After the commotion caused during the rescue, Street 6 sent people to investigate the warehouse, but they found nothing that could lead them to the culprit's identity. They only laughed at the idiots who used outdated gear during the operation—the mechs were in such bad condition it was a miracle they could even stand upright.
Only when they noticed the structural state of the warehouse did their laughter get caught in their throats.
Maybe those people weren't part of their crew, but the warehouse they rented sure as hell was.
"Um…" one of the new Street 6 recruits looked at the corroded mechs and timidly made a suggestion. "Is it possible this was the druid's work?"
It looked exactly like the aftermath he usually left behind.
The plants were missing, but judging by the marks…
"Don't be gullible, rookie," scolded a gray-bearded ex-soldier with a perfectly squared trim, a cigar clamped between his lips and a large scar cutting through one of them. He shot the recruit a look that said watch and learn how real men do it. "Sure, the machines are crap and one of the guys has junk implants, but that's nothing special in this city. It just means they're dirt poor. Look at the state of these guys. No mummies, no plants growing on them," he concluded with an air of irrefutable logic—then paused. "Especially that one," he added, pointing at what looked like a compressed ball of bloody flesh.
"Yeah, I didn't even think that was a person at first…" said the recruit, swallowing hard, slightly shaken.
How much force did it take to squash someone like that without them decompressing?
He tried to console himself with the idea that the guy must've been dead when it happened… right?
…Right?
Yeah, no nightmares tonight for sure.
"People who use methods that brutal are usually Tiger Claws or Maelstrom… but the latter are history," concluded a woman with one of her eyes replaced by a triple military-grade optic. She was kneeling to get a closer look at the scene. "I doubt it was the Claws. The warehouse hasn't been looted, and the collateral damage is minimal, so I'd bet on an imitator or a mercenary team. Leaning toward mercs, personally. But without knowing the reason for the fight, it's hard to say."
It was also possible that whatever was in the warehouse wasn't valuable enough for them to bother taking.
"So we've got nothing?" the man bit down on his cigar in irritation and kicked one of the fallen mechs. He winced but quickly covered it up.
"No," the woman stood up and focused her optic lens on the warehouse cracks and the mechs. "And as for the mechs, we can only salvage the lenses. I'd tell the boss to sell this place quickly to some poor sucker. I doubt he'll want to tear it down and rebuild—it'd cost a small fortune."
She may not have understood the damage as intimately as the one who caused it, but she could tell that in a month, tops, this place would fall apart.
Literally.
Once she finished inspecting the area, she was the first to leave—didn't want to risk getting crushed under a half-ton support beam.
"Shit!" Knowing the place was basically a write-off only pissed the man off more, as if the property were his own. He took a long drag from his synthetic cigar. "You heard her, rookie," he said, kicking the mechs one last time before limping off, suspiciously red-faced and raising his voice. "You and the others strip the lenses. We're moving the parts to other warehouses. Once you're done, clean the place up and prep it."
Doesn't matter if we sell it or tear it down, it has to be empty to make either option easier.
The Street 6 rookies looked at each other.
"So… who's handling the human meatball?" asked the rookie who received the order, turning around to look at everyone—only to realize they were all touching their noses with a finger… except him. "…I hate you all so much right now," he muttered, resigned.
If it weren't for the beers promised that afternoon, he'd have thrown the meatball at their heads for betraying him.
That same afternoon, at Saint Elias Church.
Father watched as the last child left with their family, feeling his soul lighten. Some of those families worked the night shift at the factories and didn't even know their kids had left until neighbors told them.
One of his men approached once the family exited the building and handed the boss a letter made of paper.
At first, Father thought it might be a thank-you note from one of the families, maybe a child's drawing—paper was rare these days. But his expression changed the moment he saw the wax seal.
A seal split in two: a butterfly and a deer.
He had never seen the seal before, but he knew who it belonged to.
"Where did you get this?" he asked quickly as he took it.
Just the feel under his rough fingers told him it wasn't recycled or synthetic paper—it was of exceptional quality, the kind he had only seen a few times at weddings of wealthier families, used for invitations.
The man didn't respond. Instead, he raised a trembling finger and pointed toward the church's cross.
