After a day of binge drinking in which nothing productive occurred at all except that we managed to conjure even more housing options out of thin air—inspired to live closer to Rancho because the Beef Suqaar turned out to taste fucking fantastic—I went to sleep at 3 AM after a round of impromptu drunken karaoke with Lucy.

  She had the voice of an angel—while I was drunk. I had no idea how she actually sounded.

  Thankfully, Nanny’s assistance was enough to at least get me out of bed to start my day at eight.

  First, I got my trip to Tijuana squared away—holding a seminar to the GSS family mercs on the dangers of mixing chrome brands. Already, a bunch of them were beginning to look bigger and bigger, having taken advantage of their newfound financial freedom to chip in as much as they wanted. Not wise. Abuela would have to watch them closely in the coming weeks.

  I also left the Netrunning team my programs and quickhacks. I was already planning on overhauling my entire kit, so those would get outdated in no time at all.

  I kept the big one, of course. That Sword program was not going anywhere.

  Finally, it was time I gave Jin a visit.

  I took a Delamain cab to his location, wearing a simple pair of brown pants and a black T-shirt, and the same gold-plated rosary necklace that mom had bought for me. That and a metal pencil case filled with blank, unadorned BD shards simply titled ‘M’. Marketing was low at the moment, but that was the entire point of involving Reyes in the first place. He’d be in charge of selling the shit, so he’d probably figure out the image stuff.

  The cab finally stopped in front of the entrance to a golf course in North Oak. From between the bars of the gate, I could spot a baffling amount of green grass stretched over rolling hills, all manicured in various defined shades in wavy concentric rings surrounding patches of grass where there were flag poles—probably the holes.

  When I got out and approached the gate, the security inside the toll both looked at me with a disdainful sneer. I just ringed Jin.

  David: Tell the goons outside to let me in.

  Jin: Right—let me know when you need to take a shit, too. I’ll come wipe your ass for you as well.

  I rolled my eyes. He probably didn’t see the purpose for it, but I could tell when I was about to face some bullshit. Thankfully, the security guy inside the booth’s eyes glowed gold a moment later. His eyes widened as he looked at me. I approached him then.

  “Someone’s waiting for me inside,” I said. Wordlessly, he pressed a button, opening the pedestrian door next to the gate.

  It took me five minutes of walking through the grass before I got to Jin’s location. He had already migrated quite deeply into the fairway—or whatever the fuck it was called. The grass.

  Once I finally crested the hill in which he was shooting from, I saw him, next to a golf cart, playing entirely by himself. He wore a skintight black shirt, a pair of baggy brown pants and a white visor cap that didn’t cover his hair. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Why are you dressed like a brokie?”

  The fuck? “We literally look the same.” I said, looking down at my own black shirt and brown pants.

  He blinked at me. “That was uncalled for.” He seemed to wrestle with his words for a moment before just sighing. “It’s lazy Sunday, I get it. No need to look nice and all, but this is kinda sad for your standards, choom.”

  Jesus Christ. If I knew he was gonna make it a whole thing—that my entire outfit put together didn’t cost more than fifty eddies—I’d have stopped at Jinguji to burn more edds. “Alright—get it out of your system.”

  “What’s with the fake gold?” He looked at my rosary.

  “Sentimental value,” I said.

  “Ah,” he nodded. I looked down at it and couldn’t see anything wrong with it, really. I wouldn’t take it to an event or anything.

  But I wouldn’t toss it out, either.

  I should consider getting one out of real gold, though. For mom’s sake, if nothing else.

  “Your BDs,” I said, unslinging my backpack and pulling out the pencil case. “New installment. This time—”

  “Don’t spoil me,” he grinned, snatching the box from my hands. “I’ll check it out myself.”

  I nodded. “Apparently, some people complained about the FOV—turns out the guy’s wearing some kind of mask.” Reyes’ guy had given me a rather comprehensive list of notes, looking ten times more cognizant the moment the BDs ended. He hadn’t exploded into excitement, either. Instead, his demeanour seemed to just sharpen, if only temporarily, just to give me the upsides and the downsides.

  He liked the bullet tango a lot, and recommended I keep doing that, and other, even wilder things. He also suggested I don’t use the Sandevistan as often. People liked drawn-out firefights and strategy. Especially diversity in take-downs. I already had an inkling of that, but to get it confirmed was important.

