Some days later, on September 1, 2075, 5 days from 18...
The low, thrumming bassline of synth funk bled faintly through the reinforced walls of Ratchet's Gun Shop. It wasn't the kind of dive where you'd grab a cheap mag and a bag of shity synth chips. This was a higher tier outfit, tucked away in the grittier, yet still up and coming, veins of Heywood.
The place Jackie frequented for his custom iron. The air inside hummed with the scent of gun oil, polished steel, and something vaguely electric, like static discharge. Display cases, bulletproof and meticulously lit, showcased high-end assault rifles and bespoke combat shotguns, each piece whispering a different promise of mayhem and precision.
"Hmmmm, no, no, too fancy, too weak, no no," Teo muttered, a hand on his chin. His SpecterNet Optics, those glowing emerald slits that were now a permanent fixture in his face, scanned a row of pistols. Each digital overlay provided a breakdown of ballistic data, recoil patterns, and smart-link capabilities. His fingers, still humming with the phantom data of his last deep dive, itched for something with more raw, brutal bite.
Ratchet, the shop's proprietor, a wiry old man with a receding hairline and eyes that had seen too many Night City sunsets, leaned against the counter, a faint smell of stale synth-smoke clinging to him.
"Come on, kid, these pieces are great! When Jackie said you were coming in, didn't think you'd be so picky!" he rasped, a hint of genuine frustration in his voice.
Teo didn't react, his gaze locked on a particularly sleek, but ultimately underwhelming, Militech pistol. "Don't you have something more powerful? You know, something that blows the brains out a choom? Cuts through armor like wet tissue?"
Ratchet paused, his gaze drifting to the grimy ceiling, a thoughtful frown creasing his leathery brow. Then, his eyes snapped wide, a spark of pure, unadulterated avarice lighting them. "You know, I did get this one piece in." He ducked into a backroom behind the bulletproof glass of his booth, the heavy door sliding shut with a soft hiss. He re emerged moments later, cradling a sleek, matte-black briefcase. In stark, chrome print, large block letters declared, 'HARNESS THE POWER OF LIGHTNING'. He unlatched the clips, the metal clicking softly, then turned the case around, lifting the lid with a practiced flourish.
Nestled in form-fitting foam, a silent, deadly sculpture of dark metal and polymer, lay the Arasaka JKE-X2 Kenshin. Its lines were deceptively simple, almost understated, yet every curve hinted at coiled power.
"This baby is the Arasaka JKE-X2 Kenshin," Ratchet purred, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, as if speaking a sacred scripture. "This simple, unpretentious pistol is the pride and joy of Arasaka engineers. The Kenshin is one of the most cutting edge, and deadliest, machine pistols available on the market. Its brute power comes from generating electromagnetic tension, before releasing a lethal, tungsten tipped round that can penetrate some of the sturdiest subdurmal armor. Like other guns of this class, it comes ready equipped with a holographic scope. Exactly the type of iron you're looking for, no?"
Teo's glowing optics devoured every detail, the SpecterNet providing a deluge of specifications, optimal effective range, kinetic energy transfer, molecular composition of the tungsten flechettes. A Kenshin, huh. These tech pistols were rarely seen outside of corpo black ops. Designed for Arasaka operators, they were small, flat, and easy to carry, with virtually no elements that extended beyond their basic outline to snag on holsters.
Though, parts on the top of the barrel would move violently when fired, making it visually impressive in action, and it was pretty fucking lethal. You didn't just see these lying around in Night City gun shops, they were, coveted by top tier mercs, arasska agents and bodygaurds. Tech pistols were popular for a reason, their raw, electromagnetic power was a brutal equalizer, able to bypass even some light combat armor.
"Jeez, choom, the fuck did you get this piece?" Teo murmured, a low, guttural growl of admiration. He picked it up, the cool weight settling into his palm. It felt perfect in his grip, an extension of his own chrome laced will, the balance impeccable. "Can I test it?" he asked, gesturing toward the firing range door, a new spark of excitement in his alien eyes.
