He wasn't used to beds, he wasn't sure how meatbags could stand it. Being on your back was a shit position on the best of days in a scrap, and being unconscious and on your back meant that you were going to die real fucking fast.
A solid surface was something he valued, concrete or hard packed dirt and similar. He could run on it and not risk going through with his six-hundred or so pound steps. His feet were proportionally larger than what a meatbag's would have been, and had an extra 'toe' on the heel specifically to distribute his weight even further. Soft surfaces were absolutely awful and a bad idea all around, mud, quicksand, rotten wood, shit like that. He would stomp right through that.
Beds were the worst of both worlds. He was on his back on a soft surface, and underneath a pseudo-net that was a typical blanket. Sure he could tear right through it, but it would take a moment more than normal because more blankets were made of hemp these days. He didn't have to be unconscious anymore, his micro-fusion plant was pricier than most buildings but it was absolutely worth it, so that was one thing he didn't have to worry about.
Everything else though? Absolutely awful, putting himself in a shitty tactical situation for something as asinine as 'comfort', something that he never needed. They were almost as bad as BDs, which as far as he could tell had absolutely nothing but downsides. The only reason he was putting up with it now?
The cougar was being awfully free with info so long as he stayed still. So while Uriel was watching the kids through the cameras, he was in the trap known as a bed and getting updated about the situation on the streets.
"...most of the gangs have been digesting what they were able to snatch during your most recent massacres, so it's been relatively peaceful these past few months. That's probably not going to last much longer though." The cougar talked, lying against his chest as he glared at the ceiling and occasionally gave a reply.
"Who got the most out of my fun?"
She hummed as she idly dragged a finger back and forth on his chest. "Difficult to say. Either Maelstrom or 6th Street. Maelstrom got right on to grabbing as much as they could in the aftermath of each, but it must not have been too much because they've actually stopped being so aggressive afterwards. They might be hoarding it for a rainy day. 6th Street wasn't the biggest before, but they were close enough to the badlands to snatch up most of the vehicles you left after the Wraiths, them and the Nomads. They have the heaviest guns around now."
He snorted. She lightly slapped his pectoral myomer.
"Not too heavy to you, maybe. Most of us are made of meat, remember?"
"That was your first mistake." He grunted.
She let out a snort of laughter. "Sure, sure. The Scavs being gone wasn't too much of a disruption, other than everyone getting a bunch of secondhand chrome whenever one of their old dens got found. That new ripperdoc gang kept everything running pretty much the same as before. The Voodoo boys had a bit more impact."
He couldn't take credit for that one, that was the boy's doing. He took secondhand satisfaction in the deed. He rumbled in reply, she paused for a moment before continuing.
"With the big name ganger-netrunners suddenly going under, that left a whole lotta room for a whole lotta independents to crop up. Can't shoot without hitting some small fry trying to make it big through selling their net services out these days. Maelstrom still has their batshit runners, but they don't do work outside the gang and no one wants to hire them anyways. Animals never bothered with it. Valentinos, 6th Street, and Tyger Claws usually outsourced whenever they needed a runner."
"The Mox have gotten quite a bit more business now that their biggest runner competitors are extinct. They've expanded quite a bit, especially with their popularity at your little arena. Combine that with the Tygers being distracted with the Animals, and they're almost as big as Maelstrom was a year ago now, a bit more than a thousand of them."
"...Is that supposed to be impressive? A thousand prostitute meatbags?" He asked, honestly curious. It had been a long time since he had a gang of his own, and his was about… fifteen-hundred maybe? Half of which were orphan brats. Most of them got butchered while he was being turned into metal by Arasaka, so he didn't bother going back to check up on them. There was always going to be kids on the streets, their distribution made no difference.
A small gang was about a hundred members, a gang worth mentioning was around a thousand, a gang that was a threat was around ten-thousand, and the gangs that lasted more than a century were a hundred-thousand strong. That last category had the Yakuza, La Eme, and the Mafia, and no one else to his knowledge. Very fucking few gangs reached the point of mattering in the grand scheme, a thousand meatbags was just a thousand meatbags afterall. There wasn't a single gang in Night City that mattered to the big shots he killed for.
"A thousand prostitutes with a global fanbase thanks to your arena giving them free advertising. Last I heard they were getting more than ten-thousand eddies a month in donations from 'fans'."
Well funded prostitute meatbags then, getting money from horny meatbags. Uriel had a word for this.
"Fucking simps."
She stopped her idle circles, pushing herself up on one arm and raising a brow at him. Her hair messily flopped in front of her face. "What's a simp?"
…Well shit, that term didn't exist here, did it? He narrowed his optics in frustration and explained simply. "A desperately horny meatbag." She hummed and stayed pushed up, eyes trailing his features. He tilted his head to stare at her in turn, examining her body. Rejux treatments did her good. She looked like she was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties now, still with gray hair though.
She smirked at him. "Does the big bad butcher like what he sees?"
He snorted. "Much improved over the 'out-of-touch grandmother' look."
