El Coyote Cojo loomed in Heywood like a relic from a kinder era, its neon coyote sign flickering defiantly against the district's corporate glass monoliths. The bar's cracked stucco walls and rusted steel doors clashed with the NCPD's polished headquarters nearby—a middle finger to Night City's chrome-plated hypocrisy.
Oliver parked their Quartz on the curb, staring at the Kevlar vest crumpled on the passenger seat. Growing up in Sixth Street's iron-fisted Santo Domingo, he'd learned to fear Valentino territory. "Friendly ties" between gangs here meant "we'll shoot you last".
Carl, meanwhile, strapped on his own vest with the precision of a Trauma Team scrub nurse. "You planning to woo employers with your face?" he muttered, shooting Oliver a sidelong glance. "No fixer hires mercs who show up looking like fresh meat."
Fair point. Oliver yanked on the vest, layering a threadbare jacket over it. He left his Nova revolver's grip exposed—a silent threat to anyone eyeballing them. Look dangerous. Get paid.
Carl holstered his Lexington but left the Copperhead in the trunk. "Pistol's enough. Bring the big iron, and we'll look like scavs hunting for a brawl."
Valentino foot soldiers loitering outside tracked them with bored eyes, their gold-plated Monsoons glinting like altar offerings. One spat on the pavement, muttering, "Pinche turistas."
The bar's door creaked open, vomiting out a wave of corrido beats and synth-whiskey fumes.
Inside, the lighting was dimmer than a Maelstrom's conscience. Flickering fluorescents barely cut through the haze, leaving booths shrouded in shadow. Only the bar glowed—a neon altar manned by a white-haired woman in a leather jacket older than the Fourth Corporate War. Her posture was military-straight, her gaze sharp enough to flay chrome.
A neural interface pinged, overlaying her silhouette with stark white text:
[GUADALUPE "MAMA" WELLES]
Matriarch of El Coyote Cojo. Survived the Unification War, the Fourth Corporate War, and raising Jackie. Rules her bar with a mother's love and a merc's ruthlessness.
"Ay, new faces," she called, polishing a glass with a rag that'd seen better decades. "¿Qué van a tomar, niños?"
Before they could answer, a Valentino regular at a corner table slurred, "¡Oye, Mamá! Another bottle of Blue Tonic! ¡Ándale!"
"Cállate, pendejo," she snapped, though her tone softened at the edges. "Save some for when Jackie gets back."
Jackie.
Carl's neural port itched. Jackie Welles? The name pinged a memory—some clips form the demo where a guy named Jackie ran with a merc called V. Probably a coincidence. Jackie was as common as bullet casings in this city.
Mama Welles turned back, raising an eyebrow etched with decades of Heywood grit. "¿Yustedes? What'll it be?"
Oliver shifted his weight, eyes darting to the Valentino enforcers. "Uh… a Lager. Light. What you getting?"
Carl scanned the menu hologram—a pixelated mess of drink specials and grease-stained prices. His golden finger highlighted a Chinese character blinking beside a teacup icon. "Sweet tea. And fries."
Mama Welles nodded, her smile creasing a face weathered by Night City's endless storms. "Siéntense. I'll bring it over."
They claimed a booth with sightlines to the door, the vinyl seats cracked and sunken like decade-old tires. Oliver fidgeted, eyeing the other mercs—a ragtag crew of Kevlar-clad nobodies nursing cheap beers and cheaper hopes. One hunched over a battered Nova revolver, its grip wrapped in fraying electrical tape. Another picked at the peeling decal on his armor, the NCPD logo half-scraped off. A third stared at a flickering holo-menu, its pixels dying one by one like fireflies in a jar.
"These are the legends Dad talked about?" Oliver muttered, brushing crumbs off the table—crumbs that might've been from last week's fries or last month's gunfight. "Looks like the bargain bin at a gun show."
Carl shrugged, his gaze drifting over the room. The bar's neon sign buzzed faintly, its coyote silhouette missing an ear to burnt-out LEDs. "We're here to become the ad, not read it."
The door groaned open again, casting a shaft of sickly light across the bar. A mountain of a man stepped in—tall enough to scrape the ceiling, his chest a canvas of prison tats and faded Valentino ink. Minimal chrome and raw muscle coiled under sun-leathered skin. His grin was all teeth, trouble, and Heywood pride.
Carl's HUD flashed crimson, the data stream jagged and urgent:
[JACKIE WELLES]
Proud son of Heywood. Stubborn as a rusted bolt. When Jackie wants something, he won't stop—or shut up—until it's in his grip. Wants too much, too fast. But in this city? Ambition's the only armor that matters.
Oliver stiffened, his knuckles tightening around his beer bottle. "The hell kind of meat-sack is that?" he hissed, voice cracking halfway through. His free hand twitched toward his Nova, the frayed tape on its grip peeling like sunburned skin.
Carl didn't flinch. "The kind that buys us jobs. Or gets us killed."
Mama Welles' voice cut through the noise, warm and weary: "¿Y tú, mijo? ¿Traes más problemas?"
Jackie laughed—a sound like a grenade rolling down stairs—and slapped the bar.
"Nah, Mamá. Solo oportunidades."