Tires screech under the car as Falco races on the highway from the edge of Night City, chasing the AV carrying Lucy. Massive armed cars trail him. Sirens go off in the distance as dozens of engines rev throughout the city streets.
" 'Saka bitches are still on our tail, pedal to the metal cowboy!" Rebecca yelled from the back seat as she gave the last shot of immunoblocker to the delirious David, fully geared out with the exo-skeleton. "We must get Lucy before they get to their base or we'll have a lot more gonks to bonk; in the head. HA! GO, GO, GO!"
The smell of burning rubber choked the air as Falco wrestled the wheel, knuckles white. Rebecca's voice cut through the chaos like a bullet. Falco turned back momentarily, seeing the drones following them and raining bullets on the vehicle. He shot a worried glance at Rebecca. "Can't- This is a tank not a fucking racecar. And the road ain't a track either. We are losing them." Falco said as he took over the civil cars before him. He gritted his teeth, watching the AV pull further ahead. "Fucks, I'm losing them!"
Falco glanced at the rearview mirror—shit. A missile was closing in fast. "Fuck, this is bad! Brace yourself backseaters! Missile incoming—brace, NOW!" He said as he pressed the pedal into the car's floor, the engine cried out with loud, harsh noises as it was revved to the max.
The AV shrank into the horizon, slipping further out of reach. A weird darkness started to edge his vision as the missile hit the back of the car. Rebecca and Falco both released horrifying yells from their throats as the explosion's force pushed the vehicle ahead, the intense light coming from the rear blinded them even from behind. The tires left the road, making them fly briefly before Falco's vision faded. And an audible thud happened, but not against the road or a different automobile. It was against wood.
Music, chatter, the clinking of glasses, the flickering of a few neon lights that are due a replacement —all were heard, but no cars or vehicles, guns, or city noises. Falco found that the thud he heard was his head falling to the bar counter in the Afterlife. Sitting on a barstool, a top-shelf whiskey bottle and a half-empty glass were before him. Sweat dripped from his brow; his breathing uneven—like he'd just sprinted across the Badlands.
He looked around, seeing people around him chattering, having drinks, and talking gigs. The usual Afterlife biz, although he was not there to take a job, just reminiscing on his past. Alone. He looks at the barstool next to him, empty as it never was. He rubs the back of his neck as he raises his head from the counter. Clearing his throat, doing a second take if anybody noticed him lying on the counter, he sighed as he lit a cigarette. Maybe he wanted to be seen, but nobody seemed to notice him. Or at least he thought, until a hand poked him on the shoulder.
Flaco turned around on the barstool, noticing a familiar, yet strange face—familiar, but he didn't know where from. Strange, because most of his skin was gone—replaced with metal. In Night City, that wasn't unheard of. However, slight rusting appeared throughout the man's cheek, sprouting from below the metal. Something about the rust creeping beneath the plating made Falco's gut twist. Falco eyed him up and down, trying to place the familiar yet foreign face. His casual, rugged clothes did not give him any clue.
"You were winning choom?" The stranger asked, swiftly snatching the whiskey bottle from the counter, lifting it to his glass, and pouring himself a drink. His voice was coarse, although somewhat soothing.
"Mh? Winning what?" Falco shook his head, still his vision was hazy as he just woke up, he tightened his gaze on the cocky merc.
The man with the rusted face continued filling his glass, then Falco's. "You were murmuring 'faster' several times while you were knocked out. You are, well, were kind of a legend on the race tracks if my intel is preem, usually is… So, were you winning?"
"Some races are not winnable, not by a long shot. Sucks to learn that kiddo, but everyone has to, eventually." He rubbed the back of his head again, then reached for the whiskey bottle the man took, placing it closer to himself.
"What was the most you lost on a race then? If I am not too indiscreet?" A devilish, sly smirk appeared on the face of the man.
