With success so close at hand, the four of them were instead at a loss for what to do.
One of them, a Black kid with an afro nicknamed Drey—his nickname came from the street tune of "Drey, Drey, Drey" that he always hummed when nervous or excited—carefully held up a plate. Its cool touch and fine craftsmanship made him certain it was worth a fortune, and he was terrified of dropping it.
In present-day Night City, ordinary bowls and chopsticks were naturally the same as they had always been—not worth much.
But cheap tableware synthesized from discarded materials carried a strange odor that was almost impossible to remove. Even sitting unused, it seemed to reek of industrial residue. Compared to the plate before him, which had clearly been specially purchased, the difference was obvious at a glance.
"Put it down, Drey." Am, the leader of the four, spoke quietly. His voice was steady, carrying a composure that did not belong to someone his age.
"Am?"
Drey was deeply confused by his leader's words. "Why? There's a whole pile of this stuff. They won't notice if we take a few."
"Listen." Am lowered his voice and reiterated the plan to his companions. "We only take small things. Stuff that won't be easy to trace."
He continued, "The KK Squad made this street a little better. I respect them from the bottom of my heart. But respect is respect—we're thieves, and we still need to take things. You need to understand what we can touch and what we can't."
He pointed toward a storage rack piled with braindances. "Take those. Look for valuable ones that collectors might buy. I scanned the access logs with my device, and some haven't been opened in a long time—probably old stuff the KK Squad watched