When words aren't enough, sometimes a fist speaks in a language everyone understands—and Carl was fluent.
"Jackie, back up a bit."
Jackie's tone was half-laugh, half-wince—he'd been softly reassuring Old Freight with a dab of antiseptic when he noticed Carl's coiled stance and Oliver clutching the medkit. He slid his stool sideways, the metal legs scraping across the warped wooden floorboards. In that split second, he realized: this friendly lecture was about to turn into a one-man caged fight.
"All right," Jackie grumbled, hopping down, "looks like Jackie Welles's good-faith tutorial is over."
"What tutorial?" the chrome-faced agent sputtered, eyes widening beneath that half-metallic mask. His Militech badge gleamed under the flickering neon sign. He hadn't even seen Carl approach—just the flash of movement.
Carl closed the gap in two long strides. Behind him, a battered jukebox chimed out the final notes of a forgotten salsa track before switching to static. A half-empty pool table thudded as someone racked the balls, the click echoing in the hush that followed.
Before the agent could react, Carl's right fist cracked into the man's cheekbone. The force sent sweat and loose flesh flicking against the dim bar light. The agent's head jerked back, mouth opening in a silent gasp.
Oliver was already across the table, sleeves rolled tight as he braced for backup but stayed on the sidelines—just in case. He placed the medkit on the corner of the booth, its metal clasps clinking softly.
Carl's left hand shot out and clamped on the agent's shoulder. He held him upright as if testing the man's mettle.
"What are you doing?" the agent croaked, his voice rough as gravel. His free hand trembled, reaching for both the wound and some semblance of dignity.
"Nothing special," Carl said, voice low enough only the agent's good ear could hear. "You wouldn't answer my question, so I figured I'd use my knuckles instead."
Carl delivered a second blow—short, jagged—into the agent's jaw. The man's grip on the barstool's edge loosened; his knees buckled. Yet Carl's grip on his collar prevented him from slumping fully.
Across the room, bartenders paused mid-pour, amber liquid frozen in the air. A stray draft from the broken window rattled the hanging lantern of stained glass, casting jagged patterns over the patrons, most of whom now watched with wide eyes or swiftly averted gazes, as if nobody wanted to be the next to speak.
Carl's third punch connected under the agent's chin, spine bumping against the man's own collar. A low, rattling groan cut through the thick haze of smoke and stale beer.
"You asked," Carl said. "And you still refused."
He unleashed a rapid-fire flurry: uppercut, cross, hook—each blow delivered with precision. The agent's protests fractured into helpless whimpers, punctuated only by the muted slap of skin on flesh. Floor tiles trembled under Carl's boots, and the scent of iron hung heavier.
Finally, with his face a mask of purple and cracked plating, the agent slipped limp in Carl's grasp. Even his mechanical eye flickered, as though blinking in surrender.
Carl stepped back and flexed his bruised knuckles. They throbbed, but their message had been delivered. The agent's shoulders slumped, eyes fluttering shut.
Carl straightened, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow. "Man, you've got one hell of a chin," he said quietly, surveying the carnage. "Think that jogs the memory?"
At that moment, Carl's comm-link buzzed sharply. He retrieved it from his belt and tapped the screen, displaying Faraday's name in glowing red.
"KK, I've got a job I think you'll want," Faraday said, voice cool and distant.
Carl shot a glance to Jackie and Oliver. "Faraday's finally got a real gig."
He turned back to the still-unconscious agent and delivered one last, soft uppercut—just enough to ensure the man stayed down. Then, over Jackie's shoulder, he nodded.
"Jackie, help me drag him out back. I'm done here."
They hauled the agent toward the back exit. The sight of two Street Kids carrying a limp Militech operative through spilled beer and discarded napkins drew a mix of gasps and startled murmurs from the crowd. Behind the bar, Mama Welles—billed as Mrs. Welles on the neon sign—lifted her weathered chin in approval and returned to polishing glasses with a coarse rag.
