The quiet, a rare and heavy blanket in Night City, had finally lifted. Minutes had passed since the communal act of remembrance for Maria Santiago Welles. Mama Welles, her spine a rod of steel despite her years, had effortlessly quelled the load ass mercs, her icy gaze a far more effective deterrent than any chrome. Slowly, the El Coyote Cojo exhaled, settling back into its familiar, load rhythm, the murmur of conversations, the clink of glasses, the guttural thrum of synth music from a distant datapad. It was the only way to escape Night City's relentless grind, its perpetual dangers, and its soul crushing depression. By drowning it out in laughter, drink, and the shared warmth of a community.
Tina, the young bartender, slid a frosted NiCola across the polished surface of the bar towards Teo, the condensation a cool ring on the dark wood. From the kitchen, the tantalizing aroma of Mama Welles' famous Barbacoa de Synthcarne began to waft. Slow roasted artificial meat, infused with real, pungent spices, served in hand pressed tortillas, it was Teo's favorite, a taste of home in a city that constantly threatened to swallow it whole. And those spiced fries… dang, those were good.
He took a slow sip of the sickeningly sweet NiCola, its effervescence doing little to cut through the bitter knot in his stomach. His gaze drifted over the bustling bar, past the familiar faces, the shadowy figures, the glint of chrome. His grief was a dull ache, but the gnawing anxiety for his future was a sharper, more immediate pain. 'Alright, time to plan,' he thought, his laid-back exterior a thin mask over a furiously calculating mind.
He pulled a worn datapad from his jacket, its cracked screen flickering to life, and began to write, his stylus scratching almost silently against the digital surface. At the very top, in bold, stark lettering, he etched.
TEO'S PLAN TO GET RICH
1. Secure New Base of Operations. His old apartment. Every cracked pane of glass, every stained tile, every faded photo on the wall screamed of his mother. It was suffocating. He needed out, needed a fresh start, a space that didn't echo with ghosts. Maybe Mama Welles would let him use the spare rooms in the Coyote's basement. It wasn't much, but it was safe, familiar, and he could set up his rig there. His own space. His own shop.
2. Acquire Lucrative Gigs (Full time Merc). He'd recently decided. No more small time data runs for Padre, no more nickel and dime scams. He needed serious eddies, fast. And with his netrunning skills, he could find high paying gigs, maybe even join a merc team. He was good, damn good. He'd taught himself, scavenged old shards, patched together archaic code, and picked the brains of every down and out netrunner who wandered into the Coyote. He'd started young, barely a choom, running simple perimeter hacks and data intercepts for the Valentinos, quickly becoming their go to plug, their resident digital infiltrator for Heywood's underworld. Now, he needed to leverage that. Padre might have a good gig, something that could get his name out there, something that wasn't just "Jackie's little cousin who's good at hacking."
3. Cyberware Upgrades. His current gear was just that, current. Functional, but not future proof. He already had the Militech Paraline OS, a reliable enough cyberdeck for local networks and basic quickhacks like Pings, Contagions, and Short Circuits. It let him breach protocols and run simple daemons, reliable for gang ops, but it lacked the raw processing power and advanced features of corporate or legendary decks. It was enough for Heywood, but Heywood was about to be too small. His Subdermal Data Port, discreetly located behind his ear, was fine – that physical jack was always going to be the conduit. His Basic Biomonitor, the one everyone had, just kept his vitals in check. And his Kiroshi Optics, though essential for scanning and low light vision, were also standard grade. He needed better, sharper, faster. He needed chrome that wouldn't hold him back.
4. A Gun. Nothing more, nothing less. Just… a gun. His mother's death had hammered home the brutal truth. In Night City, you lived by the chrome, or you died by the bullet. And he wasn't about to die.
He leaned back, the old barstool creaking under his weight, and cracked his neck, the soft pop audible even over the din. Then, the smell hit him, rich and savory, the Barbacoa. Mama Welles emerged from the kitchen, a steaming plate of spiced synthcarne and a basket of golden fries in her hands. She placed them before Teo, her eyes softening. "Here, mijo, eat up." And he was happy again.
