CYBERPUNK: Travel to 2075

"What? You don't have a chip receiver, an operating system installed, or even a mobile phone?"

Inside the restaurant, Oliver stared at Karl in disbelief, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He looked at Karl as if he were some sort of anomaly.

Oliver had intended to repay Karl for saving his life by transferring some money from his account. However, Karl casually revealed that he didn't have an online account, no prosthetics installed, and not even a basic operating system.

"Not even homeless people are like this anymore," Oliver said, his tone dripping with incredulity. "Even monks, who refuse prosthetic enhancements, usually have some external receiver or at least a mobile phone to collect donations. What are you—a purebred human?"

"It's not that," Karl replied. "Let's just say my previous environment didn't expose me to these things. It's a long story. Do you know where I can get an operating system installed?"

"Of course! Any ripperdoc can handle that for you. If you want to add prosthetics later, that's no problem either. It's basic stuff. I'm just shocked you've never come across it before."

"I want to find a ripperdoc now," Karl said, sipping his drink after finishing his cold noodles. The overly sweet cola wasn't to his liking.

"Alright, give me a second," Oliver replied, his eyes flickering with the telltale glow of an internal display. "I'll check for nearby clinics. If we were in Santo Domingo, I could name at least four or five good ones. But here in Watson... oh, there's one! Victor—Victor! I think I've heard of him. His clinic's less than a hundred meters from here. Want to check it out?"

"Victor?" Karl repeated, already familiar with the name.

Victor was a well-known ripperdoc in Little China. According to the data Karl recalled, Victor had been an underground doctor in the past but was highly skilled.

Ah, an old acquaintance, Karl thought, recalling that Victor was the ripperdoc for V, the protagonist of Cyberpunk 2077.

"Let's go," Karl said, standing abruptly.

"Hold on, you don't even know the way!" Oliver exclaimed, quickly catching up. He walked alongside Karl, leading him to Victor's clinic.

As they walked, Oliver chattered away. "Don't worry about the cost. My sister's a ripperdoc, so I know the market rates for prosthetics and systems. Your cash is more than enough for a Militech-grade operating system, with plenty left over for upgrades. If Victor charges too much, we'll just walk away. If it comes to that, I can take you to my sister. She's fair."

Karl remained silent for a while before asking, "Do you always talk this much?"

"Hey, you saved my life, and I feel like we get along. To be honest, I've only been with the Sixth Street Gang for a week, and it's been suffocating. All their military-style rules and strict structure—it's exhausting. Hanging out with you feels much easier."

"You're not hitting on me, are you?" Karl asked dryly.

"What? No! My family's as traditional as they come. I'm straight as an arrow. I've had two ex-girlfriends, thank you very much."

Clearly, Oliver had been bottling up his frustrations. Now that he was free from his gangmates—albeit under grim circumstances—he couldn't stop talking.

"Oh, man," Oliver continued. "I'm gonna catch so much heat when I get back to the gang. I've already reported what happened, but I'm the only survivor, and the families of the dead are going to want answers. Worse, the higher-ups will probably kick me out to save face. They won't kill me, though—my dad's got some pull. But I wouldn't mind leaving. Honestly, I'm tired of the Sixth Street Gang. This might be my chance to get out and start fresh."

"Even if it wasn't your fault, they'd still kick you out?" Karl asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Our lieutenant was a coward," Oliver explained, his tone bitter. "Died without doing a damn thing, but the gang's gotta appease his uncle—Will Cannon, one of our senior members. Politics, you know? It's a mess."

"Sounds like a nightmare," Karl said bluntly.

"It is," Oliver sighed, before brightening a little. "Hey, how about we team up? I'm gonna be broke soon, so maybe we could do something together—like become mercenaries?"

"I think one meal more than repays your life debt," Karl said flatly.

"Yeah, but still—think about it. You're good with a gun, and I've got local connections. We could make a solid team!"

Karl considered it for a moment. "I don't mind. A local guide would make missions easier."

"Great! It's settled. We'll form a sharpshooter team. You handle the heavy lifting, and I'll handle the logistics—and maybe scavenge some loot while we're at it."

"I think your shooting skills are decent," Karl remarked.

"Nowhere near yours," Oliver admitted with a grin. Then, as if realizing something, he added, "By the way, I've been calling you 'bro,' but I don't even know your name. What should I call you?"

"Karl," he said simply. "Last name Ka, first name Er. Just call me Karl. Or," he added thoughtfully, "you can use my action code name. Might be safer that way."

"Oh, like Johnny Silverhand or Morgan Blackhand? Yeah, mercs need cool names. What's yours?"

"KK," Karl said after a moment of thought.

"KK?"

"It's simple. It comes from my name, Karl. Just call me that."

"Got it," Oliver said, nodding.

Karl smiled faintly to himself. While "KK" seemed straightforward, it held another layer of meaning

And in Night City, having a title like that could mean everything.