Finding a cyberpsycho in Watson North wasn't exactly like chasing a ghost—but it was close.
Arthur knew the rules of the game well. Cyberpsychosis wasn't a one-size-fits-all affliction. Some afflicted went full-blown horror show—murderous rampages, limbs flying, cops screaming, MaxTac pulling out heavy artillery. Those poor bastards? Not worth the effort. Let the Trauma Team clean up that mess.
But others... the quiet ones? They were the real threats.
Those cyberpsychos sat like statues—obsessed, blank-eyed, silent—until someone tripped the wire in their mind. Then? They lit up like ticking time bombs.
Luckily, Regina Jones wasn't a clueless fixer. Her netrunners had pinpointed this psycho's last known location near the edge of Watson North. One less needle in the urban haystack.
Arthur rolled up in his dented ride, parking near the pinged zone. He spotted the target almost immediately.
A bald, older man stood atop a rusted shipping container. His tattered coat flapped in the toxic breeze, and in his hands rested a massive, custom cannon—more like a piece of anti-armor artillery than a gun.
Arthur lit a cigarette and leapt up beside him with practiced ease. The stench hit him immediately—an unholy blend of sweat, rust, and decay.
"Look, brother," Arthur said casually, waving smoke away from his face, "I'm not saying cyberpsychos have to smell like roses, but basic hygiene? Kinda important. You're turning this whole block into a biohazard."
The man didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared into space, his fingers twitching around the trigger of his absurd cannon.
Arthur leaned in, grinning. "Good news. There's this girl who's fallen for you. She's got a voice like an angel, a killer bod, and only one working eye. A little violent, sure—but hey, nobody's perfect. Don't blow it, yeah?"
The man's lips trembled. Drool slipped down his chin as he began to mutter in broken, garbled speech.
Down below, people had gathered—bystanders drawn like flies. Blank expressions. Neon fatigue. No one flinched. Night City residents only reacted to two things: blood and scandal.
Arthur looked down and snapped. "What are you all staring at? Ain't got shows to binge? This guy's one bad twitch away from launching a missile at your heads."
They didn't leave.
One bold soul stepped forward. Black vest, tight jeans, and a whirlpool tattoo on his neck—Uzumaki Gang. The guy had that swagger most punks wore right before they got shot.
"Yo, old man," he sneered. "You introducing some dream girl to that crusty psycho? His prosthetics probably predate the Fourth Corporate War. Hook me up instead."
A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd.
Arthur didn't flinch, but his brow twitched. The moment was spiraling. If this punk dragged Regina's name into his circus, Arthur's paycheck might vanish.
He turned to the bald man and patted his shoulder gently. "You hear that? They're saying you're washed up. What do you think about that?"
The psycho's pupils twitched—glowing erratically, like broken LED bulbs. His breathing changed.
Arthur backed off slightly.
"You've done it now, kid," he muttered. "He's got the face of a man who's seconds away from launching a corpse."
The punk snorted. "Please. I've seen him around. Dude talks to vending machines. Probably wet himself just getting up there."
Arthur sighed. "Alright. Sure. Let's pretend this won't end with you crying in a pool of your own coolant."
Behind the punk, more Uzumaki thugs gathered. Their mismatched cyberware rattled and hissed—clearly pieced together from scrap yards and organ thief clinics.
Arthur stepped off the container and leaned against a flickering lamppost, lighting another cigarette. He motioned lazily toward the psycho.
"Tell you what. Go talk to him. Convince me you're the better man, and I'll introduce you to the mystery girl myself."
The punk grinned. "You're serious?"
Arthur exhaled smoke. "Dead serious. And if she says no, I'll even buy you a pass to Twisted Street. First hour's on me."
That got a roar of approval from the gang.
The punk climbed the container, arms raised like he was taking center stage. His crew cheered him on, already taking bets on how fast he'd charm the old freak.
Arthur didn't move.
He just watched the bald man's hands tremble. His fingers curled tighter around the trigger. His shoulder tensed. His breathing hitched.
Arthur blew out a long puff of smoke. "Showtime."
There was a flash. A sound like thunder detonating in a bottle. The container rocked.
BOOM.
The punk screamed. The crowd scrambled. Arthur stepped aside just as a chunk of shrapnel embedded itself into the sidewalk beside him.
He barely blinked.
Smoke billowed from the top of the container. The punk's buddies ran, dragging their wounded leader with them. Arthur took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt onto the pavement.
"Kids these days," he muttered.
---
A few minutes later…
The streets had mostly cleared. Sirens echoed distantly. Arthur stood beside the still-smoking container, watching the cyberpsycho slump back into silence—his rage vented, his mind momentarily quiet.
Regina's voice buzzed in his ear. "What the hell happened out there?"
"Nothing much," Arthur replied. "Just a lesson in manners."
"Did you get him?"
"He's alive. Still twitchy, but docile—for now."
"Good. Keep him in one piece until my team gets there."
Arthur looked at the broken gang member, still groaning on the sidewalk.
"I might've ruined your potential date night, though."
Regina chuckled dryly. "You always make things interesting."
"I aim to please."
---
Meanwhile, from a rooftop nearby…
Lucy crouched behind a vent, sniper rifle resting on the ledge. She'd watched the entire incident unfold.
"Why does he always cause a scene?" she muttered.
Kiwi appeared beside her, arms folded. "Because Arthur doesn't do quiet. He is the scene."
Lucy sighed. "He's going to make this team famous—or get us all killed."
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To be continued in Chapter 14…
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