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"You guys aren't going to tell me anything else?"
"Like what?"
Maine held up his right arm, rolling back his sleeve. With a heavy, mechanical click, his hand detached from the wrist. The metal fingers hung limp, and the forearm housing blossomed open like dark petals, revealing a thick, obsidian tube nestled within the hardware. Under Maine's neural command, the tube slid forward, locking into place. A Projectile Launch System—a literal hand cannon—extended from his arm.
He began methodically cleaning and lubricating the firing mechanism, prepping for the inevitable noise. He flashed Kiwi a grin. "Don't sweat it, sis. This job is a walk in the park. And if you're talking about the eddies, don't worry. In this crew, if we eat, everyone eats. You'll get used to it."
Get used to it? Kiwi felt a vein throb in her temple. This was a trial run, a tentative handshake, and Maine was already acting like they were blood brothers. Besides, was it really about the money? No. It was about the people.
Kiwi was a professional. She took a deep breath, trying to regain the icy composure that usually defined her—a stark contrast to that pinkish kitten Sasha, who seemed to treat the job like a costume party.
"I'm not concerned about the money," Kiwi said, her voice filtered and hollow behind her red mask.
She lit a cigarette, her fingers steady as she heated the tip with a quick burst from her palm interface. She exhaled a perfect ring of smoke. "I want to know about Jax. What exactly is he, Maine?"
"Oh, already probing the roster?" Maine chuckled, wiping grease from his chrome. "Surprised, right? He's a gift from the Moxes. I assume you've already scanned him."
Kiwi leaned against the car, the smoke trailing into the stagnant air. She nodded.
"The kid's barely got enough scrap in him to trip a metal detector," Maine said, his voice dropping into a register of genuine awe. "But his speed, his raw strength... it's off the charts. Better than mine, and I'm packing military-grade hydraulics."
He thought back to the arm-wrestling match in the cargo container. Maine had come in third. Dorio, a former Animal with muscle supplements for brains, had taken second. Jax—pure, organic meat and bone—had taken first. Even when Pilar tried to cheat with his Gorilla Arms, the kid had pinned him like he was made of cardboard.
"He's a biological freak," Maine continued. "I haven't seen a natural move like that since the legends of the old Guard—monsters like Morgan Blackhand. Imagine what he could do if we actually put some high-end chrome in him."
"I think it's better he stays clean," Dorio interjected, adjusting her gear. "Too much hardware just creates backdoors. Look at Sasha. You think Jax could stop her if she decided to hack his brain? At least this way, he's got a fighting chance."
"Plop."
The cigarette slipped from Kiwi's lips and hit her trench coat before bouncing to the dirt. She stared at Dorio, her mask hiding the sudden drop of her jaw. "What did you just say? You're joking, right?"
"Is this girl even a pro?" Maine muttered, eyeing Kiwi's sudden lapse in composure.
"Cyberpsychosis?" Kiwi nearly roared, her modulated voice cracking. "Sasha can induce Cyberpsychosis?"
"Uh, yeah. Why? Is that a problem?" Maine asked, genuinely puzzled.
Kiwi felt a cold sweat prickle her neck. A problem? In Night City, netrunners with that specific, lethal aptitude were ghosts. You didn't find them in street crews; you found them at the top of Arasaka's payroll or in a shallow grave. To weaponize cyberpsychosis, your intelligence rating had to be a twelve or higher. Most runners were lucky to hit a seven.
Kiwi considered herself a genius—self-taught, hardened by the gutters—but her intelligence sat at an eight. She realized then that Rebecca hadn't just invited her into a crew; she'd invited her into a goddamn powerhouse. These weren't third-rate edgerunners. They were a trajectory to the top.
Suddenly, the team comms flared to life.
"Something's wrong, Maine," Sasha's voice broke through the silence. The 'cute' tone was gone, replaced by the clinical rapid-fire of a runner under pressure. "This isn't a repair shop. I'm counting twenty-one hostiles. Four netrunners on-site, fully geared. Jax has reached the rear vent, but I'm going to need backup on the ICE."
Sasha's voice didn't waver, but the request was clear. "Kiwi, I need a daemon. I can zero two of them, but I'll burn my brain out if I try to hold the whole network alone."
Maine's face darkened. Four netrunners in a 6th Street garage? The math was getting ugly. He looked at Kiwi.
Kiwi didn't hesitate. She threw her cigarette to the ground, already pressing her hand to her temple as she initiated the link. "I'm in."
She grabbed her deck and started moving toward the facility. Sasha would feed her the data; she just needed to be in range to anchor the connection.
Maine watched her red coat disappear into the shadows. "She must spend a fortune on cigarettes," he muttered, before turning to Dorio. "Let's get the car ready. Things are about to get loud."
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