James stepped into the warehouse and immediately felt the place was wrong.
Not "wrong" like broken lights or moldy air—Night City was full of that. This was the kind of wrong that made your skin itch. Cargo crates were stacked high, most of them sealed with cheap straps and bad tape. A few were cracked open just enough to expose the contents.
James scanned the labels.
Firearms weren't the majority.
Illegal drugs were.
Pills in vacuum packs. Powder containers stamped with fake medical logos. Even a few case markings that looked like "nutritional supplements" if you squinted hard enough and lied to yourself.
So this was the business.
Batteries were just a side hustle.
A voice came from deeper inside.
"Are you the one looking for me?"
A Maelstrom member stepped out from a side room, moving with the heavy, confident swagger of someone used to being obeyed. He wasn't a grunt—too much chrome, too much custom work. His arms were oversized gorilla mods, rough-looking and ugly, not military clean. More like something built for construction, bricklifting, and smashing faces into concrete.
Still, even "rough" gorilla arms could crush a skull like a soda can.
James counted the eyes on the man's face.
Six.
Some were real. Some were mechanical. All of them glowed with that red, predatory shine that Maelstrom loved.
So this was Six Eyes.
James kept his expression calm. He didn't flinch. Didn't stare too long. Just enough to show awareness without showing fear.
"I'm BT," James said smoothly. "The one who contacted you online about the batteries. You told me to pick them up here."
He didn't use his real name. Not out here. Not in a warehouse full of drug crates and lunatics.
Online, he always used the name BT—borrowed from a future partner he hadn't met yet. If that partner ever heard about it, James figured he'd probably be honored… or offended… or both.
Six Eyes leaned back against a railing and laughed loudly, voice scraping like broken speakers.
"Puhaha… you really dared to come here." His gaze crawled over James, slow and hungry. "You look soft and tender. Didn't expect you to be bold."
Maelstrom was like that. Half of them were already halfway into cyberpsychosis. Emotion unstable. Violent mood swings. Bad implants stacked on bad implants, patched with suppressants they drank like water.
James didn't bother playing along.
"Where are the goods?" he asked.
He took in the warehouse again. Seven Maelstrom inside, plus the ones outside. This wasn't a casual meet-up. This was a stronghold.
And Maelstrom usually ran jobs in teams of four or five.
This many bodies meant they expected trouble… or they were planning it.
Six Eyes waved lazily. "Come on."
He turned and walked into a room deeper inside the warehouse.
James followed without hesitation.
The other Maelstrom members watched him as he passed, quiet like animals deciding whether to bite now or bite later.
Inside the room, Six Eyes dropped onto a sofa like he owned the building and the city around it. He pointed at a box nearby.
"What you want is right there," he said. "Not easy to get. What are you using them for?"
His six eyes reflected James from different angles. It made him look like a human spider, and the effect was unsettling on purpose. A cheap intimidation trick… but still effective on most normal people.
James didn't answer.
He stepped forward and opened the box.
Four palm-sized military drone batteries sat inside, arranged neatly like they were gift-wrapped.
James inspected each one. Clean casing. No swelling. No obvious tampering. Connectors intact.
Good.
He transferred the remaining payment.
"The money's yours," James said. "I'm taking the goods."
He turned to leave.
A metallic click stopped him.
Behind him, a gun was being cocked.
Six Eyes lifted the weapon and tilted his head, smiling like the moment was funny.
"Not enough."
James didn't move. "How much more?"
Six Eyes's grin widened.
"Your staying here will be enough."
James exhaled slowly.
Night City. Even buying batteries had to turn into a blood transaction.
He didn't argue.
He didn't beg.
He simply turned—fast, smooth, like he'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
Bang.
Six Eyes instantly became Five Eyes.
The center of his forehead was now a black, smoking hole, thick red-and-white matter spilling out like something rotten.
His titanium head plating—whatever cheap alloy he'd trusted—couldn't withstand a tungsten-tipped armor-piercing round at that range.
Six Eyes didn't even understand he was dead.
He just slumped backward, empty.
He never expected resistance.
Why would he? This was his territory. People were supposed to freeze, not fight.
The gunshot alerted the others.
Bootsteps thundered.
Doors slammed.
Half the gang rushed in while the rest moved to surround the warehouse outside.
