Chapter Text
Your entire life, you have been aware you are bottle of the barrel scop - shit scraped from rotting wood and brought up only when resources are low. That isn’t to say your story was particularly unique, nor memorable; you were born into the same situation as everyone else in Night City: baptized in shit and swaddled in scraps. Mother’s warmth was sweaty skin and the scent of garbage fires, your lullabies half-remembered tunes in a language you no longer spoke, by a woman you could no longer remember, and punctuated by gunfire and screams from outside the decaying window of your apartment- wherever the fuck it was. It was somewhere here. Here was all you knew - all you know.
Mercenary work suited you. For all your faults (you had plenty), you were a halfway decent shot, and a passable field doctor. Granted, there were plenty of people better than you, but there’s an art to being *just* good enough - all the good ones are already hired, y’know? And nobody wants to hire the really, really terrible; the ones whose instruments are covered in rust and dried blood, and whose licenses (if they ever had one) expired before you were born, printed onto yellowed cards of polyethylene chloride.
So, maybe you weren’t bottom of the barrel cash-wise. Or talent-wise. You could afford a shitty little apartment in good old (read: shitty) Santo Domingo. Once, your lullabies had been tuned to gunfire and to be fair, they still were. Now, though, you also had a symphony of industrial horns, and the percussion of clattering metal to lull you to sleep.
Basically, you hadn’t slept in days.
But that’s the least of your worries, at least as of this current moment in time. In Santo Domingo (and the world as a whole, when you think about it), corporations come and go, as do mercenaries such as yourself. Governments fall and rise, special economic zones burn and rise, oceans dry up - shit, if there’s one thing you’ve learned standing over the half-melted bodies of like-minded mercenaries, and standing in corporate lounges way too fancy for your pay grade, watching the poor counter-intel guy you and some big fucker whose name you can’t remember kidnapped, it’s that nothing is permanent. Nothing is universal.
Except taxes and rent. Those seem to follow you everywhere you go.
You, rather reasonably, do not want your water being shut off. You rather like being able to bathe, and having clean clothes, actually. You also don’t want to end up homeless, but, come on, you may as well have the opportunity to clean your clothes before you get tossed out into the shit-stained streets, right? Right.
So you’ve taken more jobs than you can count this week. Monday, you stole a car. Tuesday, you wound up in a firefight alongside some construction worker out to avenge his daughter, and though that client got killed, you still got your payment from your fixer, so whatever. Wednesday you broke into a building, got into yet another firefight, and then had to patch up some poor bastard who’d had his implants ripped out (at least enough until the hastily hired ripperdoc arrived). Thursday you escorted some guy through Japantown. Those are only the interesting jobs you can remember, because, truth be told, you were taking at least seven gigs a day. Maybe more.
Well, today you’re pretty sure you’re fucked. At least you won’t have to worry about rent if you die.
You haven’t the foggiest fucking clue what’s going on. Today’s job was super simple - assist the bald woman sitting next to you in stealing a car from some scavs in an alleyway (an utterly uninteresting job) and then go home for some well-deserved rest, and pay your rent on Saturday. Today’s pay would just about cover rent and leave enough over for you to maybe stop at a Buck-a-Slice and chow down on some cardboard. And so you’re sitting at this red light, the scavs long dead or lost somewhere behind you, when the woman next to you (you think her name was Gina) says something like: “ Hey, do you hear that? “ And you say yeah, because it’s hard to not hear what sounds like fifty-trillion fucking engines roaring down the streets at damn near midnight. You turn to look out the window, your hands still on the wheel and Morro Rock’s DJ quietly spouting conspiracy theories on the radio.
“ …Gotta be something big. Are you sure we lost those fucking scavs? “ Gina, or whatever her name was, asks. She tugs nervously at the collar of her leather jacket, glancing around.
“ Yeah, uh- pretty certain. “ You respond, and you roll down the window to crane your neck for a better view. Part of you is shocked that you haven’t seen what’s causing all the noise, yet. Another part of you isn’t, because if it really is a bunch of engines, then you’re not shocked it’s that loud. “ We should probably back up, right? Yeah- yeah, we should. I’m just gonna put us in reverse. “
“ Wait! “ Gina says, and she literally grabs your arm to stop you from grabbing the shift stick. Her palms are disgustingly sweaty. “ You can’t do that! I mean- back there, right? We killed- oh, my fucking god, we killed so many- I killed so many people, and then they’ll get me if we go back. “
You blink. “ …Yeah, you got all of them. Look, I’m not content to- whatever’s going on down there, it’s loud, and it’s getting louder. We- “
“ Why can’t we just run- run the fucking red light, huh? I mean- fuck, look! There’s not a single fucking cop here! Just run the goddamn light! No backing up, no staying here! Easy solution. “
You chew your lip idly. “ Can’t afford a traffic ticket right now. “
Gina whimpers. You blink again. And then, two seconds later, she’s trying to take the wheel from you, yelling something about getting the fuck out without backing up, and you’re too confused as to why you’re arguing about this to really muster a response, because this is the most unnatural argument you’ve ever had. It’s stilted. Confusing. The car jerks a few times, and then both of you stop when you’re blasted with what feels like the light of god. Thirty-thousand lumens straight to your eyeballs and into your brain. Gina screams. You manage to pry her off of you.
