— Atom —
"How'd it feel, V? And how'd it perform?" I asked.
"YEAH, FULL AAR, YOU LUCKY-ASS V-BRAT," Smasher helpfully rumbled. "DON'T GET LAZY ON US NOW. I CAN'T HAVE MY NEW FRAME LACKIN'."
"Your new frame?" I rolled my eyes. "Eventually. Maybe. Me and mine are getting them first. Right now? Sit, suffer, shut up, cope, and seethe, Head-Ass."
"FUCKIN' MEAT-CLONE CUNT TRYING TO KEEP A LEGEND DOWN…" Smasher grumbled.
"Whatever, Head-Ass," I shot back with a challenge. "Do something about it."
"… IF I STILL HAD HANDS, I'D CRUSH YOUR DAMN SKULL."
"You'd try."
"Oh, calm down, boys. You're both lethal as Hell," V chuckled as she dismounted the Mekton prototype before practically gushing over the new toy I'd given her.
"He's a dream, by the way. Just the bestest boy! The connection was solid. The movements were smooth. The armor held up. And I'm loving the full-auto Gauss rifle! That baby spits slugs that wreck slugs!"
"He?" I asked. "Already anthropomorphizing it? You do realize this one is still just a prototype, right? We can get you a better one once we've improved the design."
"Nah, nah, nah!" V held up her arms in an X-shape. "He's my bestest boy! I've only had him for a day, but I WILL flatline for him!"
"HEH," Smasher chuckled. "I FELT THE SAME WAY ABOUT MY DAIONI-BABY. NOTHING LIKE A BAD MOTHERFUCKING FRAME TO GET YA FEELIN' POSSESSIVE."
I sighed, "Sure, get attached to the prototype, why not? Keep it, I guess. Just give me a proper AAR so I can start working on Gen2."
"On it, boss-choom~!" V happily chimed in a singsong tone. "I'll get you all the detes you need from Proto to get to work on a bestest boy of your own!"
"'Course you've already named it… Whatever," I grunted. "Quickly now. I want Gen2 to be ready to join in the closing act here. Mektons will lead this last charge for Nar Shaddaa. They'll stand as one Hell of a warning to the Hutts for what's to come."
Deep in the black-budget labs of Arasaka, Night City history was being made. My Mekton project couldn't have had more resources if Arasaka tried. When he heard about my plans, Saburo hadn't hesitated to hand me everything. A blank check, all of his corp's best tools, and a veritable battalion of Arasaka's best minds in all of the fields, theory and practice — physics, engineering, material science, weapons development, cyberware, programming; you name it, the cream of Arasaka's crop was made freely available to me.
More than that, these were the mavericks and misunderstood geniuses, even among Arasaka's black budget teams. They were the ones liable to get bored with 'reasonable projects' and 'incremental increases' and 'necessary developments'. And that was 'reasonable, incremental, and necessary' by corpo black budget standards…
Collectively, they had a name and a rep in Arasaka's R&D departments. 'Womp-Rat-Works'. They'd get results, to be sure. But mostly when doing something everyone else thought was impossible. Anything else would likely be considered 'boring' and they'd end up turning a mass-produced speeder into a stealth, nuclear-armed miracle (or abomination, depending on who you asked) that could also transform into a starfighter and make real attempts at breaking the lightspeed barrier under its own power.
Even with Inspired Inventor+ in my corner and an Upgrade-enhanced mind, I found my new staff somewhat intimidating. I was cheating (without shame, I'd note); they were just that good already. These were the smartest people that the smartest people you knew, knew. They were the best of the best, with the best of the best at their disposal. Corpo black budgets didn't fuck around at all, and Womp-Rat-Works were blackhole-black.
Without them, and Arasaka's resources when it came to experimental production, I wouldn't have been able to make my Mekton vision a reality. Certainly not within such a tight timeframe. In less than a month, Mektons had gone from a dream in my mind to a prototype worth testing. And while I was the driving force and idea behind the project, the staff were the legs that got it up and running.
Of course, I'd had to make one significant concession to get so much free rein from Saburo and Arasaka. At the end of the project, the general patent for Mektons was theirs to do what they would with. Theirs to produce and utilize and improve and maybe even sell to the highest bidders in limited numbers eventually.
It was only fair, considering they were putting in the Hutt's share of the project's effort and resources. It wasn't like I, or even the Gonk Cartel as a whole, could actually build the monstrous and miraculous war machines alone. I'd still get a percentage payout from each Mekton produced as royalties at the very least.
And it wasn't like I was planning on breaking the Gonk Cartel's most important alliance anytime soon, either. Never, if I could help it. The corp brought too much to the table, and I was fond of some of their people. V, at least. Saburo was someone I didn't want as an enemy, for sure. And Smasher… Well, Adam Fucking Smasher was certainly… part of that equation as well.
Ultimately, the revolutionary examples of heavy iron — steel, as V was calling it — would be a Problem™ for the corp's enemies, not their allies. I trusted Saburo not to shoot himself in the foot for profit in this case. Mektons were too new, too unique, too advantageous, and too expensive (for now) to treat like the rest of Arasaka's war profiteering catalog. We wouldn't be running up against a Hutt in a Mek anytime soon, if ever (the prospect wasn't even possible with how I'd designed the Mektons).
