Carl woke to the buzz of his neural link cutting through the motel's stale air—a mix of flickering fluorescents and the drip-drip of a broken sink. He swiped the holo-call alert, Oliver's face materializing in static, backlit by Santo Domingo's smog-choked dawn.
"Got kicked out. No surprise," Oliver said, scratching stubble. A half-crushed energy drink wobbled behind him. "Banned from Santo Domingo. Be at your flophouse in twenty. Order me the ten-eddie steak."
The call died. Carl peeled off the sweat-stained mattress, crunching noodle containers underfoot as he stumbled to the bathroom. The cracked mirror showed a face he barely recognized—smooth, unmodified, young, like a corpo intern who'd tripped into a warzone.
Rusty water coughed from the faucet. He splashed it over his face, then scrubbed his teeth with motel-provided gel that foamed like toxic sludge. Definitely renting a real apartment soon.
Outside, the street was a symphony of honking horns and flickering neon. A car swerved past, its autonav glitching, tires screeching inches from Carl's boots. He resisted the urge to put a round through its windshield. Not Gotham. Don't need that heat.
The diner across the street reeked of grease and soy-paste disinfectant. Carl slid into a cracked vinyl booth, ordering Oliver's steak and another round of cold noodles for himself. The menu's hologram flickered: Xiri's Classic Cola—Taste the Stars and Stripes! He grabbed one from the vending machine.
The first sip hit like a sugar-coated artillery shell. Better than that Koko swill.
"Ayyy, Xiri's! Patriot in a can!" Oliver dropped into the booth, already cracking open his own cola. "Sixth Street lore says you gotta salute any other drink if you're not chugging this. Fuckin' cult shit."
Carl snorted. "And here I thought Night City was 'independent.'"
"Was. Till the vets decided Uncle Sam's ghost needed a tribute." Oliver tore into his steak like a Maelstrom berserker on synth-coke, juices splatting onto the table. A rogue glob hit Carl's sleeve, quivering there like a tiny, meaty parasite. "Christ. They issue you a bib in Sixth Street?"
"Nah. Free-range eating. Builds character." Oliver grinned, a shred of gristle dangling from his incisor.
Carl's noodles arrived, PetroChem wheat glistening under grease-smeared LEDs. Three meals in a row. He pushed the plate aside. "Valentino turf. Won't they skin you alive for wearing Sixth Street chrome?"
[Heywood]
A district split like a cracked mirror—gleaming corpo parks up north, gang-ruled warrens down south.
NCPD threat level: Moderate(if you avoid the Valentinos).
Oliver shrugged, mouth full. "Ex-Sixth Street. Plus, Valentinos respect cojones. And firepower." He swallowed hard, wiping grease from his chin. "Old man said if we're gonna do this, do it right. Told me to hit up El Coyote Cojo in Heywood—place where mercs get hired. Might scrape up work there." He jerked his thumb toward the parking lot. "Speaking of—meet Serenity."
Outside, a matte-black Quartz EC-L R275 idled like a sleeping warbot. Its reinforced chassis was a mosaic of bullet scars and slapdash welds, the passenger door sporting a bumper sticker: "My Other Ride is Your Mom's Disappointment." Rust flakes cascaded as Oliver patted the roof.
"Birthday gift from sis. Two seats." He smirked, kicking a fossilized burger wrapper out of the footwell. "You're the first dude she's carried since my ex."
"Honored," Carl deadpanned, eyeing the duct-taped rearview mirror.
Oliver popped the trunk with a pneumatic hiss. Two Nokota D5 Copperheads lay cradled in foam, their polymer grips worn smooth by a thousand panic-fired rounds. One had "MISTY ♥" carved into the stock; the other's barrel was wrapped in duct tape.
[NOKOTA D5 COPPERHEAD]
If the 21st century had a patron saint of lead, it'd be this. Cheap, brutal, and reliable as a bad habit. Favored by scavengers, despised by chiropractors.
Carl hefted one. The weight threatened to wrench his shoulder from its socket. "I'll dislocate my arm firing this."
"Aim at the sky. Let God sort it out." Oliver slammed the trunk, the impact rattling loose a hubcap. "Ready to make waves, KK?"
Carl tossed him a box of rounds. "Since when do you care about God?"
"Since He's the only one paying us right now."
The engine growled to life, its CHOOH2 converter belching black smoke that blended seamlessly with Watson's smog. Somewhere ahead, the El Coyote Cojo's neon sign flickered—a skeletal coyote limping under a blood-red moon. The bar's walls thrummed with bass-heavy corridos, Valentino enforcers lounging outside, their pistols glinting like trophies.
Carl tightened his holster as the Quartz lurched forward, sputtering like a drunk with a death wish. "Just keep the wheels on."
Oliver grinned, slapping the dashboard.
"Relax, Carl. Legends don't die in traffic."