The bearded middle-aged man didn't mind Arthur's bluntness.
Instead, he grinned, stepped forward, and shook Arthur's hand firmly.
You had to understand — anyone who could single-handedly wreck a Militech convoy was a real monster in this world.
Someone you wanted on your side — not against you.
Of course, it wasn't pure calculation.
Wanderers, for all their grit, still carried a kind of old-world decency.
Unlike the rats of Night City, not everything they did was for personal gain.
Arthur shrugged and exhaled a thin trail of cigarette smoke.
"Welcome to Night City," he said dryly. "The closest place to hell on Earth.
Sorry about the stench, though — it's a little strong."
The man burst out laughing, clapping Arthur on the shoulder with a force that nearly cracked his spine.
"Hahaha! No problem, brother!
Feels like I just crawled out of hell anyway. Name's Saul."
Arthur nodded. Of course he knew who Saul was — the leader of the Aldecaldo team, a man who had lost much of his youthful fire and now dreamed of something every wanderer secretly longed for:
a place to call home.
Saul gestured toward the others stepping out of the battered trucks:
"The bald guy over there is Mitch, the tall skinny one is Scorpion, and the lady giving you the death glare from behind the wheel... that's Panam."
Arthur gave them a relaxed two-fingered salute.
"Arthur Martinez," he introduced himself casually. "Just call me Arthur.
Currently working as a small-time mercenary in Night City.
If you need a guy who can kill and repair things — you know who to call."
Mitch and Scorpion hauled out a heavy box of warm beer from the back, laughing.
"F**k you, little mercenary?" Mitch snorted.
"Someone who single-handedly wipes out a Militech recovery team calls himself 'small-time'? Get lost!"
Saul chuckled and tossed Arthur a can of beer.
"Sorry, no fridge yet. It's at room temperature... or should I say desert temperature.
But hey, tastes better when you're alive to drink it."
Arthur didn't mind.
He cracked open the can and took a gulp.
It tasted like absolute garbage, but after today's chaos, even garbage was comforting.
Still wiping dust from his sleeves, Arthur gave Saul a curious glance.
"So, about that... You guys really stole the ashes of some Militech bigwig's mother?
No wonder an entire elite squad chased you all the way across half the Bald Eagle territory."
He couldn't hide the amusement in his voice.
At Arthur's words, Panam jumped out of her truck like a cat whose tail had been yanked.
"Arthur!
It wasn't like that!" she snapped, fists clenched.
"We just hijacked one of their f**king transports! It's normal!"
She was genuinely furious — and honestly, Arthur understood.
For wanderers, hijacking corporate shipments was standard survival, like breathing.
It wasn't their fault the world was so crooked.
Saul sighed heavily beside her, rubbing his temples.
"Panam...
I told you.
Leave the big companies alone.
One day it's a shipment.
The next it's a war."
Arthur stayed silent but smirked inwardly.
The clash was obvious:
Panam — young, hot-blooded, gambling everything for a shot at a better future.
Saul — weary, pragmatic, just trying to keep his people breathing one more day.
Arthur knew the type.
He'd been both of them, once.
Just as Arthur was about to comment, Mitch — the bald guy — crushed his beer can like a paper cup.
Beer sprayed everywhere.
Arthur blinked.
Mitch gave a sheepish grin and shrugged.
"Sorry, sorry... Prosthetic's older than I am. Probably broke during the last firefight."
Arthur looked closer — and immediately recognized the problem.
That arm was practically a museum exhibit.
No bionic skin covering, no sleek corporate branding — just exposed, rugged old-world mechanics.
Definitely pre-2070s tech.
"It's no big deal," Arthur said easily, taking another sip.
"Probably just the chip responsible for neural sync.
Rummage around a junkyard later, you'll find a match."
Mitch gave him a surprised look.
"Didn't expect you to be a techie too."
Arthur winked.
"Chop up enough people, you either become a mechanical expert...
or a very lonely man."
The group laughed — even Panam cracked a small smile, though she hid it quickly.
The mood settled.
The wind howled through the broken wasteland.
For a moment, the only sounds were the hiss of beer cans opening and the low hum of idling engines.
Arthur leaned back against a scorched truck and took another swig.
"But seriously," he said, his voice calm now, "I don't know what's inside the transport you hit...
But judging from Militech's reaction?
It's hot."
He tapped his cigarette ash onto the ground.
"If you want to survive in Night City, you might need to make a choice."
At his words, Panam's eyes immediately flashed with defiance.
"Arthur!" she barked.
"You think we don't know the cost?
Do you know how many brothers we lost to get those supplies?!"
Arthur didn't flinch.
He stared straight at her and shrugged.
"Then ask yourself," he said quietly,
"are you ready to lose even more?"
Panam was stunned.
For a long moment, the fire in her eyes wavered.
Because Arthur wasn't wrong.
Family wasn't built on loot.
It was built on people.
Lose too many... and you lose the family itself.
Scorpion broke the silence by tossing his empty beer can into the dust.
"He's right," Scorpion muttered, glancing toward Saul.
"Sometimes... you gotta know when to walk away."
Saul exhaled and finally gave Arthur a tired, knowing smile.
"You've been around, haven't you, Arthur?"
Arthur shrugged again.
"Enough to know that sometimes winning... means knowing what you're willing to lose."
The firelight crackled between them.
Dust swirled in the moonlight.
Night City glittered far in the distance — cold, sharp, and waiting.
And in that moment, Arthur knew —
This ragged, broken group of wanderers...
might just have a chance to carve out a place in the world.
If they survived the next few days, that is.