Carl retrieved the grease-stained paper bag from Oliver's hand and placed it before Old Freight. The older driver was still shaking, seated in the booth's corner, a fresh bandage on his head.
"Eat up, amigo," Carl said, settling back into the seat opposite. "And if some corporate dog harasses you again, you come find me. I'll sort them out."
Old Freight swallowed hard, pushing the bag of fries closer. "Gracias, mijo. Gracias."
Carl gave him a reassuring smirk. "Just keep comin' back and supporting Mrs. Welles's bar. That's thanks enough."
Outside, sunlight filtered through grimy windows, slicing through dust motes like spotlight beams. Inside, the booth glowed with half-burned neon: ruby red and indigo streaks that danced across the dark wood and peeling vinyl.
Jackie slid into the booth, rolling his shoulders as if shedding a heavy coat of tension. He flexed his fists reflexively.
"I thought you were gonna keep going," he said, voice low and throaty. "Maybe land a few more."
Carl shrugged, pulling his comm-link back into view. "Faraday's got a real deal waiting. But first—the fries. Food soothes the soul, man."
Oliver reached into the bag and snapped a crisp fry between his fingers. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing in bliss.
"These are the best fries in Night City," he said on a surfer's exhale.
Carl turned a wry glance at Jackie. "If you'd jumped in sooner, wouldn't have needed me."
Jackie held up one hand, a playful smirk forming. "If you'd waited just a beat, I'd've thrown the first punch."
Carl laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Next time, we'll each have our turn. But right now, let's see what Faraday's dangling."
He mentally thumb hovered over the "Accept" icon, the comm-link's glow dancing in his eyes. Thirty thousand? No—three hundred thousand eurodollars. His chest tightened with raw excitement—his mind racing at the possibilities—before a slow knot of suspicion settled in his gut.
Jackie let out a low whistle so loud it rattled his beer mug. "¡Trescientos K, carnal?"
Oliver's eyes widened enough to catch the neon reflection. He stammered, "Three hundred K… that's—holy shit, that's enough to buy a blood‑spattered castle in Pacifica."
Jackie's grin spread wide, already picturing himself tearing down the freeway on his dream ARCH bike. "That's enough to finally pick up that ARCH and trick it out, choom. No more squeezing into Oliver's sardine can."
Oliver bristled, straightening in his seat. "Hey, my ride may be a rust bucket, but it's my rust bucket—and it gets us where we need to go. So don't call it a fucking sardine can, jackass."
Carl let that crack of laughter roll through him, the buzz of adrenaline stoking his grin. He felt the thrill of three hundred K coursing through his veins—enough to upgrade implants, to special-order chrome, to make everyone in Heywood take notice. But even as his pulse pounded in triumph, he couldn't shake the shadow of doubt.
Scrolling through the fine print, he traced Faraday's smeared signature seal, his brain clicking into gear. Faraday didn't do goodwill—he carved out huge margins on every gig. Three hundred K upfront was absurd. Crooked back channels. Phantom expenses.
Jackie leaned in, voice hushed. "Man, Faraday's playing with fire. He's skimming half a mil for himself on this, isn't he?"
Oliver tapped his fingers on the table, already eyeing the weapons rack. "Either that—or he's deep in with someone who can pay. Either way, watch his six."
Carl swallowed, excitement warring with his gut suspicion. Finally, he tapped "Accept." The contract scrolled into their shared folder.
"Feels like a setup," he said quietly, looking at both of them. "But setups pay the best."
Their booth crackled with energy—hope braided with tension. They'd just signed the deepest gig yet. No turning back now.
Carl locked eyes with Jackie and Oliver. "All right. We roll on Faraday's crooked cash. Just remember—big money, bigger lies."
They nodded, fists bumping in solidarity, as the bar's hum settled around them again. The countdown to the big gig had begun—and with three hundred K on the table, nothing would ever be the same.
Now let's see what we getting ourselves into...