Eighty attackers. Within just two seconds of combat, seven were dead. Two had gone berserk and were now attacking their own, and one had lost the use of his hands—rendered combat-ineffective.
That ant one-eighth of their force was neutralized in just the opening seconds.
Losses this steep were already brutal enough. In a different ti, under different circumstances, a group might have already begun to retreat.
Back in the days of traditional warfare, there was a widely acknowledged stat: if thirty percent of a unit fell within a short span of ti, the rest would collapse, ntally and tactically.
But by 2077, that was an outdated concept.
The Tyger Claws had juiced themselves up with stimulants and synthetic hormones before the fight even started. The sight of fallen comrades didn't trigger fear—it triggered frenzy.
Maybe so of them had been cowards before the drugs hit. But now, all that remained were mad tigers—savage beasts who wanted nothing more than to tear their enemy apart with claw and chro.
Are they hunting , or am I hunting them? Karl wondered.
With the Voodoo Boys distracted—grappling with their own frenzied allies—Karl seized the mont. As the Tyger Claws flooded back in to fill the space around him, Karl stomped down hard.
The kinetic force from his enhanced tendons exploded against the pavent, launching him forward. He dipped just under two Mantis Blades that slashed through empty air, slipping out of the center of the encirclent and toward its outer edge.
One versus many—if you got trapped in the center, no matter how fast or sharp you were, you'd eventually get hit. The key was to sow chaos.
Let the Tyger Claws' sheer numbers work against them. Obscure each other's vision. Force them to trip over their own.
As he ducked into the chaos, Karl left a little gift where he'd just been standing: a fragntation grenade.
Standard issue in Night City. Packed with explosive powder. But Karl had modded this one himself—set to detonate in 0.5 seconds, with a kill radius of two to three ters.
BOOM—
The shockwave and heat roared behind him, mostly absorbed by the bodies it shredded.
Karl loosened his grip on Ebonnight, his finger slipping off the trigger. With a flick of his middle finger, the pistol slid smoothly back into his sleeve.
He hadn't emptied the mag—there were still eight rounds left—but that wasn't the point. He needed both hands now.
The monowire activated with a soft hum, glowing bright.
Karl gripped one strand between his index and middle fingers on each hand. With explosive movent, he darted forward, tapped a foot to pivot, and spun.
SHHHNK—
A slicing whistle tore through the air as every Tyger Claw in his radius was cut in half at the exact sa height—clean, surgical.
"KK's in the middle!"
Only now—too late—did those outside the monowire's reach finally realize what had happened.
Their eyes snapped to the center, just in ti to see a small cylindrical object hit the ground and burst.
An X-22 flashbang.
Common. Cheap. Effective.
The intense light and sound smashed into their senses. Those who had turned toward the detonation point were instantly blinded and deafened.
They hadn't equipped flash-dampening optics. No shock-absorbing cochlear implants. Their expensive cyberware ant nothing now.
Their nerves spasd. So even bled from the nose and mouth, unable to handle the brutal assault.
And now, blind and deaf, they just stood there—high-end chro turned to at puppets.
SHNK—BLAM—
The slicing of flesh. Gunfire. It rang through the field.
By the ti the survivors recovered, it was too late. Those closest to the flashpoint were already corpses.
Nearly thirty had fallen.
And Karl? Gone from sight.
Then ca his voice:
"Sotis I think I could really use a weapon of mass destruction. One-on-ones are fine. Cleaning up crowds is just annoying."
From the smoke, he erged—drawing Yinglong and Kenshin from his chest rig and waist.
Left hand: Yinglong, smart SMG, auto-aim engaged.
Right hand: Kenshin, tech pistol, fully charged.
"I'll go with the fast ones."
With that, the storm began.
Yinglong let loose a forty-five-round burst. Kenshin fired twenty charged tech shots.
Sixty-five bullets in total.
The sa number as the Tyger Claws who hadn't already fallen.
Karl angled Kenshin toward the Voodoo Boys—still struggling with their deranged teammates.
Two seconds later, he lowered both weapons.
He hadn't emptied the clips.
Didn't need to.
Fire. Smoke. Blood.
Karl stood alone.
Eighty enemies. How long did it take?
Eight seconds—or ten, depending on where you started counting.
If from the first Tyger Claw's charge—ten.
If from Karl's first kill—eight.
Their performance was comparable to Arasaka's special operations.
Which ant Karl now had a baseline:
To neutralize a sixty-five-man Arasaka SpecOps unit? He'd need eight seconds.
Click.
He holstered Yinglong, slightly slower than he'd like.
If it had been Adam Smasher in his place… he might've been faster.
WHRR—
A soft hum.
Karl glanced up.
A floating AV had stopped overhead. A cara operator was pointing directly at him, eyes wide in disbelief.
Karl instantly hacked the cara feed.
Tistamp: sixty seconds ago. First audio clip: "We're reporting a multi-vehicle pile-up—"
They were here to film a street accident.
Instead, they caught this.
He hadn't noticed them before—too many thoughts clouding his battle instincts.
That needed to change.
ntal clutter could get him killed.
Karl slid Kenshin into its holster, looked up at the floating AV—and smiled.
Then he turned and walked into the narrow alley the Tyger Claws had co from.
Just in case soone was still alive in there.
Above, the journalist finally exhaled.
He gasped for air like a drowning man, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.
That was KK. No doubt.
He looked down at the gear still running in his hands.
His expression shifted—from shock, to awe, to sothing twisted. Then to elation.
He hadn't just fild it.
He'd braindanced it.
Full sensory capture.
"Holy shit," he whispered. "I've got a gabomb of a story…"
And then, giddy with greed:
"I'm gonna make a fortune selling this BD!"
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