David Martinez

  The gig was over, and I headed back home—my new home, also known as Vik’s Clinic. First thing I did was take a shower, then crash on the couch in the living room, flipping through trashy shows on the TV. I grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a plain shirt, making myself comfortable. The couch smelled off—not quite ass, but not great either. Still, I didn’t care enough to move. My bare feet swung lazily over the edge as I scrolled through the watchlist. Thanks to Vik and Vomi actually paying for the premium subscriptions, I could binge without getting interrupted by annoying ads.

  After a while, Ciri walked in, carrying a pot. I glanced over and quickly realized what was inside—quesadillas, except they looked… sad.

  “What you eating?” I asked.

  “Tortillas,” she replied, her accent almost making me do a double take.

  “What’s inside them?”

  “Ham and cheese.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.” She took a bite, unfazed. “Want some?”

  I stared at the plate, unimpressed. “This might be the most depressing quesadilla I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “...”

  “...”

  “...”

  “I’ll take three, please.”

  She handed me my share, and we settled in to watch a documentary about the Amazon rainforest—or what was left of it before the twenty-first century took its toll.

  “Did you know it was once called the Lung of the World?” Ciri said between bites. “Apparently, it produced a huge percentage of the oxygen for the entire planet.”

  I chewed on my sad excuse for a quesadilla, staring at the screen as footage of lush green canopies transitioned to bleak, barren wastelands. “Yeah, and now it’s just another desert.”

  Ciri nodded, washing down her food with a sip of some mystery drink she brought with her. “Corporations stripped it clean. Timber, oil, biochemicals—whatever they could sell, they took.” She gestured at the screen. “Then they tried to fix it by planting synthetic trees, but those didn’t last long.”

  The documentary droned on about how biotech firms attempted to ‘rebuild’ the ecosystem, only for their engineered plants to either die off or mutate into something worse. Classic corpo thinking—destroy nature, then try to replace it with something ‘better’ that only makes things worse.

  I finished my food and leaned back into the couch, exhaling. “Think anyone alive today even remembers what it was really like?”

  Ciri shrugged. “Doubt it. Maybe some old-timers, but they probably just tell stories about it now. Like legends.”

  “Legends…” I echoed, staring at the screen but not really watching anymore.

  She gave me a look. “What, getting all philosophical now?”

  “Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “Just thinking about how much shit gets lost over time. Places, people… memories.”

  For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the TV narrating how climate shifts and corporate greed turned a once-thriving ecosystem into a wasteland.

  Ciri stretched, tossing the pot onto the coffee table. “Kinda depressing. You wanna watch something else?”

  I grabbed the remote. “Yeah… something with explosions.”

  “People here don’t go outside much, huh?” Ciri murmured.

  “Yeah, not really. Can’t risk catching a bullet,” I said as a podcast started playing on the broadcast, something about racing tracks in Europe. I glanced at her. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen most of you leave the clinic.”

  “Vik doesn’t because his whole life is here. I don’t because I’m studying,” Ciri said, setting the pot down on the table. “Vomi, though? Nie jestem pewien, dlaczego.”

  Even though she spoke Polish, I got the gist—she didn’t know why Vomi never left either.

  “Speaking of, what does she even do in that office? She’s always in there, tinkering with chemicals, fluids, some chrome now and then. But aside from that?”

  Ciri shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Wanna check it out?”

  “Yeah. Meanwhile, find something for us to watch before I crash.” I tossed her the remote.

  She caught it without even looking. Nova.

  I made my way to Vomi’s office and knocked a few times. The fact that she used a regular door instead of a sliding one always amused me, but I filed that thought away for later. No answer. I knocked again. Still nothing.

  So, naturally, I let myself in.

  Empty.

  The office was cluttered with paperwork—both digital and physical—chems, and other utensils I was still getting familiar with. But no sign of Vomi.

  “Huh.”

  I headed back to the couch.

