"Counting the 10,000 eddies from the NCPD reward, I had over 60,000 saved up. But after spending 10,000 on real meat and 31,000 on a car, in the blink of an eye, I'm down to just 20,000 eddies."
Sitting in Coyote Cojo, which had practically become their base of operations, Karl counted his remaining eddies on his fingers, feeling broke once again.
"You still have 20,000 eddies? I barely have a few hundred left," Oliver said with a sigh."I bought a Midnight Arms SOR-22 kinetic precision rifle and installed Nano Fiber implants. My account is completely drained now."
[Midnight Arms SOR-22]: A powerful semi-automatic battle rifle designed for military use. No fancy decorations—just pure, deadly efficiency. While its heavy recoil demands reinforced bone and muscle structures, its raw firepower makes up for it.[Nano Fiber]: Synthetic muscle fibers designed to enhance physical performance.
Hearing that, Karl glanced at Oliver's SOR-22 resting against the bar counter. The former 6th Street Gang member seemed satisfied with his purchase, his eyes full of admiration for the weapon.
"I still have some savings," Jack chimed in while sipping his drink."But I'm still a long way from affording the implants and weapons I really want."
"I think you should add a motorcycle to that list too," Karl said while munching on the fries Mama Wells had sent over."Didn't you always want to get an ARCH bike, Jack?"
"Yeah, but eddies, brother. I need eddies," Jack groaned."To be a big shot, I need to take on bigger jobs. But without the right gear and implants, I can't handle those gigs. So, the bike will have to wait for now."
"There will always be jobs, Jack. Always."
Karl glanced at the number of Fixer Faraday in his contacts, feeling increasingly doubtful about his reliability.
Faraday had promised them a test run before handing them real gigs, yet after the small-time job with the Scavs, he had gone silent. No follow-ups, no confirmation, nothing.
Just as Karl was considering taking on some smaller side jobs for quick cash, a loud commotion erupted from a nearby table.
When Karl and the others turned to look, they saw a man smash a bottle against the head of another.
Crash!
The sharp sound of shattering glass echoed through the bar, and in an instant, the entire place went dead silent. All eyes turned to the scene.
"You gonna make up your damn mind or not, asshole?! Quit hesitating already!"
The one who smashed the bottle was a guy in his early twenties, about Jack's age. He wore a rugged jacket, half his face covered in cyberware, and his mechanical and organic features twisted in clear frustration.
Karl didn't recognize him—he definitely wasn't a regular at Coyote Cojo. But the man across from him, now bleeding from his scalp with shards of glass embedded in his skin, was someone Karl did know.
A local driver from Heywood, a man who often dropped by the bar for a drink after work. A guy in his fifties, known as "Old Freight."
In Night City, a street runner making it past fifty was practically an old-timer.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Coyote Cojo was, after all, Jack's mother's bar. Naturally, he had every reason to step in and break up any disputes. He immediately stood up and made his way toward Old Freight.
Karl exchanged a glance with Oliver, who got the message and followed Jack over. Meanwhile, Karl casually dumped the fries from his plate into the small plastic bag Mama Wells had given him before leisurely walking over while snacking.
Freshly fried crispy fries would get soggy if he didn't eat them fast enough.
By the time Karl arrived, Jack had already started mediating the situation with the half-cyberface guy, and from their conversation, Karl quickly pieced together what was happening.
In short, the half-cyberface guy was an external investigator sent by Militech. He was looking into transport routes in Heywood, and Old Freight had recently been making runs between Heywood and City Center.
Since Old Freight had been on those routes, the Militech agent wanted answers, but Old Freight was struggling to explain anything clearly.
"Was Old Freight hauling Militech's shipments?" Karl asked.
"No, he was just driving through those routes. He had nothing to do with Militech," Oliver answered.
Karl found the situation bizarre.
"If Militech lost their cargo, and Old Freight had nothing to do with it, then why is this corporate goon shaking him down like he owes them something?"
"Because that's just how corps work. To them, Old Freight is just some random street driver, nothing more. They take the easiest approach possible—lean on the little guy until they get what they want."
"So, this is just intimidation, huh?"
Using corporate backing to throw their weight around.
Karl glanced at Old Freight—an innocent guy who hadn't done anything wrong, bleeding all over the place, too scared to even wipe the blood off his face, shaking in fear, unable to fight back. Then, he looked at the arrogant corporate agent, radiating entitlement as if not cooperating was somehow Old Freight's fault.
Karl understood the situation perfectly.
"Alright, I've had enough."
Karl turned toward the bar counter, where Mama Wells had already pulled out the first aid kit, ready for use.
"Mama Wells, you wouldn't mind if I helped clean up a little, would you?"
"Of course not, kid. I'd appreciate it."
"Great."
Karl grabbed the first aid kit and handed it, along with his half-eaten bag of fries, to Oliver.
"Patch up Old Freight, and do it properly. And don't even think about touching my fries. I'm watching you—I've got half a bag left."
Oliver looked at Karl, then at Jack, who was still talking, and seemed to understand exactly what Karl was about to do.
"I wouldn't steal them. I'll handle the first aid. Just... try not to break anything."
"I got it. Jack's too patient with these types of people," Karl muttered, cracking his knuckles as he walked forward.
"But me? I can handle this without breaking a single glass."
Causing trouble in Coyote Cojo?
Who the hell gave this guy the guts?