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"Good morning, Night City! Yesterday's death lottery..."
Stan's gravelly, iconic voice blared from the radio, filling the high-tech silence of Kael's workspace. Kael didn't look up from his workbench; he was currently elbows-deep in the chassis of two Arasaka military-grade drones.
One was already a masterpiece of street-warfare engineering. He'd reinforced the frame with lightweight bulletproof plating, integrated a Shingen Smart SMG into the nose-cone, and added a custom bomb-bay for tactical grenades.
Lucy was perched nearby, her interface cables snaking from her neck into the drone's core. She was performing the final software handshake, rewriting the Arasaka sub-routines to respond only to her unique neural signature. Since she would be the one providing overwatch, she wanted the drone to move like an extension of her own will.
Kael focused on the second unit. This one wasn't for combat; it was for ghosts. He was installing an active optical camouflage suite and anti-SIGINT (Signals Intelligence) baffling.
The gear was expensive, but V had become Kael's primary "investor." As the rising star in Jenkins's Counter-Intel department, V could categorize high-end parts as "combat loss" or "damaged in testing" with a few keystrokes. It was a symbiotic relationship: V got results, and Kael got the cutting-edge tech he needed to evolve.
His workshop was becoming a museum of lethality. The walls were lined with everything from suppressed pistols to heavy HMGs—some were trophies, others were custom projects sourced through Wakako. As a technical genius, Kael had developed a collector's itch. He didn't just want power; he wanted options.
Ping.
A notification flashed in Kael's Kiroshis. It was Sasha.
Before he could even think of a reply, a series of high-definition images flooded his vision. Sasha was in full "Black Cat" cosplay. The outfit was a sleek, form-fitting black knit that didn't leave much to the imagination, accented by white faux-fur at the collar and cuffs. She had the ears, the tail, and even the pink-padded paw gloves.
(How do you like the new look, Nuo? Is it... cat-astrophic?)
Kael took a quick, nervous glance at Lucy—who was still deep in the drone's code—before replying with his most stoic mental voice.
(Any more? Purely for technical research, obviously.)
He wasn't weak; it was just that the tactical application of "Black Cat" aesthetics required further study. Sasha, sensing her victory, sent a few more daring shots, her poses dripping with the kind of direct seduction only a Night City Netrunner could pull off.
Kael saved them to an encrypted "private" sector of his brain-computer, his pulse spiked. He quickly tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters.
(How are the wounds? Any scarring?)
(Fully recovered. Smooth as silk. Want a close-up?)
(Yes. I mean—yes, strictly for medical confirmation.)
He zoomed in on the new photo. Sasha's skin was flawless; the ripper who handled her cosmetic restoration was clearly a master. Behind her playful exterior, Sasha was a girl of surprising "depth" and "breadth."
(I'm so bored, Nuo. I've been hiding in the safehouse for days. Come keep a lonely kitten company?)
(Serves you right. Who told you to try and out-PR Biotechnica on the public news? You're lucky the "Cat Pancake" didn't become a permanent street fixture.)
Sasha had confided in him about her rogue broadcast. predictably, Biotechnica's PR team had spiked the story before it even hit the airwaves. They owned the stations, the journalists, and the satellites. Sasha's "innocent" attempt at justice had been swallowed by the corporate machine.
(I'll listen to you next time...) she messaged, followed by a pouting emoji. (Maine found a new Hacker for the team. I think I'm being replaced. Can you take in a homeless stray?)
(You mean Kiwi? I recommended her to Maine. He needed a back-up who wouldn't go rogue on a whim.)
(Wuwuwu! You're seeing other Hackers behind my back?! Where did this third party come from?!)
(You're the third party! I knew Kiwi before I rescued you from a skyscraper!)
(Beep-beep-beep...)
A real-time call cut through the banter. It was Jackie.
(I've got work, Sasha. Talk tonight.)
(Mhm. I'll wear something special for our "late-night debrief".)
Kael was already anticipating that "debrief." He answered Jackie's call.
"Nuo, we found the target. Ready to move?"
"On my way, Jackie."
Jackie was waiting in the garage, leaning against his motorcycle. He'd officially moved from "hired help" to Kael's primary driver and street-fixer. His connections from the Valentinos were invaluable; he knew how to talk to people who viewed "Corpo-Kael" with suspicion.
Today's job was a direct hit for Rogue. An Animal gang member had double-crossed the Queen of the Afterlife on a steroid shipment. For Rogue, it wasn't about the money; it was about the precedent. The man had to be zeroed.
"He's in Pacifica, running a juice-lab out of an old mall," Jackie explained as he took the wheel of the Ragnar. "Got a squad of 'roid-monsters with him."
"Pacifica? That's Sasquatch's turf," Kael noted.
The Animals were a gang of body-building extremists who viewed "ganic" muscle as a temple to be reinforced with heavy-duty steroids and industrial cyberware. They were the premier bouncers and underground pit-fighters of Night City.
"This guy, Mattox, tried to challenge Sasquatch for the regional lead once. He's got the strength, but no brains," Jackie added. He looked at Kael in the rearview. "Nuo... let me take the lead on the breach this time."
"What, you tired of being the getaway driver?"
"I'm just not earning my keep, brother. I want to show you I'm more than a chauffeur."
"Fine. The floor is yours, Jackie."
Kael dialed Maine while they drove. He needed to find a dedicated driver for the long term.
"Maine! You busy?"
"A little! Dealing with some 'disruptive' elements for Faraday!" Gunfire and explosions thundered in the background. "Rebecca! Get your head down! I'm on a call!"
"I need a driver. Someone reliable. Know anyone?"
"Talk to Falco. He's a nomad-vibe pro. Only takes jobs from people who aren't gonks. I'll send his link. Now, I gotta go—Dorio just threw a car at a Maelstromer!"
The call cut. Kael sent a quick ping to Falco.
They reached Pacifica. The "resort of the future" was a skeleton of abandoned dreams, now home to the Voodoo Boys and the Animals. It was a lawless "self-governing" zone where the NCPD only entered with an AV-4 and a death wish.
The target's warehouse was a graffiti-stained industrial block. Jackie pushed the door open, peeked inside, and immediately slammed it shut, looking pale.
"There's like... ten of them. And they're all the size of small tanks."
"What happened to 'taking the lead', Jackie?" Kael laughed. He pushed past him and kicked the door open.
Inside, ten Animals—each a mountain of chemically-enhanced meat—stopped their training to glare at the intruders. They were terrifying, their veins bulging with neon-colored combat-stims.
Kael didn't draw a gun. He just raised his middle finger. "Rogue says your 'juice' is sour. Eat shit."
With a collective roar, the muscle-monsters charged.
Kael slipped on a pair of reinforced brass knuckles. Jackie let out a war-cry of his own and dove into the fray.
Five minutes later, the warehouse was a scene of bruised meat and shattered furniture. Kael spat out a mouthful of blood—he'd hit a 'roid-monster so hard he'd bitten his own tongue. He'd twisted the target's neck, fulfilling Rogue's contract. The rest were alive, but they weren't going to be lifting weights for a while.
Jackie looked like he'd been through a meat grinder. One eye was swollen shut, and his face was a map of purple bruises.
"I told you, Jackie," Kael said, wiping his knuckles. "More practice."
"..." Jackie didn't answer. He was busy wondering if the legends were true—that every person from the East was a secret martial arts master capable of dismantling a tank with their bare hands. After watching Kael today, he was a believer.
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