Chapter 8: The Maelstrom Job
POV: Tom
Regina's call came three days after the bar fight, her voice carrying the particular tone of someone offering both opportunity and risk in equal measure. Tom answered Betty's communication system while parked outside a Watson noodle stand, trying to decide if synthetic protein was worth the eddies when real food remained frustratingly expensive.
"Mr. Adler. I have a proposition that might interest you."
"Depends on the proposition," Tom replied, though his empty stomach was already voting in favor of whatever paid enough for a decent meal.
"Simple courier work. Maelstrom has requested a neutral party to deliver payment for a weapon shipment. Basic transaction, no violence expected, five thousand eddies for two hours of work."
Tom's enhanced hearing detected the slight emphasis on 'no violence expected'—Regina's way of indicating that violence was definitely possible while maintaining plausible deniability. "Why do they want a neutral party?"
"Internal politics. Apparently there's some question about which faction controls the deal. They want someone with no allegiances to either side." Regina paused. "Your reputation from the warehouse job suggests you can handle unexpected complications."
My reputation. Three weeks in Night City and he already had a reputation. The thought was equal parts encouraging and terrifying.
"Where's the meet?"
"All Foods Factory. Maelstrom territory in Northside. They're expecting you in two hours."
Tom accepted the job despite Judy's concerned expression when he explained the assignment. Maelstrom was Night City's chrome-obsessed gang, known for excessive augmentation, religious devotion to machinery, and levels of cyberpsychosis that made them dangerous even by gang standards. They were exactly the kind of people who would notice unusual chrome and ask uncomfortable questions.
But five thousand eddies would fund his survival for weeks, and his adaptive systems were becoming more sophisticated daily. If things went sideways, he could probably handle whatever Maelstrom threw at him.
Probably.
All Foods Factory squatted in Northside like a monument to industrial decay, its massive structure bearing the scars of corporate warfare and gang occupation. Tom parked Betty a safe distance away, maintaining their connection while approaching on foot. The factory's security was immediately apparent—automated turrets, motion sensors, and enough electronic signatures to power a small neighborhood.
Techno-Sovereignty range, Tom noted as his augmented senses catalogued defensive systems. I could disable most of their security from here if necessary.
The Maelstrom guards at the factory entrance were exactly what his game memories had suggested—excessive chrome modification pushed to the edge of humanity. Red optical implants glowed with targeting data, subdermal armor created geometric ridges beneath synthetic skin, and their movements carried the mechanical precision of people whose nervous systems had been extensively rewired.
"You the courier?" The lead guard's voice carried electronic harmonics that suggested vocal cord replacement.
"Tom Adler. Regina Jones sent me."
"Brick's expecting you. Try not to stare at the chrome—rude to comment on someone's upgrades without invitation."
Tom followed the guards through corridors filled with the particular atmosphere of controlled violence. Maelstrom members worked on vehicles, weapons, and each other with equal enthusiasm, performing maintenance that blurred the line between mechanical repair and surgical procedure. The air smelled of machine oil, ozone, and something organic that Tom preferred not to identify.
Chrome worship, his enhanced memories provided. They believe technology is the path to transcendence, that flesh is weakness to be overcome through augmentation.
The thought made Tom uncomfortably aware of his own chrome evolution. Was he becoming exactly what Maelstrom aspired to be?
Brick waited in what had once been the factory's main office, now converted into a chrome shrine decorated with machine parts, religious iconography, and enough weapons to outfit a small army. Brick himself was an impressive example of Maelstrom's philosophy—chrome modifications covered seventy percent of his visible surface, creating patterns that seemed almost artistic in their complexity.
"Tom Adler," Brick said, his optical implants focusing on Tom with mechanical precision. "Regina says you're reliable. We'll see."
"Simple delivery job, right? No complications?"
Brick's expression shifted as his augmented vision analyzed Tom's chrome signature. "Your chrome's... interesting. Custom work?"
Tom felt his defensive systems activate in response to scrutiny. "Something like that."
"Adaptive configuration. Responsive plating. Neural integration beyond standard parameters." Brick leaned closer, his chrome glowing with fascination. "Your chrome's alive. Beautiful."
Shit. He can see what I am. Or at least part of it.
"The job?" Tom asked, trying to redirect Brick's attention from his augmentations.
"Payment for Militech hardware. Royce's crew thinks they deserve a bigger cut. Want you to deliver the eddies and make sure everyone stays civil." Brick handed Tom a credit chip worth more money than he'd ever carried. "Simple mediation between business partners."
The meeting location was deeper in the factory, where Maelstrom's rival factions maintained separate territories within the same building. Tom walked through corridors lined with chrome altars and machine worship displays, his enhanced senses tracking the electronic signatures of dozens of gang members preparing for what clearly wasn't going to be a peaceful business transaction.
Regina said no violence expected. She definitely meant the opposite.
Royce waited in a maintenance bay surrounded by enough firepower to level a city block. Like Brick, he was extensively modified, but his chrome carried a more aggressive aesthetic—weapon integration, targeting systems, and modifications that prioritized combat effectiveness over artistic expression.
"The courier," Royce said, examining Tom with the expression of someone evaluating a potential threat. "You're carrying our payment?"
"Payment for both factions, as agreed," Tom replied, though his enhanced hearing was picking up movement in the adjacent rooms. "Brick wants to ensure fair distribution."
