While his thoughts wandered, Carl walked back to the guy who had earlier been half-asleep while peeing and was now collapsed on the ground. This young man, around twenty-five or twenty-six, had a green rooster-style mohawk and metal plates on both cheeks. Beside his hand lay a pistol.
"Militech. Huh."
Carl felt as if he saw something on the pistol, but when he blinked, it vanished. Curious, he focused his gaze on the gun, and to his surprise, words he could understand appeared before his eyes.
Militech M-10 AF Militech Lexington: Produced by Militech, a compact kinetic handgun that is lightweight, easy to use, and has low recoil, suitable for subduing targets.
It seemed that this Golden Finger was not limited to reading text, but also worked on weapons. With that thought, Carl turned his attention to the green-haired youth. This time, the words that appeared were different.
Information insufficient.
Information insufficient? Why was there such a difference between a person and a weapon. As he pondered this, understanding suddenly struck him.
To confirm his guess, Carl looked at other people passing by. Each of them showed information insufficient, yet some of the weapons they carried revealed details, while others still displayed information insufficient. That made everything clear to him.
This Golden Finger was not a translator at all, but a function that summarized his own memories. Anything he had seen or heard before could be recalled and organized, digging out buried knowledge and presenting it in a clear form. He remembered seeing information about the Militech Lexington in early game previews, and what he saw now matched that description exactly.
In a way, it was like an automatic recall ability. It was a pretty good power, far more useful than a simple translator. Even so, after looking at the Militech Lexington and then at the green-haired man on the ground, Carl decided not to pick it up yet.
This was not because he was morally upright. It was because the man's body was still twitching. If he suddenly woke up and grabbed the gun on instinct, Carl could be dead in an instant.
Just as he thought about finding another solution, the twitching suddenly stopped. The words before his eyes changed.
Deceased. Cause of death: drug overdose.
Carl looked around and realized he was next to a pile of trash in the apartment building, with hardly anyone nearby. He let out a quiet sigh and spoke softly.
"Normally the dead come first, but for me right now, the living come first. Sorry for the disturbance."
He picked up the pistol, and as he did, several colorful paper bills slipped out of the dead man's pocket. The words Eurodollars appeared in his vision. After counting them, the total came to two hundred and thirty eurodollars.
"You are surprisingly polite."
After taking the money, Carl gave the green-haired man a brief moment of silence, then turned and left. He had memorized the man's face, and he would remember this messy kind of favor. If the man had family, Carl decided he would repay them someday when he had the ability to search for them.
He was not a saint. He simply believed that debts should be repaid and grudges answered, even though this was technically theft. Hiding the Militech Lexington under his clothes, Carl walked toward the elevator in his black jacket.
For now, he would take things one step at a time. He would head to the streets and see if he could find a phone or something similar. Even in the future, even a monk would need a device to receive offerings.
He entered the noisy elevator filled with flashing advertisements and pressed the button to go down. As it descended, faint light leaked through the battered doors and cast uneven shadows across his face, making his expression hard to read. With a loud mechanical groan, the old elevator doors finally opened.
Carl stepped out of the massive megabuilding, and what greeted him was light. Brilliant, colorful light that reflected off towering buildings and the endless crowd below. It was dazzling enough to make his eyes ache.
Night City sat in the Free State of Northern California, along the Del Coronado Bay on the west coast of the United States. It was called the City of Dreams or the City of Crime, but seeing it with his own eyes, Carl had a very different first impression. A strange and almost laughable thought came to mind.
A city of light.
Too bright, almost blinding. Carl looked at the city and suddenly smiled. No matter what it was called, it did not matter anymore.
Because he was truly here now. He closed his eyes and faced the sky, then lowered his head and opened them again to look at the streets.
I, Carl, have arrived.
The super megabuilding stood in Night City within the Watson District, and with a brief effort of memory, Carl recalled the basic information tied to this area. The name Watson District brought up a clear profile in his mind, as if a short file had been opened. It was not detailed, but it was enough for him to understand where he was standing.
Watson District had once been an industrial zone filled with skyscrapers, nightclubs, corporate towers, top-tier medical centers, and busy food streets. It was meant to be the heart of Night City until the financial crisis tore everything apart. Now it was the poorest district in the city, with the most vicious gangs, Tyger Claws and Maelstrom, occupying its narrow streets and alleys.
According to the NCPD danger rating, the area was classified as extremely dangerous. NCPD stood for Night City Police Department, which translated directly to Night City Police Department. That alone made it clear that the place where Carl was standing was dangerous even by police standards.
Landing in a place like this right after crossing worlds could almost be called lucky. At least for Carl, he was hungry, and the moment he stepped outside, several food stalls were set up in front of him. Judging by the signs, they sold East Asian food that he recognized.
That made sense when he thought about it. After all, where he was standing right now was Little China. This area had once been planned as an extension of the city center, developed during the reconstruction of Night City, and it had drawn large numbers of East Asian immigrants, mainly Chinese, back in the 2040s.
He walked up to one of the stall owners and glanced at the worn cushions, their yellow-brown foam exposed through torn fabric. His eyes swept over the greasy surfaces that still held bits of leftover food, and after a brief search, he picked a seat that looked relatively clean. He sat down without ceremony.
There were other customers seated on the other side of the stall. The owner was busy preparing their food, but still found a moment to say to Carl, "The menu's on the screen. Just tell me when you've decided."
Following the greasy finger the owner pointed out, Carl saw that what should have been a counter had been replaced by a glowing display screen. All kinds of dishes were shown there with their prices. Based on the pictures alone, the food looked surprisingly appetizing.
Unfortunately, he knew a bit too much. The moment he saw the dishes, he already understood what they were really made of. In this world, truly fresh organic food was extremely rare and reserved for the elite.
Street stall food like this relied on supplies from protein farms and all-food factories. Artificial meat, hydroponic vegetables, and synthetic flavorings were what most people in Night City actually ate. The raw materials behind them were usually wriggling white worms and algae.
Some unregulated processing plants might add something people liked to joke about, but there was no point hoping for rats. Even contaminated rat meat would count as rare real meat worth bragging about, and these days rats were rarer than corporate dogs wandering the streets.
With images of worms and locusts flashing through his mind, Carl decided he did not need to push himself that far right away. He shifted his attention to the vegetarian options. Eating algae did not sound so bad.