CYBERPUNK: Travel to 2075

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...Ten Minutes...

The Alvarado vehicle (vato )used by the mercenaries had been severely damaged in the rocket launcher attack. Fortunately, there weren't many mercenaries left to fight. After emergency repairs, the remaining Vato was able to carry ten fighters who were still combat-ready.

After stabilizing the injuries of the four critically wounded and treating the lightly injured, Oliver boarded the repaired vehicle.

"Do you think those four can make it to the hospital?" he asked.

"Who knows," Mann replied. "All we can do is hope they get evacuated before the gangsters or kidney smugglers arrive."

Mann glanced back through the window at the critically injured men lying as comfortably as possible. "If only we had members of the Trauma Team. They'd have airlifted them out the moment they got injured."

Trauma Team: A private medical company equipped with personnel trained in both combat and emergency care. Clients with the right insurance can call them at any time. They respond quickly, cutting through any resistance, even from rival trauma teams.

"Come on," Oliver said, scoffing. "A basic silver membership costs 10,000 euros a month. Do you think we, as mercenaries, have the steady income to afford that?"

"Point taken," Mann admitted, turning his gaze back to the road.

The vehicle drove on in tense silence until Mann broke it with a question. "So, how much are those guys going to get paid?"

"Paid? For this mission?" Karl raised an eyebrow, not understanding why Mann would ask such a pointless question. "The Fixer made it clear: they need to escort the package to its destination. If they die or can't perform their tasks, they won't see a single euro."

"Damn it, I knew it." Mann rubbed his temples in frustration. "These corporate bastards always find a way to nickel-and-dime us. I should've figured. If they're spending money, they've already planned how to save even more."

Oliver smirked. "The smart execs know how to keep us happy with enough money. But there's always some greedy middle manager siphoning off funds and making our lives hell."

"Damn right," Mann muttered. "This job sucks."

Karl nodded grimly. "And yet, after everything we've invested, we have no choice but to see it through. Otherwise, the sacrifices of those who've already died would mean nothing."

"Doesn't make it any less infuriating," Jack snapped. "If I ever take another contract from Arasaka, shoot me. Military Tech at least treats us like humans sometimes."

Oliver laughed bitterly. "Yeah, Blanca's team has a conscience compared to this nightmare."

As the conversation lulled, the Vato convoy approached an Arasaka security team. Their vehicles slowed, giving way to the mercenaries.

"What the hell?" Jack growled. "They want us to play bait again? They hide when the bullets fly, but when it's safe, they expect us to do the dying?"

"Standard corporate tactics," Karl replied. "They know we've sunk too much into this mission to back out now. They're banking on our desperation."

Jack spat a curse. "If they keep pulling this crap, I'm done."

As the Alvarado(vato) pushed through the Arasaka convoy, its doors were left unlocked—standard protocol now, allowing the mercenaries to bail out if another rocket attack hit.

But to their surprise, the journey was uneventful. They drove out of Watson District's northern industrial area without encountering any more enemies.

"Did the attackers retreat after failing their ambush?" Karl wondered aloud, though a creeping unease lingered.

The northern industrial area was Maelstrom Gang territory. Yet, from the moment they entered to the moment they exited, Karl hadn't seen a single gang member or their distinctive red prosthetic eyes.

The calm before the storm, Karl thought grimly.

As they neared California Street, the location of their target—the towering Blue Bi Building—the oppressive tension in the car became almost tangible.

When the building finally came into view, Jack broke the silence. "How much time do we have left?"

Karl glanced at his watch, knowing full well what Jack was really asking. "One hour and ten minutes."

Jack stared at the looming structure ahead, his gut churning.

"No," he murmured. "We've got ten minutes. Tops."

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