The Maelstrom gang scattered like insects from a shattered hive, fleeing Route 64 in a frenzy and swarming into the open Badlands.
"Who the fuck are they!?"
Still reeling from the ambush, the Maelstrom scrambled into their vehicles by pure instinct, only realizing after the fact just how overwhelming their attackers were. It felt like running from death itself—like prey on the plains, pursued by apex predators from the sky.
"How the fuck should I know!? Stop yelling dumb shit and watch the road! If we flip, we're all dead!!"
The guy riding shotgun screamed until his voice cracked, every other word breaking from the strain.
Motorcycles, off-road buggies, armored trucks…
The fleeing convoy looked like some twisted Badlands "vehicle expo."
And chasing them?
Just two heavily armed motorcycles.
It looked ridiculous—two wolves hunting a panicked herd of sheep.
But Maelstrom weren't sheep. They were supposed to be predators in the Badlands.
Fssshh—whiiiz!
Another hiss of compressed gas sounded from behind. Everyone in Maelstrom winced instinctively. That sound meant one thing: incoming missile.
The high-pitched shriek locked onto a target and rammed straight into the tail of one of their vehicles.
BOOM.
"FUUUUUCK!!"
As one vehicle went up in a fireball, another panicked Maelstrom thug snapped—his fear turned into a scream of rage and desperation as adrenaline flooded his system.
"Drive faster!! We're gonna fucking die!!"
This was the kind of firepower that crushed the will to fight. The only option was to run—and keep running.
"Who are these people!?"
The drivers' expressions all twisted into masks of terror. Their hands gripped the wheel with white knuckles, cold sweat soaking through their backs. The fear behind them was so intense it was physically pushing them forward, as if death were breathing down their necks.
"Ma… Ma-MAXTAC!"
One of them stammered through chattering teeth.
He looked back through the rear window and caught a glimpse of blue paint and white letters emblazoned across the front of one of the bikes.
Top line: MAX
Bottom line: TAC
"Y-you look for yourself…"
His limbs went numb. He tried to reach for the overhead handle—only to realize his arms had gone completely weak.
"Fuck! Fuck! It's fucking MAXTAC! AHHHHHH!!!"
Once that realization spread, the Maelstrom completely lost their shit—scattering like ants in a fire.
What they were thinking didn't matter to Roqi. All he knew was—they were fast.
After taking down a few vehicles, the rest began to scatter, breaking from the original plan. Ideally, they'd have been chased straight back to their base—but this worked too.
He was ready for it.
Up ahead was a slope.
The ARCH Talon howled across the Badlands like a war beast, its sheer weight and power propelling it up the incline like a tank on rocket boosters. In an instant, it launched up the hundred-meter slope.
The front wheel kicked up dust and cracked soil, and the entire frame lifted, arcing over the crest in a smooth airborne leap.
Roqi soared through the air like he was strapped to a missile.
Beep—BEEP—BEEP!
The targeting system locked onto a lone Maelstrom bike trying to escape. Three-point confirmation—fire.
Fsshht…
Whooosh!
The missile burst from its pod, trailing a long arc of smoke as it accelerated, tailflame flickering, before slamming directly into the target several hundred meters away.
BOOM.
The sound reached Roqi a beat later. Classic delay.
CLANG!!
The Talon smashed into the ground like a sledgehammer, jarring Roqi so hard he nearly bounced out of the saddle.
CLANG!!
Ten meters to the side, Mower's bike landed as well.
"Mower, ease up."
Roqi motioned with one hand and spoke over comms. "If we push too hard, they'll scatter too far. We keep them bunched."
"Roger."
Mower's voice was clipped and clear. Together, they dialed back their speed.
They opened up a distance of 700–800 meters—plenty of space out here in the Badlands, but still well within lock-on range with modern tracking systems.
More than half the Maelstrom had broken formation. But this was Maelstrom—they weren't known for coordination. The fact they hadn't just imploded completely was already impressive.
For them, this was the worst day imaginable.
They hadn't even stolen the cargo—and now MaxTac was chasing them?
It felt like a goddamn frying pan had dropped out of the sky and flattened them.
But no one was shedding tears for Maelstrom.
"The cargo's in the city."
Dallas's voice crackled in.
Roqi perked up. "Good. I'll ping you the coordinates."
Assuming the corp troops weren't dragging their asses, they should be reaching the wreck site now.
They'd see the scattered vehicles and assume Maelstrom had fled that way.
That was the idea.
Dallas's crew would pose as Maelstrom and draw the corporates straight to the gang's hideout.
The chain would look like this:
Maelstrom → Roqi & Mower → Dallas → Corp forces
Those terrified Maelstrom survivors? They'd be leading death straight home.
This wasn't just some "mantis-stalks-cicada, unaware-of-the-oriole" kind of thing.
This was a full-blown Badlands Snake Game.