Reassuringly, Saburo had readily shared that he intended to keep Mektons mostly internal to Arasaka. An elite weapon for their elite forces. But even as an Arasaka asset, Mektons would come back to us at cost — a gesture that the Emperor considered prudent to keep the goodwill flowing and ties going strong between Arasaka and the Gonks.
As for the Mektons themselves, as a concept… well, they came to me in a dream. A strangely specific and rather targeted dream… A vision of things to come, heavily featuring the heavy iron, the steel mechs. I had my suspicions about the source, especially after I felt the Force giddily giggling when I woke up.
That intangible, unknowable, ethereal aspect of the galaxy wanted big, bad-ass, and brutal stompy robots. The idea spoke to me, too, on a damn-near primal level. Who was I to deny the galaxy and myself that dream?
The vision itself took some time for me to digest. I'd likely never get completely used to the Force being so ever-present and ever-involved in the life I lived in this Galaxy Far, Far Away. But actual precognition was a step further, still.
Unclear portents, cryptic signs, and an open puzzle for me to solve. All I'd seen was centered around Mektons, even before I was given the inspiration for them. But the various visionary circumstances around the mechs had just as much of my focus as the Mektons themselves.
I saw a neon-lit moon from space, set directly against the planet it orbited. Behind the moon, behind Nar Shaddaa, a fleet of Mektons stood strongly and openly with their resistance. Individualized examples of steel, propping up the moon that threw off its chains. Between the moon and the planet, space and the war within it had turned cold, tense, treacherous, and highly contested.
From there, the vision pulled back and away to a God's Eye view of the galaxy. A faceless slug coiled and choked off a significant portion of the stars I saw. Then, from its heart, sizeable swathes of flesh were carved away from the slug by iron, chrome, and steel hands.
It wasn't just a guide to my dreaming mind. It was a promise. But the slug was far from the only threat I foresaw to that promise.
From the galaxy's core, its beating heart, dark tendrils reached outward. Some were pitch-black and practically invisible against the blackness of the void. Others were backlit, either by corruptly misguided pinpricks of light or a black sun straight out of the heart's underworld. And as the tendrils reached for that rebellion born in the heart of a slug, the chaos of absolute war overtook the galaxy.
Steel stood against Dark, Light, and Chaos. I saw flashes of Mektons on the battlefield, punching high above their weight class. I saw Jedi and hidden Sith, Republic and Separatist, and Gonks forging their own way through it all. I saw expendable assets: masses of clones, chained, and masses of droids, likewise. I saw a new power, an expanding empire, threatened and supported in equal measure, from equal corners of the galaxy.
Then, all around the galaxy's Outer Rim, I saw Mighty Leia's Stars rear their oppressed heads. I saw that She was very, very real, a Force deity for her chained siblings, and that She'd bided her time for much too long. Spring came to the Rim, and with it, a sort of liveliness that the galaxy had scarcely ever seen.
Rising, rising, Mighty Leia's Outer Rim Spring wouldn't be denied. The chains that held her too many mortal siblings would be broken. The Stars, the pieces of herself, bestowed upon them would shine free.
The true course of the future was in constant flux. Grand plans were executed and altered and thwarted and reforged. But through it all, Mektons — steel — marched and stomped and stood in the margins. They — we — faded in and out of the galaxy's focus. Sometimes, we were on the frontlines. Sometimes, we were standing in the shadows. Always, steel weathered the storm, the Force promised.
I woke with that promise set in the back of my mind. A constant that'd always been there, and just been noticed, simultaneously. Inspiration and direction sprang from that promise and vision. Suddenly, I knew where I had to spend the Inspired Inventor+ points I'd been stacking.
I still wasn't sure what the actual deal was with Inspired Inventor+. It was separate from the Force, from the Galaxy Far, Far Away, but… not, at the same time…? The Force saw it, knew it, and could guide me in its matters, but II was still enacting its miracles on its own power.
If I had to put the strange sitch into words, it felt like the Force had been struck by glorious novelty. Now, it was enjoying itself as it watched me grow through II, and it wasn't above influencing that show with curious pokes and prods.
For Mektons, I wouldn't have known they were possible without that encouragingly eager push from the Force. Somehow, it seemed to know the system better than I consciously did myself. I found myself trusting the Force to direct me where to invest the II points in the system it only had access to through me. It was a strange sitch, but not necessarily an unwelcome one, to have help I could inherently trust even in the oddest area of my Life Far, Far Away.
Considering that I hadn't had a single real moment to rest in this new life I lived, any aid I could trust was… appreciated… So much happened, so constantly and so quickly, that I often forgot I was mere months past the point I'd woken up in the gutter of Night City.
When reality seemed utterly determined to blitz me to the breaking bone, and I was similarly, spitefully, determined to survive and thrive through it all, there wasn't a tool at my disposal that I was above using to its fullest potential — Force, Inspired Inventor+, or my sheer spiteful spirit.