"More than I'd admit pal." Falco hesitated for a moment before he opened his mouth again. "Anyway, what's your deal? 'Guess you're not just here to make friends. You know some of my past, so let me assume you need a driver?"
"Yeah, choom! That's exactly what I need. You being here? Damn lucky break for me." He raised his glass for a toast.
"I much appreciate it. But I'm not taking gigs now. I have eddies for a long time before I have to do that again, hell, maybe I will never need to." The cowboy didn't bother with a toast with the man, but downed some of his drink with an unamused sigh. He shifted on the barstool and looked the other way from the man.
The rust-faced man raised his glass to his lips and chugged the liquid, firmly placing the glass back on the counter. He eyed Falco up and down, then sat on the barstool beside the cowboy. His back knocked against the bar as he looked around the place with a wary eye. Leaning closer to Falco, he whispered: "What if I have something better than eddies? Something that is much more valuable to you. Name is R3v3ri3… Threes instead of Es… My chooms call me R3V. "
Falco's brow lifted in intrigue, but he didn't want to play the games of R3V, so he did not, yet. He took another swing from his glass and slowly tapped his fingers against it.
"Reverie, sounds like a sleep doctor or… some BD pusher. Rev? Sounds like something a cocky wannabe racer would call himself, which one are you?"
"Not a racer. Not a doc. And I'm not here to talk about me." R3V reached into his jacket and placed a shard on the table, pushing it into Falco's direction with one finger. He let it go and tapped on it. He took his hand away a few inches from the shard but was still close to it. He seemed tense, not wanting to get the chip out of his reach too much. "Lucy. When did you two last talk?"
Falco looked at the shard but did not reach for it; his face became uneasy, his regret surfacing through his wannabe indifferent act, he replied calmly: "The girl does not want to be found, and she's very good at that. Not that I am looking. If she wants to vanish from the face of the earth, who am I to say no? She's no cattle wandering away from the herd."
A few moments of silence followed from both of them. On the other hand, Afterlife was as lively as ever. A group enjoying their night, loudly talking about finishing a huge gig and that it would be their way to be noticed and be legends, having their drinks and all. This is what every merc dreams of: making a name for themselves. Falco broke their tense silence at the bar, turning towards R3V.
"Some months. About four, give or take; girl went to the moon is the last thing I know, I took her to the station. Who knows she might have stayed, wouldn't blame her either…" He took a long sip from his glass and a good, long drag from his cig. "Why are you interested?" He said, shifting his gaze from the man to the shard, then back.
"This shard, is a biochip. Well, it was a biochip when it worked. Not sure how familiar are you with the Reilc shit the crops push nowadays."
Rubbing his mustache, Flaco released an intrigued hum. "That save your soul bull? I saw it, but I'm not interested. If I die, I want to stay dead, as things should be." He pours another glass of whiskey as he squints his eyes at R3V. "You some advertising agent? Doing a hell of a bad job." He said as he put out the cigarette in the ashtray.
"Arasaka don't let people die clean, choom. If they think you're valuable? They keep you—rip your memories, dissect your life, turn you into data." R3v leans closer to Falco and continues to whisper: "If you're useful? They'll never let you go. Just another soul trapped in a corpo cage. Do you know a person like that, presumably someone who died not so long ago? Say half a year ago?"
The whiskey burned in Falco's throat, and his breath caught as his heart skipped a beat. The name was like a jab to the gut. "Dav-" From one moment to the next he woke up, not in his dreamy state anymore. His hand twitched involuntarily, fingers brushing the cold steel of the revolver under his belt before he even realized it. "The fuck did you just say?!" His words were sharp, his voice lower, dangerous.
"Don't off the messenger, don't be a gonk!" R3V lifted his hands to the air next to his head. "I have more to say. But you see where I am going now… And based on your reaction, I take it you are interested…" R3V showed a faint smirk as he lowered his hands. "I can help you, and you can help me too. This might be my lucky break after all…"