Chapter 73: Plop

"You better hope I never find out who you are, 'cause if I do, I'm gonna punch you in the face."

Carl was thoroughly displeased with how the braindance editor had categorized him as a cyberpsycho.

Seriously? A cyberpsycho?

How low was their opinion of him?

Did cyberpsychos act as rationally as he did?

Hell, Carl even had manners—whether he killed someone or not, he always made sure to say "goodbye" in his head or out loud.

Hell, even Viktor certified that Carl was probably one of the most polite people in Night City.

This was straight-up slander.

Carl was still a bit irritated as he finished watching the first BD, but thankfully, the second one managed to wash away his frustration.

Why?

Because this time, the cyberpsycho wasn't him—it was the actual recorder of the BD.

"Now this makes way more sense."

Carl immersed himself in the braindance, feeling out the combat instincts of a mantis blade-wielding cyberpsycho.

The fluidity, the reflexive slashes, the pure muscle memory—Carl memorized everything.

510 eddies.

That's how much he had spent on these two BDs. If he didn't at least get something useful out of them, it would've been a waste.

Technically, the first BD was also useful—it had shown him how to properly use a rocket launcher, for example.

But Carl wouldn't be touching that one again anytime soon.

He was already building up a grudge against this braindance editor. If he ever found out who was behind it, he might not be able to stop himself from stringing them up and giving them a good beating.

After finishing the cyberpsycho BDs, Carl moved on to the Trauma Team series, rewatching the entire second season a couple of times.

By the time he finished, the sky had already darkened.

He checked his messages—nothing important from Oliver or Jackie.

Oh, wait—no, that's not right.

They had sent something.

Just two photos.

Both were pictures of their meals.

A Japanese restaurant and a Chinese restaurant.

Not bad.

Carl glanced at the time—4:04 PM.

He had slept until noon, gone out to buy braindances, then binge-watched them all without eating lunch or dinner.

Now?

He was starving.

He glanced at the automatic vending machine in his room.

A picture of a wrap was being advertised.

Carl shuddered.

"Nope. Not happening."

Those squeezable, sauce-filled wraps?

They were an abomination.

Time to eat out.

Carl grabbed his Kenshin, left his apartment, and—as usual—checked the visitor logs upstairs.

Still no one.

Not a single person had come looking.

Damn.

He still hadn't found any leads on the green-haired mohawk guy who had basically sponsored his first day in Night City.

And NCPD?

They hadn't contacted him once.

Not a single bounty offer.

Carl had been hoping to build a relationship with them—earn some trust, maybe even get access to some databases. But without any assignments, he couldn't exactly strike up a casual conversation and ask them to dig up personal records for him.

At this rate, he had no idea when he'd be able to hunt down his second cyberpsycho target.

Carl headed to the city center, stopping by that Spanish restaurant he had liked.

He had just placed his order—hadn't even touched his food yet—when his comms suddenly rang.

Incoming Call: Maine.

Maine?

Wasn't he supposed to be on a mission tonight?

And wasn't Sasha supposed to be the one in charge of communications?

Carl was puzzled but didn't hesitate—he picked up immediately as he stepped outside the restaurant.

"Maine? What's up?"

Before he could finish speaking, Maine's urgent voice came through.

"Carl, where are you?! Are you in the city center?!"

Carl immediately noticed something was wrong.

In the background, he could hear heavy breathing and rapid footsteps—Maine was running.

"Yeah, I'm in the city center. What's going on?"

"You are?! Holy shit—Carl, listen up! Get to Biotechnica—NOW!"

"Biotechnica?"

"It's Sasha—she's in trouble! She was infiltrating their Night City division to steal some data. Everything was going fine, then—bam—her signal just cut out. I don't know what the hell happened, but something's wrong!"

The call ended abruptly.

Biotechnica.

"Got it."

No more words were needed.

The mission was clear.

The situation was clear.

Now?

All that was left was to act.

Carl knew exactly where Biotechnica's Night City HQ was.

He could get there in a minute if he ran.

He didn't know what had happened to Sasha.

But since she was supposed to be his team's hacker, she was worth saving.

Carl moved fast—faster than expected.

He had estimated one minute to reach Biotechnica, but in the end, he arrived twenty seconds early.

And just as he reached the skyscraper, he saw a figure smash through a window, plummeting from the upper floors.

Dark hair.

It was Sasha.

Carl had just received her personnel file this morning—he recognized her immediately.

His pace quickened, his breathing steadied, and then—

Time slowed down.

'This feeling...'

It wasn't someone else using Sandevistan—it was him.

He was consciously stepping into this state?

Had he just unlocked a new skill?

Ever since upgrading his cyberdeck, his ability to "cheat the system" seemed to have improved significantly.

In this slowed-down moment, Carl's movements also felt sluggish—but he used the sensation to fine-tune his posture, carefully adjusting his stance and positioning.

He calculated Sasha's landing point.

She was going to crash onto a car.

From twenty meters up.

Even with the car as a buffer, the impact would be severe.

His mind raced, searching through everything he knew about freefall survival.

1971.

A Peruvian national airline flight was struck by lightning at 3,000 meters, causing the plane to break apart mid-air.

Fifteen people died.

But one survivor—a 17-year-old girl named Juliane Koepcke—made it out alive.

She survived because she landed on airplane seats and tree foliage, absorbing enough of the impact to prevent instant death.

Her injuries?

Swollen eyes, a fractured tibia, and severe ACL damage.

Even from high altitudes, if enough cushioning was present, survival was possible.

Cushioning...?

Seats. Chairs. Anything soft...

Carl had an idea.

His wrists flicked—and in an instant, his monowires snapped forward.

He dashed to the car below Sasha, leaped up, and swung his arms.

In this slowed perception of time, he sliced open the roof with his monowires, exposing the soft interior seats.

Falling onto cold metal and falling onto padded seats were two very different things.

One meant certain death.

The other?

A chance.

As an added buffer, Carl ripped off his coat and tossed it over the exposed opening.

'Not sure how much this will help, but I've done everything I can. The rest is up to you.'

And then—

THUD!

Sasha's body slammed into the car's interior.