  “Find what you were looking for?” Ciri asked, aggressively flipping through channels like she was trying to speedrun entertainment.

  “No. Vomi’s not in her office.” I shot a glance at the remote, which was barely surviving her button-mashing. “Find anything good?”

  “Right about… now.” She stopped on a show about an Old West gang on the run.

  “That looks old,” I said, sinking into the couch. “But still better than watching the once-great Amazon Forest turn into a cautionary tale.”

  “To me, it looks less updated than the world outside,” Ciri muttered, shaking her head. “Wanna watch it?”

  “Sure.”

  BANG

  "Vomi" shot a gonk dead in the middle of the street, not bothering with bystanders or witnesses. The idiot had been eyeing her hungrily, probably thinking he'd get lucky just because she looked good. She wasn’t in the mood to entertain some random punk on his way to rob people. His corpse had Valentino tats, but that didn’t matter. Just another low-level scum who thought with his dick. No one would care.

  She dropped the revolver—his, not hers—and kept walking through Night City, the same way she had been for the past few days.

  What was she doing? Trying to kill time.

  Flatlining gonks, stripping their credchips, eddies, drugs, and rides, selling off what she didn’t need. Maybe picking a fight or two, just to break the monotony. Nothing challenged her enough to be fun, so eventually, she got bored of even that. And when boredom hit? There was only one thing left to do.

  Hit a nightclub.

  Or at least, as close as you could get in Night City. With everyone here addicted to BDs, finding a place to drink, dance, and party—without the usual overdose of sex and violence—took some effort. But she knew one spot that fit the bill.

  Red Dirt.

  The place where Samurai had their first-ever gig. A haven for rockerboys and misfits who wanted to be themselves, free from corpos and their bullshit.

  Yeah. That was more like it.

  When "Vomi" arrived, all eyes were on her. Side glances, whispered comments, the usual wary looks. Probably because they assumed she was an Exotic or maybe even part of the Animals. Given her frame and features, it wasn’t the worst guess.

  The bouncer stepped in her way, arms crossed, giving her the classic I don’t like you stare.

  "Yes?" She met his gaze with thinly veiled annoyance. "May I come in?"

  "What guarantee do I have that you won’t cause trouble?" He squared his shoulders, trying to seem bigger.

  Considering her height, it wasn’t working.

  "The same guarantee you have that gangs won’t start shooting each other over the dumbest shit," she said, flicking her tail. "Look, I just want to have some fun, alright?"

  His optics flared blue as he ran a scan, only for his expression to shift when nothing came up.

  "You’re an Exotic," he said at last. "I can’t scan you."

  "Thanks for noticing!" She flashed a sharp-toothed grin, teeth shark-like and gleaming under the neon lights. "So, can I come in now? Please?"

  The bouncer frowned. He had no real reason to turn her away.

  "Don’t cause trouble."

  "Finally," she exhaled, stepping inside with an eager grin.

  The place was packed.

  A band was playing in the background, something that felt like grunge but with a distinct cyberpunk twist. It wasn’t bad. She wasn’t here to critique music, anyway. She was here to escape the crushing monotony of being the backseat watcher. For once, she was in control. She could do something. She could be here. Not locked away. Here.

  Before hitting the floor, she made a quick detour to the bathroom. Predictably filthy. The symbiote absorbed her leather jacket, leaving her in just the tank top underneath—low-cut, clinging, drawing attention in all the right ways.

  "Huh. Didn’t really notice until now," she murmured to herself. "Whatever. This’ll do."

  She stepped back out, music flooding her ears again.

  And this time, people were staring.

  She was fabulous.

  Chrome or not, hot people always turned heads. And right now, she was the hottest thing in the market—judging by the way both men and women couldn’t stop looking.

  And she was loving it.

  The way eyes lingered, the way conversations faltered mid-sentence as people turned to watch her move—it was electric.

