We rolled back into the Yucca camp just as the smog-filtered sun started bleeding over the Badlands horizon. Mitch drove the Galena straight into the main garage bay, the engine still purring perfectly despite the fact that the front left rim was entirely ground down to the axle.
I didn't stick around for the debriefing. My core was still running dangerously hot from channeling the Void, and I needed to plug into the Panzer charger before my heat sinks melted my internal wiring.
After a few hours of rapid cooling and drawing a steady current from the heavy industrial cable, I felt the phantom ache in my chassis subside. My optical sensors stabilized, shifting back from emergency red to their standard luminescent glow.
I grabbed a heavy canvas duffel bag from under my workbench and walked across the dusty camp to Dakota's office.
When I walked in, she was sitting behind her cluttered desk, arguing with a Scavenger smuggler who had just delivered a crate of weapons. Dakota was holding a budget-tier Constitutional Arms Liberty pistol, looking at it with open disgust.
"I'm paying premium eddies for this shipment, Yuri," Dakota rasped, tossing the plastic-framed gun onto the desk. "Half of these have cracked receivers. The other half rattle when you shake them."
"Is Night City, Dakota," the smuggler shrugged, adjusting his dirty jacket. "Good iron is hard to find. You want Militech quality, you pay Militech prices."
"I want guns that won't blow my boys' hands off when they pull the trigger," she snapped.
I stepped fully into the room, my heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. The smuggler took one look at my imposing, scarred metallic frame, swallowed hard, and subtly took a step back toward the door.
I ignored him, walked up to Dakota's desk, and dropped the heavy canvas bag onto the metal surface. It hit with a dense, metallic CLANG.
"Order's up, boss," I said, my vocal synthesizer rumbling.
I unzipped the bag and pulled out the two pieces she had requested.
The first was a Sidearm. I'd cannibalized the firing mechanism of a Militech Lexington but rebuilt the entire frame and barrel out of high-density titanium alloy, styling it after an old Hakke sidearm I used to carry. It was blocky, utilitarian, and chambered in heavy armor-piercing rounds. It didn't have smart-link targeting or flashy neon sights. It just had perfect, brutal weight distribution.
The second was a Scout Rifle. This one took me longer. I'd salvaged a shattered sniper barrel, cut it down, and integrated it into a modified semi-automatic receiver. I hand-machined the gas system to drastically reduce the recoil, creating a mid-to-long-range precision rifle that could drop a charging cyberpsycho at two hundred yards without the muzzle ever climbing off target.
Dakota slowly reached out and picked up the Sidearm. She tested the weight, her cybernetic eyes scanning the seamless metalwork. She racked the slide. The mechanism didn't rattle or grind; it glided back with a smooth, perfectly oiled snick-clack that sounded like a vault door locking shut.
She set it down reverently and picked up the Scout Rifle, pulling it tight against her shoulder and peering down the custom iron sights.
Slowly, she lowered the rifle. She looked back down at the cheap, plastic Constitutional Arms pistol the smuggler had just handed her. She looked at the two flawless, handcrafted pieces of machinery I had just placed on her desk.
She picked up the cheap pistol, shoved it back into the smuggler's hands, and let out a long, heavy sigh.
"Yuri," Dakota said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Take your crate of plastic garbage and get out of my camp."
The smuggler didn't argue. He took one last nervous look at me, grabbed his crate, and hurried out the door.
Dakota leaned back in her chair, looking up at me. "Why couldn't you have crashed through my roof a month ago? Before I dropped ten thousand eddies placing that bulk order with those scavs?"
"I was a little tied up with a temporal paradox," I deadpanned.
Dakota actually chuckled, shaking her head. "These are beautiful, Cain. Truly. I've seen corporate gunsmiths who couldn't machine tolerances this tight if their lives depended on it." She opened a drawer, pulled out a heavy credchip, and tossed it across the desk. I caught it effortlessly. "Two thousand eurodollars. An advance for your mechanical work, and a bonus for keeping Mitch alive last night."
I looked at the credchip in my hand. "Thanks."
"Don't spend it all on synth-booze," she warned, already turning back to admire the Scout Rifle.
I stepped out of her office and into the harsh midday sun of the Badlands. To my left, the endless expanse of the desert stretched out into the dust. To my right, stabbing into the smoggy sky, was the towering, neon-lit skyline of Night City.
I leaned against the rusted corrugated metal of the garage, turning the credchip over in my heavy metallic fingers, and started to think hard about my future.
I had no Vanguard. I had no Traveler. There were no Hive Gods plotting to consume the solar system, and no Vex trying to overwrite reality. For the first time in hundreds of years, I didn't have a war to fight.
"So what's the plan, Guardian?" Echo chimed in my head, his voice clear and curious. "We can't stay in this scrap yard forever. My scans of Night City show a massive market for mercenaries. With your chassis and my tactical overwatch, we could run this city's underworld in a month."
No, I thought, shaking my head slightly. I've spent centuries being a soldier. I'm done being a blunt instrument for other people's wars.
I looked back toward Dakota's office, thinking about the look on her face when she racked the slide of that sidearm.
Setting up a shop, I mused internally. A real gunsmithing shop. Not a black-market chop shop, but a high-end, bespoke armory. If I can replicate the internal geometry of Destiny weapons—Hand Cannons, Pulse Rifles, Auto Rifles—mercs in Night City would pay a fortune for them. "A gunsmith?" Echo sounded surprised. "You want to be the Banshee-44 of Night City?"
Why not? It's a perfect way to lay low. I get to stay off the megacorporations' radar, I get to work with my hands, and I get to build an arsenal on my own terms. "It's not a bad idea," Echo admitted, his tone turning calculating. "But real estate in a secure district of Night City, plus the raw materials required to forge high-density engram-grade weapons, will cost a lot more than two thousand eddies."
I know, I replied, slipping the credchip into the pocket of my leather duster. Which means I need to save up. And to save up, I'm going to need to take some jobs.
I looked back up at the towering skyscrapers of Night City, the megabuildings casting long, dark shadows over the desert. Laying low and building a shop was the dream. But Night City wasn't a place that let you dream for free. I was going to have to carve my startup capital out of the city's underbelly, one bullet at a time.