"With the ten grand from NCPD, my balance was sitting pretty at over sixty thousand eurodollars. Then came the real meat — ten K gone. The car? Thirty-one K. Now?"
Carl leaned back into the cracked vinyl booth at El Coyote Cojo, the kind that stuck to your jacket if you didn't shift your weight every few minutes. One overhead light blinked in an irregular rhythm — like it was waiting for someone to put it out of its misery. A holographic mariachi band danced silently in a dusty holoprojector near the end of the bar, flickering in and out of existence.
Outside, the sun burned orange through the smog-choked streets of Vista del Rey, but in here, the air was thick with old beer foam, fried grease, and the sweat of a dozen locals ducking rent or resting sore legs. Somewhere near the bar's back end, a busted air purifier rattled and wheezed like it was trying to breathe on behalf of the entire building.
Carl exhaled slow, counting the bills in his head.
"Back down to twenty K. Just like that. Back to feeling broke."
"You still got twenty?" Oliver asked, slouched low across from him. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, which was probably true. His eyes were a little bloodshot, flicking between Carl and the rifle leaning against the seat next to him.
"Me? I've got a couple hundred left — barely enough for drinks and a mag refill."
He tapped the matte finish of the SOR-22 beside him like it was a trophy.
"Dropped everything on a Midnight Arms precision piece and got myself a nano-fiber muscle weave. Money's gone, but look at her."
[MIDNIGHT ARMS SOR-22]
Born for wartime. Unforgiving, rugged, heavy. A rifle that roared more than it fired. Handling it without mods? Suicide. But in the right hands, it was a street-clearing statement.
[NANO-FIBER]
Industrial-grade synth musculature, subtle under the skin, but sturdy as steel cabling. Not flashy, but when the barrel bucked, it kept your arms from tearing off.
Oliver gave it that look — not just appreciation, but trust. Like the rifle would watch his back when Carl and Jackie couldn't.
"My eddies don't touch Carl's either," Jackie said nearby, sipping from a wide-bottomed tumbler filled with something brown and low-grade. "Still got a little stashed, but not enough for the upgrades I want."
He gave the rifle a wistful look, then squinted through the smoky air at Carl's tray of fries.
"Need new chrome. Something loud. Something that says I'm not to be fucked with. Still a few gigs off."
"You're forgetting something," Carl said, snatching another fry before Jackie could ask.
They were still fresh. Mama Welles always knew how to time a plate — crispy, not too oily, golden-brown. Salted just right with some house blend spice that clung to your fingers long after you were done eating. There was a side of green sauce, too — spicy and weirdly citrusy — that sat in a plastic ramekin with a cracked lid.
"Motorcycle," Carl added, chewing. "Don't think I forgot that ARCH dream of yours."
Jackie chuckled, voice a little hollow. "Yeah, well… until I've got the hardware to survive the ride, the bike's a fantasy, choom."
He looked down into his glass. The ice had melted, leaving a lukewarm amber puddle that smelled like artificial oak.
"You want big gigs, you need gear. No gear, no jobs. And without jobs? No eddies for the ride."
Carl didn't argue. He understood the loop. They all lived in it.
"There's always work, Jackie. Always."
Carl thumbed through his shard interface, watching as Faraday's name hovered in dead grey. No updates. No new gigs. No calls. The fixer had pitched them a "test run," then disappeared behind the static of his own reputation.
No failures. But no green lights either.
Carl stared at the name like it owed him something. It didn't blink.
Jackie was eyeing the last few fries in Carl's tray like a predator staking out a slow, limping target. The low light of El Coyote Cojo caught the gleam of grease on his fingers as he reached… just a little too casually.
Carl didn't even glance over. "Don't."
He said it with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion reserved for old habits and worse friends. The fries, still warm, were nestled in a little plastic-lined paper tray, dusted with Mama Welles' signature chili-lime blend — tangy, hot, and sacred. One bite and you were hooked. Jackie knew it. Carl knew he knew it.
Jackie threw up his hands with mock offense. "You're still salty about the Pacifica job?"
Oliver leaned back against the booth's splintered frame, already smirking. The light from the rotating tequila holo behind the bar caught his face in brief flickers — red, blue, red again.
"Salty? Bro, you left a trail of Red from the third floor to the gutter."
Carl leaned forward just enough to grin, his elbow tapping against a half-empty bottle. "You were leaking like a busted food truck, man."
Jackie sighed, long and tragic. "C'mon, choom… fries deserve respeto. And Mama? She don't believe in ketchup. Says it 'kills the soul of the papas.' I was just fightin' oppression, man."
Oliver snorted. "And smuggling twenty-two ketchup packets in your jacket like some back-alley sauce dealer."
"Hey! It was tactical gear," Jackie said, straightening like a soldier defending a rank.
"Until that gang sent you tumbling down those stairs," Carl said. "That coat didn't survive."
Jackie rubbed his face like the memory hurt more than the fall. "Don't remind me. I hit the ground, and boom — packet detonation. Red mist. Looked like I got sliced open by a samurai."
From nearby, a stale ceiling fan sputtered and rotated back toward them, pushing warm, beer-soaked air into the corner of the bar.
Carl nodded. "You did scream, though."