  She stepped deeper into the bar, letting the music thrum through her bones, head swaying slightly to the beat. Some corpos and mercs kept their distance, like they could smell the danger rolling off her. Others—gonks with more confidence than sense—kept stealing glances, trying to size her up.

  A few were already planning their approach. She could feel it.

  Perfect.

  She slid up to the bar, tapping the counter with a knuckle. The bartender, a grizzled old dude with cybernetic arms that had seen better days, barely looked up.

  “What’ll it be?”

  "Something strong." She flashed a grin. "And make it quick."

  A shot glass clinked down in front of her, filled to the brim with something neon blue. She downed it in one go, feeling the burn trail down her throat, then slammed the glass back onto the counter with a satisfied sigh.

  "Keep ‘em coming."

  Before the bartender could respond, she felt someone step into her space. A guy—lean, cocky, chrome along his jaw glinting in the light. His confidence was almost endearing. Almost.

  “Haven’t seen you around before,” he said, voice smooth like he practiced it in a mirror.

  She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze, lips curling into a smirk.

  "That’s ‘cause you haven’t been looking hard enough."

  That threw him off for a second, but he recovered quickly. "You got a name, or do I gotta make one up?"

  She chuckled, picking up her next shot but not drinking it just yet. "Oh, you definitely gotta work for it."

  That got a grin out of him. "Fair enough. Can I buy you a drink?"

  She downed the second shot, setting the glass down with a click. "You can try."

  The guy waved at the bartender, and the game began.

  Everyone was in awe as the purple tailed woman could just turn five bottles of whiskey without any trouble, or how she didn't even look fazed as the people stumbled while trying to challenge her to see how much they could drink, thinking they could beat her. "Vomi" found this all amusing, even more when people were starting to be more at ease in her presence.

  One even challenged her to a different game, given that drinking was out of the question.

  "Alright, alright," a stocky guy with a cyberarm slurred, clearly already a few shots past his limit. "You win the drinkin’ contest, fine—but let’s see how you handle somethin’ with a little more skill."

  “Vomi” arched a brow, swirling the last remnants of whiskey in her glass. "Oh? And what’s that?"

  The guy smirked, then turned and pointed toward a small setup in the corner—a dartboard, glowing under flickering neon.

  "Darts," he declared, cracking his knuckles like he just announced a duel to the death. "Winner gets free drinks for the rest of the night, loser buys everyone a round."

  The bar erupted into cheers at that, eager for the chance to drink on someone else’s tab.

  "Vomi" took one last sip, then stood up, her tail swaying lazily behind her. "You really wanna do this, choom?"

  "You scared?" the guy taunted.

  She chuckled. "No. Just tryin’ to decide if I should go easy on you or not."

  The crowd whooped and hollered as the two walked over to the dartboard. The challenger, clearly thinking this was his moment to shine, grabbed a dart and spun it between his fingers before throwing.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  It hit—just barely—the outer bullseye. Not bad, not great. But to the already tipsy onlookers, it was a legendary shot.

  He turned to her with a smug grin. "Beat that."

  "Vomi" didn’t even respond. She just grabbed a dart, flicked it lazily between her fingers, and then—without even looking—threw it over her shoulder.

  Dead center. Bullseye.

  The bar went wild.

  "Damn!"

  "Choom, she didn’t even aim!"

  "That’s preem-tier chrome or some crazy-ass luck!"

  Her opponent’s confidence wavered. He grabbed another dart, took a deep breath, and threw—this time missing the bullseye completely, landing just outside the inner ring.

  He turned, lips pressed into a thin line. "Alright, your turn—"

  Before he could finish, she flicked another dart over her shoulder.

  Another bullseye.

  The crowd lost it.

  The guy groaned, rubbing his face. "Okay, okay, I get it! You win, alright?!"

  She smirked, taking a victory bow before swiping a free drink from a passing tray. "Told ya," she teased, sipping with satisfaction.

  The loser sighed and turned to the bartender. "A round for everyone," he grumbled.

