Since they were about to take on Maelstrom, proper prep was a must.
Like, say, getting a bulletproof vest for the guy walking around with his chest exposed—Jackie.
"I figured at the very least your jacket had some armored plating and you'd just zip it up when needed. But now you're telling me you don't even wear a vest? No subdermal armor either?"
Even after stepping inside the weapons shop, Oliver still couldn't wrap his head around Jackie's approach. Vik had given them all a full rundown on safety—and Jackie, being an old friend, had definitely heard that speech more than once.
"Man, that's just insane."
Karl agreed. In a video game, sure, characters wore the flashiest, dumbest outfits for style. But this wasn't a game—and Jackie wasn't some flashy anime waifu showing skin for fanservice.
Also: Jackie was a dude.
Also: this was real life.
Karl didn't know all the details of the story yet, but he had a bad feeling Jackie's habit was going to get him killed someday.
A vest wasn't as good as subdermal armor—it wouldn't stop high-caliber rounds—but against most standard kinetic weapons, it'd buy you just enough time to crawl to a ripperdoc.
"Which is exactly why I came along," Jackie said.
He wasn't too fazed. Still, since both his new teammates were pressing the issue, he went with it. His plan had always been to save up for implants and skip the vest stage—but every time he scraped together the eddies, he blew them on motorcycle mods, comics, books, whatever. The armor kept getting pushed further down the list.
"But speaking of gear... KK, you sure you wanna keep that gun?"
Jackie nodded at the pistol on Karl's hip. "Lexington's a budget piece. NCPD gives them out to beat cops 'cause of budget cuts. That thing can't punch through cheap chrome, let alone subdermal plating."
"A low-tier gun for a low-tier merc," Karl replied flatly. "Sounds about right, doesn't it?"
Truth was, when they looted weapons off Maelstrom and 6th Street bodies, most were in bad shape—hacked together, barely functional, or so modded they couldn't be trusted. But a few had been solid. He had a Constitution Arms Unity now, and that thing packed more punch.
But Karl liked the Lexington.
Handguns were for close-quarters speed. If he needed firepower, he had the Copperhead rifle.
And if worst came to worst, well, he could always put a bullet between the eyes or shoot through gaps in armor. No one in Maelstrom was walking around in full-body Militech suits anyway.
Once their gear was sorted and ammo loaded, the three of them piled into Oliver's car.
Destination: the industrial zone in northern Watson.
This place used to be a hub of industry, a key part of the city's economy. Back then, officials described it as "bustling," "prosperous," and "full of opportunity."
Now?
It was just another forgotten slum.
A graveyard for the poor.
People here worked 17-hour shifts in fully automated factories, earning barely enough to survive. No one questioned why fixing a machine cost more than losing a worker. They just kept grinding, praying they wouldn't get laid off and starve with their families.
You couldn't even blame them.
Corporations treated them like trash—and still, they had to smile and say thank you.
Karl leaned against the window, watching the run-down streets blur by.
Should he feel lucky he didn't have to live like that? Lucky he didn't have a family to feed? Lucky he didn't even exist in this world until a couple days ago?
Some fucking joke.
If someone offered him a gig to blow up a corpo office, he'd take it in a heartbeat.
Would it change anything?
Nope.
But Karl wasn't a hero.
He was just a merc.
Maybe that's why Maelstrom kept growing. Gang life was violent and crazy, yeah—but for people raised on the bottom rung, it still beat dying in a factory. Maybe they watched their parents break their backs until they dropped, and figured they'd rather go out guns blazing.
"If you think about it," Karl said, "gangs probably have better career advancement than these corpse-holes."
That got a laugh from the other two.
"Kinda reminds me why 6th Street formed," Oliver said. "Back then, the founders were vets who got shafted after the war. They banded together to protect themselves from corpo bullshit. Now? They're just another gang shaking down civilians."
"A gang that started by fighting corps," Jackie muttered, "and ends up becoming one. That's some irony right there."
Then he paused. "Wait—Oliver, you were with 6th Street?"
"Until yesterday. They kicked me out this morning."
Oliver filled Jackie in on how he met Karl and what led up to their partnership.
"Our client found KK because of the shootout footage."
"Eh, that's not what got me," Jackie said. "I just realized—weird coincidence. I used to roll with the Valentinos. Went solo a few years back. Now here we are—ex-members of rival gangs, rolling as mercs."
"You were with the Valentinos?" Oliver raised an eyebrow.
Made sense though. Jackie was from Heywood, and everyone at El Coyote Cojo knew him.
"Guess that calls for a drink after the job," Oliver said. "Celebrate leaving gang life behind."
"Why does it sound like we just pulled off a heist?" Karl smirked.
Before the conversation could go further, the GPS chimed in.
"Target is 50 meters ahead."
"We're here. Grab your gear."
As the rundown factory came into view, Karl felt it—
That mix of focus and adrenaline.
This was gonna be fun.