The relentless pounding on Oliver's door echoed through his cramped megabuilding apartment, each thud vibrating the loose screws in the reinforced steel frame. He'd barely slumped onto his secondhand couch after a tense family dinner with his sister Sandra—another lecture about "settling down" and "legitimate work"—when the intrusion began. Groaning, Oliver flicked on the security feed. Carl's face filled the grainy hologram, his cheek smeared with what looked like dried coolant, a Militech Saratoga SMG slung over one shoulder and a bulging synth-leather grocery bag dangling from the other.
"Christ, Carl," Oliver muttered, disengaging the deadbolt. "You look like you wrestled a malfunctioning autodoc."
Carl shouldered past him, the scent of gun oil and burnt ozone trailing in his wake. He dumped his haul onto the coffee table—a mountain of vacuum-sealed protein packs, algae-dusted chips, and a suspiciously familiar takeout box from Mama Liu's Noodle Emporium. "Celebration time. Landed a corpo gig. Jackie's en route." He lobbed a shrink-wrapped slab labeled RIBCAGE STEAK—20€! at Oliver's chest. "Eat. You're too scrawny for Santo Domingo."
Oliver caught the quivering gray meat, its surface glistening under the apartment's flickering LED strips. "I literally just ate. And since when do you solo gigs without—"
"Corpo wanted discretion." Carl collapsed onto the couch, boots propped on a stack of dog-eared Guns & Ammo issues. "Played bodyguard. Negotiated terms."
"Negotiated." Oliver eyed Carl's jacket—pristine black nano-weave, no bullet holes or bloodstains. "Must've been one hell of a discussion."
"Put on the news. Let's see what fresh hell Night City barfed up today."
With a sigh, Oliver authorized the 5€ holofee. The wall screen flickered to life, casting the room in the sickly blue glow of N54's emergency broadcast. He bit into the steak—a gelatinous, vaguely beef-flavored atrocity—and froze. A jagged cut marred the edge, the serrated knife marks unmistakable.
"Carl… this isn't new steak."
Carl grinned, cracking open a X-Cola. The can hissed like a breached coolant line. "Waste not, want not."
"You cheap gonk!" Oliver gestured at the snack mountain—soy-dust nachos, mock-chocolate bars oozing brown sludge, a half-crushed box of PetroChem wheat crackers. "Did you rob every vending machine from here to Pacifica?!"
"Mostly the ones near Maelstrom turf. Higher turnover." Carl shrugged, pulling out a neon-green energy drink labeled GUTTER JUICE: 200% DAILY RADIATION! "Found this beauty next to a corpse. Free loyalty card too—eight more punches for a free cybernetic hepatitis shot."
Oliver stared at the drink's glowing contents. "That's not a loyalty program. That's a death sentence."
"Relax, it's expired." Carl shook the can, which hissed ominously. "Probably." He tossed it aside and rummaged deeper into the bag. "Also scored a Maelstrom Surprise Box—contents may include live grenades, discount cyberware, or… uh… half-eaten burrito?" He held up a foil-wrapped lump that audibly squelched.
Oliver recoiled. "Why does it sound alive?"
"Beats me. Also the chocolate's fake." Carl sighed, holding up a crumbling bar stamped with CHOCO-BLAST: NOW WITH 0% COCOA! "Couldn't find real—"
Oliver unwrapped a piece and took a cautious bite. His face twisted. "Christ, this tastes like burnt soy-paste and regret."
Carl snatched it back. "It's algae-protein. Builds character." He bit into the bar defiantly, chewed twice, then spat it into a nearby plant. "...Okay, maybe some character."
The door burst open, ricocheting off the wall with a metallic clang. Jackie sauntered in, a grease-stained paper bag clutched to his chest like contraband. "¡Hermanos! Brought Wells' famous fries—ah, perfect timing!" He froze, spotting the Saratoga SMG half-buried under snack debris. "Dios mío, KK—since when you pack Militech heat?"
"Maelstrom charity drive." Carl tossed him the SMG. "They were very generous."
Jackie inspected the weapon with a mechanic's reverence, running a chrome-plated thumb over its serial number. "Preem iron. Bet this baby's got stories." He glanced at the Maelstrom Surprise Box and plucked out a dented tin labeled MYSTERY MEAT: VERSION 4.7. "Ah, classic. Tastes like nostalgia and food poisoning." He cracked it open, releasing a smell akin to a combat zone's porta-potty after a plasma grenade party. "¡Órale! Still warm."
Oliver gagged. "Okay seriously, how the hell is it still warm?"
"Radiation," Carl and Jackie said in unison.
Jackie tossed the tin aside and grabbed the GUTTER JUICE, shaking it like a maraca. "Twenty eddies says this glows in the dark."
"No takers," Oliver muttered. "I'd rather bet on Max-Tac hosting a meditation retreat."
"Breaking News," the anchor's voice sharpened. The screen flashed crimson as Max-Tac's emblem materialized—a stylized skull with circuit-board veins. "Cyberpsycho Rampage in Kabukicho—Death Toll Rising. Max-Tac En Route."
A shaky camfeed replaced the logo: neon-lit carnage at a sushi bar Carl recognized. Holographic koi fish flickered over splintered tables, their serene loops juxtaposed with the sprawled corpses. A Tyger Claw enforcer's severed arm still clutched a monowire katana, its blade embedded in the ceiling.
"That's… the place I grabbed dinner." Carl crunched a cold fry, eyes narrowing.
Jackie whistled. "Lucky you missed the party."
"Lucky for me." Carl's voice flattened. "Waitstaff were decent tippers."
The screen cut to Max-Tac AVs descending like mechanized hawks, their searchlights carving through Kabukicho's neon smog. Oliver muted the feed, leaving the room in static-laced silence.
The sudden buzz of Carl's holo shattered the quiet—a jagged, insistent pulse. UNKNOWN CALLER flashed in his retinal display. He swiped decline.
It rang again—same number, same urgency.
"Persistent fucker," Jackie muttered, tossing the Saratoga onto the couch. "Probably another BD spammer. 'Live your dream as a joytoy!'" he mimicked in a nasal pitch.
Carl answered on the third ring. A voice seeped through—smooth as synth-silk, tinged with the flat, unplaceable accent of someone who'd spent too long in corpo boardrooms. "Carl. Faraday here. Got a job that'll make that corpo pocket change look like scav scraps. Interested?"
The apartment's ever-present hum—the vending machine's rattle, the faulty HVAC's wheeze—seemed to pause. Even the flickering LED strips held their breath.
Carl crushed cola can in his fist , it's cheap aluminum crinkling in his palm. "Depends. You buying steak?"
Faraday's chuckle crackled like a corrupted audio file. "The kind that doesn't taste like recycled boots."