Ratchet's grin widened, a giddy excitement bubbling up, pushing past his usual cynical facade. He came out from behind the booth, his movements surprisingly spry, grabbing a box of custom 4.5mm caseless rounds, the kind designed to maximize rail propelled flechette penetration (i think, idk gun stuff his hard I looked it up on the wiki.) . "Let's go," he chittered, practically vibrating with anticipation.
They walked into the shooting range, the cracks of gunshots from other booths echoing like a constant, violent heartbeat in the enclosed space. Mercs and citizens alike zeroed their weapons, the continuous percussion an everyday occurrence in Night City, no one flinched. Ratchet placed the box of ammo on a worn table in an empty booth and set the Kenshin down. He stood to the side, gesturing with a flourish.
Teo stepped up, quickly ejecting the empty magazine. He used a speed loader on the table to inject the twenty rounds into the mag, the small clicks satisfyingly mechanical. He slid the loaded mag back into the gun with a confident snap, two hands settling on the grip. He felt a supporting hand on his shoulder, Ratchet, anticipating the brutal kickback, a shared understanding passing between them.
He fired. The gun bucked violently, a loud, concussive CRACK! reverberating through the booth, slamming into the synth paper target twenty meters away. The head exploded in a shower of shredded paper and synthetic gore, leaving a massive, ragged hole that looked like a cyberpsycho had punched it. The sheer recoil lifted Teo's arms, giving him a surprised look, a flicker of raw power in his eyes he hadn't fully anticipated.
He and Ratchet looked at each other, identical, manic grins spreading across their faces, a shared, primal appreciation for the raw violence of the weapon. They slammed their hands together, a perfect dap, the POP! echoing in the booth. Their giggles, low and guttural, filled the space. They understood each other, two men admiring a masterpiece of destruction.
After a few more loaded magazine shots and those goblin giggles, the smell of burnt powder mingling with ozone, Teo turned. "How much, Ratchet?" he asked, the question hanging in the concussive air.
The middle aged man looked at him, his smile growing. "I'll give it to you for ten."
Teo deadpanned, his glowing eyes unblinking. "Nah, hermano, I'll do eight."
"Nine," Ratchet countered, his smile not faltering.
"Eight point five," Teo said, holding out his hand.
Ratchet paused, thinking, his gaze flicking to the smoking target, then to Teo's cold, calculating eyes. He knew a hardballer when he saw one. "Eight point five." He shook Teo's hand. Good ol haggling. Teo wired the money, his $18,500 eddies dropping to a neat $10,000.
Then he remembered, just as Ratchet was about to head back to his counter. "Oh, some ammo and extra mags too."
Ratchet nodded, already walking to the front of the shop, disappearing behind his booth and into the backroom again. He returned with a fresh box of 4.5mm rounds and a couple of extra Kenshin mags that had come with the piece. "The extra mags came with the Kenshin, so that's free, but the ammo's five hundred." Teo nodded, transferring the money. His balance dropped to $9,500 eddies.
He grabbed the mags, swiftly filling them with the box of ammo he'd just bought, and stuffed them into his jacket pocket, dubbing it his "ammo pocket." The rest of the bullets were stuffed into another. He took the Kenshin from its case and slid it into his jean waistband holster. Yeah, no more fumbling like some cholo fresh off the block, now he was a cholo with a holster, a tier up, baby.
He thanked Ratchet, a silent nod of mutual respect, and made his way out into the bustling shopping hotspot in Heywood. The rain was still falling, a steady, depressing drizzle that turned the chromes-slicked streets into a blurry canvas of distorted neon. It was dark and miserable, and the wet chill immediately killed the high from his new purchase. He hated rain. It was wet.
As he began his walk back to the cold comfort of his basement at El Coyote Cojo, his hacker dungeon, his OS pinged. An unknown line. He answered, because why not? No one had his line other then some fixers and close friends.
The comm call came through as Teo stepped into the humid steam of a noodle booth, the smell of soy and frying meat filling his nostrals.