  The cheers doubled in volume.

  And just like that, "Vomi" had gone from an exotic outsider to the star of the Red Dirt’s night.

  Next thing in the list? Singing.

  And oh boy, did she sing.

  Since this was a Rockerboy Bar, and the Samurai did their gigs here back in the day, why not sing something they played?

  Chippin' In was queued, "Vomi" jumping on the stage as the singer and some eager people that actually knew how to play the song came for the other instruments.

  As the opening riff of Chippin’ In ripped through the speakers, the energy in Red Dirt surged like a wave. "Vomi" grabbed the mic, flashing a sharp-toothed grin at the crowd.

  "Can you feel it? Get ready ‘cause here we go!”

  The bar exploded. Cheers, hollers, fists pumping in the air. Even the skeptical ones who had been giving her side-eyes before were now caught in the rush, vibing to the sheer power in her voice.

  She didn’t just sing—she owned it. Her voice was raw, full of an edge that made it sound dangerously good. The guys on the instruments kept up, clearly feeding off the electricity of the moment. The drummer slammed down the beats hard, the lead guitar wailed in perfect sync, and the bassline thumped deep enough to rattle the walls.

  "Sing this song—I'm chippin' in! Mayhem flows!"

  Someone started a mosh pit. A real one. Bodies crashed into each other, wild and free, living that pure Night City thrill. The flashing neon, the sweat, the sound—everything was alive.

  And "Vomi"? She was glowing.

  This wasn’t just fun anymore. This was her fucking night.

  The moment, the music, the eyes locked on her with admiration, lust, envy, awe—it was all exactly as it should be. No hiding, no shadows. Just the feeling of being.

  By the time the last note rang out and the song crashed to its end, the entire bar was screaming.

  "Encore!" someone shouted.

  "Vomi" smirked, tossing her hair back as she leaned into the mic.

  "Hell yeah."

  Another song was queued.

  And the night?

  It was just getting started.

  After that, everyone took a shot at hitting on “Vomi”. She just smiled, amused that these gonks actually thought they had a chance. Not that she was here to judge—well, not right now at least. The least she could do was tease them a little, see how they handled it.

  “Babe, I swear, I’d have you going crazy for five hours straight,” a punk with a mohawk and way too many piercings bragged, leaning in like he actually had something to offer.

  Vomi sighed, slow and sultry. “Choom, you wouldn’t last five minutes.”

  The crowd around them erupted. Gasps, whoops, trash talk—half the people were laughing, the other half egging the poor guy on.

  “Dude, you gotta take that challenge!”

  “Yeah! You can’t let her punk you out like that!”

  Vomi dragged a single finger from the man’s belly up to his chin, watching his confidence waver. “Wanna test it out?”

  Before he could even sputter out an answer, she grabbed his hand and pulled him outside. It didn’t matter where they went to have sex—this wasn’t about him. This was about making sure everyone knew the truth. She wasn’t someone they could tame. If they wanted a shot, it was by her rules.

  The crowd buzzed with disbelief, some laughing, others shaking their heads. The guy’s friends were wide-eyed, already placing bets on how it’d turn out.

  And sure enough—five minutes later, “Vomi” was back. Alone.

  Spinning the gonk’s underwear around her finger.

  “No fucking way!”

  “That’s insane!”

  “Absolute legend!”

  Vomi tossed the undergarment over her shoulder and snatched a full bottle of champagne from a nearby table. “Next round, please!”

  The night blurred into a haze of music and chaos. Other people took the stage, playing everything from rock to synthwave, while the bar turned into a riot of headbanging, drunken brawls, and full-throttle insanity. Fights broke out inside and outside Red Dirt, and Vomi joined in whenever she felt like it—not even bothering to dodge. None of them could actually hurt her, and besides, taking a hit every now and then just made things more fun.

