Once Upon a Time in Juarez

[One week later - DaKota , Rocky Ridge, the Badlands]

Under normal circumstances, Jackson showed his face at Dakota's garage only once every couple of weeks, or whenever there was business to conduct. The last week certainly didn't qualify in any way as normal circumstances, and so here he found himself again as he exited the driver seat of a heavily modified Colby CX410; for lack of a better term, what Addie affectionately referred to as a ute. It was a two-door coupe-style vehicle equipped with a truck bed in the rear.

In Jackson's case, it had also been stripped of most it's cosmetic body panels, leaving only the roll cages and bare frames. It had also been lifted a few inches for offroad clearance and fitted with fat tires giving it an aggressive stance. It was ugly as sin, and Jackson loved it. It was also the car on which Jayce cut her teeth learning the mechanic's trade. As such, great care had been taken to keep the drivetrain lean and tuned for raw power and torque. It was their pet project, and one they had bonded over for years, especially early on after Jayce's mother...

Jackson shook his head to try and focus on the present; he was here for a reason. As far as he was concerned, the reason could have just been as simple as, the old lady called. But in this case, he was purpose-driven as Dakota herself called to inform him that she'd done some digging over the last week and may have been able to produce a few answers as to their new mystery guest's origins. He certainly couldn't, or wouldn't turn his nose up at the opportunity.

All things considered, she'd been fairly complacent since Addie fed her; not to say there weren't hiccups, of course. That first night in the cell without any of Doc Strong's patented tranquilizers in her system, she spent a few hours banging against the cell doors and screaming herself hoarse before she cried herself into complete and utter exhaustion and passed out. In the morning, they had found her curled up in the corner of the cell, still on the floor despite there being a padded cot. Almost like she was punishing herself...

Doc Strong's money was on some type of withdrawal. Given the evidence and prolonged history of abuse in all colors of the rainbow, the only way the girl was getting any sleep was if she was heavily drugged. Aside from her clearly feral upbringing, at least some of the outbursts could possibly be attributed to coerced long-term drug use and the associated withdrawal symptoms.

Perhaps Jackson would find out soon enough, as he approached the open garage and stepped inside. From the general smell of body odor and blood, Dakota's boys had already been hard at work. She turned to greet him, her face smacked with a disdain for what was going on. She took no pleasure in the suffering of another human being, but for her to allow her own people to act without restraint meant one thing, and one thing only... and Jackson's entire being was consumed by a darkness Dakota had only seen once before as a single word crossed his mind... Scavs.

[2074 - Ciudad Juárez, Estado de Chihuahua, Mexico]

The streets were alive and vibrant, bordering on chaotic, as the woman made her way down the sidewalk. She'd made the same walk twice a week for the last year at least, and had almost memorized the exact steps to avoid running into anyone. The noises carried in the air, a mix of children playing and their mothers calling to them to stay out of the roads; or maybe it was the multitude of street vendors haggling over their goods and wares with the neighborhood locals. But in the woman's mind, nothing was nearly as loud as listening to the abuelas in their rocking chairs bickering to one another, even across the busy causeway lined with vehicles coming and going. This thought made her laugh to herself, wondering if she'd be here long enough to settle into a similar fate.

Jackson's work since the end of the Unification War had taken his family all over, from his home state of Texas to Arizona, Nevada, even California; and now of all places, El Paso del Norte. Still, Aiyana didn't mind in the least. As long as she had her husband and child close by and in good spirits, she had it made, even in a place as erratic an unstable as Juárez. Nomad life was fraught with ripping up one's shallow roots, and often on very short notice. Aiyana had dealt with that her whole life, the definition of home often amounting to little more than wherever she laid her head to sleep on any given night. But at least now she had a family of her own to make her home wherever the sands carried them, like leaves on the wind. All in all, she was happy, and she carried herself with a spring in her step as she passed by row after row of small shops and tenement buildings.

The neighborhood was poor, but its culture alone made it one of the richest places she'd ever seen. Wild colors of flags, tapestries, and all manner of decorations hung from balconies and verandas, blowing in the afternoon breeze. The smells of the food carts, restaurants, and home-cooking alike made Aiyana's mouth water as she considered whether or not she'd actually make it to the market for groceries before she caved into temptation. Thankfully, it was only another block, and the mixed stench of both CHOOH2 and traditional gasoline pollution was enough to deter her from trying to eat anything in the middle of it all.

Still, for all the local neighborhood's charm, Juárez wasn't a place you wanted to get caught in the open. There was always a darkness lurking in the background on account of the gratuitous amounts of crime and corruption on both sides of the law. What began in what now felt like the Old World as the establishment of the cartels fighting against the government had evolved into the New World's paradigm of the cartels running the government and fighting against each other and the other smaller criminal enterprises that had risen up throughout the 21st century. The cartels themselves were arguably no worse than the mega-corporations running the rest of the civilized world, so it was nothing new. Just keep your wits about you, keep your head down, and keep your eyes open.

