So, this took a while – waited on a character, things came up and, well, now I'm just making them myself! Anyway… let's get back to our favourite little trauma-bunny.
There's been a… kinda disappointing lull in reviews – I don't know if it's because everyone's busy with Halloween shenanigans or waning interest in this story, but… I mean, lemme know.
22:55 25th April, 2090
Red Dirt, Arroyo, Santo Domingo
Red Dirt was the kind of dive where you could walk in feeling like the lowest form of life, and the place would somehow make you feel even lower. The door barely hung on its hinges, creaking open like it was tired of letting people in. Inside, the air was thick with the smells of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something sour that Cas could not quite place. It had the look of a bar that'd been held together by duct tape, resentment, and sheer stubbornness. It wasn't trying to impress anyone, and neither were the people who came here.
The bar was long and crooked, the wood so scarred and chipped that running your hand over it could earn you a splinter. Most of the stools wobbled like they were missing screws, and the glasses were always suspect; Lipstick stains clung to the rims of some, while others had smudges that hadn't come off since the last millennium. The beer came out flat more often than not, and no-one bothered to complain – this was Red Dirt. You didn't come here for a good time; you came because it was the only place that didn't pretend to be better than it was. The one honest place in Night City.
Behind the bar, a lineup of local brews sat in beat-up coolers with their lids propped open, beer kegs half-submerged in melted ice. Condensation dripped down the sides of the kegs. Old political stickers plastered the cooler, faded slogans from campaigns long lost or causes long forgotten. The taps sputtered out Jackrabbit Ale, Broseph Lager, and the ever-present 21st Stout, all of it tasting like it had been filtered through a junkyard, but it had alcohol in it, and that's all that mattered - to almost everyone, anyway.
The far wall was plastered with old newspaper pages, yellowed and brittle, stuck up with whatever adhesive had held them there for the last twenty years. Most of the articles were in tatters, unreadable now, but a few headlines still clung to life, telling tales of corpo scandals, gang wars, and promises from a city that had long since given up. The papers curled at the edges, peeling off in some places, but no one cared enough to replace them. They fit the place – outdated and grimy, but still hanging on.
In the back corner, the stage was barely a stage at all. It was raised on a couple of empty beer kegs, uneven and wobbling under the weight of the band's gear. Behind the musicians, the dark green brick wall had a crude, red-and-white hand-painted oni, fierce and snarling, with the name, 'Samurai', splashed over the top. The paint had started to peel around the edges, revealing the old, mouldy brick underneath. But no one complained – Red Dirt wasn't about appearances.
Needlehead Panic was on tonight. The lead guitarist shredded on a chrome axe that looked like it had seen better days, the strings vibrating with an intensity that matched the fury on the kid's face. The drummer was a maniac, slamming the skins like he was trying to beat the ghosts out of his head. The frontman wasn't much more than skin and bones, screaming into the mic with enough anger to fill the room. His voice cracked more than once, but the crowd didn't care. This was the kind of music that didn't need perfection – just raw, unfiltered rage.
By the bathrooms, a skinny guy with hollow eyes and shaky hands hovered, selling shit that you wouldn't find on any legit market. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, just muttered under his breath and slipped stims, dodgy inhalers, and little baggies of fuck-knows-what to anyone who flashed him a few eddies. People called him "Rattle," on account of the constant twitch in his hands. No one trusted him, but in a place like this, you didn't need trust – just a steady supply.
At the bar, one of the regulars perched on a stool like she'd been there for years, a joytoy who went by 'Candy.' She wore neon pink bracelets, earrings, and a necklace that glowed in the dim light, her heavy makeup cracking at the edges. She had the dead-eyed look of someone who'd seen too many bad nights and was just waiting for the next one to roll in. She sipped on a drink that hadn't been topped up in hours, casting glances at the drunker patrons, waiting for the right time to make her move.
