chapter 8

"The operation is over. Okay, get up. The anesthesia will linger for a while, but don't move too much."

After hearing Victor's words, Karl touched his spine and slowly sat up from the operating table.

"How do you feel now?"

Oliver, who had been watching the procedure for hours but remained silent to avoid interrupting, finally broke his silence. He immediately approached, curiosity evident on his face. "It took me a long time to get used to it myself. Are you adapting?"

"I'd say it's more tolerable than I expected."

Karl responded, realizing that with just a thought, he could now connect to the local servers of various companies.

"I've removed the background programs left behind by the company's sales department. The access network I've installed gives you some basic functions—things like enhancing computing power or aiding in technical tasks. Just be careful about what you add. Some things can make you vulnerable to hackers," Victor warned, flexing his fingers after the long operation. He had performed the surgery manually, and though machines had assisted, his own arms had done much of the work. He was feeling the strain.

"You should create a private account now. Then, all your money can be stored securely. Unless someone eliminates you or hacks your system, no one can access your funds."

Victor glanced at the bag of dirty money. "And if you plan on adding more modifications in the future, I recommend paying online. It's hard to launder cash these days."

When Victor mentioned laundering money, Karl couldn't help but picture a gangster delivering the same line. It was hard to reconcile this middle-aged, handsome man, who looked every bit the respectable professional, with the skilled surgeon he clearly was.

"I'll keep that in mind. But if you're working on someone else's system, can you take money from their accounts?"

"You can hack into a deceased person's private system."

Oliver chimed in, "If you'd had this access network earlier, we might've made it out of our last job with full payment."

"Then we'll be better prepared next time."

Karl moved toward the bag he had stored his gun in before surgery. He unzipped it, retrieved Oliver's gun, and tossed it to him.

Oliver caught the pistol with a grin. "Oh, my sweet Nova, you're back! Ready to get back to work, KK?"

The gun was a Dala Polytechnic DR-5 Nova—a reliable, if somewhat basic, revolver. "Easy to break, easy to fix. A must-have for everyone."

"If you've got no money, you've gotta work."

After pocketing the 200 euros Victor handed him, Karl hefted his bag. "I need to find a gun shop, sell some of this stuff cheap, and buy a few rounds."

"You looking for work already?" Victor asked, spinning his chair around from the boxing match he had resumed watching after the surgery.

"Your prosthetics have no built-in protection. If you're heading out, make sure to buy some body armor at the gun shop. It might not stop bullets, but it could save your life in a pinch."

"Body armor, got it. Thanks for the tip."

Karl found it strange to hear about buying body armor. He remembered how it used to be illegal to sell in the United States before he ended up in this dystopian future. But Night City was a different beast altogether.

"No problem. You're one of the few polite young men left in Night City."

Victor turned back to his screen, and the sound of the boxing match filled the clinic again. Karl and Oliver stepped out, with Karl pulling the iron folding door shut behind them.

Victor was indeed a good guy. In a place like this, it was rare to find someone who wasn't obsessed with money and even offered discounts. Plus, Victor was a talented prosthetic surgeon. Karl made a mental note to return if he ever needed repairs or upgrades in the future.

In Night City, gun shops were easier to find than convenience stores. After a few steps from Victor's clinic, they came across one. The bag of weapons didn't fetch much—only 2,500 euros—but considering they were scavenged on the street, Karl wasn't too upset. The shop owner was kind enough to throw in some bullets and a gun holster, so it worked out. After completing the transaction and seeing the money added to his account, Karl couldn't help but marvel at how seamless the process was.

"Beep."

Oliver, waiting as Karl finished the deal, suddenly noticed 1,250 euros had been transferred to his account. He immediately understood what had happened and looked at Karl.

"We'll split everything 50-50 from here on out," Karl said before Oliver could object. "If we're gonna be partners, it only makes sense. No need to make a big deal out of every little transaction."

Karl's message was clear: they were mercenaries now. When the big jobs came, they'd divide the rewards based on effort. No need to overcomplicate things.

Oliver didn't argue. Instead, he sighed. "This... this is the first money I've ever earned for myself. Before, I lived off my father and sister. I even got kicked out of a gang in under a week. Making my own money—it feels surreal."

"You must've lived pretty well before, huh?" Karl observed, tossing some extra bullets to Oliver.

As they stepped outside, Karl glanced up at the overcast sky. "So, how do we find work now?"

"Middleman?" Oliver suggested.

A quick flash of information entered Karl's mind. Middleman: the go-between for mercenaries and clients. Sure, they took a cut of the profits, but they also handled all the paperwork and logistics. It made sense to find one, but there was one problem...

"Do you know any fixer?"

"I wasn't exactly planning on becoming a mercenary, so... no."

The two stared at each other for a moment, realizing they were stuck in a paradox. They needed a middleman to get work, but to attract a middleman, they needed a reputation—and to build a reputation, they needed work.

On their first day as a mercenary team, Karl and Oliver found themselves at a frustrating standstill.