"Gracias, Tía," Teo replied, his voice still a little hoarse.
Just then, a heavy hand landed on his left shoulder, and a substantial mass settled onto the stool next to him. "Ooh, mano, what we got here?" Jackie Welles bellowed, before promptly plunging his big, grubby fingers into Teo's basket of fries.
"Jack! Get your hand out of his food!" Mama Welles scolded, her voice sharp despite the underlying affection. Jackie's hand zipped back as if burned, though not before he'd managed to snag a handful, stuffing them into his mouth with a wide, unapologetic grin.
"Haha, sorry, Mama! I'm hungry!"
Teo couldn't help but smile, a genuine, if fleeting, expression of warmth. But then Jackie's gaze dropped, noticing the datapad Teo had instinctively slid to the side. He picked it up, his brow furrowing as he read the stark bullet points.
"Ey, what's this, Teo?" Jackie's voice dropped, the easy humor gone, replaced by a sudden, jarring seriousness.
Uh oh. Teo's stomach tightened. He hated serious Jackie. Go back! Forget what you read! He forced a strained chuckle. "Ah ha, Jack, look, I'm just trying to plan my future out, you know?" His sweat gland implants seemed to prickle, despite his calm exterior.
Jackie's expression hardened. "Mano, I don't like you doing small hacking gigs for Padre. That's enough as is. You can't be serious... you want to be a full time merc now?" Concern, raw and unfiltered, was etched across his face, the golden glow of his optics unwavering. Jackie had always been like an older brother, a protector. Now, that protective instinct was flaring.
"Jack, I know," Teo said, his voice gaining an unshakeable conviction. He looked Jackie dead in the eye, emerald green clashing with golden cyber optics. "But look. I need to start making serious money, and you know one of my greatest skills is netrunning. Being a merc could make me serious eddies. I know the risks, Jack. I know mercs most of the time flatline before their first year." His voice dropped, thick with a desperation Jackie hadn't seen before. "But I need to make a name for myself, Jack. No, I have to. I can't be Jackie Welles's little cousin anymore. Not now." The words were a defiant roar in his soul, echoing the suffocating silence of his empty apartment. For the first time, Jackie saw the raw, uncompromising resolve of a desperate orphan, a glimpse of the man Teo was forcing himself to become.
Jackie sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation of defeat. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Haa... fine, mano," he conceded, the resignation heavy in his voice. "But first... Mama needs to know."
"Oh, I've been here the entire time, Mijos," Mama Welles' voice cut in from behind them, startling Jackie so badly he nearly jumped off his stool.
"Ah! Mama!" Jackie blurted, momentarily forgetting his earlier attempt at discretion, "Teo's trying to be a merc!"
Mama Welles gave Jackie a withering look before turning to Teo, her eyes still holding a profound sadness from their earlier moments at the Columbarium, but also a fierce pride. "I know, Jack." She reached out, her hand briefly caressing Teo's cheek. "I can't say no to you, Teo. I want you to chase your dreams. That's what she would have wanted, my Maria. That's what she wanted for you." She looked down at his plate. "Now, eat! Don't let your food get cold."
Teo straightened up, a surge of adrenaline mixing with the comforting warmth of her words. He picked up his fork and began to devour the Barbacoa, each bite a making him happier and happier.
After devouring his food, the plate scraped clean, Jackie stood up. He gestured towards Teo with a silent nod. "Come on, mano. If you wanna be a merc, you're gonna need something." He headed toward the backdoor they had entered through, the one leading to the alley behind the Coyote.
Teo quickly wiped his mouth with a napkin, then turned to Mama Welles. "Gracias, Tía. I'll be back tomorrow."
She gave him a soft, knowing look. "Mmh. Bye, mijo. Love you."
"Love you too, Tia," Teo murmured back, already following Jackie out the door.
