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After the chaos, after the smoke and blood and fire had all settled, Arthur strolled back toward the street where it all went down. The crash site from earlier still reeked of burning fuel and melted carbon steel, the remains of the MaxTac hover vehicle fused into the road like a scar that wouldn't heal.
He scratched his head, looking at the wreckage with a sigh.
"Well… guess that favor I owed the Sixth Street kid ain't happening."
The car he'd promised to return was now scrap metal in another dimension, courtesy of the Terrorist Mobile Team's air support.
"Not my fault," Arthur muttered, stepping around the smoldering debris. "Totally the fault of those flying corporate psychos."
He flagged down a Delamain taxi a block away and ducked inside, giving it a destination only he and one other person would understand. The ride didn't take long.
Soon, Arthur was standing in front of the old, decrepit garage where this whole mess had really started—the same place where he and Maine had first met. It was more dump than structure, a scrapyard's graveyard wearing the skin of a building.
Garbage was piled so high around the walls that it looked like it was holding the place up. The smell alone could knock out a lightweight. Not even the homeless would stay here long.
Maine sat on a rusty folding chair near the garage entrance, a bottle in one hand and the other resting on his thigh. The chair creaked under his weight, threatening to give out with every breath he took. Given his bulk—and the fact that half his body was metal—Arthur figured it was just a matter of time before gravity won.
Arthur lit a cigarette and scanned the area. Broken parts. Vomit. A suspiciously humanoid pile of… well, he didn't want to think too hard about that.
He grimaced. "You're drinking here?"
Maine didn't look up. He just took a slow swig from the bottle. "I hurt Dorio."
Arthur blinked. That stopped him. He moved over, cracked open a can of beer from a nearby crate, and tapped it against Maine's in solidarity.
The moment hung there, heavy but wordless.
Then the garage door creaked open.
David stumbled out, soaked in dried blood and grime, his face pale. But the blood wasn't his—it belonged to Arasaka agents who'd learned the hard way not to mess with him.
The scent was thick—metallic, sticky, and mixed with the rot of the surrounding trash. It nearly made David retch again, but he held it down and walked over.
"Uncle Maine," he said, voice scratchy. "Everyone's safe. Aunt Dorio's just a little hurt. Doc Victor patched her up. Said she'll be fine."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Victor? As in the Victor?"
Maine nodded slowly.
Now that was surprising. Victor rarely made house calls—hell, he rarely answered calls, period. Not because he wasn't compassionate, but because Night City had chewed up too many ripperdocs. He'd learned the hard way that helping the wrong person could mean getting skinned, robbed, or left to rot.
If Maine got Victor to come? That said something.
Lucy emerged next. Her left arm was wrapped in gauze, but she moved with calm precision. Her face was unreadable, and her right hand flicked a half-burnt cigarette onto the ground before stomping it out.
Arthur watched her quietly, then nodded with approval. "Hmph. Stockholm Syndrome setting in nicely."
Lucy ignored the jab.
"I almost blew up the Voodoo Boys' underground network today," Arthur added casually. "Killed a chicken dealer too. Long story."
Lucy said nothing.
"This job was in cooperation with the NetWatch boys. I got access to an identity bank. If you want a name, let me know—I'll send you the hookup."
Lucy stared at him for a beat. "Just Lucy is fine," she said. "And for the last name… I'll take yours."
Arthur blinked.
David scratched his head. Something about this whole conversation was messing with his internal sensors. His scalp tingled like someone was installing a new subroutine into his cerebrum.
Take his last name?
Shouldn't someone tell his mom that a digital thief just stole the title of "family"?
Arthur didn't press. He simply opened his interface and sent a message to the NetWatch contact, asking for an official identity number.
Seconds later, a series of digits came through.
There were no ID cards in Night City—only citizen codes. If you had one, you existed. You could buy property. Register vehicles. Pay taxes to the bleeding city hall that never stopped bleeding you dry.
And if you lost it?
Well, you could try your luck at the NCPD. Your odds of getting anything back were about the same as discovering a live dinosaur.
Arthur forwarded the code to Lucy.
"That's your key to everything, now," he said. "Don't lose it."
Three days later, Arthur stood in front of the newly constructed Taipingzhou factory, greeting workers as they entered the building. He was dressed in something vaguely resembling a corporate suit—though the smirk on his face suggested he'd rather be wearing a leather jacket and carrying a shotgun.
The workers were confused. They kept glancing at each other, unsure if they were late or if this was some kind of joke.
Arthur wasn't giving orders.
He was just standing there, smiling weirdly.
He should've been happy. The factory was functional. Business was running.
But he wasn't.
The problem?
His "daily system" had been giving him junk.
On day one, he'd received master-level carpentry skills.
Carpentry.
In a world of metal limbs and nano-bots, what was he supposed to do? Build wooden prosthetic arms? Maybe he'd pitch the idea to the Uzumaki Gang—see if they'd trade their heavy chrome for handcrafted mahogany.
At least wood had warmth. Steel was just cold.
Day two? Worse.
Broadcast gymnastics.
Yes, you heard that right. The system gave him full mastery of 2070s retro-fitness routines.
Day three? More gymnastics.
Arthur's brain was now involuntarily counting reps in Mandarin.
One-two-three-four… two-two-three-four…
If not for sheer mental strength, he'd have already short-circuited and danced his way into the stratosphere.
Still, he stood tall, greeting workers with a twitching smile as they gathered in the central courtyard.
Once the last one was in place, Arthur stepped onto the podium.
He cleared his throat. "Ahem. As of today, our Umbrella Company is officially online!"
He raised a hand dramatically. "Our first product? A chip. Designed to replace the need for expensive inhibitors. Compact. Stable. Mass-producible."
He pointed to the workers. "You, my dear employees, are now officially under my rule. I will exploit you for labor, laugh at your complaints, and pay you 30% above market rate. You're welcome."
There was silence. A few workers glanced around nervously.
But no one left.
After all, in Night City… a well-paying overlord
was better than a broke savior.
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