Shopping Spree is a side mission in Killer Instincts.
The 1st side mission given to Maximo by Hunter Black.
The 2nd Strangers & Freaks mission available.
Plot[]
Part 1: The Kid Returns[]
Saturday, January 11, 2014 | 9:15 AM | 0111 South Rockford Drive, Vespucci Canals
The sound of a fork scraping across a plate echoed softly in Maximo's dimly lit apartment. The morning sun bled in through the blinds, casting long shadows across the cluttered table where he sat, one hand resting on his revolver, the other holding his fork.
A simple protein scramble. Eggs, sausage, some greens for fiber. Fuel, not just food. He couldn't taste it, not really. Not without a tongue. But good fuel mattered. The body needed maintenance, same as his weapons, same as his bike. And if there was one thing Maximo did well, it was maintenance.''
His fork had just speared the last bite when-
BOOMBOOMBOOM.
Maximo froze. Three heavy knocks rattled the apartment door. Firm. Not panicked. Not aggressive. But enough to annoy him. He moved silently, sliding out of his chair, gripping his gun close. His footsteps made no sound as he moved to the peephole hidden under the old, curled calendar beside the door.
Outside, on his porch, stood Hunter Black.
The kid was idly picking his nose, staring at the sky, completely unaware of how close he was to catching a bullet just for disturbing Maximo's morning. Maximo exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. What now?
Hunter was dressed just like yesterday. The same oversized white BIGNESS hoodie, sagging over his frame, the same three platinum chains dangling from his neck like trophies. But now? A fourth chain hung lower than the rest.
The Gold Balla chain. The same one he ripped from Clip Monroe's corpse like a war prize. The B was missing. The symbol of the Ballas, gone. Instead, it just hung there, swaying slightly in the cool morning breeze. A silent mockery of a dead man.
And to make matters worse, his shorts were cow print. Some ridiculous black-and-white mess that draped past his knees, paired with a sludge-black beanie that sat awkwardly high on his head, his green dreads poking out from underneath. And, of course, big black Hinterlands, unlaced.
Maximo sighed. What did this kid want now?
He thought he was done babysitting him for a while. He'd spent all of yesterday making sure Hunter didn't get himself killed while they worked through their contracts, Clip Monroe, Jericho Smith, and Detective Gunsolley.
The job had been clean. Brutal. Efficient. And yet, here Hunter was. Maximo flipped the locks, unlocking all three deadbolts before yanking the door open. Hunter grinned, stepping inside like he lived there, hand raised for a dap.
Hunter: Ayyooo wassup OG? Can a Loc come up in yo crib?
Maximo didn't reciprocate. Instead, he just flicked his head toward the apartment interior, signaling the kid to step in. Then, before closing the door, he gave the street one last scan, checking for tails. Nothing. Nothing obvious, at least. The door shut behind him, the locks clicking back into place.
Hunter flopped onto the red leather couch in the living room, stretching his legs, his Hints hanging just over the floor.
Hunter: Man, I just had to slide through real quick. Just to say, yo, thanks for yesterday, OG. I know I be wildin' sometimes, but you really taught me some real shi, for real.
Maximo just stared. Hunter pulled a thick bankroll of cash from his hoodie pocket. He flicked through it, counting before flashing a wide, toothy grin.
Hunter: Green hit me with fifty bands for yesserday! Fifty, homie! That's like a whole car.
Maximo let out a quiet, low exhale. A smirk crept up at the corner of his mouth. Hunter was ecstatic over fifty grand. Maximo got $330,000 yesterday, and has over a million in the bank. The difference in their worlds was massive, but he just let the kid enjoy his moment.
Hunter leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, suddenly more serious.
Hunter: Look, OG. I know I let you down a few times yesterday. I know I be doin' too much, but, I ain't tryna be no shitty shooter and shi. I wanna learn.
Maximo raised a brow slightly. Hunter scratched his head under his beanie, looking slightly embarrassed.
Hunter: I mean... if you got time. You a busy man, I get it. But, shi, I'd rather learn from you than anybody else. Everyone says you the bess, and I wanna be the bess too yahurr. Make some real money.
Maximo leaned back slightly, watching the kid closely. There was something different this time. Yesterday, Hunter had been loud. Reckless. Brash. But now? Now he was asking to learn.
