Michael immediately raised his hands, fear flashing across his face.
He could tell Arthur wasn't joking anymore.
"Actually… I don't have any money left," Michael stammered.
"That's why I'm behind on wages... honest!"
Arthur sneered, then kicked the nearby chemical barrel so hard it slammed into the wall with a loud clang.
"You had enough cash to buy all this chemical crap," Arthur snapped, "but you don't have enough to pay the workers?!"
"You think the bullets in my gun are BB pellets?!"
To drive the point home, Arthur pulled the trigger.
Bang!
A fiery flash burst from the muzzle, punching a neat hole into the basement floor. The sharp gunshot echoed through the dingy space, drowning out the chemical stink for just a moment.
The flash lit up the shadows — and that's when Arthur spotted it.
In the far corner, among the junk and debris, sat a familiar package.
A dirty little bag, bearing the spiral logo of the Whirlpool Gang.
Arthur's gaze sharpened dangerously.
"You're using product from the Whirlpool Gang?" Arthur said coldly.
"You got any idea what that junk does? One wrong move and it'll fry every synapse in your body!"
He was 99% sure the bag contained Sparkle — a narcotic even nastier than white powder.
One hit too much, and you wouldn't just die — you'd vaporize your brain faster than a microwave burrito.
Michael just waved a hand lazily, as if this was a minor detail.
"No choice," he muttered.
"Inspiration's important for a genius like me. A little… chemical help brings out my best ideas."
Arthur massaged his forehead. He was rapidly losing brain cells listening to this idiot.
Michael noticed the dark look brewing on Arthur's face, and hurried to speak.
"Listen! If I had as much money as before, I swear I'd pay!"
"But in recent years... with Militech flooding Night City with cheap imports, my factory's been squeezed dry!"
"I had to sell the factory to Military Tech just to keep breathing!"
Michael pounded the console dramatically, like he was a tragic victim of capitalism instead of the villain he really was.
"I'm telling you!" he said passionately.
"This research—this work—is vital! If we want Night City to be great again, we can't waste money on deadbeats!"
Arthur's face was an iron mask.
Jack looked ready to puke.
"And now you want us," Arthur said slowly, "to give up the bounty... and work for you instead?"
Michael nodded solemnly.
"I'll even split my future profits with you! We'll make history together!"
Arthur stared at him like he was a particularly ugly cockroach.
He resisted the urge to shoot him right there.
Because Arthur knew one thing for sure:
Michael wasn't broke.
Not even close.
Even if his factory was struggling, no corporate fixer in Night City went bankrupt overnight.
Arthur was willing to bet Michael still had enough stashed away to pay the workers twice over.
Michael must've seen the disbelief on Arthur's face, because he quickly added:
"If you don't like my cockroach project, I have another one! Another genius idea!"
Arthur raised an eyebrow despite himself.
God help him — he was curious what other abominations this nutcase had cooked up.
"...Fine," Arthur grunted. "What other 'project'?"
Michael's eyes lit up like neon signs.
"You see," he began excitedly, "with the rise of prosthetic technology, real mosquitoes have almost gone extinct."
Arthur nodded warily.
That was true.
Even hobos in Night City had plastic skin grafts nowadays — no organic blood vessels exposed.
And no rivers left for mosquitoes to breed in anyway — just chemical sludge and dead fish.
Michael grinned wider.
"So! I designed a new species of mosquito!"
Arthur's gut twisted.
"This mosquito," Michael declared proudly, "has a hyper-reinforced feeding needle! Strong enough to pierce even cheap plastic prosthetic skin!"
"It'll suck real blood again!"
Jack's jaw dropped.
Arthur felt a full-body shiver.
Michael wasn't done.
"And!" he said gleefully, "I engineered a virus into it! When it bites you, it leaves behind a pathogen that causes unbearable itching!"
Arthur: "..."
Jack: "..."
Michael practically danced on his toes.
"I also gave them extreme breeding capabilities!
In six months, they'll cover all of Night City!
In four years — the whole world!!"
"And the only way to kill them..."
Michael's eyes gleamed,
"...is with a special chemical agent. Which only I can manufacture and sell."
Arthur sucked in a sharp breath.
This wasn't some quirky corporate greed anymore.
This was pure, distilled evil.
Even Satan would file a harassment complaint against this man.
Arthur turned slowly to Jack and said, voice trembling with suppressed rage:
"Beat.
Him.
Hard."
Jack's face lit up like Christmas came early.
He shoved his pistols back into his waistband and cracked his knuckles one by one, pop-pop-pop, like a symphony of violence.
"Arthur," Jack said with a twisted grin, "you should've told me sooner.
It'll be my pleasure."
Without another word, Jack pounced like a wolf who hadn't eaten in days.
Arthur smiled coldly and walked to the corner of the room.
He plugged a separation chip into Michael's terminal and began downloading every scrap of data from the crazy bastard's projects.
This kind of data was far too dangerous to leave in the hands of a maniac.
If anyone was going to misuse it, it was going to be Arthur —
and at least Arthur would pretend to have a conscience.
(Also, he thought lazily, maybe that cockroach-size-enhancement formula could work on chickens...
Imagine a chicken the size of a small car.
You could eat for weeks off one drumstick.)
Arthur smirked to himself.
Opportunity smelled like chemicals and moral corruption —
but in Night City, that was just another Tuesday.
[End of Chapter 62: I Still Have A Project!]