She narrowed her eyes, reached up, and pinched his nose. She couldn't hurt him this way no matter how hard she tried. His Gemini was as durable as a MetalGear was. "I'll fuck you up, asshole." She threatened in a bantering manner.
Unfortunately for her, he had the perfect response. He slapped her behind with one of his hands under the cover. "Like I just did yours?"
She jumped at the sudden impact, grit her teeth, and growled at him. He grinned maliciously at her glare. It was fun to rile this woman up.
—
He took a long drag of his pipe, and slowly breathed out genuine tobacco. He knew it was genuine because he grew it himself, it was the only way to get a smoke worth a damn these days. The Agri-wars were still going strong after all, and farms for organic plants were more and more expensive to keep running day by day. He had a personal garden, but that was it. If he expanded it and started selling the tobacco, then he would undoubtedly be visited by Biotechnica or Petrochem with polite requests to cease, followed by biochemical weapons if he refused.
Every organic farm in the world was at risk of such attacks. Pacifica was somewhat protected by the reputation of Arasaka and Adam Smasher, and the hundreds of armed residents that guarded their new food sources like dingos watching babies. There had been several attacks stopped before Arasaka even became aware of them, just from the enthusiastic self-policing of the citizens in the arena.
Ever since the first harvest, sabotaging the planters was a good way to have everyone in the neighborhood block attack you without reservation. There was at least one guard with a circadian half-cycler on constant look out at each section. None of them wanted the good times to end, and they were willing to kill and get killed over it. That was part of why Pacifca was so valuable to take control over.
An entire district willing to keep constant watch over organic food production. The Animals foolishly did absolutely nothing with this, but the Tyger Claws saw well the potential therein. Tens of thousands willing to defend planter boxes, and to do so eagerly…
That was a treasure like nothing else in Night City. The Animals were squandering it completely! He grit his teeth in anger, careful to remove his fine pipe first. The waste was irritating beyond all measures. Above everything else, even if his life was forfeit, he had to kill Ryuzaki. Anyone at all was better to control the Pacifican territory, anyone at all.
The door opened a sixteenth time, Akuhara bringing in the final candidate. He opened his eyes and looked over the now full room.
Sixteen of the greatest warriors that the Tyger Claws had. Thirteen of them were young men, three were young women, and all of them had some degree of success in the Arena prior. He inwardly frowned at their visible chrome, the youths not even having the decency to cover it over with synthflesh.
They had not earned the right to bear a mechanical body. They were not symbols of the might of an entire organization, or warriors capable of overcoming a hundred warriors alone. They were well-trained brats at best. He let his pipe rest in his palm, not letting his frustration with them show.
His iron collar itched. He had no right to complain.
He began to speak. "You have been called here today for a specific purpose. You are the sixteen greatest warriors of the Tyger Claws, all of you in the prime of your youth, all of you with a strong arm and a vicious instinct."
He scanned over the small crowd, noting their behaviors and attitudes. There was one on the right with cold blue hair, he was perfectly still while at attention.
"At the end of this week, I shall duel with The Beast, leader of the Animals, in the Arena. I am not the warrior I was in my youth. I will likely die from my wounds after bringing him down. If I die within the Arena, then the Tyger Claws are honor-bound to hold a tournament."
He let the moment linger. The one on the left with the bladed legs, she was the most eager judging from the barely suppressed bloodthirsty grin on her face. She was able to guess what was coming next, or she was told.
"A tournament to determine the next leader of the Tyger Claws."
There was a shocked ripple that spread through them. They were understandably surprised, as melee tournaments were not how gang leadership was chosen, traditionally speaking.
"There will be an open qualifier to this tournament, and sixteen finalists."
He glared at them suddenly, letting the full weight of his presence fill the room. Some of the more nervous looking ones choked up at his sudden change in expression.
"You all are to work together in the qualifier, to eliminate as many foreigners as possible. This is an absolute order. The Tyger Claws will collapse if such an individual were to achieve this victory, I will not allow that to happen even from the grave."
"One of you will succeed, or the Tyger Claws will collapse."
He leaned back on his mat a tad, and lessened his glare. The weaker ones were suddenly able to breathe again.
"No doubt each of you will be approached by some faction or individual within the Tyger Claws itself. Some of you will be approached by outside factions, some of you will be alone in this fight. All of this is permissible, use whatever means available to you to succeed, I care not."
"In this instance, and this instance alone, honor matters less than victory."
He scanned around the room a final time. The one in the middle with cybernetic arms, he had a determined glare on his face. It was a fierce expression.
"You are dismissed."
As they shuffled from his room, Sota took another puff from his pipe. Slowly, old bones creaking at him, he got up. He walked around his seating and through the door behind him into his personal chambers.
Walking over to the right, he looked at the display and smoked, contemplative.
Mounted upon the display, a paired set of Kendachi monoblades and a number of auto-injector canisters sat.
His ravaged body breathed in through his cybernetic throat. Slowly, he took the vials, filled with a number of custom stimulants, and loaded them into the slots on his neck.
One final battle, one he had little chance of surviving. There was little need to hold himself back.