[TN:Two Chapters]
In 2076, in this cyberpunk world, dodging bullets wasn't impossible.
It only required eting a few conditions: on the hardware side, you needed highly capable cybernetic enhancents — these implants must boost your nervous system, strengthen your muscles and bones, and improve your blood circulation. The more you can enhance, the better.
Next, you had to install the right processors and chips. These processors would draw data from your cybermodulator, extract highlights from your optic nerves, and identify details like muzzle flashes and trigger movents — all useful for predicting bullet trajectories.
By analyzing the muzzle and the mont the trigger was pulled, the chip would rapidly calculate the bullet's trajectory, then trigger the cybernetic limbs to move before the shot was even fired.
The success rate of dodging depended on several factors: the processing power of the entire system, the clarity of visual input, and — most crucially — the enemy's reaction speed and adjustnt rate.
An opponent who reacted faster and adjusted quicker could still lock onto you even as you moved. If your reaction speed and theirs were at the sa level, the one who pulled the trigger would always win.
And then, there was the number of bullets.
Trajectory evasion algorithms were just that — algorithms. A control thod for cybernetics. Not magic. And certainly not so law-bending miracle weapon!
Once the rate of fire reached a certain threshold, the success rate of such evasive maneuvers would plumt rapidly!
Maine and his crew smiled brightly and pulled their triggers. Muzzle flashes flared like little suns in the man's cybernetic eyes, making his cold heart even colder.
In an instant, his survival chance dropped below 10%. The large-caliber bullets rained down on him like a torrential downpour!
The chip had already calculated his only possible survival option: funnel all his remaining energy into running and jumping — he had to leap now behind the only cover that could block those rounds—
A concrete pillar twenty ters away!
The powerful lone wolf charged up all his strength. With a massive kick from his cyber-bionic legs, he cracked the pavent beneath him!
But unfortunately for him, he had cyberware, and so did Maine's team.
After working under Leo for so long, even if Maine often ca out with a shattered arm or a dented skull, the crew had made good money.
Maine usually took the hits, so the others could spend their cash on better gear.
Rebecca, for instance, had already upgraded to brand-new synthetic muscles and bones. These enhanced limbs were driven by fire-control chips, which offered auto-aim assistance and recoil compensation.
At this point, calling her a walking turret wouldn't be wrong.
Her dual cyber-eyes captured the full visual feed and sent it to her processors. Even the details most people wouldn't notice were parsed and turned into usable targeting data. The fire-control chip rapidly completed the ballistics calculations.
Movent trajectories, action speeds, and even tiny deviations from wind and inertia were factored in.
Then the chip sent out tiny micro-adjustnts — pulses of control current — too subtle for Rebecca to feel, adjusting each shot's angle.
Her arms tracked the enemy like they were locked in with an aimbot, her muzzle followed him perfectly as he moved!
At 0.2 seconds, the first shot hit the man's shoulder — a small-caliber bullet. The entry angle was bad, and his subdermal armor deflected it. It barely altered his jump arc.
At 0.5 seconds, 12 shotgun pellets smashed into his body. The subdermal armor warped under the impact, and the sheer kinetic force flung him midair.
At 0.7 seconds, four more bullets hit — one was small-caliber, and 34 more shotgun pellets. This ti, the force tore through his left arm. The subdermal armor was pierced, parts flew everywhere, and he lost control of that arm.
At 0.8 seconds, he had moved 16 ters — but he was spiraling. Who knew how many rifle, SMG, and shotgun rounds had hit him.
His arms, shoulders, half his torso were fracturing apart. His legs curled awkwardly toward his chest at a grotesque angle.
As he lost control of his body, more and more bullets ripped into him, tearing him apart midair.
At 1.2 seconds, he landed — but missed the intended trajectory by a mile. Barely a chunk of his body remained.
Szzzt—
"Ha! That felt good!"
On the drifting Mackinaw, Rebecca had just emptied a full mag. Her shotgun vented white smoke.
"Phew." She exhaled and blew the smoke from the muzzle, nodding in satisfaction. "Not bad, not bad. I told you guys — big guns are the way to go."
None of them in the truck had Sandevistan-level neural modules. Their fire-control chips helped with aim, sure, but their eyes couldn't track what had just happened.
All they saw was a man dart out like a rat, moving so fast he left a blur, bullets chasing him down like a swarm of locusts, chewing away at him in the air.
His mangled body slamd into the ground, then sohow rolled behind cover, leaving only one long, twitching leg—
BANG!
The drifting Mackinaw crashed right into the cover, smashing it — and him — to pieces.
Maine kicked open the door, one hand gripping an Arasaka Harumasa assault rifle, and leapt down.
You had to admit — cyberware made people damn hard to kill.
The man's body was shredded. His side's subdermal plating had been warped and caved in. The bullets hadn't pierced clean through — instead, they slipped through warped gaps between armor and flesh.
Maybe his synthetic kidneys were blown. Viscous fluid kept leaking from the gaping wounds.
His joints were bent unnaturally. He could still move, but his cybernetic hand flickered with sparks and barely twitched.
And now Maine understood how 6th Street had gotten ambushed: the man's heel had so kind of embedded spike. From the size and design, it could likely pierce solid concrete, letting him stand on vertical walls.
Looking at him, Maine had a flash of déjà vu; this guy reminded him of his old self, back when Militech wrecked his own body.
Back when he'd overloaded his combat ability with cheap first-gen implants. Technically still human, but looked more like a walking ch.
Those days were long gone. Thanks to David and Burger King's repeated lectures, Maine was now a full-blown gun fanatic.
As Leo often said:
"If you can't even shoot right, and you keep swapping out cyberware — what a waste of a vanload of upgrades."
Lone wolves went heavy on implants because they were solo, no backup, chaotic situations, needed to be ready for anything, with gear stacked in every limb.
But if you had suppressive fire, why abuse yourself?
The lone wolf's cracked vocal synthesizer sputtered out a ragged groan:
"Damn it… Do all Night City people ignore the rules like this?"
Maine glanced behind him — the street was littered with car and cyborg wreckage. Bullet holes were everywhere.
They were using military-grade weapons now. While not as exotic as the strange gear the enemy rcs used, the sheer volu made up for it. Sustained fire could leave deep scars — or craters — in the pavent.
But…
"What rules?"
"Firing like this on public streets?! Where's your police, your rapid-response Maxtac squads?"
Maine burst into laughter.
"MaxTac squads don't give a damn about this. And the police? You're attacking Santo Domingo's police right now, dumbass!"
As he said that, Maine grabbed the man by the head and jacked into his port.
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