The pool table in the corner had seen better days. The red felt was stained with something brown, and the chrome cues leaned against the wall, more bent than straight. The locals played anyway, their chipped balls clunking loudly as they rolled, always slightly off-course. The players themselves – two guys who looked like they spent more time in back-alley brawls than bars – weren't here for the game. It was just something to do while they waited for the next fight to start. Their conversation was low, muttered between drags of cigarettes that had long since burned out.
Squashed between the wall and the pool table, the Trauma Drama arcade machines blinked and buzzed with exposed wiring hanging out of the back like intestines. Half the time, it was out of order, but no one cared. The youngers who used to dump their last few eddies into it had grown up and moved on, or they were dead. Now they just sat there, artifacts from a more innocent time.
The atmosphere was thick with tension, but no one acknowledged it. Red Dirt was always like that – one wrong look, one shove, and the whole place could erupt into a brawl. It had happened plenty of times before, and it would happen again. But for now, the patrons were content to sip their drinks, watch the band, and pretend like everything was fine.
There was always a hum of low conversation in the air, punctuated by the clink of glasses or the occasional shout from someone at the bar. The bartender, an older guy with a cybernetic arms that had seen too much action – broken and repaired with scrap enough times that it still spasmed and rotated slowly when handing you your drink – moved slowly, pouring drinks without ever making eye contact. He knew better; you didn't get involved in other people's stories at Red Dirt. You just served them their drinks and let them drown in their own mess.
The energy in the room buzzed like a broken circuit – constant, erratic, always on the edge of blowing. But in a city like this, that's what passed for normal. Red Dirt was a refuge for the restless, the broken, and the angry. A place where you could be nobody, and nobody would care.
At the far end of the bar, Cas sat hunched over a drink, his weathered face half-hidden in the shadows. His arms rested on the scarred bar, his hands wrapped loosely around a chipped glass of flat soda water he hadn't touched in a while. Next to him, on the empty barstool, his brown synth-leather Samurai jacket lay folded, the bright red Oni logo barely visible in the dim light. The jacket looked like it had seen as many miles as he had, worn but still carrying the weight of something important. It was a symbol of better times, when music was more than just noise and rebellion had meant something more than anger.
His white t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, but it was faded now—like everything else in this bar—and the cracks in the logo on the front made it look like it was part of the room's decay. Cas wasn't young anymore. That edge had dulled, and his body carried the scars of too many fights, too many jobs. He sat in Red Dirt like a man rooted in place, watching the crowd move around him, chaotic and restless. He'd seen this all before, a hundred times over. But tonight, something gnawed at him.
Up on the stage, the kids from Needlehead Panic were making a mess of it, trying to tear into Never Fade Away. Cas' lips twisted into a faint grimace as the song sputtered out through cheap amps and strained voices. They were trying – he'd give them that – but the sound wasn't there. They had the rage, sure, but they didn't understand it. Not really. That riff, that iconic opening to one of Samurai's greatest songs, felt flat. Empty. A copy of a copy. The kid on vocals belted out the chorus, his voice cracking again, but there was no conviction behind it – just anger. That's what they all missed. Samurai hadn't just been some angry kids. They'd been alive.
Cas leaned back, taking in the whole scene with a tired gaze. Everyone was always trying to cover the greats, trying to claw their way up to that level, but none of them ever understood what made the legends last. Samurai wasn't just about the anger, the rebellion –they had something to say. The band was a voice for a time when you could still believe in something. Nancy Hartley wasn't just on the keys. Johnny Silverhand had been more than just a symbol of defiance. Cas saw him as a reminder that there was still something worth fighting for, even when it felt like the world was burning down around you.
These kids, though. They weren't fighting for anything, they were just fighting. Cas could see it in the way the frontman screamed into the mic, veins bulging, but the words fell flat. The crowd didn't seem to care. Most of them were too drunk or too numb to know the difference, just throwing themselves into the noise like it could drown out the rest of their miserable lives.