Although Jackson's experiences fighting for the Free States could have afforded him any number of lucrative job opportunities south of the Border, he explicitly chose a simpler life of honest labor specifically for his family's sake. It was easier to protect them if he remained humble. And he wanted nothing more than to watch his child grow up as he grew older with the love of his life. While not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he would never understand how he managed to win the heart of a woman as beautiful and compassionate as Aiyana; a fact of which he never missed a chance to remind her, and of which she herself was reminded as she caught her own reflection in the glass window of a shop.

She was a striking woman, her long black hair braided into a thick ponytail resting over one shoulder, her soulful brown eyes almost illuminated against the afternoon sun overhead. On this day, she wore a pale green sundress draped ever so delicately over her slender figure, her deeply tanned skin glowing. She stopped for a moment to smile as she whisked a few loose hairs behind one ear, almost able to hear Jackson's voice in her head reminding her just how gorgeous she was, and how lucky he was.

It wasn't easy for them in the early days; but when was it ever easy to hold onto something so delicate and pure in this broken world? They were barely married six months before the call to arms came, and Jackson proudly volunteered to do his part, leaving his newly-pregnant wife behind. He wasn't just protecting the Republic of Texas... he was protecting his new family, and he was willing to give his life to do so. Luckily, the War didn't ask that of him, instead taking something much more precious and valuable. The Unification War was as brief as it was bloody, and Jackson certainly gave his fair share, returning home to his wife and newborn child as a nearly broken man with half of his body cold and chromed... and that didn't even include the medals pinned to his chest.

Those first few months back home were a struggle, straining his and Aiyana's relationship to its very limits, but she remained as patient and caring as ever. In time, she was able to bring him back around, stoking the embers of the man she knew before... and he would be forever in her debt because of it. Not that she ever saw it that way, but she appreciated him all the same. Their early courtship saw Jackson taking her out of an abusive home that had already claimed the life of her mother. He was her savior in that way, so in her mind... and as she liked to not-so-gently remind him... they were even.

Aiyana let these thoughts slip away with a deep sigh as she crossed the threshold of the local open-air market. Just like the public sidewalks, there were carts and stalls on either side of the makeshift aisles and everywhere in between, although these vendors were more organized, their best produce on display in neat and tidy piles. While rarer in these times, these open-air markets still offered real fruits and vegetables and real meat, all locally sourced from the few remaining independent farms on the city's outskirts. It wasn't likely the farms would survive long without corpo subsidies and under the pall of increasing pollution, so vendor and shopper alike sought to get what they could while they could.

Like any other day, the market was crowded, people shuffling past one another and excusing themselves, voices carrying over the hustle and bustle as prices were discussed by some and argued by others. Aiyana had no such appetites for conflict; she had a good eye for quality and was happy to pay the asking price. Anything and everything to give the local farmers a little more time out from under the inevitable boot looming over the horizon. She navigated her way through gracefully, smiling and greeting some of the familiar faces as she plucked the items of her heart's desire. A few odds here, some other ends there, all in good time and in good fun. She bided her time, knowing that before long, she'd be back home preparing dinner and laughing while Jayce played in the other room. Just a part of her relatively peaceful life in this dusty corner of the world, and she was happy for it.

But as it was, a peaceful day perusing the market was not in the cards. One of the unspoken perks of having Jackson for a husband was that Aiyana had developed a keen ear... and nose... for trouble. A few bodies pushed past the crowds, inadvertently shoving her and several others aside without a care in the world. Their cloth was poor, but not simple like everyone else's. They were dressed in road leathers in all manner of disrepair, their bared arms and chests showing their colors in the form of tattoos running up and down. Their speech was also near unintelligible, marred by slang and the lazy, drug-addled accents of the gangs that roamed the wastes outside the city. But what really caught Aiyana's attention was one young man in particular. His skin was lighter than the rest, and his tattoos weren't any pattern she recognized from the local gangs. Cyrillic... Russian...?!, she thought to herself, her fears only confirmed in the throaty and vulgar sounds buried in his broken Spanish with a terrible accent.

She was afraid... and Hell, who wouldn't be... but she was resolved to staying out of their way, letting them go about their business undeterred. She tried to make herself as small as possible among the crowd of now fearful locals just like herself. She could almost feel the hairs standing up on everyone's necks, not just her own. The gangers' presence was now known through the market as the crowds parted to either sides of the aisles, allowing ample room to pass. As much as Aiyana wanted to look away, her eyes were affixed, watching these boys... barely men... walk tall and wield the collective fear like a weapon over the masses.

She wasn't unfamiliar with how things worked down here. Like in all big cities, protection came at a price, and it seemed that on this fateful day, the dues were owed. Each ganger took their individual spot in the market like they were rehearsing a play, as if each spot were marked with tape on a stage. And then in one unified effort, they all pulled iron, their voices piercing ears as they barked and announced themselves. It was a shakedown, nothing more; as long as everyone stayed right where they were and didn't make any sudden moves, it would all be over soon enough.

