"Damn," Jackie muttered, his eyes sweeping the room like a cop casing a scene. "Lotta people."
The job day had arrived. Faraday had personally driven them out to the edge of Watson, to the gate of Arasaka's private Seaport—an industrial steel-and-concrete compound squatting under heavy smog like a crouched beast. The kind of place where no one without clearance walked in, and even fewer walked out with memories intact. After a brief, cold exchange with a pair of Arasaka uniforms, the trio—Carl, Oliver, and Jackie—were waved through the outer checkpoint. The guards didn't bother with smiles. Their visors flashed a muted red as they scanned retinas, biosigs, and weapons with eerie efficiency.
Inside the gates, the sterile Arasaka façade gave way to a cavernous freight warehouse—dusty air thick with oil, ozone, and the distant bite of burned rubber. Sodium arc-lights buzzed overhead, washing the rows of crates and exposed support beams in a sickly amber glow. Holo-displays flickered on the far walls, all in corporate Nihongo. Somewhere, the hum of an idle generator thrummed like an anxious heartbeat.
Once inside, Carl's boots echoed across the poured concrete floor as he took in the scene.
Even arriving a full hour early hadn't made them early. The warehouse was already crawling with bodies.
"Lotta people," Carl echoed. His voice barely carried over the low hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of someone loading a magazine.
More than two dozen mercs filled the space—some leaning against pallets, others perched on ammo crates or pacing restlessly. The air buzzed with tension and testosterone. Chrome glinted off half-shaved skulls, off cyberarms with etched tribal work and graffiti tags. It was a rainbow of aftermarket body mods: iridescent dermal plating, carbon-fiber muscle mesh, and glowing subdermal veins. Mercs talked in low tones, voices muffled by breath masks or voice modulators. No one smiled.
Oliver gave a low whistle. "Damn… this is a small army."
Carl's gaze sharpened as he swept across the room. "Subdermal armor, mantis blades, Saratoga SMGs, Kenshin pistols, even a few Novas. Hey, Oliver—your SOR-22 kinetic rifle? I count three others packing the same iron."
Oliver instinctively glanced down at the matte black rifle nestled in his grip, then scanned the others. "So everyone here's either serious… or stupid rich."
"Well, no shit." Jackie flicked his eyes toward a cluster of mercs adjusting their suppressors. "You don't show up to a job like this with a damn Lexie."
Carl did a quick mental count. "Twenty-one… twenty-two… twenty-three… plus us three. That's twenty-six."
"If each is pulling down even a hundred K," Oliver murmured, "then we're looking at…"
"A number that makes my spine hurt," Carl said.
"More than we'll ever see again in one place," Jackie added, slinging his rifle across his chest with a sigh. "Whoever's bankrolling this? Chooms ain't blink at spending skyscraper money on warehouse thugs."
"People and dogs," Oliver added, smirking. "Some dogs in this city eat better than us."
Carl snorted. "You ever seen a real dog in Night City?"
"Only corpo dogs," Oliver fired back, flipping him the bird.
They might've kept going, but Jackie elbowed them both, nodding toward the sliding bay door.
"Yo. Heads up. Anyone else recognize that choom?"
Carl and Oliver turned.
A lone man had entered the warehouse—tall, broad, dressed in layered tactical armor with reinforced shoulders, the kind you didn't buy off any vending wall. His blonde mohawk twitched as he walked, muscles shifting under ballistic mesh like hydraulics. In one hand, he carried a damn cannon of a gun—a belt-fed machine gun that most people would've mounted on a tripod, not slung over one shoulder like a gym bag.
Carl didn't place him immediately, but Oliver did.
"That's the guy from outside the braindance shop," Oliver said. "The one who brawled in the alley. Thought he was rolling with two others back then."
"Maybe they're dead," Carl said casually. "Or maybe he ditched 'em. This job filters out dead weight."
"In Night City?" Jackie shrugged. "That checks out."
But then the guy locked eyes with them—and started walking over.
Carl straightened slightly, thumb grazing the grip of his pistol.
"He's not coming to say hi," he muttered. "Or maybe he is."
The man stopped a step away, towering even over Jackie.
"You three—Carl, Oliver, Jackie?" His voice was low, gravel layered over steel.
Carl didn't answer immediately. Instead, he flicked open a secure ping to Faraday.
The fixer's reply came seconds later.
MAINE. OLD CREW. CLEAN.
With confirmation in hand, Carl gave a shallow nod.
"I'm Maine," the man said. "Used to pull gigs for Faraday. This time, he only had three slots, so I picked up a contract from someone else. Still—figured I'd ask if you wanted to squad up."
Carl cocked a brow. "Why us?"
Maine looked around the warehouse, jaw tight. "Too many unknowns. Most of these mercs? I wouldn't trust 'em to watch my six in a sim, let alone live fire. You three, you've got Faraday's name backing you. That means something."
Carl wasn't satisfied. "And because you're solo?"
Maine chuckled, half sheepish. "Yeah, alright. That too."
Carl respected it. Guy wasn't stupid. You don't survive in Night City without knowing when to squad up.
"What's your loadout?" Carl asked.
Maine swung the machine gun forward with ease. "Constitutional Arms Type-31 heavy MG. Subdermal plate, kinetic dampeners, more under all this muscle. I walk in first and eat the heat. Long as I stay vertical, you stay breathing."
Trust, in merc terms. He was offering them his back.
Carl extended his hand. "Good enough. Welcome aboard."
Maine took it. "Glad to be here, Captain."
"Call me KK," Carl replied. "You can think of it as a codename."
Carl gestured toward his crew. "Jackie here's your fire team twin—close-range suppression, heavy SMGs. Oliver handles recon, long-range, and medical. If your legs get chewed off, he's the guy with the glue. And me…"
He smiled faintly. "You'll see."
Maine's brow lifted. "...Right."
The next fifteen minutes passed in tension-wrapped silence. Mercs milled. Crates shifted. Someone in the corner did an ammo count. A pair of Nomads shared a smoke, their chrome throats hissing with every drag. Somewhere above, a ceiling fan struggled against the dust. It was the kind of silence that came before something kicked off—expectant, thick, a breath held too long.
Then, right on the dot of 0900, the warehouse doors split open with a mechanical hiss.
A man in a pristine Arasaka executive suit strode in like he owned the floor, flanked by a half-dozen Arasaka tactical guards in black-on-black body armor. Their boots hit the ground in unison—quiet, efficient, almost predatory. Rifles at rest, visors locked.
No words. No greetings.
Just silent precision.
The kind of entrance that said: the mission is starting now.