"NO! THE INTRUDER IS BT!!!"
"RUN! DON'T BLOCK MY WAY—AHHH!"
"Spare me! Please! I'll quit the Scavengers right now!"
The screams echoed through concrete tunnels, bouncing off rusted pipes and stained walls like a broken alarm system. Panic spread faster than blood.
Three minutes later, James surfaced from a Kabuki Scavenger stronghold, climbing back into the open air like something the city had tried—and failed—to swallow.
He looked nothing like the guy who used to blend into crowds.
Tonight he wore a Pilot helmet—a high-quality replica, the kind that fooled people from a distance. A reinforced tactical vest hugged his torso, and the compact rocket pack rested snug at his waist. It didn't look heavy, but it carried power that changed the rules of movement.
This was the fourth Scavenger base he'd erased this month.
Kabuki whispers were already turning into legends.
On the roadside, Lucy leaned against a red-and-white motorcycle, calm as if she hadn't just been waiting for him beside a fresh slaughterhouse. Her outfit was simple but deadly: high-waisted leather culottes that made her legs look unfairly long, a cropped jacket, and that relaxed confidence that made people stare even when they knew they shouldn't.
"You were a bit slow this time," she said.
James walked over, pressed a button on his helmet, and the visor slid up smoothly. The intimidating Pilot look folded away into something closer to a motorcycle helmet. He took the coat Lucy handed him and slipped it on, covering his gear. In Night City, looking normal was often safer than looking strong.
"These guys started running the second they saw me," James replied. "Took effort to root them all out."
Lucy's optics flashed faintly as she reviewed her own work. "The video's edited and uploaded. Comments are flooding in. Requests too." She sounded almost disappointed. "But they're all small jobs."
That was the downside of building a name fast. People noticed your existence—but they didn't always offer the kind of work worth your time.
Still, thanks to Scavenger "donations," the name BT had gained real heat in Kabuki.
If you didn't want to start as a nobody—fetching packages, running errands, sweeping someone else's mess—then the simplest path was stepping upward on the bodies of people nobody cared about.
Edgerunners might mock the Scavengers, but the truth was simple: they were still a gang with numbers. A base could hold a dozen or more chromed thugs, and even experienced mercs could get overwhelmed if the bullets came from too many angles.
Because bullets didn't care about ego.
And even subdermal armor could lose to the right rounds.
After watching James's footage—clean headshots, fast clears, no hesitation—even cynical edgerunners had to admit it:
BT wasn't a joke.
"No need to rush," James said, sliding onto the bike behind Lucy. He pressed his chest lightly to her back and wrapped his arms around her waist. "You need patience."
Lucy snorted. "You're addicted to killing Scavengers. People online already gave you a nickname."
James groaned. "Don't tell me."
"They're calling you the Scavenger Killer."
"What kind of nickname is that?" James snapped. "It's f***ing awful."
Lucy laughed and pulled on a matching couple helmet. Then she twisted the throttle like she was punishing the road itself.
The motorcycle surged forward, darting out of the alley like a blade.
Traffic was heavy, but Lucy didn't slow down. She wove between cars with smooth aggression, her body leaning into every turn like she was born on two wheels. It wasn't just skill—it was instinct.
For a moment, Lucy's wildness surfaced, sharp and thrilling.
Not full cyberpsychosis. Not madness.
But something close to it.
The kind of dangerous joy that lived in her bones… and usually only came out when she was riding, fighting, or in bed.
Behind them, nearby surveillance cameras briefly flickered—then returned to normal, as if nothing had happened.
Lucy's hacking wasn't legendary, but it was strong—upper tier on the street. The only people clearly above her were famous veterans, names like T-Bug.
With Lucy cleaning tracks and killing data trails, James's work became brutally simple.
---
Not long after, the NCPD rolled up to the Scavenger base.
They walked through the scene like bored janitors.
No dramatic investigation.
No deep questions.
Just body bags.
