So, I finally made time to sit and write this and boy, did it take a while. It's a little longer and I know certain people are gonna be excited by this. Is it cliché? Or is it just Cyberpunk?
Some reviews are stepping up, which is really cool and it's great to see a lot of people appear to be enjoying this still, but like… kinda crazy that only happened when I said I might drop this series because there's a lack of interest. Like… you guys did have time after all, y'know? Just buy me food and we'll call it even.
Anyway, here's the new chapter.
11:13, 1st May 2090
Night City Prison, Arroyo, Santo Domingo
The prison loomed ahead like a broken promise, its brutalist walls rising against the gray sky, damp with the encroaching rain. Built to last and made to forget, Night City Prison stood as a testament to failure – theirs, his, his father's. Carlos hated this place. Not just for what it was but for what it meant. It had stolen his father, when Carlos had been barely old enough to make sense of it.
The air was thick with the tang of rain, metal, and industry. Carlos stood near the Chevillon Emperor 620 Ragnar, its polished black surface gleaming under the pale wash of streetlights. The cars were pure Arasaka – sleek, angular beasts of intimidation. They crouched at the curb like predators with broad frames. Light rain streaked their bodies, and Carlos could see his distorted reflection in the gloss, warped by droplets sliding down. He adjusted the red Arasaka jacket he wore, its armoured fibres rustling faintly under his gloves.
It was humid, and the black shirt clung to his skin beneath the jacket. His fingers brushed the smooth polymer of his HJKE-11 Yukimura smartpistol, holstered under his arm. It hummed faintly and began to whirr at his touch. Efficient, deadly, and utterly impersonal. He hated the thing: it worked, sure, but it didn't have the familiar weight of his A-22B Chao. The Yukimura felt clinical, like the company that made it – just another tool to fit the system.
The prison gates groaned, the sound piercing through the low hum of the distant factories. Even here, in Arroyo's industrial outskirts, the city never truly slept. A persistent mechanical drone mixed with the occasional rumble of a passing truck, broken by the soft hiss of hydraulics from the gate's mechanisms. Carlos could smell the rain-soaked asphalt, the faint metallic bite of exhaust.
His bright golden eyes flicked up to the guard towers, where floodlights cut through the gloom, illuminating patches of the heavy, grey walls. Somewhere in that concrete tomb, his father, Marcus, was serving what was left of his sentence. He could still hear the shouts, the echo of the door slamming open as his father and uncle burst in. His dad, Marcus, was shouting for Belicia – Carlos' mother – to grab whatever medical supplies they had. El Capellán, el Capitán of the Vista del Rey chapter, had been hit during the job. They'd barely made it halfway back to Heywood when Militech dropped the hammer on them: the shrapnel torn through the man's gut like tin foil.
Carlos had been twelve, just a kid, but there hadn't been anyone else to help. He still remembered the blood – hot and sticky as it coated his hands while his mom barked instructions. His uncle Miguel had held El Capellán steady, and Carlos had done what his mother asked: applying pressure, handing over tools, and watching as she pulled shards of twisted metal from the wound. The man survived that night, but good luck rarely lasts long: Militech came down hard on them just weeks later.
It was Miguel who had stayed after, Miguel who became more of a father to him than Marcus ever had been. Miguel, who told him not to feel guilty about avoiding visits in the past couple of years. Carlos had only been back here a handful of times in the last eleven, at the urging of El Capellán himself. "Your padre would want to see you," the old man had said, voice heavy with meaning. But each time, Carlos found it harder to walk into that visiting room, to see his father with more ink and bruises, and less spirit and warmth – behind a pane of reinforced glass like some cyberpsycho.
He pushed those thoughts down now, refocusing on the task at hand. The Arasaka soldiers stood nearby, silent and still, their black armour reflecting the faint glow of the prison floodlights. They were indistinguishable from one another – faceless, disciplined, and obedient to the point of absurdity. Carlos envied their simplicity sometimes, even as it disgusted him. They didn't have to think about El Capellán or Valentinos soldados rotting in prison. They just followed orders.
The second Samurai on this assignment, Kobayashi Hanzo, leaned against the car door nearby, his posture as rigid as ever. Hanzo was Arasaka through and through: sharp, precise, and entirely without personality. He wasn't much for conversation and seemed perfectly content to stand there, a human blade waiting to be unsheathed.
