'Six weeks later.'
The sun shone brilliantly on the desert ground and the sky was clear.
Jogging from the factory to the camp for the first time today I greeted the watchmen as I stepped into the camp.
"100 Athletics exp gained."
It was unlike the usual. The members seemed, for some reason, more joyful and lively than ever before.
"Has anything happened since yesterday?" I asked one of the watchmen.
"You haven't heard yet?"
I shook my head in confusion.
"The scouts are coming back from their survey earlier than expected. We don't know why, but honestly, most of us don't care about that. We're just glad to see them soon," he said with a cheerful smile.
"Thanks for the update. Have a good day," I replied, smiling in return before heading toward Cathrin's clinic.
As I waited for the airlock to open, I heard something that sounded like sobbing from inside.
Inside the clinic, there were three people—Cathrin, a young woman looking stressed, and a girl around four years old.
The girl lay on the chair, tears streaming down her face.
"Please calm down, sweetheart. There's nothing to be afraid of here. You just need to stay still for a moment. The scan only takes a second, and it doesn't hurt at all," Cathrin said kindly, her tone more patient than I thought possible.
"B-But the other kids said the scan's gonna cut me open, look at what's wrong with me, and then stitch me back together," the girl whimpered as her mother tried to soothe her.
I couldn't stand to watch any longer. "Sweetie, do you know what a brave little one gets after her scan?" I asked softly, my voice warm with kindness as I looked her straight in the eyes.
She shook her head, tears still streaking her cheeks, but her sobs had subsided.
I offered her a gentle smile. "They get their favorite treat, and if they're really brave, a bowl of ice cream." I winked at Cathrin to signal her to get started.
In an instant, she wiped away her tears and lay still, her eyes fixed on me with eager anticipation as the scan began to pass over her.
Bribery always works. Thank god children never truly change.
"Nothing serious, just a fractured leg. Keep her from running around too much for the next two weeks, and apply this gel on the injured spot," Cathrin said, relief clear in her voice.
I relaxed as they left the clinic, their faces reflecting relief.
Crying children— I simply cannot endure children crying. I really can't.
"Sigh. So, what do you need, Kassy?" Cathrin asked.
"I wanted to know if you've uncovered anything new about the mercs. If not, I'd like to start working as a merc myself. Because if they've been sitting still all this time, we won't find them. And I'm going crazy not being able to leave the camp," I replied honestly, trying to mimic the puppy-dog eyes the twins always gave.
She looked torn, caught between agreement and denial, but after a moment, she relented. "Fine, you can leave the camp. But for the merc job, you'll be accompanied by Erik, and you won't go anywhere near Night City. That's non-negotiable," she said through clenched teeth.
She definitely wasn't happy about it.
"Thanks for letting me go," I said, rushing to her side and hugging her tightly.
"Just promise me one thing: if the job doesn't feel right, don't push yourself to stay," she said, taking my hands and gazing sternly into my eyes.
"Yes, I won't push myself if the job doesn't suit me," I said, releasing my grip and stepping out of the clinic.
Finally, free.
"Oh, and before I forget—" Cathrin leaned against the airlock with a sly smile, "—we're going shopping in a week. Better get ready."
DAMN IT ALL!!!!
I trudged over to Erik's container, shoulders slumped, finding him inside, cleaning a few guns, humming a familiar tune as he worked.
Why is the song *Valhalla Calling* here in this world? I mean, it suits him, but how did it come into this world? Please let there be no Assasins Creed nonsense in this world----SHIT I raised the flag!!!
"Cathrin already texted me, so don't even bother. I've got a potential gig lined up, but it's not a simple one. It's going to show you how dark this work can get. Just so you know, you don't have to take this one for your first job. The merc life isn't just a single blaze of glory, like some make it seem. You've got to go through hell before you even catch a glimpse of the victory." Erik's voice was flat, without emotion.
I stood quietly, pondering his words before raising my chin and meeting his gaze.
"It's better to understand the worst about a life choice than to only catch a glimpse of its best in those fleeting first moments. That lesson will stay with me forever—because the worst is what lingers in memory, while the best fades into oblivion and the remnants are idolized."
He paused, then looked my way with a slight smile. "Yes, the worst never truly leaves us. I'll pick you up at the factory in an hour. Gather your things, ready yourself. Once you step into my car, there's no turning back."