But Cas knew. He knew every note, every scream, every chord from Never Fade Away. That song wasn't just a track – it was an anthem. And it wasn't meant to be screamed by kids who barely knew what they were angry about. Cas sighed, finally lifting his glass and taking a slow sip. It tasted like crap (soda water always tasted like crap) but at least it was something to do while the kids on stage butchered his favourite song.
Turning his eyes back to the band, Cas watched them stumble through the rest of the cover. They had the moves, sure, and the gear, but it was all surface. Skin-deep, that's what it was. They didn't have that fire that came from living through the worst parts of life and still standing. They didn't understand that the music was more than noise – it was a cry for something better, something more.
He glanced down at the jacket on the stool next to him, his fingers brushing over the worn fabric. It was all starting to fade, like the city itself. The people, the music, the fight. But Cas held onto it because, even though everything else was burning out, he had something to hold onto. He was righting the wrongs – not just of his past, but of the present. He'd learned it in war – when you kill an enemy, you're saving a life: the lives of your comrades, your brothers. That truth doesn't just fade away once you take off the fatigues and pick up your medals. He was holding onto the truth that he could change things. Not the past, but maybe the present. He could be more than a washed up merc that never quite became a drink at the Afterlife - even if that's all he'd be remembered as.
The band finished their sloppy rendition, and the crowd erupted into half-hearted applause, a few cheers breaking through the haze of indifference. Cas just shook his head, setting his glass down with a heavy thud. Maybe the world had changed, and maybe the fight had gone out of most people, but Cas wasn't ready to let go of that fire just yet. He never would.
"You got good shit?"
A woman approached the other side of the bar, dressed in gold, quilted pants held up with a simple belt. She wore a red shirt emblazoned with a hooded skull under a silver-quilted jacket with the leopard-print collar popped up.
"What're you after?" The bartender asked.
She walked around the bar, her bone-white Kiroshi's flickering across the bottles that lined the wall to Cas' right.
Her black, kinky hair had been shorn around her neck and ears, but short dreadlocks fell across her brow and brushed against her cheeks. She leant forwards on the barstool, her hand pressing onto Cas' jacket. She muttered and apology and removed her hand as she glanced back to the bartender.
"You sell anytin' better dan dis?" She asked, the Caribbean accent seeming a little thicker than before. Or perhaps she was just speaking louder… Was she from Pacifica? Come to deliver him a message? A warning?
"Got some cola," the bartender replied, a little irritated by the question. Though, he seemed irritated by most questions.
"Two," she said, holding up two fingers and pointing to the bottles. The bartender grunted and walked over, opening both with his cyber-hand. Cas's arm tensed around his glass of water, waiting for her to turn to him, or distract him to put something in her drink. He'd taken out some Voodoo Boys: 'malfinis' they called them.
Her eyes glowed blue and, without so much as a look back at him, she left the bar. Cas frowned, watching her walk away, his smoke-grey eyes trailed over her, from the dark chocolate-coloured skin of her waist, down the pants that hugged her legs snugly, ending a little before her ankles. She must have been less than half his age – yet to touch her thirties. Not that it mattered anymore – implants and medicare left most people looking thirty years younger – provided they had the scratch for it.
"Hey, Tex," Candy sauntered around the bar, leaning forwards and close enough for him to smell the stale cigarette smoke on her breath.
"Not tonight, Candy."
"You say that all the time."
Cas sighed and slowly shook his head. "Not tonight."
Candy nodded, leaning onto the bar, gently placed a hand on the inside of his thigh. "Are we going to do this dance again, Tex?"
Cas swallowed. It was stirring in him – not quite a burning fire or passion, more just a growing itch.
"Let's go," he told her, swallowing the last of his water and pulling on his jacket. He led Candy outside and across the tarmac parking lot to the huge pickup truck closest to Farragut Street.
