Inside the smoothly cruising Griffin 2L light armored AV, the rhythmic hum of the engine was steady and powerful.
Once upon a time, Roqi had fantasized about moments like this—fully geared up, sitting in a gunship, flying into a combat zone.
But in the Night City of 2077, helicopters were relics of the past. These days, small electric drones and biofuel-powered AVs were the standard.
Still, sitting in this quiet, humming interior—surrounded by serious-faced operators—it all felt strangely familiar.
The cabin was silent.
The five other operatives sat in stoic silence.
Under the MAX-TAC banner, they weren't just people anymore—they were cold, professional war machines.
That realization made Roqi squirm a little in his seat.
The pilot and co-pilot were probationary officers. Technically, only three full-time operatives were seated with him.
Roqi glanced at them.
One stared straight ahead, posture perfect. Another checked their weapon in silence. The third sat motionless, focused. The almost ritualistic seriousness in the air made Roqi feel deeply out of place.
Unconsciously, he mirrored their stone-faced posture. But in just a few minutes, his every muscle started protesting the stiffness.
What he didn't realize was…
As his eyes moved across the squad, each regular member tensed up slightly. Their muscles flexed. Their motions became crisper, tighter.
The commander must be inspecting us. This is a test. I have to stay sharp.
One operative polishing his weapon began performing like a veteran of ten years.
He may look young, but all MAX-TAC full-timers are monsters. Is my posture good enough? If he's displeased, I'm screwed.
Another, already sitting like a mannequin, somehow straightened up even more.
He looks goofy now, but maybe he's one of those smiling psychos who tear people apart with a grin. I'll just answer with "Yes, sir" if he talks to me.
Having mistaken Roqi's inexperience for that special kind of cyberpsycho weirdness, the third operative just gulped nervously and avoided eye contact.
The atmosphere was tense. Stiff. Awkward.
Are all MAX-TAC regulars this damn serious?
Roqi, scanning their expressions, started feeling less confident by the second.
This was his first real operation—his first time leading a team. He didn't even know what the hell he was supposed to do yet. He'd been shoved into the deep end, completely unprepared.
If the regulars are this good, how the hell did a clown like me make it into MAX-TAC?
He wanted to cry.
He wanted to tell Melissa. To tell Master Yim.
He was just a clueless rookie! Why the hell was he already staring down the barrel of Night City's madness?
While he debated whether this awkwardness rated a "2-bed 2-bath" toe-curling embarrassment or a full "3-bedroom suite," a notification popped into his optical HUD—and snapped him out of it.
"Arrival confirmed. Commence mission."
The command came from HQ. Their target was a group of Sixth Street gangers looting in the chaos.
Most of Heywood was embroiled—Vista del Rey, The Glen, Wellsprings.
Due to their proximity to the municipal core and Corpo Plaza, the northern ends of these districts were high-income zones. Even a little further south, they still catered to the middle class.
Only when you hit the edges near Pacifica and Santo Domingo did it really fall into poverty.
The Valentinos and Sixth Street were the main players here. Heywood was the Valentino stronghold, while Sixth Street's home turf lay closer to Coronado Ranch in Santo Domingo.
It was in this three-way border zone that the Maelstrom sparked chaos—an all-out, nonsensical war.
Maybe it had started from a falling out between Maelstrom and their partners, but by now it had spiraled into a full-scale gang war with no logic or end in sight.
Gunfire echoed through the streets daily. Civilians stayed indoors. NCPD was hopelessly outgunned and outmanned.
Casualties piled up.
Seeing an opportunity, Sixth Street struck the Valentinos from behind—hard.
Looting, killing, arson, abductions—they took full advantage of the chaos.
Local NCPD branches had basically shut down. Their doors were barricaded, covered in garbage and colorful graffiti.
Faced with riots on this scale, the underfunded precincts had done the only thing they could: play dead and beg for backup.
MAX-TAC? They couldn't care less about those cowardly desk jockeys.
Presented with a choice between "exterminate violent gangers" and "rescue a precinct entrance," MAX-TAC didn't hesitate. They chose the former.
Backup would take days. Corpo abuses would take even longer.
Ordinary Night City citizens still dialed NCPD out of habit. But deep down, they knew—no one was coming. They were on their own.
Hopeless.
Yet in the wealthier zones, NCPD acted like heroes. Gangs that tested those areas paid in blood.
