CYBERPUNK: Travel to 2075

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..Dare to Cause Trouble?..

"Counting the 10,000 euro reward from the NCPD, the 60,000 euro deposit, the 10,000 euro for real meat, and the 31,000 euro for a car… I'm back to only 20,000 euros."

Sitting in the Wild Coyote Bar, which had become something of a stronghold, Karl counted the remaining euros on his fingers and sighed at how quickly he was broke again.

"You've still got 20,000 euros left, but I've barely got a few hundred," Oliver said. "After I bought a Midnight Military SOR-22 kinetic precision rifle and installed a nanofiber prosthetic, my account was drained."

Midnight Military SOR-22: A powerful, no-frills semi-assault rifle built for the military. Simple, heavy, and deadly. This rifle, suitable for charging into battle, requires a robust endoskeleton and enhanced muscles to handle its recoil. Its sheer firepower makes it highly desirable.

Nanofiber: Synthetic muscle fibers for enhanced strength and durability.

Despite lamenting his finances, Oliver's expression softened as he gazed at the SOR-22 propped up beside him. It was obvious that the ex-Sixth Street gang member was thoroughly satisfied with his military-grade weapon.

"My savings don't come close to Karl's leftover 20,000, but I've still got a little tucked away," Jack added, sipping his drink. He eyed Oliver's gear enviously. "But I still need more to save up for the prosthetics and weapons I really want."

Karl munched on the French fries brought over by Mrs. Wells. "Once you're done with the prosthetics and weapons, are you still thinking about adding a motorcycle?"

Jack smirked, though his tone was rueful. "Of course. You know I've always wanted an ARCH motorcycle."

"That kind of bike doesn't come cheap, brother."

Jack rarely showed frustration, but this time his face revealed a touch of worry. "If you want to be a big shot, you've got to take big jobs. But without proper weapons or prosthetics, you can't handle the big gigs. So, the motorcycle has to wait."

Karl shrugged. "There's always work, Jack. Something will come up."

As he spoke, Karl scrolled through his address book, his eyes landing on Faraday, the fixer. His gut told him the guy wasn't very reliable.

Faraday had promised to test them with smaller jobs, but after the initial one, there was nothing but radio silence. Karl found it frustrating—neither a clear rejection nor any follow-up work.

Just as Karl was weighing the idea of taking some mundane jobs to tide them over, a commotion erupted at a nearby table. All eyes turned as a man smashed a bottle over another's head.

The sharp crack of breaking glass shattered the daytime calm of the bar. The room fell silent, all attention locked on the table where the incident had unfolded.

"Can you make up your mind, bastard? Stop stalling!"

The bottle-wielding man, around Jack's age, stood with an impatient expression. His half-mechanical face gleamed under the bar's dim lighting, the mix of flesh and machinery adding a layer of menace to his glare.

Karl didn't recognize the aggressor, but the man on the receiving end was familiar. The bleeding victim, glass shards littering his scalp, was a local driver known as Luo. At 50 years old, he often stopped by the Wild Coyote Bar for a drink after work.

"What's going on here?"

Since his mother owned the bar, Jack had every reason to intervene. Rising to his feet, he headed toward the altercation, with Oliver close behind. Karl, meanwhile, took a moment to pour his fries into a bag from Mrs. Wells before following.

The fries were still crispy, and Karl wasn't about to let them get soggy.

When Karl joined them, he overheard enough of Jack's conversation with the half-faced man to piece together the situation.

The aggressor, an investigator from Militech, was tracking the freight traffic through Heywood. Luo, it seemed, had recently driven a route that overlapped with Militech's supply chain. The investigator demanded answers, but Luo hesitated, unable to explain himself clearly.

"Was Luo running freight for Militech?" Karl asked Oliver.

"No, he just happened to be driving the same route. He has no direct connection to Militech," Oliver replied.

Karl frowned. "Then why is Militech sending someone to interrogate him? Shouldn't the company be handling this?"

Oliver scoffed. "Welcome to Night City. To someone like that investigator, Luo is just a nobody. They think they can push him around."

"In other words, it's intimidation," Karl concluded.

He glanced at Luo. The man was trembling, blood dripping from his scalp. Fear kept him from wiping the wound, much less standing up for himself. The investigator, meanwhile, exuded smug arrogance, as if any reluctance to cooperate was an offense.

Karl's fists clenched.

"Wait here."

Karl walked over to the bar, where Mrs. Wells was already pulling out a medical kit.

"Mrs. Wells, do you mind if I help patch him up?"

"Of course not, dear. It's good of you to offer."

"Thanks."

Karl grabbed the medical kit and returned to the group, handing the kit—and the half-empty bag of fries—to Oliver.

"Take care of Luo, will you? And don't even think about eating my fries. I'll be watching."

Oliver shot him a wary look, then glanced at Jack, who was still trying to mediate the situation. Realization dawned in Oliver's eyes.

"Don't break anything," Oliver warned.

"I'm not going to break anything," Karl replied, cracking his knuckles. "But I might make an exception for him."

Karl strode forward, his movements deliberate.

Who dared cause trouble in the Wild Coyote Bar?

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