"…I suppose this will suffice for the time." Fulgore noted. It was morning in Night City once again, and the two of them stood in front of another sleezy motel. One they spent the night at, at the detriment to their funds. With how David and Maine worded the city, the cyborg deduced it would be extremely unwise for them to rest in the open, so with the motel, at the very least, they had their backs to a wall.
The cyborg's optics focused on the metal bracer Riptor wore, replacing one of his shackles. The clerk, and her tech-savvy manager, managed to convert the Agent into an arm-mounted device. A surface-level scan once again confirmed it had the necessary additions: Eurodollar storage, integration with Cyberaudio, and a few other useful amenities. He made sure to convince the clerk to put video streaming into the Agent. To keep Riptor busy, truthfully. Fulgore noticed colorfully when Riptor was idle, he started getting ideas. Some were good, and some were like his car door idea from yesterday. Keeping him busy meant he wouldn't do that as often. Or at least that was the idea. The intent, even.
Regardless, it was another day. And it meant another task.
"Make sure you know where the volume is," Fulgore warned Riptor. "just in case we need to go somewhere crowded. I'd rather us not give someone an excuse to cause trouble for us when we can avoid it."
Riptor gave a low grunt and raised his arm. Taloned fingers tapped at the touch screen of the Agent, and within seconds, Fulgore heard the very low sound of a NiCola commercial. At least he was complacent.
Wordlessly, Fulgore dialed up Maine. The ringer played for a few seconds. "Auuuuugh…what?" His voice sounded tired. Groggy, even. Considering the sun hadn't crossed the horizon yet, the cyborg figured he had woken Maine up.
"Sorry," Fulgore apologized first and foremost. "I didn't know you were asleep."
"Ngh…it's fine. Was gonna get up one way or a fucking 'nother. Ugh, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. We're ready for more work if there's any."
"Ah. Just like the new kid, then. Dialed me up at the worst damn time last night calling for something. Just…gimme a sec." He went quiet for a few seconds. By the muffled sounds he heard, Fulgore guessed Maine was looking for something around his home. Or doing something else. He didn't know, nor was he going to ask. "Right, got something. Pilar's got all the details, so I'll have him meet you two at the Afterlife this afternoon. Hash things out."
"Pilar is…?"
"A Techie of the crew. Cyberware hands. Crude and dirty-minded. He's…eccentric, just like his sister, but he's dependable at least. When it counts. If you can stand him running his mouth." Fulgore searched his memory, piecing together the connection. He saw the man in question at the nighttime celebration, so he understood who to look for at least. And to temper his expectations.
"We'll have a chat with him, and we'll handle this job."
"Good, and—oh goddamnit, now David's calling! Ugh…am I ever gonna get a fuckin' day to myself…" The call ended. David was just as earnest to get work, it seemed. Still, they needed to go to the Afterlife bar. A quick search of his databanks told him it was the site for all mercenaries and 'Solos'. Where the best of the best met to talk shop, connect with 'fixers', and undertake perilous jobs.
"Riptor," the raptor looked up. "we need to head to the Afterlife. Please be on your best behavior. Everyone there will be armed."
The hybrid hissed. Fulgore suspected it to be disappointment.
Stares and eyes were on them as they treaded down the stairs. The metal stairs leading to the place Pilar was supposed to meet them. Fulgore subtly scanned everything on the way down, especially those who eyed them as they walked. Predictably, and as warned, everyone they passed was armed in some way. Which meant a hasty mistake could lead to everyone drawing weapons on them. Fulgore's chassis was durable, but he knew enough sustained fire would rupture it and cause considerable damage to his internals. And Riptor, while able to regenerate, couldn't regenerate from everything.
The cyborg stopped before a burly man, standing at the doors. His hands rested over his front, and he stared at him with a stern look, eyes flicking between him and Riptor. "…who sent you?" He asked.
"Maine," Fulgore answered. "and we were asked to meet Pilar here. Do you know them?"
