The gray and silent factory district exuded a deathly stillness. Under the lonely moonlight, the streets were desolate. No one in the surrou
The gray and silent factory district exuded a deathly stillness. Under the lonely moonlight, the streets were desolate. No one in the surrounding area dared to venture out at this hour, afraid that one encounter with a thug might mark the end of their life.
Just an hour ago, the area had echoed with the scavengers' singing and revelry. Now, all of them lay silent and still on the ground.
With the perpetrator gone, the factory had lost all of its former chaos and noise. The countless corpses scattered across the ground made for a harrowing sight.
Not long after death, the body's muscles relax, and internal waste is expelled—filling the air with the stench of blood and rot.
Maybe during the day, the city's bottom-feeders—the "scavengers of scavengers"—would risk coming here to snatch up scraps for cash. But now, barely two hours after the massacre, not even they dared approach this place.
But someone would come eventually. Not the lowest rung of Night City—but the high-ranking "managers."
A silver-gray Chevrolet Thraex 388 Jefferson slowly pulled up to the gates of the factory. The heavy steel beast came to a calm stop.
The car door opened, and a man in a sharp suit stepped out.
He scanned the area. Upon seeing the wide yard strewn with corpses, his expression grew complex, then steadily turned grim.
"What the hell did these guys get into...?" he muttered, brows furrowed.
He strode silently into the factory, drawing his sidearm from his waist. His eyes scanned the area carefully, while his cybernetic optics analyzed the bodies lying all around.
"High-caliber gunshot wounds... precision pistol headshots... Wait—why are there so many headless corpses?"
The deeper he looked, the more his alarm grew.
Pools of blood had congealed around the corpses, painting grotesque, crimson patterns on the ground. Every last scavenger in the facility had been killed—no survivors.
Even those who'd tried to flee and made it nearly to the exit had collapsed mid-run. Their necks had been cleanly severed, as if sliced by an incredibly sharp blade.
Zooming in with his optics, the man noted the impossibly smooth edges of the wounds. No tearing. No roughness.
Just how sharp—how fast—would a blade need to be to cause something like this?
"An Arasaka ninja squad...? Did these fools provoke Arasaka?" the man whispered.
Whatever the case, this was beyond what a field agent like him could handle. He quickly opened a comm line, his eyes lighting up amber.
"Hello? Was there some kind of problem during the exchange?" came a calm but authoritative voice on the other end.
Sweat formed faintly on the man's brow. He bowed slightly, even though he wasn't being watched. "Mr. Goodwin, I've arrived at the rendezvous point. But... I'm afraid something unexpected happened. The entire scavenger gang was wiped out."
"Hm?" Goodwin's voice rose slightly. "That's impossible. I spoke to them this morning."
"Please hold a moment, Mr. Goodwin. I'll send you some photos." The man quickly took several pictures using his ocular camera.
And out of a sense of professionalism—or courtesy—he thoughtfully applied a mosaic blur to the more graphic images.
There was a long pause on the line, as if Goodwin was silently taking in the bloody spectacle.
"...It really does look like a scene straight out of hell," Goodwin finally said. "I'm sending you the layout of their compound. Head to Building 3's basement. See if the goods are still there."
"Understood."
Following the instructions, the man moved with practiced ease through the ruined compound.
But when he saw the deep gash that had been carved into the basement door, he shuddered.
What kind of brute force—and what kind of blade—could cleave clean through reinforced steel like that?
After a moment's hesitation, he entered the basement.
This was the first time he'd actually stepped inside the scavengers' hideout. Normally, they would greet him at the gate with excessive courtesy. The merchandise was always prepped and delivered to him directly. His job was simply to hand over the cash to these hyena-like thugs.
But now, inside this festering den of filth, witnessing the depths of their depravity up close, his face darkened further. He understood now just how monstrous they really were.
Not familiar with the layout, he wandered for a while, eventually finding the storage chamber based on the map Goodwin had provided.
Opening the door, he was met with a rush of cold, dry air. He scanned the room. His optics began analyzing the corpses inside.
"Did they die from their injuries?" he muttered uncertainly.
Aside from the surgical wounds left by the scavengers, he found no external trauma.
He opened the comm line again. "Mr. Goodwin, the goods are gone."
