Metals & Roses | Dum Dum NSFW | Edgerunners2077 Spin-Off

Foxie: 2

[Blades of Glory: Custom [OC] Full body Cyberware, where hidden panels are implanted beneath the skin. Inside these light-armored panels are concealed blades that users can remove, use and return as they wish. Street Nicknames include: Knife Box and Flesh Sheath]

District: The Glen, Heywood

"You gotta be fucking kidding me!"

I'm halfway down the expansive of avenue, Palms View Way, when I get a message from Yoddie, my roommate. Her text nearly makes me whip my Thorton Colby CX410 Butte around and do a U-turn at the intersection.

6th Street was just spotted causing havoc in The Glen.

She asked me to wait for her before making a move, yet how am I supposed to do that when those bastards were so close by? The waypoint she sent me is right down the road. I don't think, I just do. Making a sharp right turn, I almost clip my side mirror off on a misplaced construction sign. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I drive through the maze of inconvenient cones and traffic signs.

The beef I had with 6th Street was a private matter. A vendetta deriving back when I had blood relatives and the Valentinos weren't my only family. I can't involve Yoddie. We were close, basically family, but this battle was mine and only mine alone.

Sorry Yoddie, I apologize in my head. I'll make it up to her later. But now, I'm gonna go kick some patriot ass!

I'm cursing at the fucking radio and the three shitty songs it keeps on repeat, when I spot a tail end of a star-spangled banner Thorton Mackinaw suspiciously turn down a side street. The area was constantly under construction and the surroundings road full of cracks and holes in the asphalt.

The alleyway they pulled into is a dead end, which meant I had the upper hand at zeroing these filthy ass patriots. I know these Glen streets like the back of my hand, there's no way I'm letting these pretentious veterans try to Christopher Columbus our home and turn every part of Night City into Rancho Coronado; bland suburbs that lack any sense of style, culture or originality.

If I'm lucky I might be able to take them out quickly and hop my ass back on the beltline, so I don't miss out on Birria Taco Tuesdays at The Coyote Cojo.

I parallel park my vehicle on the other side of the road and press the doors shut silently. I check my ammo count on my pistol. 60 Rounds even. The Amnesty Revolver I always kept on me at hip has never let me down. In addition to my iron, I have custom cyberware. Blades of Glory, the Ripperdoc called them. New on the market, custom build and fit to match each buyer. Expensive as fuck, and yet not a lot of traction on the streets. Don't ask how I got my hands on it; just know I'm still paying the Ripper back with interest. The cost of these concealed weapons was high but the payoff knowing I'd get to kill a lot of patriots with it makes it worth every penny. I am no longer defenseless. I am the sheath and the sword. I see myself as a living breathing weapon. A weapon that was going to point all her pent-up rage onto 6th Street.

Crossing the road, I tie my long hair into a ponytail and tuck the loose curls inside my hood. My hair is as recognizable as it comes: brown, white and black like a fox tail. I like it that way. When these gonks put two and two together, it will already be too late. They'll know in their finally moments Heywood's Sly Fox is what got them in the end.

Peering around the corner I hear the patriots hollering in their southern tones, and I even see one pull out a red radio to flip on some tunes. One dude pulls out a beer from his trunk and the others cackling loudly as if some joke had been made. That's when I see it. On the ground by the foot of the Mackinaw was a body, slim build wearing a gray leotard with greenish yellow stripes going down the sides. A hard helmet laid bloody on the ground beside him. 6th Street killed the construction workers in the area for shits and giggles and are now partying at the scene of the crime.