El Coyote Cojo, located in Heywood's Glen area, wasn't hard to spot. Among the municipal buildings like City Hall, the Mayor's Office, courthouses, and NCPD headquarters, the bar stood out like a sore thumb—its rough, unpolished appearance clashing completely with its surroundings.
After parking the car on the roadside, Oliver hesitated about whether or not to put on the bulletproof vest he had bought after splitting their earnings yesterday. Having grown up in 6th Street territory and as a "forr" mber of the gang, he still felt uneasy about stepping onto Valentino turf, even though he kept saying plenty of 6th Street mbers had good private relationships with them.
Who knew if the Valentinos hanging out in this bar might decide to kill him purely because of his past ties to 6th Street?
While Oliver hesitated, Karl had already slipped on his own bulletproof vest under his clothes, wasting no ti.
Once ready, Karl glanced at Oliver, confused.
"What's the holdup? We're about to go look for an employer. Showing up without basic protection—no cyberware, no bulletproof vest—just screams unprofessional. If I were the one hiring, I'd think you were a total idiot."
Fair enough.
Oliver realized his old mindset, shaped by life in Santo Domingo, was clouding his judgnt. Back when he was just a civilian or a gang mber in 6th Street's ho turf, there wasn't much need for constant vigilance.
But now? They were rcenaries.
And as rcenaries, showing off your gear and looking competent was just as important as the work itself.
They weren't legendary edgerunners who could stroll into a fight wearing a shirt, a pistol in one hand, and nothing else but swagger. No, those guys had clients chasing them, not the other way around.
Oliver quickly put on his bulletproof vest and layered a jacket over it. He slipped his trusty revolver, New Star, into his holster. Instead of fastening it shut, he left it loose, just like in the action movies, allowing him to draw quickly while letting others see the grip and recognize the model.
Real n carry New Stars. Packs a punch, Oliver thought smugly.
Karl, anwhile, kept things simple. He holstered his Lexington, considered bringing one of the Copperhead assault rifles from the trunk, but decided against it.
They were heading to a bar, not storming a compound. Carrying a rifle would feel like asking for trouble.
With their preparations done, the pair walked into El Coyote Cojo under the curious gazes of Valentino street mbers hanging around outside.
As they stepped inside, the first thing they noticed was the dim lighting.
Unlike the streets outside, cluttered with flashy advertisents and neon signs, the bar had a minimal setup. A few dim fluorescent lights illuminated the space, and the bar counter was the only brightly lit area.
Clusters of people were scattered around, drinking and chatting.
The bartender stood behind the counter—a silver-haired, sharp-eyed woman in a leather jacket. Despite her age, she radiated an air of energy and confidence. At first glance, if not for her hair, one might not even notice her age.
"Oh, two unfamiliar faces," she said, greeting Karl and Oliver with a friendly smile.
"You're a bit early, but you're always welco. What can I get you two?"
"Mrs. Welles, bring another bottle of Blue Vodka!"
Before Karl or Oliver could respond, a voice called out from a table in the back.
A man seated there waved his hand, signaling for another drink.
"No way, Ernesto. You've already had a whole bottle today. Don't you have stuff to do later? Go sober up."
"Co on, señora, I was planning to have another drink with Jackie when he gets back!"
"Jackie won't be drinking either."
As the woman, known as Mrs. Welles, spoke with the Valentino gang mber who clearly had a love for his liquor, Karl overheard a na that felt incredibly familiar.
Jackie?
Could it be that Jackie? Jackie Welles?
If it was the Jackie Karl was thinking of, he definitely knew the guy. In the demo, Jackie had been V's loyal brother-in-arms and teammate.
It's probably just a coincidence, Karl thought.
Jackie was a pretty common na, after all.
While Karl pondered, Mrs. Welles turned back toward them.
"So, what can I get for you two, kids?"
"I'll have a bottle of Two-Brothers Lager," Oliver replied without hesitation, choosing a light beer that wouldn't interfere with work.
"Alright, one lager. And you?"
Faced with the kind and approachable gaze of Mrs. Welles, Karl scanned the nu on the bar, his eyes catching on sothing with Chinese characters.
"I'll have a sweet tea and a side of fries."
"Alright then, grab yourselves a seat. I'll bring it over in a bit," Mrs. Welles said, nodding as she turned toward the bar to start preparing their orders.
Oliver tugged Karl toward a table where they could keep an eye on the entrance.
"You co to a bar and order a non-alcoholic drink and fries? Man, I wish I could be as relaxed about this as you."
Unlike Karl, Oliver actually preferred non-alcoholic drinks but felt obligated to order beer because, well, it's a bar.
"I can share so of my fries if you want."
"Deal. I'll steal so of yours and then order my own after. Fries are my weakness."
"I'm just curious about what they're actually made of."
As long as they weren't made from bugs, Karl could handle it.
While waiting, the two scanned the room, noticing most of the patrons were just regular drinkers. A small handful of people stood out, wearing bulletproof vests or visibly enhanced with subdermal armor—rcs like them, likely waiting on work.
At least Oliver's dad was right—this bar seed like a spot to pick up jobs. But looking at the clientele, it was clear these were bottom-tier rcs, probably without any connections to fixers.
Oliver lowered his voice. "Let's be real—fixers are like rcs themselves. You've got the top-tier ones dealing in corporate-level jobs, then the ones handling local grudges and petty street cris. But to end up like these guys, without even a low-level fixer to back you up? That's rock bottom."
Completely oblivious to the fact that he and Karl were in the sa boat, Oliver went on.
"Who knows," Karl replied absentmindedly, glancing toward the bar's entrance.
Soone walking in had caught his attention—soone who looked familiar.
The man entering was a towering figure, broad enough to block out the sunlight pouring through the door. His dark braids hung down his back, his face bore the scars of obvious cyberware enhancents, and his open leather jacket revealed a chest covered in tattoos.
The guy exuded a presence that scread, Don't ss with .
It was him.
Jackie Welles.
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