Maximo sighed, reaching for his cigar holster, six 52 Cohibas left. He pulled one free, biting the tip off, then rolling it between his fingers. This kid, such a walking contradiction. Smart, but dumb. Rich, but broke. Reckless, but eager to learn. A gangbanger playing hitman, trying to figure out what kind of killer he was gonna be.
Maximo wasn't sure what his answer was yet. But maybe... just maybe... he'd entertain the idea. Mr. Green gave him a chance when he was his age, even younger. Even worse than Hunter was. He clinked and fired his cigar, puffing quickly.
Then, he nodded.
Hunter: For real?! Ayy, say less! I ain't gon' let you down, OG!
Maximo just exhaled, the smoke curling through the dim apartment. We'll see.
Hunter was still buzzing from excitement, waving his fifty grand like he was the king of the world. But money didn't mean shit if you didn't have the right tools. Maximo exhaled through his nose, then reached out his gloved hand toward Hunter, fingers slightly curled, asking for something.
Hunter frowned.
Hunter: Huh? What?
Maximo's other hand came up, mimicking a gun, his fingers shaking wildly as if shooting uncontrollably. Hunter groaned, rolling his eyes.
Hunter: Bruh... c'mon, OG, not the Glock...
Maximo didn't say a word. Just kept his hand out. Hunter sighed heavily, muttering under his breath, before reluctantly pulling the Gen 5 Glock from under his hoodie. He held it out... finger still on the trigger.
A hair trigger. A binary trigger. A literal death trap.
One misfire and Maximo would've been blown apart by a full 45-round burst. Maximo's jaw clenched. His teeth ground together as he took the gun carefully, slowly, deliberately. Then he turned to Hunter, eyes narrowing.
He growled, low and deep, like a dog warning another not to step too close. Hunter blinked. Didn't get it. So Maximo bopped him on the head. Not hard. Just enough to hopefully wake his brain up.
Hunter flinched, rubbing the back of his skull.
Hunter: Shi, OG! What?!
Maximo ignored him, flipping the gun over in his hands, analyzing every stupid aftermarket mod Hunter had added. A ridiculous, oversized scope attachment on the rail. Why? It's a pistol. You're not sniping people with this. A big laser underneath. The binary trigger. One squeeze, and it dumped two shots. The full-auto switch. Illegal. Sketchy. Highly unstable.
Then, gripping the slide, he pointed to the safety switch and tapped it. Firmly. The safety was off.
Hunter squinted.
Hunter: Aight, I see that, I see that...
Maximo narrowed his eyes. He flicked the scope off the rail, tossing it onto the table. Same with the laser underneath. Trash. Then, smoothly, he pulled his boot knife from his holster and, in one clean motion, wedged the tip into the full-auto switch, which was jammed into auto, twisting until it unjammed.
Now? The gun was back into factory semi-auto. Hunter's jaw dropped.
Hunter: Bro... what the fuck did you just do? N*gga, that was the switchy! You just crippled my baby!
Maximo just held up the gun with a single finger, as if saying fixed it. Then he pointed to the switch, and mimicked the gun exploding in his hand. That's what this thing was gonna do if you kept using it.
Hunter opened his mouth to argue... but then stopped. He exhaled. Finally getting it.
Hunter: So... what, then? What I gotta do boss?
Maximo didn't answer, just exhaled sharply, shaking his head. This gun was unsalvageable. Hunter needed a real weapon, not some bootleg modded Glock held together with dreams .
Instead of explaining, Maximo reached into his belt holster, pulling out something that made Hunter squint in confusion.
A pager. Old-school, worn, but still functional.
Hunter watched as Maximo flipped it open, his fingers moving quickly, deliberately.
Then, SEND. The message went straight to Elvira, who would forward it to the right operative. Untraceable. Simple. Efficient.
Hunter leaned over, frowning hard.
Hunter: Yo... what the fuck is that old ahh shi? You ain't got a iFruit like normal people?!
Maximo just smirked, slipping the pager back into his holster. Hunter shook his head, muttering under his breath.
Hunter: Man, you built like 1985.
Maximo flicked his cigar ash into the tray, ignoring him.
Hunter would learn soon enough, some things don't need to be updated. He'd have a real weapon in his hands. One that wouldn't get him or Maximo killed by mistake.
And that was step one to turning this kid into a real professional.
