As she neared the apartnt building, Rebecca spotted a deep navy van parked at the entrance—so dark it was almost black.
She recognized it; it belonged to a woman who lived upstairs.
The woman was quiet and rarely ca around. Though they lived close by, they’d barely spoken.
Rebecca passed the van without a thought and went straight ho.
Inside, she tossed the shotgun carelessly onto Pilar’s desk and flopped onto the sofa.
Pilar was hunched over his workstation, sparks flickering in front of him now and then.
He hadn’t bothered with cyberware legs, instead sitting in a rough, handmade wheelchair.
As he liked to say: “The best steel should go to the blade.”
“Hey, old fart! Look at my new gun—isn’t it cool?”
Kicking off her shoes, Rebecca tucked her stubby little legs under herself, pressing her hands flat on top.
She rocked back and forth like a toy top, raising her voice to make sure Pilar heard.
He leaned forward and grabbed the shotgun—so heavy it nearly pulled him off balance.
“A custom model? No wonder it weighs a ton.”
He steadied himself and dragged it closer.
“Brand new, hardly a scratch on it, and the tal’s been kept up nicely.”
With one look, Pilar already had the weapon figured out. For a seasoned Gunsmith, it was child’s play.
“It can handle magnum buckshot or explosive slugs. If you can live with the recoil, it’s actually a solid piece.”
In this age, designing kinetic weapons wasn’t about complexity—it was about materials.
The blueprints were simple, but choosing the right alloys and fine-tuning the chanics made all the difference.
The Carnage had never been a successful design. Built from cheap materials, it chased firepower its fra couldn’t withstand.
Plenty of unlucky fools had been blown apart by their own guns.
Premium aerospace-grade alloys were far too expensive for mass-market weapons. Only a few hundred commorative models had ever used them.
And even then, the flawed design ant its recoil always punished the user.
“So, you want to rework it? Or just show it off?”
Pilar fiddled with the gun using his odd cyberware hand before setting it down and glancing at Rebecca.
“Not enough bullets, and crank up the power!”
She acted like recoil didn’t even exist—ready to shoulder a tank cannon if she could.
“Hah! Hope your new cyberware can take it, little sis.”
As he chuckled, sparks flared at his bench again.
...
The next day, when Arthur showed up, Rebecca’s gun had been repainted a bright green with pink swirls curling across it.
She lifted it high over her head and grinned at him.
“What do you think of the new paint job?”
“Looks like a toy. But it suits you.”
Arthur shrugged.
“Let’s go. The Gig’s tonight—and it’ll be right up your alley.”
He didn’t even bother with his rifle, carrying only the revolver at his waist and a small dagger.
Clouds, Night City’s grandest den of indulgence, crowned the gabuilding H8—shining like a beacon across the city.
When night fell, people poured out their month’s wages for one unforgettable evening.
The elevator carried them up, and the silver doors slid open onto a space drenched in sultry purple light.
Like a woman’s painted nails teasing at your heart.
It was a far cry from the rancid, stinking saloons of the old West.
Arthur stepped inside and called Wakako.
In the shadows, she had already arranged everything.
“I’m here, Wakako. What now—wait at the front desk?”
Even as he spoke, the receptionist approached, lips gleaming as they parted.
“Welco to Clouds. Your custom paradise awaits.”
Her blue hair was tied into twin buns, exposing the curve of her neck.
“We’re not here to spend!”
Rebecca could barely see over the counter, standing on tiptoe to peer across it.
The receptionist looked puzzled, but only for a mont, before slipping quickly through the mysterious door in back.
Wakako’s voice ca through Arthur’s comms.
“Almost ready. The girls will be out soon.”
Then she cut the line.
“Arthur, what are we doing here? Tyger Claws causing trouble again?”
Rebecca tilted her head and slamd Iron Guts down on the counter with a loud clang.
“You already figured it out. Our little kitties have one rotten reputation.”
Arthur’s eyes wandered into the dark space of Clouds.
“Soon your new toy will get a chance to roar.
Once the girls are out, anything that moves is fair ga.”
Before long, the workers inside gathered and stread out in a crowd.
They didn’t spare Arthur and Rebecca a glance, filing neatly into the elevator.
Arthur frowned, baffled—especially by the strangely dressed n among them.
Tight suits, sequined heads, and long, curled lashes.
He didn’t know them, but he sure felt like punching one.
“What the hell? Everyone’s clearing out—don’t the Tyger Claw guards care?”
Arthur forced himself to relax his fists and let it go.
“How should I know?”
Rebecca rested her chin on her arms atop the counter, answering flatly.
The evacuation was fast, and soon silence settled back in.
Then, a burly man ca barreling out of the dark void.
A ssage flashed across Arthur’s neural link—from Wakako.
“Go, Arthur.”
Clouds was still in pre-opening prep. No custors inside.
Arthur drew the small dagger from his hip, a blade matched to his cyberware body.
He tossed it once, catching it in his right hand.
“What the hell’s going on? Where are those bitches?”
The man barely steadied himself before shouting.
His answer ca as a spinning black Throwing Knife.
It slamd into his forehead, only the handle left sticking out.
Arthur nodded in satisfaction. The blade was keen, his aim steady—his old skills hadn’t dulled.
When the fight was over, Rebecca finally scooped up Iron Guts again.
She shot Arthur an irritated look—he’d stolen her chance to fire.
Arthur flicked his fingers, and the dagger embedded in the man’s skull trembled before flying back into his hand.
Within fifteen ters, the dagger interacted with the twin gravity fields of his Gravity Bone.
Not enough for true telekinetic control.
But pulling it back from a distance, or accelerating it mid-throw—that was easy.
Rebecca wasn’t impressed.
Electromagnetic knives could manage sothing similar, though nowhere near as stable.
Arthur turned the blade in his hand, feeling the strange bond it shared with his body.
It deserved a na.
But what?
He raised it before him.
A jet-black, double-edged blade, slim and streamlined, almost elegant.
Where the edges narrowed toward the hilt, a curve caught his eye.
The na ca to him.
He would call it... Swallow.
...
(70 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser
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