"I was screaming about my fries!" Jackie snapped, pointing at Carl like that somehow made his case stronger. "People thought I was dying, I was just pissed I lost the backup condiments."
Oliver was laughing now, rocking slightly in the squeaky seat. "That jacket still smells like fermented tomatoes. Pretty sure Mama Welles was gonna burn it."
"She framed it," Carl said dryly. "As a warning to future generations."
Jackie, not to be defeated, reached into his pocket and launched a fry at him with precise flicker-speed. Carl snatched it mid-air, smooth as a netrunner jacking into soft ice, and popped it in his mouth without missing a beat.
All around them, El Coyote Cojo murmured with the usual low din — the clink of cheap glassware, the hum of half-functioning neon, the distant sizzle of something over-fried behind the bar. A laugh came from the pool table corner, then cut off sharp. Someone coughed. The scent of grilled soy-pork lingered in the air, mixing with old liquor and the citrus-sharp tang of cleaning solvent used sparingly and with no love.
It wasn't peaceful, but it was theirs.
And for just a moment, between all the worn-down stools and patched-up friendships, it felt like something close to safe.
Then—everything changed.
Glass burst from across the bar — sharp, sudden. Like an emotion finally tearing its way into the open.
The whole bar stilled.
El Coyote Cojo — as full of character as it was of rust — breathed in all at once. Music clipped out. Conversations halted mid-word. Even the stale fan above the jukebox seemed to stop spinning, just to listen.
Carl turned his head toward the noise.
A young man, maybe early twenties, stood over a small corner table. His jacket was military surplus, sleeves rolled up to show off cold chrome running under his skin. His jaw and cheekbone gleamed with aftermarket plating — exposed wires trailing toward his left ear, his optics pulsing a soft industrial red. He still held the jagged neck of the bottle. The rest lay shattered on the floor — and across the scalp of the man seated across from him.
Blood trickled down the side of the older man's head. Gray, stringy hair was matted with it. He didn't scream. He didn't even speak.
Carl recognized him.
Old Freight. No one used his real name anymore. He was the kind of guy you only saw at end-of-day, with black oil under his nails and a driver's tan that never faded. He ran shipments through the south Heywood lanes into Corpo Plaza. Not important. Not wealthy. Just steady. Respectable.
But now, he sat bleeding in a chair, lips trembling, unable to even raise his hand to the wound.
"You gonna give me a straight answer or keep stumbling like a damn amateur?" the young man growled. His voice was smooth and trained — like he was reading from a manual on how to intimidate someone. "You ran the route. I know you did. So give me something useful. Now."
He was corpo — not by dress, but by attitude. A Militech enforcer, or some outsourced private hound. Young. Eager. Too eager. Probably running scared from whatever boss was breathing down his neck. Taking it out on someone easy.
Carl exhaled through his nose.
Jackie had already stood up, pushing his stool away with a slow scrape.
"What the hell's going on?" he said, moving toward the commotion. His voice was steady, but his jaw was tight.
This was Mama Welles' bar. Her name was on the glass, her blood in the floorboards. You didn't pull this kind of heat here — not unless you wanted to eat it.
Carl gave Oliver a small nod. They rose together. Oliver's eyes were already darting, assessing, sizing the scene up in case things got loud.
Carl paused long enough to scoop the rest of his fries into a grease-lined paper bag, folding the top with one hand. Still hot. Still seasoned.
The confrontation was growing — not louder, but heavier.
The air around that table had a pressure to it now. Like everyone in the room was holding their breath, waiting for Jackie to defuse it… or for the corpo to snap.
By the time Carl got close enough to catch words, Jackie was already talking. Calm. Reasonable. Giving the Militech kid room to step down.
Carl didn't speak. He watched.
He got enough from the back-and-forth to paint the picture.
Militech cargo had gone missing somewhere along a Heywood route. The kid was looking for a leak — or a scapegoat. And Old Freight? He wasn't the guy. Just a runner. Just someone who happened to drive the same line.
"Wait," Carl murmured toward Oliver. "He didn't even carry the shipment?"
"No," Oliver said, voice low. "Just passed through. That's all."
Carl's jaw flexed.
"This is intimidation. Not investigation."
Oliver nodded once. "Classic Militech. Apply pressure. Find weakness. Corporations don't bleed. People do."
Carl looked at Old Freight again. Still shaking. Still bleeding. Still trying not to move.
He didn't even wipe the blood from his cheek.
Carl turned.
Behind the bar, Mama Welles had already pulled the medkit out from under the shelf. She said nothing. Just placed it on the counter like an offering.
"Mrs. Welles," Carl said quietly, stepping toward her, "mind if I help out?"
She didn't even blink.
"If you're offering, mijo…" she said, voice low, "I'm grateful."
Carl picked up the medkit and walked it back to the confrontation. As he passed Jackie's side, he handed the bag of fries and the kit to Oliver.
"Patch him up. Be careful. And keep your hands off my fries. I counted them."
Oliver blinked. "Are you serious?"
Carl didn't answer.
He stepped into the space between Jackie and the chrome-jawed Militech punk. Rolled his shoulders. Loosened his fists.
Jackie's strength was patience. But Carl wasn't Jackie.
He didn't come to warn.
He came to remind.
This was El Coyote Cojo.
You don't spill blood here.