"Pfft, pfft."
Jackie leaned to the side and spat into the dust, his mouth still thick with the tang of copper and ash. The blood didn't stop until he coughed twice more and smeared his glove across his lips with a grunt. Around him, the world smelled like burning metal and carbonized plastic. The air shimmered with heat waves off slagged engines and ruptured batteries. From somewhere nearby, a malfunctioning neon sign buzzed weakly, like a wounded drone gasping its last volt.
He looked out over the street, now quiet but no less grim. Corpses lay in tangled heaps between cratered pavement and shell-pocked walls—some missing limbs, others crumpled like broken dolls. Blood pooled beneath shattered vehicles, already starting to dry in the open air. The firefight was over, but the aftermath clung to them like grease in a zero-G kitchen. Jackie's eyes narrowed as the Arasaka security convoy finally came crawling down the street, engines purring like contented cats. Their mirrored visors and pristine uniforms were insultingly clean.
"We did all the heavy lifting," Jackie muttered, lips curling into a snarl, "and they show up now? Like it ain't obvious they used us to sniff out danger. Shit, they practically tattooed 'cannon fodder' on our foreheads."
Carl didn't reply—he was still making rounds, bootfalls crunching glass as he scanned corners and checked for movement—but Oliver crouched beside Jackie, already digging into his TraumaTech carrypack. With methodical hands, he pulled out a sterile scalpel and a pair of precision tweezers, both already soaked in MaxGel. The bite of antiseptic stung Jackie's skin as Oliver went to work.
"Don't twitch," Oliver said, voice flat, as he dabbed around a small wound in Jackie's flank. "You've got three slugs lodged in soft muscle. They're not fatal, but if I don't pull 'em now, you'll heal around 'em. Then we're talking nerve damage and a lifetime of back alley rehab."
Jackie winced. "Doc, can't you just hit me with a Bounce Back and call it a day?"
Oliver didn't even look up. "All out. I administered the last of it to the ones bleeding out before their cyberware auto-pumped flatlines. And even if I had more, you know better. You flood your cells with a recovery boost before we extract the lead, and they'll seal over it. Congrats, you get to be the next guy with a bullet magnet in his spine."
Jackie grunted. "Kinda overqualified for that already."
"Hold still." Another slug came out with a wet pop. Oliver dropped it into a little synthsteel tray with a soft clink.
Jackie glanced down. "You're scarily good at this, doc. Starting to think you moonlight for the Reapers."
"Hundred eddies per shot," Oliver deadpanned.
Jackie raised a hand and waved it off. "Nah, I'm good."
In truth, he knew Oliver wasn't trying to profit. Life-saving meds didn't come cheap, and nobody wanted to be in debt to someone when the next bullet could be theirs. Charging a token fee made it cleaner—merc code. You patch up a choom, sure, but you don't let it linger like a favor owed.
Carl returned just as Oliver packed up his tools, blood still damp on his gloves. "Sniper's nest is clear. No body. Just a shattered Nekomata and some cracked exo plating. Bastard must've crawled out while we were mopping up."
"Shit," Jackie muttered. "Thought your shot clipped him?"
Carl shrugged. "Guess not enough. Must've ghosted out while the rest of us were lighting up their flank."
Around them, the remaining mercs were tending to their wounded or collecting gear. Twenty-one confirmed kills in the opposing squad, not counting any runners. But every Shingen SMG was toast—either slagged by hand grenades or bricked by lockdown protocols. Corporate-trained, probably. Leave no assets behind.
Twenty-seven mercs started the job. Now, thirteen were dead, four downed and stabilized with emergency meds, and the rest bloodied, bruised, and staring down the rest of the job with empty mags and shorter tempers. Meanwhile, Arasaka's thirty-seven security detail looked like they'd just walked out of a boardroom holo-meeting. Not a scuff on their chrome.
Maine stood off to the side, arms crossed, gazing over the street with a kind of grim melancholy. "Half our number gone. They roll in like it's just another routine sweep."
His voice was rough—less anger, more disbelief. "Would've been me in that pile, KK. No question. If I hadn't stuck near you…"
Carl said nothing, only gave him a slow nod. They both knew it had been luck. And quick thinking. And maybe a bit of that stubborn street sense that kept Carl alive even when every other sensor said he shouldn't be.
"They were all solid," Jackie muttered, jaw tight. "Could've been any of us."
Carl exhaled, quietly. "Only the living get to mourn."
That was when the indignity started. Arasaka's guards began moving in, and instead of checking vitals or aiding the wounded, they started pushing the mercs aside. One grabbed a bleeding woman by the shoulder and shoved her out of the street, muttering something in Japanese under his breath. Another kicked over a pile of debris without checking if anyone was under it.
"Clear the road!" barked one of the suits. "VIP passage."
Jackie stared, slack-jawed. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Maine took a step forward, fists clenched. "I swear, next time I take a gig from a corpo dog, someone hit me over the head with a crowbar first."
Oliver, silent up to now, stood slowly and watched a limping merc get shoved to the ground. His eyes were dark behind the tinted visor of his optics. "You ever think about how much those fixers skimmed off the top? To make these clowns feel like they can treat us like junked chrome?"
"They skimmed plenty," Carl said. "But I don't think it would've made a difference. Corpo don't know what their money's worth. Half of them just spend creds to show they can."
Jackie laughed dryly. "So now there's pedigree in corpo dogs?"
Carl nodded toward the slow-rolling Guinevere that had begun to glide past them. Its sleek chrome finish gleamed even under the grime-stained sky. "You ever see a mutt in an Arasaka leash? Bloodline matters, even to dogs."
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Real dogs or corp dogs?"
Carl smirked. "That's the punchline."
Just then, Jackie stumbled on a spent shotgun shell, nearly pitching forward. He righted himself with a flurry of exaggerated arm‑flapping. "Great," he muttered, "now my wounded thigh gets to be embarrassed too."
All three cracked a tired grin.
They watched in silence as the Guinevere passed. Inside, they saw nothing—just silver mirrored panels, no faces. But Carl felt it—that strange flicker of awareness, like eyes behind tinted glass watching, waiting, evaluating. He turned his head, but the moment passed. Maybe just nerves. Maybe not.
"Oh, right," Carl said, as if remembering something small. He pulled a Shingen from his side and tossed it to Oliver. "Had a spare. Figured I owed you, seeing as I handed Jackie a Saratoga and never circled back."
Oliver caught it, inspecting the custom grips. "Didn't I say I wanted a sniper rifle instead?"
Carl raised an eyebrow.
Oliver exhaled. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Thanks."
Jackie, freshly bandaged and wobbling to his feet, clapped a heavy palm on Oliver's back. "Don't worry, choom. We'll get you your long-barrel love soon enough."
Oliver gave him a tired smile. "Only if we survive the next hour."
Carl checked his agent. Ninety minutes left on the contract clock. They weren't even halfway through, and it already felt like they'd been fighting for days.
In the distance, the Guinevere glided through the checkpoint, disappearing behind the haze of smoke and neon.
Carl looked back one last time, but whoever had been inside was gone.
No eyes now. Just reflections.
The break was over. The convoy would move again soon.
Night City never waited.