The megabuilding's airlock doors slid open with a hydraulic groan, spilling Max into the neon-lit chaos of the streets below. The night air reeked of cheap synth-booze, exhaust fumes, and rain sizzling against overheated chrome. Holo-ads screamed from every corner, promising dreams they'd never deliver.
Max smirked, raising his wrist. A quiet ping echoed in his optics.
A moment later, the growl of an engine answered from the side street. His bike emerged from the shadows—sleek, predatory. Black and white chrome panels gleamed under the neon haze, edges sharp as a blade. A Kusanagi Kusagari.
His Kusanagi.
The bike purred to a stop in front of him, lights sweeping like a predator's eyes. Max swung one leg over and settled into the seat. The machine came alive beneath him, the low hum vibrating through his bones.
"Not bad," he muttered, fingers tapping the throttle. "Almost like home."
With a flick of his wrist, the engine roared, spitting fire as the bike peeled out from the curb. Neon streaked past in rivers of color as Max wove through the night traffic, leaving the megabuilding behind.
The city opened up before him: broken highways, flickering billboards, streets buzzing with gangs and corpos alike. His optics caught everything—the deals in the shadows, the braindance addicts slumped against walls, the corpos gliding past in armored limos. Night City in all its rotten glory.
But Max had a destination.
El Coyote Cojo.
The bar came into view as he turned onto Wellsprings' side streets, the familiar neon sign glowing against the rain-slick concrete. A few Valentinos lingered out front, tattoos gleaming under the light as they laughed, smoked, and kept a lazy eye on the street.
Max slowed, parking the Kusanagi with a smooth spin that left the bike purring in idle. He pulled his coat tighter, optics glinting as he glanced up at the bar's doors.
"Time to meet Jackie," he murmured, stepping off the bike.
The doors creaked as he pushed them open, warm light and the smell of cheap tequila spilling out to meet him.
Max pushed through the swinging doors of El Coyote Cojo, the warmth of neon light and the low thrum of music washing over him. For a moment, he paused—taking it all in. The place looked almost exactly like it had in the game. Same cracked barstools, same flickering sign over the shelves of cheap tequila and mezcal, same lingering smell of stale smoke and grease.
"Just like I remember," he muttered under his breath, a faint smirk curling his lips.
Sliding onto a barstool, Max rested his elbows on the counter. The bartender—a broad-shouldered guy with dark eyes and a trimmed beard—glanced his way."What's your poison?"
Max didn't hesitate."Give me a Funky Monkey."
The bartender snorted softly, shaking his head as he reached for a bottle. "Not many order that one." He set the glass down with a dull thud, golden liquid sloshing inside.
Max lifted the drink, took a casual sip, then leaned forward."I'm looking for someone. Jackie Welles. Where is he?"
The bartender's brow furrowed, his voice dropping low."Depends. Who's asking?"
Max tilted his head, optics flickering faintly in the dim barlight. His smirk didn't falter."Someone interested in merc work. Heard he's the guy to talk to."
The bartender narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms."Jackie ain't no fixer, choom. If you're looking for gigs, Padre runs the street around here. Jackie's… well, he's just a big-hearted kid with big dreams. You want jobs, you talk to Padre. Not Jackie."
Max swirled the drink in his glass, the ice clinking softly."I know that. But Padre won't take me on cold. I need a partner. Someone to vouch. Jackie's good at what he does—and I think he's the kind of guy who'd understand."
For the first time, the bartender's guarded expression softened—just a little. He studied Max, as if weighing the steel behind his words.
"…He's in the back. Booth near the jukebox. Don't waste his time."
Max finished his Funky Monkey in one swallow, set the glass down, and stood with a grin."Don't worry. I won't."
His optics glowed faintly as he turned toward the back of the bar. The music thumped low, laughter rising from a table of Valentinos. And there, half-shaded under neon glow, sat Jackie Welles. Broad shoulders, warm eyes, a half-smile on his face as he nursed a beer.
Max slid into the booth across from Jackie, the neon light cutting sharp edges over his smirk."Mind if I steal a little of your time?"
Jackie raised a brow, sizing him up."¿Quién eres, kid? Don't think I've seen you around before."
"Name's Max," he said smoothly, leaning back in the booth. "I'm not here to waste your time. Just want to talk gigs."
Jackie chuckled, shaking his head. "Gigs, huh? You look more like a student than a merc. What do you really want?"
Max leaned forward, voice dropping low."I'm putting together my own crew. Got cash, got rides, chrome, even a few friends in the right places. What I need is people I can trust. People with heart. That's where you come in."
Jackie set his beer down with a soft thud, eyes narrowing. "So lemme get this straight… you roll up in here, first time I've ever seen your face, and you're asking me to join your squad?"
"Not asking," Max corrected with a grin. "Offering. You're wasted running low gigs. I'm aiming higher. And I'd rather have you beside me when things start moving."
Jackie leaned back, rubbing his chin, a half-skeptical, half-amused smile tugging at his lips."So what you're really saying is… you want me in your little equipo? Heh. Big dreams, choom. Big dreams."
Max's smirk didn't waver. He drummed his fingers lightly against the table."So what's it gonna be, Jackie? In or not?"
Jackie chuckled, leaning back in the booth with that easy confidence of his. He muttered something in Spanish under his breath, then added in English,"I'll roll with you… if you can show me you're worthy of leading anyone. Otherwise? You're just another kid talking big."
***
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