  By the time she finally stumbled out of the bar with a group of chooms she barely knew, Red Dirt was even more alive than when she arrived. The whole place thrived on the energy she left behind, like she’d set the whole night on fire and walked away without looking back.

  Outside, a row of sports cars lined the curb, engines growling, waiting for something stupid to happen.

  “Hey, choom,” a girl slurred between burps, “you got a name we can call you?”

  Vomi’s tail flicked, curling up to her chin like a finger tapping in thought. Then, with a slow, wicked grin, she bared her shark-like teeth.

  “Call me Poison.”

  A guy whistled. “Shit, alright!” He stumbled into the passenger seat of a Quadra, throwing the door open. “Take the wheel! We got a race to win!”

  Poison chuckled, sliding into the driver’s seat. “For sure.”

  As soon as the door slammed shut, she gunned the engine. The Quadra launched forward, tires screaming, the other cars barely keeping up as she tore through the neon-drenched streets of Night City. The so-called “co-pilot” scrambled to ping the race location, but she was already driving like the race had started ten minutes ago.

  Her tail flicked effortlessly between the gears of the custom manual transmission, leaving her hands free to keep a vice grip on the wheel.

  “Holy shit!” her passenger yelled as she drifted a sharp corner, tires kissing the edge of disaster. “How the fuck do you do that?!”

  Poison just grinned.

  “Lots of practice.”

  She lied. Of course, she did. No way in hell was she going to tell them this was just her biology—that she was Klyntar. Symbiote or not, the truth wasn’t on the table.

  Not that her company seemed to care.

  “Hell yeah! Keep at it!”

  Poison glanced at the rearview mirror, locking eyes with her own reflection—just in time to see her eyes glitch.

  She scoffed and slammed the accelerator harder.

  By the time they arrived at the race location, two other cars were already there, engines rumbling, their drivers leaning against the hoods like they had something to prove.

  The guy next to her turned serious for the first time all night. “Heads up, choom. This race? We can use our iron. So don’t get spooked if some gonks decide to shoot at us for being too good.”

  Poison let out a sharp laugh. “I’m way too drunk to care!”

  Total bullshit, of course. She’d need to down an entire barrel just to feel a buzz these days, and even then, it might slightly slow her reflexes.

  Considering she could fight people using Sandevistans, though? Slightly wasn’t much.

  “Yeah! Me too!” The guy whooped, then glanced at his holo. “Oh, the others are rolling up. I’ll get the GPS set.”

  “Got it.”

  The race was a sprint—Arroyo to North Oak. Short, high-speed, no time for screw-ups. And with the monster of a car she was driving? She knew she could win without even thinking about pulling a gun.

  But where the hell was the fun in that?

  Poison revved the engine, feeling the vibrations rumble through her bones, her tail flicking in anticipation. The other racers lined up beside her, their rides gleaming under the dim glow of Night City’s streetlights. Chrome, matte black, neon accents—every car here was a reflection of its driver’s soul.

  And Poison? She was driving something stolen. Didn’t even know the make. Didn’t care. It purred under her command, and that was all that mattered.

  The organizer, a scrawny fixer type with a cybernetic jaw, stepped in front of the lineup, raising a neon baton. “Alright, listen up, gonks! No rules—just the finish line. First one to North Oak wins. If you get flatlined, well… try not to bleed on the road, yeah?”

  The crowd hollered, engines revved, and fingers twitched over triggers.

  Poison grinned.

  The baton dropped.

  Engines roared to life.

  Tires screeched as metal beasts lunged forward, leaving behind trails of fire and smoke. Poison's grip was steady, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the gears with her tail like it was second nature. The others scrambled for position, but she was already weaving through them, her reaction time inhumanly fast.

  “Shit, you’re a beast at this!” her passenger shouted over the roar of the wind.

  Poison smirked, then caught movement in the mirror.

  One of the racers—a sleek Shion with gang tags sprayed across the hood—was rolling up fast. Muzzle flash.

