt. The image showed him mid-speech at a recruitment rally in New Mexico, fist raised even after being shot.
Behind him, the Free States flag and the Barghest banner fluttered in the wind.
Arasaka black-suited security surrounded him—some shielding him with their bodies, some gripping silver-white cases, others deploying umbrella-like memory-metal shields from the cases. One hadn't even hit the ground before the shield had deployed. The arc of the bullet, the sparks as it hit the shield—captured in perfect clarity.
Further behind loomed the towering Cyber Tyrants. One extended its exoskeletal arm, palm glowing red, visibly warping bullet trajectories mid-air—interference, magnetic absorption.
Seeing this, Joseph's expression darkened.
"Ever since Saburo Arasaka, that old bastard, regained his youth, Arasaka's internal and external cohesion has only grown. Their strategic posture is becoming increasingly aggressive. On the international stage, we've never been more isolated."
"In North America, that bitch Vela Adelheid has caused us massive trouble. Because of her so-called 'assassination incident,' the local Free States parties have reformed the Free States Alliance. Things are especially chaotic in New Mexico and Arizona. Hansen and those Barghest traitors—thanks to her support and media spin—are now being hailed as persecuted freedom fighters."
"So, what's the actual mission?" Reed asked.
"See for yourself. They said you'd know how to decrypt it."
Joseph nodded and removed a detachable chip from the neural port on his neck, handing it over.
A special encrypted chip, bound to his biometric data—unless he voluntarily ejected it with a passkey, the chip would self-destruct if he died or if it was forcibly removed. Its encryption could only be deciphered by trained experts.
As the former head of the FIA Night City intel network during the Metal Wars and their top field agent, Reed naturally knew how.
Driving one-handed, Reed inserted the chip into the port at the back of his head. His irises flashed blue.
[// Protocol Validated]
[// Access Granted]
[Militech Software → Decrypting Data: 41%]
[Recipient: Solomon Reed]
[Assigned By: Federal Intelligence Agency / The White House]
[FIA Database @FI716A413B.752.B]
—Expanded—
[URGENT!! Investigate Night City fixer Faraday. -Attachment]
[URGENT!! Verify movement of Arasaka military and Barghest mercenaries. -Attachment]
[Long-Term Mission: Rebuild Night City's intelligence network...]
[Priority Task: Secure stage-by-stage research and samples of Arasaka's "Sonnentreppe," "Cyber Tyrant," and "Quinque" projects. Assess feasibility of approaching or assassinating Vela Adelheid Russell...]
...
Despite the flood of documents, it all boiled down to the same recycled rhetoric: serve your country. Reed's reactivation meant investigating everything related to Arasaka—especially its upper echelon, Vela Adelheid.
Assassinate Vela Adelheid?
Even someone as stoic as Reed couldn't help but chuckle.
After years of covert observation in Night City, he had watched Vela rise step-by-step—from an Arasaka Academy student to a commanding public figure.
They underestimated her at first. By the time they took her seriously, she was already beyond containment. Reed had been in deep cover, and FIA protocol forbade him from initiating contact unless ordered.
Now the brass back home were just throwing out whatever absurd tasks they wanted.
Use him until he broke...
Skimming over the laundry list of high-risk KPIs, Reed clicked on the seemingly simplest task: investigate fixer Faraday.
"Maine?"
Midway through, he noticed a familiar name and image—a towering man with brown skin—that made him pause.
Memories resurfaced.
Two years of camaraderie in the NUSA military.
Back in 2069, before the Metal Wars, Reed had even invited Maine to join the FIA. But Maine, torn by conscience, had chosen to retire after two years of service and distanced himself from politics.
He never expected to see his name again.
Now, Maine was a cyber-merc based out of Night City's Afterlife nightclub, running a crew and working jobs for Faraday. Their goal: steal experimental data and samples from Arasaka.
However, during recon at Arasaka's seaside complex, they'd accidentally intercepted troop deployment records—showing movement of assets to Arizona and New Mexico.
The intel had been passed to Washington via Faraday. The White House had seen it but held off military escalation for now. They needed to verify its authenticity to avoid missteps. Time was tight.
They'd likely discovered Maine's NUSA service record.
As someone who had worked closely with Maine, Reed was tasked with a detailed assessment of his personality and trustworthiness.
"An evaluation, huh..."
As Maine's old comrade, Reed wouldn't sugarcoat it—but he wouldn't exaggerate either.
With the intelligence network in ruins, he needed trusted people. Finding Alex and clearing misunderstandings was one thing, but he needed more reliable, known quantities to rebuild the core.
...
Meanwhile—
Watson.
"Damn it, old lady, how much longer we gotta hide here?!"
"Be patient, Rebecca. Wait until the heat dies down."
Inside a warehouse filled with scrap metal, Maine's crew remained in hiding.
[Maine: Jackie bros, the diversion's done. Now just waiting on your end. When it pops off, it better blow that four-eyed bastard Faraday to pieces.]
[Jackie: Nice job, man. Gotta say, even your voice in that audio almost had me convinced. But don't celebrate yet—Faraday's backers are real pros. They'll smile to your face while stabbing you in the back. In our line of work, you still gotta play the game. Just don't let yourself become the monkey in someone else's circus. Anyway, lay low for now and get some rest.]
[Maine: Copy that. Thanks.]
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