Cyberpunk Patriarch

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Arthur revved the engine of the motorcycle Mitch had given him and sped toward Night City.

Motorcycles were a convenient way to get around, and Arthur found them much easier to navigate than four-wheeled vehicles. They offered speed and maneuverability, cutting through the city's chaotic streets. At that moment, his phone buzzed, and a call came in.

"Well done, Arthur, you're still a treasure! The money will be transferred to your account immediately. You're happy, I'm happy, and the customer is happy. A true win-win-win situation for all three parties."

Arthur frowned as he listened. "Really? I'm not that happy. This mission was pretty deep. If there's a follow-up, you should take it easy."

He didn't fully understand what Thor planned to do with the information, but Arthur knew one thing for sure—when it came to Night City, wealth often came at the expense of danger. There was no such thing as a simple job.

"Since we postponed Military Technology's involvement, we're looking at the biotech side now," Arthur continued. "That's how things work here. It's all about taking risks and making deals. There's no middle ground."

"I'm just the middleman, Qwen," came the reply from the other end of the line.

Arthur shook his head slightly, knowing that Night City's business ran on its own set of chaotic rules. No one was truly neutral here—everyone was either a player or a pawn.

"Alright," Arthur said, "I remember you mentioned something about cooperation. What's on your mind?"

The old captain on the other side of the line didn't seem surprised. Business proposals were common in Night City, especially for intermediaries like Arthur. A middleman could sell anything: information, goods, or even stolen cars.

In a city built on secrets and lies, every scrap of information had a price. Some was true, some was false, but all of it could be useful—or dangerous.

"I want to sell some goods through your channels," the captain said. "As you know, I had cyberpsychosis before. Afterward, I researched a special suppressor. It's similar to the one you've developed, but it only works once. Buy it, and you're set for life. It's great news for the common folk. What do you think? Am I a saint?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. "You should ask the people you hacked to death whether you're a saint. If what you say is true, then I'll help you sell it, but I'll charge a 5% handling fee."

"5%?" The old captain's voice dropped in disbelief. "Come on, Arthur, I'm one of your guys. Charging me a fee? We're doing business for Night City. Can't we keep it friendly?"

Arthur snorted. "I'm not the mayor of Night City. Whether you're doing something for the city or not is none of my concern. Money talks, not feelings. We both know that."

Arthur could feel the old captain's frustration seeping through the line. It was clear the captain wasn't thrilled about paying that fee, but that was business in Night City. Everyone had their price.

"Alright, alright," the captain said after a pause, "since you're a good guy, I'll add 25% to the selling price instead of 20%. No other way around it. Who else can you rely on if not me?"

Arthur couldn't help but laugh inwardly at the irony. The old captain was trying to get away with charging more while calling himself a saint. Typical Night City behavior.

The conversation ended, and Arthur pushed the thoughts aside as he made his way back into the city. By the time he returned to Night City, dusk had fallen, and the streets were quiet. The yellowing sunlight filtered through the dirty skyline, casting everything in a dim, almost apocalyptic hue.

This kind of sunset might be beautiful elsewhere, but in Night City, it felt like the calm before the storm—a symbol of impending doom rather than peace.

On the streets, homeless people sat in silence, staring blankly ahead. They didn't even bother to beg for money anymore. Gangs, marked by their extensive tattoos, loitered in the shadows, ever the survivors. And every now and then, a sleek supercar would roar past, the sound of its engine loud enough to shake the pavement.

Many people came to Night City hoping for something more—a chance at wealth, fame, or even just a better life. It was a city of opportunity, or so they said. A place where anything could happen, where you could get rich or find true love. You could even be corrupted by the temptations of power, money, or technology. If you had the right connections, you could transform yourself into a superhuman with cybernetic enhancements that made you almost immortal.

On the surface, Night City seemed like a dream city, but Arthur knew better.

It was a city of sin—a hell on Earth. The rich and powerful sat high above, holding the strings of everyone else. For the few people who were lucky enough to sit at the top, Night City was indeed a paradise. For everyone else, it was a brutal fight for survival. Ordinary people here were little more than data points—just numbers in the vast machine that was Night City. If your data didn't match up, you were discarded, forgotten.

Night City didn't make dreams come true; it only gave you a chance to dream, before smashing those dreams to pieces. Everyone believed they could be one of the elite, but most ended up as nothing more than ants—scrambling for survival in a system designed to crush them.

Arthur looked out at the people on the streets, seeing the mix of hopelessness and determination in their eyes. Everyone had their dreams, no matter how misguided. Night City made sure of that. In the chaos, there were opportunities. It was the one thing that kept people coming back for more, even as the city chewed them up and spit them out.

He took a deep breath, then removed the key from the motorcycle, slipping it into his pocket. As he walked through the city, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and made his way toward the nearest elevator.

The elevator was slow, the hum of its motor barely audible above the crackling of the cigarette. Inside, the TV was playing News Channel 54, the host excitedly talking about how prosperous Night City was. They were spinning tales about the "booming" employment rates and the city's undeniable progress.

Arthur snorted quietly to himself. He couldn't help but mock the absurdity of it all. The people who came up with this stuff were geniuses, no doubt, but if they spent less time on stats and more time in the streets, they'd see what Night City was really about. They were just trying to sell a dream, one that no one could truly afford.

As the elevator climbed higher, Arthur gazed out at the glowing lights of Night City, knowing that no matter what, the game never stopped here. The city of dreams was built on the backs of those who couldn't afford to dream, and Arthur wasn't sure if that was something to be proud of or ashamed of. But one thing was certain—he would keep playing the game until he had his own piece of the pie.

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