At the time of my mech-dream, a week into our push outward from Night City, I'd had four II points to spend — one for the week's progress, one for (unfortunately) being elected as Night City's mayor, one for meeting/negotiating with Dooku, and one for the general War for Nar Shaddaa. With the Force's nudging and my own desire for big, stompy robots, all of them went into [Cyberpunk 2180 Mekton III].
That rush of inspiration, knowledge, and skill — that I hadn't realized was possible — was intense. My memories of Night City from another life hadn't faded to nearly the same vague degree as my memories of the galaxy at large. Mostly due to proximity and actually living them, I guessed. Still, all of that out-of-context knowledge was based around 2077, not 2180.
Now, I had a whole new century of progress and a revolutionary new field at my beck and call. Cutting-edge shit that was letting me bring the Night City I knew into a new age. Advanced myomer tech, weapons tech, vast improvements in materials science, and even ideas for 'livemetal' nanotech-based chrome.
As I set about making my new inspiration a reality with Arasaka's help, that chrome was where my next II point went. The week ticked over, and I immediately invested in [Cyberware II]. Alone, it wouldn't have been enough, but blended with [Mekton III]…?
The investment was necessary to realize my Mekton vision, too. Even the blackest, most experimental neural chrome and cyberdecks Arasaka had hidden away couldn't keep up with Mektons. Livemetal chrome was the answer I pushed for that initial problem in development.
Arasaka was likely thanking me for that advancement even more than they were thanking me for everything else that went into a functional Mekton. Mektons were revolutionary, but (much, much) better cyberware? That shit was practical, and could be effectively applied to everything else Night City knew. Ultimately, Chrome was still the language Night City spoke most fluently, alongside violence.
Mekton development progressed as quickly as the War for Nar Shaddaa waged on, thanks to the absolute insanity of an inspired and invested Womp-Rat-Works. I contributed where I could, but I unfortunately couldn't devote my whole focus to the project. Still, my vision was the blueprint, and with unlimited funding (and unlimited engineering insanity), we had a functional prototype in less than a month.
I gained two more II points in that time. The first was invested in [Tech Integration I] to help smooth over some interaction issues between the Mekton's myomers and repulsorlifts (My mechs would fly, dammit), along with issues projecting a deflector shield while the Mekton was in motion. The latter was put on the back burner for now, to test the prototype and secure proof of concept. But I had no intention of pushing out Gen2 without them being shielded as well as any starship.
The second and most recent II point I'd gained was invested in [Mechu Deru II] so I could actually pilot my future steel alongside the best Livemetal interfaces. I was not about to lose out on my big, stompy robot after I'd made it a reality.
I was committed to my Force Alchemy and 'ganic Upgrade, which didn't interact very well with chrome for me, Livemetal or not. But I was already able to 'fake' that step through the Force with [Mechu Deru I] for most things standard chrome was used for. [II] gave me the skill, finesse, and general capability to up that 'Force faking' just a little bit beyond the new Livemetal chrome, and was more than enough to directly and effectively connect me to my future steel.
Inspired Inventor+
Humanity [Maxed]
Scavenging I
Scrapyard Mechanics I
Emergency/Improvised Medical Care II
Cyberware I [+1] -> II
Brawling (Weapons Varied) I
Force Healing II
Genetic Engineering (Evolutionary) I
Force Alchemy III
Gun-Fu II
Espionage II
Force Sensitivity IV
Coordination II
Art of the Small II
Shatterpoint III
Delegation I
Material Sciences I
Warfare II
Mechu-Deru I [+1] -> II
PanzerFaust II
Force Pyrokinesis I
[+1] -> Tech Integration I
[+4] -> Cyberpunk 2180 Mekton III
After V's field test of 'Proto', I devoted all of my time and energy to finalizing Gen2 and getting the first run in production, just in time for a climactic and decisive final push to fully secure the moon. Her AAR helped smooth out a few kinks in the connection interface and power distribution, and at the same time, I got the Mektons' deflector shields to work constantly and consistently (none of that 'inactive while moving' shit like a damn droideka).
The final product for Gen2 was armored and shielded, highly mobile, and moved exactly how the pilot directed. It was steel with all the grace or ungrace of flesh and chrome. The steel bones would all be the same, but there wasn't actually one set design. Each Gen2 would be tailored to and customized by its pilot. Mass production would come later, if at all (personally, I wouldn't open that can of slugs if I were Saburo).
To that customing end, I also worked with Womp-Rat-Works to design a truly disgusting arsenal of Mekton-scale weapons. I knew my crew, knew my chooms. Whatever build they personally ended up with, they'd want ALL of the heavy iron to arm it with.
Gauss rifles and railguns, blaster cannons and heavy repeating blasters, scaled-up slugthrowers and scatterguns, missiles and grenades and flamers. Pulse, ballistic, needler, sonic, ionic, disruptor, disintegrator, laser, maser, taser, and of course, the melee options that couldn't be ignored; Womp-Rat-Works delivered only the best. And they must've had quite a bit of fun doing so, considering they just about hailed me as their messiah when I gave them the task.