"Not quite," the man stepped to the side. "but that tells me you're here on business, not for gonk shit. Keep your iron to yourselves…and keep that one close." He gestured lightly towards Riptor. He hissed in response.
"He is fine. He is with me." The doors slid open, and Fulgore stepped through them. The interior of the Afterlife was a vastly different experience. All manners of curios and opulent items were strewn about the room. A stacked bar was ahead, with a tender already working to make drinks for her clients, mercenaries of all kinds sat at tables or watched women dancing in watery pods, and many moved about, enjoying their time. As the databanks said, the Afterlife was the premier spot for ideal mercenaries in Night City. Where the best came to drink, relax, and pick up new jobs. Considering why they were summoned, that was no different.
"Oi, over here, chooms!" Fulgore turned his head. At a distant booth sat the man in question. Pilar sat alone, a bottle of tequila in hand with a drinking glass next to him. A wide smile framed his face, as a gold hand beckoned them over. "Fuckin' took y'all long enough!"
"Locating the bar took a moment," Fulgore stepped towards him. Riptor followed behind, quickly sliding into the booth as the cyborg stood. "but we are here for the job."
"Right yeah, that," the techie scoffed. "eh, we can hash that out after we do some shots!" His smile waivered slightly. "…you can drink, right? Don't see a mouth on you, unless you drink stuff the other way, if ya catch my drift?" He sneered. Fulgore didn't know what he meant.
"Due to the nature of my augmentation, I cannot drink." He eyed Riptor. He was already reaching for the bottle of tequila Pilar foolishly set down. In a flash, it was in his claws, and the techie watched with amusement as Riptor chugged from the entire bottle. "Thankfully, Riptor can drink enough for both of us."
"Well shit, I can fuckin' tell! He's got the eddies for that bottle, right? Cause that was the preem shit, too." Pilar griped, though Fulgore heard some amusement to his voice. He didn't mean it.
"Deduct it from the job. What is it?"
"…y'know, ya gotta learn to lighten up," Pilar snorted. "and ya need some new digs, too! While you ain't got the iron that matters," he made a pumping motion with his hand. "ya still gotta toss some clothes on. Don't want everyone knowin' ya went full borg."
"It's a problem?"
"Sure ain't a good thing. Most who go that route end up goin' crazy. Makes 'em think you'll be just as batshit insane too! Also," he pointed a thumb at Riptor. "this fucker's not even wearing pants. So, we gotta fix that 'fore I send you two on this job."
"You want us to find clothes before we handle this job?" Fulgore asked.
Pilar waved a hand. "Not find, choom. Look, there's a clothes store not far from here. I'd feel bad as shit if I send ya out there, not lookin' like a fuckin' champ! Like yours truly! So," he hopped to his feet, slamming back his own glass of tequila, and sighing blissfully. "let's go! Shouldn't take long!"
Fulgore was, naturally, a bit reluctant to devote time towards clothes shopping. Especially considering he had no use for them. However, Pilar seemed insistent on the idea. Not to mention, clothes meant they could potentially hide in plain sight. Reduce the odds of another Solo coming to look for them. Ultratech still wanted them, and he refused to be in their clutches yet again.
"Fine. Lead the way." Fulgore nodded to the techie. "We need to ensure this place has clothes that fit."
"I mean…you'll fit. Him?" He eyed Riptor. "…they're gonna have to get creative."
"Fortunately, he has enough creativity for the both of us as well."
"Well, whaddya think?" Fulgore looked into the mirror, eyeing himself in the clothes Pilar painstakingly picked for him. He wore an orange and black bomber jacket, of crystaljock design. A pair of loose-fitting blue jeans framed his legs, with a set of Maelstrom boots over his feet. The jacket itself was left unzipped and bore a logo on the back he didn't recognize. The outfit was…odd, to say the least. But it concealed enough. "Snazzy, ain't it?" Pilar asked.
