Damian was driving along our standard patrol route through Heywood. To me, he was still a mystery. He kept his distance from trouble, yet time and again, he helped me out. Over the course of my career, I'd worked with a lot of partners none of them were like him. One thing was certain: I owed him.
"Thanks," I said.
"I don't know what you're talking about. You mean that shootout? Forget it," Damian replied, throwing me a meaningful glance. As if there had never been any conversation about the database. Let alone the cameras in the car, recording everything around us.
"Yeah, for that," I confirmed.
"We're partners," he replied calmly.
Today's patrol passed without any major incidents. There were a few calls where we had to respond to traffic accidents with casualties. Someone decided to test out the horsepower of their new car and lost control, smashing through several barriers, then crashing into another vehicle and finally a building. The driver didn't survive, reduced to a heap of shattered bones. The new model could hit high speeds in seconds, and impacts like that were rarely survivable.
Once we resolved the situation, we returned to patrolling. The next call was about a domestic disturbance, and we were dispatched to a rather upscale complex with private security. They let us through, and we headed to the indicated apartment. It was a typical scene: husband and wife got into something that escalated into a fight. Usually, it would've ended with bruises and yelling but in a world where everyone has implants within arm's reach that can rival military-grade hardware, things could go south real fast.
Luckily, it ended with just mutual injuries. The neighbors called it in after hearing the commotion, but the couple themselves didn't want to talk and just asked us to leave. Trauma Team was on their way to pick them up for treatment anyway. In the end, it was more of a stroll than a call. If it had happened in another part of the city, dispatch might not have even responded.
There was one more call, which turned out to be a false alarm.
My shift came to an end. Damian still had a few hours left, dealing with paperwork and filling out the protocols. I was off.
No plans for the evening, so I decided to head home and go over the info we'd gathered in the morning. When I got back to my building and climbed the stairs, I saw Catherine standing on the landing. She was in her nurse uniform must've just come back from work. I stopped in front of her. Clearly, she was waiting for me.
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"Matthew, I heard you had to deal with the Sixth Street gang yesterday. I know it was because of me. I don't even have words to apologize for dragging you into this," Catherine said.
"It's fine. I took that job of my own free will. Don't worry, I handled it. We came to an agreement you don't have to be concerned," I replied.
"Really? You're not just saying that to make me feel better?" she asked.
"No. You think I'd be standing here right now if things hadn't gone down peacefully?" I answered. She seemed to believe me.
"I wanted to invite you to dinner, but you…" Catherine hesitated, realizing it wouldn't work. "Anyway, I just wanted to thank you somehow, but I don't really have anything to offer," she said.
Moments like this make me regret that my flesh is made of metal no taste, no sensation, nothing at all.
"Your gratitude is enough. After all, I'm a cop it's my duty to help," I said.Though the truth was, I hadn't helped out of duty. Honestly, if I hadn't been dragged into that mess, I might've just walked on by. I'm not exactly a good man.
"Maybe so! Still, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate. I'm a nurse I can help with medical care, if you or anyone you know needs it," Catherine offered.
"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," I replied. In my experience, someone working in a hospital can be useful for more than just patching up wounds sometimes for more delicate matters.
"Well, see you around," Catherine said, taking her leave.
I gave her a nod and headed back inside. Sitting down on the couch, I switched the system into sleep mode and entered my internal world. Thinking here was easier, almost as if the constraints that bound me in the real world didn't exist.
The walls of the living room were covered in photos and scattered fragments of information. Lines connected them, forming a web in my mind, gradually taking shape into a bigger picture. One thing was clear: even if Carlo De Vargo himself didn't survive, his cause did.
His path was simple he wanted to overturn the system, bring down the powerful elite, even if it meant mass destruction. He and his gang planned to rise from the ruins and take control. In other words, he aimed to become the very thing he once sought to destroy.
