Badlands wind did not care who you were. It did not care about reputation, chrome, money, scars, old gods, city legends, or whether a person had recently survived a cursed book trying to make murder feel like good project management. It just came across the flats with dust in its teeth and hit everything the same way: cars, shacks, solar panels, old bones, newer lies. Ace hated how refreshing that was. Night City always pressed in from every angle. Neon. Noise. Steam. Glass. Gunmetal. Reflections trying to sell you a different version of yourself. Out here, the world had the decency to look damaged without pretending otherwise. The road to Dakota Smith’s place ran between rusted fencing, wind-bent scrub, and the skeletal remains of machines that had once been sold as progress. The sky was huge and pale. The sun sat behind a veil of dust, bright enough to make the horizon shimmer but not honest enough to warm anything properly. Mai drove. That was not unusual. What was unusual was that Ace had not argued about it. She sat in the passenger seat with both katanas secured across her back, one hand resting against her knee, the other holding a half-empty bottle of something that claimed to be electrolyte water and tasted like battery regret. Shammy occupied the back seat with the quiet suffering of someone whose height remained incompatible with most human vehicle interiors. “I want it noted,” Shammy said, “that the Badlands at least have sky.” Ace looked back. “Your bar for optimism has collapsed.” “No. It has adjusted to architecture.” Mai’s eyes stayed on the road. “You have complained about the vehicle fourteen times.” “Fifteen. One was internal.” “I counted the internal one.” Shammy considered that. “Disturbing.” Ace turned the bottle in her hand. The label peeled under her thumb. “Dakota said courier job?” Mai nodded once. “Simple courier job.” The car went very quiet. Too quiet. Dust scraped along the windows. Ace looked slowly at Mai. Mai kept driving. Shammy leaned forward as far as the seat allowed, which was enough to make the car’s interior feel like it had gained a weather system. “Simple,” Shammy repeated. Mai’s mouth tightened by half a millimeter. “Her word.” Ace took a long drink from the bottle, grimaced, and lowered it. “I already hate it.” “She did not specify the cargo.” “That makes me hate it structurally.” “Reasonable.” Shammy tilted her head. “Did she say sealed?” Mai did not answer immediately. Ace closed her eyes. “Oh, come on.” “She said sealed container.” Shammy sat back. The car suspension creaked, possibly in sympathy. Ace pointed toward the windshield. “Turn around.” Mai did not turn around. “We are not accepting anything before hearing details.” “We heard details.” “No, we heard the opening sentence of a very bad funeral.” Shammy nodded solemnly. “Simple. Courier. Sealed. Container. That is already four warning signs.” Mai’s voice was calm. “Dakota is not Wakako.” “No,” Ace said. “Dakota is worse in one way.” Mai glanced at her. “How?” “She sounds honest, so when the horrible thing happens, you feel rude for being right.” Shammy made a soft sound of agreement. “That is a very dangerous social trap.” Mai turned the car off the main dirt road and toward a cluster of low buildings half-swallowed by dust and utility clutter. Dakota’s place did not announce itself. No neon, no pointless chrome sculpture, no dramatic gate. Just a workshop, a communications shack, vehicles in various states of repair, antenna masts, power lines, and people who looked like they knew exactly where every weapon within reach was hidden. Dakota Smith stood near an open garage bay, talking to a mechanic under the lifted frame of an armored truck. She looked up before the car fully stopped. That alone said plenty. Dakota had the kind of presence that did not push. It watched. Weathered face, practical clothes, hair tied back, boots dusty enough to have stopped caring about aesthetics years ago. She had a mug in one hand and a tablet in the other, and somehow the mug looked more dangerous. Mai parked. Ace unbuckled and stepped out into the wind. Dust hit her face immediately. “Rude,” she said. The Badlands did not apologize. Shammy unfolded herself from the back seat with obvious relief, stood to her full height, and inhaled deeply. Then she sneezed. Ace looked up at her. “Sky still good?” Shammy blinked once, dignified through dust. “Sky is good. Ground is questionable.” Mai