He'd stopped dead on the slick sidewalk, the neon glow reflecting in his Optics like scattered emerald fire. He lifted his hand, the integrated comms buzzing, and answered.
"Teo here," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly counterpoint to the city's ceaseless thrum. He ordered udon noodles from the grizzled proprietor, the holographic menu shimmering in the rain streaked air.
"Teo, this is Wakako," an old woman's voice, as smooth and unyielding as polished chrome, resonated directly into his skull, bypassing the street noise. "Heard of your exploits along the Net. That stunt... was impressive." A beat of silence, then: "Heard you were connected to Padre, so I acquired your info from him."
A steaming bowl of udon was placed before him, the savory aroma momentarily distracting him from the downpour outside. He picked up his chopsticks, already digging in. "Glad I'm so famous now," he retorted, a dry edge to his tone. "So, what do you want? You a fixer?"
Her tone was devoid of inflection, painting a picture of absolute discretion and cold precision. "I have a job for you. Low key. A ghost run, one might say." A faint, almost imperceptible hint of amusement laced her words.
"Very funny," Teo deadpanned, leaning back in the worn high top chair. His glowing green pupils narrowed, processing the incoming data with the surgical precision of his Biotechnica Mnemonics Processor. Wakako didn't waste words, and neither did he. "Details?" he politely demanded, the city's grime still clinging to the edges of his voice.
"A recently deceased braindance artist. Known only as Harmonix. Reclusive. Lived in Northside. He left behind something rare. An unreleased piece. A 'sensory symphony' BD." Her voice held a rare, almost imperceptible hint of intrigue, like a secret whispered in a dark alley. "It's stored on a custom built server. Old tech, isolated. Heavily encrypted with Harmonix's unique coding style."
Teo tapped his fingers on the bar table, the metallic clink echoing faintly in the booth. "And your client?"
"Anonymous. A 'Collector.' They want this specific braindance. Nothing else. And they want it silently. No alarms, no data trails, no physical disturbance." Wakako's words were a challenge, a testament to her exacting standards.
The rain beat a rhythm against the plastic canopy of the noodle stall. "I received a whisper of its existence through my network. Harmonix was a ghost himself, remember? No close contacts. Makes the acquisition less risky for my reputation. And for yours, if handled correctly."
"Ghost run, you said," Teo mused, the phrase resonating deeply with his new capabilities. He remembered the Scavs in the alley, the terrifying ease with which he'd dismantled them. This wasn't about bullets anymore, this was about data, about precision. This was a true test for his optics and the raw power of his new cyberdeck. He reached down, his fingers brushing the cool, dark metal of his Arasaka JKE-X2 Kenshin holstered at his hip, a silent, comforting presence.
"Precisely," Wakako affirmed. "Infiltrate Harmonix's apartment. Activate the dormant server. Bypass its artistic encryption. Extract only the 'sensory symphony' BD. Then, wipe all traces of your presence. The apartment must appear untouched. Like you were never there." She paused, then added, a low chuckle in her voice, "Shouldn't be any security, or at least we don't have much info on that, so be careful, Ghost." The last word was tinged with amusement.
Ghost, huh? Really? Teo deadpanned internally, though a flicker of satisfaction sparked in his synthetic eyes. He guessed it was kind of cool.
"And the pay?" Teo asked, always practical, even when eating udon in the rain.
"Seven thousand five hundred eddies. Transferred upon confirmed, clean delivery." The offer was solid, enough to keep him comfortable for a while, enough to justify the risks. "I will be monitoring your progress through an encrypted channel. If you run across anything take them out, Im sure you can handle that right?"
He felt a grim smile tugging at his lips, steam from his noodles clouding his vision for a moment. This was a challenge. A chance to prove that the new chrome, the chilling clarity of his vision, and the raw power of his deck, were worth every painful installation. This wasn't just eddies; it was about defining himself in this new, brutal chapter of Night City.
"Yup, understood Wakako," Teo replied, his voice a low, steady hum, the last of his udon disappearing into his mouth. "Consider it done."
A/N: solo gig, solo gig, solo gig.