Part 2: Old Guns, New Lessons[]
Saturday, January 11, 2014 | 10:00 AM | Vespucci Canals to the Meet
The morning air was lovely, the ocean sea breeze rolling in from the nearby beach, but Maximo barely noticed as he threw one leg over Circe. He gave the throttle a quick twist, the engine roaring to life, growling like a caged animal ready to run.
Hunter? Hunter didn't have a bike. He had a BMX.
Maximo just shook his head. Hunter groaned loudly as he climbed onto the small black frame, feet hitting the pedals, sighing dramatically.
Hunter: N*gga, this is some bullshit. I got money now, you know how stupid I look ridin' a pushbike next to you, OG?! Why can't I catch a ride on the back!?
Maximo ignored him, rolling smoothly onto Vespucci Blvd. Hunter, cursing under his breath, started pedaling. Lucky for him, the meet wasn't far.
They took a left down San Andreas Ave, the city slowly waking up as cars hummed past in the mid-morning light. Maximo rode slow and steady, keeping his rearview tilted slightly downward, watching as Hunter lagged behind.
They passed Burger Shot, then Red's Liquor Store, Maximo's favorite store. Without a word, he slowed, pulled in, and parked. Hunter, panting, caught up just as Maximo was already walking out of the store, a small brown bag in hand.
Hunter: Ayo OG, hold up a sec- I-I need to- catch my breath-
Maximo tossed the bag at him. Hunter barely caught it, frowning before peeking inside. A bottle of bourbon.
His grin was instant.
Hunter: Oh, you a real one for that, OG!
He gave him a look. Hunter knew immediately.
Hunter: Aww shi... You jus want me to carry it for ya? I your butler now?
Maximo was already back on Circe, revving the engine before Hunter could keep complaining. Hunter swore, tucking the bottle into his hoodie pocket, hopping back on the BMX to catch up. They took a left on Bay Avenue, then another onto Conquistador Street, before turning right onto Magellan Ave, Vespucci.
Maximo rolled into a small parking area wedged between beachfront apartments. The buildings were ugly, palette blue, towering high but forgotten. No cameras. No nosy neighbors. This was always Maximo's gun van spot.
He pulled in, idling the bike, then pulled a cigar from the small holster tucked under his left armpit, next to his revolver. He flicked his zippo lighter open, taking a deep inhale, enjoying the quiet. A minute passed. Then two.
Hunter arrived a few minutes later, legs burning, huffing like he had run a marathon.
Hunter: N*gga, fuck all that cardio shit. That's why I need a car... And a license.
Maximo just raised an eyebrow. Hunter wiped sweat off his forehead, breathing heavy.
Hunter: Shi, it's the weed, man. I swear. That shi be killin' my lungs.
Maximo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Kid had no stamina. Another thing to work on.
A half-hour passed before the gun van finally arrived. A grey modified Speedo van rolled into the lot, disguised as a plumbing service van, logo slapped across the side in faded letters. The driver turned the van until the sliding door was directly in front of Maximo.
Maximo didn't move, still leaning against Circe, taking another slow drag of his cigar. The door slid open.
Out stepped Billy Gilli.
Short. Chubby. Mid-forties. A man with a permanent five o'clock shadow, wearing a sweaty undershirt under an old workers jacket and unclipped overalls. His beer belly stretched his sweatpants, but his eyes were sharp.
A man who loved guns more than people. His grin was wide as he threw his arms open.
Billy: Maxiboy! The silent fuckin' assassin! It's been a minute!
Maximo just nodded once, stepping closer as Billy turned, motioning to the open van. Inside?
An ancient treasure trove.
A full spread of guns lined the walls, secured in tight racks. But not modern tacticool garbage, no plastic, no gimmicks. Just steel, wood, and function. Revolvers. Lever-action rifles. Bolt-action snipers. Classic semi-autos. Nothing made after the 2000s.
No lasers. No unnecessary attachments. Just pure death in machined steel form.
Hunter looked around the van, unimpressed, looking for an attachment or laser sight.
Hunter: N*gga... this some old ah cowboy-ass shit.
Billy: Damn right, kid. This ain't no Righteous Slaughter loadout. This is the real shit. The classics. The shit that still works when everything else don't.
Maximo exhaled through his nose. This was exactly what Hunter needed. Something reliable, sturdy, and worked. And now? It was time for Hunter to pick.
Billy G. clapped his hands together, stepping up into the modified Speedo van like he was about to give the greatest sermon of his life.
