The moment the staggering silhouette entered Carl's vision—lurching toward the NCPD cordon like a drunken BD reject—his brain kicked into overdrive.
Could be a cyberpsycho…
Before the thought had even finished forming, the man lifted his head.
He looked like a walking obituary. Face carved with scars deep as grief, skin stretched tight across bone and chrome. Mid-forties, maybe. His eyes—mechanical and ruined—rolled white as bone dice in their sockets. Jagged cracks ringed the augments, flickering with a sickly yellow glow. Like a caution light on a system seconds from overload.
Warning. Something was about to go very, very wrong.
The psycho's head lifted—eyes rolling like loaded dice in a rigged game.
One cop, green as fresh synth-skin, stepped forward. Lexington raised. Voice cracking. "Sir, I'm gonna hafta—"
Gone.
No warning. No telltale whine of a Sandy kicking in. Just void.
Then—reality glitched.
The psycho rematerialized mid-lunge, a ghost made steel. His mantis blade snicked free—a sound like a bone saw biting into spine. The rookie's armor parted like wet paper. Ribcage split. Heart skewered, still pulsing, on the claw's tip. A wet thud as the body hit concrete, eyes frozen wide.
[MANTIS BLADES]
Covert. Carnivorous. The go-to kill tool for mercs who preferred up-close and personal—with a splash of horror show.
"CONTACT—FUCKING KILL IT!"
Lexingtons erupted. Muzzle flares lit the street in strobes. Rounds spanged off the psycho's subdermal plating, throwing sparks like a grinder hitting rebar. He didn't flinch. Didn't scream. Just pivoted, chrome-jointed legs hissing, and moved.
Carl's HUD pinged.
"IDENTITY CONFIRMED: PATRICK BELL. CONDITION: CYBERPSYCHOSIS. THREAT LEVEL: MAXIMUM."
Gasps. Then panic.
Shit—that's the bastard from yesterday!
Patrick's body convulsed—like something inside him rebooted. His head snapped to attention. Eyes glowing now, bright enough to cast shadows. A glitch ran through his movements. Like a machine trying to break free from its own programming.
Then—click—Sandevistan reengaged.
To the cops, he was a smear. A flicker. To Carl? A predator in stop-motion.
The psycho carved through the cordon.
Blurred. A blade lashed out—decapitated a floodlight. Darkness fell. Screams crescendoed.
First kill: A sergeant caught mid-reload. Mantis blade uppercut through his jaw, exiting skull crowned in gore.
Second: A female cop backpedaling. Too slow. The psycho's free hand—hydraulic crush implants—snapped her rifle, then her wrist. A backhanded swing left her head crooked at a biology-defying angle.
Third: A vet diving for cover. No use. The psycho's Sandy sputtered, stuttered—half a second of lag. Just enough for the vet to glimpse death's grin. The blade punched through his badge, his sternum, the pavement beneath. Pinned him like a butterfly in a Insect's collection.
"MAXTAC'S 20 OUT—WE'RE MEAT!" someone howled.
The psycho's head twitched—neuralware misfiring. Yellow static crackled in his optics. He ripped the blade free, flecking the air with bloodmist.
That's when Carl saw it: the tell.
Overclocking.
Subdermal plating glowed cherry-red at the seams. Synth-muscles trembled, fibers snapping. Sandy wasn't built for this—three bursts in 30 seconds? This thing was cooking itself alive.
But the cops didn't see. Just more cannon fodder. A rookie tossed a frag.
Bad move.
The psycho snatched it mid-air. Crushed the grenade. Detonation? A muffled pop, smothered by his palm. His arm blew off at the elbow.
No scream. No pain. Just a mangled stump spitting coolant and sparks.
Then—he laughed. A digitized bark, glitching between static and a man's voice.
"…l-l-little…fireworks…"
The remaining cops froze. Even chaos held its breath.
Carl's HUD flared: [THREAT PROFILE UPDATED: NEURAL COLLAPSE IMMINENT].
The psycho's remaining blade twitched. Targeting recalibrating.
And then—
The crowd detonated.
Civilians bolted like rats in a sinking AV. The NCPD rep—who had just been praising their valor—threw his dignity to the ground and scrambled over the broadcast van.
The food vendor flipped his cart and ran. Noodles and napkins filled the air.
Half-eaten meals. Screams. Scattered tech. Chaos flooded the block.
And Carl?
Carl looked at the sushi bag in his hand. The inari rolls inside still intact. Couldn't let those get stomped. He set the bag down gently on the edge of the table. Then turned back toward the storm.
Because everyone else was running away.
Carl walked into it.
Facing a cyberpsycho usually came with two options:
1. Run.
2. Flatlined.
Carl wasn't feeling either. So:
3. Intervene
He cracked his knuckles and jogged forward, eyes locked on Patrick's frame.
Sandevistan had limits. The body could only take so much speed before it started to burn out—nerves screaming, muscles tearing microfractures. He'd already triggered it twice.
Soon, he'd have to slow down.
Carl wanted to meet him right when that happened.
"Wonder how much this freak's worth," he muttered. "Ten grand? Could buy a new optic. Maybe a gun that doesn't jam when you sneeze."
Patrick dropped out of blur-mode. Now running full sprint, blades trailing behind him like devil's wings.
Cops screamed. Their bullets still pinged off uselessly. One officer watched his Lexington misfire and cursed his ancestors.
The others?
They just braced for death.
And then they saw him.
Carl.
Running toward the psycho. Not away. Not ducking. Not afraid.
"Not again!" one of the officers groaned.
They expected another bloodbath.
But Carl wasn't suicidal.
He was focused.
"This one's mine! Don't shoot—I'm not packing armor!"
Some lowered their weapons in disbelief. Others just stood frozen.
Because here came this unarmored kid—no backup, no chrome-wall of protection—charging into a monster's path.
Behind cover, an older cop stood. He'd done some dirty shit in his time—extorted, bribed, roughed up street dealers.
But watching someone that young go headfirst into death?
Even he couldn't sit that one out.
He jumped from cover. "Kid! Get back here!"
Carl didn't flinch.
"Don't worry," he said calmly. "Just keep your goddamn bullets off me."
Because Carl wasn't trusting them to cover him.
He had something else.
In his hand, it shimmered.
A line of death so thin it was nearly invisible.
Monowire.
And it was already hungry.