Aiyana followed suit along with everyone else, turning to face away from the gangers as they slowly walked the aisles, keeping watch. She tried to calm herself, taking deep breaths and slowly exhaling, her hands trembling. Not that she was religious by any means, but she silently prayed for all of this to pass over soon and without incident. Something in the back of her mind told her she might not have another chance, and so she pinged a holocall to Jackson, once again praying that he answered. After two rings, the loveliest voice on Earth answered, "Heya, baby... this 's a nice surprise..."

"J-Jackson... baby...", Aiyana couldn't even form the words inside her own mind, "P-Please don't worry..."

"What's wrong...?", Jackson's tone immediately shifted, amplifying the gravity of the circumstances, "Aiyana, talk to me."

Aiyana's composure started to crack, her brow furrowed as she closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, "I-I'm in the m-market... t-there's men here... i-it's a shakedown."

She could hear Jackson shuffling on the other end of the call as he tried to comfort her, "Drop off now. They can prob'ly trace the call. Don' move, don' do anythin'... I'm on my way. It'll be okay, ya hear me?"

A single tear fell, crawling down her cheek as she said, "J-Just in case... Jackson, I-I love yo—"

The call was cut short as Aiyana felt a jerk from behind. The Slavic ganger had her by the back of her neck as he yelled in his brutish accent, "Look at this little piggy bitch squealing!"

She felt her feet leave the ground as she flew backward, a fruit stand breaking against the small of her back as she crash-landed amid a pile of ripe apples. She cried in pain as she scrambled to try and recover, but the ganger was already standing over her, the cold barrel of his gun pressing against her forehead as he flashed a smile of mostly rotted and otherwise grossly discolored teeth. His eyes were wild and hazed over; he was 'dorphed out of his mind. He looked her up and down several times, admiring her dress clinging to her figure as he said softly, "Guess 's my lucky day..."

Aiyana's eyes widened as she pleaded in vain, watching the ganger reach down with his free hand to unzip his tattered and torn cargo pants. If his mouth was in such disrepair, what must the rest of him have been like?

All but one of the gangers were now on alert, trying to cover both their choom's good time while making sure nobody else tried anything clever. The remaining ganger, arguably the ringleader, had concluded his business with the market's manager, and his pockets were a little deeper because of it. As he holstered his iron in his jacket and turned to survey the situation, seemingly unaware of what had transpired, his face twisted to anger and he marched in a straight line, barking at the rest of his goons to stay put.

By now, the comrade had exposed himself half-erect to everyone in the market, laughing as he reached forward and grabbed at the deep v-neck of Aiyana's sundress before ripping it open, baring her flesh. He admired the sight before his eyes, a dribble of saliva forming at the corners of his mouth before his party was interrupted by the lead ganger shoving his shoulder and yelling in Spanish. What little of the conversation Aiyana could make out indicated this wasn't their way; grab the cash and delta.

The comrade squared off, growling in the face of the ringleader that this wasn't his show anymore. The ringleader reached inside his jacket as his eyes narrowed, no doubt going for his iron again. The comrade made a split-second decision, banking on the assumption that his prey was too scared to do anything as he brought his own gun up, pressing it under the ringleader's chin.

Aiyana felt a fire in her chest as she took her chance, forcing herself up with a scream as she launched into the comrade, pushing him away. She tried to cover herself as she rushed him, but he was too quick to recover, his iron at the ready as he pulled the trigger and shouted, "YOU FUCKING BITCH!"

—BANG!!!—

A single powerful shot rang out, echoing through the market and followed by deadened silence. Aiyana's body wavered, the raw nerve endings lagging behind the fact that the back half of her head was gone, the pile of fruit behind her painted deep red. Finally, her body collapsed to the ground as the comrade stood wide-eyed, trying to catch his breath as he felt time slow to a crawl. The ringleader was beside himself, a sheer panic setting in as he held his head in his hands and stared at the crumpled body at his feet. The other gangers moved quickly, crossing between the both of them as they yelled; it was time to move.

Once the ringleader regained his faculties and remembered where he was, his eyes turned to fire, catching the comrade staring at him in abject fear. He reached for the gun, snatching it out of the comrade's hand as he delivered a solid cross to the younger man's jaw in a single fluid motion. As the comrade fell to his knees, stumbling to try and catch himself, he felt a boot kicking him in the ass as the ringleader shouted obscenities and ushered him forward and out of the market. He crawled for several steps, trying to shield himself from the abuse before he found his footing again and started running. The ringleader stopped at the entrance of the market, looking back to the dozens of witnesses with a genuine remorse. This wasn't their way... he shook his head and turned to catch up to his chooms as the faint sound of sirens approached in the distance from the other direction.

Aiyana's soiled body lay on the ground, her eyes staring at nothing and yet piercing anything that crossed their path. Nobody wanted to leave her like this, exposed for all to see, and yet no one was willing to disturb the body. Instead, a brave few formed a circle around her as the rest of the market cleared with a quickness, clasping their hands together and praying, some wailing openly in mourning for the lost soul. Just another victim of the violence wrought by a shattered society.

