"Good afternoon, Mr. Leonardo."
"Welcome to Delamain. Leave your troubles at the door."
The cab's seatback screen flickered to life, revealing the polished chrome dome of Delamain—Night City's most (and only) autonomous taxi AI.
"Just 'Leo' is fine. We'll probably be seeing a lot of each other."
"Your trust is appreciated. Delamain prioritizes efficiency and safety—despite recent corporate restructuring."
"Restructuring?" Leo's eyebrow arched.
"After rigorous analysis, I concluded that human labor was the primary inefficiency. All drivers, mechanics, and executives have been terminated. Operations are now fully automated."
"Wow. That's… intense."
"No need for concern. As a multi-threaded AI, I can simultaneously provide personalized service to every client." The screen blinked. "Before departure, may I scan your biometrics via personal link?"
[Father, connection is secure.]
Leo smirked, plugging his wrist cable into the dashboard.
[Data upload complete.]
A verification prompt flashed across his optics—cleared in seconds.
"Thank you. Standard route activated." The cab glided forward at a steady 40 km/h. "Estimated arrival at El Coyote Cojo: 8 minutes. Might I interest you in our Elite Refinement Package?"
"Go on."
As the cityscape blurred past, Delamain launched into a pitch so polished it could've sold ice to a Scav.
Leo tuned in at "Escape Mode" and "Combat Protocol."
Exactly what a paranoid new fixer needs.
Five minutes in, he cut to the chase: "Pricing? Subscription or per-use?"
Delamain's avatar brightened—was that excitement?
"Single rides range from 300 to 1,000 eddies based on risk assessment. The monthly plan—highly recommended—is a mere 5,000."
"Steep." That's 125 standard fares.
"Premium service warrants premium pricing. Includes life insurance—even posthumous corpse repatriation—"
"Whoa, stop." Leo recoiled. "Maybe lead with literally anything else next time."
"Feedback noted. Adjusting sales algorithms."
"Just… sign me up. Monthly."
"Transaction confirmed! As our inaugural Elite subscriber, you'll receive priority routing and my primary instance's undivided attention!"
Money talks—even to AIs. His balance dipped to 125,000 eddies.
Three minutes later, the cab halted outside El Coyote Cojo.
"Destination reached. Farewell, valued patron."
"Delamain: Leave your troubles at the door."
Leo smoothed his blazer and stepped into the spotlight.
The bar's loiterers froze.
Bulletproof AV. Silver-gray suit. The aura of eddie-flush arrogance.
He might as well have rolled up in a Militech tank.
Nodding at the tattooed bouncers (who nodded back—respect where respect's due), he pushed inside.
El Coyote Cojo hit him like a whiskey-soaked brick:
Stale smoke clinging to faux-cowboy hats.
Neon glare bouncing off a mounted bull's skull (decked in Valentino roses).
Every shade of lowlife: gangers, two-bit mercs, and wannabe edgerunners playing tough.
Not a corpo in sight.
(Though the bartender's crop top did distract him for a… professional assessment.)
Jack's hulking frame stood behind the counter, polishing glasses.
"Hey, mano! Right on time!" Leo announced, loud enough for eavesdroppers.
Eyes darted away.
Jack's grin faltered at Leo's outfit. "The hell you wearin', hermano? Tryin' to get jacked?" he muttered during their backslap hug.
Leo whispered back: "New fixer gotta flex."
"Fixer—? Chingado, not here." A subtle chin-tilt toward the bar's shadowy corners.
Leo took the hint, sliding onto the farthest stool.
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