The next moment, the mantis knife on Arthur's hands was quickly pushed forward, splitting the opponent's limbs in two directly from his shoulders.
There was no blood flowing out, and there was no so-called bone or flesh. There was just wire after wire, some silicone and metal tubes, and some blue liquid that looked like coolant.
"Arthur, this transformation is deeper than mine. You're even crazier than I was before!"
Arthur couldn't help but complain.
The mantis knife in his hands didn't stop, but went directly towards the opponent's lower body.
With just a cross, the mantis knife cut across two big hairy legs in an instant, and then time flowed back to normal.
The patient fell to the ground like a human stick.
Arthur shook his hands, put away the Mantis Knife, silently took out a cigarette from his pocket, threw it into his mouth, and lit it.
After taking a slow drag, he jumped down from the container, stepped on the patient's body, pulled out a data cable from his wrist, and connected it directly to the patient's brain.
"Well, well, let me see, let me see."
"Huh? I almost forgot. You have to unplug this network module first, otherwise I can't work with it."
Arthur wasn't exactly a hacker, but surviving day after day had taught him a thing or two.
Some black market hackers also sold foolproof devices—easy-to-use gadgets that needed no skill to operate.
"Huh? This cyberpsycho actually has Mewtwo recording equipment installed? You really stuffed everything into yourself, bro!"
"For the sake of my little brother helping you like this, the things recorded on your Mewtwo equipment now belong to me."
Arthur sighed dramatically, then casually copied all the recorded videos from the man's mind.
This was a windfall.
There were always lunatics in Night City who paid big money to watch bloody carnage.
Find a skilled Mewtwo editor to polish the footage a little, and it could sell for a nice price.
He could even show it to David—his great son—so the boy could finally realize how terrifying it was to have a cyberpsycho for a father.
"Regina, the matter is settled. You can locate me and send a car over to pick up this patient."
"The northern industrial area of Watson is about to explode. The Terrorist Mobile Team is now itching to stuff me and this guy into a toilet and flush us both."
"Hurry up and take him away. The address of the safe house has been sent. Check the attachment."
Arthur had barely finished his call when Regina, who seemed ready to discuss rewards, began firing words like a machine gun.
He wanted to grumble about the usual inefficiency of Night City's police when—
there was suddenly a roar of engines overhead.
Arthur looked up.
Sure enough, a heavy-duty AV (aerial vehicle) was hovering above the distribution center.
Several young operatives dressed in black armor streaked with purple-blue light strips leaned out of the open door, peering down at the scene.
Arthur took one look and sighed:
The smell of cyberpsychosis was strong.
These guys weren't regular officers—they were just more cyberpsycho dogs who had somehow slipped onto the official payroll.
For a second, Arthur wondered if he could bag them and sell them to Regina too.
After all, Terrorist Mobile Team members were far more valuable research material than your average cyberpsycho.
But he quickly dismissed the idea.
Regina was greedy—but not that greedy.
Better to run.
Arthur dragged the patient—who had now been amputated into a stick—into the Sixth Street neighbor's borrowed car.
He threw the guy into the backseat, jumped behind the wheel, slammed the door, and floored the accelerator.
The engine roared in protest.
The car shot off, but it was no sports car.
It was a battered family sedan—a little better than Gloria's old wreck, but still closer to a moving tin can than a getaway vehicle.
Arthur cursed as he saw the AV expertly drift in midair, tailing him like a shark.
"Arthur! I'm the victim here, okay! Why are you chasing me?!"
Arthur slapped the steering wheel furiously.
He glanced at his limp, drooling passenger in the backseat.
"Why don't I just throw you out, huh? Maybe they'll let me off!"
The patient, oblivious to the world, just lay there like a giant salted fish, saliva leaking from his mouth.
He didn't respond.
Just as Arthur was gritting his teeth and praying to the cyberpunk gods, his phone rang again.
The caller ID was unfamiliar.
Arthur, still in a terrible mood, answered without hesitation:
"Hello? Here's the piece of shit God picked out of the cesspit—
who's about to get thrown back in.
If you're here to chat, my only fee is that you carve a middle finger onto my tombstone!"
There was a long pause on the other end.
Then a clear, cool female voice answered:
"Okay, Mr. Shit.
This is Inspector Melissa from the Terrorist Mobile Team.
I'll be sure to carve a middle finger on your epitaph."
Arthur froze.
A sharp jolt ran through his brain.
Melissa?
He rapidly fished through the chaotic memories in his head.
Wasn't she... that crazy fellow patient from the same hospital?
The one who somehow hadn't died—and had even climbed her way up to be a police inspector?
This world was really f**ked up sometimes.
"Dear Ms. Melissa," Arthur said quickly, "for the sake of us sleeping on the same hospital bed before, please call off your over-energetic puppies. I really can't handle them right now."
As soon as he finished speaking, the AV that had been aggressively tailing him suddenly slowed.
After hovering for a moment, it turned around and began retreating.
"Mr. Arthur," Melissa said lightly,
"aren't you going to explain nicely to your patients why you escaped from the hospital back then?"
"I'm a police inspector now.
If you don't honestly confess your condition,
I might have to throw you in the Terrorist Mobile Team's jail to reflect on your actions."
Arthur almost vomited blood.
He cursed loudly in his heart:
"Arthur! You were deceived by Arthur. What does it have to do with me, Arthur?!"
That b*****d Arthur had died long ago—
in a moldy little hospital room in Atlanta,
surrounded by the stench of spoiled food and broken dreams.