  The biggest downside, which was also somehow an upside, was the fucked up field of view from the mask. I had barely even noticed it myself, having already gotten used to it.

  That and leaving the tech jargon in my quickhacking in—in the case of the Wraith stuff. Breach Protocol was fine—showing off how good I was wouldn’t directly make me easier to counter. The only way to counter my breaches was with better cybersecurity across the board. No ‘Panacea’ for that, unfortunately.

  But for my Quickhacks, there were ways that rival Netrunners could figure out the vulnerabilities in my cyberattacks, or worse yet, plagiarizing my shit. That was only worse for my pride, but that still fucking sucked. No way was I going to let the likes of that fucking guy Ichinose get ahead just by ripping into my shit.

  I would take that all into account going forward when it came to giving my notes to the next BD techie I could find. Apparently, Reyes’ guy would be on the lookout for a dependable replacement.

  “But it’s the same vibe as the first one,” I continued to Jin. That was my biggest concern, and the brain potato on Reyes’ payroll had mollified me with an assurance that they had the same vibe and felt clearly scrolled by the same person.

  So now I had some homework to do, besides all the other shit I was already doing—figuring out a way to make every battle as cinematic as possible. That began by simply limiting my Sandy uses.

  [And getting on top of our rare mineral gorging spree, David.]

  D: Give me a minute, for fuck’s sake

  “Oh yeah? Sweet!”

  I pulled out a BD wreath as well.

  “You don’t have to test this shit,” Jin said.

  I looked at him for a moment and snorted. “That’s unwise.”

  He laughed. “I’m still gonna get them tested, you gonk. But not you—I already trust you enough to buy ‘em and get ‘em tested independently anyway.”

  I couldn’t lie—I admired his vigilance. I’d never been able to afford that attitude myself, given that I kinda had to sell these things or starve. That meant being forced to sample every little XBD that came my way from Doc—and not all of them ended up being sellable, per se.

  The less said about those nightmares, the better.

  “Thanks,” I said, “Saves me a ton of time. So let’s cut to the chase: your race. Give me the details.”

  Jin grinned as he put the box of BDs down on the seat of his golf cart and slung the club around his shoulders before wrapping both arms around them. “Ever been to the North Oak Casino and Country Club, David?”

  I looked at him flatly. “You’re asking me if I’ve been to the richest country club in the fucking City, maybe even the country, Jin. Take a wild fucking guess.”

  He shrugged. “Figures—it’s not a place that just having money gives you access to. You need to know someone. Luckily for you, you know me. That’s where it’ll be.” His eyes glowed blue as he shot me some data.

  The racing course. All overlooked from a wide building where a waterfall flowed in front of the windows. The place looked like Richard Night’s dream of what Night City would become. Grass, crystalline water, palm trees, a quite frankly mind boggling stretch of what used to be badlands, terraformed into the perfect lawn for the ultra-rich. So much greenery wasted on being a pretty view for those who already had too much already.

  The race course was—I furrowed my eyebrows at one particular stretch. “What’s up with those two towers, Jin?” On one particular stretch in the track were two towers. They were basically spiralling roads that each led to ramps facing each other. “Is that seriously what I fucking think it is?”

  He tossed me something. I caught it, blinking at what was in my hand—a BD shard. “That’s the virtu of the fastest guy in town on this course,” Jin said, “They call him the Mountain Pass Demon. Tōge Oni. He’s a fucking psycho, but you should watch him. And when you do, I’ll wait for you to tell me if you still think you have a chance at winning this shit. If you don’t—no biggie at all. Just be sure to fucking tell me early. Hopefully by today. Do also tell me if you’re not sure you’ll win, but there might be a chance. All this data will help me, alright?”

  I nodded. “Alright,” I said. “So… which car should I—”

  “Caliburn,” he said, “It’s gotta be a Caliburn. There’s no better car for this type of road. You don’t get a Caliburn—they’ll fucking smoke you. Even the slowest turtle in the race will shove your face in their shit if you decide to roll up in anything but a Caliburn.”

