Cyberpunk: 2075

Oliver was panting heavily, staring at the sea of corpses scattered before him. He couldn't believe he had actually survived such a brutal firefight. Multiple times, bullets had whizzed right past his head, narrowly missing him by sheer luck. It was almost too much fortune for one person to handle.

But this luck wasn't his alone. If it weren't for the sudden intervention of an outsider halfway through the fight, he would have long since been slaughtered by the relentless Maelstrom bastards pushing forward.

"Well, looks like one's still alive."

As Oliver's body slumped weakly against the cover, he heard a youthful voice. Looking in its direction, he saw a face that matched the voice—a young man with distinctly East Asian features.

Just one guy? Oliver thought, squinting at him. And what's his age? Eighteen? Maybe nineteen?

That age—if he were in Arasaka Academy, the school that groomed corporate lapdogs, he wouldn't have even graduated yet. Even among Night City's street gangs, this kid seemed far too young.

There's a saying, "A smooth face lacks the experience to handle responsibility." While Night City didn't have an exact phrase like that, the sentiment was the same. In the 6th Street Gang, no one under 20 was allowed to join. Veterans hated dealing with rookies who couldn't hold their own.

As Oliver studied Carl's face, he couldn't help but wonder about the stranger's identity.

Is he Chinese? Or Japanese? If he were Japanese, perhaps he was with the Tyger Claws. After all, the Kabuki area of Watson was Tyger Claw territory. Could he have intervened because of some conflict between the Tyger Claws and Maelstrom?

While Oliver was lost in thought, Carl had already walked up to him, aiming his Lexington pistol directly at Oliver's head.

"Name."

Having witnessed Carl's speed and accuracy with a gun, Oliver had no intention of resisting. He answered honestly, "Oliver."

"Age?"

"Twenty-four. Gang member."

"Affiliation?"

"6th Street Gang."

"Purpose?"

"The Maelstrom might've hijacked one of our shipments. We came to ask questions, but these cybernetic lunatics started shooting."

"I see."

Carl muttered a phrase Oliver didn't quite understand, then extended his hand toward him.

"Hand it over."

"What?"

"Your gun."

Is he planning to take me hostage and use me as a bargaining chip with the Tyger Claws? Oliver wondered. He went after Maelstrom just as ruthlessly… Is he trying to form an alliance?

Without hesitation, Oliver obediently handed over his gun. He cooperated completely, but then he realized something strange—the guy wasn't paying any more attention to him. Instead, the man was moving from corpse to corpse, crouching down and picking things up.

Fourteenth one.

Carl mentally counted as he continued looting, tossing handguns and eurodollars into the bag he had grabbed on his way out of the food stall. To him, scavenging loot after a fight was just common sense. But to Oliver, it was unsettling.

The way he's looting… He's not a Tyger Claw, is he? Could he be a f**ing Scav?*

In Night City, Scavengers were the worst kind of scum—soulless criminals who saw human beings as nothing more than commodities. They preyed on civilians and isolated gang members, stripping them of money, organs, and cyberware. Watching Carl loot with such meticulous precision, Oliver felt an eerie sense of familiarity with the infamous scavenger methods.

However, his concern eased slightly when he noticed that Carl showed no interest in cyberware. He wasn't dissecting the corpses or harvesting implants.

Now that I think about it… A guy with shooting skills that sharp wouldn't need to be some bottom-feeder. Still, the sheer thoroughness of his looting was a bit much.

Oliver couldn't help but raise an eyebrow when he saw Carl flipping over corpses, even checking their hair for hidden cash. At that moment, unable to hold back anymore, he stood up and walked toward Carl.

Predictably, the moment he approached, a gun was already aimed at his head.

"You need something?"

Carl didn't even look up, still busy collecting his spoils. His haul wasn't bad—these guys weren't exactly rich, but between all the loose cash, he had gathered around 3,000 eurodollars. He'd need to count it properly later.

"Uh… if we don't leave now, NCPD's cleanup squad will be here soon. Sticking around won't look good for us."

"Us?"

Carl momentarily paused his looting and turned his gaze toward Oliver—the blond 6th Street member with a small patch of facial hair on his chin.

"I'm not part of any gang," Carl said. "I was just dragged into this mess. I'm a civilian who couldn't even have breakfast in peace. I don't give a damn about the NCPD."

Civili—what?

What kind of "civilian" casually uses a common, low-tier Lexington to pop the heads of a dozen Maelstrom gangers?

Maelstrom freaks loved modifying their skulls with cyberware. Their heads had barely any organic tissue left. The precision needed to land shots between the metal and flesh to hit the brain wasn't something an ordinary civilian could pull off.

Oliver now had a pretty solid guess about Carl's true identity.

He's a merc. A solo.

As the sound of sirens drew closer, Oliver hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"Think of this as my way of repaying you for saving my life," he said. "Your breakfast got interrupted, right? If you don't mind, let me take you to a restaurant nearby—grab some food, maybe clean yourself up."

Oliver's eyes lingered on the blood that had started to dry and crust over Carl's face.

"Fine. I'm hungry anyway."

Seeing that his bag was already overflowing with handguns, Carl figured he'd looted enough and didn't mind accepting a free meal.

"But it has to be vegetarian."

…A ruthless killer who eats vegetarian?

Oliver's mouth twitched slightly, but he quickly adapted.

"Sure. There's a Chinese restaurant nearby. They should have some vegetarian options."

With that, Oliver glanced at the bloodied corpses of his fallen 6th Street comrades and let out a sigh.

He'd have to report this to his father later. Everyone else in his squad was dead—he was the sole survivor. No matter the reason, he would have to give the gang an explanation. And there was also the matter of Maelstrom.

Those lunatics had gotten too greedy.

The 6th Street Gang might not have been looking to expand their territory, but that didn't mean they were pushovers.

A gang founded by military veterans wasn't known for having a peaceful temperament. Maelstrom was going to pay for this.

But before any of that…

Oliver needed to properly thank the solo who had saved his life.