Cyberpunk: 2075

"Fing 6th Street! Motherf**!"

After a long string of expletives directed at the person on the other end of the line, Maelstrom lieutenant Daemon hung up the call.

She hadn't been this pissed off in a long time, but she had every reason to be.

Yesterday, her younger brother died.

He was killed on their own turf, in Watson, right in broad daylight. Some 6th Street punk put a bullet in his skull, and not even the pile of cyberware stacked onto his face could save him. The bullet threaded the gap between his facial plating and the back of his head, slipping through the weakest part of his cybernetic frame and blowing his skull apart—splitting his face clean in half from front to back.

And by the time NCPD half-assed their way through the paperwork and informed her, the backplate of his skull was already gone—stolen, scavenged.

All they returned to her was a mangled mess that barely resembled her brother's face.

Daemon didn't get her name for having a great temperament. She was already rallying her crew to tear 6th Street a new one when she got another call from the higher-ups.

They told her to stand down.

Lay low.

"Don't cause trouble."

Stand down? Stand down!?

Easy for them to say—it wasn't their f***ing brother who got his head split in half.

So what, if their brother died, they'd just "stay calm" and "control themselves"?

F* that.**

She'd already dug up the details. The only 6th Street goon who made it out alive was some guy named Oliver. And, conveniently, he got kicked out of the gang.

Which meant there wouldn't be any gang politics keeping her from gutting him.

"You should've just stuck with me, idiot… I told you not to run off, but you just had to go and prove yourself. Now what? You proved s**t. And I don't even know where to put your goddamn face."

Daemon and her brother had been on their own since childhood. Their father was long gone, and their mother barely scraped by before getting worked to death in a corpo factory.

They only survived because they had each other.

Daemon got lucky. She caught Brick's attention early and got into Maelstrom, earning enough to support them both. Even though her face got loaded up with cyberware, she didn't care—at least they weren't starving. Eventually, she climbed high enough in the ranks to get some real authority.

Her little brother? She didn't want him in Maelstrom.

She wanted him to get an education, live a real f*ing life.**

But he insisted.

He wanted to help. Wanted to prove himself.

She couldn't stop him, so she let him join. He even tried to be independent—put together his own little crew.

And now?

Now, he was dead.

If she had forced him to stay under her wing, maybe things would have turned out differently.

But regret didn't matter anymore.

She only cared about payback.

Even if it meant going full cyberpsycho, Oliver was going to the grave with her brother.

Just as she was about to call her crew together, her door slammed open.

One of her guys burst in, face pale.

"Boss! We got three f***ers inside—we can't hold them off much longer!"

Three?

Daemon frowned.

They were holed up in an old factory, with over twenty guys on site.

And they were losing to three people?

"Who the f*** thinks they can pull this s**t on me?"

She grabbed her Crusher shotgun, single-handedly hefting the Militech-made beast.

This was perfect.

Once she turned these pricks into red mist, she'd have an excuse to march straight to 6th Street and tear them apart next.

But she wasn't stupid.

Daemon wasn't just going to rush out like some brain-dead gonk. She told her panicked lackey to rally the others, then stepped over to the security monitors.

She hadn't checked the feeds earlier since she was on the phone.

But when her eyes landed on one of the screens…

She froze.

On the screen, a young man with blond hair and a small mustache appeared.

Daemon's six cybernetic eyes flashed erratically as her emotions spiked.

That bastard. That f*ing bastard!**

She recognized him. She could never forget him.

She had stared at his face all night. Read his file over and over again.

Oliver.

The only 6th Street member who walked away alive. The bastard who killed her brother.

He came to me first?

Daemon nearly laughed.

She hadn't even gone looking for him yet, and now he walked straight into her hands.

Perfect.

She wouldn't even have to waste time hunting him down.

Without bothering to check any of the other cameras, Daemon bolted for the door, heading straight for Oliver's position.

She was going to rip him apart.

Completely unaware that he had already been marked for death, Oliver was huddled behind cover, occasionally peeking out just enough to fire off a few shots with his Copperhead assault rifle.

The Maelstrom gunners inside the factory were nothing like the ones from before. These guys were better armed, better trained, and better positioned.

They had endless suppressing fire.

Oliver barely had time to aim before bullets forced him back behind cover.

"KK! Do something! If they keep pushing us back, we'll be right in the blast zone for their frags. We're gonna get shredded!"

He yelled over to Karl, cursing himself for ever listening to his reckless "let's just charge in" plan.

Who the f*** thought it was a good idea to brute force their way into a gang hideout?

These guys had unlimited ammo, entrenched positions, and every advantage.

"Relax."

Karl sounded way too calm.

Which meant he had a plan.

"I've already mapped out the Copperhead's stats."

He had fired four shots.

That was all he needed to understand the gun completely.

Now, he just needed…

"Jack, give me an opening!"

"On it!"

Without hesitation, Jack did something completely insane.

He charged.

Right out of cover.

Right into the open.

Right into a storm of gunfire.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind!?"

Oliver watched in horror as every single Maelstrom gunner immediately switched targets.

Bullets screamed past Jack, barely missing him.

But not all of them missed.

Two rounds punched through his arm and thigh.

"Karl, now!"

"Jack, you're f***ing crazy!"

Karl rose from cover, Copperhead locked and loaded.

His sights snapped onto seven Maelstrom goons.

Fourteen rounds left.

More than enough.