CYBERPUNK: Travel to 2075

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..Halftime..

"Bah, bah, bah."

After spitting a few times, Jack felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth subside slightly. His eyes scanned the now-quiet battlefield, littered with the corpses of both mercenaries and attackers. He then shifted his gaze to the Arasaka security personnel arriving in their sleek cars, far too late to the action. Curling his lips in disdain, he muttered, "We finished the fight before they even got here. You can see it written all over their faces—they sent us in as cannon fodder to test the waters."

"Well, what else can we expect? They're company dogs. That's just how they operate," Oliver replied, carefully pulling bullets from Jack's body with sterilized forceps and a scalpel. "But Jack, don't move so much. There are still plenty of bullets lodged in you. While none of them hit vital areas, if we don't deal with them properly, they could cause long-term issues."

Jack grimaced, feeling a mix of numbness and pain. "Can't you just patch me up properly? Don't you have any of that good stuff left? Wouldn't it be easier to fix me up fast and clean?"

Oliver shook his head, still focused on his task. "That stuff stimulates rapid cell regeneration, which could trap the bullets inside your body and cause more damage. We have to remove them first. And besides, I already gave the last of it to the seriously injured. It's all gone."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That doesn't sound like you."

"No discounts. One hundred euros per treatment."

Jack chuckled, despite the discomfort. "Fair enough."

Deep down, Jack knew Oliver's generosity wasn't for show. Mercenaries, despite their hard exteriors, valued each other's lives—especially those of teammates. In life-or-death situations, 100 euros, 1,000 euros, or even 10,000 euros would seem insignificant if it meant saving someone. By charging a nominal fee, Oliver was likely trying to avoid creating any debts among the team.

"The doc has a heart after all," Jack teased.

Meanwhile, Karl returned from searching the sniper's perch. He had found only the remnants of the Nemomata sniper rifle and a shattered exoskeleton helmet. The sniper had escaped at some point, though Karl wasn't sure when.

"Found nothing but scraps," Karl reported. "Looks like my shot didn't kill him. He must've fled during the chaos."

The mercenaries began taking stock of the battle's toll. Twenty-one attackers were confirmed dead, their bodies scattered across the battlefield. But the mercenaries hadn't escaped unscathed—of their original twenty-seven, thirteen were dead, and four were seriously injured.

As for the attackers' weapons, most of the Shingen smart submachine guns had been destroyed by self-destruct programs or grenades before the mercenaries could claim them. There was little to salvage, and the battle felt more like a loss than a victory.

Mann sighed heavily as he approached Karl. "Half of our team, gone just like that." His voice was thick with sorrow, and he couldn't help but feel grateful to be among the survivors. "If I hadn't followed you on this mission, I'd probably be lying dead with them."

Jack nodded grimly. "They were good fighters. It's a shame. None of us had better weapons or prosthetics than they did. We just got lucky—plain and simple. The rockets didn't target us, and the sniper didn't pick us off first."

"We who survived are the only ones who get to mourn," Karl said quietly.

His attention shifted to the arriving Arasaka security personnel, who were now pushing the battered mercenaries aside to make way for their convoy. The mercenaries, bloodied and barely standing, were treated as nothing more than obstacles.

"Shit," Mann spat. "Are they seriously treating us like disposable mats? The road ahead isn't even clear, and they're already so eager to push through. Next time, I'd have to be an idiot to take another job for these corporate dogs."

"I'm more concerned about the money," Oliver said darkly, watching as one of the injured mercenaries was shoved to the ground. "How much did those middlemen pocket to put us in this mess and let these company dogs treat us like this?"

"Probably a lot," Karl replied. "But some of these 'dogs' don't even understand how much blood their money is worth. They just follow orders."

"Company dogs," Mann muttered bitterly. "Different breed, same leash."

"Real dogs or corporate dogs?" Oliver asked dryly.

"Does it matter?" Karl's gaze followed a sleek car as it passed by. Something about it caught his attention, but he couldn't quite place it. Shaking off the thought, he turned to Oliver and tossed him a Shingen submachine gun.

"Here," Karl said. "I owed you one. Remember those Saratoga submachine guns I picked up a while back? I gave one to Jack and modded the other for myself. This makes us even."

Oliver inspected the weapon and sighed. "I said I wanted a sniper rifle, but I guess this'll do for now."

Jack clapped Oliver on the shoulder with a grin. "Don't worry, brother. Your sniper rifle will come back to you someday."

"Hopefully," Oliver muttered. "If we survive this mission, that is."

The mercenaries watched the Arasaka security personnel efficiently clear the remaining obstacles, their actions mechanical and indifferent.

"This mission is far from over," Oliver said with a weary expression.

Karl glanced at his watch. Two hours had been allocated for the operation. Half an hour had already passed, leaving them with ninety minutes to complete the mission and deliver the target.

As Rayfield Aerondight car drove by, Karl felt an odd sensation, as though someone inside was watching him. But when he turned to look, all he saw was the silver exterior of the vehicle.

Shrugging it off, Karl refocused on the task ahead. There was no room for distractions—not with the clock ticking.

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