Night City, August 2075.
The Columbarium terminal hummed, a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floor. A crisp, digital beep sliced through the stale air, immediately followed by a heavy ka-thunk. The retrieval drawer of the cremation vending machine whirred open, spewing forth a dull, metallic container. On its front, etched in stark, impersonal block print, was the name. MARIA SANTIAGO WELLES.
A pair of sharp, vivid green eyes, shadowed by a cascade of dark red hair swept back from his face, stared fixedly at the cylindrical vessel. Mateo "Teo" Santiago Welles, all seventeen years of his 6'3" frame, was crouched low before the machine, his muscles locked, his breath hitched. The clinical finality of the moment, the cold metal casing of his mother's remains, had him utterly stuck.
"Mama..." The whisper was barely audible, swallowed by the mechanical thrum of the death-dealer.
A light, calloused hand settled gently on his shoulder. Turning slowly, his emerald gaze met the worried, yet firm, eyes of his aunt, Guadalupe Alejandra Welles. Her face, etched with the wisdom of Heywood's rough streets and the warmth of a thousand shared meals, was a stark contrast to the sterile environment.
"Teo, mijo," her voice was a soft rasp, "You've been staring at it for too long. Come on, chulo, let's take your mother home."
Teo let out a ragged breath, the sound more like a suppressed sob. He looked at his aunt, then back at the container, a silent battle waging within him. Mama Welles, as she was known by all who frequented El Coyote Cojo, was a formidable woman despite her smaller stature. She and Teo had navigated the labyrinthine, impersonal corridors of the Zuraki Mortuary Services building, less a place of mourning, more a high volume processing facility for the departed, to reach this final, desolate corner of a life. Each corridor had echoed with the hollow footsteps of the living retrieving the remains of the dead.
"Sigh... Mhkay, Tía." He managed, his voice thick with unspent grief. The word, ingrained from childhood, tasted bitter on his tongue.
With a trembling hand, he reached into the machine's maw, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth metal. The container was heavy, filled with an unbearable lightness. Standing, he unfolded his lanky frame, suddenly towering over his aunt. "I'm ready," he murmured, the words more a promise to himself than a statement to her.
"Good, mijo," Mama Welles replied, her arm sliding around his back, a comforting anchor. Together, they walked out of the morgue, into the vibrant, dangerous pulse of Heywood, the air thick with the scent of synth-smoke, street food, and distant exhaust.
As the sliding doors of the mortuary hissed open, the Night City night embraced them. Neon signs bled across the rain slicked asphalt, painting the familiar street in dizzying hues of crimson and electric blue. There, parked a short distance away, glowing with an almost predatory readiness, was Mama Welles' Thorton Galena "G240". Slumped on its hood, looking like a dark sculpture against the lurid backdrop, was Jackie Welles. His optics pulsed with a faint, red flicker, betraying the active conversation he was clearly immersed in.
"...Got it. I'll get it done," Jackie muttered into the comms, his voice low and guttural. As he noticed them, the red flicker in his eyes died down, replaced by a more neutral, predatory gold. He slid off the hood, his impressive build unwinding with casual grace.
"Sorry, you two," Jackie said, already stepping towards them, a practiced grin on his face. "Had to take a business call. Busy choom, y'know?" His gaze then fell upon the unassuming container in Teo's arms. "Is that... her?"
"Mmh," Teo nodded, the single sound conveying an unspoken pain. Jackie reached him in two strides, pulling him into a tight, side hug.
"Sorry, mano. Should've been in there with you," Jackie rumbled, his expression softening with genuine regret.
Teo looked up, meeting his cousin's gaze. "It's okay, Jack. Good gig, though?" The question was a subconscious reflex, a testament to his ingrained drive to find profit, even in the shadow of loss.
Jackie's smile was fleeting. "Yeah. Good eddies. Not too dangerous..." He paused, sensing the fragile emotional tightrope Teo was walking. "But let's not talk shop right now, eh? El Coyote's got some real food waiting."
Teo nodded, his eyes already drifting towards the back seat of the Galena. Jackie slid into the driver's seat, the powerful hum of the engine a comforting thrum, while Mama Welles took the passenger side. As they settled in, Mama Welles' voice cut through the silence.
"Seatbelts, mijos."
"Yes, Mama," Jackie said, almost simultaneously with Teo's soft, "Yes, Tía." The shared habit was a small, familiar comfort in the overwhelming chaos of his grief.
The car purred to life, pulling away from the curb and into the arterial flow of Night City traffic. In the back seat, Teo leaned his head back, staring at the darkened roof of the car. On his lap, resting heavily in his arms, was the stark, bland container of his mother's ashes. 'What am I gonna do now, Mama?' The thought echoed in his mind.
He drifted, lost in the suffocating current of his thoughts. With his mother gone, the future felt like a vast, empty expanse, devoid of purpose or drive. Just a year ago, everything had been... manageable. His mother had been vibrant, the lifeblood of their small Heywood apartment. He'd been making a name for himself, taking small time netrunning gigs for Padre, slowly building a future. But then the diagnosis hit, cold and clinical, pinning his mother to a bed in the sterile confines of the Zuraki MedStation, a corporate owned health trap designed to bleed patients dry.