Carlos couldn't imagine living like that. Hanzo was young – as young as Carlos himself, he'd wager – but already a machine in every sense except the literal. The man didn't fidget, or shift weight from one foot to the other. Maybe he was more machine than man – he'd heard the stories of Adam Smasher: the 'Saka bogeyman who was almost entirely cybernetic.
"How long's it take to walk out a yardbird?" Carlos asked, scratching the stubble around his ear.
"Two more minutes," Hanzo replied. He didn't flub his words or stutter – he didn't even take a moment to check his skinwatch.
"I'm gonna grab a drink after, I reckon: those dancebars in Kabuki are calling to me…" He waited for Hanzo to reply. He waited a while. "What about you, what do you do for fun?"
"Fun is for children."
"Right… What about food? You gotta have a favourite meal."
"I eat rice," Hanzo stated.
"Rice and what?"
"What I am given."
"What, you allergic to flavour?"
"I have no allergens."
"Okay, compa…" Carlos scoffed.
Of course Kobayashi Hanzo didn't have a favourite meal. He wouldn't have a favourite song either. Hanzo was what Arasaka wanted all their soldiers to be: perfect, empty instruments of the company's will-
"I like makizushi," Hanzo said eventually. Carlos turned to look at him, quizzically raising an eyebrow. Hanzo was still facing the gates. "Do you eat makizushi?"
Carlos scrunched up his face and gave a slight shrug.
"What's-"
The heavy gates of Night City Prison groaned open, their screeching hinges battling the unrelenting rain. The sound cut through the droning hum of the industrial outskirts like a warning bell. Carlos watched, his eyes narrowing, as Ushijimi Junzo stepped out into the downpour, flanked by two prison guards who seemed all too eager to hand him off.
Junzo paused just outside the gates, his sharp, tailored suit catching the sparse light on an overcast Monday. Raindrops dripped from his sodden dark hair and streaked down his shoulders, glistening like quicksilver, but he didn't seem to notice—or didn't care. He carried himself with the kind of arrogance Carlos had come to expect from high-ranking Tyger Claws, the kind that said, I'm untouchable. But there was something else, too, something beneath the polished veneer on his tattooed face.
Paranoia.
Carlos caught it in the way Junzo's dark eyes darted across the street, lingering too long on cars that weren't moving. The man's left hand hovered near his waist, fingers twitching unconsciously toward the handgun he didn't have. Arrogance or not, Junzo looked like a man who expected death to step out from behind the nearest corner at any second.
Not surprising; Junzo's reputation preceded him.
"Samurai," Junzo called, his voice sharp but carrying an edge of weariness. "Let's move. I've been breathing prison air long enough."
As they reached the cars, Hanzo bowed his head and opened the door. Junzo paused.
"No AV for this pickup?" He glanced at Hanzo, his brow furrowing slightly.
"An AV carrying Nakao-sama out of Japantown was disabled by an Uragon rocket launcher a month ago." Hanzo explained mechanically, though it did little to assuage Junzo's fears. "Ground transportation is safer."
Junzo muttered something in Japanese and shot a dark look at Carlos, but climbed into the car nonetheless. Carlos didn't see the point in getting offended: Tygers like Junzo weren't worth the energy, especially not when their egos could fill the street.
Hanzo took the passenger seat in the same vehicle, his hand resting near the Liberty pistol under his jacket. It was curious – almost every Arasaka samurai used Arasaka weapons. Why did he have a pistol manufactured by Constitutional Arms?
Carlos took one last look at the street, scanning for anything out of place. The rain was heavier now, a steady patter against the cars and pavement. The scent of wet concrete filled the air, mixing with the ever-present tang of oil and exhaust. Carlos' gut churned, though he couldn't say why. Maybe it was the memory of his father. Or maybe it was the weight of the loaded silence hanging around them.
The Arasaka soldiers nearby moved in perfect unison, their black armour gleaming in the rain. They didn't acknowledge Junzo, Carlos, or even each other, standing silent around the vehicles. They were efficient, faceless, and entirely unnatural – nothing like the humans they were supposed to protect.