Fulgore looked over at the techie, seated on a metal bench nearby, in the underpopulated clothing store. They were the only customers, though Fulgore got the idea that was because of them. Fulgore eyed the sleeves for a moment, reaching down to roll them up to leave his forearms exposed. In case he needed to free his blades. "These will…work." He studied his arms for a moment. Where the rolled sleeves stopped, and his metal arms began. His optics focused on them, studying them intently. For a faint second, his optics glitched.
For a faint second, he saw human arms there. And as quick as they appeared, they were gone. Replaced with his usual, unfeeling metal limbs. "…these will work, Pilar." He affirmed. "Riptor, what about…you…?"
Riptor stood nearby. An old ballistic vest was over his torso, and he wore a set of armored shorts. A pair of infovisors rested over his eyes, as the hybrid eyed himself in another mirror. Giving amused sounding trills.
"…" Fulgore eyed Pilar. "Did he pick those?"
"Weirdly, yeah." The techie scratched the side of his head. "Dunno where he found that vest. Didn't even know they sold shit like that here." As ever, Riptor continued to confuse and impress him. The way the hybrid's mind worked remained an enigma.
"I'm sure he did it for a reason." Fulgore turned towards Pilar properly. "Now, the job?"
"Riiiiiight. Well," he cleared his throat. "some gonk fixer wants a shard klepped. From a lil' Maelstrom hideout. Shard's supposed to be a shipping report on some new 'ware comin' into NC. Ware he already promised to some ripper clients. Cause of this, he's scared if Maelstrom kleps the shipment, his ass is toast. So, snag the shard, flatline the gonks, then we'll meet in the Afterlife for more shots. That work for ya, chooms?"
The information appeared in the corner of Fulgore's feed. Where the hideout was located. It wasn't far, and the job seemed simple enough.
"What information can you give about Maelstrom, then?" Fulgore asked. "What sort of fight are we in for?" While his databanks had some information on Maelstrom, it wasn't enough to clarify what sort of fight they were in for.
"Shiiiiit, a weird one! Maelstrom fuckers are all 'bout chromin' the fuck up. Biggest example is the fuckin' weird optics they get. Like a spider's eyes! Some even carve out part of their skull for that shit! So, they ain't smart, ain't fun to zero, and usually got so much chrome a fuckin' EMP's usually enough to flatline the gonks." His optics flashed, as the data was archived. Extensive, yet hasty, cybernetic augmentation, then. He already went to work archiving possible methods to take them down as quickly as possible.
"We'll deal with them." Fulgore concluded.
"Good. And come back alive! Mostly cause I already spent the eddies from this gig, so…" he shrugged. "we kinda ain't got a choice. Not 'less you wanna run and tell Maine we fucked it all up."
Fulgore wished he could sigh. Pilar was as impulsive as Riptor, then.
A derelict warehouse. How predictable.
Fulgore stood outside of the Maelstrom hideout in question, one impossible to miss with the copious spray paint and graffiti marking it. If anything, it would be hard not to find the hideout, given how easy they wanted it to be found. Of course, that also meant he needed to be on guard. If they went through such lengths to be seen, they were doing so for good reason.
"Riptor," he looked to the hybrid. He warbled in response. His Infovisor was tilted, and his Agent-clad arm raised. "This one will be trickier. Be careful." Fulgore turned his head towards the warehouse once more, giving it another quick scan before he motioned to it. "On the roof. Search for any snipers and eliminate them silently. I will infiltrate the warehouse and locate the shard."
The hybrid nodded, and with effortless strength he leapt onto a shorter building's rooftop. Another bound later and he was on the roof, skulking about in search of unwitting prey. The cyborg gave him a final nod before he moved to the warehouse's garage door. Carefully, with the barest hint of strength, the knob was torn free and the door pushed inwards. Metal fingers hooked through the hole left by the knob to keep the door silent, as the cyborg carefully crept into the Maelstrom lair. The hideout where their foes rested.
