Maine's squad netrunner, Sasha?
Carl didn't reply right away.
Instead—he messaged Maine first, confirming Sasha's identity before responding.
Carl: This is Carl. Maine already briefed you on the job, right? You'll be your crew's point of contact for this mission—any issues with that?
Sasha: No problem. Maine explained everything. Once we wrap up our current job tonight, we'll start on yours.
Carl: Sounds good. We'll be in touch.
Sasha: Hold on—Maine trusts you guys, so he wants me to send over our squad's personnel files. Everyone's cool with it—should help us work together better. I'm sending them now.
Carl: Got it.
Carl realized he'd overlooked something.
Knowing your squad is one thing.
Knowing your allies is another.
Just because he trusted Maine didn't mean he knew his crew's actual skill levels.
And in this line of work—that shit mattered.
The file arrived.
Maine's stats weren't surprising—
...Wait, no.
Apparently, he'd just installed a fresh projectile launcher system.
Brand new gear?
Did he blow all his eddies from the last job on this?
Talk about a hardcore merc.
Immediately installing new chrome and jumping back into the field...
Well, Carl wasn't really in a position to judge.
Next—Dorio.
Already met her.
Then—Pilar.
A tech specialist, black-haired mohawk guy.
Carl vaguely remembered him—he and Oliver had seen him outside a braindance shop.
Rebecca—support.
Green-haired, twin-tailed goblin girl?
Yeah—definitely memorable.
Falco—driver.
Seemed like a classy-looking older dude.
Sasha—netrunner.
The one Carl was talking to now.
And then—Kiwi.
Another netrunner, acting as Sasha's backup.
Carl blinked.
"Maine's crew is loaded—two netrunners in one squad?"
But then again—
They'd been active in Night City for years.
His own crew?
Barely a month old.
No way they could compare yet.
Carl: I've got the info. Looking forward to working together.
After sending the message, Carl checked the date.
He'd arrived in 2075 the day after Día de los Muertos—
November 3rd.
Today was November 27th.
So yeah—not even a full month yet.
Christmas was coming up.
For Night City, December 25th basically marked the end of the year.
But for Carl?
Didn't really mean much.
If anything—
Lunar New Year on February 5th, 2076 felt more like an actual "New Year" to him.
Some people counted January 1st instead, but—
Whatever worked.
Jack had his own plans for Christmas, though.
He'd mentioned spending it at The Coyote—
With Mama Welles hosting a private gathering.
Just close friends and family.
And apparently—Carl and Oliver were invited.
That alone was an honor.
No way they'd skip it.
But—there was a catch.
Jack was bringing Misty.
Which meant—
Carl and Oliver might have to run interference.
"We should probably ask Vik."
He knew Misty, Mama Welles, and Jack well enough—
Maybe he'd have some advice.
After all—
Compared to them, Vik was the real veteran here.
Carl hailed a combat cab and got in.
The driver, now somewhat familiar with him, remained as silent as ever.
Moments later—
They arrived at the braindance shop.
"Don't drive off. Wait here. I'll be out soon."
Leaving those words with the silent cab driver, Carl stepped into the braindance shop.
The shop owner flinched instinctively at the sight of someone walking in—
But after recognizing who it was, he relaxed.
"Oh, it's you, sir."
Carl had been here enough times that they were familiar now.
And as one of the shop's biggest customers, the owner knew exactly what he liked.
The moment Carl reached the counter, the shopkeeper started his pitch.
"We've got a new batch in—Season Two of My Trauma Team Days just dropped. They released four full episodes at once. Want me to grab them for you?"
"This sold well enough to get a new season?"
Carl wasn't surprised—
It made sense, at least in regular TV logic.
If something sold well, the company kept making more.
But this was braindance, not just some show.
And more importantly—
It wasn't fiction.
My Trauma Team Days was real footage of Trauma Team in the field.
Meaning—
Everything in it was pure, practical tactics.
Definitely worth buying.
"Yeah, gimme all four."
"Appreciate your business, sir!"
The shopkeeper beamed, hurrying off to the back storage to grab the braindance chips.
Meanwhile—
Carl wandered around the shop, scanning the shelves.
At this point—he'd seen almost everything useful.
What was left?
Porn.
And extreme gore BD compilations.
Neither of which he cared for.
(Though Oliver? Totally his thing.)
Carl? Not interested.
Then—he spotted something.
A "ninja-themed" braindance.
Legit.
But...
Why the hell was it called Ninja Turtles?
Carl sighed.
Fucking hell.
Of all things...
Not even real Japanese ninja shit.
As Carl shook his head, the shopkeeper returned—a stack of BD chips in hand.
Carl was about to pay and leave—
When the shopkeeper suddenly stopped him.
"Wait a moment, sir."
Carl raised a brow as the shopkeeper stepped out from behind the counter—
Glanced around the shop to make sure no one else was nearby—
And then...
Locked the door.
Carl narrowed his eyes.
This guy was being way too careful.
Then—the shopkeeper leaned in, lowering his voice.
"Sir, you're one of my best customers—you know your braindance better than most."
"And I trust you."
Carl remained silent.
The shopkeeper hesitated—but then finally continued.
"I have some... 'special' stock in the back."
"Would you be interested?"
Special stock?
Carl immediately understood.
The shopkeeper was acting like a goddamn drug dealer.
And yet—
Somewhere in Carl's twisted mercenary brain...
He felt a twinge of anticipation.
"Hold on—"
Carl squinted.
"You're not talking about... that kind of BD, are you?"
"Oh, I am."
The shopkeeper smirked.
"Exactly what you're thinking."
Carl stared.
The guy's face was downright sleazy.
Greasy smile. Shifty eyes.
He looked like a stereotypical black-market dealer straight out of a shitty TV drama.
And Carl—
Ever the honest man—
"I got a friend who'd be really interested."
"Go ahead. Tell me more."