In Night City, there were no good companies.
Scratch that—there were no good companies anywhere in the world.
Kang Tao Technology was no exception.
Sure, they boasted about giving their employees gold-tier Trauma Team memberships—those fancy emergency rescue packages—but there was a catch.
You had to serve the company for fifty years to fully enjoy it.
Fifty years! In Night City, surviving fifty days was already an achievement.
If you dared quit before the contract expired, Kang Tao would slap you with a bill the size of a small country's GDP, demanding repayment of every benefit you'd ever touched.
Arthur had no delusions about any of them—not Arasaka, not Militech, not Kang Tao.
But compared to the monsters at the top, Kang Tao was at least the smallest shark in the pond.
That was why he was aiming to sell his new suppressor chip to them.
Kang Tao had the strength to protect it—enough muscle to stop bigger corps from casually stealing it—but they weren't so massive that they'd just take the invention without tossing Arthur out like yesterday's trash.
In Night City, survival was about picking which knife to get stabbed with.
Victor tapped his fingers on the workbench thoughtfully, then nodded.
"Kang Tao, huh? Yeah... not a bad choice."
Arthur agreed.
In this city, no one truly escaped corporate hands.
Whether you were a punk, a netrunner, or just some poor fool living paycheck to paycheck, sooner or later, you'd end up dancing to their tune.
The trick was to make them pay you for it.
Arthur looked over at Jack, who was nursing a beer nearby.
"Hey, Jack. You got a ride?" Arthur asked casually.
"Come take me somewhere. I'll introduce you to a few people."
Jack grinned from ear to ear.
"You kidding? Brother, you're Lao Wei's buddy, which means you're my buddy too! I love meeting new people!"
Arthur smiled.
In truth, he wasn't doing this purely out of kindness.
Jack was still green—new meat on the streets of Night City.
Without guidance, he'd end up doing the worst kinds of jobs handed out by fixers: suicide runs, setups, or worse, corporate suicide missions disguised as 'small errands.'
A guy like Jack needed someone to push him past the dangerous newbie phase.
Without connections, fixers treated you like disposable trash.
With the right introductions, Jack could skip right past the worst of it.
Victor, ever the grumpy mother hen, called after them as they left:
"Stay alive, you idiots!"
Arthur hopped onto the back of Jack's beat-up motorcycle, the engine rumbling like an angry old dog.
The two of them zipped down the dirty, cracked streets toward the Turbo Bar.
On the way, Jack glanced over his shoulder.
"Hey, brother... about my mom. You really knew her? What's the story?"
Arthur chuckled.
"Yeah. Nothing major, honestly."
Jack listened carefully as they sped through the urban ruins.
"Some punks tried to muscle into the Wolf Bar, shake your mom down for protection money.
Me being the helpful citizen I am... well, let's just say my temper wasn't great back then."
Jack squinted.
"...What exactly did you do?"
Arthur grinned under his helmet.
"I might've thrown a grenade."
Jack nearly lost control of the bike.
"You threw a frag grenade into my mom's bar over protection money?!"
Arthur shrugged, totally unapologetic.
"Hey, it worked.
But yeah... after that, I kinda got permanently blacklisted. Mrs. Wells didn't exactly send me a thank-you card."
Jack muttered something under his breath about maniacs as they pulled up outside the Turbo Bar.
The neon lights of the place flickered in the usual Night City way—like the city itself was having a seizure.
Jack looked up at the sign and laughed.
"Turbo Bar? Man, that name's badass. Just hearing it makes my heart race!"
Arthur smirked and pushed the door open.
Inside, the place was alive with noise. Gangers, mercs, and random drunks crowded the booths and barstools.
On a small makeshift stage, Pyrrha was flexing his new golden cyber-hand, dazzling the small audience with sleight-of-hand tricks smoother than a Twisted Street hustler's tongue.
Arthur spotted Mann lounging near the bar, a crate of beers by his side.
Arthur casually snatched a bottle from the pile, popped the cap with one hand, and took a swig.
Without missing a beat, he tossed another bottle to Jack, who caught it and cracked it open with a wide grin.
At that moment, Mann spotted Arthur—and immediately launched into a dramatic rant.
"Arthur, you son of a b*tch! You got a lotta nerve showing your face! You wrecked our team, you bastard!
Our hacker's still holed up at home, too scared to even log into the net.
You didn't do anything... unforgivable to Lucy, did you?!"
Despite the shouting, there was no real heat behind Mann's words.
It was the kind of venting only brothers-in-arms could afford each other.
Arthur raised his hands in mock surrender.
"I didn't do anything shady. Relax."
With that, he pulled the chip from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Mann.
"Here. A gift.
After you use it, write me a 10,000-word review."
Mann, who had just started examining the chip, froze.
"Ten thousand WHAT?"
Before he could even protest, Arthur was already pulling another beer from the crate.
"Yeah, yeah. Just a little essay. Nothing fancy."
Mann immediately tried to throw the chip back, horror written all over his face.
"F*ck you! I'd rather die! You want me to write 10,000 words? Brother, I don't think I've written 10,000 words in my whole damn life!"
Arthur grinned devilishly.
Without hesitation, he grabbed Mann's skull, connected the chip directly into his neural port, and jammed the installation sequence through.
The moment the chip activated, Mann's whole body stiffened.
A second later, he slumped into the bar, a slow, blissful smile spreading across his rugged face.
The suppressor was working.
Mann's soul, battered from years of chrome overload and bloody jobs, suddenly felt... light.
Alive again.
The pain, the buzzing nerves, the grinding joints—all dulled into a blissful silence.
Jack leaned over, sipping his beer, and whistled low.
"Brother, if he doesn't want it, I'll take it.
This thing feels like it's made of miracles."
Arthur laughed and clinked bottles with him.
"I told you, Jack. It's the prototype—the first ever made by the legendary Master Mechanic, Arthur Martinez.
It's gonna be worth a fortune one day.
Historical value, baby!"
Arthur reached for the eject button on Mann's neural port, pretending to pop the chip back out.
Mann's eyes snapped open wide, and he slapped both hands over his head protectively.
"No way! No way! I love studying! I love writing!
Reading and writing were always my dream—getting into Arasaka Academy was my goal!
I'll write you the damn 10,000-word review! I'll write two!"
Arthur burst out laughing, along with half the bar.
In Night City, survival wasn't just about who had the biggest gun or the thickest chrome.
Sometimes, it was about who could bullsh*t the fastest—and laugh about it the loudest.
And right now?
Arthur felt like he was winning.