Though, to be fair, when I broke the news to the crew (having kept the project a surprise for later), Becca had actually hailed me as her personal rimbo savior.
All of my chooms got the chance for their own Mekton. Surprisingly, not all of them took me up on the offer. David apparently had a good thing going with Linth and the Gonk Fleet. Gloria wasn't much of a fighter anyway, and Kiwi was happier in the net than in 'meatspace'. Maine and Dorio refused my offer, too. More and more lately, they were happy to step back and let the crew's younger generation take all the action. I think the oldtimers were finally realizing that retirement wasn't just a dream for edgerunning vets like them.
Still, that left Gen2 steel for me, Sasha, Lucy, and (of course) Becca from the main crew, and Shaitan and Podry from the Core Gonks. V's 'Proto' was upgraded to Gen2 specs, and her right-hand samurai, Isla, was given steel as well. And unfortunately, despite half-hearted negotiations with Saburo, I couldn't stop the Emperor from giving his monster a bad-ass new murder-frame.
And so, the short but amusing era of 'disembodied' Smasher came to an end, just in time for the Hutt Hit List's final countdown.
IIIII
— Smasher —
Smooth. That was Smasher's first thought as he was slotted into his new murder-frame. His meat-clone hadn't done half bad.
Supreme. That was his second. This 'Mekton', this 'steel'…? It was better than any frame he'd ever worn, even his DaiOni baby.
Slaughter. That wasn't a thought. It was a statement of fact. It was plain reality. It was a guarantee that even the most brain-dead meat-fucker could put eddies on.
Steel… Yeah, Smasher could get behind this shit. 'Bout time there was a proper revolution in murder-frames. Metal was the only way Smasher could, andwould, exist. For the longest time, that metal had been chrome — 2-and-a-half measly meters of it, and just a paltry ton of mass.
Now, his steel frame was more true to what his murderin' ass rightfully deserved. Fuck a few meters; he rocked 10. Fuck a ton; he rocked 40. All matte-black — the only real color — with a properly glaring red optic and the look of a proper menace.
Finally, he had something that lived up to and surpassed his Legend. Not a step forward; a jump-boosted leap. He wasn't even all that mad about being relegated to a trophy for a while. Sure, the meat-clone would still pay for that, but Smasher would let him off with a simple beating. Steel like this earned him at least that much… mercy…
"How is the connection, Smasher-sama?" Kento asked.
"LIKE A MEAT-FUCKING GLOVE," Smasher replied, enjoying how his voice vibrated from the new frame's speakers.
It was fortunate that Kento was brought in on the Mekton project. Smasher wouldn't have tolerated any other fumblin'-ass ripper messing with his biopod. Kento had worked with him for decades now, the meat-doc closer to the end of his 'natural' lifespan than the beginning. Smasher was as fond of him as he could be fond of meat.
It was hard to find good help like Kento — help that knew him and feared him as they should, but not so much that it affected their work. Smasher didn't have the time or energy to spare on finding another doc. So it was a damn good thing that Kento took it upon himself to train his successor. That nephew of his needed work, but Smasher would… tolerate him, eventually. For Kento.
Besides, the old doc still had a few decades in him. His hands were still steady, and his mind was still sharp. He'd even shown himself able and willing to adapt to this new steel revolution. Smasher could appreciate that kind of good work and dedication to a Legend.
Kento's eyes flickered to the diagnostic readouts beside him, "That is good to hear, Smasher-sama. Can you give me a soft reboot anyway? Just the Mekton frame, not your venerable consciousness, of course."
"OFF AND ON, COMING UP," Smasher grunted.
He was used to the process of switching frames. Chrome — now steel — needed to be treated nice and easy initially. A poorly calibrated frame was one that was barely worth wearing. He cooperated almost automatically, 'cause he knew Kento knew his shit. Still, the deference was appreciated.
Smasher's connection to the steel frame flickered. In the brief instant, Smasher was encased in a steel coffin. It wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as he anticipated. He always knew he was destined to be buried in chrome. Steel wasn't so different.
Feedback from the new Livemetal uplink cut out. Before meat could blink, it came back with a familiar hum of data. Advanced-ass myomers went slack for fractions of a second before tensing under his power again. Sensors to put his old frame to shame barely stuttered, kept passively online for that instant of reboot by just his bio-pod's power generation. The soft reboot came back 'Systems Green', and Kento nodded in satisfaction.
"Very good. I see no problems. But your experience is the authority here, Smasher-sama. Please tell me if you notice anything that I cannot."
"NAH," Smasher shook his massive new head, almost as tall as Kento on the maintenance catwalk beside him. "I'M SYNCED UP TO 100 ALREADY. HATE TO GIVE OUT CREDIT, BUT THIS BABY IS PERFECT. DOWN TO THE LAST DETAIL. DON'T TELL MY MEAT-CLONE."
"Never," Kento almost sounded offended by the idea. "Your confidence is mine to keep."