He gained followers from the start people disillusioned with the regime, desperate for change, who unknowingly marched toward their own downfall.
My hometown was long gone burned to ash in the war. And yet, somehow, echoes of Carlo's movement had made their way here. Maelstrom a pack of cyberpsychotic lunatics, drowning in chrome and often acting with no rhyme or reason. But that's how madness works.
If De Vargo's ideology had taken root among them… then Night City was in trouble. Serious trouble.
I may not be a man of high moral standing, but I'm not going to stand by and watch the world burn.
I ran a quick analysis on Maelstrom's numbers and influence. So far, the situation didn't look catastrophic. They were few, but they still managed to compete with other gangs. They had no regard for their lives or the lives of anyone else.
Even with my mechanical body, I couldn't take them on alone. I needed upgrades. And for upgrades, I needed eddies. As always, it came down to money.
I had a meeting scheduled. Glancing at the time, I exited sleep mode. After checking my energy and mental parameters, I sent a message to Michael to confirm if everything was still on. He replied with the location, and I headed out.
The place was a small joint on the ground floor. When I walked in, I found myself in a compact bar. Behind the counter stood a man with four arms, expertly mixing drinks and pouring shots without missing a beat. I scanned the room and spotted a table already occupied.
Michael was there, along with a few others all cops. When he saw me, Michael raised his hand in greeting.
"You've probably heard of him. This is Matthew, our new guy," Mike announced.
"Sup," said Henry, standing out from the others with his massive frame. He was easily twice their size muscles bulging through his shirt.
"Hey, you probably remember me," said Sergeant Collins. We'd met when he stopped our car just before that shootout.
After greeting everyone, I took a seat. Each of them already had a drink, and some snacks were laid out in the middle of the table.
"Mind telling us a bit about yourself? People are curious," Mike said.
"Not much to tell. I was in the force a long time ago. Retired. Got bored. Decided to come back. My body couldn't keep up, so I agreed to undergo a procedure with Militech. They've got some kind of cyberization project running, so they did it for free," I replied, crafting my backstory.
"Strange they didn't restore your rank or credentials then," Collins James, according to the database pointed out.
"Makes sense. If he's been gone a while, it's like starting from scratch," Mike added.
"Heard you and your partner were caught in a shootout. Better get used to it. That kind of thing happens a lot these days. A buddy of mine says the gangs are getting more aggressive, carving up turf like never before. Won't be long before body armor stops being enough," James said.
"Fuck 'em all, I'd mow down every last one of 'em!" Henry growled.
"Our department's the one that'll take the hit. Forget peaceful evenings in a bar. Expect night shifts and overtime permanently," Mike sighed.
"Won't the military step in if it gets out of hand?" I asked.
"Nope. This is a Free City. If any foreign force sets boots on the ground, it'll violate the peace treaty and that means a fifth corporate war," James explained.
"Let's not get all doom and gloom here. Let's drink to meeting again and living long enough to do it often," Mike said, raising his bottle. The others echoed the toast, clinking glasses before downing their drinks.
"Let's play some pool," James suggested, standing up.
"You go ahead. I'll hang back with Matthew," Mike replied. After the others left, he turned to me.
"So… you want to know why she acts that way toward you?"
"Yeah," I said.
"She had a family. Two kids. A husband who loved her. One day, she decided to take them to the mall just a normal day. Bad luck struck. A cyberpsycho snapped and started tearing people apart. And they were right in the middle of it. She watched the people she loved most die in front of her. Barely made it out herself. The right side of her face was shredded now it's all implants and synthetic skin.
Since then, she's hated everything to do with cybernetics and robotics. The irony? She works as a ripperdoc. Her job revolves around the very thing she despises.
That's her story. Be gentle with her. She's been through more than most people could handle. I honestly don't know how she keeps going. I think I'd have lost my mind," Mike said.
A heavy story. But now I understood her better. I'd try not to reopen old wounds only reach out if absolutely necessary.