A Maelstrom leader stepped into the room and stared at Six Eyes's corpse.
"You actually—"
He didn't finish.
Bang.
One of his eyes went dark. His skull ruptured at the back, spraying blood and brain matter across the faces of the men behind him.
They screamed.
Their nervous systems spiked.
Their already fragile minds slipped closer to cyberpsychosis.
But they didn't get time to go berserk.
James's pistol began calling names.
Seven bullets in just over a second.
One after another.
Clean. Efficient. Unmerciful.
He even angled shots through the window frame to catch those outside.
The Kenshin was quiet enough that the rest of the Maelstrom members beyond the warehouse didn't fully register what was happening. The walls were thick, soundproofing decent.
Or maybe they were too high to notice.
James waited a beat, listening.
Silence.
Then he holstered the pistol and walked to the monitor system, checking the warehouse surveillance feed.
And there they were.
Maelstrom outside, wobbling, laughing, drugged out of their minds like walking corpses.
James clicked through camera angles, scanning inventory lists.
Maybe there was something useful here besides batteries.
Then he saw it.
A red-and-white motorcycle on the monitor.
James's eyes sharpened.
"Why is it all drugs… ARCH Nazaré."
His pulse jumped.
That bike—through legal channels—would cost hundreds of thousands.
Maelstrom was insane, but they were competent smugglers. If they were only good at killing, they wouldn't have grown this big.
James stepped out of the room, found the container holding the bike, and used Six Eyes's identity shard to unlock it.
The lock clicked.
He pushed the motorcycle out.
The engine hummed low when he powered it up—smooth, hungry, beautiful.
The sound vibrated in his bones.
James sent Lucy a short message.
(Rent an unregistered warehouse. I found something good.)
Lucy replied instantly.
(What good thing?)
(You'll know when the time comes.)
(Still being mysterious. Warehouse is rented. Sending location + access code now.)
James smiled at her message, then got to work.
He found stored alcohol fuel stacked nearby. Opened the containers. Poured it across the floor and the shelves.
Years ago, biotech companies had pushed alcohol fuel as an oil replacement during the global energy crisis.
There were always rumors that those same companies had engineered the crisis in the first place, just to sell the solution. In Night City, those rumors weren't "conspiracies."
They were business plans.
James fired several shots into the hard drives and storage units—destroying anything that could tie the warehouse to him or reveal what he'd taken.
Then he lit the fuel.
The fire caught instantly, spreading like rage.
Before it could roar too high, James opened the warehouse gate, mounted the ARCH Nazaré, and rode out.
The Maelstrom members at the entrance were still lost in drug-induced stimulation.
James didn't negotiate with them.
He didn't speak.
He simply gave one shot per head as he passed.
Then he twisted the throttle.
The bike surged forward.
"WOOHOO!" James shouted, grinning like a kid who'd stolen fire.
Wind tore at his hoodie.
Neon smeared into streaks.
Speed turned the city into pure sensation.
Ten minutes later, Maelstrom finally realized something was wrong.
By the time they rushed over, thick black smoke was already rising like a signal flare, visible from kilometers away.
But James was gone.
He parked the motorcycle in the unregistered warehouse and killed the engine.
This bike couldn't enter the city yet. It needed to be laundered, re-registered, fitted with a new plate, and scrubbed of anything that linked it to Maelstrom inventory.
That job belonged to Lucy.
She was more experienced in the edgerunner world. She had contacts. And most importantly—she was less likely to get scammed.
Nobody wanted to make an enemy out of a netrunner over some quick cash.
James understood something bitter as he rode back toward Japantown.
He hadn't made a name yet. No combat implants. No intimidating reputation.
So people looked at him and saw opportunity.
Once he wore a Pilot vest, a custom helmet, and a magnetic combat suit, most scammers would suddenly "remember" how business was supposed to work.
After returning to Japantown, James didn't worry much.
This was Tyger Claws territory. If Maelstrom crossed the line openly, the Claws would respond. That's how gangs survived—by protecting their own borders.
James felt completely justified.
He'd paid protection fees.
So he deserved protection.
And even if Maelstrom wanted revenge, they'd need to find him first.
He'd burned evidence, killed witnesses, and destroyed data.