If ordinary people had died, the cops might've acted like they cared. But Scavengers? The best they'd offer was cleanup.
A cop examined a corpse and whistled.
"It was BT again." He sounded almost impressed. "You can tell by the shots. Every single one's a headshot. Terrifying accuracy."
"This is the fourth incident," another officer said. "That's gotta be over a hundred Scavs dead by now. Think there's a story behind it?"
"Nah." The first cop shrugged. "Probably someone trying to make a name."
"Why complain?" a third cop laughed. "They're Scavengers. We should thank him for boosting our performance. This month's bonus will look real nice."
"True."
They kept chatting while they dragged bodies away like trash.
---
Back home, James dropped his gear on the floor. He'd barely started to relax—barely started to pull Lucy closer, ready to wash away the blood smell in the tub—when an unfamiliar call came in.
A white-haired old woman appeared on the screen, wearing glasses, her expression calm and unreadable. She carried herself like someone who didn't need to raise her voice to be feared.
James recognized her instantly.
Wakako Okada.
Westbrook's most famous fixer.
It meant the plan was working.
"Are you BT?" she asked.
"It's me," James replied.
"I've seen your videos." Wakako's tone was casual, like she was discussing weather. "It's rare to see a newcomer like you these days. Interested in doing something for me?"
"No problem," James said. "As long as the money is right."
"Of course." Wakako didn't waste time. "I'll send details. Your performance will decide what comes next, BT."
Then she hung up.
Decisive. Efficient. Not the type who fed you warm words.
Wakako didn't care about James personally—not yet. She saw potential and wanted to test it. If he delivered, she'd keep him. If he failed, she'd replace him without emotion.
And she had plenty of edgerunners already.
James, however, didn't even open the job details right away.
Because Lucy was right there—warm, fragrant, and waiting.
And compared to that, Wakako could wait.
---
After a turbulent session in the bathtub, Lucy lay exhausted across James's chest, her fingertip drawing lazy circles like she was savoring the feeling of being alive.
"Who called?" she asked softly.
"Wakako." James stroked her hair. "You've heard of her."
Lucy's body tensed slightly at the name, but she didn't move away. She just became more alert.
"What's the commission?"
"I haven't looked yet."
James pulled up the message and shared it with her. They read it together.
The job was short and clean. It involved Maelstrom.
Yesterday, Maelstrom had robbed a Tyger Claws transport vehicle. The Claws wanted to save face, but they didn't want an all-out gang war. So they hired an edgerunner to handle it quietly.
It was, in a way, connected to James. If he hadn't burned down a Maelstrom warehouse earlier, Maelstrom might not be pushing so hard against the Tyger Claws right now.
But Night City didn't reward guilt.
Night City rewarded results.
Wakako's offered payment was 100,000 eurodollars.
That wasn't small.
Gang-related commissions often sat in this range—medium difficulty. Corporate jobs were a different universe, swinging from tens of thousands to over a million depending on risk and the number of enemies with suits and drones.
This job was simple:
Kill the crew.
And the stolen goods?
Wakako listed them as a "first meeting gift." Complete the job, and the cargo was theirs.
She didn't say what it was.
"The old woman loves being mysterious," James muttered.
He dried off, pulled on his clothes, and re-equipped his gear. The blood stains had only recently dried. He'd wash everything tomorrow.
Lucy got dressed too.
Of course she was coming.
Wakako's intel was clean—location, headcount, weapon level. That was why fixers took a cut. They weren't just brokers; they were intelligence handlers, cleanup coordinators, problem solvers.
Without them, most edgerunners died fast.
---
The red-and-white Nazaré carried them through Night City's neon veins.
They arrived at a dark alley at the edge of the industrial district.
A Tyger Claws transport vehicle burned there, flames licking the metal like hungry tongues. The smell was awful—burned rubber mixed with the heavy stink of roasted meat.
About a dozen Maelstrom members gathered around it like they were hosting a picnic.
