17. You Dare Cause Trouble?

"Counting the 10,000 reward from the NCPD, plus my savings of over 60,000 eddies, then spending 10,000 on real meat and 31,000 on a car... in the blink of an eye, I'm down to just 20,000 eddies."

Sitting in the Coyote Cojo, which had practically become their base of operations, Karl counted his remaining euros on his fingers and felt like a pauper all over again.

"You've still got 20,000, while I'm down to just a few hundred," Oliver said. "My savings were wiped out after I bought a 'Midnight Arms SOR-22' kinetic precision rifle and installed a 'nanofiber' cyberware."

[Midnight Arms SOR-22]: A powerful semi-automatic assault rifle designed specifically for the military. It is unadorned, simple, and lethal. Although this heavy-duty rifle, which is highly suitable for charging into the fray, requires top-tier endoskeletons and muscle bundles to handle its recoil, its formidable firepower is enough to satisfy anyone.

[Nanofiber]: Synthetic muscle fibers.

As he mentioned his near-zero balance, Oliver looked at the SOR-22 leaning against the bar. His gaze was filled with deep satisfaction; clearly, this weapon, originally crafted for soldiers, resonated well with his former Sixth Street gang roots.

"My savings aren't as much as Karl's, but I've still got a bit," Jackie said, casting an envious glance at Oliver's weapon while sipping his drink. "It’s just that I’m still a fair bit away from the cyberware and weapons I actually want."

"I think you need to add a motorcycle to that list of cyberware and weapons," Karl said, chewing on the fries Mrs. Wells had sent over. "Jackie, haven't you always wanted to buy an ARCH motorcycle?"

"I need the money for that, brother," Jackie said, a rare look of frustration crossing his face. "If you want to be a big-timer, you have to take on jobs with enough weight, but without the right weapons and cyberware, you can't land those big jobs. The motorcycle will just have to wait for now."

"There will be jobs, Jackie. There will always be jobs." Karl stared at the contact for Faraday the fixer in his address book, though he felt the man wasn't particularly reliable. He'd given them a small job as a test, but hadn't sent anything since, nor had he given a straight answer on whether they were fit for the work—it was truly headache-inducing.

Just as Karl was considering whether to take on some mundane odd jobs, a loud commotion erupted from a table not far away. When Karl, Jackie, and Oliver turned their attention to the noise, they saw a man smash a bottle heavily against the head of the man sitting opposite him.

"Crash!"

The sound of the shattering bottle rang out sharply in the daytime bar. Almost instantly, the entire place went silent, and every eye turned toward the table where the incident had occurred.

"Can you do it or not, you bastard? Give me a straight answer instead of hemming and hawing!"

The man who had cracked the bottle over the other's head looked to be in his twenties, about Jackie's age. He wore a jacket and had a mechanical face embedded into one side of his head; the expression formed by the fusion of metal and flesh appeared incredibly impatient.

Karl didn't recognize him; he didn't seem to be a regular at the Coyote Cojo. However, he did recognize the man across from him—the one bleeding from the head, his scalp embedded with shards of glass, yet too terrified to even cry out in pain. He remembered the man was a driver who ran routes in Heywood and often stopped by the Coyote Cojo for a drink after work. He was in his fifties, and everyone called him "Old Hauler," meaning an old man who spent his life hauling cargo.

In Night City, among the common folk, a fifty-year-old man working the streets could certainly be considered an old man.

"What's going on here?" Since the Coyote Cojo was his mother's bar, Jackie naturally had reason to stop the dispute. He stood up immediately and walked over to where Old Hauler was sitting. Karl gave Oliver a look, and Oliver understood, following Jackie over. Karl, meanwhile, poured the fries from his plate into a small plastic bag provided by Mrs. Wells, then walked over while snacking on them.

If you didn't eat freshly fried, crispy fries quickly, they’d go soft.

By the time Karl arrived, the conversation between the mediating Jackie and the half-mechanical man had made the situation clear. Simply put, the man was a field investigator sent by Militech. He was tracking cargo shipments in Heywood, and since Old Hauler had recently driven routes transporting supplies from Heywood to the City Center, the investigator had come to question him. Old Hauler, however, was stammering and couldn't give a clear answer.

"Is Old Hauler running routes for Militech?"

"No, he just happened to drive those roads. He’s got no connection to Militech whatsoever."

Hearing Oliver’s reply, Karl felt it was all rather absurd. "If Old Hauler isn't responsible for losing Militech’s goods—and if anything, the company should be the one politely asking him for information—why is a company man using force to demand intel from him?"

"Company types are just like that. To them, Old Hauler is just some street rat trying to scrape a living. They don't give a damn, so they naturally take the easiest path."

"In other words, this is just a threat." Using the power of the corporation to bully others.

Karl watched Old Hauler, who had done nothing wrong but was now bleeding uncontrollably and too terrified to even wipe his face, trembling as he sat there. Then he looked at the arrogant company man, who acted as if it were everyone else's fault for not cooperating. He understood.

"That's enough."

Karl walked over to the bar, where Mrs. Wells had already prepared a medical kit.

"Mrs. Wells, you don't mind if I help you clean up, do you?"

"Nonsense, child. I'd be grateful for the help."

"Good."

Karl took the medical kit and walked back, handing the kit and his half-bag of fries to Oliver.

"Treating Old Hauler is on you. Be careful with it, and don't you dare eat my fries—I'm watching, and there's still half a bag left."

Oliver stared at Karl, then at Jackie, who was still trying to talk things out. He seemed to grasp what Karl was about to do.

"I won't touch them, I'll handle the treatment. Just... try not to break anything."

"I know. Jackie’s temper is just too good. As for a guy like this..."

Karl cracked his knuckles and stepped forward.

"I can take care of him without breaking a single glass."

To think someone would dare cause trouble in the Coyote Cojo—who gave him the nerve?