I silently tread through the camp, aimless in my wandering, my mind haunted by the weight of Erik's words.
What is the worst in a merc's life? Or perhaps, in this world?
Shaking off the thought, I found myself standing before the camp gate, eyes fixed on the slope beyond.
A deep breath filled my lungs—excitement and anxiety tangled inside me.
"Life's uncertain, but that's what makes it thrilling. Anything can happen out there—good or bad. It's just one big adventure, or so they say. Besides, the winner takes all," I muttered under my breath as I headed into the factory.
Taking in the chaos of the hall, a faint smile tugged at my lips. I approached a workbench beside the camper and grabbed my gear.
A foldable bow featuring two draw strength settings, inspired by the Crisis hunter bow. Still love that game. Accompanying it is a cylindrical quiver holding five differently colored arrow sets, integrated with a mechanical selection system within the bow itself. Marvel really nailed some of the best innovations.
One of my jackets with an exoskeleton built into the lining—kevlar layered inside—to assist with the second draw strength setting. It's paired with modified denim, enhancing draw power and jumping capability, though not at the level of an edgerunner. Hidden weapons are cleverly concealed within, a testament to the Cyberpunk Yakuza expertise in ninja outfitting.
A mask crafted from ALON, featuring an integrated air filter, night vision, thermal imaging, and a scanning function borrowed from a Kiroshi implant—all within just one centimeter of thickness. Star Trek truly predicted the future.
I cast a glance at the Unity, fully upgraded with new parts. Every modification serves a purpose—improved accuracy, minimized recoil. I've spent countless hours fine-tuning it, much to Jessica and Cathrin's disapproving stares, who had to drag me to camp to remind me to rest a little.
A D5 Copperhead, fitted with scope, silencer, extended magazine, an extra grip, and a laser pointer mounted along the barrel—sometimes, the simplest setups prove to be the most effective. The AK-47 of the Cyberpunk world.
I shift my gaze to another workbench to the right. The prototype of the power armor frame catches my eye. Only a single arm's mechanics, and not even half of the upper torso, are complete. Still, I haven't found a power source yet—pressure issues remain unresolved. Fallout had it too easy with a fusion core.
On another front, the piloted Terminator frame prototype was nearly complete—excluding the electronics and anything related to programming. Most likely, I'd have to replace every component because I hadn't thought things through. But who cares? At worst, I'd just use it as a target dummy for weapons testing someday.
I picked up the foldable bow; the draw strength settings clicked smoothly, confirming it was ready for action. Testing the mechanical selection system on the quiver, I felt a surge of excitement at the thought of switching arrow types mid-fight—a bonus I would either revel in or curse later.
With the jacket snug around me, I adjusted the exoskeleton's settings. I couldn't help but grin, thinking about how far I'd come—from relying solely on gaming knowledge to integrating this technology of the real world.
The mask fit snugly on my face, its ALON frame shining under the artificial light.
I strapped the Unity and her holster to my right leg, the bow to my left, and the Copperhead diagonally across my back. I also stashed some throwing knives in the lining of my jacket.
After checking the security systems I'd set around the complex and making sure Tine had enough food, I headed to the last stop. I navigated the halls until I reached the chamber where the container had fallen.
Passing by the container, I entered the workshop housing the forge. Spread across a workbench were an assortment of swords and blades—some asymmetric, some bent in odd ways, surfaces marred by cracks or dulled with age. Forging blades, it seemed, was not as simple as the stories made it out to be. Yet, amidst the chaos, I managed to craft one axe that was passably decent.
I couldn't help but laugh at it— I'd spent ages trying to make a sword failing dozens of times, and when I finally got frustrated enough to craft an axe, I succeeded. I don't even know how to wield a sword, but I do know how to use a wood-cutting axe. Still, I love swords more than axes.
I sharpened the axe carefully, checking for any cracks from the process. Then, I took a fitting halter from another workbench and fastened the axe to my belt, along with a duffel bag filled with arrows, knives, ammunition, medicine, and a few items I hoped I wouldn't need.
Thank god for delivery services among clan members.
I stepped out of the factory and eased onto a barrel near the entrance, taking in the quiet of the scene. As I scanned the landscape, a distant motor's hum drifted on the wind. I looked around, searching for its source, but nothing stirred from the camp in my direction, even as the engine's roar grew nearer.