It took mere seconds to find a handful of them in the room's center, working on gearing up for some sort of assault. Straight away, they fit Pilar's description; many had haphazard cyberware planted in their bodies, and many more bore foreign tattoos on their forms. More importantly, all of them bore the same sort of optics Pilar warned about. Menacing, red optics. Like part of their face was carved out in favor of life-changing cybernetic augmentation. Almost like a final commitment to running with Maelstrom forever.
Fulgore's optic cameo was activated as the cyborg crouched behind a crate, watching as the gangers prepared themselves. Rifles were chambered, shells were loaded, pistols cocked and so much more. It was almost like he caught them moments before they ventured off to fight. Considering he counted at least fifteen of them in the warehouse's main room, Fulgore deemed it unwise to engage immediately. He would have to plot and wait.
"Alright, you cotton-candy gonk-fuckers, we got a big job ahead of us," a grating voice bellowed. All of the Maelstromers turned to regard someone as he entered the room. A tall, lanky man, who's arms were replaced from the shoulders to his hands with bony, wiry metal arms. A gas-mask rested over his mouth, shrouding much of his pale face, as a set of burning green optics rested where his eyes once were. Wires jutted from his chest and arms, connecting to one another and sparking as he approached the Maelstromers. Because of his augmentation, he was bare from the waist up, as he wore little more than a set of loose-fitting, baggy pants and spiked boots. The look of the man was off-putting, and as Fulgore scanned him, he noticed that, despite his junky appearance, he had some interesting cyberware in there. From improved Subdermal Armor to Atomic Sensors. What really caught the cyborg's attention was the fact the man had a high end Kerenzikov. It wasn't as potent as his own, but it meant he could perform the same maneuvers if properly motivated. "Brick wants us to move in on some Valentino turf and swipe it. By any means necessary. So, that's just what we're gonna fucking do. Swoop in, zero the gonks, klep the shit, force the damn Padre to be a little more receptive to negotiation." A territory dispute, then. How charming. The job description didn't state they needed to quell the rising gang war, just take the shard and leave.
Fulgore maintained his concealment and moved. Circling the warehouse slowly as the gristly, Maelstrom ganger informed his friends on their plan of attack.
"Oi, something's up," one of them said, prompting Fulgore to halt. "the rooftop guys aren't reporting in. Something's wrong, sir."
"Augh…for the love of…" he reached over to swipe something from a nearby crate. A gristly looking sword he twirled and flicked off. "Keep prepping. I'll have a look myself. I know better than to send one of you jerk-offs to have a look." He turned and walked away, leaving the others to continue their preparations. Fulgore eyed the man for a moment, the chose to creep after him. Given that he was a leader of some sort, the one calling the shots, eliminating him could encourage the others to betray the location of the shard. He wasn't sure if Maelstrom could be intimidated into such a thing, but it was worth a try. Worst case, it made things complicated.
The man sauntered out the back of the warehouse. Fulgore followed with him, leading into an alleyway. Fulgore let the door close behind him, just in time for the man to suddenly stop where he was, his back turned to him.
"That door took four seconds too many to close behind me," he glanced over his shoulder, glowing green optics focused on where he suspected Fulgore to be, perhaps. "who the fuck are you? You got three seconds to show yourself, 'fore I make you show yourself." As he said that, he turned around and flicked his arm. The leftmost arm destructed and opened up, revealing he had a Projectile Launcher mounted there. One that hummed to life.
Silently, Fulgore ended the optic cameo. The Maelstrom leader scoffed.
"Well, a goddamn borg? Who's shoes did I shit in to get you on my trail?" He asked, amusement lining his gnarled voice.
"No one that I care for," Fulgore admitted. "you have a shard belonging to my client. I want it. Relinquish it and no one will be hurt."
"Yeah…see, can't do that." He shook his head. "You bein' here means that shard's got some worth to it. Like I figured when the boys jumped that corpo and klepped it from him."
"And it's led me here. And I intend to leave it. You being alive or dead is optional in the equation."