Sliding into the passenger's seat, Carlos watched the driver climb into the seat beside him and start up the car. The Ragnar purred to life, its engine a low, throaty growl. Carlos had gotten used to escort duty as a bodyguard to Redford. Through the rain-slick rearview camera, Carlos watched Junzo climb into the back seat, eyeing his jagged facial tattoo. The man seemed more worried – agitated, even. Carlos couldn't help but feel like Junzo was waiting for something – something none of them could see yet.
"Let's get this over with," Carlos muttered under his breath. "All good, Kobayashi?"
Hanzo didn't reply over the comms. He likely was plugged into the car and charging – dreaming in binary.
The rain-slick streets stretched ahead, glowing faintly under the city's neon haze. He didn't know where this night would take them, but he knew one thing for sure: the city had a way of twisting even the best-laid plans into nightmares.
The convoy pulled out, the Chevillon engines growling softly as they rolled onto the street. Carlos' car took the lead, the second following close behind. The rain was heavier now, coming down in thick sheets that blurred the city's neon lights into streaks of colour against the wet pavement.
They turned left onto Republic Way, the road running parallel to the East Bay. The grey water stretched out to their left, choppy and restless under the storm. Beyond it, the glittering spires of the City Centre were barely visible through the haze, their lights diffused into a ghostly glow.
Carlos' driver tightened their grip on the wheel, their gloves squeaking faintly against the rubber. The rain made the road slick, and the tires hissed with every turn. He glanced at Hanzo, who sat unnervingly still, his eyes locked on the road ahead.
"Your boss tell you what's so important about this Tyger?" Carlos asked.
Hanzo didn't respond.
The tension in the car was suffocating, thickened by the soft patter of rain on the roof and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers.
The Ragnar's interior smelled faintly of ozone and damp fabric, the faint scent mixing with the hum of the engine. Carlos glanced at the rearview camera, catching a glimpse of the second Ragnar behind them. Hanzo was visible through the tinted glass, his silhouette upright.
The light at intersection of Republic Way and Skyline St. flickered from green to amber and to red. The colour lingered like an unwelcome guest, the rain pounding relentlessly against the reinforced glass of the Ragnar. Carlos glanced to the driver, who tapped idly on the wheel, his helmeted gaze locked on the unchanging traffic light.
Carlos shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking to the rearview camera. Behind them, the second Ragnar sat idle, its engine humming low and steady in the rain. Through the hazy downpour, Carlos could just make out Junzo's silhouette in the back seat and Hanzo in the passenger seat.
The comms crackled faintly with static. Nothing else.
"Kobayashi, how's our guest?" Carlos asked, keeping his voice steady. He waited for the terse, efficient response that usually came back immediately.
Silence.
Carlos frowned. Hanzo was a lot of things – cold, calculating, maybe even robotic – but he wasn't sloppy. No response on the comms was unlike him.
"Kobayashi," Carlos tried again, his voice tightening.
Still nothing.
The rain blurred the world outside into a smear of grey and neon. The light was still red. Carlos glanced at his driver, who offered no reaction, then back at the intersection. The glow of the red light felt wrong – too long, too deliberate. Intersections this close to Corpo Plaza were programmed for quick flow, designed to keep corp execs moving.
He scanned the street, the mohawk of dreadlocks falling to the back of his neck, prickling.
And that's when he saw them.
Parked south on Skyline Street, their engines idling, were two vehicles he recognized instantly: a pair of sleek, modified Villeforts: One was a gold Alvarado with the Santa Madre painted along the doors with gold and chrome detailing, their tires slick with rain. The other was a black Thorton Colby, the doors patterned with roses and gold, and the Santa Muerte painted on the hood. Valentinos. Carlos knew the style like he knew his own hands.
Valentinos in Heywood wasn't unusual, but two of the cars parked up at the intersection looked wrong.
Carlos' mind flashed back to his childhood in Vista del Rey. The roaring engines. The adrenaline-charged streets. The Valentinos' signature chrome gleaming in the moonlight. Between his father, Marcus, and his uncle, Miguel, Carlos had been raised 'Tino. He knew the cars, the chrome, the tactics…
And now, he was sitting in a perfect spot for an ambush.
He keyed his comms again, his voice low but urgent. "Kobayashi, we've got Valentinos vehicles nearby. What's the play?"
Nothing.
