He spotted cold Chinese noodles, and from the picture, it looked like the most vegetarian dish available. In reality, cold noodles were usually based on chicken or beef broth, but this was Night City. He was not going to argue with the label.
The noodles themselves were at least made from wheat, which was reassuring. The reason it was wheat and not something stranger was simple, wheat was cheaper. In America, Petrochem was the only company approved to commercially grow genetically modified wheat, a high-sugar grain used to produce CHOOH2 through processing.
CHOOH2 was a synthetic alcohol and the most standard combustible fuel in the modern world. Petrochem and its subsidiaries owned millions of acres of farmland growing this wheat, and during good harvests, there was often surplus. That excess was sold to food factories or partially donated to poorer countries under the banner of humanitarian aid.
Petrochem land lay right next to Night City, which was why the city had a steady supply of noodle products made from normal wheat. Supposedly, this genetically modified wheat even tasted good, though Carl had no way to confirm that yet. At least it sounded better than insects.
He checked the price of the so-called Chinese cold noodles and saw that it cost three eurodollars. Considering the stall was in a poor district and the dish was vegetarian, this was probably a low-end price. Still, three eurodollars for one meal made it clear that the value of money here was nothing like what he remembered.
In the past, three euros would have been worth about twenty-three units of his old country's currency. Now the two felt almost equal. As more knowledge settled into his mind, Carl felt himself adjusting to the city bit by bit.
"Boss, one order of Chinese cold noodles," he said.
Just as Carl pulled out his money and prepared to pay, an accident happened, or rather, a normal day in Night City happened. A loud bang echoed as a kinetic pistol fired. The stall owner's head exploded in front of him.
This was not an exaggeration. Red and white matter burst free, no longer contained by the skull. Warm liquid and fragments of bone splattered across Carl's face.
He blinked as blood slid into his eyes, forcing himself to see clearly again. The headless body in front of him, which had just been turning around at a shout, collapsed onto the ground. The smell of iron filled the air.
"Damn you Sixth Street punks, daring to come onto our Maelstrom turf. Let your grandpa show your pants some daylight!"
Amid the distant screaming, Carl saw that the people who had been sitting across from him were already hiding under the stall tables. Their movements were smooth and fast, practiced to the point of perfection. It was clear this was not their first time.
Listening to the shouting and gunfire echoing from about a hundred meters away, Carl needed only a second to understand what was happening. Two gangs had started a firefight, and the stall owner had been unlucky enough to catch a stray bullet. If that bullet had hit him instead, his head would have burst just the same.
"This is really impossible to get used to," he muttered.
Wiping the blood off his face, Carl had already gripped his pistol. Just trying to eat a meal without trouble was impossible here. He silently cursed everyone involved and tightened his hold on the gun.
6th Street was born from American veterans who were furious at the long-term inaction of the NCPD after the Fourth Corporate War. They claimed they were bringing justice to the city, but what they did was no different from other gangs. The group had around 2,300 members, and among them, Oliver was the newest, having joined less than a week ago.
As a rookie, he should not have followed the captain into Watson District. Everyone knew that 6th Street usually respected other gangs' turf and only wanted to hold their own ground in Santo Domingo, rarely stepping into other areas. However, a shipment of important guns they were smuggling was hijacked while passing through Watson District, and their squad happened to be nearby, so they rushed over as soon as the call came in.
Even so, what happened next was far too intense for a newcomer. They had only been in Watson District's Little China for a short while when a verbal dispute turned ugly, and the negotiating members of Maelstrom opened fire on them. He had heard that Maelstrom were crazy people who turned themselves into monsters, but seeing them in person proved they were even worse.
Oliver's squad had ten people in total, and the captain was shot in the head the moment guns were drawn. Before diving into cover, the squad killed four members of Maelstrom in return. But there were thirty of them, and with triple the numbers and heavy cybernetic mods, even veterans from military backgrounds were pinned down and unable to lift their heads.
Damn it, damn it, damn it, he thought, he had only joined 6th Street because his father was there, he had no skills, and he needed to eat. His father had even found him a capable captain to look after him, and that capable captain died on the very first job. If having your head explode counted as a performance, then it really was some kind of skill.
A dull thump sounded beside him. One of his teammates was hit by a bullet and collapsed, twitching for a moment before going still. Oliver quickly scanned around and realized that while he was lost in his thoughts, fewer than four teammates were left.
Where was the NCPD, where were the cops, couldn't they hear how loud the gunfire was, couldn't they come help. He wanted to run, but he knew what would happen if he turned his back, and he knew the price of betraying his teammates. Dying was one thing, but being found out was worse, and even his father's standing in 6th Street would not save him.
By gang rules, anyone who abandoned their teammates would be tied up and punished by the families of those left behind. They would use a razor and slowly shave the chin from pink to red, and finally to white. Oliver had once read a book that talked about scraping poison from bone and made it sound heroic, but he had no desire to experience anything like that.
A gunshot rang out. He thought it was over, that he was dead for sure. Then he realized the shot did not come from the side of Maelstrom, but from their flank.
Gunfire erupted in a messy burst. Oliver sharply saw four of those Maelstrom bastards drop at once, and the rest started yelling and panicking under the unexpected attack. Some of them even stood up in the open, scrambling to find new cover.
Idiots. Oliver opened fire, and the marksmanship his father had drilled into him since childhood paid off as his bullets found their targets. After a few shots, several more Maelstrom thugs fell.
"Where did these people come from, are there really that many 6th Street bastards?" A loud mouth among Maelstrom was cut off by a shot to the head, even though he had been hiding behind cover. Someone shouted in panic about smart weapons and Kang Tao gear.
Amid the chaos, Carl calmly counted his remaining bullets. The Militech Lexington in his hand held twenty-one rounds, and he had fired six so far, killing five members of Maelstrom. As for how someone who had never fired a gun before could do this on his first try, he could only say this was what cheating felt like.
After the first shot, all the data about the weapon had been stored in his mind, along with wind, temperature, and other factors. Once he missed the first round, the second felt almost locked on, and when he raised his hand and pulled the trigger, he already knew where the bullet would land. It felt like aiming with a cursor in a game, except smoother and more natural.