The noodle shop's neon sign flickered like a faulty synapse, casting jagged shadows across Oliver's stunned face. Grease-streaked windows filtered the street's perpetual twilight—a mix of smog and holographic billboards advertising synth-limb upgrades.
"You're tellin' me," Oliver said, chopsticks frozen mid-air, "no neuralware? No chip sockets?" His eyes dropped to Carl's bare wrists. "Not even a fuckin' phone?"
Carl slurped another strand of algae-infused noodles, the fluorescent overhead light glinting off the cracked Formica table. The so-called "Chinese Cold Noodles" tasted like nostalgia and lies—probably contained as much actual wheat as Oliver's skull held common sense.
"Correct."
Oliver's mustache twitched. Behind him, a holoscreen embedded in the wall played muted footage of an Arasaka convoy rolling through City Center, the ticker below promising Enhanced Security Measures Following Recent Terrorist Activity. A fly buzzed near his ear—real or drone?—before he swatted it away.
"Even nomads carry payment chips," Oliver persisted, tapping his temple where a faint scar marked his own neural port. "Even monks have those little donation receivers grafted into their palms!" He lowered his voice as a pair of Tyger Claws in the next booth glanced over, their irises glowing faintly under black-market Kiroshis. "Christ, are you some kinda… purebreed?" The last word came out like a curse.
Carl's fingers twitched toward where his scavenged Lexington rested against his thigh. The restaurant's air filtration system whined like a dying animal, struggling against the ever-present smog. "Call it sheltered upbringing." He pushed away the glass of saccharine Koko Kola—the aftertaste clung to his teeth like cheap anesthetic. "I need an operating system. Today."
Oliver's ocular implants flickered through a rapid series of gold flashes as he accessed the local net. The faint glow reflected in the condensation rings on the table, warping the neon Tsukumo Ramen logo into a smeared halo. "There's a ripperdoc three blocks over. Viktor Vektor. He's—"
"I know him."
Carl's golden finger unfolded the details like a brutalist flowchart:
[Viktor Vektor]
Est. 2051. Former blacksite medic. Specializes in neuralware and combat optics. Known affiliations:
Night City Mercenary Guild (discreet supplier)
Registered Trauma Team affiliate (215-77)
Clinic location: Watson District, Little China. Standalone facility. No external partnerships.
Current threat assessment: Minimal. Recommended approach: Cash upfront.
Oliver blinked, his pupils cycling through three rapid adjustments. "You know Vik? Then why the hell haven't you—"
"Let's go." Carl stood, tossing a handful of bloodstained eurobills on the table. The topmost note stuck briefly to a smear of chili oil before fluttering down.
The night air hit them like a damp fist, heavy with the ozone tang of nearby arc welders and the underlying rot of Watson's failing sewage lines. Oliver fell into step beside Carl, their shadows stretching and compressing under the erratic glow of failing streetlights. A distant thump-thump of bass bled from a nightclub two blocks over, its neon dragon sign flickering like a strobe-induced seizure.
As they passed a boarded-up convenience store, its windows reinforced with scrap metal, Oliver's elbow nudged Carl's ribs. "So… you're sure you're into girls, right? Not that there's anything—"
"Christ." Carl fixed him with the look one might give a dog that just pissed on a power line. "Traditional American family. Two ex-girlfriends. Last one left because I 'prioritized headshots over headboards.' Specific enough?"
Oliver's shoulders relaxed visibly, his combat implants whirring as they disengaged tension protocols. "Thank fuck," he exhaled, the words blending with the hiss of a nearby steam vent. "Six days listening to 6th Street's 'oorah' bullshit was bad enough without adding—" His eyes darted to Carl's crotch in mock suspicion. "Wait. You're not one of those 'straight but occasionally blows Arasaka execs for tactical advantage' types, are—"
Carl's Lexington cleared its holster before Oliver's lips finished shaping the word Arasaka. The barrel's cold kiss against Oliver's forehead silenced him more effectively than any rebuttal.
"Message received," Oliver squeaked, crossing himself with a chrome hand. "Traditional. American. Family."
They turned down an alley choked with discarded synth-food containers and the skeletal remains of a drone. Graffiti tags warred for dominance on the walls: MAELSTROM RULES crossed out by TYGER CLAWS EAT SHIT. Carl navigated the debris with unnatural precision, his boots crunching over broken glass.
Oliver frowned as they took two perfect turns. "You sure you've never been here before? You're walking like you know the route better than I do."
Carl didn't break stride. "Good sense of direction."
"Bullshit," Oliver muttered, but followed anyway as the scent of antiseptic and burnt copper grew stronger.
Viktor's clinic loomed ahead—a squat concrete bunker wedged between a noodle stall and a pawn shop hawking "gently used" cyberarms. A flickering holographic sign buzzed above the entrance:
VIK'S CLINIC - LICENSED RIPPERDOC
No refunds. No whining.
The heavy steel door bore scratches from countless scavenger attacks, its keypad glowing faintly beneath layers of grime. Oliver whooped, startling a stray cat that bolted into a pile of discarded synth-food containers. "We'll be legends! Like Blackhand or fuckin' Silverhand!" He snapped his fingers—the sound oddly metallic—as they passed a flickering holographic ad for Kang Tao pistols. "You need a merc name. Every legend's got one."
Carl watched the ad's crimson glare dance across the wet pavement. "KK."
"KK?" Oliver's ocular implants zoomed in comically. "The hell kind of name is that for a guy called Carl?"
"K from Karl. K from…" He hesitated, the Korean honorific 각하 (Gag-ha) flashing in his mind—a title with no equivalent here. "…Killer. First job I ever did."
Oliver blinked at the trio of Tyger Claws passing by, their chrome-plated knuckles glinting under neon. "More Bullshit. You just made that shit up."
"Mm." Carl's smile didn't reach his eyes as he noted the gang members' patrol route. "But it'll look good on a bounty poster."
The clinic door hissed open, revealing Viktor Vektor's broad frame backlit by the sterile glow of an illuminated surgical suite. The room smelled of ethanol and scorched circuitry, a far cry from the alley's rot. His gold-rimmed glasses caught the light as he turned, the optometric lenses whirring softly behind their polished frames. A wall-mounted monitor displayed a paused boxing match, the fighters' cybernetic fists frozen mid-swing.
"New patients, huh?" His voice carried the gravel of ten thousand cigarettes and twice as many late-night emergencies. He adjusted his glasses with a knuckle as the lenses refocused, the augmented irises behind them contracting like camera shutters. "Ground rules still apply: no black-market malware, no military-grade psychosis inducers, and I don't do discounts for 'artistic expression'." The lenses flashed as they tracked to Carl's unmodified temples. "That gonna be a problem, kid?"