Carlos gritted his teeth, his fingers curling around the grip of his smartpistol. The unease settled in his chest like a weight, every second stretching unbearably.
Movement.
A figure moved towards the Alverado – someone with a pair of jeans and scuffed-up Chelsea boots. He stopped at the window for a moment before turning back to walk down Republic Way, bound for Santo Domingo. The kid couldn't have been older than sixteen, soaked to the bone and frantic…
A sharp crack rang out. And then, the kid crumpled mid-step, collapsing onto the wet pavement. He clutched his leg, screaming in pain as blood poured from his knee. Carlos cursed under his breath, his heart pounding.
An explosion ripped through the air, a deafening roar that drowned out everything else. The driver's side of the Ragnar disintegrated in a flash of fire and shrapnel, the force slamming Carlos sideways against the reinforced door.
The world spun.
Carlos' ears rang, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the chaos around him. The car flipped, tumbling in slow motion, before landing upside down with a bone-rattling crash.
He blinked, dazed, his vision swimming as smoke and rain mixed in the air around him. The acrid smell of burning metal and blood filled his nostrils.
His driver was gone—what was left of him was smeared grotesquely across the mangled seat and Carlos. He gagged wiping bits of bone and brain from his face and tried to move. He couldn't read his biomonitor, and his comms were completely offline.
The reinforced interior had saved him from the worst of it, but his head throbbed, and his limbs felt sluggish. With a grunt, he kicked at the shattered windshield, the glass giving way after a few desperate attempts.
He crawled out, every muscle protesting, and staggered to his feet. The rain pelted his face, mixing with blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. His hand went to his smartpistol instinctively, and he raised it, scanning the street. Usually a large targeting reticule would appear on his HUD, but the interface barely flickered. He could not see the time, the temperature, his heartrate or his radar/sonar was not functioning at all.
Ahead, through the haze and fire, Carlos saw the second Ragnar. It was a smoking wreck, its rear end crumpled, its frame skewed at an unnatural angle. Something had collided into the broadside – and hard. The Alvarado's hood was crumpled up like a tin can, and the back-end of the Colby had been smashed in like someone had punched it with a steel fist.
Bodies of Arasaka soldiers lay on the floor, helmets cracked open and brains leaking out to be washed away by the rain.
Carlos' arm hurt. He glanced down to see blood seeping from his shoulder, and looked up to see advancing Valentinos, their gold and chrome rifles and pistols flashing as they fired indiscriminately. He raised the smartpistol, struggling to focus through the ringing in his ears and the blur of rain. His pistol didn't whirr at his touch.
The targeting system flickered, unable to lock on to the shifting figures in the chaos. His grip faltered, the pistol trembling slightly in his hand.
He stumbled forward, every step an effort, his eyes darting through the carnage. Flames licked at the overturned vehicles. Bullets zipped past him, embedding themselves in the wet asphalt.
Carlos steadied himself, pistol in hand, as a new sound cut through the chaos – the metallic squeal of a car door being wrenched open. His blurred vision cleared enough to make out a figure being dragged out of the second Ragnar.
Junzo.
A slender, dark-skinned woman with short black hair, clad in black chrome armour, a submachine gun carried on their back, was hauling Junzo out of the Ragnar by the scruff of his neck as if he weighed nothing. She was tall and willowy, her dark skin gleaming under the rain, her cropped hair framing a face set with a hunter's intensity. The gold and chrome of the Valentinos' colours adorned her jacket, and a jagged scar ran from the corner of her mouth to her jawline, giving her a permanent smirk. She strode confidently, Valentinos forming a perimeter around her.
Junzo flailed weakly, his face pale, his paranoia now a stark reality.
Carlos pushed forward, each step shaky but deliberate. The weight of the smartpistol felt like an anchor in his hand.
The woman spotted him, her piercing gaze of her milk-white Kiroshi optics locking onto his gold. For a moment, she tilted her head, sizing him up. Then, she smirked and snapped her fingers and turned to one of the Valentinos.
"Take care of it," she ordered, her voice sharp, cutting through the rain like a blade.
The Valentinos walked forward, emboldened by their numbers. Carlos couldn't aim straight – he barely had time to register the woman's command to kill him before the first gunshot rang out.
