At 7 AM, Carl opened his eyes.
Out of habit, he got up, washed up, and went to the fridge to grab bread and milk.
Then, it hit him.
"Wait… I don't have to go to school today, do I?"
Holding the still unopened loaf and milk carton, Carl put them back in the fridge and sat down on the couch, holding his head.
Shit. Woke up early for nothing.
"You guys awake?"
Carl sent a ssage to Oliver and Jackie.
After waiting a mont, no reply.
Guess they're adjusting faster than . They're probably still asleep.
Thinking for a second, Carl decided to ssage David.
Carl: You up? How was yesterday?
David: Already at the academy. I went ho after they hooked up Tanaka. Maine said interns didn't need to be involved in what cos next.
Carl: Did Maine say anything?
David: Yeah, he said once this gig's done, he'll take on a few smaller jobs first. Seems like that's how they all got started.
Carl: Looks like Maine really plans to bring you in.
Testing new mbers with small jobs—that was standard practice for street crews. Maine, having risen from the bottom, was a lot more experienced in that kind of process than Carl and his crew.
After a mont's thought, Carl sent one last ssage.
Carl: From now on, you're on your own when it cos to school and BD stuff. Do your best.
He didn't wait for a reply before grabbing his Kenshin, opening the door, and heading out for breakfast.
His fridge was still stocked with frozen pork, but defrosting it would take too long. He wasn't about to waste ti frying pork slices in the morning.
A quick bite at a street stall sounded much better.
The elevator was packed.
When Carl stepped in, six other people were already inside.
Glancing at the random mix of Night City gabuilding residents, Carl simply stood in the middle.
If this were a movie, those six people would probably be assassins sent by so secret organization to take him out.
But this was Night City.
People were too busy surviving to play out movie clichés.
To the average Night City resident, "assassination" ant pulling out a Lexington and unloading it into soone's back in broad daylight.
The elevator reached the ground floor. Carl stepped out.
gabuilding ground floors were labeled as Floor 1.
In that regard, Night City's system—a relic from the old NUSA days—was more familiar to Carl than the British-style floor numbering from his past life.
As usual, he walked over to the small food stall near the gabuilding exit and took a seat.
He greeted the familiar vendor.
"Morning, got anything good?"
"Ah, custor! What can I get ya?"
"Fried noodles, with synthetic egg mixed in. Light on the starch sausages—just a little. And so 'organic' greens."
In 2075, "organic greens" weren't actually real vegetables.
A corporation trademarked the term and slapped it on synthetic food products, just like XX Cola or XX Iced Tea.
They had similar labels for "organic pork" and other lab-grown ats.
Carl could tolerate starch sausages, but only barely.
At least they had more starch than synthetic at, making them better than the stuff that tasted like rotten wood and lted plastic.
"Got it! Just give a sec!"
While the vendor got to work on the grill, Carl went over to the mini vending machine attached to the stall and bought a sweet tea.
Then—he dialed T-Bug.
He had made up his mind.
He was taking the job.
Beep.
Carl expected her to be asleep—or at least ignore his call.
But the mont he dialed—
She picked up.
Was she an early riser or just a night owl who never slept?
Carl had no idea.
On the other end of the call, a woman's voice ca through.
"Who are you? How did you get my contact code?"
At the sa ti, Carl noticed a data stream flowing through the connection.
T-Bug was probing his system, trying to get a read on him.
High alert. Smart.
"I'm here through Wakako's recomndation."
That one sentence made T-Bug pause and stop her intrusion attempt.
"Wakako? Got it. So, you're the rc she hired?"
"Sothing like that. She told to reach out to you for details. What exactly is this job about?"
"Hold on a sec."
T-Bug's voice was less guarded now, but there was still so skepticism.
"Just dropping Wakako's na isn't enough. Could be so random gonk who overheard it from another rc. The ones Wakako hires usually have so reputation. Who are you?"
Carl caught the implication.
If he couldn't na-drop himself or started dodging the question, the paused data stream would probably start digging again.
Carl wasn't interested in playing cyberwar with his potential new partner.
He knew his limits—if he got too cocky, she might actually breach his system and pull up his entire ops history.
So, instead, he answered directly.
"I'm KK. Heard of ?"
"rc KK?"
T-Bug paused briefly, then spoke again after processing the information.
"Didn't think Wakako could pull soone like you in."
"Aren't you worried I might be an imposter?"
"In Night City? Anyone stupid enough to impersonate you and take fixer contracts hasn't been born yet."
"That's… oddly flattering."
"Nothing to be embarrassed about. Reputation matters. Since it's you, this gig just got a whole lot easier. Want the target's details and kidnappers' profiles now?"
Carl raised an eyebrow.
He had skimd the briefing from Wakako the night before.
The file lacked critical information but did ntion that the target was kidnapped at 10 PM.
That was barely nine hours ago—and T-Bug already had everything?
"Wait—detailed info? You sure about that? In this line of work, 'detailed' ans digging up their entire family tree."
"Maybe not that deep, but I know their family situations, current activities, hobbies, kinks, and even which sex dolls they regularly rent."
Carl blinked.
Damn.
He was genuinely impressed.
He didn't know many elite netrunners—himself (barely counts), Sasha, Lucy, Kiwi…
And even if all four of them worked together, pulling off what T-Bug just casually described would still take three to four days. Maybe longer.
She's on another level.
"How the hell did you do that?"
"Humans are social creatures. The mont they interact with society, they leave traces."
The quote felt familiar.
Carl raised an eyebrow.
"Aristotle?"
"Oh? Didn't expect you to know that."
Carl skimd through the files she sent while responding.
So this netrunner wasn't just dangerously skilled—she was educated too.
Not sothing you saw often, considering how knowledge was hoarded these days.
Not many people on the streets even knew who Aristotle was.
.
.
.
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