- His greasy fingers traced over the racks of firearms, pure steel and history hanging inside the van like sacred artifacts. He turned toward Hunter, eyes gleaming with absolute fanaticism.
Billy: Alright, boy. You about to get a real fuckin' education.
Hunter tilted his head, unimpressed.
Hunter: Bruh, this shit all look old as hell-
Billy: SHUT YO' MOUTH, BOY!
Hunter flinched. Billy was already spinning around, reaching into the van, and pulling out a slab of blackened steel. He thrust it forward like the Holy Grail.
Billy: This right here? This is the Hawk & Little Model 29, chambered in .44 Magnum. The most powerful handgun in the world when it dropped in 1955. Would blow a man clean in half, son!
Hunter stared at the massive revolver, blinking.
Hunter: Bruh... that shi look like it's for sheriffs. Where the attachments at? Ain't got no lasers, no silencer, not even a fuckin' rail?
Billy looked personally offended.
Billy: RAILS?! RAILS?! The only rail you need is the one I'll jam up your ass and make you RESPECT AMERICAN STEEL!
Maximo exhaled, flicking his cigar ash onto the pavement.
Billy carefully placed the revolver back into its slot and yanked out a massive wooden-stocked rifle.
Billy: Alright, okay. Maybe you ain't a outlaw. Maybe you want something a little more mean, a little more classic. Well, boy, look at this.
He held up a M1 Garand. The wood polished, the bolt clean, the spirit of 1945 radiating off the damn thing.
Billy: This here is the M1 Garand. You load a clip of eight into this beauty and once you're out? PING! She sings for ya.
Hunter folded his arms, looking even less impressed.
Hunter: N*gga, that's a whole-ass World War one gun.
Billy: WORLD WAR II! You know what they used after World War II? This gun. You know what they used during World War II? THIS. FUCKIN'. GUN. You know what they still use TODAY?
Hunter frowned.
Hunter: ...Not that gun?
Billy's eye twitched. Maximo smirked. Billy took a deep inhale, rubbing his temple before placing the rifle back into the rack. Maximo took a slow puff of his cigar, watching the spectacle unfold.
Then, finally, Billy turned, grinning. He pulled out a gun that looked like it belonged in a museum.
A Colt M1911.
Hunter tilted his head. Billy's grin widened. He held it up like he was showing Excalibur to a knight.
Billy: Colt. M1911. Single-action, recoil-operated, .45 ACP. Been killin' motherfuckers since 1911 and still outperforms half the shit they make today. Two World Wars, baby.
Hunter hesitated. His eyes flicked to Maximo. Maximo nodded once. This? This was the one. Reliable. Heavy. Built to last. Tried and tested for a century. No switches, no gimmicks, just pure, deadly function.
Hunter scratched his itchy dreads.
Part 3: No Gimmicks[]
Saturday, January 11, 2014 | 10:20 AM | Billy's Gun Van, Vespucci Canals
Hunter: Aight... it look kinda fire... How much?
Billy: One grand.
Hunter flinched.
Hunter: A BAND?! Ngga, I bought my switchy for that!
Maximo reached into his inner coat pocket, pulling out his Save Golden Company checkbook. With smooth precision, he flipped to a blank docket and wrote out $500. Then, he extended his free hand.
Hunter groaned, reaching into his hoodie and pulling out a stack of cash. Kid was acting like he would starve without $500.
Hunter: Shi, I feel like I'm payin' rent.
Maximo didn't react. He just waited. Hunter grumbled, counted out five hundred dollars, and slapped it into Billy's hand. Billy grinned, pocketing the money before passing the M1911 over.
Hunter held it carefully. The weight felt right. He pulled the slide back, listening to the mechanical click, testing the trigger pull. It was smooth, simple, clean. No binary triggers. No full-auto switch. No scope and rail, and definitely no 45 round drum mag.
Just a gun.
Maximo patted him on the shoulder, just once. Hunter blinked. Then, slowly, he smirked.
Hunter: Aight, I trust ya OG. This one real nice.
Maximo just grunted, stepping away from the van, satisfied. Billy, arms crossed, let out a content sigh.
Billy: Damn right it is. Anything for you, Maxiboy? Or just the usual?
Maximo exhaled, taking one final drag from his cigar before flicking it onto the pavement. He held up two fingers and rolled them, signaling his standard order. Billy nodded, stepping back into the van and grabbing a small, unlabeled ammo crate. He handed it over with a knowing grin.