They hadn't walked far, just a few hundred feet down a grime slicked alleyway. The air was thick with the scent of overflowing dumpsters and stale synth booze. They passed a corporate drone, his expensive suit already rumpled, getting mugged for his eddies against a graffiti scarred wall. 'Lucky Jack's here,' Teo thought, a cold observation. 'Nobody usually messes with him.' Most people learned quickly not to cross the Valentinos, especially not one of their prominent gajos or used to be. Jack became a merc a couple years back.
They came to a stop outside a reinforced steel garage door, easily recognizable as Jackie's place, the smell of grease and burnt synth oil already permeating the air. Teo had spent countless hours here, listening to Jackie tinker, sharing NiCola, and watching him modify his tech. Jackie's optics flickered, sending a signal to the door's internal system. With a groan of hydraulics, it rolled upwards, revealing his Jackies baby. Jackie's custom built Arch Nazare motorcycle, sleek and menacing under the dim workshop lights. "Hello, beautiful," Jackie murmured to the bike, a reverence in his tone.
He moved to his workbench in the corner, a chaotic shrine of tools, wires, and spare parts. From an upper shelf, he retrieved a nondescript box, then reached inside, pulling out a handgun. He gestured for Teo to approach.
As Teo stepped closer, his Kiroshi Optics already engaging, scanning the weapon, his mind registered the cold, hard reality of the gun in Jackie's hand. A gun. Well, he could check off number four now.
Jackie looked at him, his face serious again. "Here, take my extra. You'll need it if you're gonna start taking in-person gigs."
Teo took the weapon, its weight surprisingly solid in his palm. His Kiroshis completed their scan, overlaying data directly into his vision:
Dian Precision Arms LexingtonCompact, semi automatic pistol. Manufactured by Dian Precision Arms, a mid-tier firearms company known for blending reliability with cutting-edge tech. While not the flashiest or deadliest gun on the market, the Lexington has earned a solid reputation among street level mercs, NCPD, bodyguards, and corporate security for its balance of accuracy, ease of use, and decent stopping power.
"You know how to use that, right?" Jackie asked, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
Teo nodded, turning the Lexington over in his hand, feeling the balance of it. "Lexington, huh? Yeah. I've watched enough BDs of people using these. I can operate it." The words felt hollow, but true enough. Operating it was one thing, surviving with it though, that was another.
"I'm heading back to the Coyote. You coming?" Jackie asked, already turning back to his bike.
Teo looked up at Jackie, the weight of the gun heavy in his palm, the future suddenly pressing down on him. "Nah, exhausted. I'm gonna head home." He paused, remembering something crucial. "By the way, I forgot to ask Tía if I could move into the spare rooms in the Coyote basement. I need to move out of the Glenview complex. It's... suffocating."
Jackie nodded, his face softening. "Mhh, Mama and I talked about that as well. It's a good idea. You'd be closer to us, keep you out of trouble," he added, a playful wink easing the tension. "I'll bring Mama's car, and I'll be at your complex in the morning to help you move."
Teo nodded, a rare sense of relief washing over him. He tucked the Lexington into the waistband of his oversized jeans, feeling the cold steel press against his skin, a new, heavy comfort. Turning around, he started to walk towards the open garage door, heading back into the neon scarred night.
Just as he was about to exit, Jackie's voice cut through the hum of the garage. "Teo! I'll always be here for you, mano! I love you, kid! See you tomorrow!"
Teo turned, a faint smile touching his lips. "Love you too, Jack!" he called back, before stepping out into the grimy expanse of Night City's streets.
His complex wasn't far from the Coyote, a mere ten minute walk, maybe less. But in Heywood, ten minutes could be an eternity. Every shadow held a threat, every darkened alley a potential ambush. As he walked, he passed another robbery in progress, the victim's screams quickly muffled by a glint of chrome. Further down, a flickering NCPD scene, ribbons of yellow tape fluttering uselessly in the artificial breeze, marking another forgotten life. And then, as he glanced down a particularly foul-smelling alley, a sight that made his skin crawl. A scavenger, their face hidden behind a grimy filter mask, hunched over a fresh corpse, methodically picking cyberware from its still warm flesh. Anger, hot and acidic, slowly bubbled in Teo's gut. "Fucking scavs," he muttered, the words a low growl. The omnipresent holographic advertisements screamed for products he couldn't afford, for lives he couldn't live, their bright colors a stark contrast to the despair on the streets. Above it all, the ever present hum of Night City, a mechanical heartbeat that never stopped.
