The desert air tasted like burnt circuits and desperation. Panam’s voice crackled in my ear, sharp with panic, cutting through the ringing left by the AV’s crash. Lightning Breaks had ended in fire and falling metal, but the war? Oh, the war was just getting started. Johnny’s ghost hummed a discordant tune in the back of my skull, a constant reminder of the ticking bomb I carried. Finding Hellman wasn’t just a job anymore; it felt like scraping for the last shreds of my own soul in this chrome-plated hellhole called Night City. And Panam? She was family now, rough edges and all. Seeing her Aldecaldos walk into that Kang-Tao meat grinder... man, it felt like a knife to the gut.
The Scan & The Swarm:
Panam’s orders were frantic: "Scan the wreck, V! See if anyone’s breathing in that scrap heap!" My optics whirred, painting the downed AV in cold, clinical light. The drone feed was grim. Dust, twisted metal, and... Mitch. Alive, but held tight by Kang-Tao goons. Relief was instantly swallowed by dread. Three angry metal hornets – security drones – peeled off the wreckage, targeting us. Suddenly, Panam’s rattletrap van wasn’t just transport; it was a tin-can gunship. I slammed into the turret controls, the world outside blurring into streaks of sand and laser fire. The recoil vibrated up my arms, a brutal massage. "Left! LEFT, V! Blast 'em!" Panam yelled, her voice raw. Then, a sickening thwack, a choked gasp. A ricochet. She slumped. The desert silence rushed in, broken only by the whine of the last drone’s death spiral. My hands tightened on the wheel. Solo run. Again. Always.
The Crash Site Crucible:
Leaving Panam bleeding in the van felt like leaving a piece of myself behind. The crash site loomed, a jagged scar on the landscape. Kang-Tao wasn’t messing around. Their big boy, a hulking Security Drone, patrolled like a mechanical king, flanked by its robotic knights. Stealth? Forget it. This was gonna be loud. My Sandevistan whined, time stretching like taffy. Bullets became lazy bees. I moved, a phantom between heartbeats, monowire slicing through circuits and synthetic muscle. Grenades bloomed like ugly metal flowers. Each downed bot felt like a step closer to Mitch, closer to Hellman, closer to maybe, just maybe, buying myself a little more time. The air stank of ozone, scorched metal, and something faintly... coppery. Neon blood.
Hostage Heartbeat:
Kicking open the AV’s crumpled door felt like cracking open a tomb. Inside, the scene was tight, tense. Mitch, pale and sweating, a Kang-Tao pilot’s pistol jammed hard against his temple. The pilot’s eyes were wide, frantic – cornered rat vibes. Time slowed, thicker than molasses. Three paths shimmered in the air:
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The Quickdraw: My finger twitched on the Lexington’s trigger. Muscle memory. A clean shot. Fast, brutal, final. Mitch flinches, the pilot drops. Simple. But messy. Always messy.
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Panam’s Fury (Even Absent): Letting Panam take the shot, even wounded, even miles away metaphorically. Her rage was a living thing over the comms. "Let me end him, V!" It would be personal. Cathartic for her. But risky. A twitch, a miss...
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The Silver Tongue: Words as weapons. Cool, calm, deadly persuasion. Locking eyes with the pilot, pouring every ounce of my own dwindling time, my own desperation into my voice. "I just want Hellman." Flat. Hard. Then, letting the pressure build, letting him feel the weight of the wasteland outside, the Aldecaldos closing in. "I’m losing my patience." A whisper colder than arctic chrome.
Choosing the words... it felt like threading a needle in a hurricane. But the pilot cracked. The location spilled out: a grimy gas station, a perfect rat hole for a fleeing corpo rat. The relief on Mitch’s face? Worth more than eddies. Choosing violence meant a gauntlet run; choosing words meant a quieter, but no less dangerous, path. Either way, Hellman was next.
Aftermath & Ashes:
Clearing the gas station was a blur of gunfire and shouted Aldecaldo war cries. They arrived like the cavalry, rough and ready, just as the last Kang-Tao thug hit the dirt. Panam, patched up but pale, leaned heavily against a rusted pump. She tossed me the keys without a word. Scorpion’s Apollo. The bike felt alive under me, humming with power and memory. A gift heavy with loss. Calling Takemura felt like reporting from another planet. "Hellman is secured." The words tasted like ash. Another step taken. But the clock in my head, Johnny’s mocking countdown, just kept ticking. Night City glittered on the horizon, beautiful and brutal. We’d won this battle. But the war inside me? That raged on, a silent storm beneath the neon. Life during wartime. It ain't pretty, choom. It's just... life. And mine? Well, it's running out faster than sand through a netrunner's fingers. What's next? Only the ghosts know.