Smith.
Hearing that familiar voice and name, Karl raised an eyebrow slightly.
"So I really did stumble into something… interesting."
"Stumbled, huh? Then I suppose it's luck that's brought us another opportunity to work together."
Smith's tone was calm, clearly not buying Karl's line about coincidence—but he didn't press the issue. Whether it was chance or something else, they could figure that out later. For now, Karl and his team had shown up at just the right moment.
Smith continued,
"You did a great job last time. The higher-ups were very pleased."
"You said that already. No need to repeat yourself."
Karl narrowed his eyes slightly. "Your tone's different. Didn't bother memorizing the last Smith's script, huh?"
Smith paused for a second.
"Sharp as ever."
It was clear now—"Smith" was just a placeholder identity. Anyone who needed to remain anonymous during external communications could use it. But the current Smith hadn't expected Karl to catch the subtle tonal differences between conversations, even though they used the same voice modulation and script.
"The last guy," Karl said, "had a bit of a superiority complex—like he was doing us a favor. Not exactly the friendly, cooperative attitude you're showing now."
"There was a minor communication hiccup last time. But it's nothing you need to worry about anymore."
This Smith's voice carried a cool indifference.
"You won't be seeing him again. From now on, just get used to my tone."
Gone, huh? Just like that.
Was he promoted? Or...
Judging by Smith's neutral tone, Karl figured the previous "Smith" had been… erased. Likely in the literal, physical sense.
Cut off. Cold.
But that wasn't Karl's business. He'd seen this happen before—from Faraday to Colmuck, and now Smith. Another name gone from the world.
"So," Karl said, brushing the thought aside, "what kind of job are you pitching this time?"
His gaze swept the room.
"Need some privacy for this?"
It was standard mercenary protocol—confidentiality above all else. Maine's crew was still nearby. They were friends, sure, but if this was a high-level gig, it might be best to have them step out with a bottle for a bit.
Maine caught on quickly. He didn't really get how things had jumped from almost drawing guns to suddenly discussing jobs, but he stood anyway.
If it was a private deal, he could wait. Drinking could come later.
But then Smith's voice stopped him.
"Please hold up a moment—Warrant Officer Maine. If possible, we'd like your squad in Night City to collaborate with Karl's for the upcoming mission. You don't need to leave."
Hearing the words "Warrant Officer," Maine froze, then frowned deeply.
"You're with the NUSA."
Maine had once been recruited after dropping five New United States soldiers in a bar brawl. He'd served for two years in South America, operating with a team of elite soldiers on dangerous black ops missions. He left the service during the Unification War, eventually arriving in Night City. His final rank had been Warrant Officer—a commissioned officer candidate just above enlisted ranks.
It wasn't a particularly high rank, but for someone like Maine to earn it in only two years said a lot. If he hadn't been set on building his own merc crew and becoming a legend in Night City, he might've risen much higher in the NUSA military.
He'd never told anyone about that rank. The only people who could've known were the ones who had access to his military file.
Smith didn't confirm or deny the accusation. Clearly more experienced in secrecy than the last "Smith," he simply replied in a tone Maine would understand:
"The nation needs you again."
"Tch. The nation needs me," Maine scoffed. "What, to torch another village in South America? Or do another round of internal purges? Haven't I done enough of your dirty work already? I told you—I'm done."
"In that case," Smith said, "consider this a contract offer, not a call to duty."
He didn't seem bothered at all by Maine's rejection. Guys like Maine—who thought they were free once they retired—he'd seen plenty. And every last one of them got squeezed dry by Militech or the NUSA before they were let go.
Then Smith made his offer.
"One million eurodollars. That's what we're offering your team, Maine. I'm sure you understand what that kind of money could do for you."
Maine had been ready to refuse, no hesitation. He wanted nothing to do with Militech or the government.
But at the mention of one million eddies, his fingers twitched.
"A fair price, wouldn't you say, Warrant Officer Maine?"
Silence.
His team's eyes were on him, waiting for a decision. Slowly, Maine sat back down and looked at Karl.
"We'll follow your lead. If you take it, we're in."
Clearly, the price had shaken him. A million eddies might not buy you a lifetime of luxury, but it'd give your crew a damn good life for a while. Still, he was cautious—he knew any job that paid this much had to be dangerous. So he left the decision to someone more experienced in big-league negotiations.
Karl didn't seem fazed. "Alright. I'll decide."
Honestly, having Maine's team on board only made things easier.
He turned to the phone, Smith's voice still active.
"Go ahead. I'd like to hear what your so-called 'nation' wants from a bunch of stateless mercs like us."
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