Your brain is split between asking for extra payment due to her behavior, and panicking slightly as the lights consume your car. Well, it’s not your car, but-
Is that fucking Militech?
That’s Militech. That’s a lot of Militech. And there’s some bulky motherfuckerr with a skeleton that looks like straight titanium, or something, and boom. You grab the shift stick a split second too late, and manage to roll back about half a centimeter two split seconds too late. The front of the car practically explodes - metal goes fucking everywhere and you’re able to register Gina flopping noisily towards her side of the car. You begin to spin. Hands on the wheel. You try to steady your mind, but it’s hard when you’ve gone from a moving shootout to a stilted argument and then to this. Whiplash, as a term to describe your current mental state, would be just about apt.
The back of the car is now facing the red light. It’s stuck by a Militech truck, and torn off. Your foot slams on the gas, and the car, screaming in pain, lurches forwards. More headlights. Gina yells- something, and when you turn to look at her you find that she’s fallen out of the side. The door is gone.
Fucking perfect. The car screams again and rolls forward at a speed it, really, shouldn’t be capable of with the damage its sustained. Gina’s head (it’s gotta be her head) crunches under the wheel.
You don’t register the client’s died as a result of the shitstorm of trucks until maybe five seconds later. Funnily enough, you recognize that the car is still speeding at around the same time. Your brain shut off. Great. Just- yeah, just fucking great. What remains of your car slams into a lightpole some seventy to eight feet from where you were just utterly fucked by a Militech convoy and some psycho in a truck.
You’re ninety percent sure you fly out the windshield before you pass out.
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You pride yourself on being able to recover relatively quickly from most things that happen to you. Mentally, physically - it’s a gift. A talent. Two weeks ago, you got shot in the leg. Bounced back from that quickly enough to pop a bullet in between the eyes of the one who did that to you. The first time you killed someone - some poor sap that just so happened to be in the way of a target - you puked once, then, wiping your mouth on your sleeve, shot another man.
Today is no exception. You don’t know how much time has passed when you open your eyes, but it doesn’t matter. Your brain goes into summarization mode, attempting to wrap itself around what the fuck just happened as you scramble to your feet, fumbling for the gun holstered at your waist. Scrambling across sandy pavement, your brain lays it out in bullet points for you. A step-by-step analysis of whatever the fuck just happened.
1. You grabbed the car from the Scavs, and, during the escape, got into a moving firefight. Gina was a decent shooter and took out two of the drivers. You drove aimlessly through the city for a while, until winding up somewhere on the border of the City Center and Arroyo. Vista Del Rey, maybe?
2. A sudden cacophony of noise echoed across the street. It sounded like a bunch of engines. You tried to go back, but some sort of strange paranoia seized Gina, and she refused to let you move back. You didn’t want to run the red light because you couldn’t afford another traffic ticket. That almost seems silly in retrospect, seeing as you doubt you’ll be getting any money for this job.
3. Said sound of engines turned out to be one of the largest chases you’ve ever seen. Comically so. The car was hit, spun, hit again, and then sent flying down the road.
You must’ve gone further than you thought, or turned at some point, because now you’re-
You glance around. Buck-a-Slice.
Oh. God heard your thoughts earlier, and hates you enough to make a joke about it. Republic East. You mentally pat yourself on the back for being able to drive that far in an atomized car and operating on a shut-down-brain. You glance back at the aforementioned car. It sort of looks like one of those cubes they crush them into when they’ve gotta get rid of it. You think a client of yours did that to a body, once. Gross.
But- fuck, okay. You’re alive. El Capitán does hazard pay, or some shit, right? Whatever the proper term is. This wasn’t your fault. You need food, a place to sit and patch your wounds, and-
“ …Who the fuck sent you? “
Standing before you is one of the ugliest men you’ve ever seen, dressed in one of the worst fits you’ve ever seen. A greasy brown pompadour hangs over pock-marked skin, and he’s dressed in a yellow jacket and fucking boxing shorts, of all things - also yellow. He holds a gun in his hand, and his expression is mildly perturbed. Blood covers half of his body.
