Why is it the Maelstrom again?

"You’ve arrived."
"I’m here."

Karl had a fleeting urge to follow up with some line about how he shouldn't have come, but he figured his corporate employer wouldn't appreciate that kind of banter. He kept his mouth shut after the initial greeting.

This was his second time meeting his employer. During their previous, hurried encounter, he had only perceived her as overbearing, but now he had the leisure to observe her properly.

When they first met, she had been wearing heavy makeup. She had looked attractive enough, but Karl had been so preoccupied by the hundred-thousand-credit payout she mentioned that he hadn't really studied her face. Now, looking closely, he judged her to be about twenty-three or twenty-four. Her features were striking—a high brow, deep-set eyes, short black hair, dark irids, and a sun-kissed complexion. Upon closer inspection, she possessed the distinct facial characteristics of a Southern European—specifically, someone from the Spanish or Italian regions, what one might call a Latin look.

Karl was somewhat face-blind when it came to Caucasians, though he could distinguish between ethnic groups based on their features. Still, seeing such a distinctively Latin-looking "corpo" in Night City didn't strike him as particularly odd. After all, America was a nation built by immigrants, and Night City was the melting pot of the West Coast. In a place like this, seeing a corporate employee with Latin features was commonplace; Karl wouldn't even be surprised if he ran into someone claiming to be a descendant of the Mohicans—those "Mohawk" hairstyles were quite the trend in Night City these days.

The employer seemed to be waiting for something. Even though Karl had arrived, she showed no sign of moving. She stood below the Silent Motel, appearing relatively unremarkable. Without her makeup and formal suit, dressed only in a black jacket, she had little to distinguish her from any other pretty girl on the street. In fact, it was Karl’s mercenary gear that drew curious glances. Most passersby who might have considered striking up a conversation were deterred by the cold, dismissive glare the employer leveled at them.

The silence between them persisted for a while. Then, perhaps to stave off boredom or to ensure her bodyguard understood the mission, she spoke. "My name is Blanca. You can call me that during our upcoming operations."

Blanca—a common Spanish name meaning "white" or "pure." In Karl’s memory, there had been a wise French queen of Castilian descent with the same name back in the thirteenth century. But comparing that name to the woman in front of him...

Karl looked at Blanca, dressed entirely in black, and considered the irony of her name. It felt like the complete opposite.

"For the upcoming task, your only job is to protect my safety. See less, say less. I don't need you involved in the details, and even if you hear something, you’d better forget it... I assume you can manage that?"

Karl chose to respond with a silent nod, projecting the image of a man of few words. He wasn't like Oliver; he really didn't have that much to say.

He opted for silence, but his employer kept talking, shifting her weight from foot to foot as if trying to ease her nerves. "There should be about ten people on the other side. If the negotiation fails, I will reach up and touch my hair. When you see that signal, you are to kill the person talking to me, then cover my retreat. Do you understand?"

"Understood."

Karl mentally logged the details: ten enemies, kill on the signal of touching hair, protect the VIP (employer), payment: fifty thousand. Simple enough.

Karl didn't bother asking why a corporate employee would be handling negotiations alone, or why she needed to hire a mercenary like him. It didn't matter. Whether she had no one to trust at the company or this was a private matter unrelated to her job, it was irrelevant to him.

He only cared about the number of enemies, whether they could be killed, and the payout. With that information, he knew the job was doable. Well, he supposed knowing their location would be a nice bonus.

Blanca watched Karl’s composed demeanor—he didn't seem to care in the least about the ten enemies—and was about to add more instructions when a black Chevillon Thrax EC-D I360 pulled up to the curb.

[Chevillon Thrax EC-D I360]: The first model of the Thrax series. It was so durable, easy to repair, and affordable that it nearly bankrupted the manufacturer, Chevillon. It taught the board of directors a valuable lesson: a product’s quality should be good, but not *too* good. Though this vehicle, first produced in 2023, was outdated by modern standards, many enthusiasts still loved them and kept them running with constant modifications. You could still see them on the streets of Night City.

Like Oliver’s Chevillon Quartz EC-L R275, these were products of the same company, generally favored by the middle and lower classes as symbols of durability and value.

As Karl and Blanca watched, the rear door of the Thrax swung open. The back seat was empty, staring back at them like an invitation.

Karl noticed his employer’s breathing grow heavier.

It seemed this was their ride.

That was fine by him. Anything was better than squeezing into a two-seater. Every time he rode in Oliver’s car, he had to cram in next to Jack, and it had been unbearable ever since Jack installed that subcutaneous armor. He’d had enough of that.

The employer headed toward the car, and Karl followed closely behind. Once they were inside and seated, Karl saw the person in the driver’s seat turn around, their head glowing with a faint red light... or rather, the driver turned to look at them with eight red-glowing cybernetic eyes.

The facial modifications were so extreme that the original features were completely unrecognizable. Karl sighed inwardly.

Of course. Another Maelstrom psycho who didn't consider themselves human. Old acquaintances.

He was tired of killing them. Couldn't they pick a different target for once?

No one knew what Karl was thinking. Once the Maelstrom driver confirmed their identities, he turned back around, and the vehicle started, heading toward the northern industrial district of Watson—the heart of Maelstrom’s territory.

It seemed that besides whatever leverage they held over her, this employer had even more affairs tangled up with the Maelstrom gang.