  Dammit. Wasn’t like I could bring a bike to a car race, anyway. If the Caliburn was my best bet, then so be it. “Right—I’ll let you know.”

  000

  I walked into the Rayfield dealership like I belonged there—which, of course, I fucking didn’t.

  The place was all white marble floors, glass columns, and curved screens playing soft jazz over slow-motion shots of Caliburns slicing through rainstorms. Looked like a goddamn luxury aquarium if you swapped fish with generational wealth and artificial scarcity.

  The second the doors whispered shut behind me, some tall chrome-faced corpo with a jaw sharper than my sword zeroed in on me. His shoes were so polished I could probably see my poverty in them. He smiled like someone who thought "the help" had wandered in by accident.

  “Welcome, sir,” he said, voice silkier than overpriced ramen, “Are you here to look at the Rayfields… or simply look at the Rayfields?” His eyes flicked once—subdermal scanner under the pupil, no doubt. Scanned my cyberware. My clothes. My literal net worth, maybe.

  “Or should I say… добро пожаловать, бедняк,” he continued with a little bow.

  Then:

  “Bienvenue, monsieur pouilleux.”

  “Vellkommen, Herr Uteligger.”

  “Benvenuto, signor pezzente.”

  “Bienvenido, se?or sin un duro.”

  “欢迎，穷鬼.”

  “ようこそ、貧乏人.”

  “Karibu, maskini wa kupindukia.”

  “And, of course… ‘sup, broke boy?”

  The final one was delivered with a smirk and a tilt of the head, like he was proud of the international roast he’d just cooked up.

  I blinked at him. “Damn,” I said, feeling my stomach heating up at the sight of this shitsmear. “You got that whole speech preloaded, huh? You practice in the mirror or does the system just trigger when someone walks in wearing pants under two hundred eddies?”

  He bowed, again. “We tailor the experience, sir. Now, unless you're here on behalf of a client with actual credit, might I suggest our virtual test drive service? It lets you feel rich without all that pesky effort.”

  Alright, so—swallow all that bullshit and then—”Fuck you,” my words came entirely unbidden. I was unable to hold them back, or the resulting barrage of vitriol. “Who the actual fuck do you think you fucking are anyway? Seriously! You’re a fucking car salesman and I’m on the advanced track to Arasaka R&D and you think having some pretty chrome gives you the right to dick me about?”

  He laughed. “Even if that was true, little boy—it still very much does. When you come in here looking like you just robbed a flea market, what right do you think you have to demand respect from me or anyone else who works here? You came to Rayfield wearing that!” He gestured at me hotly. “If you had the money, then you still deserve to be insulted for being so limited in your ideas.”

  [Walk away, David—there are several corp-guards converging on our location. This is not the place for violence.]

  “You’re not fucking special,” I said to him. “You’re a fucking idiot—and I’m taking my money somewhere else.” Before I do something that’ll change this gonk’s life forever.

  I stomped away, ignoring the asshole’s no-doubt sizzling repartee as I considered my other options. There was always the secondary market.

  Or other fucking cars.

  As I got into a Delamain, asking it to just drive to Jinguji so I could ditch the threads for something better, I sent Falco the deets on the racing track and gave him a call.

  D: What car do you think will cut it on this track?

  Falco: That’s easy—Caliburn. It’s gotta be a Caliburn.

  The fuck was everyone’s goddamn obsession with the Caliburn anyway?

  D: They must have a preem fucking marketing department for everyone to be so obsessed with that shit car.

  Falco: Heh! You don’t know jack, D. The Caliburn ain’t just some high-falutin’ city-slicker hype wagon—it’s the real McCoy. Back 'fore Rayfield rolled that stallion outta the stable, folks used to bicker 'bout which brand had the meanest engine, fastest hooves, you name it. Then Rayfield moseyed on in, slapped down their twelve-inch iron on the saloon table, and said ‘beat this.’ Ain’t a soul had the grit to challenge ‘em since.

  D: I’m not buying a fucking Caliburn from their company, Falco.

  Falco: Lemme guess—some metal-faced pointy-chinned sumbitch called you poor in five different languages. That right?

  The fuck?

  D: Yeah! That—that’s exactly what fucking happened!