Emerging from the smoke and fire was a figure straight out of a nightmare: a figure standing at least a half-foot taller than anyone there. This Stranger approached, their revolver still in hand, and before the Valentinos could lay eyes on them, they began moving like a force of natural chaos. Their pistol barked thunderously, and each shot was a death knell. One round found a Valentino's forehead; another ripped through a throat, leaving the gang member gurgling as he collapsed. The Stranger's movements were impossibly fluid for someone of their size – an avalanche of muscle and precision.
A young Valentino tried to flank them, swinging a crowbar, but the Stranger didn't flinch. Instead, they grabbed the bar mid-swing and wrenched it free with such force that the gang member stumbled forward. The Stranger's free hand came down like a piston, punching clean through the Valentino's chest. Blood sprayed as they pulled their arm back, tossing the lifeless body aside like a ragdoll.
Another Valentino fired at them from behind the cover of the wrecked Thorton Colby, but the Stranger moved faster than the trigger finger could repeat. They ducked low, dashed forward, and drove their shoulder into the hood of the car. The car crumpled and swung back, knocking the gang member back. He barely had time to scream before a steel fist smashed into his jaw, caving in his skull.
The last few Valentinos came, wielding blades and makeshift weapons. One lunged, machete raised, but the Stranger sidestepped, pistol-whipping the attacker with such force that synthetic blood spurted out of his ear. For a moment it dribbled, then gushed down over his shoulder. Without missing a beat, the Stranger used their other hand to drive their palm into the man's chest, sending him flying backward.
Their pistol sang again, its muzzle flashing like lightening. They didn't aim so much as simply decide who would die next, their shots cutting through armour and cover alike. Blood pooled at their boots, but they moved on, unstoppable.
The woman stood still as the carnage unfolded around her. Her silhouette, barely illuminated by the flickering red traffic light, exuded calm.
"Alright, you've had your fun," she called, her voice smooth but laced with only the slightest frustration. "But you're in my way now."
She moved forward, not rushing, but with purpose, the rain slicking her dark hair to her scalp. The man didn't lower his pistol, its muzzle levelled at the woman's centre mass. Rain streaked down his broad shoulders, dripping from the edges of his leather jacket.
"You get one chance," the Stranger growled in a deep, familiar drawl. "One chance to be the smart kid that chose to walk away."
She didn't answer with words. Instead, her arms began to shift. Her forearms moved in ways they shouldn't. The skin folded unnaturally, giving way to hidden compartments beneath. The sound was faint but sharp – a metallic clicking and scratching – like the legs of some monstrous insect snapping into place. Her wrists bent back grotesquely, revealing sleek, segmented mechanisms that clicked and whirred as they shifted into alignment.
Then, the blades emerged.
They came out slowly, deliberately, glistening in the rain like the fangs of a predator savouring the moment before the kill. Serrated edges glimmered in the red traffic light, catching the reflection of blood pooling nearby. Each blade was long, viciously curved, and unnervingly organic in its movement, as though alive. The serrated mantis blades finally slid free from their housings with a jolt of sudden, deliberate menace.
The woman cocked her head, her expression obscured by the rain and flickering light. Her silence stretched just long enough to be unsettling. She darted forward with sudden speed, her arms moving in a blur. When she moved, it was quick – too quick. A sharp, metallic ringing filled the air as something glinted in the dull light, and the man's pistol fell to the ground in two halves, sliced cleanly in a single swipe. The severed weapon landed in the puddle of blood with a dull splash, sparking briefly as it hit the pavement.
The man stared at the ruined firearm at his feet. He exhaled slowly, his massive shoulders rising and falling as if shaking off a minor inconvenience.
"I thought we talked about this," she said, her tone edged with irritation rather than fear.
"You really want this, huh?" he rumbled, his voice tinged with faint disappointment. He stepped back, his broad frame stiffening. He glanced at the remains of his gun and let out a low, irritated sigh.
The man tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his options. His massive fists clenched, the chrome on his knuckles glistening in the rain.
She said nothing, but her response was clear enough: her blades retracting slightly, shimmering like coiled serpents.
The man cracked his neck, his voice a low growl. "You don't have the stomach for this, kid."
"Let's find out," she scoffed bitterly, a slight smirk on her lips.
