The corpo woman halted in front of Carl, her shadow slicing across the table like a monofilament wire. Her tailored blazer, woven with nanotech fibers that shimmered faintly under the bar's UV lights, bore the faintest embroidered eagle insignia on the lapel—Militech's mark.
Up close, her face was a study in military efficiency: cheekbones sharp as rifle sights, skin poreless and matte as tactical gear, lips pressed into a bloodless line. Her retinal implants flickered, scanning his biometrics with clinical precision. The air around her reeked of gun oil and sterile disinfectant, a perfume for those who considered war a boardroom strategy.
"Watson's Little China district. Yesterday. Sixteen Maelstrom flatlined by one man." Her voice was a monotone drill sergeant's bark, stripped of inflection by vocal mods tuned for battlefield clarity. "You."
Carl set down his sweet tea, the glass leaving a wet ring on the table. The tea tasted like overbrewed Lipton with a saccharine afterburn. "Had help." He jerked his chin at Oliver, who stiffened under the corpo's sniper-scope stare.
She didn't spare Oliver a glance. Crossing her arms, she strained the tactical-grade seams of her blazer, her posture radiating the rigid discipline of a Militech field officer. "One hundred thousand eddies. Interested?"
Carl's eyebrows twitched. 100k eddies could buy a decent cyberarm, six months in a coffin hotel that didn't leak radiation, or a lifetime supply of soy-paste tacos. He leaned back, fingers drumming the chipped Formica. The booth's vinyl groaned under his weight, exhaling decades of spilled beer and sweat. "Should've led with that, ma'am. What's the job?"
Oliver and Jackie exchanged a glance. Dangerous, Oliver's tightened jaw telegraphed, his fingers whitening around his beer bottle. Eddies, Jackie's shrug countered, his chrome-plated knuckles glinting as he cracked them. They slid out of the booth in unison, boots scraping against tiles sticky with dried synth-liquor.
The corpo's nose wrinkled at the vacated seat, its vinyl split like a gutted fish, yellow foam oozing from the cracks. She opted instead for the edge of Carl's bench, perching like a hawk on a rifle stock. A sliver of black polycarbonate materialized between her fingers—manicured nails lacquered in matte black, tips edged in Militech gold. "Read it. Don't drool on it."
Carl slotted the chip into his neural port. The interface flared to life, his HUD painting the mission brief in jagged crimson text that pulsed like a warning light:
[MISSION BRIEF]
Location: Watson Industrial Zone (Maelstrom-occupied)
Grid coordinates embedded. Thermal scans indicate 20+ hostiles.
Objective: Locate/destroy cargo container (model #45-FT-8891)
Note: Do not retrieve contents. Render unusable. Discretion advised.
Proof: Photographic evidence of debris (geotagged, timestamped)
Payment: 100k eddies upon completion
He ejected the chip, the holographic text dissolving into static. The afterimage lingered like a burn on his retina. "Need a name. For the paperwork."
"You need a bullet?" She stood, transferring 30k eddies to his account with a flick of her wrist. A holotransfer sigil glowed briefly—a stark black eagle clutching a bullet, Militech's emblem. "The rest post-op. Run, and I'll spend the difference on a kill squad. They'll turn your bones into confetti. Understood?"
Her boots thudded toward the exit, each step a grenade pin hitting concrete. The bar's haze swallowed her whole, leaving behind the acrid stench of gunpowder and a faint hum from her shock-absorbent soles.
Oliver whistled, low and wary, his eyes tracking the last flicker of her holosigil. "The hell'd she want? Us to strangle a mayor? Plant a bomb in a daycare?"
"Firestarter gig." Carl turned to Jackie, who'd been lingering at the edge of the booth like a stray bullet waiting for a chamber. "Jackie. You're solo. Wanna team up for this?"
Jackie froze, his grin flickering like a dying neon sign. For a heartbeat, the Valentino bravado cracked, revealing the raw hunger beneath. "Me? You'd cut me in?"
Carl didn't blink. "Three ways. More hands, less work."
Jackie stared at him, then at the empty plate of "Spanish ham" between them. For a man who'd spent years scraping by on Valentino scraps and half-paid favors—bodyguarding joytoys, shaking down noodle vendors—this was daylight robbery in reverse.
"Dios mío, choom!" He slammed his palm on the table, rattling empty bottles. A fly buzzed away from a congealed puddle of beer. "We're brothers—no need to haggle terms! You ever need a bullet eaten, I'm your hermano!"
Oliver groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You didn't even ask what the job is."
"Maelstrom's squatting on a mystery crate," Carl said, ignoring Oliver's glare. "We torch it. Twenty hostiles. Pay's good."
Carl split the 30k eddies with a neural flick, the transaction pinging across their accounts. Oliver's holophone buzzed first, followed by Jackie's, the soft chime of 10k hitting their wallets cutting through the bar's hum.
Jackie stood, his boots thudding like war drums. The bar's patrons—a mix of Valentino enforcers and washed-up mercs—glanced over, then quickly looked away. "Vamos. Let's do this."
They rose, shoveling the last of Mama Welles' "Spanish ham" into their mouths—a rubbery enigma that tasted like expired soy paste and existential regret. Oliver gagged, chasing it with a swig of flat beer.
"Tastes like a old's gym sock, and I know what they're like." he muttered, wiping his mouth.
Jackie slapped his back hard enough to dislodge a fry from his plate. "Es proteína, hermano! Builds character. And biceps." He flexed, his bicep straining against his sleeve. "See?"
Carl ignored them, already mentally mapping Watson's industrial sprawl. Somewhere in that rusted labyrinth of abandoned factories and scav-haunted warehouses, a crate full of sins waited to burn. He checked his Lexington, the grip smooth and familiar, then glanced at the mission coordinates flickering on his holophone.