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As Wakako had predicted, it didn't take long for the Maelstrom to draw blood again. This time, the commission was a surgical strike: dismantle the All-Foods processing plant.
The shadow war between the Tyger Claws and the Maelstrom was redlining. They had moved past street skirmishes and were now gutting each other's economic pillars. For the Maelstrom, the plant wasn't just a factory; it was a primary source of laundered Eddies and a hub for their illegal braindance distribution.
For Kael, it was just another payday—and a big one. Two hundred thousand Eurodollars.
The price tag alone screamed "Danger." Infiltrating a gang-held fortress on their home turf was a suicide mission for most. Wakako had even offered to recommend a veteran squad to back him up, suggesting he "bring a professional Netrunner." Kael had just smirked. He had Lucy; he didn't need Wakako's strings attached to his back.
Kael parked a rented, up-armored Villefort near the industrial perimeter. The NID was a digital dead zone, the air thick with the interference of old factory shields.
"Signal's garbage, Kael," Lucy muttered from the passenger seat. "This is going to take a minute."
Her fingers danced across her external terminal, moving so fast they blurred into a silver haze. While internal decks were the standard, Lucy preferred the safety of an external rig for deep-probing gang networks. If the Maelstrom had a "Black Ice" trap waiting, it would fry the hardware, not her brain.
"Done," she finally said, exhaling as she leaned back. Her netrunning suit clung to her curves, and for a moment, the "Calculating Survivor" in Kael was momentarily distracted by the sheer magnetism of his partner.
"Status?" Kael asked, forcing his focus back to the HUD.
"Thirty-four signatures inside. I've tagged them all on your Kiroshis. I also found four ceiling-mounted turrets. I've injected a 'Daemon'—once you're in range, you can flip their targeting parameters to 'Hostile' for anyone with a Maelstrom ID-shard."
Kael leaned over, pulling her into a fierce, lingering kiss. "Stay in the car. Keep the engine running."
"Always do," she whispered.
Kael used his Jump Kit to scale the factory's rusted exterior, reaching the skylights in seconds. Below him, the factory was a scene of dystopian industry. Rows of vats grew sheets of synthetic red meat, which Maelstrom grunts—working "nine-to-nine" shifts like the corporate rats they claimed to hate—packed into shipping crates.
Kael didn't go in guns blazing. This was a "Pilot" mission: precision over volume.
He attached a suppressor to his Kenshin. From his perch on the rafters, he began the harvest.
Thwip. A grunt packing meat slumped over a crate. The man next to him barely had time to blink before a second round found his temple. Kael moved across the girders like a phantom, the muffled shots drowned out by the rhythmic clanking of the assembly line.
In the control room, a Maelstrom technician watched his monitors. He saw a looped image of a peaceful factory floor—Lucy's handiwork—until the door hissed open and Kael walked in. One shot later, the room was secure.
Kael slotted a data-shard into the main terminal. [Uploading: Overload.exe].
As smoke began to curl from the vats and the cooling systems shrieked, Kael was already back on the roof. By the time the alarms finally pierced the heavy industrial hum, he was back in the Villefort, the engine roaring as they peeled away into the smog.
"Two hundred thousand in the bank," Kael said, watching his balance surge. "We can buy that penthouse in the Glen tomorrow."
"You're becoming quite the high-roller, BT," a message from Wakako flashed. "The Tygers are pleased. Stop by the Sakura Market; I have some high-grade sake and a 'bonus' waiting for you."
Lucy dropped Kael off at the market before taking the rental car to handle some "errands"—specifically, scouting out a new dual-viewing braindance rig so they could "visit the moon" together from the comfort of a high-end apartment.
Kael walked through the bustling Japanese-themed streets of the market. The Tyger Claws owned this territory, their neon tattoos glowing in the twilight as they patrolled. As he approached Wakako's back-alley office, a wall of flesh blocked his path.
It was a sumo-bodyguard—nearly eight feet tall and five hundred pounds of reinforced subdermal armor and synth-muscle.
"Lost, kid? Jig-Jig Street is the other way," the giant rumbled.
"I'm BT. Wakako's expecting me."
The name "BT" acted like a trigger. The surrounding Edgerunners—a collection of chromed-up mercenaries—turned to look. One man, a veteran with exposed, un-skinned Mantis Blades and a twitchy, asymmetrical face, stepped forward.
"You're the 'Scavenger Killer'?" the man sneered. He was a mess of mismatched cyberware. His Kerenzikov nervous system was an old, poorly installed model that left his hands trembling with a constant, micro-seizure rhythm.
"It's 'The Famous BT' to you," Kael corrected calmly. He scanned the man—Mark—and saw the red flags. The rough surgical scars, the dilated pupils, the erratic neural flares.
"If you value your life, Mark, go to a ripper and get that chrome stripped. You're redlining," Kael warned.
"Heh... you're afraid of me!" Mark's voice rose to a shriek. The biological pressure of his poorly integrated cyberware was snapping the last of his sanity.
This was it. Cyberpsychosis.
Mark lunged, his Mantis Blades snapping open with a metallic shink. To the other Edgerunners, he was a blur of lethal chrome.
To Kael, whose "Power of Three" gave him the perception of a man who lived in the slowed-down reality of a Pilot, Mark moved like he was underwater.
Kael didn't even draw his gun yet. He stepped into the "demon's" reach, his eyes cold and calculating.
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