Billy: I knew you was gonna say that. 180 grain hard-cast, .357s, packed tight. Best penetration you'll get this side of the city.
Maximo took the crate, feeling the weight in his palm. Heavy. Reliable. Good steel wrapped in brass. But he wasn't done. He tilted his head slightly, then raised an invisible rifle to his shoulder, mimicking the motion of a sniper.
Billy's smile widened.
Billy: Ohhh, you on some long-distance work now, huh? Alright, alright... got somethin' for ya.
He turned back into the van, digging for a few moments. Then, he pulled a sleek, black case in the shape of a guitar, longer than a standard rifle bag, reinforced with steel-lined edges. He set it down on the pavement, flicking both latches open. Inside? A CheyTac Intervention.
A bolt-action sniper rifle, chambered in .408 CheyTac, built for precision. Maximo's eyes lingered on it. A beast of a gun. Billy let out a whistle.
Billy: Now look... I know this is post-Y2K, but hell, Maxiboy, this is a fine piece. 2001, bolt-action, clean as a whistle, detachable box mag. 3,000 feet per second muzzle velocity. I'd trust this baby to hit a fly's ass at 2,500 yards. Never forget 9/11.
Maximo slowly nodded. The only post-2000 gun he'd ever consider. Billy smirked.
Billy: For you? Ten grand.
Maximo was already flipping open his checkbook. With smooth, practiced precision, he wrote out the payment, tore the slip, and passed it over. Billy tucked it into his jacket pocket, shaking his head with a chuckle.
Billy: I swear, Maxiboy, you the only man still writing checks in this goddamn city.
Maximo just grunted, closing the guitar-case-shaped gun bag, sliding the strap over his shoulder. Billy hopped into the van, revved the engine, and gave a final wave.
Billy: You boys play nice, now! The weather is clearing up. Don't shoot your damn eye out, kid!
Billy's plumbing van rumbled off into traffic, disappearing into the hum of the city. Maximo turned back toward Hunter, who was still turning his shiny new M1911 over in his hands like a kid on Christmas morning. Maximo raised a finger, then mimicked a shooting stance, steady arms, proper form, a silent promise of what was coming next.
Hunter blinked, squinting at the gesture. Then, realization hit. His grin spread wide.
Hunter: Oh, word? You gon' teach me how to shoot and shi? Ayy, bet!
Maximo wasn't done yet. His fingers flicked toward the platinum chains dangling around Hunter's neck, specifically, the Balla chain hanging lower than the rest. Then he made a jerking motion. A simple gesture. Wasted money.
Then, he mimicked a driving motion. Hunter sighed, rubbing his green-tipped dreads like a kid caught doing something dumb.
Hunter: Aight, I get it, I get it. Stop blowin' my money on bullshit.
Maximo gave a slight nod. Hunter groaned louder, throwing his hands up in defeat.
Hunter: Fine. I'll buy a car, okay? Goddamn, you actin' like my momma, OG.
Progress. Not much, but progress. Maximo reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small notepad and scrawling a quick note in his sharp, mechanical handwriting. He tore the page out and handed it to Hunter. Hunter squinted, reading aloud slowly.
Hunter: Ammu-Nation... Pillbox Hill... 18:00... What's 18:00? Is that a date or sum?
Maximo exhaled through his nose, and wrote a big 6pm.
With that, he turned toward Circe, stepping into the saddle with effortless grace. A quick kickstart and the engine roared alive like a hungry beast. Hunter, still standing beside his BMX, muttered under his breath as he watched Maximo roll off.
Hunter: Yeah, fuck this shi... I need a car.
The apartment door clicked shut behind him as Maximo set down the weight of the day's spoils. The CheyTac Intervention, still secured in its discreet guitar case, leaned silently against the wall by the door. It would prove useful one day, when the job called for distance and precision.
The small box of .357 hard-cast rounds found its place inside the old wooden drawer beneath his bed, the same drawer that held memories of every job he hadn't yet forgotten. For now, though, something simple. He reached for the bourbon he'd bought earlier, pouring a modest glass. Just enough to feel a kick, not enough to dull the edges. He wasn't here for that.
The glass was cool in his hand, the liquid biting against the back of his throat as it went down. Maximo leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. 6 PM. Hunter had a lesson waiting for him.
But until then? Silence. Peace. For now.