Every eddy he earned, every dangerous breach he pulled, went straight into her bottomless medical expenses. Three thousand, sometimes six thousand eddies a month, a king's ransom for a kid from Heywood. He'd worked himself raw, pushed his basic cyberdeck to its limits, but it was never enough. The illness was too rare, too "unimportant" for a low tier medstation to waste its resources on a mere "Heywood rat." And just like that, the endless drain of eddies became an endless void, his mother a silent memory.
His hand instinctively reached for the cold, smooth metal of the golden cross nestled against his collarbone. It wasn't flashy, just solid gold, a relic of a father he barely remembered, but who, Mama had always said, was a well respected man, close to Padre. He clutched the chain, one of the only tangible links to the family he had left. A wave of nausea washed over him, the grief and exhaustion bubbling up.
He rolled the window down. The cool Night City air, carrying the faint metallic tang of industry and the distant thrum of traffic, rushed against his face, a bracing shock that pulled him back from the edge. 'Enough thinking for now... I need some food.'
Soon, the familiar scent of spiced meat and sizzling tortillas drew them. Jackie pulled the Galena into the narrow driveway behind the El Coyote Cojo. The bar, a warm, flickering beacon in the heart of Heywood, was more than just a watering hole. It was a cultural anchor, a makeshift sanctuary for locals, Nomads, and the ever present Valentinos. It wasn't Afterlife, no hardened mercs looking for a legend, but it was merc friendly, especially to those who respected the community that breathed life into its walls. More importantly, it was a place of remembrance, where ofrendas were made and the living gathered to honor the dead, to share stories, and sometimes, to pick up a gig from a whispered word.
It was only 8:30 PM, but the bar was already a cacophony, louder, rowdier than usual. It seemed some patrons, emboldened by Mama Welles' absence, had forgotten where they were. In a corner, two ragtag, low tiered mercs, their worn chrome glinting under the dim lights, were rough housing, flinging each other against tables, a small crowd roaring with laughter and placing quick bets on who would tap out first.
From behind the bar, a young woman, Maria, straightened suddenly, her eyes wide with relief as she spotted Mama Welles. She rushed over, wringing her hands. "Mama Welles! I... I couldn't keep things under control, I'm so sorry!" she stammered, head bowed.
Mama Welles' gaze, usually soft around the edges, turned to ice. She simply pointed a finger at the brawling mercs. "It's not your fault, Maria. Just those idiotas." The tone, quiet yet utterly authoritative, made Jackie and Teo instinctively straighten their backs. A primal fear, born of respect and ingrained experience, tightened their shoulders. Yeah, don't fuck with Mama Welles.
Jackie leaned down to Teo, a quick, conspiratorial whisper. "Come on, mano, let's go to the memorial."
As they began to make their way towards the opposite wall, a few patrons noticed Teo. Their boisterous conversations died down, replaced by murmurs of sympathy. Some rose from their stools, offering hushed condolences. An old Latina woman, her face a roadmap of Heywood's history, shuffled over, pulling Teo into a tight embrace and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. His mother had been well known here, almost Mama Welles' right hand, running the bar with quiet efficiency and a fierce love for its people. Everyone adored her.
Eventually, they reached the memorial wall, a living tapestry of Heywood's legends and lost loved ones. Photographs, hand drawn portraits, and vibrant graffiti intertwined across the scarred plaster. His father was there, a handsome young man with the same sharp green eyes and dark red hair as Teo, though his son carried his mother's softer facial features. And right next to his father's faded portrait, a sprawling, raw, and incredibly beautiful graffiti piece of his mother. It covered half the right side of the wall, a burst of color and emotion. Teo's breath hitched. He hadn't seen it yet. It was magnificent. Beneath the artwork, a small altar of fresh flowers and flickering candles attested to the outpouring of love and respect his mother had commanded. 'People really loved you, huh, Mama?' he thought, a lump forming in his throat.
A small, empty table sat in the center of the bar, bathed in the soft glow of the memorial. He walked to it, carefully placing the bland, cold container upon its surface. It looked out of place, so impersonal. He'd need to get some art on it, give it a proper Heywood touch. As the thought formed, he noticed the sudden quietness in the bar. The mercs had stopped brawling, their rough hands still. Every eye was on the portrait, then on him. The boisterous noise had dissolved into a profound, almost reverent silence. Hats were removed, heads bowed in silent prayer.
'Wow,' Teo thought, a flicker of surprise cutting through his grief. People in Night City rarely showed this much courtesy, even in Heywood. He turned to face the wall, looking at the assembled patrons, then back at the memorial. Jackie slung a comforting arm around his shoulders, a silent anchor. Mama Welles came around his other side, leaning her head against his arm, her two hands wrapping around him, a shield against the world.
And then, his gaze fell to the bottom text, rendered in a looping, beautiful script beneath the vibrant portrait.
'In honor of Maria Santiago Welles, the greatest woman in Heywood.'