Night City saw gunfights every single day. Death was about as common as the rain in Seattle.
Nobody batted an eye if some guy walking down the street suddenly got shot or run over.
If you didn't know the dead man, then he was just another corpse. Scary, sure—but hardly rare in Night City.
Trauma Team was a company born for exactly this reality: a medical giant that provided emergency rescue, but unlike other medical services, theirs came with guns.
In Night City, "medical rescue" wasn't just medical rescue—it was closer to battlefield triage.
For Trauma Team, the client was god. Their standard-issue smart weapons reduced the need for field medic combat skills, but also stripped away much of their ability to make decisions on the spot.
David sat behind the wheel, his head still buzzing—not from an explosion, but from the story Leo had just told him about Kaneck.
What the hell was that?
Suddenly he remembered something from school:
"Employees should embrace corporate values, learn the corporate culture, embody the corporate spirit, and make small sacrifices to ensure corporate profitability."
He used to have no idea what those "small sacrifices" meant—he just knew instinctively that such a life sounded suffocating.
Now? Those "small sacrifices" were only small from the corporation's perspective. For the employee, they could mean everything.
People always said being a corpo dog meant a bright future—sure, it was exhausting, but the job was stable, the pay was solid, and there were plenty of hidden perks.
Now he knew leaving was the right choice.
Only an idiot would do that job.
Hands on the wheel, David chewed over the Trauma Team story.
"So, if the client shoots at the medics, they're not even allowed to shoot back?"
Leo nodded. "That's one of the worst scenarios for Trauma Team. Rescuing a cyberpsycho ties their hands completely and racks up massive losses."
The work environment was even nastier than David had imagined.
Rescuing cyberpsychos was bad enough—but back in the Corporate Wars, it was even worse. Two Trauma Team squads could arrive in the same zone, with clients who were enemies.
In those cases, pulling off the rescue was a nightmare: open fire, and you risk hitting the other client; don't open fire, and your own client's screwed.
Some clients would even trigger their distress signal early, right when the gunfight started, just to get Trauma Team's "fire support" before they got hit.
As a battlefield medical service, their iron law was never to harm the client. But countless complications could make saving that client… hell.
Compared to that, clearing out a gang hideout before a rescue almost felt refreshing—therapeutic, even.
Because of all these unpredictable risks, Trauma Team membership—especially Platinum—had basically become a form of high-end health insurance. The application process was long, and high-risk individuals paid higher rates.
David had never known any of this. His upbringing had only ever shown him the company's spotless, heroic image.
Unmatched service and performance had given them a monopoly on the emergency rescue market. In his mind, that kind of dominance meant great pay, stable jobs—
That's what he used to think.
But ever since he picked up a gun, his worldview had shifted. Being a merc might be low-status, but it was free—and rolling with the crew could even make good money.
Kak-kak—
The van jolted to a stop at a red light, coughing like it was about to die. It rattled like a Parkinson's patient.
"Uh…" David reached under the dash, checking if the old problem had cropped up again.
It was a black Villefort Columbus cargo van—paint chipped, body warped, bumper barely hanging on.
The Columbus was already the cheapest thing Villefort made. David's… was a cheapest-of-the-cheap model.
It had definitely been through deaths before—probably more than one batch of corpses.
David suddenly felt like he was back the first time he drove stick—staring at the red light, nervously fixing the car as his heart pounded.
Not that he was scared of stalling—he was scared of how busted the van was, and how Leo would react.
But Leo didn't seem to care. Their target wasn't exactly moving fast, either.
Kaneck had shut down the AV's main power to stay stealthy, running on backup lines instead. That meant slower speed and quieter engines.
With the streets still mostly clear and Leo quietly helping them, Trauma Team wouldn't even notice their AV was missing for a while.
Leo also wasn't counting on David to finish the job—backup was coming.
Earlier, he'd mentioned the Trauma Team membership changes: now there were three tiers—Silver, Gold, and Platinum.
Only Platinum gave top-tier service, and it cost 50,000 eddies a year. That just covered dispatch—any extras racked up more charges.
And even then, they didn't hand out Platinum to high-risk people easily.
Like Kaneck's revenge target—Woolie Crowley, a Night City native merc with a body full of combat chrome, spending at least seventy hours a week in danger.
His risk profile wasn't like a corpo dog's—his job was danger. Platinum for someone like him was a big decision.
But somehow, Woolie had it. And that 50,000 eddies wasn't counting rescue costs.
If he could afford that, his employer was loaded—and willing to spend big.
Kak-kak-kak—
The light turned green, the van roared like a tractor, and honks blared behind them.
This time, David couldn't stall.
They lurched forward, quickly overtaken by a sports car.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, exhaling like he'd survived a warzone.
Leo gave him a curious look. "You look stressed."
"Yeah… a little," David scratched his face. "The van's… kinda old."
"But it's good for a rookie merc. How much?"
"1,000 eddies." David patted the wheel. "She's got problems, but I figured I could fix her up and learn the mechanics while I'm at it."
Most of his money had gone into matching that Sandevistan—high-end cyberware, carefully chosen. Didn't leave much for wheels.
The crew shared a Thorton Mackinaw, but that stayed with Maine.
"Not bad," Leo said, tapping the door. "My first ride was worse—a Mahir Supron FS3. Every time I hit the brakes it screeched like it was about to fall apart."
"That's the one made of plastic and fabric? I saw it once. Scared it'd stall on me."
"That's the one."
In truth, Leo was talking about the one V used in Atlanta. A van, but shorter than most sedans—looked like a chopped fish head.
A classic poverty car.
"Everyone's got a rookie phase. The one you buy yourself is always the best."
Leo eyed the shifter—a pure manual, a century-old design, no electronic assists.
Not what David imagined from a "big brother who only drives high-tech or military rides."
But Leo respected the choice.
A car you buy yourself is always a good car.
And as the big brother, he figured he should throw in some encouragement.
"Good to know how to handle these old rides. When money's tight, you can grab a cheap beater, keep the rain off, find some work, and climb back up.
A 1,000 eddies car ain't shameful. The man's what matters."
David felt fired up—like the van's horsepower had doubled.
So what if it's a van? Vans can chase AVs.
And the guy in that AV… if he had to pay that price to keep flying it, maybe it wasn't worth it.
Leo's brow furrowed.
They were driving north along Wellsprings' main drag—straight to the City Center.
But the AV was flying higher and edging outward—not toward the City Center, and probably not even Little China north of it.
Further still… was the Arasaka Waterfront.
"We need to speed up. This cyberpsycho's really gone."