"You really went all out today, Karl."
"It's fine," Karl replied as he walked alongside Maine under one of Night City's overpasses. "We agreed I'd treat you guys. Just keeping my word. Besides, Afterlife gave me a 30% discount—barely cost anything. Honestly, it felt like you were all trying to help me save money. None of you drank much."
"I had enough empty bottles to cover half the damn bar, and you call that not much?" Maine grumbled. "Don't compare my drinking to Jack's. That guy's got implants regulating everything—he could drink a whole keg and stay sober. I'm already at my limit."
Then, a thought struck him. "Karl, what do you think about me getting a Berserk system installed? I was leaning toward a Sandevistan before, but now I feel like Jack's loadout might suit me better."
"I think either could work for you."
Karl gave Maine a once-over. "But you're already loaded with chrome, right? You ever get hand tremors or anything? If you're feeling any kind of strain, I'd recommend seeing a good ripperdoc before pushing further. I've got a guy—if you want, I'll give you his contact."
"Relax, I know what I'm doing."
Maine patted his left arm, where his projectile launcher was mounted. "I've never felt better. New chrome, new me. What could go wrong?"
"New gear doesn't mean less risk. The strain's still there. It's just that old or second-hand stuff makes it easier to break down. Don't think fresh hardware makes you invincible."
Karl didn't push further. Maine looked fine—clear eyes, steady hands. No visible signs of overload.
Walking with them were the rest of Maine's crew: David, Lucy, Sasha, Dorio, Rebecca, Kiwi, and Pilar. Everyone was present. While David, Dorio, and Sasha occasionally joined the conversation, the others mostly kept to themselves.
Understandable. Apart from those three, the rest hadn't worked with Karl much. Their only shared op had been the Tanaka job. Most of them only knew Karl by reputation—and that reputation came with a certain fear factor.
Especially Kiwi. As a netrunner, she often poked around in poorly secured corp records, and she'd seen enough action logs involving Karl's squad to know the pattern:
Retreat? You live.
Don't? You're dead. No exceptions.
From street-level gang hires to corp strike teams—it didn't matter. The result was always the same.
She glanced at the calm, smiling young man walking beside her. From his appearance alone, he didn't seem threatening. If it weren't for Maine's stories and the hard data she'd seen, she might've mistaken him for just another friendly solo.
But her gut—and those reports—reminded her otherwise.
Karl was top-tier. If he wanted, he could take on their entire team, and odds were, they wouldn't make it.
Fortunately, he was on their side.
It felt odd to admit, maybe even pathetic given her past pride, but Kiwi felt… at ease around him. In a merc's life—where betrayal was part of the game—his presence offered a strange kind of comfort. As long as she didn't screw up, she didn't have to worry.
Drip… drip… drip drip drip…
As Kiwi debated whether to strike up a conversation, an irritating liquid noise echoed from nearby.
The group turned toward the sound—and saw a bald, middle-aged man standing on top of a shipping container. He was wearing only a trench coat… and pissing into a metal barrel below.
Nothing else under the coat. Just him, out in public, exposing everything while relieving himself without shame.
Honestly? Not that unusual.
If he hadn't chosen such a high perch, no one would've cared. But the height made the sound louder—sharp, long splashes. The incessant dripping annoyed Pilar enough that he stopped, scowled, and shouted:
"Hey! You got a screw loose or something, you public pissing moron?!"
Everyone else just glanced and kept walking, but Pilar, being Pilar, wasn't letting it go. He stepped over to the side of the container, raised his golden cyber fingers, and banged them against the metal.
"Yo, jackass! I'm talking to you!"
The bald man didn't flinch. Didn't even look his way. Still holding himself, still gazing dead-eyed at his piss like it held some profound truth.
"Forget it," Dorio said, barely sparing him a glance. "Just another burnout. Probably high as hell."
She continued walking, waving for Pilar to come along.
Pilar turned to glance at Karl, then figured it wasn't worth making a scene. He was about to drop it—until something under that open trench coat caught his eye.
Through the opening, he saw something strange—an unfamiliar set of cyberware.
"Whoa. What the hell is that?" he muttered.
As the tech expert of the group, Pilar was instantly hooked. The implant didn't look like anything on the market. He climbed up onto the container, his tone shifting to something almost friendly.
"Hey man, that's some weird-ass chrome. What model is that? Looks custom. You use it often?"
Pilar squinted at the lower half of the man's body, then grinned with a weird expression. He made a loose fist and jokingly pumped his hand in the air.
"This thing's gotta be—"
He didn't finish.
Maine's eyes suddenly sharpened.
He saw it—the bald man's right hand shifted away from his crotch… and began transforming.
That motion—Maine recognized it instantly.
It was the exact same kind of implant he had in his left arm.
Projectile Launcher System.
Maine moved to react.
Too late.
The man's right arm had already fully shifted—aiming the launcher directly under Pilar's chin.
And then he pulled the trigger.
.
.
.
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