"Counting the ten thousand Eurodollars from NCPD, I had over sixty thousand saved up. Ten thousand for real meat, thirty-one thousand for the bike... and just like that, I was down to twenty thousand."
Sitting in the Afterlife bar, which had practically become their base, Carl counted his remaining Eurodollars on his fingers and felt poor again.
"You still have twenty thousand. I only have a few hundred left."
Oliver said, "After buying a Midnight Arms SOR-22 kinetic precision rifle and getting Nanoweave Fibers installed, I emptied my savings."
Midnight Arms SOR-22: A powerful semi-assault rifle designed specifically for the military. Unadorned, simple, and deadly. Though this heavy rifle, well suited for charging into battle, required a good endoskeleton and muscle bundles to withstand its recoil, its powerful firepower was enough to satisfy anyone.
Nanoweave Fibers: Synthetic muscle fibers.
As he spoke of his nearly depleted savings, Oliver glanced at the SOR-22 leaning against the bar beside him, his eyes full of satisfaction. This weapon, built for soldiers from the start, had clearly won over the former Sixth Street Gang member.
"My savings aren't as much as what Carl has left, but I still have some."
Jack, drinking beside them, cast an envious look at Oliver's weapon. "I still need a certain amount before I can save up for the cyberware and weapons I want, though."
"I think we should add a motorcycle to that list after cyberware and weapons."
Carl chewed on the fries Mrs. Welles had brought over. "Jack, haven't you always wanted to buy an ARCH motorcycle?"
"That takes money too, brother."
A rare troubled look appeared on Jack's face. "To become a big shot, you need to take on jobs with enough weight. But without enough weapons and cyberware, you can't handle the big jobs. The motorcycle will have to wait for now."
"There'll be work, Jack. There'll always be work."
Carl stared at the number for Faraday, the fixer in his contacts, but he felt the man was rather unreliable.
He said it was a test and gave them a small job, but afterward, he never sent them anything else. He would not even give them a straight answer about whether they were capable or not. It was a real headache.
Just as Carl considered taking a few ordinary small jobs to make ends meet, a loud commotion broke out at a table not far from them. When the three of them looked over, a man slammed a liquor bottle down hard on the head of another man seated across from him.
Bang!
The sound of the bottle shattering was especially crisp in the daytime bar. Almost instantly, the entire place fell silent, and everyone turned to look toward the table where the incident had occurred.
"Can you do it or not, asshole? Give me a straight answer. Quit hemming and hawing over there."
The man who had smashed the bottle over the other man's head looked to be in his twenties, about Jack's age. He wore a jacket, and half his face was mechanical. The expression formed by both metal and flesh was one of obvious impatience.
Carl did not recognize him. He was probably not a regular at the Afterlife bar. But Carl did recognize the man across from him, whose head was bleeding and whose scalp was studded with scattered shards of glass, yet who did not dare cry out in pain.
He remembered that the man was a driver who ran deliveries in Heywood. He often came to the Afterlife bar for a drink after work. He was in his fifties, and people called him Old Hauler, meaning an old man who was always hauling cargo.
Among the ordinary people of Night City, someone in his fifties who still ran cargo through the streets could indeed be considered an old man.
"What's going on here?"
The Afterlife bar was his mother's bar, after all, so Jack had every reason to stop the dispute. He immediately stood and headed toward Old Hauler. Carl gave Oliver a look, and Oliver understood, following Jack over. Carl, meanwhile, first poured the fries from the plate into the small plastic bag Mrs. Welles had given him, then walked over while eating them.
Freshly fried crispy fries would go soft if he waited too long to eat them.
By the time Carl arrived, the conversation between Jack, who was trying to mediate, and the half-mechanical-faced man had already let him understand roughly what had happened.
Simply put, the half-mechanical-faced man was a field investigator sent by Militech. He was investigating cargo transport in Heywood, and Old Hauler had happened to run a route transporting supplies from Heywood to City Center over the past few days. So the man had come to question Old Hauler, but Old Hauler stammered and could not explain himself clearly no matter what.
"Was Old Hauler running routes for Militech?"
"No. He just traveled along the relevant roads. He had no contact with Militech at all."
Hearing Oliver's answer, Carl found it rather baffling.
"Since Old Hauler wasn't responsible for losing Militech cargo, and to be precise, it was the company that had a problem and needed to ask Old Hauler about it, why had this turned into company personnel using force to demand information from him?"
"Company people are just like that. To them, Old Hauler is only someone scraping out a living on the streets. He doesn't count for anything, so naturally they do whatever is easiest."
"So this is a threat, then."
A threat backed by the power of the company behind him.
Carl looked at Old Hauler, who had done nothing wrong yet had been smashed over the head simply because he could not explain himself clearly. Blood kept flowing, but he did not even dare wipe it away. He trembled and did not dare resist at all. Then Carl looked at the arrogant company man, who acted as if it was Old Hauler's fault for not helping them, and he understood.
"Alright."
Carl walked over to the bar, where Mrs. Welles had already taken out a medical kit and prepared it.
"Mrs. Welles, you don't mind if I help you clean up, do you?"
"What are you saying, kid? It'd be wonderful if you're willing to help."
"Good."
Carl carried the medical kit back and handed both it and his half bag of fries to Oliver.
"You handle Old Hauler's treatment. Make sure you do it carefully. And don't steal my fries. I'm watching you. There's still half a bag left."
Oliver stared at Carl, then looked at Jack, who was still talking, and seemed to understand what Carl intended to do.
"I wouldn't steal them. Leave the treatment to me. But don't break anything."
"I know. Jack's temper is just too good. For a guy like this..."
Carl rubbed his fists as he stepped forward.
"When I deal with him, I won't even break a single cup."
He actually dared cause trouble in the Afterlife bar for no reason. Who gave him the nerve?
Before you continue