Dallas had twenty-some operatives—but ten vehicles. Dozens of tire tracks aimed in one direction. In contrast, the three- to five-man groups peeling off to the sides left barely a trace.
To a corp unit looking for blood and a quick report, that main trail would be all the justification they needed.
"Hey, this is Scorpion."
A familiar voice came over the channel. Roqi recognized it immediately.
Back at Jackson Plains, he and Mower had teamed with Scorpion—providing overwatch from the cliffs. They hadn't even fired a shot, but Roqi remembered him—hooded, masked, and damn good at his job.
"The corp's here. Route 64."
Scorpion's voice was low, tense. "RCS… Respect Logistics."
"Careful. There's a shitload of them—fuck…"
"What happened? Scorpion?"
Roqi cut in.
"I can't show myself. The place is crawling," Scorpion whispered fast, his breathing tight. "IFVs, combat drones, and… Octants."
He lay prone in a dirt depression, pressing himself as deep as possible—an old trick from the Central American wars.
All he got from that war was trauma, training, and nightmares.
"Octants!?"
Roqi's eyes narrowed.
Zetatech's Octant drones were some of the most memorable combat units in Night City's black-ops world.
Why? Because he and Mower had each taken one down during the Konpeki Plaza incident.
Talk about fate.
He glanced sideways at Mower.
She sensed his gaze and turned to meet it—her external optics gleaming like steel. Damn cool.
They sped on, carving across the Badlands.
"Wait… not Octants."
Rustling sounds came through the comms. Scorpion shifted in the dirt. "It's a Compass."
"A Compass? What the hell is that?"
Roqi asked, curious.
Not a surname—another nautical term, like Octant and Sextant.
A compass measures heading; a theodolite tracks vertical and horizontal angles.
Navigation is math—lose your heading, and you're dead in the water.
"Zetatech really has a thing for naming," Roqi chuckled.
The Sextant drone was a newer generation too. Like the old instruments, it built on the Octant's design.
But Scorpion wasn't laughing.
"You know how fucked we are? This thing's firepower is insane."
He peeked at the Compass drone flying nearby. His face paled. "Don't be fooled by the shape—it looks like a flying cake, but it hits like Militech."
"I can't see it," Roqi corrected.
"On par with Militech? Shit. That's serious."
When it came to combat drones, three megacorps dominated:
Arasaka: Stylish, precise, deadly. Expensive, but unmatched in luxury and engineering. Their drones were war machines designed like luxury cars.
Militech: Brutal, practical, effective. Not quite Soviet-rugged, but every bit as efficient. Their designs were sharp, cold, and overwhelming—brutalist warfare tech.
Kang Tao: Balanced. Not amazing at any one thing, but no weaknesses. Affordable, durable, versatile. Combined with top-tier AI, they were top-three material.
Zetatech? Technically second-tier.
But they had one standout trait—firepower.
The Octant and Compass drones weren't pretty. Their defenses sucked. Their QC was spotty.
But they hit hard. Really hard.
Cheap and deadly. A dream combo for dictators and warlords.
They were perfect for crushing riots, rebellions, protests—anything that needed overwhelming force.
Even Arasaka and Militech bought them—because they were cheap, mass-producible, and got the job done.
Hard to picture?
Here's an analogy:
You don't fly a billion-euro Gen 5 fighter to patrol your corporate tower. You use a helicopter.
Even Arasaka wouldn't waste a "Kujira"-class fighter circling the beach. That'd be stupid.
Gen 7 fighters? Just taking off costs a fortune in prep, fuel, and maintenance.
Gen 4 fighters debuted in the '70s. Gen 5s showed up in the 2020s.
Thanks to the Fourth Corporate War, Arasaka and Militech jumped ahead—deploying Gen 6s early to battle across the globe.
Gen 7s didn't hit full production until the 2070s.
Only the Unification Wars in '69 and '70 sped that up. Without them, it would've taken longer.
Right now, in the absence of full-blown war, drones and gunships do the heavy lifting.
And Zetatech?
They hit that sweet spot: cheap, lethal, and good enough.
Even when Saburo Arasaka visited Konpeki Plaza, the local branch only deployed six custom Octants for his inner escort.
The outer airspace?
Covered by Gen 7 fighters.
What? Saburo got offed by his own son?
Yeah… well.
No amount of drones could've stopped that.
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🤖💘 MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW? 💘🤖
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📢 LOVE MEETS CYBERPSYCHOSIS! 📢
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Romance is already complicated.
Now add:
🌃 Night City
🦾 Cyberware
🔫 Gunfights
💀 Cyberpsychosis
💥 Property damage
❤️ And a girlfriend who might snap at any moment
Love hurts.
In this case, it might also come with bullets, broken walls, and emergency trauma care.
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🧠 My Cyberpunk 2077 Simulator
🛡️ Star Wars: The Rise of Mandalore
🌌 Star Wars: Relics of the Past
🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
⚡ The Rebirth of Harry Potter
🌹 R18: Reincarnated in Her World
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