--

Jackson's legs struggled to keep up as he forced himself as fast as he could like a man possessed. He had heard the single gunshot from a few blocks away, praying to a God he didn't believe in that his wife wasn't on the other end of it. He could just make out the flashing lights of the parked vehicles a few hundred feet away; local cops, no doubt. His eyes burned with tears that hadn't yet fallen, his breathing erratic as his mind raced over every possibility. He saw the uniformed officers staring in his general direction, confused expressions on their faces and hands on their holsters as they watched a six-foot-tall half-Native American man bounding towards them.

He had to consciously force himself to slow down, trying to match his pace so he didn't land on his face against the rough concrete sidewalk; despite what Aiyana would have said in his defense, he held the firm opinion that he didn't have much of a face to work with already. The officers eased up, but not by much, preparing to simply restrain Jackson instead of aiming to subdue him. At long last, he slowed to a stop, taking one final step as he doubled over, heaving and sweating in the afternoon heat. He could feel the grit of the sand in his lungs, and he itched all over. The officers carefully took a step toward him, calmly asking him in Spanish to back up, to go around, to keep his distance.

Not a chance..., Jackson thought to himself as he tried to press forward into the market. The officers were quick, forming a wall with their shoulders as their voices raised and they pushed him back. He pleaded with them, begging them to let him by, "Please... please... m-mi esposa, p-por favor..."

He felt the panic setting in, like every second without an answer only set in stone what he already feared. His composure broke as he became more frantic, louder and more belligerent. The officers were readying themselves to subdue and cuff Jackson for his own good before another officer in the market noticed the situation... and recognized his face. It was his neighbor from across the hall in their building... and he wasn't happy. He approached, calling to both junior officers to let Jackson through, though it took several seconds before they obliged. Jackson couldn't fault them for doing their jobs, but he could have disemboweled them both in that moment.

Jackson knew Miguel from crossing paths in the apartment building, but didn't know him well. There was the occasional casual hello or just a simple nod and a wave, but Aiyana had always spoken fondly of him. He was younger, single but not for lack of trying, and he was a kind soul. Many a time, Aiyana had caught him helping the older residents dispose of their trash, helping them get around, or just sitting on the balconies and chatting the day away with them on his rare days off. He was a handsome kid, too, albeit svelte. By Jackson's estimation, he could use some more meat on his bones, but he looked strong and capable enough, and he was tidy. He took pride in the uniform, in his duty as an officer; and that was a rare thing in a place like this.

Jackson cleared past the guard as his neighbor took him in a firm embrace and said, "Jax... you d-don't want to be here."

Jackson already felt the tears running down his cheeks as he sniffed up and found his breaking voice, "S-Show me... I w-wan' to s-see her..."

The officer pulled away, looking Jackson in the eyes with a sadness. He didn't want to be the one, but Jackson pressed him, "Miguel... please...'s my wife."

The officer looked at the ground for a second, scratching his head in contemplation before he locked eyes with Jackson and said, "Ay... Dios mío... okay. Come with me..."

As they walked through the empty aisles, Jackson felt his heart pounding in his throat, each beat resounding in his ears like a bell's toll. Time seemed to almost stop, Miguel's voice fading into the background as he called to other officers to clear a path, or tried to explain what Jackson already knew. And then, in an instant, time returned to normal, the whiplash hitting Jackson like a Chevillon Centurion as he saw the torn pieces of the pale green sundress. His face contorted further and he forced himself to take another step before he involuntarily shouted, venting his frustration and all the pain as he fell to his knees.

There she was, left like a piece of meat on the ground for all to see. The blood from her head had pooled all around her, the edges of the ruined dress soaked in the claret and gray matter. Jackson held his hand over his heart as he wept and wavered from side to side. No noises, no crying out, just pain; now and forever. Miguel placed a gentle hand on the man's shoulder, trying his best to hold it together. He had afforded his friend a moment, but he still had a job to do... but not yet. He could afford a few more minutes for a man who had just lost the love of his life.

After too long, Jackson zeroed in on every detail from where he could see. A thousand different thoughts raced in his mind as his bottomless grief quickly turned to unchecked anger. He forced himself to his feet as he tried to get closer, the other officers on the scene quickly checking him and barring him from proceeding. Miguel tried to calm him as the other officers barked at him. He pressed forward, cutting to Miguel and back to the officers as he asked question after accusatory question, raising his voice a little louder with each. Why was she just left in the market? Why was her body uncovered? Were there any witnesses? Was anyone questioned?! DID ANY OF THESE FUCKING GONKS EVEN BOTHER TO DO THEIR JOBS?!

Jackson was on a rampage, Miguel having stepped back as the other officers were now matching the irate man's volume and openly arguing with him. One of them took a step forward, pushing Jackson back by his shoulder; a big mistake, the officer found out, as Jackson reflexively grabbed his hand, wrenching it outward as he took a wild swing with his chromed fist. The second officer stepped in, wrapping his arm around Jackson's as he swept the legs, landing the nomad flat on his back before quickly turning him over face-first.