  Gunfire.

  Bullets sparked against the frame of her car.

  Her passenger ducked. “Fuck! We got shooters!”

  Poison didn’t flinch.

  She just grinned wider.

  “Let’s give ’em a reason to aim better.”

  And with that, she yanked the wheel hard—right into the bastard’s lane.

  The other driver slammed the brakes, but the car behind him had no time to react. In the blink of an eye, the two vehicles collided, spinning out of control as Poison’s maneuver took them both down—no bullets fired, just pure chaos. She didn’t slow down, though. Instead, she eased her car back, letting the smoke clear, and reached over to the passenger.

  “Give me a gun.”

  The passenger didn’t hesitate, handing her a Burya. The heavy recoil from the weapon would normally be enough to rattle most people, but for Poison? It was nothing. She could take the kickback of a tank if she wanted to.

  A second car tried to make a run for it, but instead of making a clean pass, they opened fire.

  Poison’s lips curled into a wicked smile.

  She didn’t even flinch as she raised the Burya, pulled the trigger, and the deafening bang echoed through the night. A sniper’s shot wasn’t nearly as loud, but it was enough to make anyone freeze. The Burya was louder than that. The bullet landed square on the front right tire, and with a sickening screech, the car lost control and smashed into the nearest lamppost.

  The other racers were starting to figure out something was off. The way Poison handled that gun wasn’t just skilled—it was unnatural. They immediately started shooting at each other, avoiding her entirely.

  Poison pouted, her grin turning playful. “Ow, that’s not fair.” She clicked her tongue. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “You want more?!” her passenger gasped, his voice laced with both awe and fear. “You’re an adrenaline junkie, aren’t you?”

  Poison chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that filled the car. “You have no idea.” She shifted gears, the car roaring as she accelerated once more, feeling the rush of speed flood her senses. The world outside blurred into streaks of neon and asphalt as she let the engine scream. The other drivers were scrambling now, trying to avoid her, but Poison was already in her element.

  Another car pulled up beside her, trying to match her pace, but they weren’t fast enough. She eyed them briefly, then glanced down at the Burya in her hand.

  This will be fun.

  She raised the pistol again, taking aim. The moment they swerved to cut in front of her, she pulled the trigger. The recoil jolted through her hand, but it didn’t faze her as the bullet hit its mark—a direct strike to the engine block.

  The car sputtered and smoked, veering off into the side, its engine shot dead. The driver’s terrified face was just visible through the cracked windshield before they slammed into the curb. Poison didn’t even look at them as she sped past, grinning wider.

  The passenger, barely holding onto his seat, looked at her in disbelief. “You’re insane!” he shouted, half impressed, half terrified.

  “Yep,” Poison replied with a wink, hands steady on the wheel. “But this is the only way to really live.”

  Ahead, the finish line was in sight, but she wasn’t ready to stop just yet. The challenge was too good, and the adrenaline was pulsing through her veins. She wasn’t going to win by simply crossing the line—she was going to own it.

  Poison tapped his shoulder. “Got a cigar?”

  A pause. “...What?”

  “For me,” she said with a grin.

  “I do, but… why?” He looked at her like she’d just asked for a rocket launcher.

  She raised an eyebrow. “To smoke it?”

  “Alright…?” He handed it over, still baffled.

  She slipped it between her lips, then focused on the road. As the car approached the finish line, she yanked the wheel, sending it into a flawless drift. Just as the tires screeched, she kicked open the driver’s door and stepped out, letting the car slide the last few meters on its own. Without missing a beat, she struck a match, lit the cigar, and took a slow, satisfied drag.

  The car came to a perfect stop just as she exhaled the first puff of smoke.

  The crowd at the finish line?

  Their reactions were priceless.

  “Fuck yeah!”

  “Straight out of an action BD!”

  “That’s some legend-tier shit, choom!”

