The dark tunnel didn't slow Arthur down one bit. He kept a casual banter going with the Network Monitor as he moved swiftly and silently through the shadows.
The monitor couldn't help but complain as he watched the data feed:
"You really move like a damn rat."
Arthur just smirked. Moments later, he reached the makeshift blockade erected by the Voodoo Boys.
Calling it a "blockade" was generous. It was nothing more than heaps of junk, old furniture, and broken electronics piled together like a garbage dump. It was sloppy, half-hearted — typical of those who thought brute force was enough of a deterrent.
Arthur crouched in the shadows, scanning the "wall" thoughtfully, scratching the back of his head.
"This could be trouble," he muttered.
"Say," he added, squinting at the heap, "how the hell did they haul all their heavy gear down here through a rat hole like this? Did they shrink the machines?"
The Network Monitor shrugged audibly through the comms:
"If I knew, do you think I'd be stuck working tech support?"
While exchanging banter, Arthur scanned the perimeter, looking for a weak spot. Soon he spotted it: a section of the junk wall where time and carelessness had left gaps wide enough to exploit.
He drew out his Mantis Blades with a soft shlink, tested the metal lightly against the garbage pile — and grinned.
"You know, you could always quit your job and join the Voodoo Boys," Arthur said, slicing casually through twisted metal and rotting wood.
"They'd love to have a guy with your qualifications. You could be the one patching up this fine engineering work."
"No thanks. I'd rather get cyberpsycho like you than rot with them," the Monitor retorted.
"You're probably one bad day away from snapping anyway, with that crazy Mantis Blade obsession of yours."
Arthur snorted and kept cutting.
"What can I say? I'm a collector. This one, for instance—" he flexed the blade, "—was originally Oda's. Yeah, that Oda. Bodyguard to Hanako Arasaka."
The Monitor went dead silent for a beat.
"You... mugged Oda?"
"Tailed him for a month. Didn't steal, didn't kill. Just waited for the right moment to snag this bad boy off him when he dropped it for repairs. Long story short: he cried, I laughed."
"No way you should still be alive," muttered the Monitor.
Arthur just shrugged.
"Night City's favorite rats are too stubborn to die."
With a final cut, the blockade gave way. Arthur slipped into a shadowy space beyond, sticking to the blind spot between several cameras the Monitor had mapped out for him.
The basement smelled like old plastic, wet cement, and cheap body spray. Dim lights flickered overhead. A cluster of hackers lay sprawled in modified hacking chairs, tubes connecting their neck ports to whatever mess of code they were currently floating through.
Nearby were giant industrial freezers — or what passed for them here. Open-topped basins filled with ice, half-clothed hackers dunked inside to keep their bodies from frying as their minds roamed cyberspace. It was makeshift, gory, and very Voodoo.
"No guards?" Arthur whispered through the comms.
"You're in a dead zone — only a few maintenance bots around. Their security's tight further inside. For now, you're a ghost."
Arthur's prosthetic eyes scanned the room rapidly, uploading a 3D model back to the Network Monitor. Within seconds, a holographic mini-map bloomed in Arthur's left visual field, highlighting the clearest path to the target server.
"See? Simple. You're safe!" the Monitor said.
Arthur's lips twitched into a dry smile.
"Safe like Night City safe? You better be able to back those words up, or I'll personally gift-wrap you to the Voodoo Boys in an ice bath."
The Monitor laughed nervously.
"Relax, hero. Just slip the virus into their server and you'll be out before anyone notices."
"Hero, huh?" Arthur chuckled.
"I want a Good Citizen Medal after this, you know. A big one. Maybe a parade, too."
"Yeah, sure," the Monitor deadpanned, "maybe they'll even let you keep it after they read your rap sheet — arson, larceny, terrorism..."
Arthur waved his hand dismissively.
"Pfft. Details."
Sliding deeper into the base, Arthur kept to the shadows, moving silently between old scaffolding and derelict consoles. Every few steps he paused, listening — not for footsteps, but for the subtle whine of surveillance drones or the whir of mechanical weapons spooling up.
Nothing yet.
He crept toward a heavy security door, patched with scavenged metal. A keypad blinked lazily beside it.
"This is it," Arthur whispered.
"Okay," the Monitor said, voice tense.
"Plug the virus stick into the access panel, and I'll do the rest. Once it's in, get the hell out."
Arthur drew a sleek black datastick from his belt, popped open the keypad panel, and jammed it into place.
A soft beep confirmed the connection.
The virus uploaded instantly.
Arthur's HUD lit up — red alarms flashing everywhere as the virus punched through the Voodoo Boys' systems like a hammer through glass.
"You're in. They're scrambling! Move, Arthur! MOVE!" the Monitor barked.
Arthur didn't need to be told twice. He spun on his heel and bolted back the way he came, cutting through the junk barricade like a shadow.
Alarms screamed through the tunnel behind him. Hackers jolted awake from their frozen baths, flailing, their cybernetic eyes blazing red with panic.
"Good Citizen Medal my a*,"* Arthur panted as he sprinted back toward the open night, "I'm going to need a goddamn sainthood after this!"
And just like that — he melted into the dark, another ghost in Night City's endless, bloody waltz.