Carl's "golden finger" ability—just a built-in translator at first glance—hit him with a jolt of electric relief. He'd braced to face this chrome-plated shithole completely naked, stripped of every advantage. But now? Now he still had one piece of armor left—the psychological equivalent of a pair of underwear.
And in Night City? That was a goddamn miracle.
He wasn't some braindead gonk who'd chug cheap vodka until his liver tap-danced out his asshole. No—if given the choice, he'd always strap up before diving face-first into the gutter.
Alright. Priorities set. Now—what the fuck was step one?
His mental checklist snapped into place:
- Find a crash pad (anything better than a literal trash heap)
- Scrounge eddies (enough for food that wouldn't give him third-degree radiation poisoning)
- Get a comms device (did this hellhole even sell dumbphones, or was everything neuralware and chrome now?)
Carl wasn't some anti-tech zealot. If he could slap in cyberware, he'd do it yesterday. But common sense screamed that top-shelf implants cost more than his hypothetical life insurance. Maybe older models would be cheaper—
—or, knowing Night City capitalism, the vintage shit would be more expensive precisely because it was obsolete.
As his thoughts churned, Carl found himself back near the piss-drunk junkie from earlier—the one who'd been wobbling against a vending machine before face-planting into the concrete.
Up close, the guy looked worse. Green mohawk. Rusted metal plates bolted to his cheeks. Mid-twenties, tops. And beside his limp hand — a pistol.
Militech. Lexington.
Huh.
Carl blinked. For a second, text flickered across his vision—hovering over the gun like a tooltip in some half-assed VR game. When he focused, the words sharpened:
[MILITECH 10AF LEXINGTON]
Compact kinetic handgun. Low recoil, high reliability. Perfect for putting holes in people who deserve it.
Well. Looked like his golden finger wasn't just for translation. It worked on weapons, too.
Could it scan people?
Carl narrowed his eyes at the green-haired junkie. The same text flickered, but this time, it read:
[INSUFFICIENT DATA]
Insufficient data?
Why? What was the difference between a gun and a person?
Then—click—understanding flashed through his synapses. He glanced at the crowd shuffling past. Same result: every person triggered an [INSUFFICIENT DATA] prompt, but their visible gear—holstered pistols, cyberlimbs—pulled up descriptions.
Ah. Got it.
This wasn't some all-knowing hack. It was more like... a mental scrapbook. His ability dug through his memories, piecing together fragments of shit he'd seen, heard, or read—then spat it back out in a language he understood.
Proof? He remembered reading about the Lexington in some pre-release game leak years ago. The description matched exactly.
So, not just translation. More like... automated recall. A perfect, searchable memory for anything he'd ever encountered.
Not bad. Way more useful than Google Translate with a side of existential dread.
Carl stared at the Lexington, then at the unconscious junkie.
It wasn't morality stopping him—Carl just noticed the guy's fingers were still twitching.
What if he wakes up and reflexively puts a round through his skull?
Better find another way.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, the junkie's trembling stopped. The words in Carl's vision flickered and changed:
[DECEASED. CAUSE OF DEATH: OVERDOSE]
Carl scanned the area. This corner of the megabuilding's trash zone was deserted—no witnesses, no scavengers, just the ever-present hum of faulty neon and the distant echo of gunfire.
"Normally, I'd say 'rest in peace,'" Carl muttered, "but right now? Living comes first. Sorry, choom."
He scooped up the Lexington. As he did, a stack of faded green slips tumbled from the corpse's pocket.
[EURODOLLARS]
"Well aren't you polite," Carl said, thumbing through the bills—two hundred thirty eddies total. He gave the dead man a brief, silent nod—the closest thing to a eulogy he could offer—before turning away.
He'd remember that face. This fucked-up kindness wouldn't be forgotten.
If you've got family, I'll find them. Pay this forward when I can.
Carl wasn't some saint. Just a guy who believed in balancing the scales—debts paid, vengeance served. Even if, technically, this counted as grave-robbing.
Tucking the Lexington under his jacket, Carl headed for the elevators. One step at a time. First priority: find a comms device. Even monks in this future needed donation receivers wired into their palms.
The elevator stank of sweat and synthetic lubricant, its walls screaming ads for joytoys and combat stims. As it descended, flickering light from the broken doors sliced across Carl's face, making his expression waver like a glitching holo.
With a metallic shriek, the doors lurched open. Carl stepped out—
—and into light.
Not sunlight. Nothing so natural. This was the electric pulse of Night City—neon so dense it choked the stars, holograms bleeding across skyscrapers, LEDs tattooing the smog in violent colors.
Officially, Night City sat in what was left of North California. Unofficially? It went by many names: City of Dreams, Capital of Crime, the place where tomorrow came to die.
But standing there, breathing in exhaust fumes and the ozone tang of overloaded power grids, Carl's first thought was absurdly simple:
City of Light.
A place so bright it hurt to look at.
Carl laughed—a sharp, humorless sound.
Dreams or crime, light or night—it didn't matter.
He was here.
Really here.
Closing his eyes, he tilted his face toward the artificial sky. When he opened them again, the streets stretched before him like a circuit board, alive and thrumming.
Alright then.
Let's get it going.
Just for his stomach suddenly decided to hit the ON switch at that moment.
"Okay, maybe after some food."