Combat Zone
Although one might now know it unless they went looking, houses were still a thing further out in the Zone. Houses in so far that they were, more or less, free standing structures. But in practice they were just as cramped, filthy and dangerous as the blocks. Even more so depending on the neighborhood. His was technically Stomp, but it was near enough to the Zoners, Elders and the Digital Renegades. He was still so new that his cover, running food shipments in and out, was still pretty solid. Everybody needed to eat after all...
This particular home was an ancient, souless, flat roofed hovel with rotting eggshell stucco, boarded up windows and a weed ridden gravel yard. The front door hung uneven in the frame where it had been kicked in at some point, and an overturned trashcan sat in the side yard partially filled with a foul looking liquid.
The one redeeming feature was a detached garage that protruded out towards the street on one side. It had long ago been converted into a small bedroom, the seams around the garage door itself duct taped from within and the wires pulled from the door motor. It was hot, oppressively dusty and home to a colony of curious spiders. What's more there was no bathroom (a plastic bucket sufficed), only a hose spigot for water and the only lightbulb had been replaced by a green tinted one at some point.
For all that, it kept it's lone occupant and his ride out of sight from the street, which is why he paid good eddies for it.
The interior did resemble a little camp site, with the mummy bag laid out and the little backpacking style gas stove with a lone pot on the fragile looking struts. The olive drab military sea bag nearby had a hand pump water filter hose protruding from it.
But off to the side stood a hard used VMW dirt bike, a "Volksrad" model that had been stripped of the more fragile parts and rattle-canned a flat tan color at some point. The flat cargo potion behind the seat was crisscrossed with faded bungee cords.
He was in the middle of pulling the air filter for the second time that week, just knocking the caked dust off really, when a slightly distorted sound crackled to life just a few feet away, his full faced Motocross style helmet.
Rip didn't own a cell. They were pricey, and they had never worked in the areas he had come from. But the flip side was that he had a decent radio built into the helmet, not that most flat landers even knew what a radio was...
Rip groaned as he reached for the helmet, picked it up and adjusted the stubby antenna that protruded from the left side. The voice within was no clearer, but he could make out the basics.
"Yeah, I'm here, sent it."
What followed was an odd, segmented, somewhat distorted conversation. It was only a few minutes long, but the intent was clear...some gonk named "Phoenix" was calling in a favor from the Clan. Not his Clan per say, but he was already in Night City and this Elder was calling the shots. "Kids" like Rip didn't say no to an Elder, any Elder, even if they were not specifically in his Family.
"Solid copy jeffe, I'm on it. Give you an update same time tomorrow. Rip out." he sighed and rubbed his face in the green light, took a deep breath and started packing.
The bag with the rest of his possessions got hucked up in the rafters, out of the light and into one dusty, cobweb ridden corner. It was not much security, but if somebody booted the door they would not see much more than a concrete pad and some oil stains.
He suited up, the full "Moto" armored look, a nylon flap holster cocked to one side about crotch level on his belt, and a sheath knife worn horizontally along the small of his back. The armor was also a mix of browns, tans and a little black and mostly unadorned.
The only concessions being a faded red "Sturm Ruger" patch on his left shoulder, and a newer looking black rectangular patch on his right that just read "JODES" in all white caps. A smaller rectangle the same length beneath it read "FOUNDER". This was sewn into some kind of backing and attached with metal grommets, evidence that he really did not want to lose it.
He mounted up, jammed in the key-card and thumbed the bike to life with a audible whine as the hydro began to flow. With a little effort he threaded the doorway, paused to kick the door behind himself shut, then jumped the curb and was on the road...headed for the Jesters turf of all things.
Family, like a lot of things, you get out what you put in