"...%!"
"R!#¥%!!!"
The next second, Arthur activated the skill he had just received from the system today — and for a moment, the basement was filled with a glorious explosion of birdsong, flowers blooming, and cursing so poetic it could make a priest cry.
Jack, who was right behind him, was completely stunned.
He never thought cursing could be elevated into a pure art form, even into a Daoist realm like those mythical masters from the Dragon Kingdom legends!
Compared to Arthur's technique, the foul mouths of Night City's gangsters were simply pathetic.
Jack suddenly felt embarrassed on behalf of every punk who ever thought dropping a few f-bombs made them tough.
Arthur cursed non-stop as he marched up and smacked Michael right across the face.
Pa!
A crisp, resounding slap that shook the entire basement.
Good grief, Arthur thought.
He had been thinking just minutes ago that his fate was in his own hands, determined to rise without relying on the system —
only for this bastard, this living tragedy named Michael, to slap him right back into despair!
And for what?
To spend millions researching a way to make cockroaches easier to stomp?!
Arthur's hand twitched toward the pistol at his waist, fury clouding his vision.
The only proper treatment for Michael was immediate euthanasia —
cremate him, scatter his ashes into the Pacific, and pray he didn't poison the fish.
Just as Arthur was about to pull the trigger, Jack threw himself forward and wrapped Arthur in a massive bear hug.
For a moment, the scene was...
tragically beautiful.
A rugged man in a pink dress restraining another man armed with murderous intent...
If you squinted hard enough, it almost looked artistic. (Or just very, very wrong.)
"Arthur! Calm down!" Jack grunted as he wrestled him.
"Calm down, hermano! Remember the mission!"
"If you kill him now," Jack gasped, "the Trauma Team will be on us in minutes! And then you and I'll be taking the next express train straight to hell!"
Arthur shoved Jack off with a growl but, after a long breath, slowly holstered his gun.
He glared coldly at Michael, who was still muttering to himself, utterly unfazed by how close he'd come to death.
"Fine," Arthur spat. "You're awake now. Good. Then let's cut the crap."
Pinching his nose against the godawful stench, Arthur growled:
"Factory. Workers. Unpaid wages. Ring any bells?"
There was no more time for politeness. Arthur needed this idiot to transfer the money and end this clown show.
Michael finally dragged over a rickety chair, plopped himself down, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully —
as if contemplating some great philosophical question.
Then he spoke:
"Actually... I've always wondered — why should bosses pay wages to workers?"
Arthur: "..."
Jack: "..."
Crack!
Jack chambered a round with an audible click and marched forward, gun raised.
Arthur barely managed to grab Jack's arm mid-swing, wrestling the pistol toward the ceiling before Jack could ventilate Michael's brain.
"Calm down! Calm down!" Arthur hissed. "The mission comes first!"
"Arthur, let me shoot him!" Jack roared, his pink skirt fluttering dramatically.
"Keeping trash like this alive is an insult to humanity!!"
"Money first!" Arthur barked back, wrestling Jack into a nearby chair.
Finally, after a struggle, Jack grudgingly sat down, breathing heavily.
Arthur turned back toward Michael, feeling the last shreds of his patience unraveling.
"You know," Arthur said tightly, "your brain is dirtier than the soles of a Night City homeless man's shoes.
You should seriously consider seeing a psychiatrist.
You've got textbook antisocial personality disorder."
He jabbed a finger at Michael.
"Your greed, your delay in paying your workers—
families destroyed, suicides committed, lives ruined —
and you sit here asking why you should pay wages?!"
Michael blinked, looking genuinely confused.
"Suicides? Really?" he said. "Why didn't anyone tell me sooner?"
Arthur blinked.
...Wait.
Was there... an ounce of conscience still buried deep inside this corporate scumbag?
Maybe there was hope for him after all.
Arthur softened just slightly.
"Good," he said. "Since you finally realize—"
Michael suddenly stood up, waving his arms like a deranged prophet.
"If they're dead, then their assets should go to the company!"
Arthur: "..."
Jack: "..."
There was a moment of profound silence.
Arthur grabbed Jack's arm just in time to stop another gunshot.
"Calm, Jack!" Arthur hissed. "Stay focused!"
Jack was practically frothing at the mouth.
Arthur had never seen a man so close to committing a righteous homicide in his life.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Arthur turned back to Michael.
"Explain," he said, voice low and dangerous, "why you think you deserve the inheritance of dead workers."
Michael, oblivious to the rising bloodlust in the room, said brightly:
"If a hen dies, you can still stew its eggs.
If a cow dies, you can butcher it for meat.
If a worker dies—shouldn't his savings be inherited by the company that 'nurtured' him?"
Arthur stared at him.
For the first time since arriving in Night City, he felt his worldview cracking apart.
There it was.
Peak corporate greed.
Jack just sat there, wide-eyed, like he had been hit in the face with a dead fish.
Arthur felt sick.
He finally understood why people hated corpos so much —
why the word "corporate dog" was spat like a curse.
He understood now.
Slowly, without a word, Arthur drew his pistol again.
This time he chambered a round, cool and deliberate, and aimed it squarely at Michael's head.
His voice was calm, almost gentle:
"You have two choices."
"One — transfer every last eddie in your account to the workers you screwed over."
"Or two — go meet Satan and try to negotiate your next contract from hell."
[End of Chapter 61: What? And A Legacy?]