If someone still traced him, then it wasn't his luck that was bad—it was the Tyger Claws' competence.
When James opened the door, Lucy practically flew into his arms.
She hugged him hard, then bit his ear gently as if punishing him.
"You caused a big stir," she whispered. "News reports are already covering it."
James pulled her closer. He could hear the worry under her teasing.
"You can't blame me," he said. "They turned a simple deal into this. Maelstrom brains are broken. I had no choice."
Lucy exhaled slowly, still holding him.
"I checked. Maelstrom publicly claimed Tyger Claws did it. They're gathering people to retaliate."
James chuckled, almost amused.
"They're blaming the Claws? Of course they are."
Lucy nodded. "Their territories overlap. Conflicts are common. And Maelstrom lost face. They need something to bite."
She didn't say the obvious, but James knew it too.
Maelstrom wasn't just angry.
They wanted territory.
"I bet the Tyger Claws are having a headache right now," James said with obvious satisfaction.
"No sympathy for gangsters," Lucy muttered.
Then she looked up at him, eyes gleaming.
"So… where's my surprise?"
James smirked. "In the warehouse. Once it's ready, I'll take you for a ride."
Lucy's eyes widened slightly, excitement flickering.
James finally freed his hands and went to his workbench.
He pulled out two batteries and slotted them into the rocket pack.
Perfect fit.
The indicator lights came alive.
The pack hummed, like it was waking up.
James tested the activation—just a short burst.
The thrust nearly yanked it out of his hands.
A real rocket pack was meant to sync with a Pilot helmet and suit. Without that full setup, he could only use a simplified control system through tactical gloves.
And to avoid netrunner interference, he kept it offline—no network connection, no remote hacking risk. That also made it harder to control.
But James's body could handle it.
Probably only his body could.
Apartment space wasn't enough to test properly. He planned to take Lucy somewhere open after dark—the Bund, wide and empty, better for experimenting.
But first, dinner.
"What about dinner?" James asked. "Eat out, or…?"
"I want what you make," Lucy replied instantly.
James wasn't exactly "cooking." Night City didn't have real markets anymore. Most food came semi-finished—heat, spice, assemble, pretend it's homemade.
But Lucy didn't care about the taste.
She liked watching him focus.
She liked the feeling of routine. Of home.
As night fell, the city cooled slightly. Lucy wore a sports hoodie—the same style as James's. They jogged side by side along the coast, their footsteps steady and synced.
Netrunners needed exercise too.
Lucy's fitness was better than most men. She'd proven that once—pinning James down with one hand.
She still teased him about it.
Still regretted not recording it.
That, to Lucy, had been her proudest moment.
To do it again… she'd need a different strategy.
They reached the open beach.
Scattered tents sat farther away—nomads hiding from daylight attention. The NCPD didn't like "ugly" things visible in the city, and people without legal IDs often vanished if arrested.
The nomads noticed them, watched briefly, then decided to ignore them.
"No surveillance," Lucy said after scanning with her optics.
James nodded. "Then I'll start."
He removed his jacket, revealing the rocket pack strapped at his waist. Sleek. Sci-fi. Compact enough not to hinder movement.
He pressed the glove-linked control.
A burst of thrust blasted him backward several meters.
If James's balance wasn't insane, he would've faceplanted straight into the sand.
He steadied himself, laughing.
"Awesome!"
He looked like a kid with a new toy—excited, openly happy.
Soon the beach filled with the dull thump of controlled rocket bursts.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Half the battery drained before James stopped.
The rocket pack worked perfectly.
But the tactical vest needed upgrades fast. Without better kinetic transfer support, the strain would reduce his operational ceiling.
A vest was easy—buy a bulletproof base, modify it, reinforce load points.
Lucy sat on a reef, watching him.
"Had enough fun?" she asked.
"I'm testing equipment," James replied seriously.
"You were smiling the whole time."
James shrugged. "Fine. I was playing. But it was still a test."
Lucy extended her hand, tone softer now.
"Then may I ask if we can stroll on the beach now?"
James stepped forward, took her hand gently, and bowed his head like he was speaking to royalty.
"Of course, my beautiful and charming Miss Lucy."
They walked along the shoreline, leaving parallel footprints in the sand.
And for once, Night City felt quiet enough to breathe.
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