"Oh? You're that arrogant that you can take me out?" He tipped his head. "Better gonks've tried. All of 'em got sent to the bottom of the bay, hacked to bits by my fucking blade." On cue, he brandished his blade. A gristly, curved sword. A scimitar that seemingly hummed to life. A quick scan confirmed it was an insidious weapon: a blade that delivered a chemical payload with every strike. To ensure victims struck by his weapon didn't escape forever.
"I said what I said," Fulgore clenched his hands and extended his blades. "the shard comes with me. One way or another." The man tilted his head back…then threw it back to cackle. A grating, ear-rattling noise that sounded like it took every bit of his lungpower to do so. His entire body rattled from the force of his maddened cackling, before he gave an euphoric sigh.
"Fine then! Then when your gonk ass gets to Hell, tell 'em Spinal spent ya!"
He charged with blistering speed, courtesy of his Kerenzikov. Fulgore raised his arms and blocked his maddened swing, going on the defensive. The madman swung his toxic blade rapidly, and every time it met Fulgore's own electrified blades, though with no effect. Swing after swing was rapidly blocked, as Spinal kept up the offensive.
"Hah!" Spinal swung his blade across, forcing Fulgore to step back. His launcher was leveled with the cyborg's chest and fired, blasting him, and sending him flying backwards, smashing into a dumpster. Optics refocused in a flash just in time for Fulgore to jerk his head left, just as Spinal's sword rammed into the dumpster, inches from his head. Blades retracted as his fist met Spinal's chest, sending him stumbling backwards and allowing the cyborg to push away from the dumpster properly.
"Ahhh," Spinal brushed his chest off, seemingly unbothered by the punch. "a shame I can't feel that."
"Because of your Pain Editor." Fulgore retracted his other blades, raising his fists into a combat ready stance.
"Hah! Because of my overclocked Pain Editor! Shit's so finely tuned, I can't feel a thing! Otherwise," he tapped his chest. "I'd be in a lotta fuckin' pain from these augs here." That was curious. Using a modified, overtaxed Pain Editor meant not even the pain of his augmentations could faze him. That also meant the madman could effortlessly power through all but the most grievous of injuries. However, that could easily be something capitalized on.
The unmistakable click of Spinal's Projectile Launcher drew Fulgore's attention. The madman pointed it towards the cyborg once more, and Fulgore powered the Kerenzikov up to full, using the burst of enhanced reflexes to close the distance between them and clamp his hand around Spinal's arm. Fulgore swung it upwards just as the second blast was launched, sending the round harmlessly flying into the air—
Click.
Fulgore's optics snapped to Spinal's other arm, also tipped with a Projectile Launcher. He had two.
"Gotcha." The cyborg ducked and braced as the shot came, striking his shoulder and searing the jacket he wore. The force threw him back, and the cyborg refocused onto the madman just in time to see him level both launchers with Fulgore. Ready to fire.
"Once I'm done with you, we're gonna sell—ack!" Something stabbed through his stomach. Fulgore's optics drifted downwards to see a bone blade rammed through Spinal's stomach. He didn't even look pained from the attack; just surprised. Surprise turned to agony when fire engulfed his head, burning and melting flesh before he was flung aside by a powerful, reptilian tail. Belonging to Riptor.
"I thought you were taking out the rooftop snipers." He told the hybrid. Riptor warbled and pointed up at the warehouse's roof. Fulgore's optics zoomed in to see a dead Maelstrom thug hanging over the edge. He inferred that Riptor had just finished killing that one, then saw him clashing with Spinal. Rationally, he chose to attack him instead.
"Look out!" Fulgore shoved Riptor back just as a blast struck the wall. Optics shot to Spinal who was on a knee close to the adjacent wall, one hand clutching the hole in his gut, from where Riptor's tailblade pierced, and the smoking launcher pointed their way. Riptor's sudden attack left even more damage than expected; the gas mask covering his mouth was smoldering and burned away, revealing his face was mostly skeletal, with metal and flesh demented fused together.