It was a short trip – across the bay and back into Heywood, only barely crossing through Vista del Rey. He continued down Los Lobos, past El Coyote Cojo, and turned right off-street, up to his garage. His eyes burned blue for a moment before the turquoise-blue door began to rattle and slide up. He pulled his car inside, parking next to his old Arch motorcycle.
"Y'know, one day… we're gonna have fun on this bike," Candy said as she opened the door and swung her legs out of the truck.
"Maybe, but not tonight," Cas said.
"Why not?" Candy asked, her blue shorts riding up her thighs as she mounted the canary-yellow bike. Cas' grey eyes followed the small pink lines of her cyberware plating around her arms, legs, and midriff.
"I retired the bike a long time ago."
"What, you don't think it could take us both?"
That wasn't it. The truth was that the bike was a relic of a time gone by. He didn't have the heart to scrap it or sell it – it was something he'd poured his heart and soul into. Maybe it was sentiment, nostalgia, or even pride, but he couldn't handle the thought of giving the bike to some poser-kid who'd mod it with ten exhausts and a flashing neon underglow.
"Sure."
"Y'know, it's gonna cost you more if you wanna make me feel cheap in a cold garage with the door wide open." Candy huffed and dismounted the bike as she walked up to Cas, tugging at his jacket. Something poked into the back of his neck – something hard. He pulled his hand back to his neck and felt around, finally finding the culprit: small, triangular, and pitch-black metal. There was something small and coarse at the tip – a mic?
Fuck, the woman had bugged his jacket back at Red Dirt. Voodoo Boys? That accent could've been Creole. Were they tracking him?
"Not tonight, Candy," Cas said again, turning away from her.
"What's- wait, what? You're just gonna leave me here?"
"You can sleep in the garage if you want," Cas said. No longer were there coy smiles or batting eyes – instead, her nostrils flared and she slammed the truck door shut, swearing at him as she stormed out of the garage. His eyes flashed blue and the garage door closed behind him as he pocketed the bug and made his way along Los Lobos, back to his apartment building by the underpass of Pacific Boulevard.
He didn't make idle chit-chat with anyone in the reception, he just marched straight down towards the elevator and rode it up to the 12th floor. He needed his iron, and quick.
The apartment was dimly lit, a single amber glow coming from a lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the walls. It was a simple place, a far cry from the sleek luxury of corpo suites, but it had everything Cas needed. The walls were a muted grey, worn with age and neglect, and the floor was scattered with old tech magazines, half-empty bottles, and the remnants of jobs long finished. The window stretched across the far side, offering a view of the neon-soaked streets below, where the city never slept, even at this late hour. Outside, the faint hum of traffic and distant sirens filtered through the thick panes of glass.
The moment the doors opened, Cas had stepped out and, glancing around the apartment, opened the door to his armoury: handguns and rifles and knives were stowed on the walls. He grabbed the barrel of his L-60 Zhuo and pressed his palm against the grip. The weapon whirred upon his touch, and four metal hooks uncurled like fingers. He inserted a square mag and the hooks latched onto it, loading the rounds.
Cas stood in the middle of the room, tense, gripping the shotgun in his hands. His knuckles were white around the shotgun's stock, the barrel aimed squarely at the hoistway just outside. His breath was steady, though his muscles were coiled tight, ready for whatever came next. He'd been in too many situations like this to lose his edge. The weight of the shotgun was familiar, a comforting kind of danger resting in his grip. He'd heard the faint whir of the elevator as it ascended, and now, he waited – seconds ticking by, each one stretching longer than the last.
The apartment was still, unnervingly so, but something felt off. Cas had learned to trust that feeling, that creeping sense that something was out of place. The shotgun wasn't just a precaution; he knew someone was coming. An assassin, most likely. It wouldn't be the first time, and it damn sure wouldn't be the last. But whoever it was, they were going to regret coming to his place tonight.
