[TN: Happy chinese new years, guys. I'll be posting all of this week and the chapter I missed last week as a gift, happy lunar new years eveyone]
ACPA armor.
It had been a long time since this kind of hardware showed up in a city.
Even in Night City.
There were two reasons.
First, after the Old Net collapsed, corporations lost enormous volumes of technology. In the fifty years since, they'd clawed a lot of it back—but constant wars and mutual paranoia slowed recovery far below expectations.
Second, ACPA was battlefield hardware. In the current era, it was elite battlefield hardware. It wasn't something you casually deployed outside a proper warzone.
NCPD bringing in the Centaur rig was a very clear signal from Militech: they were confident enough to start testing Centaur-class exo-frames—Gamma-grade linear frame derivatives—for law enforcement markets.
And reality proved it.
When that kind of steel beast entered dense urban terrain, backed by infantry providing covert interference, it was devastating.
On the way here, the Valentinos had started to feel it.
Despite the priest blessing them before this death race began, praying over them—
This was Night City.
Maybe faith and shared heritage helped the Valentinos stand tall.
But after so many years, how many true believers were left inside something that large?
Most gang kids weren't theologians.
When a priest gave them bread and a safe place to sleep, sure—they felt grateful.
But as they grew up?
Who doesn't want fast cars and beautiful women?
Who doesn't want eddies?
Who doesn't want to be the biggest badass in the room, dumping every ounce of humiliation they've ever swallowed onto someone else—and still call it "justice"?
That only really happened in stories.
Like the Bible.
And yet—
This scene looked exactly like David slinging a stone into Goliath's forehead… and then taking the giant's sword to finish the job.
On the rooftop beside a Haywood church, the priest stood watching through a high-grade visor rig, patched into Valentino surveillance feeds.
The pressure on the Valentinos had suddenly escalated.
To be honest, even the priest felt his blood heating up.
Faith, scripture, ritual—those were tools—ways to bind a people together. Label them clearly. Reinforce identity until it becomes stronger than money.
That was how they'd survived in Night City.
Sixth Street's cohesion came from neighborhoods, but neighborhoods were poor. So they remained a poor man's gang.
The Valentinos' cohesion ran deeper. Stronger. It let them infiltrate NCPD and municipal offices.
But time eroded bonds.
This time was different.
The story had replayed itself.
The Centaur rig had been bigger than Jackie, its main cannon visibly monstrous, and that ridiculous "car-cleaving blade" radiated pure menace.
And yet—
Jackie had cut it down.
Just like David.
The thing they'd used to inspire people had become real.
".Ve con Dios."
Go with God.
Bang—
A half-destroyed truck roared out of nowhere and smashed into the Midnight Drop suicide bomber who'd been about to tackle Jackie.
The impact set off the man's explosives prematurely.
The blast was pathetic compared to earlier ones.
It barely hurt anyone.
It did burn away most of his lower body.
Valentino Archido yanked his wounded friend out of the passenger seat of their shredded pickup, dragged him to the curb, traced a quick cross over his chest, and ran straight to the stunned kid, hauling him into the passenger seat.
The kid was still stuck somewhere between wanting to die and failing to do it when a rifle was shoved into his hands.
He blinked.
"What—what gun is this?"
It was an Achilles tech rifle.
He'd never held something this high-end in his life.
"Sixth Street sponsorship. Everyone got one except you."
Why hadn't he?
Because he never really bought into the priest's sermons. He mouthed along. Played along. That was it.
When gear was distributed at church, he hadn't shown up.
But now—
He scratched his head and looked out the window.
The Legendary Mackinaw was already moving on.
Jackie stood atop the broken Centaur rig, using its own mobility system to sprint forward, gripping the massive blade that still pinned it like a control lever.
"Too damn badass…"
"Damn right it is. Sit tight—"
Rooooar—
The half-gutted Mackinaw they'd commandeered still had a live powertrain.
Without the upper shell, it was actually faster.
Acceleration slammed into his torn back—sharp, burning pain—but the wind in his face flipped some switch in his brain.
"I'm riding in a convertible!"
"Yeah! Convertible!" Archido shouted back, grinning like a madman.
They tore through debris the Legendary had left behind—occasionally finishing off wounded enemies, occasionally dragging a half-dead Valentino up and shoving a rifle into his hands.
Eventually, that truck exploded too.
They crawled out of the wreckage and hijacked another barely functional vehicle.
Behind them, against a wall, a Midnight Drop member watched it all, grinding his teeth.
Why did they look like they were having so much fun?
Why did these so-called street scum look so alive?
Why had he done everything right—school, job—and ended up like this?
What was the point of living?
He'd wanted to die.
He'd received an anonymous NetMail inviting him to a glorious death.
And what was the result?
The stage moved on without him.
He lay in rubble; no one noticed.
Just like his life—stuck in society's margins.
He spiraled.
Bad family.
Hostile society.
Corporations are squeezing him dry.
Mental illness.
He started crying.
Then—
He heard something.
Soft footsteps.
He stopped thinking and stared toward the sound.
A hunched figure approached.
Ugly. Awkward.
His roommate.
The coworker he used to complain with about corporate life, while privately thinking she was hideous.
She stepped over debris and fire, clearly terrified—
But still moving toward him.
"Eeva?"
When she recognized him, relief washed over her face.
"Oh, thank god—I saw you get blown off the street…"
Blown off?
He'd jumped.
For a moment, he got irrationally angry.
"Why are you here?!"
"What do you think? To save your dumb ass! We're the only two left from our hiring batch who haven't quit. I can't just let you splatter!"
As she stepped closer, firelight illuminated her face.
Still crooked. Still flawed.
He'd never found her attractive.
He preferred braindance girls.
But seeing that look on her face—fear, stubborn concern—
He thought:
Ugly can be fixed. We can make money.
Does she… like me?
"Heh… I just saved your life. You owe me. For life."
Heat flared.
The faulty "dud" bomb branded with Midnight Drop suddenly reignited—
Faster than it should have.
Boom.
A quiet corner.
Another Midnight Drop member completed his mission.
Midnight Drop at midnight.
Two ruined bodies burned among the rubble.
Midnight Drop would vanish just like the last batch before them.
The Valentinos would remain.
At least for now.
Their voices still mixed with gunfire, explosions, and engines:
"Convertible!"
"Be the boss!"