Then, I heard the unmistakable scrape of tires on loose sand—a weathered truck emerged from a corner of the factory, hauling a container on its semi-trailer. Yet, as far as I could tell, there was no clan insignia adorning it.
This doesn't bode well.
The truck came to a halt before me. The container clattered as it opened from within, revealing an unfamiliar voice with an eastern european accent spoken from inside.
"Quit loitering and get your ass inside. We've got a schedule to stick to." Standing up, I made my way to the container's door and ducked under the lip. As soon as I caught a glimpse inside, a hand shot out from within, reaching over my head to grab my jacket by the collar like a predator's paw and yank me in.
Heaving me onto a seat, the person slammed the door shut just as the truck lurched back into motion.
I sat up and saw the one who had pulled me in—the middle-aged woman with fiery red hair, clad in a tactical vest and pants. Her arms, at least her feet, and her neck gleamed with chrome, extensive and shining.
No visible gun, at least—not that I could see. But her arms hid at least blades.
"Cut the bullshit, Mila. She's new, so don't let her feeling late get on your nerves," Erik's voice floated from the front of the container.
I glanced over to see him seated near the steering wheel, a screen flickering before him, his HMG and a great axe resting beside him on the co-driver's seat.
The woman gave us a sharp, unfriendly look—at Erik, then me. "Fine. Sit down, kid. It's a long ride," she said, settling herself in the seat closest to the door.
"Task 'Eriks Gig' accepted"
I swiftly disabled the notifications for now.
Glancing at the container, it was packed with seats, gear, ammunition, and the cockpit where Erik sat.
Before I could get a word in, Erik spoke. "We're picking up some others first, then we'll talk about the gig. So stay put and enjoy the ride. And one more thing—don't tell anyone not with us your name."
Not exactly introducing myself. Very subtle.
We stopped every half hour to pick up one or two heavily chromed individuals, until they numbered fifteen—excluding me.
Though I didn't recognize any of them, which isn't saying much, I doubt some are nomads.
"Since everyone's here," Erik continued, "let's talk business. The job is to wipe out a Raffen camp along the Columbia River.
We're part of the ground strike team. Our role is to hit them so hard that they try to flee to their ship or focus entirely on us, giving the Tridents an easier time disabling their vessel.
If they rush, they'll get emotional and make mistakes. But they'll probably try to shoot at us with the ship's mounted weapons," he said in a flat tone.
This is worse than I'd thought—if the ship's big enough.
The group murmured among themselves for a moment before one asked, "How many are we talking about? What's the camp's defensive and offensive capability with that ship?"
"We're looking at about a hundred fifty Raffen at the base. As for their capabilities, see for yourselves," Erik said, nodding toward a screen beside him.
The screen flickered to life, revealing an old village with a dock. Nestled between jagged cliffs and a roiling sea, the battered structures leaned precariously, their wood ravaged by time and neglect. Rusted signs and boats—ranging in size—languished at the docks, alongside neon signs that had long surrendered to the elements. A single road linked the village to the rest of the state.
An old patrol boat, defiant amid the wreckage, bore the scars of years gone by. Its once-bright navy blue paint had chipped and flaked, exposing rust and grime underneath. Though its radar and comm systems were outdated, the silhouette of its weapon mounts still exuded menace.
Raffen of all sizes scurried chaotically through the rain-drenched village, their movements erratic as the ship paused occasionally to unload something into the most intact houses. Amidst the disorder, faint patrol routes traced through the muddy streets, revealing glimpses of order amid the chaos. Their top priority was always the largest building in the village and the ship itself.
"So, how do you want us to handle this, Erik?" asked another, voice steady, free of fear or uncertainty.
"The quickest way would be an attack at night when they change shifts," Erik replied. "The ones on watch will be the most tired, and the ones coming to relieve them will be the most relaxed. A swift strike by the netrunners among us, followed by a simultaneous assault from everyone else. If we execute it correctly, we could wipe out nearly forty of them with almost no resistance, and another twenty who won't put up much of a fight. The rest, though—they'll be a pain. But the other strike team can flank from the rear."
It should work if done right. But where had the other team come from? I raised my hand, feeling a flicker of embarrassment.