Then, in his periphery, there was a subtle movement – a shift in the air that shouldn't have been there. Cas turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the figure by the bookcase up on the floor above.
There she was.
The young woman, standing casually in front of his shelves, inspecting his collection like she was browsing a street vendor's stall, completely unconcerned with the loaded shotgun now aimed in her direction. Her hair was styled in tight, intricate braids, reminiscent of a warrior, a look that suited her confidence. She had not changed from Red Dirt: still in gold quilted pants that shimmered in the low light, and a silver jacket with leopard-print lining that flared slightly as she moved. Her white eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned over his things like she had all the time in the world.
Cas felt the tension in his muscles shift. She wasn't just some street punk or hired thug. She moved too smoothly, too deliberately. Whoever she was, she hadn't followed him here, and she wasn't trying to get the drop on him. The fact that she was already inside when he'd been expecting trouble from the elevator told him everything he needed to know.
She'd been watching him. She'd been planning this.
Cas's heart pounded, but his mind stayed clear. The woman turned slightly, her face catching the dim light from the window. There was no fear there, only calm. She knew what she was doing, and she wasn't in a hurry. She seemed more interested in the titles of the old, dog-eared books on his shelf than the fact that she had a shotgun aimed at her back.
Cas didn't lower the weapon, but he didn't fire either. He could tell there was more to this than a simple hit. There always was.
The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, a quiet reminder of the city outside, where life kept moving, uncaring about the standoff in his apartment. Midnight approached, the neon from the Glen's streets casting faint colours across the room, but inside, everything was waiting, balanced on a knife's edge.
The woman reached out, her fingers lightly trailing over the spines of the books.
"Dis a collection," she said. "Ain't nobody got books like dis. You funny." She turned to glance over her shoulder at him before she began to slowly dawdle and descend the iron staircase. "Where de joytoy?"
"I try to deal with one woman at a time," Cas replied, still keeping the barrel of his shotgun trained on her. Her lip curled, revealing pearly white teeth.
"Ain't not de way I hear," she smirked.
She seemed a little too at ease. If she was going to kill him, she'd have trapped the apartment already. Perhaps some latent virus submerged in his braindance wreath? Or an incendiary lodged down the barrel of his gun? No, she was from Pacifica – doubtless she ran with Voodoo Boys. She wanted payback… or maybe help.
"If you're an assassin, you're rather underequipped," Cas commented, watching her cross his apartment towards the pool table, where she rolled a ball around the red felt.
"Ain't nobody say I'm assassin."
Cas smirked at that – she wasn't fooling him.
"You're a merc, though, right?" He waited a moment for her to respond, but all she did was smile as she rolled the ball across the table. It thudded against the cushion and sank into the netted hole. "Am I your contract?"
"Not if you behave yourself."
"Behave myself?" Cas frowned. "As fun as the foreplay is, I'd prefer we skip to the main course."
"Charmin'."
"You want charm, go back to Pacifica."
Her smirk turned into a wide, satisfied grin. She turned her head slightly, her shoulders slumped and she seemed to lose something. It was like watching her hang up her coat or take off a hat.
"You've been causing quite a bit of commotion, lately, Saric," she said in a crisp accent that was distinctively American, but was not recognizably regional. He strained to listen to the sudden change in her accent as she leant on the pool table. "It was very easy to find you. Maybe you're just getting sloppy in your old age."
"You're not from Pacifica, are you?" Cas scowled.
"First timer, actually. You're losing your edge – probably spent so much time looking at my ass in these pants that you didn't realise the bug on your jacket…"
"What, you mean this?" Cas dug out the bug from his pocket and tossed it onto the red felt. "I'm guessing there's more – what, bookshelf, bed, bathroom?"
She gave a slight smile and nodded to the bookshelf on the other side of the apartment. Cas crossed the apartment and climbed the stairs, glancing over the bookshelf and activating his Kiroshi's to pick up anything that didn't belong…
"You can put down the blunderbuss."
