Cyberpunk: 2075.

Chapter 676, Question 90: Stance
Oliver pulled down his hat brim, the Sixth Street gang's signature utilitarian military uniform looking particularly tight on him. He stared at the two men with their arms around each other not far away, and nudged the hip-hop style fat guy with a big gold chain next to him with his elbow.

“Jack,” he said, his voice barely audible, “didn’t we hide our identities like this back then?”

The fat man rubbed the gold chain around his neck, speaking in a strange tone Oliver had never heard before, yet using the most familiar voice between them: "That time with Will the Cannon? Old tricks always work." He deliberately patted his deliberately padded beer belly, like a little Coke-drunk beer belly, with taut muscle lines faintly visible under his oversized hip-hop T-shirt. "But as long as it works, see, no one has suspected anything so far."

Are you sure you haven't suspected anything?

V, sporting an afro, pushed up his sunglasses; the faded American flag print on his jacket gleamed under the neon lights.

"Come on," he chewed some synthetic gum and blew a bubble, "The Sixth Street Gang leader has a fat guy who can barely breathe as a bodyguard? That's more suspicious than the Arasaka Tower blackout."

Jack grinned at this, deliberately letting the gold chain gleam against his thick neck. He patted his padded belly, making a dull 'thump thump' sound—like striking a battering ram covered in velvet.

“Fat skin, baby,” he said in his distinctive Haywood greasy tone, “those fake bodyguards scanned me thoroughly.” His baggy sleeves slipped down with the movement, revealing his deliberately undisguised military-grade subcutaneous armor. “They must be gloating right now—'Look, this idiot thinks he’s hiding well.'”

Jack grinned. "I want them to know that I can't be a fat, useless coward who can only be used as a shield." He patted his belly, a sly glint in his eyes. "When they think they've figured out my secrets and know that this fat guy has both explosive power and defensive capabilities, they won't realize—I have another layer to hide."

"Muscle package intelligence, baby."

With his hair standing on end and tied back with a headscarf, dressed like a hip-hop artist, Carl mimicked Jack's tone and said, "Nobody could guess how smart our Mr. Jack Wells is."

“If I could laugh right now, I promise I’d laugh for you, Karl.”

V almost couldn't hold back when he heard Carl deliberately mimicking Jack's tone, but he managed to only slightly twitch the corners of his mouth and managed not to laugh out loud.

"Hey, I think Carl's outfit has completely brought out his rapping soul." Oliver's mouth was practically stretched to his ears, like a cat seeing a cat toy. "Want to do a freestyle? I'm all ears."

"Dream on!" Karl rolled his eyes and secretly gave me the middle finger. "If you get addicted to it and keep begging for an encore, wouldn't I be losing out big time?"

Their bickering prompted T-BUG in the squad channel to complain: "Can't you guys be a little more considerate? I'm using a bio-scanner to screen ACPA's transport boxes and keeping an eye on vital signs. I'm busy right now, and you're making a racket in my ear. I'm going to mute you all in a bit."

"Don't say that, T-BUG. If you didn't like it, you would have already blocked us. You actually enjoy listening to us goof around, right? I can always try to compliment you in Jack's tone."

He suddenly switched to an exaggerated street poet's tone in the channel: "Let me think—a gleaming head containing a quantum computer, and big, bright eyes that shine brighter than neon signs! Who is this goddess? She is the wildest XXXXX in Night City—" Seeing Oliver's attempt to rap a few lines in the channel, only to be instantly banned by T-BUG, the others were more or less impressed by Oliver's fearless spirit.

Dancing in minefields is already rare enough, but to habitually do it is just plain ridiculous. Oliver's daily childhood antics are all his own doing. He makes T-bug jokes all the time, he really doesn't consider his past as his past.

“Your team’s chat,” Johnny popped up in the channel, “is more hilarious than the nonsensical script in the movie ‘The Dream of the Condor Heroes’. I’ve lived two lives and this is the first time I’ve ever seen anyone turn suicidal behavior into a daily routine.”

“We didn’t, don’t talk nonsense, it’s obviously Oliver who did it.”

As Karl spoke, his gaze shifted slightly.

He noticed that some of the bodyguards following Roy the Mole were showing signs of impatience regarding the conversation between Roy and Nottingham-Wenrio. Their eyes kept darting over the large cargo boxes that Roy had commissioned Adcardo to transport the future, which were not to be opened before the deal was finalized, as if they were waiting for a signal.

Roy the Mole had only a few bodyguards with him. In comparison, Nottingham-Wenrio, who only had eight bodyguards, had a total of twenty bodyguards in five cars, which fully demonstrated his status as Kansas's number one arms dealer.

However, only six of the twenty people were closely following Roy, their posture clearly indicating that they were professionally trained bodyguards who could protect their employer at any time, even at the cost of their own lives. The remaining fourteen people were paying attention to the positions of Adcardo's ten people and Andy, the NCPD representative, as if they were reviewing a pre-arranged plan before taking action.

If these fourteen people were indeed the ones planning the attack, Karl was confident he could wipe them all out in an instant—it wouldn't be difficult. But what if they weren't the drivers, but merely signalers or coordinators?
Carl's squad channel was transmitting the entire conversation between Nottingham-Wenlio and Roy the Mole. When planning how to deal with the situation, Nottingham-Wenlio was responsible for determining Roy's level of involvement. This old fox from the Sixth Street Gang had an artful way of interrogating people—he had already determined Roy's stance in just a few seemingly casual words.

Nottingham-Wenrio's judgment was indeed accurate: Roy, the notorious arms dealer in Kansas, was nothing more than an unfortunate middleman pushed to the forefront, not even a pawn. At this moment, through his violently fluctuating vital signs and suddenly disordered breathing, the real mastermind was being locked down layer by layer—those 'pilots' hiding in the shadows.

"I'm certain it's Carl. There's someone in that shipment that wasn't supposed to be opened!"

T-BUG's voice echoed in the squad channel and was simultaneously transmitted to Andy, Adcardo, and the Sixth Street gang members.

After T-BUG was confirmed, Nottingham Winrio made a move.

He pulled out a Nova revolver, aimed it at a bodyguard who was some distance away from 'Mole' Roy, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

(End of this chapter)