The Copperhead's mechanical rhythm had become an extension of Carl's body in the short time since he'd picked it up. Its 640-round-per-minute cadence translated his will into lethal geometry—two rounds per target, one to the skull, one to the heart, executed with the precision of someone who'd spent countless hours in virtual shooting ranges, never imagining the bone-deep vibration of live fire, the way blood mist hung in the air like crimson fog. Seven chrome-plated corpses hit the concrete in a discordant symphony of clattering metal and wet thuds, their death rattle echoing through the abandoned factory's skeletal remains.
Jackie let out a pained chuckle that turned into a wet cough, blood speckling his lips. "Madre de dios, KK. You shoot like someone took aim-assist and baptized it in holy water." He tried pushing up on one elbow, his face going ashen as fresh blood darkened his pant leg.
Oliver was on him in an instant, shoving him back down with enough force to flatten a lesser man. "Jesus! Stay down unless you want your femoral artery redecorating this floor in arterial spray." His hands moved with the urgent precision of someone who'd patched too many bullet holes in back alleys, fingers probing the wounds with clinical detachment.
Jackie winced but still managed to fish a crumpled ketchup packet from his vest pocket with his free hand. "Relax, mamá gallina. Just need my combat stims," he said, tearing the packet open with his teeth and squeezing the congealed red paste directly into his mouth. The 2055 expiration date had long since faded.
Carl watched, torn between horror and fascination, as Jackie swallowed the decades-old condiment without blinking. "That's... not what ketchup is for."
Jackie grinned, showing red-stained teeth. "Says who? Tomato's a fruit. Fruit's got vitamins. Vitamins help healing. QED--" His words cut off as Oliver yanked the bandage tight, making him suck air through his teeth. "Besides, tastes better than most of the shit they sell as food in this dumpster fire of a city."
Carl ejected the Copperhead's spent magazine, the metal clattering against the concrete like broken glass. Two days ago, he'd never seen a real gunshot wound. Now he was stripping fresh mags from corpses with hands that refused to shake. "You're a walking OSHA violation," he told Jackie, voice flat.
"Porque no los dos?" Jackie wheezed, his humor undimmed by the bullet holes.
Oliver secured the last pressure bandage with a surgeon's knot that made Jackie suck air through his teeth. "First thing after this job, we're getting you subdermal armor. And maybe a shock collar." His gaze dropped to his own unmodified arms, the frustration evident. "Should look into some optics myself. Useless being the only one here who can't see in thermal."
Carl tossed him a scavenged Lexington, the pistol spinning through the air like a deadly coin toss. "Get a sniper rifle instead. Better for your skill set."
"Because I can't shoot for shit?"
"Because patience beats reflexes," Carl said, racking the Copperhead's slide. The sound cut through the factory's hum like a guillotine's drop.
Jackie tested his weight on the injured leg, face twisting. "Nah, Ollie's our medic now. Dude patches holes better than half the ripperdocs in Watson." He patted his bloodstained thigh. "See? Good as new. Mostly."
Oliver wasn't listening. His attention had locked onto the security cameras dotting the ceiling, their unblinking lenses like mechanical vultures waiting to pick their bones. "We need to move. They'll be swarming this position any minute."
Carl scooped up grenades from the corpses, their cold metal foreign in his hands. Back home, these had been pixels in games. Now their weight promised real devastation. "Should've hired a netrunner," he muttered. "Could've hacked their cameras, scrambled their comms..." He underhanded a grenade to Oliver. "Make us a diversion."
Oliver caught it one-handed while simultaneously stripping wires from a dead ganger's neural port with the other. "Sixth Street field tricks 101." His fingers worked the grenade's fuse with practiced ease. "Give me ninety seconds."
While Oliver rigged the trap, Jackie fished out another ancient ketchup packet, examining it thoughtfully. "Think this one's from the Fourth Corporate War," he mused, giving it an experimental squeeze.
Carl stared. "You're actually going to—"
"Waste not, want not," Jackie said, upending the entire packet into his mouth. His face immediately twisted. "Okay, that one might've been too far gone."
The blood trail was Oliver's idea—a gruesome path of rags soaked in dead men's vital fluids leading deeper into the facility. It didn't take long for the remaining Maelstrom forces to take the bait, their heavy footfalls shaking dust from the ceiling as they charged toward oblivion.
Demon arrived to a slaughterhouse tableau. Seven of her best lay in grotesque poses, each with identical kill shots—two rounds, no wasted motion. The air reeked of cordite and voided bowels, the scent thick enough to coat the tongue.
"Spineless maggots," she spat, her six crimson optics cycling through vision modes. Then—
"Boss! Blood trail!" A ganger pointed to glistening droplets leading deeper into the facility's industrial maze.
Demon's neural ports buzzed with anticipation. She signaled advance, her Crusher shotgun humming to life like a waking beast.
They took the bait like addicts to a fresh fix.
The tripwire grenade turned the point men into a fireball of screaming shrapnel. Another lost his legs mid-stride, his torso skidding to a stop at Demon's boots like a grotesque offering.
Carl heard the explosion rattle through the factory's skeletal remains. "That bought us time," Oliver said, checking Jackie's bandages. The "blood trail" had served its purpose—now came the real hunt.
Moving toward the blast zone, Lexington drawn, Carl expected panicked survivors.
He didn't expect the nightmare emerging from the smoke.
Demon materialized like a glitch in reality itself—her four remaining glowing optics burning through the haze, subdermal armor rippling beneath scarred flesh. Three shots from Carl's Lexington sparked harmlessly off her cranial plating, the ricochets whining through the air like frustrated ghosts.
Same weak spot. Same failure.
The fourth shot screamed toward the microscopic gap between Demon's cranial plating and facial augmentations, that hairline fracture where chrome met flesh. He'd seen the weak point before, knew the geometry better than his own fingerprints.
The spark when it ricocheted sent a shower of orange embers cascading down Demon's scarred cheek. The round didn't even leave a scratch.
Her optics locked onto him, its crimson glow intensifying until it outshone the emergency lights.
The Crusher came up with the inevitability of a tax audit.
Jackie's warning looped in Carl's mind with digital clarity: "Lexington won't scratch the cheapest subdermal." The words morphed into a systems alert flashing behind his eyes
- [WARNING: BALLISTIC INEFFECTIVENESS DETECTED].
For the first time since waking up in 2075, Carl felt the icy fingers of genuine disadvantage creeping up his spine.
The math had changed.
Because sometimes the enemy just wouldn't fucking die.