Upon arriving at his building, "The Glenview Heights Apartments," a giant, flickering hologram sign announced its name to the indifferent night. It was a run down monolith, a concrete skeleton for the lower middle class, where rent varied wildly depending on the floor, a cruel joke of corporate efficiency. Automated washing machines, vending machines, and other essential services were all locked behind corporate paywalls. He pushed through the dirty lobby, the air thick with stale synth smoke and poverty, and stepped into the large, caged elevator. The screen inside, scarred with graffiti and sticky residue, barely registered his touch as he pressed "6th floor." The ascent was slow, the metal groaning, creaking like a dying beast, the ride filled with the suffocating silence of his impending solitude.
He stalked towards his door, the hallway lights flickering intermittently. On the upper half of his door, a small screen glowed an angry, pulsating red, displaying in bold, damning text: 'RENT DUE.' He sighed, a tired, defeated sound. He slipped his hand to the neuro port behind his ear, his fingers finding the familiar, cool metal, and jacked into his OS. Glancing at his balance, the digits flickered, 1732 eddies. His rent, even on the lower end for this dump, was 1500. He sighed again, a fresh wave of frustration washing over him. "I just got fucking paid, and I'm about to move out, fuck," he muttered, rubbing his temples. With a tap, he paid the full amount. The screen on his door immediately went black, then flashed green, emitting a triumphant, digital 'CHA-CHING!' before the lock clicked open with a defeated hiss.
As he stepped in, the silence hit him. It was a physical thing, thick and oppressive, filling every corner of the small apartment. Suffocating. He stood there for a second, letting the quiet wash over him, then took a deep, shuddering breath before walking into the small, cramped bathroom. He grabbed his toothbrush, the plastic cool against his fingers, and looked into the mirror.
His reflection stared back. The sharp, striking features of his face, the dark, warm skin tone hinting at his Chicano heritage, were highlighted by the harsh fluorescent light. His vivid green eyes, stark against the dark red of his hair, held a haunted, determined glint. On each earlobe, small, unassuming gold hoops glinted. But it was the subtle chrome that drew the eye, a faint, elegant gold line of integrated cyberware that traced a delicate path from just beneath his left eye, across the bridge of his nose, and then continued under his right eye, a quiet, almost decorative piece that hinted at his connection to the digital world. He wore a simple, white tank top or a, ahem, a 'wife-beater' as some called it, which clung to his lean, agile build, showcasing the underlying musculature that spoke of street life and physical readiness, rather than bulky chrome. His oversized black jeans hung low, paired with pristine white low top shoes, a classic street uniform that somehow always looked sharp.
After brushing his teeth, the mundane act a hollow comfort, he stepped into the shower. The warm water hit his skin, streaming down his face, washing away the grime of Night City, but doing little to cleanse the ache in his soul. He leaned his head back, letting the spray pelt his face, hoping it would wash away the tears that threatened to fall. He let the water run over his bare chest, tracing the phantom outline of his mother's comforting hands. His eyes closed, the water a merciful blur against his eyelids. He tried to think of nothing, of the water, of the steam, of the simple warmth. But her face, smiling, then grim, then gone, swam behind his closed lids. The metallic container, cold and impersonal, was all that was left. He squeezed his eyes tighter, a silent scream building in his throat. The water was his only witness. He stood there for a long time, the steam filling the small space, until the hot water turned cool, mimicking the world outside.
Finally, drying off, he pulled on a pair of simple boxers, the worn fabric familiar against his skin. He walked to his bed, the silence of the apartment now deafening, and simply flopped down. Sleep, heavy and black, was the only escape left. It overtook him quickly, a merciful oblivion.
A/N: alr now we get to some gig shi.