locked the car and approached Dakota first. Dakota watched all three of them cross the yard. Her gaze moved from Mai to Shammy to Ace, then back to Mai. Something in her expression shifted. Not alarm. Assessment. “Long drive?” Dakota asked. Ace answered before Mai could. “Depends what’s in the container.” Dakota paused. The mechanic under the truck stopped working. Mai sighed quietly. Shammy smiled with mild apology and no regret whatsoever. Dakota looked at Ace for a moment, then at Mai. “Rough week?” Ace said, “Do you have a book?” The mechanic under the truck rolled himself out just enough to look interested. Dakota’s brows lifted. “That depends.” “No, it doesn’t,” Ace said. Mai placed one hand lightly on Ace’s shoulder. “Let her speak.” Ace looked at the hand. Then at Mai. Then at Dakota. “Fine,” she said. “Speak carefully.” Dakota took a slow drink from her mug. “Well,” she said, “this got interesting faster than expected.” Shammy folded her arms. Wind tugged at her white hair, lifting electric-blue streaks like static caught in daylight. “That is because the word ‘simple’ has lost credibility.” Dakota’s eyes moved to her. “I said simple on the call.” “Yes.” “And you came anyway.” Mai said, “We respect your judgment.” Ace added, “Provisionally.” Dakota gave a dry little smile. “That’s generous.” “No,” Ace said. “Generous would have been not asking about the book.” The mechanic looked from Ace to Dakota. “There’s a book?” Dakota pointed at him without turning. “No.” Ace pointed at him too. “See?” Mai looked at the sky for one second as if requesting patience from whatever satellites still worked. Dakota tucked the tablet under one arm. “Inside.” Ace did not move. Dakota gave her a flat look. “It’s not inside.” Ace considered. Mai said, “Ace.” “Checking.” “For what?” “Pattern integrity.” Shammy leaned toward Dakota. “This means she distrusts buildings now.” “I distrust cargo,” Ace said. “And buildings.” “And buildings containing cargo.” Dakota turned and led them toward the garage office. The place smelled of oil, warm metal, dust, old coffee, and sun-baked rubber. A radio played somewhere in the corner, low enough that it was more texture than music. The office itself was small, cluttered, and aggressively practical: maps on the wall, physical notes pinned under magnets, two old fans fighting a losing war with heat, stacks of parts catalogs, and a lockbox on the floor that Ace immediately disliked on principle. Dakota set her mug on the desk and leaned against it. Mai stood in the center of the room. Ace took the left side, back not quite to the wall but close enough. Shammy had to duck slightly under the office doorway and then occupy a corner with the long-suffering elegance of a cathedral stuffed into a tool shed. Dakota noticed. “Sorry about the ceiling.” Shammy smiled. “Civilization often is.” Dakota looked at Mai. “You said on the call you were available for transport work.” “We are,” Mai said. Ace made a sound. Mai ignored it. Dakota continued, “Client wants a sealed object moved from a storage trailer near Rocky Ridge to a handoff point outside Santo Domingo. No opening. No scanning. No digital manifest. Cash, clean route, low profile.” Ace and Shammy spoke at the same time. “No.” Mai spoke half a beat later. “No.” Dakota stopped. The fan creaked in the corner. Outside, someone dropped a wrench. The mechanic from earlier was definitely listening through the open garage bay. Dakota looked from one face to the next. “That was synchronized.” “We’ve practiced,” Ace said. Mai corrected, “We have experienced consequences.” Shammy nodded. “The practice was unwilling.” Dakota crossed her arms. “It’s not a bomb.” Ace stared at her. Dakota added, “As far as I know.” Mai’s eyes narrowed. “That is not improving the offer.” “It’s not radioactive.” Shammy tilted her head. “As far as you know?” Dakota’s jaw shifted. Ace pointed at her. “See? This is why we ask.” Dakota looked genuinely entertained now, which did nothing to make Ace trust the situation more. “All right. What happened?” “Wakako happened,” Ace said. Mai said, “A job happened.” Shammy said, “A book clicked.” Dakota stared. The fan kept creaking. Somewhere outside, the mechanic whispered, “A book clicked?” Dakota shouted without looking, “Get back under the truck, Eli.” A rolling sound followed as Eli obeyed with the dignity of a man who planned to hear everything anyway. Dakota turned back. “Start over.” “No,” Mai