Before entering Night City, forr ACPA trainee No. 05—real na Daya—was given a piece of advice:
"If sothing goes down on the street, don't overthink it. Unless you're the kind of top-tier gunman who can shoot before your brain even kicks in, your best bet is to turn around and run."
Among his fellow trainees, Daya's marksmanship was top-notch—almost on par with No. 01, who'd died in Night City. But when he sensed sothing going wrong, he didn't hesitate to run.
Not because he truly believed in that advice—more like, aside from his skills with a gun, Daya had beco quite the "quick draw" in other ways too.
In short: he had finally escaped Militech's grip, went on a bender, and was now suffering the consequences. His body was wrecked from indulging too hard, too fast. Now both his trigger finger and his legs felt like jelly.
In this state, even a couple of street punks could knock him down—let alone soone bold enough to raid the Big Bird Spin Spin bar.
Gotta get back to the exosuit stash—fast. Shouldn't've let my guard down. Night City's no joke. No wonder No. 01 got wrecked by just one street rc. This place is full of temptation—it's impossible to stay sharp.
Legs wobbling, Daya forced himself to run. He burst through the bar's side door and stumbled into the alley.
Behind him, chaos still raged. But there—his motorcycle. Right where he left it.
Relieved, he sprinted over and mounted up.
Damn, even with my head spinning, I still locked the bike right. Didn't get jacked. I had my fun, skipped the bill, and the ride's untouched. Today's my lucky—
His thought cut off.
His right hand wouldn't grip the throttle.
A burning heat surged from his palm.
Shit... this feeling...
"Implant overheating!"
"Aaaargh!!"
Daya collapsed, screaming, clutching his arm and rolling on the ground.
"Quit the act."
Karl approached calmly, night-vision visor now off. His tone was flat as he looked down at the writhing man.
"You Militech types always pull this crap when you're injured. Roll around, play helpless, try to bait your enemy into lowering their guard. You're an ACPA pilot. You've got a pain editor implant. Rolling around like this from a little burn? That's a weak bluff."
He knew what Daya was thinking.
The overheating, no follow-up shots, no one rushing him as he fell—clearly the attacker wasn't aiming to kill imdiately. So why not put on a show?
"I just wanted to do what your fellow trainee did—make sure you die knowing why."
"...Fellow trainee?"
Daya's expression shifted. Calm returned in an instant. He pulled out a Militech Omaha tactical pistol and leveled it at Karl.
"I think I know who you are now."
"I never said I was hiding it."
Karl rolled his wrist, unfazed by the gun. Without their exosuit, ACPA pilots were nothing special. All their augntations were designed to function inside the armor. Outside of it, their combat ability was… limited.
"I just want to ask—where's your exosuit? You tell , and I won't have to waste my ti digging through your neural chip."
He couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. Talking with a hostile target instead of just executing them—just like he had with No. 01.
Let's just hope this doesn't go sideways…
Bang.
Before Daya could react, Karl shot him in the wrist.
With his left hand useless, Karl lunged in—monowire trailing.
It looped around Daya's neck.
Before he could recover, Karl spun behind him, drove a knee into his lower back, and snapped both shoulders with a precise knifehand strike.
"Now... let's continue our little chat."
Daya couldn't move.
So fast. So clean. So damn precise.
He'd planned to resist—thought he had ti—but the rc had him pinned in an instant.
So this was the guy who took down No. 01.
Maybe in an ACPA suit, he'd stand a chance. But now?
"Where's the exosuit?"
Karl's voice ca again. Cold. Controlled.
Daya raised his hands in surrender.
"I'll tell you… just don't kill ."
"Can't promise that."
Karl's tone was icy.
"I took the job to kill you. The only reason I'm talking is because I didn't feel like wasting half a day scraping your chip for coordinates. You talk now, your death'll be quick."
"No room for negotiation?"
The monowire tightened slightly, cutting into his neck. Daya's mind raced.
"My presence in Night City was supposed to be classified. If you're a rc and you know, that ans soone inside sold us out. I don't care who—I won't even ask. Let disappear. I'll leave a fake corpse, make it convincing.
In return, I'll hand over everything—ACPA protocols, exosuit data, all of it. Just let live."
Karl didn't speak, but the wire tightened.
"How do I know you're not lying?" he finally said.
"You think a Militech dog trades info so easily? That doesn't sound like loyalty."
"Loyalty?" Daya scoffed. "We were locked in boxes and used like tools. If my whole family wasn't dead and I didn't inherit so mystery debt at birth, I'd never have agreed to this. I got conscripted at three. They promised glory, gave us trauma.
You think I don't know? Too much ti in an ACPA, you go cyberpsycho sooner or later."
His voice trembled now.
"I just wanted to live like a human being. Night City showed that.
If you don't believe , install a kill-chip in . One thought from you, and boom—my head's gone."
Karl sighed.
He released the monowire and stepped aside.
Thud.
Daya collapsed to the ground, panting. His eyes widened with relief—then disbelief—then pure joy.
"You… you believe ?!"
I made it. I actually get to live. I can start over—
Karl's reply was quiet.
"I don't believe you."
Another sigh.
His gaze was conflicted.
"I just don't see the point in killing soone who's already dead."
"...What do you—"
BOOM.
Daya's head exploded.
Blood and brain matter painted the alley. Karl, just out of range, didn't flinch.
"That's what I ant."
He shook his head.
"If even you thought about installing a kill-chip to gain trust... you really think the people who made you a pilot didn't think of it first?"
A useless tool... gets discarded.
Karl stepped forward and examined the back of Daya's neck.
The small data chip near his spine was intact, untouched by the detonation.
This intel's probably not gonna impress those corpo bastards.
Still, he looked up—and spoke anyway, just in case they were listening.
"Next ti... send more."
.
.
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