Cyberpunk: 2075

"You're here."

"I'm here."

Carl thought about throwing in a dramatic line like, "You shouldn't have come."—but his corporate employer probably wouldn't get the reference.

So, after a simple greeting, he shut up.

It was the second time meeting this corpo, and unlike their first rushed encounter, Carl now had more time to actually observe her.

During their first meeting, she was wearing makeup, looking quite attractive, but Carl was too distracted by the promise of 100,000 eddies to actually pay attention to her face.

Now, upon closer inspection—

She looked around twenty-three or twenty-four.

Sharp brows, deep-set eyes, short black hair, dark irises.

Her skin tone leaned toward a darker shade, and her facial structure had distinct Southern European features—most likely Spanish or Italian, what people would generally call a Latina face.

Carl wasn't exactly an expert in distinguishing between white folks, but he could at least categorize ethnic traits when he saw them.

Not that it was anything surprising in Night City.

America was already a melting pot, and Night City?

It was the ultimate fusion point of every possible ethnic group on the West Coast.

Hell, seeing a Latina corpo in a black jacket was nothing compared to running into a self-proclaimed Mohican descendant rocking a full traditional warhawk haircut—a style that had actually become mainstream again.

Blanca—because that was probably her name—seemed to be waiting for someone.

Even after Carl arrived, she wasn't in a hurry to leave.

She stood there at the entrance of Wordless Motel, blending in just enough to not attract too much attention.

Without her makeup and a corpo suit, she looked like just another woman in a black jacket—albeit a pretty one.

Carl, on the other hand, stood out a lot more.

His mercenary getup and overall presence made him draw more attention, especially from women passing by.

A few even seemed interested, but the moment they noticed Blanca standing next to him, most of them backed off.

Those who didn't retreat immediately changed their minds once they caught a glimpse of Blanca's cold, piercing gaze.

Carl and Blanca stood there in silence for a while.

Then, as if she was bored—or maybe she just wanted her bodyguard to know what to call her—she finally spoke:

"My name is Blanca. You'll call me that during this job."

Blanca.

A common Spanish name, meaning "white" or "pure".

Carl immediately thought of Blanche of Castile, the French Queen from the 13th century.

But looking at Blanca in her all-black outfit, the meaning of her name felt completely ironic.

"For this job, you just need to focus on protecting me. See nothing, say nothing. You are not involved in the details. Even if you hear something, forget it.

Can you do that?"

Carl nodded silently, playing the role of a quiet, disciplined mercenary.

He wasn't Oliver—he didn't talk that much anyway.

Carl chose to stay silent, but his employer wouldn't shut up.

Her feet shifted restlessly against the pavement, almost like she was trying to calm herself down.

"There should be about ten of them on the other side. If negotiations fail, I'll run my fingers through my hair. When you see that signal, put a bullet in the one I'm talking to and cover my escape. Got it?"

"Got it."

Carl memorized the details instantly.

Ten enemies.Kill target when she gives the signal.Protect NPC (Employer).Payout: 50,000 eddies.

Simple.

Carl didn't bother asking why a corporate agent like Blanca had to handle negotiations alone or why she needed to hire mercs like him for protection.

That stuff didn't matter.

Whether she couldn't trust her own people or this was strictly personal and had nothing to do with her company, it made no difference to him.

All Carl cared about was:

How many enemies?Can he kill them?How much does he get paid?

With those three things clear, Carl figured—yeah, he could do this job.

…And, well, one more detail:

Where the hell were these enemies?

Blanca looked at Carl's calm, unbothered expression, as if he wasn't even remotely concerned about ten possible hostiles.

She was about to add a few more instructions when—

A black "Thorton Hera EC-D I360" rolled up in front of them, stopping at the curb.

[Thorton Hera EC-D I360]

The first model in the Hera lineup—so durable, cheap, and easy to repair that its manufacturer, Thorton, nearly went bankrupt because of it.

The corporate board learned a hard lesson from this mistake:

"Yes, quality matters—but not TOO much."

Originally released in 2023, the Hera was outdated as hell in 2075.

But people still loved modding it, and its sturdy build meant you could still see it roaming Night City's streets.

Like Oliver's Thorton Quartz EC-L R275, this was a working-class car—the kind middle-class nobodies and low-tier mercs drove.

Cheap. Reliable. Built to last.

Carl and Blanca watched as the back door opened, revealing an empty seat, like an invitation to get in.

Carl noticed Blanca's breathing shift slightly—a tiny change, but he caught it.

This was their ride.

Fine.

At least it wasn't a cramped two-seater.

Carl had suffered enough squeezing into Oliver's ride with Jack's massive ass next to him.

Ever since Jack upgraded his cyberware, sitting together had become even more unbearable.

Blanca walked towards the car.

Carl followed immediately, keeping close as they got in.

And the moment he sat down—

The driver turned around.

A bald, chrome-skinned head swiveled toward him, glowing red lights flickering in a grotesque mechanical rhythm.

Carl counted.

Eight fucking cyber-eyes.

He sighed internally.

Of course.

Maelstrom.

Who else but these lunatics would turn their own faces into full-metal horror shows?

Carl was so goddamn sick of killing these chromed-up psychos.

Couldn't Night City switch things up a little?

Maybe throw in some Tyger Claws or Animals for variety?

…No?

Fine.

The Maelstrom driver finished scanning their identities, then turned back around and started the car.

The Hera rolled off, heading north—straight toward the Watson Industrial Zone.

Right into Maelstrom's main turf.

Carl glanced at Blanca.

So—

Her problems with Maelstrom weren't just about the stolen blackmail material, huh?

Looked like she had more skeletons in that chrome-plated closet.