Cyberpunk Patriarch

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The stench in the air was suffocating, lingering no matter how hard the wind tried to disperse it. The gusts only stirred the putrid scent, making it worse. It was 2076—controlling radiation wasn't a challenge anymore. But this area, Taipingzhou and the Badlands, didn't belong to Night City.

If someone had money, they wouldn't be caught dead here. They'd be lounging in the Ritz Bar, sipping overpriced drinks while watching Mewtwo perform. This was not a place for anyone with choices. And as for birds, they were non-existent. The Bird Extermination Act made sure Night City stayed bird-free—a place even birds refused to visit, as the locals joked.

Arthur adjusted his old walkie-talkie, tuning it to a specific channel. He sighed, holding the device that was probably older than his grandfather. "This is Arthur, dear wanderer friends. I've arrived at the location. Report your arrival time."

He didn't want to use the outdated contraption, but wanderers like him had little choice. Brain implants were useless here; there was no signal in the Badlands. So, radios were their lifeline.

"This is Saul from Adecado," a rough voice came through. "Password, please."

Arthur smirked. "I'm not a cyberpsycho."

"...Password accepted. Bang bang bang! Damn it! The address is sent—get here fast, or you might have to visit hell for your reward!"

Arthur's brow furrowed as gunshots crackled through the static. "Well, this doesn't sound promising," he muttered. Tossing the walkie-talkie onto the passenger seat, he fired up The Sword in the Stone, his trusty car, and sped toward the location Saul had sent.

Homeless wanderers like him were often hunted by megacorporations. They lacked the deep networks needed to gather solid intel, leaving them blind to the true owners of their targets. A warehouse of supplies might seem like a jackpot—until it turned out to belong to Arasaka or Militech. That was when corporate enforcers descended like predators.

As Arthur raced through the desolate ruins of the Badlands, the distant sound of gunfire grew louder. Flames and explosions lit up the horizon. His hand instinctively reached for the pistol tucked into the back of his waistband. It felt pitifully inadequate for the chaos ahead.

"I need better weapons," he muttered, shaking his head. Fighting hand-to-hand was all well and good until you were drenched in blood and looked like a fool. And fools didn't survive long out here.

Just then, a convoy of heavily modified wasteland vehicles roared past him. Seconds later, a sleek black convoy followed in hot pursuit, its occupants bristling with armor and high-tech weapons. One glance told Arthur everything he needed to know: these were elite Militech operatives, leagues above the wanderers they were chasing.

Arthur sighed, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. A pistol wouldn't even dent their armor. He tossed it onto the passenger seat, slammed the accelerator, and activated his prosthetics. His nerves and reflexes surged, time slowing to a crawl as he climbed onto the roof of his car. The mantis blades on his arms hissed out, gleaming under the pale sun.

With a leap, Arthur landed on one of the Militech vehicles. "Bang bang bang!" Bullets tore through the air, the operatives' augmented reflexes matching his own. Arthur cursed under his breath, weaving around the gunfire as his left blade slashed through the roof. His right blade plunged downward, piercing the driver's chest. The vehicle veered wildly before crashing into a fiery explosion.

Arthur wasted no time, leaping onto another car as the first erupted into flames. The operative on the roof fired a shotgun blast, narrowly missing Arthur's head. He retaliated, slicing through the roof and yanking the driver out, tossing them onto the ground without hesitation. From his belt, he pulled two grenades, ripped the pins out with his teeth, and dropped them into the cabin before leaping clear.

"Boom!" The dual explosions rocked the battlefield, sending twisted wreckage flying. Arthur hit the ground rolling, his prosthetics absorbing the impact as he sprinted away. He had no intention of sticking around. The longer he stayed, the higher the chances Militech would track him down—and they didn't forgive.

Several hours later, Arthur stood on the edge of a barren stretch of the Gobi Desert, a cigarette dangling from his lips. In the distance, a cloud of dust signaled the arrival of a convoy. Moments later, a beat-up Toyota pulled to a stop, and a bearded man with a weathered face jumped out.

"Arthur!" the man, Saul, bellowed, wrapping him in a bear hug. The smell of sweat and oil made Arthur wince, and he quickly pushed the man away.

"Good to see you too, Saul. But you need a shower."

Saul laughed heartily, the sound echoing in the empty desert. "Thank you for helping Adecado. You'll always have a place with us, Arthur."

Arthur shrugged, lighting another cigarette. "Just keep the corps off my back, Saul. That's thanks enough."

As the two exchanged a few more words, Arthur couldn't help but glance at the horizon, his mind already planning his next move. The Badlands were unforgiving, but for a wanderer like him, it was the only place to call home.

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