"Brick wants to cheat us out of what's ours. Payment's supposed to be split 60-40, not 50-50." Royce's chrome flared with aggressive coloration. "We did the heavy lifting on this deal."
Tom's tactical analysis subroutines were screaming warnings. This wasn't internal politics—it was a planned ambush disguised as a business dispute. Royce's crew was positioned for a firefight, and Tom was standing in the middle of the kill zone.
"Maybe we can work out a compromise," Tom suggested, though his adaptive systems were already preparing for violence.
"Compromise is weakness," one of Royce's lieutenants declared, drawing a weapon that hummed with smart ammunition targeting systems. "Flesh is weakness. Only chrome endures."
The first shot came from behind Tom—Royce's crew had surrounded him while he'd been focused on negotiations. The smart round struck him in the shoulder, spinning him around with impact that should have shattered bone and severed arteries.
Instead, Tom's Adaptive Cyberware activated with dramatic efficiency.
Chrome flowed across the impact site like liquid metal, creating protective plating that gleamed with defensive enhancement. The wound sealed itself in seconds, leaving armor where flesh had been. Tom stood up, chrome spreading visibly across his body as his augmentations responded to threat assessment.
The gunfire stopped. Every Maelstrom member in the room stared at Tom as his chrome evolved in real-time, building defenses against the specific ammunition that had struck him. They'd witnessed standard cyberware before, but Tom's technology was adapting, learning, becoming more sophisticated with each passing second.
"Holy shit," someone whispered. "His chrome's evolving."
Tom looked down at his arms, where metallic tracery had spread to cover sixty percent of his visible skin. The patterns pulsed with blue light, creating geometric designs that seemed almost artistic. He could feel his systems cataloguing the weapon signatures, ammunition types, and threat parameters of everyone in the room.
"I'm becoming exactly what they worship. Living proof that chrome can transcend human limitations."
Brick entered the maintenance bay with his own crew, weapons drawn but not aimed. His optical implants were recording everything, capturing footage of Tom's adaptation for later analysis.
"Blessed by the machine," Brick said softly, his voice carrying religious awe. "Chrome that learns, flesh that transcends. You're proof that evolution is possible."
"I'm proof that Night City makes monsters out of everyone," Tom replied, though he was fascinated by his own transformation. His chrome had responded to multiple threat signatures simultaneously, creating layered defenses that should have been impossible with standard augmentation.
"Monster?" Royce laughed, lowering his weapon. "Brother, you're the next stage of human development. Chrome that adapts, technology that evolves. Maelstrom's been searching for this kind of advancement for years."
Tom looked around the maintenance bay, where two dozen chrome-enhanced gang members were staring at him with expressions ranging from religious fervor to predatory interest. He'd come here to deliver payment and avoid violence. Instead, he'd revealed abilities that marked him as either a miracle or a target.
Probably both.
"The payment," Tom said, holding out the credit chip. "Business first."
Brick and Royce reached for the chip simultaneously, then looked at each other with expressions that promised future violence. Tom split the difference, handing half the payment to each faction leader.
"Compromise," Tom said. "Everyone gets something, nobody gets everything. Welcome to Night City economics."
Royce examined his portion of the payment, then looked at Tom with something approaching respect. "You ended our dispute without choosing sides. Impressive diplomacy for someone who just demonstrated enough firepower to level this building."
"I'm not here to pick fights. Just here to survive."
"Survival is evolution," Brick declared. "Your chrome proves that. Would you consider sharing your knowledge with Maelstrom? We could learn much from your adaptation."
Tom considered the offer carefully. Aligning with Maelstrom would provide protection and resources, but it would also mark him as affiliated with Night City's most visibly cyberpsychotic gang. On the other hand, they seemed to view his chrome evolution as religious miracle rather than threat to be eliminated.
"I'll visit occasionally," Tom said finally. "Answer questions, share what I know. But I'm not joining any gang."
"Understood," Brick replied. "Alliance, not membership. Maelstrom respects strength, and you've demonstrated considerable strength."
Tom's communication system activated with Regina's voice. "Mr. Adler? Status report."
"Job completed. Payment delivered. Minimal complications."
"Minimal complications." Regina's tone suggested she was reviewing security footage. "You're making interesting friends, Tom. Maelstrom doesn't usually let outsiders walk away from internal disputes."
"I think they were more interested in my chrome than my diplomatic skills."
"Your chrome continues to be fascinating to everyone except you, apparently. We should discuss future opportunities that leverage your unique qualifications."
Tom left All Foods Factory with the unsettling awareness that he'd gained dangerous allies and an even more dangerous reputation. Maelstrom saw him as living proof that their chrome worship had merit, that technology could indeed transcend human limitations. The gang would protect him as long as he remained useful, but they would also study him, analyze him, and possibly try to replicate his abilities.
Every alliance in Night City comes with a price. Question is whether the price is worth paying.
Driving Betty through Northside's industrial wasteland, Tom caught his reflection in the side mirror. Chrome covered fifty percent of his visible skin now, creating intricate patterns that pulsed with soft blue light. His eyes held a metallic sheen that threw back neon illumination in geometric fragments.
He was becoming something beautiful and terrible, a fusion of human consciousness and adaptive technology that challenged every assumption about the relationship between flesh and machine. Maelstrom's chrome worship suddenly made perfect sense—if technology could grant transcendence, then Tom was living proof that evolution was possible.
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