The Vulture shudders in the dark, its rear hatch blown wide to the night. Below, Los Muertos smears into neon fog and old fire. A Yakuza skiff rises from the traffic lane, clean and silent, its spotlight crawling across the hull.
The Yakuza Commander
Kay. You have run enough. Hand over the chrome, and this ends clean.
Taled plants himself at the hatch, huge shoulders braced, one fist bleeding where the metal tore him. Yma is half-crouched at a console, fingers still on a live cable, her eyes flicking between the trace feed and the incoming skiff. Ocram grips the controls, jaw tight, keeping the Vulture just ahead of the threat.
Taled
He is not taking you. Not now.
Yma
They are piggybacking on Kay’s old tag. If they close distance, they can lock us again.
The Yakuza skiff opens its side ports. Two armored soldiers lean out, weapons leveled, while the commander’s silhouette stays back under the spotlight. The final space between old debt and open sky narrows to a single violent choice.
“Ocram: "Here is some chrome through your dome!" The Vulture rockets skyward, then dives back down like a bird of prey. Two napalm missiles are launched simultaneously at the Yakuza vehicle, creating a fireball in the sky that the Vulture pierces like a phoenix above the city of Los Muertos.”
FAILURE (Fair Piloting, rolled -1)
Kay yanks the Vulture up, then snaps it into a brutal dive. The hatch yaws in the wind, and the skiff fills his sights for a split second, too close, too steady.
Kay
Here is some chrome through your dome.
He looses both napalm missiles at once. They streak wide, one grazing the skiff’s flank, the other punching past its nose and blooming against the dark air behind it.
Fire erupts anyway, a hot wall that rolls under the skiff and licks the Vulture’s belly as it tears through the edge of the blast. The ship shudders, but the maneuver keeps it alive.
The Yakuza Commander
It bends, but it does not break. Aim for the hatch.
One soldier flinches back from the flames, the other keeps his rifle up through the glare. Below the skiff, Kay catches the shape of its underside hardpoints, exposed now, a narrow opening if he can hit them before they realign.
Yma
Their lock just wavered. For a second, the trace feed stutters.
The Vulture levels for a breath, smoke streaming off both craft, while the commander’s spotlight sweeps wild through the fire haze and the next shot hangs between them.