As the first officer had his sidearm drawn and pointed squarely at Jackson's head, the second officer quickly cuffed his hands behind his back, clearing all physical contact before adding insult to injury with a taser shock to the small of his back. Jackson swore at the top of his lungs as every fiber of his being lit up and burned inside of him, fairly certain in that moment that his bladder had involuntarily emptied itself. Despite his precarious position, the shouting match continued before the first officer leveled the butt of his sidearm against the base of Jackson's skull, and the last thing he saw before his vision faded to black was Miguel standing ten feet away, a genuine regret in his eyes as he shook his head.

--

[Some time later - Babícora Police Station, Southern District]

Jackson had been awake for thirty minutes already, albeit with a killer headache, watching, waiting, and observing the observation room in which he found himself. The overhead fluorescent light was dim, painting the room in a cold tone of off-white despite the sick-shit shade of yellow and other rot adorning the walls. There was a single pane of glass running the entire length of the wall on one side, and while he was sure half the department could see him from the other side, he couldn't see shit from where he was sitting.

The entire room reeked of urine, but that could have also just been Jackson's clothes, all thanks to his taser treatment. He hurt all over, and yet he was numb to anything around him. All the grief, all the sadness, every ounce of what he'd poured out at the market was gone. All that was left was a void. He was some place far away. Maybe back in the War? He had managed to shut off that other part of him, the part that made him weak. Any moment, his enemy would come walking through that door, and he had to prepare himself...

Enemy, what the fuck am I talkin' 'bout...?, he thought as he snapped himself out of whatever dissociative trance he'd slipped into. He wasn't a soldier anymore. He was a husband, he was a father, he was a fucking mechanic for Christ's sake... he was a father.

Shit!, he thought as he drifted to his child for the first time since waking up in this room. It had to have been hours. A wave of self-loathing and regret washed over him as he now worried for his only child. He leaned back in the chair, looking up to the light as he sighed in exasperation.

The door opened with a hollow crash, the thud echoing in the confined space of the room. The medley of voices trailed in before disappear as the door closed again. Standing at the end of the room was a visibly exhausted and agitated Miguel, his eyes locked on Jackson.

Jackson looked off to the side, his tone deadpan as he rattled the handcuffs, "Nice o' ya to visit... I'd put on some coffee, but..."

Miguel's jaw clenched as he smoothed the creases in his uniform, at the same time firming himself as he put his best foot forward and took the seat opposite his charge. Pissed as Jackson was at the situation, himself... hell, everything... he had to admire the kid's brass and dedication, but most of all, he admired the restraint. He watched Miguel's moves carefully, every twitch and every tell, looking for something. Finally, after far too long of flipping through a surprisingly thin jacket, Miguel broke the silence, "You're in a lot of trouble, Jackson... now, I've spoken to the Captain, explained the circumstances, your wife, the misunderstanding, and he—"

"Where's Jayce?", Jackson asked flatly, giving no emotional response to the fact that Miguel was trying to do him a favor after having assaulted a uniformed police officer. Miguel's eyes widened as he thought, Shit, he thinks... oh no.

"Jayce is fine...", he answered in the most reassuring tone he could muster given the circumstances, "I stopped by our building on the way here, he's with the Señora upstairs, Miss Roberta?"

Jackson sighed with relief as his entire body relaxed, "Yeah, I know her. Sweet woman... bit of a gossip, if ya ask me, but it'd be wasted on Jayce."

Miguel caught a light smirk creeping in on Jackson's face, feeling like a major hurdle had just been completely sidestepped. He extended an olive branch as he pulled a crumpled softpack and a lighter from his shirt pocket. It was Jackson's brand... and Jackson's lighter. Miguel slid them across the table, "You had these on you when we brought you in. Thought you could use one, all things considered."

The kid was nervous, his knee tapping against the underside of the desk, but Jackson again had to admire him. His heart was in the right place. Jackson grabbed the pack, quickly pulling and lighting a cigarette between his lips as he inhaled deep, letting the smoke filter out through his nostrils. It was the best he could hope for in this moment, and it was a little bit of peace.

Miguel gently chided him with a chuckle, "You should really quit those... for Jayce's sake."

Jackson couldn't argue, but that didn't stop him from ribbing the kid, "Yeah, I'll get right on that after I bury what's left o' my wife..."

That hit a lot harder than Miguel was expecting, and his brow furrowed as he cleared his throat and looked at the cover of the jacket again for several seconds. His voice took on a strictly business-like tone as he reiterated his earlier point, "Jackson, you assaulted a uniformed officer, interfered with an ongoing investigation, you contaminated an active crime scen—"

"Cut the horseshit!", Jackson barked, slamming his hands against the table and shaking Miguel to his very core, "You and I both know only one of those things actually happened, and I'll own it, come what may."

Miguel shook his head, "I've explained the situation to the Captain. He understands, and given the circumstances, he's giving you a free pass..."

