12:20 PM | Gear‑Up in the Engineering Bay
Rebecca is still starfished on my couch, snoring like a chainsaw. I tuck a blanket over her—can't leave a pocket‑rocket to freeze—then pull the Padre shard up on a holo‑projector.
Target: Maelstrom warehouse, Northside docks.
Sin counter: eight monks forced into chrome "enlightenment."
Headcount: fifteen gonk gangers, two drones, one prototype flathead.
I tap the team comm. "Jackie, Falco—last‑minute gig. You in?"
Jackie (between reps): "Always, hermano." (Falco later complains Jackie's breath smells like whey protein and victory.) What's the play?" A clang in the background—he's apparently bench‑pressing the new max; every day he adds another plate to test the dermal tendons I installed.
Falco: "I'm five blocks from Heywood picking up refuel—happy to swing past Jackie's garage and scoop el musculoso."
Jackie (breathing hard): "Perfect. Saves me changing shirts twice."
I fire them the shard. "Northside docks. Fifteen Maelstrom, two drones, flathead. Eight monks in chrome collars. We breach, you two handle evac. Same material‑cost split."
Jackie: "Big red chrome freaks for breakfast—my macros are on point."
Falco: "Four Excelsior cabs in tow, autopilots synced. Jackie rides shotgun—literally—whether he likes the upholstery or not."
"Clock's ticking. See you at the docks."
Maelstrom aren't going to delete themselves," I mutter, sliding a fresh mag into my Malorian Arms 3516. Warlock hums in the lift, eager—but I hesitate. Private wheels or let Delamain chauffeur? The AI pings me a route suggestion and instantly nags about insurance. "Just like my wife," I grumble. "Do one thing for you and suddenly it's upgrade this, upgrade that." Warlock wins; I drive.
Delamain pings again: "Reminder: technical interview pending."
"First I save monks; then I debug taxis," I reply.
12:40 PM | On the Road
Warlock chews asphalt—smog hazing the horizon. I sync the dash to Delamain for nav assist. "Good afternoon, valued client. Current weather: 22 °C, smog index 'crispy.'"
"Smells like burnt sushi," I mutter.
"Culinary rating noted," Delamain replies. "Would you like mood music?"
"Play 'Calm Your Circuits.'" The AI mistakenly blares bubble‑gum K‑pop until I bark "lo‑fi!"—then the beats chill. I thumb the comms.
Jackie & Falco roll two klicks back in a convoy of four Excelsior cabs—evac shuttles if things go sideways.
"Chrome Angels en‑route," Jackie reports. "Got a shotgun and a smile."
I chuckle. "Save the smile for the monks."
13:05 PM | Docks Recon
Warlock noses behind ferro crates. Four Delamain cabs slide in—Falco at point, Jackie leaning out a window, Malorian handgun resting on the door.
Open‑com chatter crackles:
Jackie: "We breach the loading dock, tossing flash‑bangs—classic!"Falco: "Wrong. We use the cabs as decoys. I ram the north gate, you scoop the monks."Jackie: "And dent the rides? No thanks, maestro."Falco: "Better than denting your face, Valentino."
They bicker for a solid ten seconds about door angles, ammo types, and whose mom makes better birria.
"Enough," I cut in. "I've written the playbook—just read the cheat sheet."
Opti‑camo cloak flickers; HUD tags three rooftop lookouts.
Plan (final):
Breach south wall—Jackie & Falco evac monks with the undented cabs.Leave the rest to me.
I grin under the mask. * Chrome Angels, first official rescue. Halo time.
13:06 PM | Breach & Clear
Sandevistan spools—time syrup‑thick. I ghost through corrugated steel like it's wet cardboard and fan the Malorian.
Shot ledger (0.20 sec):
Round 1: left flank—one AP slug zips clean through five gangers lined up like kebab, all drop.Round 2: right flank—same trick, five more kebab'd chromeheads—apparently they were mid staff‑meeting; hope I didn't interrupt anything important.Rounds 3‑4: two aerial drones—center‑mass pops, shrapnel rains like confetti.Rounds 5‑9: five scattered Maelstrom—not so considerate. They didn't even hear the first four shots, so no cover required.Quick‑hack: prototype flathead gets a friendly firmware lobotomy—now it thinks I'm Employee of the Month.
One round to spare—good thing, ammo inflation's brutal.
Smoke clears; monks whimper in stun‑cuffs. Jackie bulldozes through the breach, Falco hustling monks toward the Excelsior cabs.
Falco whistles at the carnage—headless chrome everywhere. "That's not usually how rescues look, hermano."
Jackie scoffs, shouldering his shotgun. "Next time I'm the bullet‑sponge tank—let you save ammo."
I clap his shoulder. "Only after I install that dermal‑weave skin I promised. Buff up first, hermano—chrome's lighter than love‑handles."
Jackie rolls his eyes. "Protein shakes before pain‑proof paint. Got it.""
I shrug. "Monks are intact, Maelstrom are recyclable. Padre's coordinates uploaded—cabs already autopiloting them to safety."
Falco watches the last cab pull away. "Can't believe we're using luxury taxis as med‑evacs."
"Maelstrom aren't going to off themselves," I reply, holstering the smoking Malorian. "Self‑delete complete—courtesy of Chrome Angels."