"I told you before," she said, her blades retracting slightly, shimmering like coiled serpents, gleaming wickedly in the rain as if tasting the air for blood. "Stay out of my way, or I'll break your back. If it still works."
When she struck, it wasn't like lightning; it was like a hurricane.
Her first swipe came in low, aimed for his thigh, and he jumped back, barely avoiding the blade's edge. He retaliated with a straight punch, his fist cutting through the air with the force of a battering ram, but she twisted mid-strike, letting it miss her by millimetres.
Her second blade came up in a vertical slash, forcing him to duck, but she anticipated the movement, twisting her torso to drive a knee toward his ribs. He blocked it with both forearms, his cybernetic limbs sparking from the impact, but the force sent him sliding back.
He didn't falter. He surged forward with raw power, closing the distance in a single stride. His fist came down in a hammer strike, aimed at her shoulder, but she spun away, her blades slicing through the air in a deadly counter. One strike grazed his chest, the other narrowly missed his neck.
He caught her wrist mid-strike, his cybernetic fingers clamping down with bone-crushing strength. Sparks flew as her blade dug into his plating, but he didn't let go. Instead, he yanked her forward and drove his knee into her stomach. She grunted but twisted in his grip, her free blade carving a shallow gash across his ribs, before finally finding purchase and sinking a good inch into the small of his back. Pale yellow synthetic blood began to coat her blade.
"I told you to stay out of my way," she sneered, "or I'd break your-"
The man roared, lifting her off the ground by her trapped arm, and slammed her into the side of the wrecked Ragnar. The vehicle dented from the impact, but she used the momentum to kick off the car, flipping backward and freeing herself.
She landed in a crouch, rain streaming off her blades. Her breathing was heavy but controlled, her stance coiled and ready.
The man stalked forward, his shoulders hunched, his fists clenched. His movements weren't just strong – they were hungry – as if he meant to devour her. He swung again, but this time she ducked low and drove both blades toward his abdomen. He twisted, catching her wrists, and headbutted her with a sickening crack.
She stumbled, blood dripping from her nose, but she didn't stop. She feinted left, then lunged right, her blades flashing. One slashed toward his throat, but he caught it, the serrated edge grinding against his palm as he held it back. The other blade drove toward his side, but he twisted, pulling her into a devastating elbow strike to her ribs.
The impact sent her flying back, landing hard on the pavement. Her blades stabbed into the asphalt as she pushed herself up to her feet.
"You're not bad," he rumbled, his voice like gravel. "But you ain't half as good as you think."
She spat blood, her laughter strained. "Still better than you…"
When she closed the distance, she lashed out with a kick aimed at his knee. He caught her leg mid-strike, twisting her momentum and slamming her into the ground with a bone-rattling impact.
But she didn't stay down.
She rolled to her feet, blood dripping from her split lip, and came at him again. The clash was violent, a blur of fists, blades, and sheer force. She was agile, a blur of movement that outpaced most fighters Carlos had ever seen. But he was relentless, his sheer physical power overwhelming her speed, each of his strikes landing like a hammer.
Finally, with a roar, the man grabbed her by the collar and threw her against the side of the wrecked Ragnar. The impact dented the metal. She kicked him away and pushed herself off the car and leapt at him. One blade curved over his shoulder, stabbing into his back again, but the other was caught in the man's bare hand, holding it at bay. A moment passed, and the man's hand twisted, snapping the blade in two. She tried to twist around him, but his massive arms locked around her torso. She stabbed down deeper with her blade, but his grip didn't falter. With a guttural roar, he drove her into the pavement, the force cracking the asphalt beneath them.
He loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her whole, and for the first time, her smirk faltered. He paused, his bloodied cyberhand still clutching her broken mantis blade. His massive frame silhouetted against the rain as she slumped back, defeated but defiant.
Carlos staggered to his feet, rain still pelting down and mixing with the blood on the pavement. His smartpistol shook in his grip, his HUD flashing with erratic targeting reticles. Through the haze of smoke and rain, he saw the massive man grab Junzo by the scruff of his neck and turn back to look at Carlos.
Tex.
The unmistakable bulk, clad in that goddamned synth-leather jacket. His long hair was matted to his face, dripping with rain, but his stance was steady, unshakable. Junzo was in his grip, dragged forward like deadweight by the scruff of his neck. The arrogance that usually radiated from Junzo was gone, replaced by panic as he struggled uselessly against Tex's iron grasp.
