What Blanca had warned Karl about—that someone from Militech would contact him—happened sooner than expected. To be more precise, it happene
What Blanca had warned Karl about—that someone from Militech would contact him—happened sooner than expected.
To be more precise, it happened just after Karl sat down at the Wild Wolf Bar that evening. He was about to dig into some fries when a man in a trench coat, looking like just another ordinary customer, sat down beside him and introduced himself:
"Nice to meet you, KK. I'm Smith."
Hearing such a stereotypical American name, Karl figured it was probably an alias. Still, that didn't stop him from glancing at the man who called himself Smith.
The man looked to be in his thirties. Blond hair, blue eyes, average features—textbook white guy. The type you could walk past on the street without giving a second look. But after staring at his face for a few seconds, Karl realized that was the point—it was too generic. Too perfect.
Karl suspected he was using a Behavioral Sync Faceplate, a type of implant that made facial features unremarkable and forgettable. He'd used one himself before. It wasn't obvious, but Karl could tell: this face wasn't real.
After giving him the once-over, Karl responded to the introduction: "Smith, huh? I don't recall knowing anyone by that name."
"We'll be familiar soon enough."
Smith, clearly not wasting time, got to the point. "Militech has a job they'd like your team to take on. I'm here as their representative to handle negotiations."
He just came right out and said he was from Militech—pretty bold. Blanca had said someone from the company would be reaching out, so this checked out. Clearly, someone on the inside had paved the way.
Karl, keeping a neutral expression, raised a brow in doubt. "Militech, huh. A guy in a trench coat shows up next to me at a bar and casually starts talking business? Not the most convincing approach."
He looked Smith over. "Not even wearing a suit—hard to believe you're a corpo without the uniform."
"If everyone who worked for the corps wore suits, there'd be no one left to handle the dirty work hiding behind that slick exterior."
"Funny. I always thought the guys in the suits were already doing enough shady shit beneath their shiny surfaces."
Karl didn't dwell on the small talk. His slight eyebrow raise said it all:
If you're Militech, prove it.
Smith seemed to understand. "I'm aware you've collaborated often with Director Blanca. I could've gone through her, but I'm here officially, so I brought my own proof."
He placed a briefcase on the couch between them.
Click.
Inside the case: euros.
"There's 400,000 euros in cash here. A deposit."
It wasn't a slim briefcase either, and Karl could tell from its size and weight that if it was all real money, the number checked out.
He had asked for proof of identity—and Smith had presented a briefcase full of cash. What did that mean?
"You're welcome to take the money and verify it yourself," Smith said. "Once you confirm it's real, I doubt you'll have any more doubts about who I represent."
"If this money's legit, then no further proof is needed."
Four hundred grand—and that's just the down payment.
Mercs didn't care much about red tape. If the money was good, that was all that mattered. In other words, if the employer paid well enough, they could claim to be from any company they wanted. Disclosing identity was optional.
"You don't mind if I go get this verified, right?"
"Be my guest."
Karl left with the case, found a nearby street-side network bank terminal, and confirmed it.
The money was real. All of it.
"Yup. Definitely enough for a deposit."
Karl came back, but raised a question:
"I don't get why you bothered revealing your affiliation. You're clearly familiar with how much we charge. You could've easily handed this money to a fixer and stayed anonymous. Coming to me directly, disclosing your affiliation, and handing over cash—it doesn't add up."
Why meet face-to-face and identify yourself when a proxy would've sufficed?
"Because it's cash," Smith explained. "And cash deals are better handled face-to-face."
Cash, face-to-face… makes it easier.
Karl looked at the man who had hidden his name and face, yet openly admitted he was from Militech and brought cash, and it all clicked.
The benefit of cash over digital payment? Anonymity.
Even the best netrunners couldn't trace a job if it left no data trail. With the faceplate, fake name, and no networked transfers, it would be impossible to trace who had commissioned the job—only that it came from Militech.
So this was a job that pointed at Militech as a company, but not at any specific individual.
No one to hold accountable. No one to follow up on.
They wanted the job clearly tied to Militech, but with no personal fingerprints.
"Alright, then. Let's hear the job," Karl said. "And while we're at it, let's talk full payment."
"Now that's what I'd expect from the leader of one of the city's top merc teams," Smith said with a smile. "You catch on quick, KK."
Then he laid out the mission.
It was simple. But explosive.
"We'd like you and your team to take a trip to Southern California—and retrieve a document tied to the presidential campaign. For Militech."
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