Cyberpunk: I'm Not a Scavenger - Chapter 4: The Gig: Inventory Pressure (Patreon)

The rain washed away the smell of blood.

Pantheon sat comfortably on the curb, surrounded by more than a dozen bodies sprawled across the road.

Broke bastards were broke bastards. The best cyberware among them was a projectile launch system, and their guns were cheap junk like the D5 Copperhead and M221 Saratoga.

More than a dozen men, and all the eddies in their pockets added up to barely over six thousand. They could at least have made it a nice round number!

Pantheon clicked his tongue, feeling thoroughly cheated.

Well, that was the price of being such a "kind" man. He'd even collected their bodies free of charge.

This was the first time he'd ever killed anyone, yet the sight of the corpses stirred nothing in him. Since when did Scavengers and gang thugs count as people, anyway?

What troubled him was what to do next.

Duncan and Roman were dead, like starter-village NPCs who'd served their purpose only to be sacrificed by some lousy author.

So what now? Carry on collecting corpses and keep his head down while he slowly grew stronger?

No. Absolutely not.

Pantheon shook his head. He had no desire to repeat what had happened today.

Perhaps it was time to return to the main quest and take up the most promising profession in the Cyberpunk world: mercenary.

Or maybe he could give it a cooler name. How about edgerunner?

Take gigs on the side and collect the corpses afterward. Perfect.

Decision made, he summoned his status panel.

[Essence Points: 58]

[Detected trait: [Built Different] (Green)]

[Built Different] (Green)

Description: "Natural? Sure. Let's go with that."

Effect: Body +2. Special effect: Increases drug resistance and resistance to negative status effects.

As the trait took hold, his muscles swelled uncontrollably, as though he'd been pumped full of stimulants. His whole body grew noticeably larger.

Even breathing became easier, and the familiar stabbing pain in his lungs eased a little.

Pantheon lifted the body bag full of cybernetic limbs beside him. It felt considerably lighter now.

In Night City, where cyberware was everywhere and netrunners ran rampant, an enhancement to his actual flesh could be priceless. It needed no external hardware and couldn't be disabled by an EMP or a netrunner.

Then he noticed the vehicles abandoned on the road, and another idea occurred to him.

Cyberware and guns weren't worth much, but he could definitely get a decent price for those cars.

Who in Night City bought secondhand vehicles?

Pantheon opened his contacts and found a familiar name.

After a few rings, someone answered.

A holographic display unfolded across his vision, showing a face he knew all too well.

Purple reflective jacket. Long hair cut into a bowl-shaped fringe.

"El Capitán" Muamar Reyes, Santo Domingo fixer, part-time used-car dealer, and practically the players' personal errand boy.

"Who's this?"

Seeing El Capitán acting like the same cocky bastard he remembered improved Pantheon's mood.

"Pantheon. Duncan's crew. I need your help with something."

El Capitán chuckled and gently swirled the liquor in his glass.

"What is it?"

"You'll see when you get here."

Less than half an hour later, a convoy of Thorton Mackinaws came charging through the rain toward the scene of the firefight.

Before the vehicles had even stopped, El Capitán jumped down. He clutched his head in disbelief at the bodies scattered everywhere.

"Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!"

He turned to Pantheon and hurried over, suddenly full of enthusiasm.

"You're a monster, choom! Why didn't you tell me you guys could do this? What are you doing collecting corpses? I need people like you!"

Pantheon made a show of waving off the praise, keeping his tone cool.

"Wasn't planning to get involved. They just wouldn't leave me alone."

"Help me get rid of these cars, and see whether that Columbus can be repaired."

"Easy. Leave it to me." El Capitán agreed at once, then hesitated. "What about Duncan and the others? Badly hurt?"

"They weren't so lucky," Pantheon replied without much emotion.

Even if they'd survived, he had no intention of continuing as a cleaner after tonight.

El Capitán understood. He gave Pantheon a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Keep your chin up, choom. Sooner or later, this sort of thing happens to everyone in Night City. At least someone's here to collect their bodies, right?"

Pantheon nodded wholeheartedly. He couldn't argue with that.

After sorting out the spoils, he returned to the crew's base.

It stood on Walston Street, beside Coastview in Pacifica. On a clear day, you could even see the stadium in Dogtown.

The surrounding area was mostly wasteland, with factories of every size scattered not far away.

The base consisted of three small warehouses joined together. Nobody knew who had originally owned them. Duncan and his crew had occupied the place long before Pantheon joined.

There were three levels, two above ground and one underground.

It had everything they needed: a garage, storerooms, a morgue, an operating room, and a lounge.

Pantheon surveyed what was now his property and nodded approvingly. As the only surviving member of the crew, he'd naturally inherited the whole place.

He wheeled Duncan's and Roman's bodies into the morgue on a stretcher, thinking about how he might use the vacant rooms.

It was too late to cremate them tonight. He'd deal with that tomorrow.

...

The following morning, the chirping of his communicator woke Pantheon.

He sat up, rubbed his stiff neck, splashed some water on his face, and accepted the call.

"Morning, big man! Sleep well last night?"

El Capitán's insufferably smug voice filled his ears. Pantheon pinched the bridge of his nose and answered irritably.

"Well enough, thanks to you."

El Capitán laughed, entirely unfazed by the grumpy response.

"Just got a new gig. You busy?"

"Let's hear it."

"Sent you the details."

[Gig: Inventory Pressure]

[I know a guy who runs a factory, doing a little business down here in Santo Domingo. Last week, he got hold of a shipment of military-grade circuit boards. Don't ask where he found them.]

[That shipment was his lifeline. Then, the night before last, a gang hijacked his delivery truck and stole the whole lot, vehicle included.]

[Those Tyger Claws bastards hid the truck in an abandoned machinery warehouse in Japantown. They haven't had time to strip it and sell it off yet.]

[Good news: the cargo's still there. Bad news: they know someone's coming for it.]

[He tried the NCPD. Know what they told him? "Commercial dispute. Please contact your insurance company."]

[To hell with insurance. By the time those morons finish processing the claim, his factory will have closed down.]

[So he came to me, and I came to you.]

[The job's simple. Walk in, get behind the wheel, and drive the truck back to me.]

[Mission Location: Abandoned Machinery Warehouse, Japantown]

Blue light flickered in Pantheon's cybernetic eye as he skimmed the briefing.

Things were bound to be messier than the description suggested, but that made no difference to him.

He'd just kill everyone in his way.

And since El Capitán had placed his trust in him, Pantheon had no intention of disappointing him.

He was still looking forward to making the man call him "Daddy."

"I'll take it. Have your people ready to receive the goods."

The mission didn't call for much preparation. Pantheon topped up his ammunition, checked that his guns were working properly, and got ready to leave.

The Columbus was still with El Capitán awaiting repairs. The garage held only an old Indian Scout motorcycle, supposedly fifty or sixty years old. Even its manufacturer had gone out of business.

Nobody knew where Roman had found it. He'd treasured the thing so much that he wouldn't even let Pantheon touch it.

Well, now it belonged to Pantheon, and he fully intended to ride the hell out of it.

"You wouldn't want your old master to be unable to rest in peace, would you?"

Pantheon ran a hand over the Indian Scout's graceful curves and whispered to it.

The antique engine answered with a bestial roar, but in the end, it had no choice but to submit to its new master's rough treatment.

The wheels sliced through puddles, throwing mud behind him. Pantheon and his motorcycle became a blur as they sped toward Japantown.