Cyberpunk: The Relentless

Karl and his crew's target was a group of Scavs dumb enough to threaten Vik. Their hideout? Little Chinatown, Watson—ironically, just around the corner from Karl and Oliver's apartments.

That was probably the reason these idiots thought they could strong-arm Vik into buying their stolen implants.

To Karl, they were dead men walking before they even realized it.

"What floor?"

Jack, gripping a pair of 'Golden Bitch' pistols, asked as Karl hacked into the apartment building's security feed.

"Third floor. Seven of them." Karl replied, eyes fixed on his display. "No heavy firepower worth mentioning. Looks like a fresh crew just getting into the Scav business. No wonder they had the balls to threaten Vik. Hold on, I'm patching the feed into your HUDs—sending access now."

Karl transmitted the live security footage to Oliver, Jack, and David.

David wasn't just here to spectate—if he wanted to learn, he had to be in the loop. That meant following orders and understanding the situation before diving in.

Even if that meant vomiting his guts out the second he saw what was on the screen.

"Get used to it."

Oliver, ever the mentor, handed David a bottle of real water as he hunched over, dry-heaving against the car door.

"Rinse your mouth. Burn the image into your memory. If you don't learn how to protect yourself, you'll end up just like them—stripped for parts on a Scav's operating table."

"But..." David gasped between breaths. "I've watched tons of black braindance before! I don't usually react like this—"

He wiped his mouth and took a sip of the water. The crisp, clean taste hit him instantly, refreshing his entire system.

Eyes widening, he stared at the bottle in disbelief.

"This water... it tastes nothing like the crap in Santo Domingo!"

At the mention of Santo Domingo, Oliver let out a sigh.

"...Yeah." He said nothing more.

Karl snapped his fingers. "David, here. Got a little something for you."

David turned just in time to catch the object Karl tossed.

A grenade.

"A frag?!"

"Relax," Karl smirked. "Custom-made, low yield. Won't bring down the whole building, just clear out a room. Hold onto it, and when the time comes—throw it inside."

"...We can just throw grenades in there?"

"Of course." Karl shrugged. "Not like we're rescuing hostages. I already scanned the place—no one alive except for the Scavs. Just corpses dumped in cryovats, waiting to be butchered. I've marked the storage room on your HUD—don't throw the frag in there."

Even in death, Karl figured those poor souls deserved some dignity.

"Once we're done here, I'll call one of my NCPD contacts—see if they can track down the victims' families. Getting chopped up by Scavs is bad enough. The least we can do is give them a proper sendoff."

With the data uploaded and plans set, all that remained was to execute the mission.

Karl's squad self-assigned the job.

Timeframe: Before dinner.

Payment: Karl's braised pork.

Sliding back Midnight's action, Karl and his team stepped into the elevator, heading up to the third floor.

The Scavs' base of operations was a large rented suite with four rooms:

Living room – Two sleeping.

Storage room – Corpse-freezing units.

Processing room – Two dismembering bodies, another negotiating sales on a terminal.

Lounge – Two wired into braindance units, hips rocking to whatever X-rated program they were plugged into.

The suite was located deep within the hallway, but before reaching their target, Karl spotted two locals standing outside their apartment doors, smoking and chatting.

Karl already identified them.

'Two civilians. Hot dog vendors. No ties to the newly arrived Scavs. We'll just get them to clear out.'

'Got it.'

Jack, gripping his Golden Bitch pistol, lightly tapped the wall twice, catching the vendors' attention. He flashed his weapon and made a simple gesture—move.

The two vendors, clearly experienced in how things worked in the streets, showed no fear or hesitation.

They sized up the well-armed team, nodded, and slipped back into their apartments without a word.

Just another day in the city. Mercs handling business? Nothing new.

'Let's go.'

Karl's command came through comms, and David instinctively swallowed hard, gripping his gun tighter.

Despite the coaching in the car, the atmosphere was different now—tense, serious.

This was what a real mercenary operation felt like.

It wasn't like the edited black braindances he'd experienced before.

Reality was sharper. More intense.

As he processed this, something slid out from beneath the vendors' apartment door.

A small card.

David's optics adjusted, zooming in on the text.

"Old William's Hot Dog Stand! Want to experience real meat—80% authentic? Come to Old William's in Chinatown, Watson! For just 10 eurobucks, get a massive hot dog fit for the whole family! Call now to pre-order—"

"An ad?"

"Remember it. If it's good, we'll stop by later."

Oliver's casual response instantly deflated the tension David had been feeling.

His brief excitement at witnessing a real mercenary operation vanished in an instant.