said. Ace glanced at her, surprised. Mai continued, “Relevant summary only. We recently transported a sealed book-shaped object under conditions similar enough to this proposal that several phrases have become automatic refusal triggers.” Dakota’s expression changed. Not fear. Professional attention. “Book-shaped,” she repeated. “Yes.” Ace raised a finger. “Latin name.” Shammy raised another. “Sealed container.” Mai added, “No scanning.” Ace continued, “Multiple interested parties.” Shammy said, “Someone says cursed but doesn’t mean it enough.” Mai said, “Or means it too much.” Ace looked at Dakota. “Does your object have a name?” Dakota did not answer fast enough. All three stared at her. Dakota closed her eyes briefly. “You are not going to like it.” Ace spread both hands. “I was born prepared to dislike things.” “It’s called the Bride Ledger.” Silence. Even the fan seemed to reconsider continuing. Ace turned slowly to Mai. “Bride Ledger.” Mai’s expression had gone unreadable in the dangerous way. Shammy looked at Dakota. “Does it click?” Dakota said, “It is not a book.” Ace’s hand rose again. “That is not what she asked.” “It’s a ledger-sized case.” Mai closed her eyes. Shammy inhaled through her nose. Ace smiled. Not happily. “There it is.” Dakota lifted both hands slightly. “The client called it that. Not me.” “Client stupid,” Ace said. “Maybe.” “Client alive?” “Currently.” “Suspicious.” Mai stepped closer to the desk. “What is inside the case?” Dakota gave her a look that suggested they both knew the problem with that question. “Unknown.” “No.” “It is unknown to me,” Dakota clarified. “The client claims it contains records.” “Records of what?” “Property transfers.” Ace laughed once. Dakota looked at her. Ace pointed toward the floor. “That is how cursed things dress for court.” Shammy nodded. “Paperwork is often where evil goes when it wants longevity.” Mai looked at her. Shammy shrugged. “I have been thinking about institutions.” “Please don’t,” Ace said. “You’ll summon one.” Dakota went to the lockbox, crouched, and opened it with an old physical key. Ace immediately took one step back. Dakota noticed. “It’s not in here.” Ace took another step back. Dakota paused, then looked to Mai. “She serious?” “Yes.” “About a lockbox?” “About pattern integrity.” “Ah.” Dakota pulled out a folded paper packet, not a device. She handed it to Mai. Mai did not open it immediately. She looked at Dakota first. “Paper manifest?” “Analog notes from the client.” “Why do you have them?” “Because I don’t move sealed mystery cargo on vibes.” Ace pointed at her. “That sentence almost saved you.” Dakota looked at her. “Almost?” “Bride Ledger.” “Fair.” Mai unfolded the packet. Ace and Shammy both leaned slightly away, not enough to be absurd, but absolutely enough to be seen. Mai noticed and stopped. Then she turned the paper so the top remained hidden and read from the lower half first. Ace nodded approvingly. “Good anti-book posture.” Dakota stared. “Anti-book posture?” Shammy said, “We are developing protocols.” Mai read silently. Her face grew flatter with every line. Dakota watched her. “Bad?” “Not catastrophic,” Mai said. Ace groaned. “That means bad.” “It means tedious, possibly dangerous, and deliberately under-described.” Dakota sighed. “That’s most jobs.” “No. Most jobs do not specify that the container must not be exposed to direct moonlight.” Ace stopped smiling. Shammy’s eyes brightened in the worst possible way. “Oh.” Dakota held up one hand. “That part is probably superstition.” Ace looked at Mai. Mai looked at Shammy. Shammy looked at Dakota. “No,” all three said. Dakota leaned back against the desk. “You didn’t even let me finish.” Ace started counting on her fingers. “Simple courier job. Sealed container. No scanning. Weird name. Unknown contents. Analog notes. Moonlight clause.” Mai added, “No insurance structure.” Shammy added, “No explanation of why moonlight matters.” Ace nodded. “We’re at eight.” Dakota looked reluctantly impressed. “Eight what?” “Reasons to drive back to the city and do literally anything else.” Mai refolded the paper. “The client also says the case should not be carried by anyone recently widowed.” Dakota paused. She had not known that part. Good. That meant she was not hiding everything. Bad. That meant the client was. Ace’s expression became almost gentle. “Dakota.” Dakota rubbed her forehead. “Don’t.” “No.” “I haven’t accepted yet.” “Good.” “I