"…" Pointedly, Smasher turned his head to the armory on the opposite wall of the hangar. "LET'S GET ME UP AND ARMED, KENTO. EVEN IN STEEL, I STILL FEEL NAKED WITHOUT IRON."
Kento just nodded, "Arasaka has made sure you will always be dressed to impress, Smasher-sama."
Smasher snorted, "REAL. I'LL ALWAYS BE READY FOR THE BLOOD-RED CARPET. GIVE 'EM ONE LAST LOOK AT ACTUAL FASHION BEFORE I MURDER 'EM DEAD."
Smooth as a meat-frame Smasher barely remembered, he stepped out of the Mekton bay. The steel didn't fight him at all. He thought, and it moved. It wasn't just a frame, Smasher realized. It was him, connecting on an inherent level only made possible by Livemetal that surpassed any chrome.
Old Man Saburo hadn't spared a single credit in Mekton development and production. If Smasher were as soft as meat, he would've thought the Old Man was so invested in the project just for him. The Livemetal advancements were likely just as important as getting him a new murder-frame, though, even Smasher could acknowledge that.
Towering over the black budget hangar, Smasher picked up a weapon. A real weapon. Blasters got the job done as well as most other systems, but Smasher had always been partial to actual ballistics. The beautiful insanity of Womp-Rat-Works delivered there for him in full.
His first choice was a twinned system, overwhelming firepower for each arm. A pair of Gause autocannons — not merely rifles — that were as long as his new murder-frame was tall. They weren't even held in the hand; instead, strapped straight to steel arms. They spat hypersonic tungstun slugs that would overpen a metal-damned capital ship. Works of murderin' art, in Smasher's very experienced opinion.
An over-the-shoulder-mounted disruptor followed for closer range engagements. 'Cause if you couldn't blast massive holes in something, make it cease to exist on a molecular level. A missile box slotted onto his other shoulder. Explosions were never remiss, and Smasher could load it up with a variety of warheads for all occasions.
Comparatively tiny laser defense systems were mounted across his upper torso, and Smasher stepped into the custom-prepared loading system to make sure his internal bins were filled to the brim with ammo, adding a few more glorious tons to his glorious new weight.
If all of that capital-class iron somehow failed him (or if he felt like it), he still had fuck-off big fists of steel to finish any job. As it all settled into place on his new frame, data fed straight into his mind, Smasher knew he'd never go back after feeling this steel.
Locked and loaded, Smasher stepped back into the center of the hangar. He flexed his metal muscles and stretched his metal murder-frame. Impossibly, almost 50 tons of metal bounced in place as the frame's repulsorlifts answered his whim to make him as light as a meat boxer.
He pinged Arasaka's system with his new comms, checking in and looking for orders. There, he found a present from Old Man Saburo waiting for him. Open permission to join the fun, to partake in the Gonks' final push for Nar Shaddaa. Smasher's cold, murderin' heart grew three sizes in that moment.
He accessed the Gonks' Hutt Hit List database. 50 names remained. Impossible and shocking progress to some. Smasher didn't care. All that mattered was that it wasn't too late for him to rack up a properly Legendary slug KDR.
His glaring red optic flared, "LET'S. FUCKIN'. ROCK."
IIIII
Rows of powerful electromagnets engaged in sequential tandem with the pull of a pair of triggers. Dense slugs were accelerated to truly awesome and absurd speeds in insignificant fractions of a second. The hypersonic projectiles smashed through a durasteel-armored wall like it was flimsy paper. The noise of overpenetrating destruction was deafening. It was glorious.
The meat behind the wall thought it was safe. It didn't realize that Death had come for it. It would never get the chance, reaped before the meat could process its own butchery.
His new sensors had pinpointed the slug in its bunker. Thick walls, jamming systems, even old-fashioned silence; nothing hid it from Smasher's sight. Midway up a skyscraper, Smasher's new murder-frame held a hover. And with the barest calculations necessary — mostly murderin' instinct — he let loose hypersonic fury.
An abominable pair of CRACKS resounded as if the world itself was breaking apart. As far as the slug had to be concerned, it was. Everything inside was turned out. Overwhelming kinetic force tore straight through that floor of the building, the bunker at the center, and out the other side.
Barely, the building as a whole held itself together. But the targeted floor all but imploded as the Gauss cannon slugs cored it, leaving a vacuum in its wake that sucked a slurry of meat right out the other side.
Smasher relished in the destruction, the murder. Truly, there was no penetration like overpenetration. Slumbo the Slum-King Hutt died before realizing his position was compromised, without realizing that he was hunted by the best.
Smasher's comms checked in with the Gonks' system and updated the Hutt Hit List with his confirmed kill. Already, it was down from 50 to 45.
Smasher scowled, "DAMN-FUCKING SHAME ONLY ONE OF THOSE IS MINE… TIME TO PICK UP THE PACE. I AIN'T LETTING MYSELF BE SHOWN UP BY MEAT…"
Another target was selected at random from the list. Kudeen, Lord of Industry. Damned slugs loved their titles. Didn't matter to Smasher, though. He'd rip meat to shreds and erase titles and names from history. He didn't just murder the meat; he murdered the rep, too. Inglorious, ignoble, insignificantly trifling-ass deaths were all that awaited the last Hutts on Nar Shaddaa.