"We're not in school, kid," Mila said with a pinch of irritation. "Just say whatever's on your mind. Sometimes dumb ideas can help in ways you wouldn't expect."
"Why not mine the way to the ship so some of them blow up without us even having to do anything?"
"And how are we supposed to set the mines without being seen?" another shot back, mockery tinged in his voice. "None of us are stealth specialists. It would be a good idea if we could manage it."
I reached into my bag and pulled out one of the striped arrows, explaining, "These arrows are filled with either CHOOH2 or liquid nitrogen, along with plastic explosives in the shaft. When they hit anything, a motion sensor triggers a remote detonator, turning them into mines—or a grenade, whatever you need at the moment."
The moment I finished, a chilling realization hit me—that this might mean more casualties than I had initially expected.
They're still raffens—they deserve it.
"That should work, but how many arrows do you have? You'll need to fire at least twenty to thirty at the base."
"At best, you should save some for later as well."
"A minefield is always useful, even if you don't know it."
"And can they tell friend from foe?" They spoke over each other.
"Stop talking over each other! Kid, do they have software to prevent friendly fire?" Erik yelled.
"They can be integrated into a network to prevent it, but I'd need to connect to everyone first. Or someone else needs to set it up. I have around forty arrows mines with me; I could mix in some pinging arrows to locate the raffens."
One of the slicker-built ones leaned forward. "Pinging arrows as in Ping?"
"Yeah. They've got enough processing power to send out a Ping regularly without overheating."
"Then give me one of each. I'll integrate them into the network for this gig." I handed him the arrows and sank back into my seat. The silence returned until we stopped moving after an hour.
"Good, we're there. Still half an hour before they change shifts. Prepare yourselves—it's going to be a long night." Erik stood, gesturing for me to follow as he exited the container.
We approached an area near the cliffs, about a hundred meters away.
"It's best not to reveal everything about yourself until the job's done. You can't fully trust them on this one—and definitely not after."
Hired mercs alongside nomads. Sure, some jobs need more than one crew, but isn't around fifty people a bit much?
I moved toward a boulder perched at the edge of the cliff, ducking behind it for cover. I surveyed the ground beneath, comparing it to the drone footage, looking for anything out of place.
The only difference was that the sentinels on watch were slower, more prone to stop and talk among each other than before.
The ship lay roughly two hundred to two hundred fifty meters ahead.
Quietly, I checked my gear once more, pulling the arrows from the duffle bag. Out of nowhere, a voice spoke softly behind me as I did so. Instantly, I clenched a knife in my hand.
"Here are your arrows. I still need to get you logged into the network for the job." The netrunner stood behind me, completely encased in armor, voice modulated beyond recognition.
Talk about being a fucking ninja.
I drew a deep breath, sheathed the knife, and turned toward him. "Alright, what do you need to log me in?"
"Nothing much. Just wanted to give you a heads-up so you don't panic if you suddenly start seeing silhouettes in your vision and hearing voices," he—or she—said, walking away as shadows flickered into view around us.
Honestly, I was surprised by the politeness. But was it really this simple to mesh an unknown person's implants into a network?
I returned to preparing my arrows as the other mercs discussed the plan in the voice chat.
Suddenly, the world flickered—just for a moment—and I saw the locations of the other mercs outlined in a vivid green.
At that moment, some colored rings appeared in the base and along the pathway to the ship. Two distinct colors—yellow and blue—circulated in the air.
"Kid, fire your mines in the yellow rings—they can overlap. Send the ping arrows into the blue rings, preferably not on the ground, so they don't get found," someone announced in the voice chat.
Spreading out the bow, I grabbed the first arrow and focused on my target. Taking a deep breath, I nocked the arrow, tensing the bowstring and aiming just a touch higher before releasing.
It whispered silently through the air, missing the yellow ring by just a breath.
I repeated the process, firing at all the yellow rings. At first, I barely grazed them, but with each shot, my aim improved.
I should have practiced more with the Linear Frame and the bow. But afterward, you always know better than before.
Once I finished shooting at the camp, I holstered the bow.
The outlines of every Raffen walking around the base appeared in red silhouettes, thanks to the periodic pinging.
I stepped away from the cliffside and made my way to Erik's location using the network. Whoever built it left the name of the person floating above their head thankfully.