"I see," Goodwin replied, without the slightest surprise. "Look around. See if there's any clue why they were all wiped out."
The man's temple twitched. He wasn't a professional investigator. Everyone here was dead—what the hell was he supposed to find?
He did know this gang, though. Almost a hundred strong, with ties to multiple corporations, and outfitted with gear better than most street crews.
Whoever wiped them out wasn't some amateur—it was a professional, someone who cleaned up after themselves. There wouldn't be much left to find.
"Mr. Goodwin, if the goods are gone, will that delay the project?" he asked, still heading deeper into the basement.
"It'll have some impact, but won't affect the launch date. Still, retrieving the goods would've been ideal," Goodwin replied. "A lot of complications lately... First the little gang we used for dirty work got flattened, and now our sellers too. If we'd managed to capture that edge-runner team last week, our research could've advanced much faster."
"Mr. Goodwin, there's no need to worry about such minor issues," the man flattered smoothly. "A product like ours—this new Rampage software—will absolutely crush every competing neural mod on the market. It might even give Sandevistan a run for its money. For a product like that? No amount of development time is too long."
"You're right. No need to rush. Losing a few test subjects won't halt progress," Goodwin replied, sounding pleased.
The man smiled faintly.
Just as he expected—talking about product success always lightened Goodwin's mood. Which meant he probably wouldn't be blamed for any of this.
"About the lost goods, sir—do we have a replacement?" the man asked.
"It's just a minor issue. In Night City, the last thing we're short on is people. I've already found a backup candidate. But the more pressing issue right now is—"
"Holy shit," the man suddenly blurted out, interrupting Goodwin.
"What happened?" Goodwin asked sharply.
The man swallowed. His gaze fixed on the bisected body in front of him—its arms nowhere to be seen, its massive head nearly embedded in the wall.
"Bruto is dead..."
"Hmph. His whole gang's gone. Did you expect him to live?" Goodwin sneered.
You didn't see the scene, the man thought, grimacing and looking away.
After another round of searching, he finally located the control room. He connected his personal data cable and accessed the internal camera system.
After a while, he sighed. "As expected. All footage has been wiped."
From this morning to now, every second of surveillance had been deleted. Whoever had done it was a top-tier netrunner—there wasn't even a trace to recover.
Still... Not his problem.
"Any findings?" Goodwin's voice came through again.
The man put on a humble smile, thought for a second, and replied:
"Apologies, Mr. Goodwin. Most of the surveillance was destroyed. I couldn't recover any useful data. However, there are some suspicious signs of battle."
"What kind of signs?" Goodwin asked, intrigued.
"The scavenger corpses show clear signs of blade wounds. And down here in the basement, I found scorched marks from heavy explosives. Bruto must have used everything he had—and it still wasn't enough. He was... cut into several pieces."
"You're suggesting the attackers were a highly professional team, skilled in melee weapons?" Goodwin asked, visibly surprised.
"Yes. With Bruto's level of cyberware, no normal gang or mercs could touch him. He had a Sandevistan too. For him to be completely overpowered like this... I can only think of one possibility..."
"It had to be Arasaka's ninja squad!" the man declared confidently.
Goodwin frowned. Deep down, the explanation didn't sit right with him—but he couldn't think of a better one.
A team skilled in melee, capable of wiping out a full scavenger crew without a single survivor... That kind of power had to come from a megacorp.
There were a few edge-runner teams capable of this, but few specialized in blades.
And with all the intel he had on the Afterlife, none of the known mercs fit the description.
The real question, though, was—how had the original "goods" disappeared?
Did Arasaka rescue her? Or did she escape on her own?
"Why would these guys provoke Arasaka...?" Goodwin muttered.
"Who knows? These guys were greedy to the bone. Maybe they crossed a line somewhere," the man said, adding weight to his theory.
Goodwin thought for a long while, then sighed. "Shame. They were a convenient supplier."
"Anything else you need, sir?" The man glanced around. No new discoveries.
"If the goods are gone, there's no reason to stay. We never paid a deposit anyway," Goodwin finally decided. "Come back."
It was just one subject—not worth the effort. What really intrigued him was the sheer scale of the massacre.
"Understood."
The man let out a quiet sigh of relief, the corner of his mouth curling into a small smile.
Smart as I am... I finessed my way out of this one.
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