said I’d ask.” “Better.” “I thought maybe you three, given your… specialty.” Shammy lifted one eyebrow. “Our specialty is not transporting ominous stationery.” Ace said, “Our specialty is surviving people who describe disaster with polite nouns.” Mai handed the paper back. “Do not take this job.” Dakota took it but did not immediately put it away. “Client has money.” “Money is not rare,” Mai said. “Good information is.” Dakota smiled faintly. “You sound like a fixer.” “I apologize.” Ace looked at Dakota’s mug. “What’s the handoff point?” Dakota hesitated. Mai’s eyes sharpened. “You know it.” “Outside Santo Domingo. Old wedding chapel.” The room died. Even the Badlands wind outside seemed to pause just long enough to appreciate the craft of the bad idea. Ace turned slowly toward the door. “Car,” she said. Mai nodded. “Car.” Shammy unfolded from the corner. “Yes. Car.” Dakota stepped forward. “Hold on.” Ace turned back. “Dakota, that sentence had the words Bride Ledger, moonlight, widowed, and wedding chapel in it. That is not a courier job. That is a folklore trap with mileage reimbursement.” Eli, from under the truck outside, shouted, “That does sound bad!” Dakota shouted back, “Eli!” “Sorry!” Shammy leaned toward Ace. “He is correct.” “I know.” Mai stepped beside the desk. “Who is the client?” Dakota looked at her for a long moment. “Woman calls herself Mrs. Havelock.” Mai’s eyes narrowed. Ace said, “Missus.” “Yes.” “Widowed?” “She did not say.” “Of course she didn’t.” Shammy looked toward the distant road outside the garage. “Is she alive?” Dakota’s expression became annoyed in a very specific way. Mai caught it. “You do not know.” “I spoke to her by radio.” “Only radio?” “Yes.” “No visual?” “No.” “Voice quality?” Dakota looked at the paper packet. “Old. Clear. Too clear, maybe.” Ace spread both hands. “Radio ghost bride ledger.” “Do not name it,” Mai said. “Too late. It named itself.” Dakota watched them with increasing seriousness. “You think it’s actually dangerous.” Mai answered first. “I think the job is designed to be accepted by someone who treats old warnings as superstition and sealed containers as logistics.” Ace said, “That person dies in act two.” Shammy nodded. “Or gets married to a ledger.” Ace looked up at her. “Can we not?” “I am exploring risk shapes.” “That one can remain unexplored.” Dakota set the packet on the desk and looked toward the open garage bay, where dust rolled past in slow sheets. For a moment, she was not amused. Not skeptical. Just the kind of tired that came from living too long around jobs that sounded survivable until they weren’t. “I don’t like turning down work I haven’t understood,” she said. Mai nodded. “Then understand this: the client’s conditions are not there to protect the cargo. They are there to select the carrier.” Dakota looked back at her. Mai continued, “No scanning means no verification. No moonlight means route timing. No widowers or widows means psychological or symbolic filter. Wedding chapel means destination resonance or staging. Analog-only means the client avoids systems that leave traces.” Ace added, “And the name is stupid in the exact way dangerous things are stupid.” Shammy said, “Also, the air disliked it.” Dakota looked at her. “The air disliked it?” Shammy nodded. “When you said the name.” Ace looked around. “Wait, really?” “A little.” Mai’s face sharpened. “How little?” Shammy considered. “Enough that the dust outside moved toward the office door instead of past it.” Everyone turned toward the open garage. Dust curled along the ground. Slowly. Not dramatically. Not like a storm gathering. Just enough that the edge of the garage threshold had collected a faint line of pale grit that had not been there before. Ace took one step away from the desk. Dakota watched the dust. Then she picked up the paper packet, opened the lockbox, placed the packet inside, closed it, locked it, and set the key on top instead of putting it in her pocket. Ace nodded once. “Good girl.” Dakota gave her a look. Mai said, “Ace.” “What? Positive reinforcement.” “You are speaking to a fixer.” “Fixers need training too.” Dakota crossed her arms. “You always this charming?” “No. This is my professional tone.” Shammy smiled. “She is worse socially.” Ace pointed at her. “Tall betrayal.” Mai stepped toward the door. “Dakota, send refusal by courier. Not radio. Do not say why. Do not use the name again.” Dakota nodded slowly. “And