  Poison inhaled deeply, savoring the moment, then burst into laughter—so hard she actually coughed. This was it. The most fun she’d had in months—maybe in her entire life. And to think she had wasted time in that damn clinic, drowning in theories and plans, trying to figure out how to control herself.

  Nah, fuck that.

  There was a difference between being alive and actually living.

  Her gaze caught on a storefront window, her reflection grinning back at her.

  She chuckled, exhaling another puff of smoke. “You miserable sack of shit, get a life, will you?”

  Her co-pilot stumbled out of the car, still in shock. “How the fuck did you do that?! That was preem! Straight-up Edgerunner shit!”

  Poison smirked, tapping the ash off her cigar. “Oh, choom, that was nothing.” She blew out another stream of smoke. “Just need the right challenge… and a little fun.”

  “Should I know you? Feels like I should.” The guy looked flustered, like he’d just realized Poison might be some big-name merc.

  “If you knew me, you wouldn’t be alive to tell,” she said, taking one last drag from the cigar before dropping it to the ground and crushing it under her boot. “Now, what’s the prize for this—”

  “YOU BITCH!”

  The entire crowd turned toward the voice. Even the race announcer, who had been about to reveal the prize, hesitated. The buzz of excitement dulled as people stepped closer, curiosity thick in the air.

  The source of the outburst? A heavily chromed-out borg of a man, standing amid the wreckage of twisted metal and smoking debris. His arms cradled what was left of a woman—her upper body burned and mangled beyond recognition. His face was a mask of pure, seething rage, and his cybernetic eyes locked onto Poison like targeting reticles.

  Poison tilted her head, unimpressed. “Do I know you?” She stuck a pinkie in her ear, lazily picking at it.

  “We weren’t gonna shoot you!” the man screamed, voice shaking with fury. “There’s a code in these streets, you bastard!”

  “Code?” Poison echoed, her tail flicking from side to side in amusement. “Choom, I think you’ve been spending too much time in the cyberspace.”

  “If we don’t shoot when we overtake, you don’t shoot back! That’s the rule, you moron!” He held the ruined corpse tighter, his whole frame trembling with grief and fury. “My wife died in that crash! I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

  Poison’s co-pilot blinked. “Your wife died in a race where we can use iron?” He looked genuinely confused. “How the hell is that our problem?”

  BANG.

  That was the last thing the co-pilot ever heard before a bullet tore through his skull.

  “Oh,” Poison muttered, watching his body crumple. “Now that’s a damn shame.”

  She barely had time to process it before another shot slammed into her chest. The impact sent her sprawling to the pavement. The once-hyped crowd turned to chaos, scattering like roaches as gunfire shattered the moment. No one wanted to be next.

  Poison lay there, staring up at the murky, light-polluted sky of Night City. No stars, just the faint glow of neon bleeding through the smog. Wasn’t much of a view.

  The borg loomed over her, a shadow against the city’s dull glow. Without hesitation, he raised both pistols and emptied them into her body. Each shot thundered through the street. One magazine, then another. Blood—deep, dark purple—splattered across the asphalt, pooling beneath her like spilled oil.

  It wasn’t enough. He reloaded. Fired again.

  By the time he was done, he was panting, shaking, his fingers still twitching as his weapons clicked empty.

  “I hope you burn in hell,” he spat, holstering his pistols.

  His attention shifted to what was left of his wife. Carefully, almost reverently, he knelt beside her, gathering pieces of scrap to form a makeshift cross. It wasn’t much, wasn’t enough—not for what she deserved—but it was all he could offer. She had given him everything. And, like all things in Night City, it ended in death.

  A wet cough rasped behind him.

  “Man,” Poison groaned, voice thick with amusement, “I wish I could go to hell.”

  He turned, his breath hitching when he saw her—crouched beside him, untouched, watching his wife’s remains with nothing more than fleeting curiosity.

  “H-how?”

  Shock froze him for only a second before fury overtook him again. This time, he abandoned his guns, drawing a katana in a smooth, practiced motion. He swung.