They had manpower. Gear. Morale. Confidence. And the backing of corpo military units.
In Charter Hill and Reconciliation Park, cops rode maxed-out cruisers chasing pickpockets. In the slums? They ate fast food while gunfights raged a block away.
Roqi often wondered what kind of insane city he lived in.
Every gig brought him to a new neighborhood that felt like another world. It was hard to believe it was all still Night City.
This time was no different.
…
Heywood, southern Glen.
Not far from El Coyote Cojo—Mama Wells' bar.
Once solid Valentino turf.
Now? Swarming with Sixth Street.
Blindsided, the Valentinos were scrambling to hold back Maelstrom while also plugging the hole in their defenses.
This street used to be vibrant. Latin, Mexican, and global cultural vibes gave the place real soul.
It wasn't glamorous, but it had heart. It was alive.
Now, it was a warzone.
An ungoverned oasis-turned-hellhole. Poor sanitation. Gang impunity. Black market dealings.
It was never a paradise—but in a world of rot, it had once been a damn good hideout.
Jackie used to bring V and Roqi here to drink. He loved his tequila.
But if he saw it now, he'd be pissed.
Camouflage pants, shades, cowboy hats, half-assed tactical vests—Sixth Street had turned the place into rubble.
Maybe it was retaliation for recent attacks. Maybe it was greed. Either way, once the shooting started, morality vanished. All that mattered was who won.
After enough civilians died, MAX-TAC finally dropped in.
When the "MAX-TAC" logo on the side of the Griffin 2L became visible above the battlefield, both gangs froze.
"Hiss—!"
The hydraulics hissed as the AV's side doors opened—revealing a fully armored MAX-TAC officer within.
And in his hands, that unmistakable tech-charged weapon—
RUN!!
NCPD had all kinds—beat cops, mechs, corpo-collaborators.
Gangers calculated risk accordingly.
Killing solo cops? Commonplace.
But MAX-TAC?
You ran. No questions.
"WHOOOSH—BOOM!"
A whistling fall. A brutal impact.
A Sixth Street jeep trying to flee got its hood crushed. Its engine sputtered and died.
"Whoa!"
The MAX-TAC trooper who dropped like a meteor turned toward the bloodied driver.
"Oops. Crushed your ride."
He raised his Satara and painted the gangbanger's brains across the windshield.
Back in the AV—
Two regular operatives gaped, still halfway into their rappelling gear.
"Wait, how high are we right now?"
"Sixty meters? Maybe seventy?"
They stammered. For cyber-augmented officers, this would normally be routine… with a rope.
They usually dropped from 10-15 meters for efficiency and safety.
Only heavily modified full-timers jumped freefall—and even then, only from like… thirty meters.
Sixty-plus? That's twenty floors. The force on impact could liquefy organs.
But Roqi?
Aside from a brief "huh," he was fine.
Even back in his meat days, he could handle five-story drops. With Rockman leg augments? He barely noticed.
Honestly?
It was his first time jumping from this height in full heavy armor.
He'd seen other MAX-TAC operatives do it—so he just did the same.
And by dumb luck?
That "divine descent" shattered the gang's morale instantly.
Next thing you knew, Roqi was stomping through the streets in unbreakable armor, Satara in hand, chasing Sixth Street gangers like a demon.
"Zzzzzap—BOOM!"
One charged shot. Another body flying.
Corpses piled up. Not one ganger dared fire back.
A complete, one-sided massacre.
Then Roqi saw the civilian corpses—slumped in unnatural positions.
He snapped.
He chased the bastards down several blocks, hunting them like prey, until there were none left to kill.
Only then did he turn back.
Yeah… MAX-TAC's name still had weight.
He reloaded his Satara and slung it over his shoulder.
In the past, no matter how fierce he was, he had to make the enemy bleed before they backed off.
Now?
He walked down the center of the street like a war god.
To everyone else, that's exactly what he was.
…
He hadn't gone far before spotting a familiar storefront.
Tables overturned. Walls riddled with bullets. Bloodstained floors.
"…Jackie would've hated this."
"Better a dog in peace than a man in chaos," huh? No shit.
Roqi sighed, shook his head, and moved on.
His teammates, who had done nothing but watch and mutter "holy shit," stared at him as he boarded the AV again.
Time to move.
There were still plenty of places in Night City in need of divine retribution.
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