The Maelstrom car carrying Carl and Blanca didn't head to a factory as expected. Instead, it snaked through Watson's northern industrial zone, tires crunching over debris-strewn roads, before lurching to a stop outside a crumbling apartment complex. The building's cracked façade sagged under decades of neglect, its windows boarded up or shattered, the balconies strung with frayed cables and scavenged solar panels.
Decades ago, when Watson still dreamed of becoming Night City's next downtown jewel, these apartments had been built for corporate middle managers—a flimsy barrier between their air-conditioned offices and the factories where their workers choked on machine fumes. Now, with the district's decay and Maelstrom's rise, the wealthy had fled. Only factory drones and chromed-up squatters remained, their lives punctuated by the gang's shakedowns for "protection fees" or "toll roads."
Carl stepped out of the car, his boots sinking into gravel stained with oil and synth-blood. The air reeked of burnt plastic and ozone, the smog-choked sunlight casting a jaundiced pall over the scene. Compared to the rusted factories where he'd butchered Maelstrom goons last month—places reeking of scorched metal and rotting cyberware—this place almost felt civilized. Almost.
Two Maelstrom members flanked the entrance, their cyberware glinting like serrated knives under the hazy light. Both carried [Militech M-221 Saratoga SMGs], the compact weapons slung across their chests with casual menace.
[Militech M-221 Saratoga]:
Designed for corpo security, this SMG's iconic clack-clack firing rhythm had found an unlikely fanbase among gangsters. Cheap, modular, and capable of shredding a room into confetti in seconds. The Saratoga didn't fuck around—unlike its sister weapon, the Lexington, which Maelstrom dismissed as "corpo confetti."
Carl's lips twitched. Since when do guns get slandered? Both the Saratoga and Lexington bore names of ancient warships, but by 2075, even firearms suffered brand rivalry. He'd retired his own Lexington to a display case back home—a relic of his first gigs. Nostalgia wouldn't stop a bullet, though. His fingers brushed the JKE-X2 Kenshin at his hip, its electromagnetic coils humming faintly as they charged. The smart-targeting interface flickered in his peripheral vision, painting crimson reticles over the guards' throats.
The Maelstrom duo eyed him, their optics cycling through threat-assessment modes. One—a hulking brute with a hydraulic jaw grafted to his skull—grinned, gold-plated teeth gleaming. "Heard you flatlined Demon. Think that makes you hot shit, choom?"
Carl kept his face neutral. Blanca's warning echoed in his skull: Eyes sharp. Mouth shut.
To their credit, Maelstrom played nice—for now. The guards lowered their Saratogas, barrels dipping toward the cracked pavement. The gesture was less an invitation and more a dare.
"Time to move," Blanca said, her voice sharp as a monowire slice.
Carl followed, pausing as he heard the faint click of a safety disengaging from the driver's seat. He glanced back, catching the glint of a pistol barrel through the Cortes's tinted window.
Ambush insurance. Classic.
He kept his expression blank, falling into step behind Blanca as they entered the building. The lobby's marble floors—once polished to a corporate sheen—were now cracked and stained with coolant leaks and old blood. A shattered chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals long looted, wires dangling like severed nerves.
Behind them, one of the guards approached the driver, his voice a distorted growl. "Scan clean?"
The driver—a wiry Maelstrom ganger with eight crimson cyberoptics—shuddered, coolant sweat glistening on his synth-skin. "Corpo bitch's vitals spiked the whole ride. Pupils dilated, adrenaline maxed. Nerves, not betrayal."
"And the merc? The one who iced Demon?"
The driver's optics flickered, their red glow dimming as if recalling the memory. "...Kid didn't blink. Not once. Most gonks piss themselves riding into our turf. Him?" A metallic rasp escaped his vox-modulator. "Felt like I was the one strapped to a ripperdoc's slab. Drove smoother than a Trauma Team AV. Didn't even roll a stoplight."
The guard snorted, adjusting his Saratoga. "Dramatic much?"
"You weren't there," the driver snapped, his voice rising in pitch, static crackling. "No subdermal armor. Basic Kevlar. But I'd scrap my chrome he could flatline all ten of you yesterday."
The guard glanced at the apartment, unease creeping into his tone. "Ten against one. No way he—"
"Ask Demon's corpse how those odds worked out," the driver spat, his hand brushing the pistol hidden under his seat. "Meatbag's packin' a Kenshin. Fuckin' Kenshin. You know what that iron does to chrome? Slags it like hot wax."
Inside, the stairwell reeked of mildew and burnt circuitry. Blanca climbed with military precision, her Malorian pistol holstered but unconcealed. Carl's Kenshin vibrated faintly at his side, its gyro-stabilized barrel tracking shadows.
The fourth-floor hallway was a graveyard of scavenged tech—gutted drones, cracked holoscreens, and a disembodied cyberarm still clutching a bottle of synth-whiskey. At the far end, a reinforced steel door stood ajar, leaking distorted voices and the tinny screech of a malfunctioning radio.
Blanca paused, her hand hovering near her hip. "Remember the signal."
Carl nodded. Brush her hair. Kill the target. Extract.
Fifty thousand eddies. Ten Maelstrom. One shot.
He thumbed the Kenshin's safety off, its electromagnetic coils whining softly. The reticle in his vision sharpened, centering on the door.