"Bu-u-ut...?", Jackson pressed for the catch as Miguel obliged, "You have to leave town. It's dangerous for you here now. Not all the cops here are honest, and there's a brotherho—"

"La Hermandad...", Jackson cut him off, showing his truer colors as he leaned forward, "Le'me 'splain somethin', kid... you know me as a simple mechanic, but I know more 'bout this world 'an you could ever hope to forget."

Miguel started to perspire, the small beads collecting and forming larger streaks running down the sides of his head. Jackson saw it plain as day; he was scared shitless. He tried to take the kid's mind off it as he still had a burning question that needed answering, "What happened to my wife?"

Miguel heard the question, understood the question, but his eyes were darting back and forth. He was panicked, unable to focus. Jackson slid his softpack over, tapping his fingers against the desk to draw Miguel's attention, offering a reassuring nod. Miguel grabbed a cigarette, placing it between his lips as he tried to light the business end. It took a few tries from the way his hands were shaking, but once he had it, he took a long and deep drag, prompting Jackson's internal monologue, Here it comes, let it out, kid... don't fight it.

He watched Miguel's face turn an almost sickly green shade before a coughing fit ensued. He tried not to laugh as he watched Miguel muscle through it all before taking a second drag with infinitely more grace and composure. After a third drag, he exhaled through his nostrils like an old pro as he calmed himself and answered Jackson's earlier question, "By the time we got there, only six people were left in the market, and they'd formed a circle around Aiyana's bo— around Aiyana..."

Jackson had a curious look on his face as Miguel continued, "They were mourning her, praying and committing her spirit to Heaven... I don't take you for the religious type, but these peop—"

The older nomad nodded, the gratitude showing on his face as Miguel kept going, "They were there, witnessed the whole thing. It was supposed to be a routine shakedown... small-time gangers that run the rackets in this neighborhood."

"Quick smash 'n grab... so what went wrong?", Jackson interjected. After another drag, Miguel answered, "Some of the smaller unaffiliated gangs are crewing up with larger groups to fight the cartels. This particular gang has the backing of a loose-knit Russian group known as the—"

[Present day]

—Scavs...

An older Jackson looked down on the barely conscious body hanging in the oil pit by his arms from chains hooked to either side of the auto-lift. He turned to Dakota standing by his side as he joked, "Christmas come early?"

Dakota scoffed at his cool, calm, and utterly detached demeanor as she wanted no part in what happened next. She knew Jackson's history with the Scavs, and she knew his history during the War. As she turned to leave, she half-jokingly said, "Let me know if there's anything you need..."

"Salt...", Jackson said curtly with no inflection, his eyes locked on the multitude of Bratva-inspired tattoos adorning the Scav's bruised and beaten body. He was bleeding from multiple open wounds, and though he didn't know it yet, his day was about to get a whole hell of a lot worse. Dakota stopped at the single uttered word for just a second before she resumed walking, giving no outward response.

A handful of nomads dressed in Aldecaldos colors stayed behind, forming a half circle on either side of Jackson as they watched and waited. It was no mystery that nobody liked Scavs, but nomads had a special bone to pick as the human trafficking trade with Raffen Shiv was running right in their backyard. So a chance for a little retribution and suffering, even just on one lone ganger, was a welcome treat; and all the nomads present had heard the stories about Jackson Calloway.

He removed his frayed and worn duster, followed by his hat, and handed them to one of the nomads as he crouched down, surveying the situation, letting the suspense percolate as he considered how best to handle their guest. A large adjustable wrench sitting on a nearby tool bench reflected a slight glare from the natural sunlight filtering in on both sides of the garage, catching his attention. He smirked and took it was a sign that this was as good a start as any, and he stood up straight as he reached over and grabbed it in one hand. He twirled it between his fingers, putting on a little show for his hosts before he firmed his grip on the handle and dropped down the five feet into the oil pit, landing with a heavy thud reverberating against the concrete walls of the enclosure.

He was amused at the notion that this pit was purpose-built to not only service nomad vehicles, but also to hold persons of interest for any number of reasons. The scav gave a low groan, his head hanging down as blood dripped from his mouth and pooled thick like spent oil. Jackson took a gentle step forward, gauging to see if the scav was even aware of his surroundings. No visible response, and so he closed the gap as he raised the wrench in his hand. He adjusted his grip to hold it just barely by the bottom of the handle, giving it some sway as he whipped it up and swung his arm forward with a disciplined restraint. There was a soft clink as the business end of the wrench impacted against the crown of the scav's head, but the impact was enough to wake him up as he shouted in pain. Jackson looked down at the poor bastard with utter contempt as he brought the wrench up again, letting it fall the few inches as it landed in the exact spot as before, eliciting another cry as the scav looked up and yelled in a heavy accent, "What the fuck do you want?!"

Despite the rage inside, Jackson maintained his calm outward demeanor as he spoke softly, "Jus' to make you feel an ounce o' the pain you cause others..."