  Falco: Old tale, same dust on it. Don’t matter none if you’re sittin’ on a mountain o’ cash—Rayfield’s all high and mighty ‘bout their brand. They ain’t keen on sellin’ to the wrong sort, if you catch my drift. Folks with deep pockets, sure—but if that money came rollin’ in a bit sideways… well, let’s just say Rayfield don’t fancy dealin’ with hombres who made their fortune the outlaw way.

  And that guy must have clocked that by the fact that I just looked poor.

  D: That’s bullshit, though. I didn’t look like an outlaw.

  Falco: New money, outlaw—same difference in this city. And you probably came in lookin’ new money. Ain’t that right?

  D: Fine, forget about it. I’m not going back to them again, though. You know where I can buy Caliburns from the secondary market? Or, actually, I’d rather just klep one.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Falco: That’s a tall order, Lucha-D. Their security’s legendary—tighter than the outer hull of an Orbit Air cruiser, some say. But you should be good for it, Mr. Netrunner.

  I smirked. Of course.

  Falco: Well there’s one desperado I’ve heard tell of, operatin’ in the Badlands. Rocky Ridge, near the mine tunnel. Been hearing some stories circulatin’ about. He’s not the corpo type probably, if he’s operatin’ in Rocky Ridge, meaning no one’ll miss the car if you klep it from there.

  I nodded, changing the coords on the Delamain so that it would take me back home to Lucy’s instead. Needed to suit up after all.

  D: Thanks for the data, Falco. I’ll let you know if something comes out of it.

  Falco: Good luck, D.

  000

  After suiting up, I headed to Pilar’s to get some equipment. The guy had spent the night at his Ripperdoc after the beating he had received the night before, getting some of his chrome and much of his meat repaired.

  He sulked on his chair, arms folded and lower lip jutting forward in a petulant pout. “Dickhead,” he spat at me.

  “You shot me in the fucking head, Pilar.”

  “Assmunch.”

  Motherfucker! What part of ‘you shot me in the fucking head’ did he not understand? Why was he the mad one? “Fuck it—I need nades.”

  “It’s gonna cost ya now,” he said quietly. I wasn’t really expecting anything different. “I’ve got frags, EMP, BioHaz, CHAR, smokers—whatcha want?”

  “What looks best in a BD?” I asked.

  “CHAR—fire always sells, choom. And frags, of course. How many?”

  I shrugged. “Three a piece?”

  Nanny materialized before me, in her red high vis jacket, undercut and EMP threading on her face. She looked down at Pilar with disdain and concern. [David, I must ask you if you think buying deadly explosives from the man before you is a good idea, given his predilections towards being a fucking psycho!]

  I paused mentally for a moment. Then I shrugged.

  D: The fact that he’s still standing, being the way that he is, while making high explosives should speak for itself.

  She looked at me for a few seconds before shrugging. [Fair.] Then she disappeared in a shower of blue voxels.

  “You know any other creative ways to flatline gonks?” I asked, because let’s be honest—he was the best guy to ask that question to. “Without cyberware.”

  “Throwing knives, kid. Always a classic,” he cracked a wide grin. “I’ve seen chooms pull some crazy ninjutsu shit with tech throwing knives. Wrap monowire around ‘em and throw em in a formation, and you’ve got electric tripwires. Or wires hot enough to cut clean through steel. Preem shit.”

  Using wires with the knives did have a lot of potential, actually—someday. Would have to train to pull that off, or I’d look like an idiot giving that a try for the first time and failing.

  “I’ll just take whatever knives you have for now,” I said. I hadn’t given throwing knives much stock, having only really used chips to train in that discipline way back when. I knew the basics, but some field training would probably do me some good. “Also—you know of anyone that can coat my jacket in ballistic threads? Been meaning to get that squared away for some time.”

  Pilar’s tech visor glowed blue for a moment and I received the data from him. A location in J-Town. “Just bring her your shit and she’ll coat the inside in the best threads she can find. The more you pay her, the better those threads will be—but be careful, choom. She charges an arm and a fucking leg, and I ain’t just talking the meat variety, either.”

  “How much does the best shit cost?”

  Pilar laughed, “What are you a fucking Lazarus plant? Tell you what—if you’ve got two-hundred k eddies to throw around on the best bulletproof EMT jacket in town, then you might as well chip in some subderm. That option’s cheaper, plus it offers more comprehensive protection.”

