"What is your name?"
The question floated up barely above a whisper, so faint that Carl nearly missed it over the pounding in his ears and the distant stutter of gunfire. For a second, he thought she'd passed out in his arms from blood loss. Then she blinked, slowly, and her voice came again—soft, almost like a child lost in a dream.
He adjusted his grip on her weight, careful not to jostle the wound under her ribs. "Carl. Just Carl. You can call me KK if that's easier."
Her face, delicate as porcelain and twice as pale, remained close to his chest. "You say I should save my strength," she murmured, "but you're also speaking to me, knowing I'll answer."
He winced. "Touché."
Still, her voice—gentle but clear—held a kind of strange dignity that made the whole thing feel like more than a battlefield rescue. And then she said, "I am Hanako. Hanako Arasaka."
That name froze him for a moment mid-stride.
Hanako. Not just a name, but a dynasty. Royalty of a corpo empire.
"You were named for sunlight, right?" Carl asked, stepping over a shattered curb. "Hanako. Child of clear skies. Doesn't quite fit Night City's aesthetic."
Hanako managed the faintest smile. It was a bright, almost haunting curve of her lips that didn't match the pallor of her skin or the pain stitched into her brow. "Maybe that mismatch… is why I ended up hurt."
Carl gave a dry snort. "Superstitious much?" He tried for flippant, but the words came out too flat to hide the edge in his voice.
It was hard to stay sarcastic when you're holding someone who looked like they belonged in a museum, not bleeding into the gutter of Night City.
"Hang on, we're almost there," he muttered.
But the street ahead was empty, devoid of movement save for distant flashes and echoing cracks of gunfire. The city had swallowed its civilians whole again, like it always did during a firefight. One car actually attempted to approach—until a stray burst lit up the horizon. The driver pulled a drift worthy of a Wraith booster and vanished like smoke.
"Really? You got wheels like that and no spine to match?" Carl hissed. "I can't even hijack someone properly in this city."
He cursed again and pushed forward. They were close. He estimated maybe a thousand meters to Konpeki Plaza. At a dead sprint, that was two minutes, tops.
If she could hold on that long.
Carl mentally flipped through the trauma protocols he'd half-ignored during BD runs. An abdominal wound like hers, so long as it hadn't hit anything major, gave a fifteen-minute window. Maybe less, maybe more. Problem was, that window had already been open for several minutes.
If only Oliver had been the one to find her. He would've had medgel, packed the wound, stabilized her on-site. Carl? He was just trying not to trip over his own legs while carrying a dying corporate princess through enemy turf.
'Add "don't skip med BD modules" to the list,' he thought grimly. 'Survival tips for mercs.'
Then the road ahead shifted.
Something big moved—too fluid, too heavy—and stepped out from around a corner like it owned the street.
Carl stopped cold.
It was massive. Easily two and a half meters tall, maybe more. Armor-clad, black as synthetic pitch, its silhouette gleamed with the hard reflections of milspec alloys and hydraulic muscle.
A full-ass ACPA.
Advanced Combat Powered Armor.
"Shit," Carl breathed.
Hanako stirred against his chest. "What… is it?"
He didn't answer. Just set her down beside a planter box with fake ivy vines and surprisingly real soil. Even in 2075, some corpo zones still insisted on genuine flora. He eased her back against the hedge, checking her pulse with his thumb. Still alive, but fading.
"We're not dying here. Not together."
Hanako's eyelids fluttered. She looked up at him with those star-glass eyes. "Is this… part of the test?"
Carl gritted his teeth. "I don't know, and I don't care."
She looked toward the mech now blocking the road. Its autocannon was already braced, barrel slowly tracking.
"Then… we die together?"
"No offense," Carl said, "but I don't like corps that much. Especially not enough to die for 'em."
He stepped away from her and drew in a slow, tense breath. Every nerve in his body screamed run, and his heartbeat pounded so hard it felt like a warning klaxon in his skull.
The ACPA raised its cannon—but didn't fire.
Instead, the mech pilot made a gesture.
One armored finger pointed to the barrel.
Then traced slowly downward.
And tapped the side of his helmet.
Carl's eyes narrowed.
He remembered that gesture. Remembered the sniper on the rooftop. Remembered the way his own bullet had detonated the round in the enemy's chamber and sent shrapnel into the guy's skull.
"…You," Carl muttered. "I should've finished the job."
The pilot said nothing. The mech just shifted weight and took another step forward, cannon still leveled.
Carl didn't hesitate.
He turned and sprinted.
'Nope. Screw this.'
There was no heroism here. No noble stand. Just self-preservation. The guy inside that armor had lived through a sniper round to the face and came back in a walking tank. Carl wasn't stupid.
Behind him, the ACPA's autocannon whined as it powered up.
And then something small clinked against the asphalt.
A hand grenade.
It rolled to a stop just beneath the mech's ankle.