if the client insists?” “Decline more firmly.” “And if she pays more?” Ace stared at her. Dakota sighed. “Fine.” Shammy leaned down slightly, expression mild. “If she pays dramatically more, that is not less suspicious.” Dakota’s mouth twitched. “Noted.” Ace looked toward the lockbox. “Also maybe don’t keep that packet in the office.” Dakota looked at it. Then at Ace. “Where would you put it?” Ace thought for half a second. “Under Eli’s truck.” Eli shouted, “Hey!” Ace shouted back, “Temporarily!” Mai shook her head. “Metal ammo crate. Salt if you have it. Dry storage. No moonlight.” Dakota looked at Shammy. Shammy said, “Do not ask me why salt. I simply like the symbolism.” Mai said, “Also desiccant.” Ace raised a finger. “And no chapels.” Dakota looked at all three of them. Then she laughed. Not loudly. Not for long. But enough that the office stopped feeling like a thing was listening at the edge of the door. “Damn,” Dakota said. “You three really did have a rough week.” Ace tilted her head. “This is us improved.” “That worries me.” “It should.” Dakota picked up the mug again, found it empty, looked disappointed, and set it back down. “All right. Job declined. No sealed mystery cargo, no moonlight clauses, no widows, no wedding chapels.” Shammy lifted one hand. “No things that want to be moved.” Dakota pointed at her. “That one’s broad.” “It needs to be.” Mai added, “No named containers.” Ace added, “No Latin.” Dakota looked at her. “Bride Ledger isn’t Latin.” “It had the vibe.” “That is not a category.” “It is absolutely a category.” Mai said, “Unfortunately, it is becoming one.” Dakota walked to the office door and called outside. “Eli, bring me the red ammo crate and the salt from the kitchen.” Eli rolled out from under the truck again, face streaked with grease and curiosity. “Why salt?” Dakota looked at Triad. Triad looked back. Dakota turned to Eli. “Because I said so.” Eli nodded. “Best reason I’ve heard today.” He disappeared. Ace watched him go. “He’s going to tell everyone.” Dakota shook her head. “No. He’s going to tell two people, badly, and by sundown the story will be about how I turned down a haunted marriage contract because three city mercs bullied my furniture.” Shammy’s eyes warmed. “That is almost charming.” Mai said, “It is operationally acceptable.” Ace grinned. “I like bullied furniture.” Dakota leaned against the doorway, looking out at the flats. The dust had resumed normal movement, which was either comforting or proof that the Badlands had a sense of timing. After a moment, she said, “So what do you actually take?” Ace blinked. “What?” “Jobs. If not sealed containers, not cursed books, not objects with names, not things that click, not wedding-adjacent paperwork.” Dakota turned back toward them. “What do you take?” Mai answered after a beat. “Problems.” Ace nodded. “Preferably ones with legs.” Shammy added, “And no reading comprehension.” Dakota smiled. “That narrows the market.” “Good,” Ace said. Mai looked at Dakota. “Send us something with a person causing trouble. People are easier.” Dakota’s eyebrows rose. Ace reconsidered. “Some people.” Shammy said, “Many people are containers with worse manners.” Mai looked at her. “That was unsettlingly accurate.” “Thank you.” Eli returned with a red ammo crate in both hands and a bag of salt balanced on top. He looked at the lockbox, then at the three women, then at Dakota. “Do I ask?” “No,” Dakota said. “Do I get paid extra for not asking?” “No.” “Then I’m asking internally.” “Also no.” Ace leaned toward him. “If the box whispers about marriage, run.” Eli stared. Dakota closed her eyes. Mai said, “Ace.” “What? That’s actionable.” Eli set the crate down very carefully and stepped back. “I liked this morning better.” Shammy patted his shoulder as she passed, which required her to bend slightly. “That is wisdom.” Eli looked up at her like he had just been blessed by a very tall weather warning. The paper packet went into the ammo crate with desiccant packs, salt, and the kind of solemn absurdity that made Ace feel slightly better about the world. Dakota locked the crate, then handed it to Eli. “Dry storage,” she said. “No windows. If anyone named Havelock calls, I’m unavailable.” Eli nodded. “And if the box clicks?” Ace, Mai, and Shammy all turned toward him at once. Eli swallowed. “Right. Run.” “Good,” Ace said. Dakota waited until he had carried the crate away before turning back to them. “You