He took off at speed for his second target. His steel flew better than any speeder, unsurpassed in speed and metal-damned grace like his ass was dancing through the airways of the city-moon.
Below, his sensors pinged off a battle. IFF cut in immediately, identifying 'friend' — Mox bitches who flew Gonk colors like the rest of Night City — and foe — a Hutt and his mercs who were holding their ground for now.
Smasher jumped on the detour and chance for another murder tallied in his name. The Mox 'friends' were wreaking havoc on the mercs, but the Hutt at the center sat half embedded in a hover tank that the bitches didn't have the heavy iron to deal with immediately. Generous and kind as he was, Smasher decided to help the bitches out. Who knew, maybe he'd even get some meat on his giant metal cock outta this.
With barely a twitch of thought, his Mekton dove, swooping down into the center of the violence. He came in feet-first, boosting downward with angled jets as he cut the frame's repulsorlifts. 50 tons of murder reasserted itself on gravity just in time to slam into and through the Hutt and its hover tank.
Armor sheared and shattered under the weight of steel. Meat poofed in a cloud of glorious gore. Death from fraggin' above. He was makin' paste. A metal-damn masterchef of murder. The crash brought the fight to an abrupt halt. Amateurs. Didn't really come back to bite the Mox bitches, though, not when the enemy target was already a stain beneath Smasher's metal bulk.
Meat gaped openly at him, stuck in their pathetic 'shocked' subroutines. The enemy mercs were quickest to react. They tried to surrender, though, and that was just no fun at all.
Smasher's shoulder-mounted disruptor swiveled onto target. A concentrated beam of molecular-bond-disrupting energy popped off with a quick succession of lethal hums. The meat mercs didn't burn, they didn't break; they evaporated into their constituent meat molecules.
In an instant, stunned silence reigned over the former battlefield. The Mox bitches froze staring at him, and Smasher could practically taste their fear and awe (these steel sensors might've been better than Smasher initially realized…).
"FUCK-MEAT," Smasher growled. "WHICH SLUG WAS THIS?"
One of the Mox bitches — a tasty number with classic looks, good chrome, and subtle pastel coloring rather than the garish neon fashion these days — found her chrome balls and stepped in front of her sisters to glare up at him.
"Muskhai, the Musk," She said. Smasher almost rolled his glaring optic. Stupid-ass slugs with their stupid-ass names and stupid-ass titles.
She continued with more challenge than fear in her voice, "And who the fuck are you, 'Borg? You stole our flatline."
Smasher snorted, "SMASHER. YOU KNOW ME. BE FASTER NEXT TIME."
Even as her sisters physically flinched back at his Legend, the lead Mox bitch didn't back down, "Smasher? Last I heard, you were just a head and biopod. You've gotten bigger."
"NEW MURDER-FRAME," Smasher chuckled. "STEEL. IT'S PUT ME IN A GOOD MOOD, COUNT YOURSELF LUCKY. COME FIND ME AFTER TONIGHT'S FUN IF YOU'RE FEELIN' EXPERIMENTAL, MOXIE FUCK-MEAT. WE'LL SEE IF I CAN SLOT A MR. MAGNUM-STUDD ON THIS BABY AND HAVE OURSELVES A LITTLE ENCORE."
That brought the fuck-meat up short, but Smasher could tell when a bitch was curious. Interested. A Mox bitch like her wouldn't easily turn down a cock as big as her whole fuck-meat frame.
In a whir of jumpboosters and reactivated repulsorlifts, Smasher left her with that offer. A productive detour, Smasher considered, as he resumed his initial course to the second Hutt target. He was up two, now, and the Hutt Hit List was still at 43. He'd gotten himself a bit of entertainment for after the violence, as well. She'd show. Smasher would bet on it.
Mere minutes later, he slammed it onto another active battlefield. But here, he had actual competition. This 'Kudeen, Lord of Industry' had a whole-ass fortress to his name, based around one of the factories that likely gave him his title. And even under siege, the production lines were still churning. Droid-driven hover tanks were rolling right outta the factory and into battle.
Two companies of hover tanks held the defensive line around the fortress-factory. They were joined by an even dozen emplaced defenses — blaster turrets and parked missile boats. The area in front of the factory was an unbreachable killzone for any meat.
Good thing the attacking forces were steel, then, not meat. Smasher saw the V-brat's Gen2-updated Proto, and two other Gen2 Mektons attacking with her.
The first belonged to Isla, a squat and sturdy Mek with its 'head' set into its chest. It was less form-forward than Smasher would've expected from most other Arasaka samurai. But efficiency of function had a 'form' all its own. It looked like a tough little fucker. Not enough iron, though. Just a Mek-scale vibroblade strapped to its forearm and a Mek-scale blaster rifle that was shooting a stream of ionized plasma to put any ship-grade blaster cannon to shame. 4/10.
