The elevator rattled as it climbed, its flickering neon light painting the walls with dull red. Inside stood Neo, Rebecca, Jackie, and David—four figures poised between calm and chaos.
Jackie leaned an elbow on the rail, his usual smirk hiding a rare seriousness. "Listen, kid," he said, patting David's shoulder. "You're young, hot-blooded. That's fine on the streets, but not here. This is Maelstrom turf. You lose your temper, we're all chrome scrap."
David nodded. "Got it, Jackie. I'll follow your lead—and Mr. Neo's. You say move, I move. You say stay, I stay."
Jackie gave a short laugh, then leaned closer, dropping his voice. "And whatever you do, don't follow Rebecca's lead. That girl's got a fuse shorter than a shotgun shell."
Rebecca crossed her arms, pretending not to hear—but her eyebrow twitched.
The elevator dinged open on the third floor, a hiss of metal and gun oil flooding the air.
Waiting for them was Dum Dum, Maelstrom's half-chrome lieutenant, gun already raised. His cyber-eyes glowed a sick red. "So you're the ones who wanted to talk business, huh? Which of you's the boss?"
Neo took a step forward. "I am."
Dum Dum's gaze swept over him—his plain clothes, his unmodified body, his calm eyes. Then he laughed, ugly and metallic. "You? No chrome, no plugs, no steel. You walk in here flesh only and wanna do business with Maelstrom? That's rich."
Neo didn't blink. "I'm here to see Royce."
"Royce ain't around," Dum Dum replied. "You talk to me."
Neo smiled faintly. He knew Royce was here—but there was no harm in letting this clown talk first. "Your crew jacked a Militech convoy a few days ago. One of the crates had something I want. MTOD-12—Flathead."
Dum Dum tilted his head, eyeing Neo's team again: Rebecca lounging with a lazy smirk, Jackie's frame tense but unreadable, David quiet and sharp-eyed. None of them looked like a threat.
"Heh. Alright, fine. Come in. We'll chat."
He gestured with his gun toward a half-broken sofa. The four moved in, sitting in pairs—Neo beside Rebecca, Jackie beside David.
Dum Dum plopped himself down on the table in front of them, pulling out a crumpled pack of smokes. He offered one to Neo. "Cigarette? Might calm those nerves."
"I don't smoke," Neo said simply.
"Suit yourself," Dum Dum muttered, lighting his own. He inhaled deep, eyes rolling back with mechanical pleasure. "Ahh… nothing like a little synth-nicotine to remind you you're still half human."
The door slid open. Another Maelstrom ganger entered, lugging a heavy crate marked with faded Militech serials.
Dum Dum patted it like it was a pet. "Flathead. This your little toy?"
Neo nodded once. "That's the one."
"Ha! Militech's missing a fancy spider-bot, and you're just strolling in to buy it? Bold move, choom. Ain't afraid they'll come sniffing around?"
Neo's lips twitched. "If they do, they'll regret it."
Dum Dum spat onto the floor, grinning. "Let 'em try. We scrubbed the serials, cracked the locks, gutted the safety chip. It's ours now."
He opened the crate.
The Flathead—a compact, spider-like mech—crawled out, its metal limbs clicking against the floor. Sleek titanium, adaptive light armor, an AI core glimmering like a caged heartbeat. It scuttled a lazy circle around the room before returning to its crate.
Dum Dum looked almost proud. "Beautiful, ain't she? Dynamic camo, crow-core control, high-end cognition matrix. Thing's a piece of art. Hell, I might just keep her."
Then his tone shifted. "But… business is business. Ten thousand ain't enough. Price went up. Twenty."
Neo's face stayed perfectly calm.
Jackie, however, shot to his feet. "The hell you just say?"
Dum Dum shrugged. "You heard me, big guy. Twenty thousand, or walk."
Jackie's temper snapped. "You slimy son of a—"
He didn't finish the sentence before Rebecca's iron pistol, Ironhide, was already up and aimed square at Dum Dum's head.
"You really think you can play us, you metal freak?" she hissed.
Suddenly, every Maelstrom gun in the room swung toward them.
The tension was thick enough to taste—gun oil and ozone.
And then, a door slid open at the far end of the room.
Royce strode out—chrome-plated from neck to toe, eyes glowing crimson through the darkness. The infamous Maelstrom boss. His gun was in his hand before anyone could blink, pointed right between Neo's eyes.
"You heard him," Royce growled. "Twenty grand. Don't like it? You can die here."
Neo met his stare, utterly unmoved. "Royce. I've given you more than enough chances."
"Chances?" Royce laughed, mechanical and harsh. "You don't make deals here, meatbag. You pay what I say or—"
"David."
Neo didn't raise his voice.
David didn't hesitate.
Time fractured.
Sandevistan engaged, world blurring to a crawl.
David was already moving—a flash of light and speed. He plucked the gun from Royce's hand mid-word, spun, and in a series of blinding movements, pulled the trigger again and again.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
By the time the world snapped back to normal speed, every Maelstrom ganger in the room except Royce was already down—each with a neat, smoking hole in the back of their skull.
Royce blinked, confused. His hand was empty. His men were corpses.
Then came the shing.
Neo's Unnamed Blade slid from its sheath, singing softly through the air.
One slash, two, three.
Royce screamed as both arms and legs hit the floor. The final cut traced across his face, splitting cheek to jaw and severing his tongue.
He fell, gurgling and writhing—a chrome carcass without limbs.
Rebecca's fury hadn't burned out yet. She cocked her gun, teeth clenched. "I'll blow his brain out myself—no one points a gun at you, Neo!"
Neo turned, eyes calm, voice even. "Not yet."
She trembled with anger, hands tight on the grip. "But he aimed at you! He tried to shoot you!"
Neo gently placed his hand on her weapon, lowering it. "Later," he said softly. "Not now."
Rebecca's lips quivered. "Tch…" She looked away, cheeks flushed, but holstered the Ironhide.
Then he patted her head, just once. "Good girl."
Her whole face went red, and she nearly melted on the spot.
Jackie's voice cut through. "V, we've got company! Maelstrom heard the shots—they're moving this way fast!"
Neo looked toward the window overlooking the lower factory floor. Dozens of gangers were already converging, armed to the teeth.
He adjusted his grip on the crate holding Flathead and drew his blade again, the metal catching the dim red light.
"All right," he said, voice cold as steel. "Let's end this."
He activated the comm. "Lucy, you're up. Kill their network. Every turret, every drone—shut it down."
"Already on it," came Lucy's calm reply. "Give me twenty seconds."
"David," Neo continued, "clean up the heavies near the catwalks. Make it fast."
"On it!"
"Maine," he said over the shared channel, "your turn. Come in from the back. You know the drill—clear the stragglers and box them in."
"Copy that," Maine's voice rumbled. "We're already moving."
"Jackie, grab Royce. Keep him breathing. I'm not done with him yet."
"Right."
Finally, Neo turned to Rebecca, his tone softer but still edged with command. "You and me—we're teaching these chrome psychos a lesson they won't forget."
Rebecca grinned, snapping her mag into place. "Music to my ears."
Neo's blade slashed through the metal door in one smooth motion, molten sparks spilling across the floor.
He stepped through the opening, Flathead crate in one hand, blade in the other, as the chaos below began to rise.
"Let's paint this factory red."