  Two hundred for the best ballistic threads? That was crazy. “How much protection does that even offer?”

  “Enough that if you got hit by an artillery shell, you’d probably flatline in an instant—but the jacket? Wouldn’t even have a scratch on it.”

  I was sold instantly.

  Two hundred k to make sure mom’s jacket would never get so much as a scratch again was cheap. In the long run, at least. Right now, I had more important things to spend on, but I’d get it done, hopefully by the end of this coming week.

  Pilar handed me a bandolier of grenades, clearly marked with red and green marker pen to differentiate, and a belt of six throwing knives. Including all of that, and my sword, lexington, the Burya and the tech rifle, and I now had six ways of killing gonks. And that wasn’t even counting Quickhacks, or whatever weapon I could commandeer using Breach Protocol.

  I hopped on my bike and sped off towards the Rocky Ridge Mine Tunnel in the badlands.

  Once I approached its vicinity, I immediately found my heading as I heard gunshots popping off from the inside.

  I slotted in an empty shard in my socket, preparing to scroll my most purposefully engineered BD to date. All the while, I kept a few key things in mind.

  No talking—I had built that pattern already. No use breaking it, or trying something new. If it ain’t broke, don’t fucking fix it and all.

  No sandy. I’d try going low-speed the entire time. Using it would constitute a failure in my head.

  I parked the bike on the foot of a hill blocking off the firefight about half a click ahead. I grabbed the guitar case from the bike, opened it, and pulled out the tech rifle. I checked the mag to see if it was full and closed the barrel before ascending the hill to see what I was dealing with.

  A whole convoy of Raffen Shiv, fifteen different cars and trucks all parked around the mouth of the Rocky Ridge Mine Tunnel. None of the nine people outside were doing anything, though. The gunshots all came from inside—these guys were just guarding the entrance, making sure the guys inside wouldn’t get blindsided by reinforcements from… whoever they were shooting at.

  With any luck, it would actually be the group with the Caliburn Falco had talked about. With even more luck, the group and those nomads would mutually destroy each other. Wouldn’t make for a good BD, but fuck it—a car was a car. And this way, I’d avoid having to brave the secondary market or knock my head against bullshit Rayfield ICE.

  I went low on the ground and took aim. I took a deep breath and calmed my heart beat, giving myself a wider window between beats to make sure I’d get my shot in.

  I fired. I hit one man in the torso, ripping through him entirely. He fell dead instantly, alerting the others to an ambush. They grabbed for their guns and looked around in every direction. I didn’t waste any time lining up another shot at one that was foolish enough to look around while standing completely still. He died just the same.

  Then shots began to fly over at my direction, going wide and firing way overhead. At five hundred meters away, I didn’t expect any low-tech nomad to be able to land a shot against me. Pilar had it right for the most part—these guys were sweet compared to the Strom.

  One shot, one dead. Another shot, another dead.

  They started taking cover behind their cars like that meant shit to me. I blew through two car door windows, still managing to destroy one guy’s torso.

  By the time I had taken out seven, the remaining two fled into the tunnel. I reloaded the magazine, going back to return the spent magazine into the guitar case. It still had two rounds left, so it’d be a waste just to throw it away. I threw the rifle on my back so it dangled by the strap, picked out my Burya, Lexington and sword. With all that out of the way, I began the rather boring jog through the badlands towards the Mine Tunnel, releasing a Ping once I was fifty meters close to the entrance, to make sure no one would get me by surprise.

  It turned out that I had counted wrong—there was one guy left, cowering inside one truck, cradling a tech shotgun and aiming in my direction, waiting to release his shot through the car door once he was sure it would get me. I pointed my Burya at him and blew him apart. The truck released a gout of blood from the wound I had opened on it—the Wraith’s blood, of course. Cars didn’t bleed.

  I refocused on the entrance on the tunnel. My Ping had caught only the stragglers of this continuous firefight—around five in number. The two survivors were trying their best to convince their friends to come on outside and deal with me—at least, that was what I could surmise from their body language.

  Once I entered the tunnel, I realized that I should probably have just left the tech rifle behind. The tunnel had way too many twists and turns for a long-range shot to be applicable, and the Burya was good enough for any wallbanging purposes. Oh well—live and learn.