They were barbecuing.
Skewered on wire was beef—real beef—stolen from the transport.
And by the smell, it wasn't synthetic protein.
It was A5 Wagyu.
In Night City, organic meat was illegal. Officially, it was "unsafe due to pollution risks."
Unofficially, it threatened corporate profits. Night City's protein supply belonged to biotech farms. Touching megacorp money turned anything into a crime.
But power always ate differently.
Smuggling meat was common. Some smugglers even operated near protein farms, which told you everything you needed to know about who was secretly benefiting.
Most black-market meat carried diseases and toxins.
But Tyger Claws' supply?
That was clean.
Because no supplier was stupid enough to poison people who carried blades for fun.
Now that expensive cargo—worth tens of thousands—was being eaten for free by Maelstrom thugs.
"Damn, this is so good!" one shouted. "Makes me want to kill someone just for fun!"
"Those Tyger Claws almost split my head open," another laughed, tapping his skull. "Good thing it's reinforced!"
"Boss! When we hitting another one?"
Their leader leaned against a Tyger Claws corpse like it was a couch. He gnawed on frozen Wagyu with a bored expression. His fist-sized cyberware glowed red, and he radiated the kind of menace that didn't need volume.
He was crazy.
Just… less crazy than the others.
He still had enough reason left to know it was smarter to lie low.
Then the sound of a motorcycle approached—only one.
The leader's one visible eye twitched, but he stayed calm. If it were a Tyger Claws retaliation squad, there'd be more noise.
His men didn't share his restraint.
They stood, weapons loose, grinning like dogs ready to bite.
The motorcycle's headlight turned toward them.
Bright.
Blinding.
Then someone leapt forward through the light.
Bang—Bang—Bang—
Lightning spat from the muzzle.
The Kenshin pistol lived up to its reputation—lethal and fast. 3.57 rounds per second, harvesting lives like wheat.
By the time James landed and completed a sliding stop, two magazines were empty.
Silence followed.
No one stood anymore.
Only the leader remained—alive by luck and armor plating behind his optics. His chest rose slowly, like he was still deciding whether to be angry.
James didn't give him time.
Four shots. Four limbs. Joints shattered. Metal screamed.
The leader fell, still able to speak, voice steady as if pain didn't exist.
"Edgerunner… Tyger Claws didn't dare act, so they hired you for door-to-door service?"
James stared. "That sounds wrong."
"What's the difference?" the leader sneered. "You both get paid to do a job."
James clicked his tongue. "Any last words?"
"Why waste—"
The Kenshin charged briefly.
Then a powered round punched through his eye and shut him up forever.
Lucy rolled in slowly on the bike, scanning.
"No survivors nearby," she said.
James stared at the grill.
"Tell me they didn't eat my welcome gift."
Lucy found freezer boxes nearby. "There's still some left."
Inside were about ten well-preserved Wagyu cuts.
James exhaled in relief. "Good. Good."
He looked genuinely happy.
"I'll pan-fry you steak tonight," he promised. "Late-night snack."
Lucy smiled. "Pair it with red wine?"
"Absolutely."
James snapped a photo and sent it to Wakako with a short message of thanks.
Wakako replied fast.
"Well done, BT. You're even better than I imagined. Trust me—our next collaboration won't make you wait too long."
The payment hit immediately after.
One job—more money than most people in Night City could save in a lifetime.
James looked at Lucy. "Looks like we can get a new apartment soon."
Lucy blinked. "Isn't our current place fine?"
James scoffed. "Fine? Every night rockets wake me up. The environment's trash. I don't even open windows." He leaned closer, half serious, half dreaming. "If we can, we buy in Corpo Plaza. Nobody understands comfort better than a corpo rat."
Lucy thought about it—then nodded.
"You're right," she admitted. "It is noisy."
She leaned into him.
"I'll listen to you."
And for the first time, the future didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a plan.
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