Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 123: It’s For the Car!

The survivor clutched his broken arm, unable to speak. Shame and regret overwhelmed him like a tide. Deep down, he knew—he shouldn't have survived. His place was among the fallen, lying in the dirt alongside his brothers, warriors of the Red Ocher Tribe. To have lived while they perished felt like a betrayal. His continued existence was a stain on their legacy.

Arthur stared down at him, exhaling a lazy plume of smoke that curled into the survivor's face. "Tch. Trash," he muttered coldly.

He didn't spare another glance at the broken man. Instead, Arthur turned his attention to something more useful—scouting the abandoned vehicles scattered across the ruined camp. He was short on cars back at Umbrella, and these Ranger-class vehicles weren't bad. Maybe not as flashy as a Sword in the Stone, but reliable as hell.

To a wanderer, a car was more than transport—it was shelter, identity, even a weapon. And these rides? Unclaimed. Perfect for a man like Arthur who was always thinking three moves ahead.

He figured he could hand them out as year-end bonuses. The factory workers at Umbrella had been producing like madmen—pumping out inventory faster than he could sell it. Some of them worked like they had twenty arms, cranking out parts like old-world deities. Maybe if he gave out some vehicles, it'd slow them down.

Arthur rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Each of these rigs could fetch a solid 20 to 30K on the market. Give 'em a new coat of paint, maybe fix a few dents, and boom—extra profit or morale boosters.

While Arthur circled the camp, Sol remained by the survivor's side, trying to offer comfort. But Arthur had already made up his mind about the man—cowardice was a death sentence in Night City. If you let someone slap you without slapping back twice as hard, you were doomed to be chewed up and spit out.

Eventually, Arthur returned to Sol, cracking open a beer he had scrounged from the camp. He tossed another can to Sol, who caught it without a word.

"Wanderer liquor's not bad," Arthur commented after a sip. "Still drinkable, even out here."

Sol gave a faint smile, but his eyes were troubled.

"I've got a commission here," Sol said, nodding toward the survivor. "You interested?"

Arthur glanced at the kneeling man, blood still drying on his forehead from his earlier kowtow. He frowned.

"What, you want me to take down a biotech exec?" Arthur scoffed. "Those corporate rats are harder to find than a clean restroom in Pacifica."

Before he could finish, a loud thump caught his attention. The survivor had thrown himself to the ground again, this time fully prostrating, forehead smacking dirt with raw desperation.

Arthur sighed. He had a bad habit of being soft-hearted sometimes. It was a leftover trait from another life—one he'd never completely shaken.

Truth be told, this wasn't his problem. He wasn't some wandering saint collecting quests from crying refugees. And going after biotech meant drawing fire from another giant. He'd already stolen tech from Adam Smasher and made a shady deal with Kang Tao. The last thing he needed was more attention.

But...

His gaze drifted back to the parked vehicles.

He really did need those cars.

Arthur scratched his head, exhaling sharply through his nose.

"Fine. I'll do it," he said at last. "But I want every vehicle in this camp. Keep your own if you want, but the rest come back with me. Consider it payment."

The survivor's eyes widened in disbelief. Arthur smirked.

"And one more thing," Arthur added. "I think you'd make a decent factory grunt. Umbrella could use another hand. You've got nowhere else to go now, right?"

The survivor hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Only... one condition," he croaked. "Bring the bastard to me. I want to be the one to end him."

Arthur let out a low whistle. "Dramatic. I like it."

He pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number. "Rogue, hey... it's been a while, sister."

The voice on the other end was flat. "Arthur. What the hell do you want this time? Shouldn't you be off running your company instead of stirring up trouble?"

Despite the sharp tone, there was an ease to their exchange—two old mercs who'd fought on the same blood-soaked streets too many times to count.

"Cut me some slack," Arthur said, leaning against a charred-out car. "I'm tracking down a biotech exec. Figured you might know where the rats are hiding."

There was a pause, then a sigh. "You don't stop, do you?"

"You love it."

"No, I really don't. But I'll dig something up. Text you in a few."

Arthur hung up, already knowing Rogue would come through. She always did—even if she bitched the whole time.

He turned back to the survivor, who still knelt on the ground, breathing heavy and wide-eyed. "Rest up. You're gonna get your revenge," Arthur said simply. "And me? I'm getting a fleet of used cars. Sounds fair."

As the wind howled across the wasteland, kicking dust into the blood-soaked ruins of the Red Ocher camp, Arthur lit another cigarette and cracked his neck.

It was a new day in the Badlands.

And somewhere out there, another company dog was about to lose his head.

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