  Once I approached a bend in the tunnel, the five Wraith stragglers I had spotted from outside right around the corner, I pulled out an incendiary grenade from my belt.

  [Do you really want to choke the air with fire? Is that a wise idea?]

  I decided to use a frag instead.

  I pulled the trigger and threw the frag as hard as I could at a wall, bouncing the grenade off around a corner and towards the Raffen Shiv.

  The ensuing explosion instantly wiped out two of the Wraiths. Two more were mere flickering lights to my Ping before they, too extinguished, marking their deaths. The last stubbornly remaining signature was crawling on the ground, trying to get away from me by going deeper into the cave.

  I walked through the tunnel until I reached him, a guy wearing a black leather jacket and pants combo with blue nylon thermals peeking underneath. Black and blue seemed to be the main theme of the Wraiths. I spotted one guy wearing a useless blue helmet, metal shrapnel sticking out from it, probably from the grenade I had used.

  I stomped him on the back of his head, feeling his soft skull give nearly instantly to my stomp. Good. No use choking the cramped space with more noise. I’d rather stick to my knives and sword from here on out—or the Lexington if a shootout became unavoidable. The Burya could take a backseat for now, though. If I used it here, I’d probably have to rely on Nanny to fix the resultant eardrum damage.

  [I’ve had to fix your ear drums for days ever since you got that weapon of overcompensation.]

  D: Don’t you like it when I get hurt? You call it training.

  [Thought you weren’t supposed to talk during these.]

  D: I’ll edit it out.

  Nothing was happening at the moment anyway. Might as well just jump-cut this shit.

  Okay, Ping.

  Apparently, a squad of Wraiths were backtracking away from the front of the pack to come at me now, armed to the teeth with automatic rifles.

  I grabbed two knives from my belt, waiting for the first group to come out.

  [A day will come where you’ll have to contend with real opponents, David—try not to pick up too many bad habits. The safest option here would be to look for cover and use up the rest of your grenades on this group.]

  D: You’re killing my vibe—besides, already used a nade.

  Once the first guy, carrying a copperhead automatic rifle, peaked out from the corner, I threw the knife as hard as I could, trying to incorporate what I had learned from that tutorial BD.

  I didn’t end up hitting his head with the pointy bit as intended, but it seemed that the velocity of my throw, and the fact that the handle was made entirely out of metal, was enough to crack his skull open and flatline him anyhow. I was pretty sure that dome was fully ‘ganic.

  Sweet as sugar.

  Alright, let’s tweak the technique. Clearly, if I throw it that way, the knife would land handle-first in that distance. Meaning my effective range came in alternating strips of space.

  One guy following the first man aimed his gun at me, inching towards me. I threw before he could fire, just as I reckoned he had stepped into one strip that was ‘knife-first’ so to speak.

  I was right. With that particular strength in my throw, the alternating strips of ‘knife first’ to ‘butt first’ would remain pretty much consistent.

  I ran towards the group this time around. Using one hand, I picked up the second guy I had downed, knife still stuck in his forehead, and used him to block a pair of bullets meant for me before throwing my knife again, hitting the gunman. I one smooth motion, I reached for the knife already stuck in my meatshield’s head and threw it at the fourth guy rounding the corner.

  Then I dropped the meatshield, drew Eikō, and took a deep breath, calming my heart.

  [This is fucking stupid, even for you. Please don’t. Please do not try this.]

  By now, my sense for bullet trajectories just by seeing where the muzzle was pointed as was essentially on point. I had been shot at enough—and done my own fair share of shooting enough—that the sense was engraved in my bones. My mind had absorbed that information, collated it into a table of understanding, and diffused into something almost approaching instinct.

  But this would be the main test to fully ascertain the extent of my knowledge.

  From ten meters away, a Wraith shot at me, with a handgun.

  I didn’t actively cut. Responding to such a high-speed projectile in such a manner would require that I use the Sandevistan, or failing that, a shit ton of chrome.

  Instead, I lined my sword against the bullet.

  BANG.

  [Idiot.]

  So good news—I cut the bullet.

  Bad news—two half-bullets hit me instead.

