5. The Invitation

Oliver gasped for air, staring at the corpses strewn across the ground before him. He could hardly believe he had survived such a firefight. Several times, bullets had whistled past his head, and each time, he had been lucky enough that his skull wasn't in their path—it was sheer, dumb luck.

Yet, this survival was only possible because of outside help. If not for the person who had joined the fray halfway through, he would have long since been slaughtered by the Maelstrom scum that kept pushing forward.

"One still alive, I see."

As Oliver’s body slumped limply against the cover, he heard a rather young voice. Following the sound, he saw an Oriental face that matched the voice perfectly.

Just one person? And at that age—eighteen, maybe nineteen?

At that age, even in the Arasaka Academy, which specialized in grooming corporate stooges, they would still be students who hadn't graduated. Even in the street gangs of Night City, it was a bit too young.

"Soft-lipped and green," though Night City didn't use that exact phrase, it had similar idioms. At the very least, Oliver's own 6th Street gang would never accept anyone under twenty; veterans hated having rookies dragging them down.

Oliver studied Carl’s face, pondering his identity. Was he of Chinese descent, or Japanese? If he were Japanese, could he be a Tyger Claw? The Kabuki district in Watson was Tyger Claw territory; had he intervened because of a conflict between the Tyger Claws and Maelstrom?

While Oliver was lost in thought, Carl walked up to him, pointing a Lexington pistol at his head.

"Name."

Having witnessed the speed and precision of the stranger’s marksmanship, and having no intention of resisting, Oliver answered honestly: "Oliver."

"Age?"

"Twenty-four. Gang member."

"Affiliation?"

"6th Street."

"Purpose?"

"The Maelstrom guys might have hijacked our cargo. We came to ask, but ended up in a shootout with those cyber-psycho lunatics."

"I see."

After Carl said something that Oliver didn't quite understand, he reached out his hand.

"Hand it over."

"What?"

"Your gun."

Was he planning to take him prisoner as a bargaining chip for the Tyger Claws? Seeing how he had dealt with the Maelstrom earlier, was he looking for some kind of cooperation?

Oliver handed over his gun obediently. He was cooperative, but then he noticed the stranger had no further interest in him. The man wandered among the corpses, occasionally crouching to pick something up from the ground.

'The fourteenth one.'

Carl muttered to himself. Having grabbed a bag from a small stall earlier, he was counting as he stuffed pistols and Eurodollars into it. Looting after a fight was, to Carl, a matter of course, but the sight made Oliver feel a bit uneasy.

'Looking at the way he’s scavenging, he can’t be a Tyger Claw—could he be a Scavenger, one of those organ-harvesters?'

In Night City, Scavengers were cold-blooded scum who viewed people as tradeable objects. They loved targeting civilians and lone gang members to strip them of money, organs, and cyberware. Carl’s looting habits were starting to look a bit similar.

However, Oliver’s rising concern eased slightly when he saw that Carl had no interest in cyberware and made no move to dissect the bodies.

Come to think of it, someone with marksmanship as sharp and fast as this guy probably didn't need to be that kind of bottom-feeder... but the way he was scavenging was just too meticulous and serious.

Seeing Carl even rummaging through a corpse's hair to see if money was hidden inside, Oliver couldn't help but stand up and walk over to him. Naturally, as Oliver approached, a gun was immediately leveled at his head.

"Something up?"

Without turning back, the busy Carl asked. His haul was decent; these guys weren't exactly rich, but all these bits and pieces added up to over three thousand Eurodollars. He would have to count the exact amount later.

"Look... if we don't run now, the NCPD cleanup crew might show up. It won't look good if we're still here when they do."

"We?"

Hearing Oliver’s words, Carl stopped scavenging for a moment. He turned to look at the 6th Street member, who had blonde hair and a small mustache on his chin, and replied: "I’m not a gang member. I’m just a civilian caught in your mess, trying to eat a meal in peace. I don't need to worry about any NCPD."

A civilian?

What civilian could use a ubiquitous, bottom-tier Lexington pistol to pop the heads of over a dozen Maelstrom gangers? Everyone knew Maelstrom lunatics loved to modify their skulls with cyberware, leaving very little flesh left. To be able to hit the narrow gap between metal and meat and accurately put a bullet into the brain—that kind of marksmanship was definitely not something a civilian could achieve.

In Oliver’s mind, a clear deduction about Carl’s identity formed.

This guy was probably a mercenary. A solo, at that.

Listening to the sirens getting closer, Oliver thought for a moment and said, "Then consider it a reward for saving my life. You were interrupted during your meal, right? If you don't mind, how about I treat you to a meal at a nearby restaurant? And maybe you can wash your face while you're at it."

Oliver’s gaze focused on the blood congealing on Carl’s face.

"Eating is fine."

He had finished looting anyway. Carl looked at the bag, which could no longer fit any more pistols, and didn't mind being treated to a meal.

"But it has to be vegetarian."

A cold-blooded killer who eats plants?

Oliver’s mouth twitched, but he responded quickly.

"Sure. I saw a Chinese restaurant on the way here; they should have at least some vegetarian options."

After saying this, Oliver looked at his fallen 6th Street comrades, now all corpses, and sighed.

He would have to tell his old man about this later. Everyone who came with him was dead, and he was the only one left alive. No matter the reason, he had to give the gang an explanation. And regarding the Maelstrom, he would have to suggest his old man discuss it thoroughly with the others.

Those lunatics had gone too far with their scavenging. 6th Street didn't want to invade other gangs' turf, but that didn't mean they were weak, spineless cowards.

The gang was primarily composed of retired soldiers, after all—their tempers weren't exactly mild. Maelstrom would definitely pay for this!

But before that.

Oliver had to properly treat this solo who had helped him. He never forgot a debt of life.