"Pardon me if I don't," Cas replied, his Kiroshi's highlighting another small, triangular microphone behind his dragon sculpture. He picked it up and stowed it in his jacket pocket.
"If I wanted to zero you, we wouldn't be talking," she stated.
"You're a self-assured young woman, aren't you?" Cas raised an eyebrow, and she just rolled her eyes.
"I'm here to talk."
"Talk?" Cas scoffed as he walked away from her to climb the wrought-iron steps to his bed on the floor above. "Oh, mashallah, it's been a while since I've been wooed."
Cas scanned and found it quickly: the bug had been stuck under the corner of the foot of his bed. He leant down to pick it up and pocket it as the woman spoke from below.
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm here as a favour for a mutual friend."
"I don't have friends," Cas replied, leaning over the railing to look down at her.
"Well, you're right about that…" She gave a small, knowing smile back up at him.
Cas walked into his bathroom and scanned, finding the third and final bug behind the sink. Was she from Arasaka? She couldn't have been here for the datashard – surely that was all put to bed after Carlito jumped into bed with the devil like a fourteen-year-old boy. Unless that was who she was talking about?
With all three bugs in one pocket, Cas walked back out of the bathroom and descended the stairs, walking back around to see her perched on the side of the pool table, one leg crossed over the other, her silver jacket folded up next to her. His grey eyes flickered across her arms: she was packing some chrome, that was for sure, but his scans weren't picking up anything – likely the tech wasn't on the market yet – maybe not even on the black market. She had to be a ninja.
"I thought you gave up the ghost for kids and the white picket fence, but, here you are without either." She raised an eyebrow.
"You don't look like a 'Saka Ninja," Cas stated as he walked around to the gold-plated coffee machine and placed his cup under the spout, pressing the button. There was a small chirp followed by a splashing of water. "Unless, of course, they're taking in keto and namban…"
"You'd be surprised how many white and black people are on their payroll," she replied. Cas frowned: the use of 'their' suggested she wasn't working for Arasaka. Unless, of course, that was what she wanted him to think. Akh, he didn't miss these games…
"Things have changed since you left Militech."
The heat of anger flared up in his chest, a spark igniting under his skin. He watched the black coffee splash and bubble and rise in his cup, the hiss of steam drowning out the pulse of his quickening heartbeat. Tension was coiling in his gut.
Memories surfaced – brief flashes of missions, the thrill of power when he squeezed the trigger, and the weight of guilt when he unloaded rounds in the heads of civilians, and in the backs of friends – but he shoved them down hard. He concentrated on the rhythmic drip of coffee into the pot, his jaw clenched tight. The casual tone of her words grated on him, cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.
He set down the shotgun on the kitchen counter.
"You work for Militech." It wasn't a good sign.
"Five years," she said, pride and a smirk evident in her voice.
"I always end up picking the wrong woman…" He muttered, rubbing his brow.
"Tony doesn't seem to think so."
Cas stiffened, his fingers tightening around the coffee cup as he fought to keep his expression neutral. Memories surged like a tide, washing over him with nothing short of sheer resentment. Tony was a puppeteer, pulling the strings that had led Cas through some of the most dangerous and defining moments of his life.
He turned slowly, the flicker of recognition in his eyes betrayed the calm facade he tried to maintain.
"Tony's still at the helm, huh?" he said, his voice low and measured, almost sardonic. He had a bitter taste in his mouth, and he'd yet to drink his coffee.
"He speaks highly of you."
"I'd say the respect is mutual, but it very much isn't." With a slight shake of his head, Cas looked back at the counter, the steam from the coffee swirling into the air, mirroring the chaos that still lingered in his thoughts. No matter how far he tried to distance himself from that world, it had a way of creeping back in, and tonight was worse than before. He let out a slow breath, turning the mug in his hands as he steeled himself for whatever she might reveal next.
"If Tony wants something, he can damned well come here and ask me himself."