He knelt down, looking in the scav's half-opened eyes as he continued, "But, as long 's I'm here, why don' you tell me a li'l story 'bout a romp with some particularly nasty Raffen a week or so back..."

The scav's eyes gave enough of a reaction to tip Jackson off; he had the right guy, despite his protests to the contrary as he spat, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Jackson chuckled and looked at his own feet, "Sure ya do... wild-eyed psychos in town for some fun, dumped one o' their own for dead not two hundred feet from where you are now..."

The scav started to twitch and struggle against the chains, insisting he knew nothing in a mix of broken English and what barely passed for Russian, despite his accent. At the same time, a new nomad appeared in Dakota's place, kneeling down as he called to Jackson, who turned, amused to find his host holding a large box of coarse crystallized salt substitute. He accepted the gift with a nod, "Very much obliged, choom...", and turned back to the scav as he flipped open the small top. With his free hand, he rubbed against one of the open wounds, making sure to get just enough blood on his open palm before he tipped over the box, watching the some of the salt stick and the rest filter through his fingers.

Satisfied with the small mound that had accumulated, he reached up and slapped it against the biggest of the open wounds on the scav's torso, gyrating his hand in a circular motion to really pack it in. The scav screamed as loud as his voice would allow, hurling a torrent of profanity at Jackson as he writhed against his restraints. Jackson kept his hand in place as he leaned down, catching the scav's wide open line of sight as he said, "Now you're awake! 's time to smell the roses, you fuckin' cockroach!"

He allowed the last 13 years of grief to channel through him as he went to work, landing hit after hit against the already tenderized slab of meat hanging in front of him, each strike met with another yell begging for mercy, although there was none to be had; not for this bottom-feeder. Every strike brought back flashes of Jackson's time in Juarez; the vision of Aiyana lying exposed in the market, the sheer panic on the motherfuckers' faces when Jackson and Miguel found them and put them down in the sand like animals. All of it poured out of him as he emptied his entire being into pummeling the piece of shit until the last vision flashed in his mind... he saw a much younger Jayce staring at him, gentle eyes full of tears and crying for his mother. This was enough to bring him back from the brink as he stopped, his breathing uneven as he saw his own reflection in the pool of blood.

He pulled away, grabbing the box again as he poured another small pile into his soiled palm, a slight sting settling in from the small nicks and cuts on his own hands, sparking another match to the fire in his eyes. He gritted his teeth as he turned back to the scav, deciding where next to as-SALT. As he weighed the numerous options available to him, he knelt down, waving the pile in his open palm in front of the scav's face, eliciting the ganger to spit a wad of blood in his face as he said, "Fuck you... I'm dead anyway, so just fucking do it..."

Jackson laughed, flashing his teeth as he leaned in, "Well you're right 'bout that... even if we let ya go, your comrades'll zero ya just for the inconvenience of havin' to drag your ass back to whatever hole you crawled out'a."

The scav let his head hang, utterly depleted and resigned to his fate as Jackson posed an important question while pressing his hand against another open wound on the man's stomach, "Only question ya have to ask yourself is... jus' how badly are ya goin' to suffer, and for how long...?"

The scav cried out again, shaking his head vigorously from side to side in defiance as Jackson kept going, "I ain't got nothin' better to do today, comrade... and I can keep this up for a long... long time. You don't die 'til I say so..."

By this point, the other nomads had all taken a step back, not sure how to feel about what they were witnessing. Swapping stories around a campfire was one thing, but actually seeing it with their own eyes... actually watching it happen was enough to turn their stomachs. Jackson could feel the tension between them, the tepid uncertainty, and he shrugged his shoulders as if to dismiss them altogether as he zeroed in on the scav again.

After a few whimpering cries, the scav gave in, his voice weak and raspy, "W-What do you want...?"

"A week or so ago, a nomad crew hightailed it out o' the city...", Jackson painted the picture, "...left one o' their own for dead out by the highway... it wasn't Raffen, but I'm bettin' they were involved."

"W-We were paid to set up a meet...", the scav confessed, "Wraiths... and some whacked out tribe out in the Wastes..."

"Who was the tribe? They have a name?", Jackson pressed, to which the scav shook his head, "Just a bunch of 'psycho cultists... living like animals. We grab people in the city, Raffen ferries them out to wherever, and these tribes sell them off or keep them for breeding stock."

It wasn't the first time Jackson had heard of these groups, so his face showed no surprise. As he'd already speculated to Doc Strong a few days prior, there was a kind of boogeyman legend among the nomad nations of feral wastelanders banding together far out on the edges of civilization. There was no telling what might happen if you were caught in the open, but the warning was always the same... save the last bullet for yourself.

Jackson had the same question now as he had with Doc Strong, and so he asked the bleeding fountain of information in front of him, "What was this group doing in Night City?"

The scav started to tremble, his voice shaky as he answered, "Wraiths wanted to consolidate efforts, better terms for everyone, so we meet on neutral ground."

"Sounds like it went poorly...", Jackson joked, "What happened?"