  Poison sidestepped lazily.

  “I wonder who she was,” she mused, effortlessly dodging each strike. “Must’ve been important for you to lose your shit like this.”

  The borg snarled, feinting right before driving the blade forward in a sudden thrust. This time, she didn't dodge. The katana pierced through her chest, straight through where her heart should be. A perfect kill.

  He let out a shaky breath. That’s it. No one survives that.

  Poison exhaled sharply, glancing down at the sword protruding from her torso. Then, with an almost bored expression, she met his gaze with a mildly annoyed tone.

  “Could you not?”

  His stomach dropped.

  “What?!?”

  The borg staggered back, hands gripping the katana’s hilt as if pulling it free would somehow fix what was happening.

  Poison sighed, tilting her head as if he were the one acting strange. “I mean, really. It’s one thing to shoot me—at least that was funny—but now you’re trying to skewer me like some bad sushi? That’s just... rude.”

  With a casual motion, she grabbed the blade, yanking it out of her chest. Blood—purple, dark, and wrong—splattered onto the pavement, but Poison didn’t even flinch. She twirled the katana in her grip, testing its weight before giving an approving nod.

  “Nice sword.” She smirked. “Mind if I borrow it?”

  The borg didn’t respond. He was too busy processing the impossible, his breathing ragged as his cybernetic enhancements tried—and failed—to classify what he was seeing.

  Poison took a step forward. “You were so mad a second ago. What happened?”

  He snarled, reaching for his pistols—

  Too late.

  Poison moved in a blink, closing the distance before he could even register it. She grabbed his wrist, twisting with effortless strength. Bones snapped like dry twigs.

  He screamed.

  Poison just laughed. “Now, now. I thought you wanted to kill me?”

  His other hand reached for a hidden blade. Poison caught that wrist too, gripping it tight enough that the servos in his cyberarm whined in protest.

  “Here’s the thing,” she whispered, leaning in close. “You really shouldn’t threaten someone unless you’re sure they can die.”

  Her tail lashed out, slamming into his gut. He gagged, eyes going wide as he was lifted off his feet and thrown across the pavement. He hit a wrecked car with a sickening crunch, slumping to the ground in a broken heap.

  Poison watched him struggle, blood pooling beneath his shattered limbs.

  Then she turned, glancing back at his wife’s charred remains.

  “You know,” she mused, tapping the katana against her shoulder, “I could do you a favor and send you to join her.”

  The borg coughed, trying to push himself up—only for his broken body to fail him.

  Poison shrugged. “Or not. Honestly? I don’t really care either way.”

  She turned, tossing the katana aside like it was worthless, and started walking.

  Behind her, the borg choked out a weak, gasping breath—half a curse, half a plea.

  "See ya, lover boy."

  Poison grabbed him by the throat with her chrome arm, lifting him like he weighed nothing.

  Then she started punching.

  Over and over.

  Bone crunched. Skin split. Metal dented.

  And she laughed.

  Loud, wild, unhinged.

  "Hahahaha! I love this!"

  Fist met flesh again and again, turning his face into something unrecognizable. His muffled screams turned to choked gurgles. Then silence.

  Poison paused, blinking.

  "Oh." She tilted her head, pouting. "I think I broke him."

  She shook his limp body a little, as if testing to see if there was anything left. When there wasn’t, she sighed and tossed him aside, letting him collapse next to his wife’s remains.

  "Well, at least they’re together now. How romantic."

  Stretching, she rolled her shoulders, feeling the last of her wounds knit themselves shut. Blood still clung to her skin and clothes, but who cared?

  "Today was fun!"

  She practically skipped back to the Quadra, humming as she hopped inside. The engine roared to life, tires screeching as she peeled out.

  "? Celebrate the good times, c’mon! ?"

  Night City blurred past her as she sped off, disappearing into the neon glow.

  Off to do God knows what.