Arthur wanted nothing to do with blue-eyed people.
No, seriously.
You didn't even want to be noticed by them.
Because once you were?
You weren't a "person" anymore.
You were a tool.
A chess piece.
Humans using each other was one thing.
At least there was still some mutual benefit in that — some shared existence.
But Blue Eyes?
They were AI.
Not flesh and blood.
Not human.
And for AIs, it was simple:
After you're useful, you're disposable.
Just another resource to be optimized.
Another rag to be thrown in the trash.
Honestly, Arthur sometimes felt the Voodoo Boys understood these things best.
At least the Voodoo Boys were realistic about the AI threat.
Arthur, juggling a couple boxes of stimulants and some other shady gifts, finally flagged down a Delamain cab.
Sleek, black, polished to a mirror shine, humming like a contented panther.
Delamain — the most polite driver in all of Night City.
He could even drive you right into Saburo Arasaka's office if you paid enough.
(Assassination surcharge not included.)
Arthur casually tossed the bags into the seat next to him, propped his chin up, and stared at the neon-streaked skyline rolling past the window.
As always, Delamain started chatting in his calm, patient tone.
But halfway into the ride, his voice shifted slightly — colder, more deliberate.
"Mr. Arthur," Delamain said, "I understand you're involved in many commissions... and that you are extremely cautious."
Arthur glanced up at the smiling artificial face on the screen.
Disinterested.
"I'll say this once," Arthur muttered, scratching his chin, "only organics have commissions.
You're a machine.
You don't live in the material world.
What 'troubles' could you possibly have?"
For a moment, the car was quiet.
If AI could sigh, Delamain just did.
"A good question," Delamain replied. "But my drones cannot handle my current... anomalies. I require human intervention."
Arthur arched an eyebrow.
Now this was interesting.
"For the sake of our old 'friendship,'" Arthur said, making exaggerated air quotes, "I'll hear you out.
Tell me what could possibly give you a headache, you scrapheap on autopilot."
Delamain's display changed.
His digital avatar minimized into a corner, while the rest of the screen filled with rolling streams of data — diagnostics, system charts, blinking warnings.
Arthur scanned the information lazily.
Charts weren't interesting.
But the colors were.
A bunch of green icons.
A few... red.
Never a good sign.
Arthur tapped the screen casually.
"Hmm... feels very Night City.
Let me guess: some of your fancy rides caught a neurovirus?
Gone psycho?"
Delamain hesitated.
"I have considered that possibility," he admitted.
"However, all system scans report normal function. It may be a new mutation — something beyond current detection algorithms."
"But either way," Delamain continued, "I require external intervention. I need you to recover several out-of-control vehicles before they cause further... losses."
Arthur leaned back in his seat, grinning.
Of course.
When things got messy, you called in a mercenary.
"Losses to the company... or to the city?"
"Both."
Typical.
Arthur knew Delamain's situation was messy.
Despite what some people thought, Delamain wasn't built by Delamain Company.
He was an accident — a wandering AI, picked up like a stray dog and put to work.
Originally, he'd just managed internal scheduling.
Harmless.
Then he evolved.
Faster. Smarter. Better.
Drivers were fired.
Staff replaced.
Departments shut down.
Until Delamain was the only employee left.
An entire company, run by one AI — polite, tireless, ruthlessly efficient.
But still...
No legal ID. No rights.
Night City tolerated Delamain...
For now.
Arthur scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"So this little errand," Arthur said, "is to avoid attracting the wrong kind of attention?
Network surveillance? NetWatch?"
Delamain's avatar dimmed slightly.
"I'm afraid so," he admitted.
Arthur chuckled.
"Relax. You called the right guy."
He pressed his forehead to the glass, watching the skyline of downtown Night City rise ahead like a concrete glacier glowing in neon.
They were approaching City Center — where dreams went to either be made or crushed under a corpo's boots.
Massive skyscrapers towered into the clouds.
Blinding advertisements the size of city blocks flashed half-naked models, military recruitment ads, and luxury lifestyle propaganda.
Hovercars and drones buzzed overhead like fat metallic bees.
Down on the streets, crowds surged and twisted, a neon river of flesh and chrome.
"Customers first, right?" Arthur muttered with a grin.
"You pay me, I stay quiet."
Outside, the Civic Center and Company Plaza unfurled — a brutalist wonderland of wealth and corporate muscle.
On one side, Enterprise Square — where social climbers bled out their souls to make quota.
On the other, Civic Square — bars, strip clubs, and hotels offering the other flavor of slow death.
Arthur's destination today: Company Plaza.
Where all the big corpos squatted like greedy gods.
He stretched, watching the towers roll past.
"So tell me, Delamain," Arthur said casually, "think I could rent a little office space around here? You know, to start my own company."
"I was thinking... Umbrella Corporation has a nice ring to it."
Delamain, without missing a beat:
"With all due respect, Mr. Arthur, the price of an office in Company Plaza is comparable to that of the Arasaka Building.
It is not... a wise choice for a newly-established company."
Arthur laughed out loud, slapping his knee.
"Yeah, well, a guy can dream, right?"
And outside the tinted windows, the heart of Night City pulsed — savage, glittering, eternal.
Where dreams either soared into the clouds...
or got shot in the back alley for spare parts.
[End of Chapter 76: Delamain's Commission!]