You reach for your own gun, and he tightens his grip on his own. He looks frightened.
“ I said who the fuck sent you?! I’ve- you with the bitch against the fucking dumpster? Are you? Dumb fucking joytoy already blew up Ricardo’s fucking head when we gunned her down. That was- fuck me, he was a real choom, you fucking know that? “
His hands shake.
“ Netrunning fucking gonk. She call for someone to finish the job when I blew a her fucking tits off? Did she? You know her? You should see her body, you goddamn gonk. I’ll- yeah, I’ll fucking get you, too. I’ll. Do it. Swear to fucking Christ, I’ll- “
You take your chance while you have it. Clumsily ripping your gun from its holster, you throw yourself against the ground as he takes his first shot. He predictably misses, and by the time he adjusts his aim to shoot you dead, you’ve fired three shots at him. One misses. Two land - one in his chest, the other in his throat. He goes down gurgling and with a thump.
You rise on shaking legs, and for good measure, fire one last shot into his head. You tell yourself its to put him out of his misery - that you’re a good person, at the end of the day. Good person-ish. That brings some comfort. And, speaking of being a good person (or at least trying to be), your mind wanders back to whatever he was rambling about before you zeroed him. Bitch against the dumpster. Being sent to help, or finish the job.
You wonder if this’ll score you enough to cover rent, and without sparing a glance at the burning car behind you, or the body you’re now walking around, you slink around the corner of the building, gun still drawn. In your head, you’re fully aware there’s a solid chance you miss anyone who might still be standing. Then again, the guy on the ground mentioned another fucker getting his head popped, so you doubt there’ll be much present to stop you.
There, you find precisely what was described to you.
She leans against a dumpster, her red coat (is that blood? It might be blood) practically torn open with bullet holes, and her mouth gaping - at least, where there should be a mouth. A red mask, which appears to be some kind of implant, lies beside her. It’s a grizzly sight, but at risk of sounding heartless, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.
The same goes for the man a handful of paces in front of her body. What remains of him lies face-down on the floor, his body crumpled and his head missing. The blood on her, you suspect, is partially his. You cautiously approach, and, taking in a deep breath (seeing a dead body is one thing, and one you’re entirely used to in this city forgotten by God, but touching one still sucks), you tap the side of her face. She does not respond. You’re just about to realize how stupid that was, and accept that she’s dead (for someone reason, that thought makes you a little sad), when she lets out a bitcrushed, glitchy little gurgle. Her eyes, yellow-and-pink, do not move from their fixed position, staring blankly at the sky.
Holy fuck. She’s alive? Shit.
You take a moment to sigh in relief, thankful that, y’know, you hadn’t just tapped the cheek of a corpse to check if it was alive like the fucking gonk you are (you suspect, now, that you may have sustained brain damage during the crash), before realizing, heart dropping in your chest, oh fuck, she’s alive. And in this state. Riddled with bulletholes, missing half her face, and soaked in blood.
You have lived in this city long enough to see glitter-heads overdose in the street, and hear NCPD officers cry out for their mothers as they bleed out. Sometimes it’s been your fault. You think, often, back to the Valentino you shot one summer evening, during a job to steal a datashard for some client out of City Center. Said Valentino, who you assumed was dead, notified you that he wasn’t by sobbing as he lay against the wall, praying in a mix of Spanish and English for his mother, and for God, to forgive him for his sins before he went. You didn’t have the balls to put him out of his misery, and so, shard in hand, you left in silence.
To cut to the chase: You have been somewhat desensitized to the slow and painful deaths of people. Women and men, children and adults, joytoys and gang members and police officers. But there’s something about this one - the knowledge that you may just have enough time to help her - that triggers some part of your brain you didn’t know existed. You don’t know why you pick her up and throw her over your shoulder, but you do. You don’t know why you pick up the face implant on the ground and shove it in the pocket of your now blood-stained, dirty, and singed jacket. All you know is that you do. And, for at least once in your life, you’re going to try to save someone. You did just kill your client, after all. What was his name- Mordecai? Whoever that one buddhist white dude you met was - he would say you’re rebalancing your karma.
Yeah. You’re just rebalancing your karma right now.
You shift her weight to carry her more comfortably, and then realize you don’t have a car to transport her with. You thank Christ for the motorcycle you spot around the corner, and pray the NCPD doesn’t stop you for carrying a body.