Father followed the direction and nearly dropped the letter. He couldn't help cursing in the Lord's house when he saw what was perched atop the cross.
"Is that a damn owl?!"
"Ulu~?" the snow-white owl tilted its head, as if confused about what was so surprising.
Well, if Father had any doubt about who sent the letter or whether it might be a forgery, they had just vanished.
Once the owl confirmed the target had received the letter, it nodded with a disturbingly human expression of satisfaction and flew out through one of the church's broken stained-glass windows.
"Should we follow it or…?" asked one of the men, slightly unnerved, drawing a finger across his throat.
Birds were extremely rare in Night City. Some districts even banned them outright over fears of new viral strains.
Last time someone even saw a pigeon? That was during the Blue Flu of '56.
They could follow it to try to find the druid's hideout, capture it and sell it as an exotic specimen, or simply eliminate it.
"No. I'm not provoking that guy," Father said, shaking his head as he looked again at the letter. He broke the wax seal, and his optics carefully read each line. His expression became unreadable as the contents filled his mind. "Someone check the front door!" he shouted.
A few minutes later, a woman with one side of her head shaved returned with a wooden crate that looked like something used to transport beer bottles.
And on the side of the crate? The same seal.
Real paper. Quality wood. A live owl…
Yeah, that guy was 100% committed to the bit.
"Open it," he ordered.
The same woman came back with a crowbar and pried the box open carefully—but it was packed tighter than expected, so she had to use some real force until the wood creaked as the lid came free.
A faint green glow lit up the faces of everyone present as they saw the contents. It was unsettling, unfamiliar—and therefore dangerous.
"Father?" the woman asked, the only person there who might know what they were dealing with.
José Padilla stared at the vials filled with an unknown liquid, his expression complex. Those who knew him could see his emotions were caught somewhere between doubt, confusion, and a sliver of hope.
He picked up one of the vials and walked toward one of the flowerpots near the altar, which hadn't held fresh flowers in decades. The last time had been when he was a child—and even then, the flowers were already wilting.
He uncorked the vial and noticed there was no suspicious smoke, not even the strange chemical smell he'd secretly expected. That only confused him more.
He poured a few drops into the dry soil.
His optic caught everything with perfect clarity.
The first drop transformed the dry dirt—full of cigarette butts and wrappers—into rich, moist black soil with astonishing speed. When the second drop was absorbed, vegetation burst forth, and the pot filled with blooming orange, white, and red flowers, their long yellow stamens slowly unfurling.
The church fell into stunned silence. Father even touched the petals gently to confirm they were real, afraid of damaging them. He checked the new fertile soil—no trash, no butts, no wrappers.
A subtly sweet fragrance rose from the flowers as he brushed them in his search, triggering memories of his childhood.
His trembling free hand rose to his mouth.
They were real flowers. Exactly the same ones he had watched die, powerless to help them.
Only one word fit what he had just seen.
"A miracle…" he whispered as warm tears slid down his cheeks, feeling as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes.
He wasn't ignorant. He knew about high-performance fertilizers, ways to enrich soil and accelerate growth. But those only worked with the right conditions—prepared soil, healthy seeds—and even then, results took time.
But the soil in that pot?
It had been dead. Not even weeds could grow in it.
And yet, just two drops of this… "water of life" had changed everything—defying all logic and reason.
What else could it be, if not a miracle?
"How many vials are in the box?" he asked, struggling to keep his composure.
"There are 47, not counting the one in your hand, Father," the woman replied after a quick check.
"Take the box to the car carefully," he requested while looking at the vial in his hand, still containing some of the X-27 Substance. "I'll do the work myself."
The message in the letter was simple—it didn't ask for money, to eliminate anyone, or to steal anything.
Just to use the contents of the box to bring more life to the Heywood area and then take proper care of it.
Seeing the effects—how could he say no?!
On the contrary, he felt there weren't enough vials for the whole district.
He would've preferred two or three tanker trucks full!
José Padilla suddenly had an epiphany, lifting his gaze to the chapel ceiling.
Was it possible… that the mysterious druid was a messenger from God?
Another chance to heal a sick land that was dying?
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Happy New Year, everyone!
Quick, make a wish you want to fulfill this year!