  I coughed a little, tasting blood in my mouth. Natural, since both bullet halves hit me on both my lungs.

  I grabbed my Lexington and started blasting.

  I know, I know—but this was a rather drastic situation that required that I end this kerfuffle a little early.

  D: Nanny—how fast can you fix this without using the Sandy?

  [I can stem the bleeding in five minutes, but healing it would be an entirely different beast. That could take some hours. Ready to give up?]

  I felt a surge of adrenaline as I chuckled. Hell no.

  Things had just gotten exciting after all.

  I sheathed the Lexington and wielded Eikō once more. Things had gotten minorly dicey, but hey—what better way to keep the audience wanting more than to take on additional risk?

  No more cutting bullets. The physics of it all didn’t agree very well with a decent fighting style.

  Instead, I turned my blade ninety degrees in my grip so the flat was facing my enemies, and blocked the bullets altogether. My wrist strength was pushed to the limits as I had to continuously re-straighten the sword. To make the exercise easier, I made sure to aim for the bullet to hit closest to the cross-guard, where I had maximal leverage over the sword—and theoretically, where it had the most durability.

  [Idiooooot.]

  I ran in as fast as I could, ignoring the blaring sting of my lungs with each breath I drew, and began cutting the Wraiths down. I ignored their curse-filled screams as I cut each one down one by one, darting around them with ease while they moved like they were encased in molasses. Slow. Slow in body and slow in mind, and unskilled to boot. I felt like I was going after the Pinche Perros all over again, and I wasn’t even using the Sandy this time around.

  Pathetic.

  I sent out another Ping to ascertain the situation—all of the Wraiths were heading to my location now. All except one, who was staying put in the deepest edge of the tunnel. Or perhaps that wasn’t a Wraith, but the one that they were shooting at?

  If they had been gunning after just one guy this whole time, then I had to give him props.

  And perhaps, be forced to give up and use the Sandy in order to go all out against him.

  I took cover behind a mining cart and threw a frag at one cluster of Wraiths, taking out a whooping seven in one go. While those outside the effective range reeled after their close brush with death, I threw my remaining three knives at those I could reach. I managed a stab with all three, but unfortunately, I hit an arm with one of them.

  While he bled, I sent out one last Ping, expecting to see not that many more still in the fight. I was right. There were three more Wraiths still breathing, including the one I had hit in the arm with the knife.

  I sent two of them an Overheat, and with the remaining RAM in my cyberdeck, I debated on whether or not to use the BG. Probably wasn’t wise to use it in a BD, come to think of it. And none of these guys deserved that shit, at least according to me. Maybe someone out there thought they did, but I wasn’t nearly as emotionally invested in all this.

  The one I had stabbed in the arm slinked on his back against the wall, crying and panting in exertion. I got out from my cover and walked into the tunnel, finding him. He tried to raise his gun to hit me. I sliced the gun in half.

  Hmmm, what should I do with this guy.

  [Kill him. Letting him escape so he can blab about you isn’t wise.]

  “What… what are you?!” He cried.

  What, not who. I couldn’t deny the swell of pride in that.

  I pulled the knife out from his arm and sheathed it in my belt. Then, ignoring his screams, I turned away from him and walked further into the tunnel. If he escaped, he’d tell the story of me, and I’d be that much more famous. If he called for reinforcements, I’d get to extend this BD.

  Forty-three dead, all told. That brought the total up to three-hundred and thirty three. What a neat number.

  My Ping told me how close I was to the last guy in the tunnel, who still hadn’t moved from the spot I had first scanned him at. When I got closer to him, I could see why.

  The last guy wasn’t a Wraith. That much was clear.

  He was dressed entirely in black armor, which set him apart from the average Edgerunner, too. No, this guy seemed kitted out for combat and nothing else. But he didn’t look like a corp plant, either. He was dressed too… goofily for that.

  His helmet had a smooth black visor covering his eyes, and atop his head was a pair of red horns. Also on his chest was a large red insignia of a red devil with horns, wielding a pitch fork.

  On his chest was a gnarly bullet hole that pulsed with blood. He clearly wasn’t long for this world, that was easy to see.

  He raised his gun to shoot at me. I batted the gun away with the flat of my blade, too intrigued by his look to immediately kill him. “Who the fuck are you?” I muttered.