"On the contrary, Cas, he doesn't want anything from you – he's very happy to let you continue killing small fish in Heywood. All you have to do is stay out of our way."
Cas frowned. She was burying the lead. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because of Chiyo Aoki."
Cas felt the air grow heavy around him, a leaden weight settling in his chest. The name struck him like a punch, memories flooding back unbidden, igniting a darkness he thought he'd buried long ago. He froze for a moment, the cup in his hand suddenly feeling impossibly hot against his palm.
"Chiyo?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, edged with disbelief. He could almost see her – the red woman. Red hair, red eyes – everything about her. She was the chaos that had engulfed his life. The hunt had consumed him for years, each lead pulling him deeper into a web of violence and betrayal that he had tried to walk away from. He had convinced himself that finding her would somehow bring closure, a twisted sense of justice that would ease the gnawing pain of loss. But the truth was more complicated, tangled in guilt and an anger that never quite faded.
"You were on the warpath for her, once upon a time – before Arasaka took an interest in her, right?"
Chiyo had been a name on a list, an obsession that had driven him to the brink. And now, hearing it again, he realized that he never really moved beyond her, or Ushijima. Those were the two that had got away.
"It's ancient history," he lied.
"Good. Because now I have an interest in her. Junzo Ushijima is out of the clink next week and thought you might do something… inconvenient. And it's solely because of Tony's interest in you that we're having this conversation."
Cas' hand tightened around the coffee cup. The burning against his hand helped him remain calm – physical pain was an outlet.
"I never knew he cared," Cas said, forcing his lips into a smarmy grin beneath his thick, black beard.
"It's bad optics," she shrugged. "Goes against our mission statement if we start flatlining old vets – especially ones like yourself. Tony still tells a story about you in Bolivia, you know? Does a good impression." She dipped into a Texan drawl as she spoke.
Cas' jaw clenched. "Sounds like he's nostalgic: not quite filling my shoes, are you?" Her smile flickered, and Cas knew his blow had landed. She stood up from the pool table and approached the kitchen counter that lay between them.
"By the way… those toy soldiers from 6th Street work for us. Next time you gun them down, we'll have to take it personally."
"Tell them to stop strong-arming civs, and they won't have anything to worry about."
A moment passed, and her smirk returned. She picked up her jacket and rolled her eyes as she made her way towards the elevator at the end of his apartment.
"You've done a complete one-eighty, haven't you?"
Cas listened to her footsteps receding. But he couldn't let her words ring out in his apartment, or in his head.
"You're going to die working with him. You know that, right? Best thing to do is to just walk away while you're still on the up – all his solos end up flatlining before long."
Her footsteps ceased. He turned around to see her standing there, a good foot away from the grate to the hoistway, where the elevator began to slide into view.
"I'm not just a solo, Cas, I'm your successor, just like you were Blackhand's." She stepped into the elevator and closed the cage, staring back at him with that signature smirk. "Get in my way, Saric, and I'll break your back – that is, if it still works."
Cas put his hands in his pockets and found the three bugs there. What were the odds that Tony himself was listening?
"Do what you want – I don't care. I just want to be left alone."
"He said you'd say that."
The elevator whirred and sank down into the shaft. Cas leant forwards, staring down at the three microphones in his hand. Could Tony be listening to him? Waiting for him to talk? He supposed a phone call would have been too blasé for a man like Tony.
He tossed the bugs into the sink and turned the faucet, listening to the glug and gurgle. He wasn't one of Tony's dogs anymore – there was no-one to call him off Chiyo Aoki this time. No more excuses, delays, and deferrals.
For months, Cas had been killing the scum of Night City. And now, he was going to kill the woman whose name had always been at the top of his list. No-one was going to stop him this time.
Boom! There we go, we've finally got this chapter out! I sat down for a long time to do this, so… I'm happy it's done so I can get a move on with the rest of the chapters!