Voodoo Boys?
What's the first thing that comes to mind when people hear that name?
Pacifica.
And after that?
Netrunning.
Those are the two biggest labels most people associate with them.
The Voodoo Boys are a mysterious gang from Pacifica, notorious for their deceptive netrunning tactics and eerie voodoo-inspired traditions.
At first glance, they might seem no different from any other gang—just one rooted in a different culture. But despite their relatively low public presence, the Voodoo Boys are surprisingly well-known... and infamous.
The gang is composed almost entirely of Haitians.
And to most people, Haiti is a complete unknown.
It was once a small island nation in the northern Caribbean.
Back when the United States still existed, what is now the southern North American Combat Zone was Mexico. East of Mexico lies the Gulf of Mexico. Across the gulf is Cuba.
South of Cuba is Jamaica. Beside it lie Haiti and the Dominican Republic. The two nations share one island—Haiti occupies the western third, the Dominican Republic the eastern two-thirds.
Zoomed out on a world map, the island barely exists.
A true third-world country in a chaotic tangle of scattered Caribbean territories, the region hardly registers for most people.
And Haiti's international standing reflected that insignificance. As of 2062, out of nearly 200 countries worldwide, Haiti hit a new milestone in human development—it finally made it into the bottom ten.
Back in 2019, at least it ranked 169 out of 189.
Why 2062?
You can thank massive hurricanes, tornadoes, tsunamis, and earthquakes.
That year, after being ravaged by a series of extreme storms, Haiti was abandoned. Hundreds of thousands died. Massive waves of refugees fled. The destruction of the Caribbean islands ranks among the most devastating natural disasters of the 21st century.
Literally.
In 2062, the island of Hispaniola—where Haiti was located—sank beneath the sea.
And Haiti wasn't the first, nor the last, to be swallowed by rising oceans.
Climate-driven flooding and tsunamis have been nature's wrath unleashed for decades.
In the last ten years alone, floods wrecked parts of Los Angeles and Night City, and a third of the Netherlands was lost. Thanks to advanced dam technologies, those places avoided total submersion.
The Maldives weren't so lucky—gone entirely two decades ago.
Soil degradation, pollution, and viral outbreaks triggered mass death across Asia and Africa. Tens of thousands perished in mere months.
And that's just the body count. Countless more became refugees, fleeing disaster with nowhere to go.
Only cities with hydroponics and vertical farms avoided total collapse, managing to survive a near-apocalyptic decade.
El Niño and La Niña—those climatic siblings—once served as nature's early warnings.
Put simply: rain falls where it shouldn't, and doesn't where it should. Hot where it should be cold, cold where it should be hot.
They'd already raised alarms in the early 21st century.
But by 2077, those two were just a memory. The planet had moved on—to worse.
Haiti was just one of many casualties.
Back in the late 15th century, Columbus "discovered" Haiti.
And as always, the usual colonial routine followed—Europeans arrived with weapons, systems, and disease, wiping out the natives much like they did with Native Americans.
By the early 16th century, the French had set up plantations and, lacking labor, turned to the triangular trade—importing African slaves by the boatload.
By 1804, when Haiti gained independence, 95% of its population was Black—not indigenous.
Still, it's worth noting:
Haiti was the first country in Latin America to achieve independence.
Though the way they did it was... unique.
First, they slaughtered the white plantation owners. Then they destroyed irrigation systems, essential for agriculture. Then they divided up the plantations among the Black farmers.
The result? Economic collapse. Freed from colonial rule, they had no idea how to build a stable economy. Thus began the never-ending village free-for-alls.
Smallholder farmers and a handful of elites controlled resources—a pattern that never changed.
The poor starved, the rich hoarded.
In the worst years, poor Haitians survived on "mud cookies"—a toxic mix of clay, butter, salt, and sugar. A slow suicide.
The rich? Continued their corrupt politics, factional infighting, and military power plays like nothing had changed.
On this tiny island, there were over a hundred political parties. Presidential assassinations and car bombs? Just part of daily life.
Maybe the heavens got sick of it. A great storm swept it all away.
That was the turning point for Haiti, and for the Voodoo Boys.
They say Latin America is America's backyard. And when the backyard burns, the smoke seeps into the house.
Many Haitians fled and migrated—
To California, to Night City, to Pacifica.
A perfect spot. Haitians could survive there. Corporations avoided the area—they didn't want the baggage.
It's the kind of story historians should write books about. A real human migration event. But there's been too much chaos lately for anyone to bother.
Pacifica isn't just a dead district. Walk through it and you'll see Haitians working, walls covered in vivid graffiti reflecting their art and culture.
Haitians lived in Pacifica. The Voodoo Boys kept order.
That marked a new chapter in the gang's history.
They declared themselves guardians of Haitian refugees, taking responsibility for their safety and interests.
According to Rogue's intel—
The gang existed long before the 2062 catastrophe.
