Padre's words carried weight, but Jackie just grinned, proud of what they'd pulled off. He downed his drink and leaned back like he owned the place. V smirked, rolling her glass between her fingers, neon lights flickering in her new optics. Max, as usual, stayed unreadable behind his mask, giving only a small nod.
The talk shifted quickly—Padre hinting at more jobs, Jackie talking big about the future, and V cracking sharp jokes. But under it all, there was a feeling.
It wasn't just about one job anymore. They had done it clean, fast, and smooth enough that people in Night City started to notice. Not in the news, not out in the open, but in little ways: deals paused when they walked into a room, people gave them second looks, and whispers spread in the background.
Over the next few weeks, they kept at it. Small runs at first—moving contraband in Watson, sneaking into storage yards to grab crates, dropping weapons where they weren't supposed to go. Every gig added to their reputation.
Padre nodded his approval. Rick helped move their stolen goods and kept smiling about it. Jackie got louder, V got sharper, and Max just kept recording every detail in his head.
Slowly, they weren't just random mercs anymore. They were becoming something more—reliable, dangerous, and starting to get noticed.
Not everyone could pin it down, but in bars and alleys, in markets and back rooms, people could feel it: things were shifting.
They were leaving a mark.
And Max made sure nobody could trace it back cleanly.
Weeks turned into months. Jobs kept stacking up, each one bigger than the last. At first, it was easy work—moving crates, dropping deliveries, guarding deals. Then it grew riskier: breaking into warehouses, running decoy convoys, pulling tech straight from under corpo noses.
Jackie thrived on it. The more action, the better. He showed off his chrome every chance he got, laughing loud and making sure people remembered his name.
V was sharper—always testing her new gear, always looking for the next challenge. She didn't just want money; she wanted proof she could handle anything thrown her way.
Max stayed steady, watching everything, planning every move. He didn't waste words. He made sure their jobs stayed clean, their names spread only in the right places, and their tracks stayed covered.
Padre kept sending work their way, usually through Rick. The old mechanic became their middleman, helping stash crates and launder eddies. It was simple: Padre gave the blessing, Rick handled the business, and Max's crew did the heavy lifting.
And it worked.
Their names started moving around Night City. Fixers talked in private about a masked merc who always got the job done, a loud bruiser with gorilla arms, and a sharp-edged woman with blades for hands. Nobody knew exactly who they were, but everyone knew they were good.
More gigs kept rolling in. More money. More chrome. More attention.
They weren't nobodies anymore. They were becoming players.
By the time the first quarter of the year had passed, they weren't chasing work anymore—work was chasing them.
Fixers who wouldn't even return Jackie's calls before were now reaching out through Rick, offering gigs with higher pay and tighter windows. Padre kept them busy too, feeding them jobs that balanced money with reputation.
Jackie loved it. Every score added fuel to his dreams—better rides, better chrome, better life. He strutted through Heywood with pride, every handshake and shout of "Jackie!" only boosting his fire.
V got sharper and more serious. She spent most of her cut on gear upgrades—better optics, smoother mantis blades, cleaner software for her smartlink. She wanted to be ready for anything, and she liked knowing people were starting to respect her edge.
Max never changed much on the surface. The mask stayed. The quiet stayed. But under it, he kept pushing the crew forward, slotting their names into the right jobs, making sure they took risks without leaving a trail. He wasn't interested in the flash—he was interested in positioning. Every move he made was another step up the ladder.
And it was working.
By the time whispers of their jobs started making it across districts, bigger fixers were paying attention. Wakako had already sent feelers through Padre. Even a rumor floated that Rogue might've heard their names.
Not offers yet—not the real big leagues. But people were watching.
It was only a matter of time before one of the bigger players decided to test them with a serious contract.
The crew was hot, pulling jobs steady when Dominic reached out—a mid-tier fixer with more street ties than corporate polish. He wasn't the biggest name in Heywood, but he had a rep for feeding work to mercs willing to get their hands dirty.
Jackie liked him, V didn't trust him, and Max… Max stayed neutral.
Dominic's pitch was simple: Militech had started "cleansing" under a bridge where slum families had built makeshift homes. They called it a "security sweep," but it was executions, plain and simple. Too messy for the news, too quiet for corpos to care. He wanted the killings stopped.
Jackie was ready to charge in, V sharpened her mantis blades on the thought of drone guts—but Max stopped them.
"I'll take this one," he said flat.
Jackie blinked. "What, solo? C'mon, hermano, let's roll together—"
"No," Max cut him off. "This one I handle. Alone."
He didn't explain, but the truth was simple: that bridge, that stretch of broken concrete, was the place Lucy should've been in Night City. The timeline was off. Something was wrong. He needed to see it himself.
That night, Max moved through the shadows, his mask reflecting slum fires and neon. He tracked Militech patrols—four armored men, rifles primed, moving slow through tents and shacks. Civilians huddled in silence, afraid to breathe.
He didn't go loud at first. He dismantled their overwatch: one by one, quiet cracks of suppressed fire and bursts of short-range EMPs. Drones dropped dead. The squad broke formation, shouting orders that dissolved into chaos.
By the time they realized something was wrong, Max was among them. Fast. Precise. One soldier's helmet cracked under a steel strike, another's chest rig fried from a point-blank disruptor. A third screamed before a blade cut the sound short.
The last soldier turned, rifle aimed at Max's mask, finger tightening on the trigger—
—and froze.
***
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