  “You… you’re not a Wraith?”

  “No, dipshit,” I said. “I killed them all. Now answer the question.”

  “I’m… I’m the Dark Avenger,” he wheezed before coughing. “The prowler in the dark. The red devil of justice… Murk Man.”

  I looked away from him to look at the rest of the space in this particular stretch of cave. There, next to the cave wall, was a pitch black Caliburn. “That your car?”

  “The… Murkmobile. My trusty… steed.”

  I looked down at him and parsed his words again. “Wait, you said justice? You some kinda superhero?”

  “I am the bane of…” he coughed, “Every goddamn gangoon that…” He coughed again. “Think they can get away with all their… their bullshit. ‘S why they hired… these fucks… to flatline me.”

  I nodded. That seemed consistent. Suddenly, I lost all interest in killing him. “Listen, I can take you to a med center in exchange for your car.” Or even for free if he pushed it. Seemed like the right thing to do if he really met this fate trying to fuck with the gangs.

  “Fuck that. I ain’t… lettin’ no corp fuck touch my meat,” he hissed vehemently. “Even… buying this car was… a fucking pain… fuck… corpos… especially… Rayfield, those… motherfuckers.”

  That was a choice I could respect. “You know you’ll die without help, right.”

  “Then… that’s all she wrote, heheh.”

  Damn. Was he just acting or was he really this stuck on his principles? Either way, I didn’t owe him shit anyway. I sent out a Ping to make sure the last Wraith was behaving himself—and he was, stumbling his way out from the mines. Good man.

  “Thanks,” he wheezed. “For… caring.”

  “I’m not a good guy or anything,” I said. “You shouldn’t thank me—I’m just here for your car, choom.”

  “Then… take it. If you promise me… that you will… kick their asses… all their asses. Kill them all, choom. Murk their asses. Fuck them up.”

  “I mean,” I shrugged, “I’ll do what I can, but not because you told me to. I hate the gangs as much as the next gutter rat.” I could totally understand why some decided to join the gangs—like the Tygers, 6th Street, the Mox or the Valentinos, at least. The Maelstrom were just psychopaths that needed to be wiped from the face of the earth, and the scavs were no better. Same with the Wraiths and some minor boostergangs that wanted to follow in the footsteps of the Strom. No mercy to those fucks.

  Cleaning their rot from the streets wasn’t heroic—really, it was just a public service.

  “Corpos… too… don’t… forget…”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice.

  He dug through his utility belt and I readied my sword for any bullshit. Instead, he pulled out a keyring with a keyfob shaped like the black Caliburn he was guarding, and a black cop shield with the initials ‘M.M’ engraved on it.

  I grabbed the keys and his hand fell. I Pinged him just to check on him and saw that his ass had flatlined already.

  Wow.

  000

  Falco met me at Aldo’s to check on the Caliburn. He looked under the hood, nodding appreciatively before turning to me. “How’s the CrystalDome? Can you change the color?”

  I frowned and shook my head. “No—he fucked with the firmware or some shit. A BIOS error notification pops up when you try.”

  Which was total bullshit. I was not trying to ride around in a goddamn all-black edgemobile. If I couldn’t give it my colors, then what was even the point? Besides, I didn’t want anyone to recognize the Murkmobile by the exact shade of black and gray it was sporting. That seemed like a dumb risk to take. Had to get that fixed at some point.

  "Good news is, this beast’s made for speed and corner-cut precision. You can smell it in the custom carbon-poly tires and hear it hum in that souped-up engine. Bad news? Don’t mean a damn thing if you drive like a braindead mule. You already know that, but lemme say it plain: you got a long trail o’ practice ahead. So if I were you, I’d quit flappin’ my gums and start burnin’ some rubber—‘cause now’s the time to put in the work."

  The sun overhead bore down on us mercilessly. It was only high noon, meaning I still had quite a few hours of work ahead of me, unfortunately. I had popped the Sandevistan to heal my lungs after the firefight with the Wraiths, and had snagged a bite of food to eat to replenish the lost blood on my way here, so I was pretty much eighty percent to being in perfect shape.

  Might as well get started, then.

  https://discord.gg/W5BqBBym28