drove all the way out here to tell me no.” Mai corrected her. “We drove all the way out here to hear the offer.” Ace said, “Then tell you no.” Shammy added, “In harmony.” Dakota’s smile was small and dry. “I appreciate the professionalism.” “You should,” Ace said. “We could have done this by phone, but then the Bride Ledger might have heard us.” Mai stared at her. Ace stared back. “What?” “Do not imply the rejected cargo has remote emotional range.” “It might.” “Do not encourage the concept.” Shammy looked thoughtful. “Can a ledger have feelings?” “No,” Mai said. Ace said, “Bad ones can.” Dakota pointed toward the yard. “Out. All of you.” Ace grinned. “That’s fair.” They walked back into the Badlands sun. The wind hit them again, hotter now, full of dust and dry grass and old engines. Shammy stretched as soon as they were clear of the doorway, arms lifting overhead, spine unfolding with visible relief. Ace looked up at her. “Better?” “Infinitely. No ceiling.” Mai checked the car. “We should return before evening.” Ace stopped. Mai looked at her. Shammy looked too. Ace slowly turned back toward Dakota, who was still standing in the garage doorway. “Evening,” Ace said. Dakota’s expression darkened. “Don’t.” “Moonlight clause.” “I declined.” “Good.” Mai opened the driver door. “Ace.” Ace pointed at Dakota. “If Mrs. Havelock calls after sunset—” Dakota cut in. “I don’t answer.” “If the radio turns on by itself—” “I unplug it.” “If unplugged radio speaks—” Dakota’s face flattened. “I shoot it.” Ace smiled. “Good.” Shammy said, “And then salt.” Dakota looked at her. “Shoot, then salt?” Mai said, “Power first. Then distance. Then containment.” Dakota held up one hand. “Enough. I am not taking the haunted paperwork job.” Ace relaxed. “Excellent.” Dakota shook her head. “You know, most mercs try to negotiate up.” Ace climbed into the passenger seat. “Most mercs die in chapels.” Eli, from somewhere inside the garage, shouted, “Is that true?” Dakota shouted back, “Stop learning from them!” Shammy folded herself into the back seat with a long sigh. “I like Eli.” Mai started the car. “Eli is impressionable.” Ace buckled in. “Eli has survival instincts.” “Because we frightened him.” “That’s how many survival instincts are born.” Dakota walked up to Mai’s open window before they pulled away. “I’ll find you something cleaner next time.” Ace leaned across slightly. “No containers.” Dakota nodded. Mai said, “No symbolic delivery locations.” Another nod. Shammy leaned forward from the back. “No objects that alter wind direction when named.” Dakota looked at her for one second longer than the others. “That one I’ll remember.” “Good.” Dakota stepped back. Mai put the car into gear. As they rolled out of the yard, Ace looked in the side mirror. Dakota stood in the dust, hands on her hips, watching them leave. Behind her, Eli emerged halfway from the garage and looked toward the dry storage shed as if expecting it to propose. The Badlands opened around them again. Wide sky. Bad road. No sealed cargo. Ace leaned back and closed her eyes. “Good job,” Shammy said from the back. Ace opened one eye. “We did not take the job.” “Exactly.” Mai drove without looking over. “Successful refusal is still operational success.” Ace smiled. “That sounds like something printed on a corporate wall.” “I will brake hard.” “Threat received.” For a while, the only sound was tires over bad road and wind dragging dust along the car’s sides. Then Shammy said, “Do you think the Bride Ledger would have clicked?” Ace and Mai answered together. “Yes.” Shammy nodded, satisfied. “Good. I wanted confirmation.” Ace looked out at the horizon. Somewhere behind them, Dakota Smith was probably locking a paper packet in a salted ammo crate and reconsidering an entire category of income. Somewhere ahead, Night City waited with all its usual teeth. The road between them shimmered in the heat, ugly and open and blessedly free of books. Ace rested both hands on her knees. Two katanas on her back. No missing weight. No sealed container in the car. No Latin. No moonlight clause. For a simple courier job, this had gone beautifully. Mai glanced at her once. “You are smiling.” Ace closed her eyes again. “We won.” “We declined.” “Same thing today.” Shammy hummed softly. “I like this kind of victory.” Ace nodded. “Me too.” The car drove on through the Badlands, carrying nothing it had been asked to carry, and for once, that felt exactly right.