"Are we the rcenaries here, or are they the rcenaries? I told you we should've gone to Afterlife to hire so proper ones."
Anderson asked Benny sincerely.
Inside the Dewdrop Inn, the two of them crouched behind a wall, watching a man, covered head-to-toe in large cybernetic implants, toss a television out the window.
They'd previously worked with Gunner. Unfortunately, Gunner died before he even got a proper chance to prove himself, killed in the shop while collecting protection money.
The sergeant seed easygoing, but at his core, he was still a gang boss. When it ca to dealing with traitors, he'd rather kill the wrong guy than let the right one go.
Technically, these small fries hadn't rebelled. But only because Gunner died too soon. Their traitorous behavior had only started and hadn't gone full-scale yet, though if you searched their pockets, you'd probably still find evidence.
Benny, furious, snapped back:
"All you do is go on and on about Afterlife—Afterlife this, Afterlife that. Look at you! You think Morton doesn't know?! Shut that damn mutt mouth of yours, idiot! The second we get tothe Afterlife, Morton's spotters'll drag you off to feed the rats!"
Yes, the rcenaries they'd hired were just picked up off the street.
Everyone in Night City knows: the best rcs can be found at the Afterlife nightclub.
But could they go hire from there?
Hell no. First, they probably wouldn't be let in. Second, they didn't have the money. So they were just drinking themselves into oblivion on the street when—surprisingly—so rc actually agreed to take a job.
That rc was now by the window—two ters tall, both arms decked out with top-shelf chro, not a single exposed cable, just pristine alloy plating.
Morton had already tried multiple rushes at him, but the result was like throwing bullets at steel arms—nothing but sparks, no real damage.
Benny was also starting to regret things. He'd been too drunk to notice that the guy's gear was not your average black-market stuff.
The rc called himself "Hardcore Uncle"—and what happened next really helped them understand the na.
"Try lobbing a grenade."
The big guy pulled one from his pocket and looked toward the oil pipeline outside the window—
Benny turned pale. "Dude! That line's from Petrochem! You blow that, we all die!"
"What are you so scared of? If it were that easy to blow up, you think Petrochem would be that dumb? Just scare 'em! Or are you gonna sprint out there with your head first?"
Hardcore Uncle roared so loud that Benny's auditory implants vibrated. A mont later, an explosion rang out outside!
BOOM!
It didn't just explode near the pipeline—it went off in the hearts of the 6th Street Gang outside, and in Benny's chest too:
This lunatic has a death wish.
That's when Benny realized—these rcs weren't local. No real rc in Night City would pull a stunt like this.
But as Hardcore Uncle said, it did work. The 6th Street Gang was thoroughly rattled.
He threw out another TV, broadcasting the classic hostage-taker speech, then turned to the room and waved at Benny and the others:
"Get ready to open fire! Catch 'em off guard!"
"Huh? I thought we were negotiating?"
"Negotiate what? Grenades! Bullets! Whatever you've got, shoot it! Then jump out the window, grab a car, and bolt! Grow a spine!"
Hardcore Uncle's voice could drill through concrete. Every word felt like it slamd directly into their skulls. The more timid guys were now gripping their guns for dear life.
"Go go go! Open fire!"
A few guys by the window poked their heads out before Benny could say anything.
BANG!
A bullet ripped through one guy's cheekbone—he'd replaced it with a cybernetic implant, but the bullet tore through the synthetic plating like paper. A ss of components and synthetic fluid exploded from the wound.
A faint blue shimr in the air showed ionized gas—Hardcore Uncle's face twisted.
He'd been about to launch his own assault—but yanked his head back instantly.
"Keep firing!"
The guys froze. No one dared peek again. But now, even hiding behind cover didn't feel safe.
A drone drifted past the window, and a barrage of bullets suddenly rained down like a storm.
Hardcore Uncle's pupils shrank. He dove to a corner and turtled up, arms over his head.
RATATATATATATA!
Glass shattered instantly. Bullets flew in wild arcs through the air, yet sohow every one found a target.
Crash!
When the barrage ended, shattered glass rained to the floor—along with a few 6th Streeters.
"AHHH! I'M HIT!"
Benny clutched his eye. Anderson held his neck. The rest? Either wounded or down for good.
Seeing this, Hardcore Uncle understood:
The enemy had complete intel on them.
No idea how, but it ant only one thing—ti to run.
He grabbed a radio from the table, twisted a few dials, and chucked it across the room.
Could he escape?
Possibly—if soone picked him up in a car. Worst case, he'd just eat a few more bullets. He was big, and fast. In a few strides, he grabbed one of the others—who knows if it was Benny or Anderson—and made it to the door.
But right as he reached the hallway's exit, the steel door warped violently—
A massive fistprint appeared on the tal.
BOOM!
The fist punched clean through. Hardcore Uncle had no ti to stop.
Jackie's punch landed square on the rc's head.
BANG!
Instead of a crack, the sound was a tallic clang. Hardcore Uncle's skull visibly deford and he went flying backward.
Crack.
He crashed to the ground, head ringing.
But seeing the busted door, he knew: he had to fight back.
His stunned nerves moved slowly. Under his arm, a hidden holster opened.
Unlike a normal gun holster, this one was massive—running from armpit to hip. Fitting, since he was over two ters tall. What he drew wasn't a pistol—it was longer than an SMG, but shorter than a rifle. So kind of hybrid.
He was a little late drawing it, and his nerves were a little slow—but he didn't see V charging from the side with her mantis blades.
The mont he pulled the trigger, V's blades sliced off both arms.
But his fingers didn't let go of the trigger.
Seeing this, V reacted fast and went to destroy the gun, but the severed arms twitched under recoil like puppets.
The gun fired—almost like an anti-tank rifle—
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
SHING!
By the ti V cut the weapon apart, it had already fired twelve rounds.
The bullets tore through the door shield Jackie held, even punching into the front of his armored gauntlets, leaving gory marks around the room.
"Damn… was a little slow," muttered Hardcore Uncle, sweating, gritting his teeth against the pain of his severed cyberarms.
Jackie stared at his glove—it had caught the bullet. One inch more and it would've hit flesh.
V stared at the bullet holes, shocked: "What the hell kind of gun is that?"
Hardcore Uncle dragged himself back, glancing around—what he saw horrified him.
Monts ago, most of the floor's enemies had only been wounded by smart bullets. Now, most were in pieces.
It was clear: from drone barrage to the knockout punch—under ten seconds—that woman with mantis blades had done a lot.
"Old Malorian model… yours aren't bad either." he smiled bitterly.
He needed ti.
[Sniper ready.]
Before V could say sothing sassy, she suddenly smirked: "Oh? You've got backup?"
Hardcore Uncle froze. His cyber-eyes filled with scrambled HUD boxes.
He'd been hacked.
When?!
"Sh*t!"
BZZZT!
An electric burst flashed. Hardcore Uncle lost consciousness.
[V: Pursue?]
[Leo: He got away. Couldn't locate him. Guy's experienced. Good gear. This ain't just one or two people.]
In a nearby alley, two beat-up Mizutani Shion cars were just starting up.
In one, the driver suddenly froze and began vomiting uncontrollably.
The passenger in the second car turned pale. They imdiately swapped cars, abandoning the now-unconscious Hardcore Uncle. No ti to rescue.
As they ran, they ssaged the sniper:
[Abort snipe. Forget the rescue. We've been hacked. Just run!]
[Change of plans!]
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