"Let me go, you bastard!" Junzo spat, his voice cracking with desperation. "Samurai! Shoot him! Shoot him!"
Carlos froze. He could feel the weight of Tex's gaze – a mix of wariness and familiarity. The broken blade still remained in his hand. He could've killed Carlos by now… although maybe the bullets in Carlos' pistol would be enough to kill him. His pistol wavered. Just seeing Tex again dragged him back to Vista del Rey, to nights spent huddled around dim lights, listening to Tex's plans, learning how to survive, how to steal, how to fight. The man standing before him had been more than a partner – he'd been family. And Carlos had walked away from him so he could become him. A better him. Someone not so burdened by the past, so ruled by anger and bloodlust. Someone who could actually be a Night City Legend.
Junzo thrashed, his voice rising in pitch. "He's kidnapping me! You work for Arasaka now – your job is to protect me! So shoot him!"
Carlos raised his pistol. His finger hovered over the trigger.
"Do it," Junzo hissed, his face twisted in fear. "Do it now!"
Tex shifted slightly, turning his head just enough for Carlos to see his expression – calm and resolute, but not cold.
"We all gotta live with our choices, kid. This one you can stomach?"
Carlos swallowed hard. His hand trembled, his chest tightening as he struggled to draw a breath. The rain seemed louder, pounding against his jacket, soaking him to the bone.
"Shoot him!" Junzo screamed, his voice cracking.
"Now or never, Carlito." Tex said, his voice softer.
Carlos's finger twitched towards the trigger. His arms fell to his sides, the pistol slipping from his fingers and hitting the ground with a wet thud.
Tex nodded once, as though he'd expected no other outcome. With that, he turned and began walking away, Junzo still struggling futilely in his grip. The smaller man twisted his head around, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Samurai! Don't let him do this!" Junzo's voice was raw, desperate, but Carlos stayed where he was, rooted to the spot.
Rain poured harder, washing the blood from the asphalt, muffling the sound of Tex's boots as he disappeared down one of the alleyways. Carlos stood there, alone, the world around him muted. His breath fogged in the chill air, mixing with the steam rising from the ruined vehicles. The city felt impossibly quiet in that moment, save for the relentless downpour and the distant hum of traffic.
A sudden movement drew his gaze back to the bridge's edge. Through the haze, he saw her – the woman who had led the Valentinos. She was battered, her movements slower now, but still fluid.
She cradled one limp arm as she approached the railing. What was left of her Mantis blades retracted with a sickening series of mechanical whirs, her forearms folding and locking back into place. She cast one last look over her shoulder at Carlos, no fear or anger, only something unreadable, as though she were appraising him.
Without a word, she climbed onto the railing with uncanny precision, her figure silhouetted against the city lights reflecting off the water below. She paused for a heartbeat, then dropped over the side, vanishing into the churning waters of the East Bay.
Carlos staggered forward, gripping the crumpled hood of his overturned car for support, his legs trembling. He stared at the spot where she had disappeared, half expecting her to resurface. But the waters remained dark, swallowing her whole.
The distant wail of sirens snapped him out of his daze. Red and blue lights flickered on the horizon, growing brighter as NCPD patrol cars approached the chaos. Carlos glanced down at the bodies strewn across the road, Valentinos and Arasaka soldiers alike. Smoke rose from the wreckage, mixing with the acrid scent of blood and ozone.
He looked at his reflection in a shattered car window: rain streaked his face, small crumbs of chrome and bone still stuck to his brow and cheek, and his eyes were now a hollow, dull brown. His pistol lay in the puddle of water-and-blood where he had dropped it. For a moment, he thought of picking it up, of preparing for whatever questions the badges would ask.
But instead, he stood there, letting the rain wash over him as the sirens grew louder, the weight of everything pressing down like a vice.
There ya go. So, stuff happened. People died. Lemme know what you thought. Or don't, and I'll just… pout. Now, I don't know how long it'll be until the next chapter because I've got no clue what's going to happen in the next one. It's the one arc of this book I've not fully fleshed out yet.
Though, I will say, if you don't have any thoughts about this chapter, buddy, I think you better find another story to read for both our sakes. So… Yeah.
R.