The second belonged to that fellow full-borg who thought he was some sort of rival to Smasher. Fat fraggin' chance. Shaitan was good. Legend. But Smasher had no rivals, not even his own damn meat-clone.
He'd admit that Shaitan's steel was a beaut', though. It shared an overall form with V's Proto, but Shaitan had still made it his own. 9 meters tall and 45-odd tons, Smasher estimated. His steel still had Shaitan's beat. Shaitan was rockin' the proper level of heavy iron, though, with a belt-fed ballistic autocannon on his right arm, a mean-lookin' melee shield on the left, and secondary weapon systems galore across the rest of his frame. 8/10.
Smasher's comm systems immediately pinned the other Meks on the field, "CLEAR A FRAGGIN' PATH, CHILDREN. DADDY'S HERE."
"Oh, Hell no! None of that! Absolutely not! Bad Smasher!" V snapped back.
"I mean…" Heh. He could hear V's right-hand samurai blush over the comms.
"… Isla, as his handler, you're forbidden from ever being alone with Smasher," V ordered. "Heard?"
Isla sighed even as she continued to tear into the horde of hover tanks with slagging streams of plasma fire, "Heard, sir… Heard and acknowledged."
"HA! DON'T HATE THE PLAYER OR THE GAME, V-BRAT!"Barking a laugh, Smasher aimed his Gauss cannons at the emplaced defenses, destroying each in a single shot.
"You hardly need more reason to be hated, Smasher," Shaitan stoically quipped.
"I STILL HEAR MY NAME IN YOUR MOUTH," Smasher retorted.
"Hmph," Shaitan made a little noise over the comms, but didn't dispute the statement. Instead, he let violence of action speak for him.
Rapidfire autocannon shells raked across the hover tank formation. Weak points in their brand-new armor were targeted with extreme prejudice and half-decent skill (for someone who wasn't Adam Fucking Smasher). Power cells and tibana gas tanks sparked into fireballs that consumed tank after tank. And to punctuate his statement, Shaitan targeted one tank in particular and made that turret pop, flinging it a dozen meters straight up into the air.
"I have earned my spot as your chief hater," Shaitan's violence said.
"NOT BAD," Smasher grunted. "I'M ZEROING THIS SLUG, THOUGH."
"Are you?" Shaitan replied. A question. A challenge accepted. "We shall see, neh?"
"JUST TRY AND STOP ME."
IIIII
20 down, 30 slugs left. Smasher was up 7. It wasn't enough for his liking. His murderin' was rusty. Damn meat-clone keeping him as a trophy for a whole month of war. He respected the style. He didn't respect the chances at murder that were stolen from him.
Another Hutt flatlined, this one to his shoulder-mounted disruptor. The entire top half — fat head and fat torso — had been vaporized into red steam. Smasher threw the tail meat to the Gonk Ganks who were watching him work. They considered the tail a prime cut. The dog-meats were brutal like that. Let 'em feast.
Up 8. 29-… no, 28 Hutts remained on the list. Immediately, Smasher chose another target, and he was off again. The pace he set would've been punishing for anyone else, weak-ass cunts. But Smasher was having more fun than he'd had in decades.
New murder-frame. Target-rich environment, even if he still had to find them each time. Open permission to murder to his steel heart's content. As the kids would say, this shit was preem.
The whole Gonk Cartel was mobilized right now. And with them, the whole of Night City, too. The writing was clear on the wall. The final countdown was in action. Tonight, the Gonks won the first stage of the war. Tonight, the moon would be theirs. Tonight, Hutts would go extinct on Nar Shaddaa.
The chaos, the violence, the victory; all of it was delicious. And for the first time since the War for Nar Shaddaa began, he wasn't being kept out of the fun.
27 remained. The Hutt Hit List updated again as Smasher pursued his next target. This slug was a 'runner', it seemed. A small, otherwise unnoteworthy light freighter was in the hurried process of lifting off and fleeing the moon. Smasher almost chuckled at the fact that the slug thought that would save it.
As the ship's landing gear left the pad, Smasher took aim. His systems easily tracked the accelerating ship. He gave the slug a few precious moments of hope… Then, he opened fire with hypersonic tungsten slugs, and the starship disintegrated mid-flight.
Up 9. 26 remained-… 25. Smasher thought it was unfortunate that he wasn't the only one on the hunt. That was always his problem with 'allies'. They stole his fraggin' kills.
Whatever. He just had to murder harder, faster, better.
Two more Hutts fell to Smasher's steel in quick succession. He went up 10, then 11. He didn't stop. In the course of his beautiful slaughter, Smasher ran into the other examples of steel on the field.
Two were specialized for slicing and netrunning. His meat-clone's input and potential input — Sasha and Lucy. Sasha's Gen2 was pinkand purple and had cat-ears that were almost spiritually offensive to Smasher's sensibilities. He could respect the steel claws and the forearm blasters, though. 2/10.
Lucy's Gen2 was a sleek and slender thing that seemed outfitted for long-range engagements to suit her netrunning strengths. It wasn't pink, at least, and it had a proper Gauss rifle. Needed more close-range options. 4/10.
