The surviving Alvarado shook like a half-dead beast every time it hit a crack in the asphalt. Its reinforced suspension was scorched, patched with field welds and emergency nanofoam, and the armored panels still bore the melted scarring from the earlier RPG impact. The cabin was quiet—ten mercs packed in, bloodied but conscious, breathing through pain and silence.
Oliver sat in the passenger seat, his right boot still sticky from drying blood. Behind him, four stabilized bodies lay stretched across the rear benches, sedated and strapped down tight with belts and bungee cords. Every bump made them twitch.
"You think they'll make it to a clinic?" he asked, eyes still watching the mirror.
Maine's voice came low, like gravel dragged over steel. "Only if Trauma Team gets there before the gonk squads do."
He turned to glance out the cracked side window. The other Alvarados—those that could still roll—were limping down the road behind them, battered like the rest of them.
"They had Trauma Team coverage, they'd be in the air already," Maine added, shrugging one massive shoulder. "Platinum tier, maybe gold. But these boys? They'll be lucky if some back-alley ripperdoc doesn't take their chrome first."
"Damn shame," Jackie muttered from the back, pressing a fresh stim patch to his ribs. "Half a liver left and some choom still gonna try to pull it out with a screwdriver."
Oliver grunted, fingers running along his medkit inventory. "Silver membership's ten thousand eddies a month," he said, voice bitter. "We're not corpo heirs or brain-dance stars. We're mercs. We make it, we spend it, we hope our guts stay in one piece until next gig."
"Spending your last payday to survive the next," Carl said quietly, watching the road ahead.
"Circle of life, Night City style," Maine muttered.
The vehicle rocked gently as they passed the edge of the industrial zone. Arasaka escort trucks ahead suddenly began to slow, pulling aside and forming a perimeter corridor. Carl's eyes narrowed as their own Alvarado took the lead.
"Wait," Jackie said, sitting forward. "They want us up front again? Madre de Dios, what do they think we are—ceramic armor with a pulse?"
Maine let out a dry, humorless snort. "Cannon fodder. Disposable recon. They don't wanna lose their precious security boys when there's a perfectly good stack of half-dead mercs to burn through first."
Carl's voice stayed level, but his words hit like iron. "They're banking on us being too invested to quit. They've seen how many bodies we've already left behind."
Jackie thumped the back of the driver's seat. "They're gonna push us through the door, say thank you for your service, then bill us for blood cleanup."
"Yeah," Maine added, "but they forget one thing—mercs don't stay loyal past the contract."
Carl exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the line of escort vehicles parting ahead. "They think we're too deep in. That sunk-cost fallacy makes us predictable."
Oliver shook his head, voice low. "You know what gets me? It might not even be Arasaka upstairs calling the shots. Could be some mid-level corpo pulling strings, skimming creds off our dead comrades."
"You think they'd dare?" Maine asked.
"I think they already did," Oliver replied darkly.
Jackie snorted. "Bet they're still running spreadsheets while we're eating bullets."
Carl grinned dryly. "I got a corpo joke, wanna hear it?"
"No," Maine muttered.
Carl kept going. "Arasaka shift starts at 6 a.m., ends at 2 a.m.—that's twenty hours of work, four hours to recharge their soulless batteries. Still somehow find five minutes to shave a zero off our hazard pay while they microwave kibble."
Jackie snorted. "Pfft, sabes qué, those corpos probably got a whole department just for screwin' us—'Exploitación y Estafa,' thirty floors up and runnin' overtime."
Carl gave him a look. "Probably where they stash the free coffee too."
Jackie grinned. "With a sign that says 'for personnel only'—which don't include us, hermano."
The vehicle continued forward, now leading the Arasaka convoy through the edge of Watson's northern industrial blocks. Their doors were unlocked—deliberately. Every single one of them had left the safety mechanisms off in case they needed to jump. None of them trusted a single click or delay. The last rocket had left scars on more than just metal.
And yet, the further they drove, the stranger it felt. No more explosions. No more ambushes.
Carl's fingers tapped a rhythm on the armrest. "This stretch should be gang turf. Where's the red-eyes?"
Maine leaned toward the window. "Nothing. No signs. Not even tagged walls."
"Too quiet," Oliver murmured. "No Voodoo Boys. No Mox. Not even Maelstrom goons posing for photos."
Carl's voice dropped. "Storm's not passed. It's waiting."
As the buildings ahead gave way to the gleaming arcology line, they saw it: Konpeki Plaza, piercing the clouds like a blade. The skyscraper shimmered in the fading sun, its mirrored surface reflecting their battered convoy like a kaleidoscope of heat, steel, and death.
It felt like approaching the end of something. Or the start of something worse.
Jackie stared at the monolith, then turned to Carl. "Time?"
Carl didn't flinch. "One hour and ten."
Jackie frowned. "No. Look again."
Carl's gaze returned to the horizon, the plaza just a few minutes' drive away.
Ten minutes. Maybe less.
He nodded slowly. "Right. Ten minutes left."
Oliver exhaled through his teeth. "Then let's hope it's our lucky ten."
The cabin went quiet. Only the rumble of the engine, the soft thrum of cooling servos, and the rhythmic click of Carl's knuckles breaking the silence. Outside, the spire loomed closer, dragging them toward the unknown.
Whatever happened next—it would happen fast.
And no one in that car was thinking about the payday anymore.