"Hey, my sailor, you don't seem very interested in the work I'm sending you. What a bunch of blind bastards!"
The old captain's gruff voice crackled over the car's speakers.
Arthur had just left Maine's base and was cruising down the viaduct when the call came through.
Obviously, he hadn't been active in Night City for years, and nobody was eager to trust an old cyberpunk relic who should have been buried in some back-alley cesspit.
"Well, I get it," Arthur said casually. "These things take time. No worries. Worst case, I can always go find Aunt Rogue."
"Hah! I bet the queen of the Afterlife would love to hear you call her 'Aunt.'"
"Please, I'm giving her face by calling her 'Aunt.' Honestly, I should be calling her 'Grandma.'"
The old captain chuckled. "Alright, enough jokes. I don't have a job for you right now, but there's a righteous partner who's interested in hiring you. I passed along your contact. She should be reaching out soon."
Arthur hung up and scratched his chin thoughtfully.
Before he could even think about it, another call popped up.
He answered without hesitation.
"Hey, Arthur. I'm Regina Jones. Heard you were looking for work — and I happen to need a capable hand," said a woman's voice.
Arthur instantly understood.
No wonder the old captain called her a 'partner of justice.'
This was Regina Jones, the Watson fixer famous for handing out jobs focused on cyberpsychos.
"If you don't mind working with an old guy, I'd be honored to help," Arthur replied smoothly.
"You can't say that," Regina chuckled. "Sometimes people with more experience take commissions far more seriously."
Arthur almost teared up.
How long had it been since someone in Night City actually said something pleasant?
In this damned city, if you bumped into someone on the street, they'd curse out your entire family. If you dared talk back, they'd pull a gun on you.
Was it so hard for people to sprinkle a little bit of flattery in daily conversation?
"If you were standing in front of me right now, I'd give you a big hug. So, any jobs for me, ma'am?
To be honest, I'm looking to start a new business, but new ventures need startup funds."
Arthur's wallet was dry.
Renting even a rat-infested warehouse in Night City cost a fortune — unless he was willing to move to the wasteland known as Pacifica.
But Arthur wasn't about to set foot there.
No thanks. Not trying to get harvested by some mad cultists who think they can 'evolve humanity.'
Regina hesitated a second. Arthur's smooth talk was a little unexpected — normally, mercenaries and fixers spent a while sizing each other up before getting friendly.
Still, when she heard he needed money, she understood perfectly.
In Night City, if someone said they didn't need money, they were either lying or trying to rob you.
"Have you heard of cyberpsychosis?" she asked.
"I've heard of it."
"Oh? How much do you know about it?"
"No one in Night City knows more about cyberpsychosis than me!"
Arthur parked the car, took his hands off the wheel, and dramatically mimed playing an accordion.
Shame Regina couldn't see it through the call — she would've given him bonus points.
Regina went quiet for a moment.
"Arthur... are you serious? Where did you do your research?"
Arthur chuckled darkly.
"Right here in Night City. About ten years ago. Subject of the research?
Myself."
"..."
There was another long pause.
Regina must have been wondering if she'd just hired a lunatic.
After a beat, she said, trying to laugh it off, "Arthur, you're hilarious."
Arthur grinned and said nothing more.
Finally, Regina laid out the real job.
"Straight to the point. Recently, some slovenly homeless guy was spotted wandering the North Watson District. Looked half-dead, like he'd been electrocuted a few dozen times."
"At first, we thought he was just another Shining junkie.
Until he smashed a poor good Samaritan's skull into paste."
Arthur smacked his lips.
Yep, definitely cyberpsycho behavior.
"Since you're such an expert," Regina continued, "I'm giving you the contract. Bring him in alive if possible — even if you have to turn him into a meat popsicle."
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
Justice partner, huh?
This woman had way more patience than the usual fixers, who would've just put a bullet in the guy's head and called it a day.
"Got it. I'll do my best to bring our dear patient back alive and breathing. Stay in touch."
Arthur hung up, slammed the accelerator, and headed toward the North District of Watson.
Watson.
The ghost of what was once Night City's vibrant heart.
Skyscrapers, neon nightclubs, top-end medical centers — all ruins now, wrecked by a single devastating financial crisis.
Today, North Watson was one of the poorest, most dangerous areas around.
(And no, Pacifica doesn't count. Even the mayor said Pacifica wasn't part of Night City anymore.)
Arthur shook his head, amused.
The mayor's logic was flawless:
Can't solve crime? Easy. Just remove the entire district from the city map.
Genius. Pure genius.
Arthur's car bumped and rattled its way into North Watson, weaving between broken-down factories and smoke-choked alleys.
The air stank of chemicals.
Breathing it felt like gaining three thousand years of experience... and losing three years off your life.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and muttered:
"Alright... homeless psycho... where are you hiding?"