"This…ain't shit. Just…a flesh wound." He cackled as he pushed himself to his feet. The weapon hummed to life again, ready to fire. Fulgore bolted towards Spinal and swung his electrified blades, cleaving through Spinal's arm just as the launcher fired. In response, Spinal's arm exploded, showering shrapnel, blood and bone everywhere in the alleyway. A gristly sight, one that led to the nearly pulped head of Spinal landing on the ground nearby.
"…well then." Fulgore's blades retracted. "Well done, Riptor. But this does tell me we should work on integrating some form of improved communication for your Agent. So we can better coordinate our attacks." Riptor simply warbled in response. "Also so we can speak in general. I have a hunch you have a lot to say—"
"What the fuck?!" Fulgore turned to see a few Maelstrom thugs at the alley's mouth. Ones who stared at the remains of the one in charge. Fulgore slowly walked over to Spinal's head and retrieved it, holding it aloft and presenting it to the Maelstrom thugs.
"He's dead," he informed them. "and unless you want to join him, I want the location of a stolen shard containing cyberware shipping details. Talk fast. My friend has demonstrated that your cyberware is rather weak to fire."
Glasses clinked together, shouts rang out, as Fulgore's audio receptors drank in the blissful miasma of the Afterlife. Mercenaries of all kinds and creeds relaxed and unwound, as he sat in a booth, observing it all and seemingly destressing from the hustle and bustle of Night City.
"Augh…preem work, you bucket of bolts!" Pilar's voice drew Fulgore from his observation. The cyborg looked over at the techie who downed another shot of tequila, straight from the bar. Riptor sat nearby, drinking from the entire bottle. Pilar didn't seem too miffed about it this time. Perhaps another bottle was on the way. "I just got done sending the deets to the client. Shard's safe, and the rest've the scratch is ours!" He downed another shot, sighing blissfully afterwards. "I mean…the rest of the scratch is yours. Your cut, after all." His own optic flickered. Out the corner of Fulgore's feed, he saw a deposit to his account. Twenty-grand. If he had a brow, he'd raise it at that sort of payment.
"…how much did our client pay?"
"Eh, I wouldn't worry 'bout it," Pilar waved a hand. "you got your eddies. That's what any good merc should be after. Once the scratch is in your hands, who cares?" The techie shrugged, just as a waitress delivered another bottle of tequila. His logic was…a tad flawed, but Fulgore could see an iota of wisdom to it.
"Thank you, Pilar." Fulgore nodded to the techie. "Your intel was valuable on this mission. I suppose now, we celebrate until I have to inevitable drag Riptor to a hotel room." A drunk Riptor, of course.
"Eh? Why not get an apartment with that scratch?" Pilar suggested. "There's a damn Mega Building, like…right over there somewhere." He gestured away from him, vaguely hinting at the place's destination. "And the entire process is automated as shit, so…you can just do it from the site, then boom! Apartment." Fulgore pondered that. It wasn't a bad idea in the slightest.
"I'll work on it, then." The informed the techie. "Until then, please keep an eye on Riptor. He'll wander off otherwise."
"Huh? Oh fuck." Pilar's rapid movement told Fulgore that, indeed, the hybrid wandered off. And the shouting at the bar moments later confirmed that he was at the bar, no doubt trying to order something himself. Like a comical parody of how Pilar did it earlier. A quick glance over even rewarded Fulgore the sight of Riptor mirroring how Pilar slapped the bar twice and pointed at the bottle of everclear on the top shelf. Just as Pilar did when they first arrived.
…all the more reason to actually get him a means to talk. Then again, Fulgore was slightly worried as to what Riptor would actually say.
[Another chapter, after a hiatus to work on stuff elsewhere. And now, a small reveal that I intend on introducing more Killer Instinct characters, but designed in the vein of Cyberpunk. In this case, Spinal was of Maelstrom, and used a toxic blade. So, be warned, others can appear here. And it's no telling if they'll be friend or foe.
Until then, thanks for reading! Every fav means a lot to me, as it shows me this project's worth devoting more time towards.]