Then, Smasher ran into his meat-clone's rimbo input and her steel. There, at least, he approved. Little bitch knew her shit, knew her heavy iron. Her Gen2 had even more guns than his steel, even if they weren't nearly of the same overpowering caliber. She had a Mek-scale Gauss autorifle for her hands, a pair of scaled-up scatterguns in her torso, a maser mounted on her forward shoulder to cook pure meat, and a pair of massive 'fuck-off!' blaster cannons over each shoulder. She even rounded off the proper fucking arsenal with Mek-scaled 'nades and thermal dets.
He'd almost give it a perfect score for someone who wasn't Adam Fucking Smasher. Unfortunately, the rimbo pipsqueak couldn't resist decorating the steel with pink highlights and damned rabbit ears. Still, 9/10.
He ran into the new blood, as well — that Podry kid leading his Freest Legion. He saw the potential that his meat-clone saw in the boy. His Gen2 was practical and hefty, with a shoulder-mounted Gauss cannon as his primary weapon. It looked like it could throw hands. Smasher liked that. 7/10.
The final countdown rolled on, and Smasher racked up his high score. 20 remained, then 15, 10, 5… He was up 13, then 15, 16, 18… Honestly, he hated that his slaughter-fun was coming to an end. He watched the Hutt Hit List tick down.
Shalbim the Remarkable: flatlined.
Hur, Beneficiary of Noble Nepotism: flatlined.
Ronan, Crouching Rancor, Hidden Krayt: flatlined.
Fliska, Queen of the Finest Things: flatlined.
Until only one remained… Goren, Hutt of Rot: contract open.
Smasher prepared himself for the slug-zeroing countdown to reach zero and his fun to end. Strangely, it didn't come. In fact, Smasher had time to reach the final AO, and he saw why the Last Hutt on Nar Shaddaa was holding out so long when he did.
Fucker had a fleet. Not a mismatched thing of smugglers and spacers and pirates. Nah, Goren, Hutt of Rot had a proper Hutt warfleet with warbarges and escort capital ships and a flying fortress as its centerpiece.
All around the final AO, it seemed that the whole Gonk Fleet was here as well, and the battle had devolved into one of grinding attrition. The Gonks were forcing the Hutt warfleet back, but they were unable to strike any real decisive blows. They'd win eventually, but it'd be a pyrrhic victory of retreat, not destruction.
Then, steel began arriving in force alongside Smasher. All 8 of the Gen2s in existence began pounding away at Goren's flagship with increasing effect. Under massed and coordinated fire from experimental 'Womp-Rat-Work-insanity' weapons, the flagship's already flagging shields quickly fell.
Smasher, with twin Gauss cannons and enough ballistic force to crack a mountain, opened up a tear along the flagship's flank. His meat-clone joined him without a word having to pass between them, great fraggin' minds immediately thinking alike. They focused down the torn-open hull, Smasher with Gauss, and Atom with… well, fuck. That was a proton torpedo swarm.
Atom's Gen2 was a mean red thing with a Mek-scale scattergun maglocked to its chest and a pair of Mek-scale Gauss handcannons in each hand. But the real stars of the show came from built-in missile tubes in his shoulders that quickly proved they weren't just packing the usual warheads. 10/10, just for the proton torpedoes. 8.5/10 without 'em.
Blinding miniature stars raced straight for the crack in the flagship's hull. They threaded the gap with ease and detonated within. For a few explosively fleeting moments, those mini-stars bloomed into their full-blown counterparts, and from the outside, the pulsing, sensor-fuzzing flashes of light looked like a damn Night City rave. The whole flagship shook like one, too.
The volley didn't kill the flying fortress of a flagship, but it damn sure sent the vessel running. Limping, more like. It was crippled, but not cored straight through. The tear in the flank had expanded, though, hull and internals vaporized in a clean sphere that left the flagship looking like some starbeast had taken a bite out of it.
Following and escorting their limping flagship, the Hutt warfleet made haste out of Nar Shaddaa's orbital lanes. If they had to jump to hyperspace, Smasher imagined the crippled thing would've smeared itself and its meat crew across dimensions. Unfortunately, it just had to make it to the relative safety of the planet below. Nar Shaddaa might've been secured for the Gonks, but Nal Hutta remained slug territory.
Smasher couldn't help but grin inside his steel. Even if the Murder Countdown for Nar Shaddaa had now hit zero, there would still be plenty of violence to be done. The moon was theirs… but the Slug Wars had only just begun.
IIIII
[AN: Just as a warning, there's only going to be one chapter released this weekend. It's unfortunate, but I try to keep a 5-6 chapter backlog for my patreons. Releasing two this weekend would bring me below that ideal threshold, and since they're paying to support me, I don't want to do them dirty like that. It's not that I've gotten behind on my writing, just that the last two chapters I released on patreon were both 10k-word monsters, and that's put me in the weird situation of getting behind on chapter count, but not word count.
Anyway, thank you for your understanding and continuing to read my writing (and always thank you to my patreons!). The usual two public releases per week will resume next week, I promise.]