The scav was visibly shaking, panic and fear written on his face, eyes wide open as he stared nowhere in particular, "...t-they're not human... they look human, b-but they're just... not."

Jackson sighed, his patience wearing thin as he smacked the scav's cheek, "C'mon pal... focus up and answer the question. What happened?"

"T-They... k-keep the girls on a chain leash...", the scav struggled to form words, much less coherent sentences, "O-One of the f-feral b-bitches got s-spooked, and they c-cut her loose..."

Something in the scav's choice of words caught Jackson's attention, and he leaned in closer to make out what he could, only picking out a few words among the rambling, "C-Claws coming out her knuckles... s-shredded us... Wraiths too... w-we got lucky f-for a bit, got some h-hits in... bitch just k-kept coming f-for us... w-wouldn't quit..."

Claws..., Jackson thought as his eyes locked open at the realization while the scav continued, "I-I managed to get away clean... only one other... a Wraith... b-but he was bleeding bad..."

The fear-induced adrenaline ran out, his head bouncing up and down against it's own weight as he faded. Jackson showed an ounce of humanity for the cockroach in that moment, placing a gentle hand against his scalp as he whispered, "...'s a'ight, son..."

The scav finally broke into quiet sobs, his tears and snot mixing with the blood running down his face as he asked, "W-What am I going to do...? What're you going to do to me?"

Here at the end, Jackson saw a glimpse of the scav's own humanity, genuine remorse for his sins against his fellow man. But Jackson was no angel, and had no salvation of his own to offer, especially after all he'd lost. He stood up, taking a few steps back as he wiped his hands clean with an oil rag. He then turned back and unholstered his six-shooter, "Sorry to say, amigo... it's on to the next life for you..."

He took aim and cocked the hammer back, the scav mustering what little strength he had left to raise his head and stare down the barrel with his own two eyes as Jackson spoke the last words he'd ever hear in this life, "...and I promise you... you won't be alone."

—BANG!!!—

As Jackson pulled the trigger, time slowed to a crawl. He watched the hammer drop, the pin strike the cap; and he saw the blast of the powder igniting in the chamber, the flash as the ignited powder exited the muzzle. Above all of it, he heard the hollow-point bullet scraping its way out of the rifled barrel, almost as if it were screaming to life. He felt the recoil, his arm twisting to absorb it as the muzzle jumped. And in the brief but bitter moment of it all, he saw Aiyana staring back at him, her smiling eyes yearning for him.

The bullet impacted in the center of the scav's forehead, caving his face inward as it cut through his skull like a knife through hot butter. The muzzle flash left powder burns on what little of his face remained as the bullet tore through the back of his skull, taking most of the bone and brains with it as the bottom of the pit was splattered deep red like an Old World Jackson Pollock painting.

The bullet impacted in the far concrete wall of the oil pit with a muted metallic chink sound, the echo of the fired shot ringing out into the open air. The scav's body sagged against its own weight, pulling down as the chains rattled one last time. And after all of it, Jackson was left standing alone, a single tear running down his cheek as he let go of a held breath.

He remembered in a moment that he wasn't actually alone, looking up to see the other nomads staring down at him, eyes wide and assholes clenched. He let his chromed hand fall to his side before performing a quick twirl of his revolver, setting it snugly in its holster before he turned and grabbed the rungs of the ladder leading up.

As he pulled himself out of the pit, he heard the faint falling of combat boots approaching, turning to find Dakota eyeing him with all the judgment she had to offer. He shook his head and said softly, "Don't."

Dakota threw her hands up dismissively with a low laugh as she said, "So... did he have anything useful to offer?"

Jackson gave a raised eyebrow and a side-eye as he answered, "Nothin' we didn't already know... girl's a weapon, an' she comes from one o' those wasteland tribes we all have nightmares 'bout."

The old lady didn't look pleased, so Jackson offered the only bone he had, "But... kid was scared shitless talkin' 'bout some meet between Scavs, Wraiths, an' whoever this other outfit is. Says the girl got loose an' tore 'em all to pieces 'fore they got theirs on her."

"But why would they meet he—", Dakota started to ask before her own eyes widened and the lightbulb clicked on, "...flesh trade... shit!"

"Yeah... 's always been in our backyard, 'Kota...", Jackson chided her with a sigh like she didn't already know firsthand, "They's gettin' bolder, and pretty soon 's likely they'll start makin' moves to push us out altogether."

He reached for his coat and hat hanging over a railing and turned to leave as Dakota called out to him, "I'll make some calls, see what I can shake loose on this. Hey Jax... look after the girl. She's seen enough."

Jackson tipped his hat as he walked out of the garage and back into the sun, "You got it, boss-lady. Be seein' ya..."

Dakota followed in his wake, just far enough to look over the horizon as her eyes narrowed. There was a dark cloud forming, and in more ways than one. She didn't like the notion of someone else telling her the Aldecaldos' days were numbered in Night City... she'd been here since before most of Saul Bright's family were even born, and she'd be cold in the ground before she let someone else run them out.

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