"It's a bit cramped."
"I'm pretty sure you said the same thing last time, Mr. Seisen."
Oliver, sitting in the driver's seat, followed Karl's habit of calling older folks "Mr.," but his tone carried no real deference—just casual chatter:
"Deal with it. At least cramming five people into this Herrera is just uncomfortable. If we were in that open-bed truck from last time, that would've been hell. Oh, and Mr. Seisen, watch that case of yours. Don't crush it. There's fresh fruit in the seatback pocket in front of you. If you squish it, we're eating pulp."
Seisen, clutching his case tightly, felt both amused and helpless. They were telling him to be careful—not for the sake of whatever was inside the case, but so the fruit wouldn't get ruined. They showed no interest in the case, not even a hint of curiosity. He honestly didn't know what to say.
Was this what professionalism looked like? They'd promised to protect him, and that was it—no interest in anything else. And while that meant they weren't going to ask questions, it also meant they had no instinct to protect the case, either. If anything, they seemed annoyed that it was taking up space.
If they knew what was inside this case, would they still be this relaxed?
This thing could shake the world order, and right now, it was rated as less important than some fruit. Still, something told Seisen that even if they did know, their reaction would be nothing like he expected.
But—
Sandwiched between Karl and V like a burger filling, Seisen had to admit—it was tight. And trying not to crush the fruit was…
SCREECH—
Before he could even finish the thought, the sudden braking flung him—and the case—forward.
SQUELCH.
With a wet squish, the case slammed into the seatback. Sticky liquid seeped into Seisen's pants. Sweet and fragrant, it reminded him all too vividly of the worm-meat noodles from his youth, where biting into a chunk of bug flesh came with a similar, disgusting burst.
For some reason, being with these four always pulled his mind back to the past.
He wasn't sure if it was because they reminded him of his younger, more reckless self—or because being with them made him feel young again.
Either way, he didn't even complain about the sudden stop. Instead, he found himself apologizing:
"Sorry. I think I crushed the fruit."
"No big deal, Mr. Seisen," Oliver said, keeping his eyes forward. "Was an accident, that's all."
Seisen relaxed his grip slightly and looked out through the front windshield—only to understand exactly what kind of "accident" Oliver meant.
The road ahead was on fire.
More accurately, several vehicles had collided up ahead, and spilled biofuel was igniting. Methanol flames crackled across the wreckage, feeding off the high-flammability liquid.
BOOM!
In the very next moment, the entire pileup exploded in a blast of fire and shrapnel. Debris—some still burning—rained down, and the street ahead turned into a literal sea of flame.
"So this is what Misty's tarot meant by The Star? 'The fire that ignites'?" Karl mused aloud, his mind buzzing from his new neural interface.
"I think Misty meant that figuratively…" Jack muttered from the passenger seat. "Like… inspirational fire. Not actual fire."
Oliver didn't respond. He was already putting the Herrera in reverse.
The main route was toast—literally. Until emergency crews cleared the mess, they'd have to find another way.
But just as Oliver began backing up, he noticed something fast approaching from behind.
Two vehicles, reflected in the rearview mirror.
Driverless Mehir MT28 Coaches—common autonomous city buses in Night City. They had a history of "minor incidents" but were still a regular part of daily traffic. Now, though, both were tearing toward the Herrera at full throttle.
And based on the trajectory, their target was very clear.
A head-on collision would be bad. With their size and tonnage, even the heavily modified Herrera would be shoved forward—and just twenty meters ahead was a wall of fire.
"Yeah… this isn't an accident," Oliver said.
But strangely, he seemed… relieved.
He even grinned. "Ha! And here I thought we were just having a shit day. Thought the pile-up was just bad luck. But this? Someone trying to whack us?"
That was something he could deal with.
Accidents were annoying. Deliberate ambushes? Those were fun.
"Buckle up!"
Oliver laughed, shifted gears, and slammed the accelerator.
"Time to show you bastards how we drive in Santo Domingo!"
No one replied.
Karl, wisely, kept his mouth shut.
When a crazed Santo Domingo driver was about to start racing, the smart play was to say nothing.
It wasn't worth biting your own tongue.
The Herrera jolted under the force of its modded engine.
From a dead stop to top speed took barely more than two seconds.
And with Oliver at the wheel, they didn't dodge—they charged.
Toward the fire. With two buses in pursuit.
"Fuck you, Night City public transit! You wanna beat my Herrera in a race? Try again in your next life!"
And with that—
The Herrera surged into the inferno.
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