Jackie had barely stepped into the bar when the Valentino who'd been hollering at Mama Welles lurched to his feet, his gold-plated incisors glinting. "¡Oye, Jackie! Come drink with us, hermano!"
Before Jackie could respond, Mama Welles slid a tray piled with sweet tea and greasy fries into his hands. The ceramic plates clattered like loose bullets. "Ay, mijo. Make yourself useful—take this to the new niños."
Jackie shot his crew an apologetic shrug, hefting the tray with the ease of a man who'd carried worse. He dropped it onto Carl and Oliver's table with a thunk, then sank into the booth like it was his second home. Up close, his prison tats coiled around his neck like cybernetic serpents. "Names, choom."
"Carl." The merc sipped his tea—sweet, iced, and suspiciously reminiscent of store-brand lemonade. "Call me KK."
"Oliver." The ex-Sixth Streeter raised his beer in a half-hearted toast. "Heard you're Jackie. Let's drink. Always room for new friends."
Jackie's grin widened. What'd started as a cautious probe into two mercs was turning into something better. He fetched another beer from the bar, ignoring Mama Welles' muttered "No freebies, Jackie!", and returned with a plate of thinly sliced… something. The meat glistened under the bar's UV lights, its marbling a Rorschach test of questionable origins.
"Dig in! Mama's 'jamón especial'—" He winked, tearing into a greasy slice. "Don't ask where she gets the pigs. Tastes like a corpo's guilt and paprika. ¡Provecho!"
Oliver poked a grayish-pink slice. "That's… ham?"
"Claro. Aged six minutes." Jackie tore into a strip with his teeth, the texture somewhere between jerky and regret. "So. Mercs, huh? You two look… preem for rookies."
"First day on the job," Carl said, shoveling fries into his mouth. Crispy, golden, and criminally under-sauced. "Heard this place hooks you up with work."
Jackie's eyes narrowed, his grin sharpening like a blade. "Most fresh meat stumble in here lookin' like they dressed in the dark—armor hangin' loose, iron rustier than a scav's morals. You two?" He gestured at their crisp Kevlar and polished Lexingtons. "Chale. Kevlar's pressed, weapons clean… No way you figured that out solo. ¿Quién te enseñó? Who's schoolin' ya?"
Oliver lit up. "Viktor! Ripperdoc in Watson. Fixed us up pro bono."
Carl's jaw clenched, hiding a smirk. Too easy. Jackie'd peeled that intel like a ripe orange.
Jackie's shoulders loosened, his laugh booming. "¡Ah, Chingado! Should've led with that! Me an' Vik? Somos como uña y mugre -Tight as a Militech vault." He mimed a needle injecting his neck. "Dude patched me up after a Maelstrom pendejo tried to scalp me. Still got the scar." He tugged his collar to reveal a jagged line near his jugular.
The conversation spiraled into shared stories of Viktor's grumpy generosity. Jackie boasted about his early gigs—corp trash removal, scav sweeps, the occasional "lost" shipment recovery. "Got a fixer on ice," he admitted, scratching his neck. "Don't wanna burn that bridge 'til I'm legend material, you feel me?"
Oliver nodded like a pupil at a sermon. "Respect, man. I'd still be mooching off my sis if not for KK here."
Carl, now eyeing the last fry, grunted. "Legends eat free. We're still paying for fries."
Jackie barked a laugh, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the empty plates. "Exacto! Mama's spuds'll make you famous or fat." He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "Needs ketchup, though. Chingado, I'd sell my left kidney for a squeeze of that corpo-red gloop."
Carl raised an eyebrow. "Tell her that."
Jackie's grin faltered. He shot a glance toward the bar, where Mama Welles was glaring at a holoscreen invoice like it owed her eddies. "Tried once. She threw a frijoles can at my head. Still got the dent." He tapped his temple, where a faint scar gleamed under the neon. "Now I keep these escondido—"
He yanked open his jacket, revealing a dozen ketchup packets duct-taped to the lining like explosive charges. Oliver snorted beer out his nose.
"—just in case."
Carl plucked one free, inspecting it. "Best-by date: 2055."
"Still red," Jackie said defensively. "That's a win in Heywood."
Mama Welles' voice cracked like a whip. "¡Jackie! You smuggling basura into my bar again?"
Jackie froze mid-reach for a fry. Slowly, he slid the packet back into his jacket. "Nunca, Mamá. Swear on la Virgen de Guadalupe."
The banter died when the door hissed open.
A woman strode in—sharp suit, sharper heels, face sculpted by corporate surgeons into something cold and flawless. Her eyes swept the room like a targeting algorithm, lingering on their booth. The air thickened with the ozone tang of expensive perfume.
"Corpo," Oliver whispered, sinking slightly into his seat like a rapid dog avoiding a net grab.
Carl didn't look up from his tea. "She's coming over."
Jackie's grin returned, sharp and reckless. "Bueno. Maybe she's a ketchup fan."
The click of Louboutins halted at their booth. The corpo woman's perfume smelled like a lab-engineered rainforest. Jackie held up a fry, the packet hidden in his palm.
"Want una papita, señorita? Extra… sabor."