Chapter 110: Drinking with Panam — Her Little Game to Spice Things Up?

Rogue stared straight into Johnny Silverhand's half-flickering form, her voice as cold as the chrome floor beneath her boots.

"You call yourself a man?" she asked.

"What you are now is nothing but a digital ghost. A handful of data clinging to borrowed code. Even when you were alive, tell me—how many of the things you did were actually human?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not a man, Johnny. You never were."

Johnny smirked, leaning back with that old familiar swagger, even if half his body shimmered with static.

"Damn, still scorching, huh? You wear time like sin, Rogue—tight body, perfect stance, filthy curves, those boobs begging for my hands. Been keeping it like that for me?"

"Go fuck yourself," Rogue snapped, no hesitation, no filter. "Unbelievable. Half a century later and three sentences in, and I already remember exactly why I wanted to punch you in the face."

"Ah," Johnny said, grinning through the insult. "Feels just like old times."

Neo and Takemura watched quietly from the side, not daring to interrupt. The room pulsed with half a century's worth of history—love, betrayal, gunfire, and loss, all crammed into a few barbed words.

When the sparks finally died down, Rogue turned to Neo, expression cooling back to business.

"All right, legend," she said. "Let's talk. What's this 'next collaboration' you wanted to involve me in?"

Neo smiled faintly. "You really can't wait to work with me, can you?"

Rogue tilted her head, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. "Depends. Are we talking about business, or trouble?"

He chuckled. "Both, probably. But it's simple this time. I want to open a bar."

Rogue blinked. "A bar? That's it? You need me for that? Neo, if you want to pour drinks and take tips, you don't need permission."

Neo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Not just any bar. I'm going to model it after Afterlife. Its concept, its soul. Every drink will bear the name of a legend—mine, my team's, and," he paused, looking at her with a knowing smile, "Johnny Silverhand's. And if you're willing… yours too."

Rogue's lips twitched upward. "So that's your play. You're not just opening a bar—you're challenging Afterlife itself."

Her gaze sharpened, but there was no hostility—only curiosity, and maybe a little respect.

"Anyone else would've been thrown out of my bar for even suggesting that," she said. "But you? You might just pull it off."

Neo raised his glass slightly. "Then I'll take that as your blessing."

Rogue grinned. "Fine. I'll back your little rebellion—just don't name it Afterlife Two. We've already got one ghost house in this city."

"Deal," Neo said. "To our partnership?"

"Partnership," Rogue confirmed, clinking her glass against his.

…

Later, when the drinks ran low and conversation gave way to quiet, Neo's phone buzzed.

Incoming Call: Panam Palmer.

He answered, voice easy. "Panam?"

"Where are you?" she asked. "Job's done. Got the creds, got the trust back."

"Good," Neo said. "I'm at Afterlife. Come pick me up out front."

"On my way."

When the line went dead, Rogue smirked. "Panam, huh? The Aldecaldo girl?"

Neo nodded. "Heading into the Badlands soon. Need someone who knows her way around the dust."

Rogue leaned back, tapping ash into the tray. "Careful with that one. She bites."

Neo smiled. "That's what makes it fun."

He stood, waved casually at Johnny. "Time to go. Say goodbye, rockerboy."

Johnny sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "This is weird as hell. But fine—bye, Rogue."

Rogue gave him a long, unreadable look. "Goodbye, Johnny."

When Neo and Takemura stepped out into the neon night, Johnny's hologram faded, leaving Rogue standing alone in the hum of the bar lights, her reflection merging with the ghosts she'd never buried.

…

Outside, under the blood-red glow of Night City's sky, a black Rayfield sat gleaming in the street.

Moments later, Panam's Thorton Caliburn roared up beside it, headlights cutting through the smog.

She rolled down the window. "Need a lift?"

Neo gestured toward Takemura. "This is Takemura Goro, my partner for the job."

Takemura bowed slightly. "Pleasure."

"Hop in," Panam said, nodding toward the car.

Takemura slipped into the back seat, wordless as ever. Neo, however, walked around to the passenger side, locking the Rayfield behind him before sliding in.

Panam glanced at him with a smirk. "No bike this time?"

He laughed. "Not tonight. You ever try riding through the Badlands on an empty stomach after six glasses of rum?"

Panam chuckled, hitting the accelerator. "Fair point."

…

By sunset, they reached a small roadside town skirting the edge of the Jackson Plains. Dust storms howled on the horizon; neon flickered weakly above cracked motel signs.

The place smelled of oil, rust, and cheap whiskey—the holy trinity of the Badlands.

"This is the last decent stop for a hundred klicks," Panam said, parking in front of a grimy motor inn.

Behind the front desk sat Noah, a familiar face with too much grin for a man living in a place like this.

"Panam! Been a while," he called, raising a hand. "How's the world treating you?"

Panam shrugged. "Still alive. Can't complain. You?"

"Same old. What brings you here? And who are your new friends?"

"Business in the plains," Panam replied. "We'll crash here for the night."

Noah laughed. "Say no more. I'll give you the cleanest room we've got—which, well, still isn't saying much. Want a drink while I get the keys?"

Panam turned to Neo. "What'll it be?"

He scanned the dim lobby—flickering holo-screens, beer stains on the floor, a jukebox that hadn't worked since 2060. "Three cold beers and something to chew on," he said finally.

"You got it."

A few minutes later, three bottles of ice-cold beer clinked onto the table beside some local snacks.

"To surviving another day," Panam said, raising her bottle.

Neo nodded. "Cheers."

The three of them clinked bottles. Foam hissed. The first gulp burned down smooth and bitter.

Takemura stayed mostly silent, eating in steady, precise bites. Only when Neo raised his bottle again did the old samurai grunt and echo the gesture.

Panam watched them both, her eyes glinting behind her bottle's rim. Neo's gaze, even while drinking, was clear—too clear. No hint of drunken haze, no shadow of release. Just calm, steady focus.

It bothered her a little.

She smirked. "You don't seem like a man who drinks for fun."

Neo looked at her. "Maybe I just need a better reason."

Panam tilted her head, her grin turning sly. "Then how about I give you one? Another round?"

He raised his bottle. "Sure."

Before he could call out, Noah was already dragging over two fresh crates of cold beer.

"Damn," the innkeeper laughed. "Never thought I'd see the day Panam Palmer invites a man to drink. Miracles do happen."

Panam tossed him a bottle. "Here—drink that and shut up."

Noah caught it midair, chuckled, and disappeared back to the counter.

Panam slid two more beers across the table—one for Neo, one for Takemura.

The samurai waved it off. "Enough. We have a battle tomorrow. Too much alcohol dulls the edge."

"Suit yourself," she said.

Takemura stood, bowed slightly, and left them to their drinks.

The door shut behind him, leaving only the hum of neon and the faint desert wind outside.

Neo leaned back, bottle in hand. "Drinking's boring without a little fun," he said casually. "How about we make it interesting?"

Panam smirked. "A game?"

"Exactly."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in challenge. "All right, legend. I'm in. What kind of game are we talking about?"

Neo's smile deepened, the neon light catching the faint scar along his jaw.

"You'll see," he said.

Outside, thunder rolled over the Badlands.

And inside that shabby little motel, the night was just beginning.