Of course, they had a different name and purpose back then.
In Haiti, the Voodoo Boys were strictly netrunners.
In Night City, they served social functions too.
They enforced unwritten laws across Pacifica—just like the Valentinos in Heywood or 6th Street in Santo Domingo—trying to maintain a semblance of peace.
Their loyalty to their own was just as intense as their contempt for "outsiders."
And who counts as "your own"? Depends on the gang—and even on the faction within it.
But one thing's clear: don't mess with the Voodoo Boys.
There are plenty of other biz partners. No need to dive into their snake pit.
That was Rogue's warning to Roqi.
To insiders, the Voodoo Boys were a tight-knit, protective network. To outsiders, they were dangerously suspicious.
The gang was originally founded by voodoo priests and priestesses—Haitian immigrants from the high-caste Creole class.
Creole is a colonial legacy.
Like India's caste system, it's a byproduct of conquest and rule.
Creoles were white people born in the Americas to Spanish or Portuguese parents—colonial elites.
Roqi didn't fully understand their system. But like European knights from the Middle Ages, they had better status, pay, education, and skills.
Most Voodoo Boys were cyberwalkers—elite netrunners. Their essential gear included cooling suits and neural implants. Their fashion leaned hard into voodoo: dreadlocks, ritual tattoos, and bone trinkets made from birds and rodents.
Trying to understand them was like reading an arcane foreign-language book—difficult not just because of the words, but the very logic behind them.
If not for the floods and storms, Roqi might've never learned so much about Haiti and the Voodoo Boys.
Their turf was beyond police patrols. The city had strategically abandoned it. No one knew their numbers, structure, or real motives.
What was known: they were obsessed with the Old Net.
A cesspool now—like a pot of rat shit.
They constantly probed the Blackwall. Anyone paying attention knew. But that's as far as it went. Naturally, this caught NetWatch's unwanted attention.
If Rogue hadn't gone out of her way to gather and cross-check the intel, Roqi would still see them as fog-shrouded myths.
Hackers versus net-cops—it's always been a hot topic.
Voodoo mysticism, secretive netrunners, the Blackwall, corporate-backed NetWatch—it's the perfect cyberpunk storm.
"Sometimes I really feel like this whole city's one giant chessboard," Roqi muttered, scrolling through his PDA. "Always scheming, always backstabbing—whether it's the meatspace or cyberspace."
"Wherever there are people, that's how it is," Rogue replied coolly.
"Yeah, I know that one." Roqi smiled faintly. "Where there are people, there are grudges. Where there are grudges, there's the underworld."
"The underworld? Interesting."
Rogue raised an eyebrow.
In 2077, Night City's underworld was the modern-day version of that shadowy world.
Some aspects of humanity are universal—East or West, ancient or modern.
In the 2060s, megacorps hired displaced Haitians to build hotels, theme parks, luxury resorts, and more. The goal: turn Pacifica into Night City's entertainment capital.
For desperate Haitians, it was decent work.
They weren't ideal labor, but under corporate control, things stayed functional.
Then came 2069—and the infamous Unification War.
The fighting scared off investors. Who'd fund a warzone, especially when NUSA and the Free States were trading fire right down the street? California was torn in two.
Contractors were let go. Bright futures crumbled.
That's when Pacifica became their new homeland—isolated and self-sustaining.
The Voodoo Boys protected their own. Outsiders could die.
So what's Pacifica like now?
An oasis for Haitian refugees. Whispering old women. Suspicious glances when strangers show up. Nursery rhymes that sound like warnings.
"If you don't sleep, the crabs will eat you."
What happens when a majority-Black district loses all central control?
Filth. Chaos. And even more filth and chaos.
That's not an opinion—just read the Night City Council's assessments over the years.
If there'd been hope, the city might've stepped in. But corpos saw no profit, so they didn't bother.
After the war, Pacifica became a disaster zone.
That's the NCPD's official classification: "catastrophic."
Its ruins reflect shattered dreams. No tourists—just gangs using unchecked violence. Not just the Voodoo Boys—you've got Scavs and all sorts of freaks.
Wandering around is a death wish. Ride a fast bike or a bulletproof car. Still, the local black markets thrive—you might score rare illegal cyberware or contraband.
"Pacifica is still Pacifica," Rogue muttered.
Call it sarcasm—or cold truth.
"Didn't come here much before," Roqi said, shaking his head. "But seeing it now? Definitely eye-opening."
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MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW?
🤖💘 MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW? 💘🤖
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📢 LOVE MEETS CYBERPSYCHOSIS! 📢
My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew? has 100+ chapters ahead available on Patreon! 💘💥
Romance is already complicated.
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🌃 Night City🦾 Cyberware🔫 Gunfights💀 Cyberpsychosis💥 Property damage❤️ And a girlfriend who might snap at any moment
Love hurts.
In this case, it might also come with bullets, broken walls, and emergency trauma care.
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